by M. D. Massey
“You’re a good looking fella, aren’t you, boy? Oh my, someone paid a pretty penny for you, didn’t they?” He whined a little and began nudging my pockets. “You hungry, boy? I bet you are. Thirsty too, I imagine.” I stood up, and he sat down on his haunches, all eighty pounds of him. The poor guy was a little lean, but not in bad shape despite his isolation. There was a bowl sitting on the floor that I assumed had once held water, so I took out my water bottle and emptied it into the bowl.
He whined and looked at me.
“Go ahead, boy, it’s okay.”
He lapped the water up enthusiastically. Once he finished, I headed back downstairs and into the kitchen with the dog in tow. When we walked in, Bobby noticed the dog first.
“Where’d you find the mutt?” he asked.
Gabby turned before I could answer, and her eyes widened. “Oh my gosh, he’s so cute!” Before I could stop her, she had the dog in a bear hug, and soon after he was licking her face off. She giggled as she petted him and received a prolonged bath by licking. I sighed inwardly, relieved that the dog had been socialized properly, despite being raised in a zombie apocalypse.
I looked over at Bobby. “He’s no mutt. I’d say he’s a full-bred Dogo Argentino, and a good-looking one at that.”
Bobby crinkled his nose at me. “A dojo-what-o?”
“Dogo Argentino. They were bred in Argentina for protection and hunting big game. They’re a brave, fiercely loyal breed—and expensive. I figure this guy’s owners locked him up here for safety while they were out foraging, and they just never made it back.”
Gabby started pushing the dog away, as he was still licking the skin off her face. “Stop that!” She giggled again. “Stop it—I mean it!” She finally got him to quit and looked up at me; I knew what was coming before she opened her mouth. “Can we keep him?”
I raised my hands in protest. “Gabby, I don’t think that’s a good idea—”
“Oh c’mon, Scratch, he’s harmless. And half-starved, too!”
“Gabby, harmless is one thing that dog isn’t—that’s not the point. The point is, we don’t know if he’ll be a liability or not. Where we’re going, I’m not sure if it’d be wise to bring a dog along.”
“But look at how well-behaved he is!” She leaned in and whispered softly to me behind her hand, gesturing with her head in Bobby’s direction. “And besides, we already have one mutt following us everywhere we go.”
Bobby piped up from across the kitchen in a loud whisper. “Hello—werewolf ears. I can hear you whispering about me, and it’s not cool.”
Gabby giggled as the dog licked her leg. Feeling guilty over the events of the previous few days, I relented. “Fine, but he’s your responsibility.”
She smirked at me and cocked her hip. “Yes, Dad.”
I didn’t know what to say to that. I just mumbled something to the effect of, “Be sure you get him something to eat and take him out to pee once it gets dark.”
I went off to clear the basement, with those two jokers chuckling softly behind me.
3
TABLE
After clearing the basement and finding nothing but a lot of expensive and useless electronics, I decided to check out the garage to see if there might be something we could use to help us get across the river. I’d have even settled for a couple of foam noodles and an inflatable pool float if it’d help us avoid another run-in with that deader herd. If I had to, I’d put Bobby in some water wings and drag his ass across, lifeguard style.
When I opened the garage door, it became apparent that the former owner had been an outdoors type. There were fishing rods and golf clubs arranged in tidy rows along the wall, as well as a complete set of clubs in a bag leaning against a workbench. Apparently they’d been into fly-fishing as well, with some very nice fly rods and a neatly maintained set of plastic apothecary drawers full of flies and the various components needed for making them.
Bingo, I thought to myself as I began looking around the rest of the garage for something that might have been relatively water-worthy. A search turned up bupkis, but I remembered seeing a second, detached garage on my way into the house. I headed out the back door and snuck over to the side garage door, keeping an eye on the last few straggling deaders still wandering the street in front of the house. None had made it up the driveway, so I was safe for now.
I tried the door, but it was locked. Crazy white people, I thought, locking their stuff up during a zombie apocalypse. Like anyone cared about their Barry Manilow record collection during times like these. I knelt down and gently worked my knife blade in between the door and the jamb, wiggling it and levering against the latch until I heard a slight click and the door popped open. I eased it open slowly and duck-walked into the garage.
Inside, all was silent and covered in dust. I looked around and saw little of interest, and almost walked right back out again. Then, I looked up in the rafters; lo and behold there was a very serviceable fiberglass canoe up there, along with a couple of Day-Glo orange and pink kayaks. A further search revealed some paddles and life preservers as well.
It looked like we had a way out of here if we could just hold out quietly until we were sure that the bulk of the Z’s had passed. I decided to head back to the house to tell the kids what I’d found, and took a quick peek around the door before heading out. Shit. There was lone deader, right at the fence, sniffing around and moaning softly.
I looked her over while she had her head turned away. She was short, slightly built, and wearing a faded and tattered sundress along with one strappy sandal on her left foot. Her right foot was a mess of gangrenous tissue and gore, and I was pretty sure she was walking on bone in places. She must’ve walked a long way to get here—probably a straggler from that big deader herd.
I wondered if I should put her out of her misery, but weighed the benefit versus the risk and found none. So, I decided to get comfy and doze off for a while here in the garage. So much for that real bed, I thought. I looked out one last time and saw Gabby looking for me from the doorway. I signaled to her that all was fine. Then I locked the door and grabbed a wadded up tarp for a pillow and a few old patio furniture cushions for a pallet, and took a nap.
A few hours later, I awoke to a thumping noise at the garage door. I slowly cracked my eyes without moving a hair, and saw there was a deader bumping into the door, over and over again. How he had gotten into the yard, I hadn’t a clue, but there was no way I was getting out of there without taking him out. I remained still until it was completely dark, perhaps another ninety minutes or so. Then I belly-crawled over to the door, hopefully completely out of his line of sight.
With the blade held in an ice pick grip in my right hand, I eased my left hand over and unlocked the door as silently as I was able. As the door latch clicked softly, the deader began moaning louder and banging against the door with more force. I needed to take him down quick before he brought the whole neighborhood of goons down on us. I timed his door-bashing and opened the door just after he bounced off it and began to lean toward it again.
As I had anticipated, the deader lost his balance and stumbled through the doorway. I was on him in an instant, burying my Bowie knife to the hilt in the top of his head. I let go of the knife and grabbed him, ignoring the odor as I lowered him to the floor as quietly as possible. I then froze for a good five minutes and listened for any sound or sign that the other deaders had heard the ruckus. Nothing. Phew.
With some effort, I dislodged my knife from the deader’s skull and cleaned it on his pant leg. I sheathed the blade and skulked across the yard and back over to the house. Sneaking in through the back door, I plopped myself down at the kitchen table. Gabby, Bobby, and the dog were already enjoying their evening meal.
Realizing that I was famished, I grabbed two full water bottles and a small box of Shredded Wheat off the pile that had accumulated on the table in my absence.
Gabby nodded at me. “Glad you could finally make it. I thought I was going to hav
e to go outside and kill that deader myself.”
I shrugged, so Bobby chimed in, never one to let a lull in a conversation go to waste. “Sorry, but the dog ate the potted meat. I was going to fight him for it, but I felt sorry for the mutt and decided to let him keep it.” The dog cocked an eye at Bobby from his place on the floor next to Gabby’s foot and sighed.
“Probably for the best, considering the number of stragglers that are still left out there.” I grabbed a box of steel-cut oats and a metal pot, dumping the contents in and covering them with a half-bottle of water. I found a clean but dusty dinner plate next to the sink, wiped it off on my sleeve, and used it to cover the pot. With any luck, by morning the oats would be soft enough to eat.
Gabby scratched the dog’s head absentmindedly while she chewed her lip. She glanced at me and cocked her head. “So, viejo, any idea of how we’re going to get out of here without attracting that whole herd of deaders again?”
I nodded as I chewed my Shredded Wheat, wishing for a nice cold quart of milk and a big bowl of sugar. “There are canoes in the garage—all we need to do is get them to the water without drawing that herd.” I paused to stifle a yawn. “I have a plan, but let me think on it overnight. I’m too tired right now, and I’d rather look at the problem with fresh eyes in the morning.” Gabby merely nodded and yawned as well; she was too exhausted to press me for more info.
I slugged more water as I chewed and then shook my head. “I can’t believe you gave the dog the potted meat. There‘s a full bag of dry dog food in the basement.”
Bobby perked up. “Please tell me it’s Natural Balance. Ol’ Dick Van Patten sure could make some tasty dog food. Yum.”
Gabby and I both looked at him like he was crazy. Bobby returned an unapologetic look and shrugged. “What can I say? Most humans can’t eat dry dog food, but werewolf jaws, bro. Just means more for me.”
4
STREAM
The next morning found us packing things up before dawn. I had convinced Bobby that we needed to get the canoe down in the dark so we could be ready to move before first light. I’d also sent him back to get the gear and weapons we’d stashed during our flight from the deader herd the day before, which he’d been hauling since my mule had gotten spooked by a deader ambush. So, when I woke Bobby up the next day, he was pissy and slow to get going, both from healing inadequately and from the lack of sleep.
Gabby, however, was as chipper as Mary Poppins. I figured it had to do with the dog. She’d already found him a toy: a stuffed squirrel with a squeaker that I’d made her remove. The dog had already shredded it, but he’d seemed to enjoy doing it, so I considered it a win all the way around.
The plan was simple; we’d load all our shit into a single canoe, then Bobby and I would portage it the few hundred feet or so from the back wall to the river. Based on the map I had, the last stretch of houses in this neighborhood backed straight up to the Colorado, so I anticipated just a short hike and quick canoe ride to the other side. There was a large city park almost directly across the river from our current location, and I intended to hit it for some rabbit, squirrel, or even deer meat. I figured we could all stand to eat some decent protein, the dog included.
Night vision aside, it was still a bitch lugging the canoe over the back wall. Doing it without noise caused us yet more grief, but somehow we managed. Getting the dog over was less hassle than I thought it would be; as soon as Gabby climbed the wall, the dog vaulted his front paws up then scrambled his hindquarters over to follow her, with nary a bark or a whine.
Once Bobby and I jumped over, we picked up the canoe and started off in what I determined to be the general direction of the river. The area was thick with juniper cedar, so it was slow going, but we forced our way through. About a hundred feet in, Bobby let out a yip and disappeared from view, dropping his end of the canoe to crash onto the ground with a bang. I lowered my end to see what had happened, but Bobby was nowhere in sight.
I edged forward and parted the branches that were obscuring my view ahead. As it turned out, we were on the edge of a short bluff that led down to the river’s edge. I looked over the side, where Bobby picked himself up, dusting himself off roughly fifteen feet below.
He waved and smiled. “I’m okay, I’m okay!” he shouted up to us. I frantically motioned for him to stay quiet, but he kept mumbling to himself about how werewolves were tougher than they looked or some such.
A few seconds later, the dog started growling and staring in the direction of the subdivision. I turned to Gabby and yelled, “Climb down, now!”
“But what about Ghost?”
I threw my hands in the air in frustration. “Oh, so the dog has a name now? Great! Gabby, that dog can take care of himself. Now, climb down the freaking ledge!”
Gabby hesitated for a few moments and then started picking out a route down the cliff. The dog went to the edge, looked down at her, then at me. I shook my head. “Don’t look at me, buddy—you’ll have to find your own way down.” He let out a short, almost silent bark and took off along the bluff toward the west.
Wasting no time, I frantically dug through our gear until I found a length of rope. I tied one end to the canoe and yelled, “Bobby, catch!” before throwing our packs and gear down the cliff.
As I worked, the moans behind me were getting louder. Meanwhile, Bobby ran back and forth like Mario dodging barrels in Donkey Kong. To be honest, he was doing a great job of intercepting our gear and keeping the mission-sensitive stuff from getting bashed on the rocks; werewolf speed did have its advantages. I particularly worried about the optics on my rifle, and said a silent prayer that it would avoid taking a tumble. There’d be precious little opportunity to sight it in later, at least without drawing some undesirables down on us.
As I threw the last bag down the cliff, I spotted movement out of the corner of my eye. I drew the suppressed pistol and snapped off a quick headshot to take out the nearest deader. Keeping the Glock in my right hand, I grabbed the rope with the other and kicked the canoe over the edge of the bluff, bracing myself to take the load.
I started slowly letting out the rope, instantly regretting the fact that I hated wearing tactical gloves. As the rope burned the skin from my palm, I ignored the pain and kept letting out rope with one hand, pausing every so often to fire one-handed at the deaders with the other. Within moments, it was clear that I’d soon find myself surrounded, so I let the rope go and hoped the fall wouldn’t pierce the hull of the canoe.
Turning to fire again, I snapped two more shots off as the slide locked back on an empty chamber. I hit the slide release and holstered the weapon, then sprinted about thirty feet in the same direction the dog had gone. I wanted to get some distance from the deaders converging on my position before heading over the bluff.
As I prepared to climb over, I yelled to Bobby, who was getting ready to clamber back up to help me. “Bobby, load up the freaking canoe and get it in the water! Now!”
“Alright, alright already. Make a little noise and bring the zombie herd down on our heads, and everyone has a heart attack. Sheesh.” He sulked off to do as I asked, but thankfully Gabby was already loading our gear in the boat. An eighty-five-pound ball of white fur, teeth, and muscle paced back and forth between her and the deaders on the ridge above. How the dog got down the cliff was anyone’s guess, but nothing those animals could do surprised me.
I scrambled down the ledge a few feet, only to feel a cold, stiff hand clamp around my wrist. “Son of a bitch, this is just not my day!” I growled, grabbing my Bowie and waiting for the thing’s head to pop over the cliff’s edge. As soon as the Z showed its face, I stabbed it through the eye with a vicious thrust, and then hacked the hand off at the wrist with a couple of hard chops of the sturdy blade, since it was still hanging on post-mortem-mortem.
Knowing that more deaders would be right behind, I sheathed the knife and continued to climb down the cliff. As soon as I hit the bottom, I ran after Gabby and Bobby, who’d dragged the cano
e down to the river’s edge and halfway into the water. They both waited for me and stood around wondering what to do, while deaders walked off the cliff and landed with loud smacks and crashes, up and down the shore. I could hear them hitting all around us, and knew it was only a matter of time before enough of them were crawling and limping our way to be a serious threat.
I waved at them frantically, yelling at the top of my lungs. “Go! Go! Go already!”
Bobby leaped into action, steadying the canoe while Gabby hopped in and scrambled to the front. As I ran up behind them, the dog obediently jumped in and followed her. “Bobby, get in the freaking boat already!”
I pushed us off and jumped in the canoe, right as half a dozen deaders hit the muddy shore of the river and began wading in after us. Gabby had already started paddling, so I took mine up as well and steered us toward the opposite side, breathing a deep sigh of relief as the deaders’ moans faded behind us.
5
STRANGER
Once we crossed the river, the size and quality of the homes we passed went from McMansions to truly freaking palatial. The water was high, which allowed us to paddle up a small tributary that must have been dredged out to provide local residents with boat access to the river. We were still in a residential area, but I knew based on my map that this little creek would take us closer into the park and green belt, so I opted to keep us paddling for a short while longer.
Soon the canoe came to an area where it bottomed out, and I signaled for them to disembark. We unloaded our gear and quietly stowed the canoe and paddles in some brush along the creek. Then, I took a compass reading and we headed off to the north.
