Walking With The Dead (Book 2): Home with the Dead

by Dziekan, PJ

  “Sarah, are you OK?” Dylan pushed past Ryan and Bobby and crouched down beside her, stepping on a zombie body. “You OK?”

  She shook her head. “I need a second,” she panted.

  His eye caught movement. One of the zombies began to pull itself up. “No time.” He gathered her in his arms and walked through the creatures, wincing at her weak cries of pain.

  “Put me down,” she whispered as they stepped out of the building, Harry slamming the door shut just as a zombie reached for them, its fingers scraping against the metal.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Put me down, Dylan.” He sat her gently on her feet. She took a few shallow breaths, blowing them out through her nose. She looked up at Ryan. “He good to run?” She nodded her head towards Bobby.

  “Yeah, we’re good.” He looked closely at her battered face. “Are you?”

  “Yeah,” she muttered. “Harry, how do we get out of here?”

  “Only way is through the woods. First, we gotta get to the trucks.”

  “Then let’s go.”

  “Wait, Sarah,” Ryan said, touching her arm. She stopped and looked at him. “Is Jack okay?”

  He let out a sigh of relief when she nodded. “He hurt his leg, but he’s fine. If it wasn’t for him, we’d have never found you.”

  “Good. He’s a good kid.”

  “Ready to go now?” Sarah took a breath and jogged across the street.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  They followed Harry as he led them towards the town border. Every step sent pain shooting through her, but Sarah gritted her teeth and rode it out. They were near the end of the town, almost out. Assuming Harry wasn’t leading them into a trap. “How much further?” She asked when they stopped, crouched beside a VW.

  “See that shack?” Harry pointed to a weather beaten shed. “There’s a guard there. Just past him are the trucks and the trail out of town.” He stood. “I’ll distract him; you guys go around to the back of the shed.”

  “OK.” Sarah turned to the group. “Get ready to –” Another pain, harder, deeper than the previous. She fell to her knees, her hands clutching her abdomen, her eyes clenched shut as she whimpered.

  “Sarah?” Ryan asked, squatting beside her.

  Dylan dropped down. “Is it the baby?” He whispered.

  “Baby?” Ryan asked just as Donna gasped.

  As much as she wanted to deny it, she felt the wetness between her thighs. She looked up at Dylan, her eyes filled with sorrow.

  “Are you pregnant?” Ryan asked, his hand on her shoulder.

  Sarah breathed through the pain, much as she would have done had she delivered her child. The irony was not lost on her. When the pain eased off, she looked at Ryan, her eyes bleak. “I was.”

  Ryan squeezed his eyes shut. “I’m so sorry,” he rasped, his voice thick with emotion. She nodded as his hand clasped her shoulder.

  “I’m really sorry, Sarah, but we have to go.” Harry said softly.

  “I know.” She took a breath, a deeper one that hurt her ribs, but took her mind from the other. “Come on.” She moved slowly, Ryan and Dylan on each side, each holding an arm as she stood.

  “Are you sure you can make it?” Dylan asked.

  “I can carry you,” Ryan offered.

  Sarah turned her head to look at Ryan. “You can barely carry yourself.” Looking back at Dylan, she answered. “I’ll make it.”

  “I’ll go talk to the guard,” Harry said. “When I give you the signal, run behind the shed to the Expedition. It should be open, keys in the ignition.”

  “I’ll drive,” Dylan said.

  Harry nodded. “I’ll meet you at the truck in three minutes.” He put his hands in his jacket pockets and began to walk to the guard shack.

  They watched tensely as Harry spoke with the unseen guard. They could hear voices, but not the words. When Harry raised his hand, turning a simple brush of his fingers through his hair to a wave, they ran. Sarah ignored the pain, wanting nothing more than to get out.

  They reached the Expedition. Dylan opened the driver’s door and slid in. Sarah opened the back, ushering Donna and Bobby inside. Ryan stopped in front of Sarah. “What happened to you?” His hand moved up to touch her cheek and she flinched.

  “I don’t want to talk about it now,” she whispered, looking down. “When we’re out of here.” She lifted her head, eyes searching Ryan’s face. “Whatever I tell you, you keep to yourself. You don’t tell Mick.”

  “Why isn’t he here?”

  “Because we wouldn’t let him. He would have been killed or thrown in that room with you.” She grasped his arm, her fingers digging in. “You can’t tell him what happened. I’ll tell him.”

  “Sarah, he’s my brother…”

  “I know. But I – I have to be the one to tell him.”

  “He’ll hate me.”

  “No, Ryan, he won’t.” She sighed, her eyes welling with tears. “He’ll hate me.”

  “Sarah!” Dylan’s voice hissed. She turned to look at him, followed his pointing finger to see Harry walking nonchalantly towards them.

  “Get in,” she said to Ryan. She opened the passenger door, ready to hop in when she saw Harry’s body jerk, the crack of the shot a nanosecond later. “Harry!” She exclaimed. She wrestled the gun from her jacket pocket and ran toward Harry’s inert form, Ryan and Dylan yelling behind her.

  She crouched beside him, gasping at the bloody crater in the center of his chest. She could see blood pulsing from his body, steaming in the cold night air. “Harry?” She whispered.

  “Take the – take the path through the woods,” he rasped. “Look for the green trees.”

  “Harry…” She knew he wasn’t going to make it. “Thank you.”

  His bloodied fingers touched her cheek. “Thank you. I – I did something good.”

  She managed a smile. “You did.”

  “I’m sorry it took so long. I’m so sorry…” His hand fell to the ground, his last breath rattled in his chest. Sarah covered her mouth as she watched him die.

  His flowing blood touched her knee. Her head bowed over him, she heard sounds, not words. When she lifted her head, she saw Bill and Ken walking towards her, Ken holding a rifle pointed right at her. Bill was smiling.

  She focused on his face, that self-satisfied smile. He was the reason Harry was dead. He was the reason Donna was afraid of her own shadow. He was the reason Ryan was so beaten and battered. He was the reason her child’s life stained her thighs. Her voice a feral roar, she pulled her gun up from where it had been hidden beside Harry’s body, thumbed off the safety and fired.

  The back of Ken’s head exploded, splattering Bill with blood, bone and brains. Bill flinched sideways, freezing when he saw Sarah walking purposefully toward him, gun pointed at his head. “You fucking bastard,” she spat, the hot barrel of the gun pressed to his forehead.

  “Please,” he blubbered. “Don’t kill me.”

  “Why the fuck not?” She screamed, spit flying into his face. “Give me one reason I shouldn’t splatter your brains on the ground!”

  “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” Snot ran down over his lips as he cried.

  “Not good enough!” Sarah pressed harder, denting the skin on his forehead. “You’re worse than the zombies! They can’t help it, but you? You’re a fucking animal!” Her finger twitched on the trigger.

  “Sarah, no!” A hand came down on hers, pulling the gun down.

  She looked over at Dylan, his face shimmering in the haze of tears in her eyes. “He doesn’t deserve to live,” she whispered.

  “I know.” His voice was soft and steady. “But you can’t do this.”

  “The fuck I can’t.” Before Dylan could move, she brought the gun up and fired. Bill crumpled to the ground; a neat hole next to the mark the gun had left on his forehead. The adrenaline left her and she collapsed, the gun falling from her hand to clatter on the ground. Only Dylan’s arms kept her from joining it.

  He sco
oped her unconscious body into his arms. “Get the weapons,” he said to Ryan, who’d joined him. Ryan grabbed the rifle and handgun and followed Dylan back to the truck. Dylan put Sarah in the back seat, strapping her in. He and Ryan got in front and he started the Ford. “Where do we go?” He asked no one in particular.

  “The woods, Harry said,” Ryan answered.

  “OK, then, here goes nothing.”

  ♦

  Sarah woke with a cry as the Ford bounced over the rough terrain. Her eyes opened to see nothing but trees. “Dylan,” she tried, but her voice wasn’t working. She cleared her throat. “Dylan?” She tried again.

  “Sarah?” His head whipped around to see her then back to the narrow path.

  “Harry said to look for the green trees.”

  “They’re all green trees.”

  “No, look!” Ryan said. “That tree has green paint on it.”

  Dylan veered around another tree to follow the barely-there path that the green trees marked. He leaned forward in the seat, trying to see the next one. “Ryan, you’re going to have to watch out for me, make sure I’m staying on the path.”

  “OK.” He turned in his seat. “How are you feeling, Sarah?”

  “Like shit.” She lifted her hand to her forehead and rubbed. Dried blood flaked off, falling to her lap. “I need to clean up. Mick hates it when I get dirty.” Her eyes fluttered closed again.

  The feeling of a wet cloth on her face brought her around again. She opened her eyes to see Donna wiping her cheek. “Donna?” She whispered.

  “Shh.” Donna moved the cloth over her cheeks, stopping only to find a clean spot on the cloth and dampen it with a bit of water from the half full bottle in her hand.

  “Can I have some?” Sarah rasped. Her throat was so dry, so sore. “Please.”

  Donna held the bottle to her lips, tilted gently. The tepid water trickled down Sarah’s throat and she nearly moaned as it eased her pain. Her hand came up, weakly pushing the bottle aside, a rivulet of water running down her chin. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” Donna wiped her chin then resumed cleaning the gore from Sarah’s face. “I should be thanking you. You saved my life.”

  Sarah’s eyes closed. “Not everyone. Lacey, Pam, Harry.”

  “Pam sold you out to Austin,” Donna said, her voice bitter. She wet the cloth again, moving gingerly along Sarah’s forehead, wincing when Sarah hissed in pain. “She made her choice. Lacey killed herself. One of those things scratched her and she told me she was afraid she would become one of them. She cut her wrists before I could stop her. Harry gave his life to save us. You did the best you could.”

  “Not enough,” Sarah murmured. Her hands went to her abdomen.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “So am I.” Another pain. Sarah whimpered, biting her lip. She tasted blood just as she felt it seep between her legs.

  ♦

  “Now where?” Ryan’s voice brought Sarah back. She opened her eyes to see the sky had lightened, the sun just peaking over the horizon. Slowly she turned her head and saw they were on asphalt, a long ribbon stretching off into the distance, only a long-abandoned drive-in relieving the monotony.

  “We left Mick and Becca at a gas station on Route 60, about five miles from Sugar Creek.” Dylan turned to Ryan. “Do you have any idea how to get back there? Or where the hell we are?”

  “We’re on Route 137,” Bobby said from the back. It was the first time his voice had been heard since his screams back in the cage.

  Ryan turned to face him. “Do you know how to get back to 60?”

  “Down this road about a mile, take a left on Robin Ridge Road.”

  “That’ll take us to 60?” Dylan asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Can you get us back to the gas station?” Sarah whispered. Her whole body was one dull ache, except for her abdomen. That burned, like a thousand tiny knives cutting her from the inside. She laid her head back against the seat, tears pooling in her eyes. She wanted nothing more than to be wrapped in Mick’s arms, hearing him tell her it would be all right.

  “I think I can.”

  “Good.” Sarah closed her eyes again, letting the road lull her back to sleep.

  ♦

  Mick and Becca left at first light. Everything within walking distance had been picked clean. They took the Jeep a few miles further up the road where a small clump of houses waited. They hoped to find something, anything, since they were down to a can of potatoes and a can of Pepsi. And the dog food. “Too bad we can’t eat the gold,” Becca said, slamming the Jeep door.

  “We’ll find something,” Mick said. “Let’s try that one.” He pointed to a grey ranch with an old dusty pick-up in the driveway.

  Mick tried the door, but it was locked. “Stand back,” he said to Becca. He swung back and planted his size 13 near the lock and the door splintered as it flew open. A foul stench rolled out, causing both of them to turn away and cover their faces. They missed the trio of zombies that followed.

  Becca screamed when the former housewife grabbed her arm. Mick’s head whipped around and saw Becca struggling with the creature. He took a step forward only to be brought down by the teenager behind him, reaching out. He stumbled and fell, rolling to his back and getting his arms up just as the zombie landed on him, rotten teeth snapping just an inch from his nose. From the corner of his eye, Mick saw a hefty zombie in flannel, a John Deere cap still askew on his head. Black drool ran down his chin as he moved toward his first food in months.

  He dug his hands into the shoulders of the teen and braced his feet on the ground. With a grunt, using his feet for leverage, he pushed the zombie back, knocking it into the legs of the hefty one. As the creatures tumbled to the ground, Mick scrambled to his feet. He darted around the tangled zombies, pulling the tire iron from the loop on his pack as he ran.

  Becca was still struggling, unable to reach her crowbar. Mick swung his tire iron, knocking the zombie’s head sideways. Becca let her drop to the ground, pulling her crowbar from her pack. With a scream, she brought the weapon down, smashing the zombie’s skull.

  Mick spun around, facing the other two zombies. The hefty zombie had made it to its feet, snarling as it reached for Mick. He hit it in the left side of the skull and the tire iron bounced back. “Shit,” he muttered and he took a step back and swung from the right. This time the tire iron sank deep and the creature dropped at his feet. He pulled the tool free of the smashed head, ready to take out the final zombie, but Becca beat him to it. Her booted foot was coming down on its ruined skull.

  “Thanks,” he said.

  She smiled. “No, thank you.” She flung the gore from her crowbar.

  “We weren’t paying attention,” he said as he squatted down and wiped the tire iron on the zombie’s shirt.

  “Everything’s been so quiet, we got complacent,” Becca remarked. “We can’t do that again.”

  “No shit.” Mick advanced to the door; tire iron held at the ready. “Go right, I’ll go left.”

  The open door let fresh air in so the house didn’t smell quite as bad as it had. But the stench still lingered. Mick brought a hand up to cover his mouth, hoping he wouldn’t throw up. He hated to throw up.

  The living room was a mess. Tables overturned, lamps broken, the big screen TV hanging sideways on the wall. He sidestepped a huge patch of blood on the carpet as he peered through the doorway, seeing a large kitchen dominated by an oak table that sat eight. He moved slowly around the table, stopping at the sink. The edge of the sink, the cupboard below and the floor were all streaked brown and black. The sink still held scummy water and a few dishes.

  Mom was attacked while doing the dishes, he thought, using the end of the tire iron to probe the water. Wonder who got her? On the heels of that thought: Does it really matter? She’s dead either way. Mick pulled the tire iron from the water and wiped it on a dish towel lying on the counter, staining the cheery yellow towel with gore.

  Becca faced thre
e doors off the living room. Two were ajar, one pulled shut. She nudged the first door with her foot, revealing a small bedroom, the double bed and dresser taking up nearly all the floor space. The light coming through the dirty window revealed a teenager’s room, likely belonging to the zombie whose skull she had smashed outside. There were posters of half-naked women and sports stars on the walls, piles of grimy laundry on the floor, along with plates of fuzz covered food on the dresser.

  Becca backed from the room, leaving the door wide open. She took a breath and pushed the next one open. A large room, with a king sized four poster bed and a 40-inch TV. Must belong to the parents, she thought. The bed was unmade on one side, sheets and blankets thrown to the floor. The top of the nightstand was empty, the lamp shattered on the floor, books and papers strewn around. Becca turned away from the shattered picture frame on the floor and moved to the dresser. She opened the top drawer to see ladies underwear, socks, and bras. She grabbed some of each, stuffing them in her bag. Slamming that drawer shut, she opened the next. Tee shirts and shorts. Smiling, she took a pile of tees and some shorts.

  “Becca!” She heard Mick call.

  Shoving the clothes into her open bag, she sprinted from the bedroom, through the living room into the kitchen. “Where are you?” She asked.

  “Garage!”

  She moved through the kitchen to the open door. “What?” She asked as she stepped through the mudroom into the garage.

  Mick was grinning, holding up a plastic package. “Freeze dried beef stroganoff.”

  “No way!”

  Mick tossed the package at her and she fumbled before she caught it. “Freeze dried lasagna! Freeze dried apple cobbler!” Mick was pulling package after package from a tote.

  Becca laughed. “Guess we have dinner then.” She started pawing through the tote, finding beef stew, chicken Alfredo, Cajun shrimp, beans, desserts, all kinds of food.

  “And…” Mick said, lifting a tarp, revealing four cases of water.