Fort Dead

by Camille Picott

  A feral grin spreads across John’s face. “Why didn’t you say so? Looks like we have a common enemy.” John jerks a thumb at the bodies in the cages. “Those are Rosario’s thieves. They were sent here to steal supplies. Before those two died, they told me Rosario lost her camp. It was overrun by the undead.”

  “She had a fence line surrounded by zombies,” I say faintly. “She said they were better than guard dogs.”

  My short time in that camp comes hurtling back. I taste the fear and smell the scent of the earth mixed with the cloying scent of the rotting dead.

  Frederico. His wide eyes, full of fear, as the collar of bells are locked around our necks.

  I shake myself free of the memory, re-focusing on John.

  He studies me. “Yeah,” he says with a curt nod. “You have the look of someone who’s met that bitch face to face. She makes me look soft.”

  I don’t respond. John doesn’t look soft by any stretch of the imagination. It’s not just the bodies in the cage. A person doesn’t earn the moniker of “medieval” because he likes swords and Inquisition trivia.

  “I want to help you,” John says. “Make me an offer on a car. What do you have to trade besides weapons?”

  I turn a helpless look to my people. Besides our salt-encrusted clothing and our running packs, what do we have to trade?

  “Bear meat?” I ask.

  John snorts. “Don’t insult my generosity.”

  “How about a boat mechanic?” Susan asks.

  “What?” I whirl on her. “Susan—”

  “I saw boats anchored out there.” She jerks a thumb in the direction of the ocean. “I used to own and operate a charter boat. I can service all of them for you.”

  John nods, eyes thoughtful. “They could all use a little work. Our abalone divers could cover more territory if they had trustworthy vessels.”

  “Susan.” I position myself in front of her. “We can’t wait around here while you service the boats. We—”

  “I’ll stay here.” Susan gives me a small, determined smile. “Look, Kate, we both know my ankle is messed up. I know you traveled over a hundred miles on a sprained ankle, but I’m not you. The only reason I came on this mission was to drive my boat, which is now at the bottom of the ocean. I can’t fight and I don’t want to run another step. Let me help in my way. When you’re finished in Fort Ross, come back and get me.”

  There are so many holes in this plan I can’t even begin to list them. “No. You’re part of our family. You’re not a commodity to be traded.”

  “You don’t have a choice,” Susan replies. “I’m staying here.” She turns to John. “Which car?”

  “What if we don’t make it back?” The words burst out of me. I detest them as soon as they leave my mouth, but the truth is that we might not survive.

  “I’ll find a way to get back to Arcata on my own,” Susan says softly.

  “But it’s not safe here.” I jab a hand at the dead bodies in the cage, not caring that John can hear me.

  “Susan has nothing to fear from me or anyone in Westport,” John says. “You have my word that she will be under my protection.”

  Frustration wells inside me—frustration at the string of disasters that has followed us ever since we left Arcata, frustration that I don’t have a good argument to talk Susan out of her plan.

  John cocks his head at me. “Once Susan has my boats tuned up, she can stay here, trade free, until you come back. This is a one-time offer, Kate. No one stays in Westport without some sort of trade. I’m throwing you a bone since you’re going after the wicked bitch of the north.”

  “Done.” Susan steps forward and shakes his hand.

  John fishes a set of keys out of his pocket and tosses them in my direction. Ben snatches them out of air.

  “Silver Ford Escape parked over there.” He flicks his fingers at a nearby driveway. “It’s been nice doing business with you fine folks.”

  His words are like a gavel falling. I swallow, my throat tight with shock.

  Susan puts her arms around me in a hug. “I’ll be fine. Just get to Fort Ross and kick some ass, okay?”

  “Don’t do this,” I reply.

  “It’s the best decision and we both know it,” she whispers back. “Besides, it’s already done.”

  Legs wooden and mouth dry, I force myself to walk to the silver Ford Escape we traded for our friend.

  I close my eyes for a brief moment, trying not to think too hard on the fact that we might never see Susan again.

  4

  Barbed Wire

  KATE

  Salty wind blows in from the open car window, carrying with it the sharp scent of impending rain. As John had claimed, the road south of Westport is clear. We haven’t seen a single zombie and came across only two abandoned cars we had to drive around.

  Ben sits at the wheel, his face a mask as we rumble down Highway 1. I sit with him in the front. In the back are Caleb, Ash, and Reed. Eric sits in the very back where, six months ago, the grocery bags would have gone.

  Susan’s loss is like an empty chamber in my chest. The fact that she traded herself for a fucking car is like barbed wire in my gut. It’s so wrong.

  Her lost boat, her rolled ankle—they can all be traced back to this rescue mission. My rescue mission.

  A strong hand squeezes my knee. I look over at Ben. He raises an eyebrow at me and gives a small shake of his head.

  I let out a long sigh, understanding his silent message. Ben always gets me, especially at times like this when I feel loss. Probably because he’s endured his fair share of loss during his years of service in the army.

  I need to look forward. I need to stay sharp and keep my people alive so we can get to Fort Ross and help Alvarez. Dwelling on decisions made in the past will only bog us down.

  “What’s the plan, Mama Bear?” Caleb asks, breaking the silence.

  I turn to the map in my lap, which I’ve been staring at since we left Westport. “We should be able to drive the SUV for the next fifteen miles to Braggs. We’ll leave the car outside the town and make our way on foot. Once we’re clear of the town, we can see about finding another car.”

  In our current shape—exhausted and beat to hell from our tangle with the Lost Coast—I estimate this car is saving us a solid three to four hours of travel on foot, which will put us in Braggs well before noon. We’ll have daylight on our side when we push through to the other side of the city.

  I have to admit, it’s nice to chew up the miles in a car. I wish we could drive all the way to Fort Ross. But I know better than to try and drive through Braggs, and not just because Medieval John warned us against it. It’s the largest town out here and straddles Highway 1. I’m not stupid enough to think we can drive through a town that size without getting mobbed by zombies.

  “I think food should be on our list of things to do when we get to Braggs,” Reed says. “We don’t have much bear meat left. I’m so hungry I could eat a fire-roasted zombie.”

  “That’s disgusting.” Ash makes a face. “Can we add clean clothes to our to-do list? I’d like to wear something not saturated in dry salt.”

  I give them the thumbs up. They’re not the only ones sick of salt-encrusted clothes and hungry enough to eat a zombie. “Food and clean clothes are officially on the list of things to do in Braggs.”

  A green road sign comes into view, telling us we’re a mile outside of Braggs.

  It also tells us Fort Ross is ninety miles away. I try not to think about what my body will feel like if it goes another ninety miles on foot.

  “Pull over,” I tell Ben. “We go on foot from here into Braggs.” I turn to look at the others. “Daylight is on our side. We take our time and do this right. Everyone gets through Braggs alive.” I fold the map and stash it in a pocket of my pack.

  Ben pulls over to the side of the road. We pile out of the car, everyone clipping on running packs. Caleb shoulders the largest pack with the bulk of our weapons.

 
I pick up a small box of grenades resting on the floor of the Escape. This had been a parting gift from Medieval John.

  “Blow that bitch to hell,” he’d said, grinning like a feral wolf just before we’d driven out of Westport. “If you get the chance, shove one these up her ass for me.”

  I pass out the grenades, making sure we each have a few of them.

  “Let’s go,” I say. Running on the road will be much faster than running the Lost Coast trail. “We’ll alternate between running and walking. Five minutes on, five minutes off.”

  No one argues. We set off at a brisk jog.

  My body groans in protest. The time spent sitting has not done me any favors. My muscles have stiffened. New aches have settled in. I do my best to ignore them.

  The highway snakes along the ocean. Dark clouds mass in the sky, promising rain later in the day. Despite the lack of sunshine, the views are stunning.

  The dried salt in my clothing burns along the raw patches of chafed skin. The two worst spots are under my sports bra and along the inside of my thighs. Those parts of my body have always been prone to chafing. The pressure on the top of my left toe and back of my right heel tells me I have large blisters in the works.

  “Anyone else feel like they’ve been run over with one of those monster trucks and dragged through mud?” Reed asks, the usual lightheartedness missing from his voice.

  The slump to his shoulders tells me how rundown he feels. I know for a fact that everyone else is feeling the same way, possibly worse. If I don’t get their heads into the game, we’ll never make it to Fort Ross.

  “Everyone is hurting,” I say, giving them all a nod of acknowledgment. “That doesn’t matter. We push through the pain and keep going. Pain isn’t a reason to stop. That’s a lesson every ultrarunner learns early. If we all quit as soon as something hurts, no one would ever make it to the finish line.”

  “Seven hours in the boat,” Ash mutters. “That’s it. It was supposed to take us seven hours by boat to get to Fort Ross. We were never supposed to do any running.”

  Ultrarunning isn’t about being a runner,” I reply. “It’s about sucking it up and pushing on no matter what.”

  Eric gives me a sidelong glance. “You’re good at pep talks. Even if everything you’re saying freaks me out.”

  “It’s okay to be freaked out. You just can’t let self-doubt worm its way into your psyche. I know I use the ultramarathon analogy a lot, but there’s a lot at stake. If you give in to fear or pain, it could get you killed.” That’s the simple truth. I don’t want to scare anyone, but if it keeps their heads in the right space, it’s worth it.

  As we near the city limits, a sign proclaims Braggs, Population 39,612. The land is covered with golden grass and weathered cypress trees that have been sculpted into eastward leaning contortions by the constant barrage of wind over the years.

  A scattering of houses dot either side of the road, all of them on large plots of land. The dwellings are small one-story homes, most of them looking like they were built back in the 1950s. More than a few of them boast large piles of what I would have called garbage less than a year ago.

  Now, casting my eye over the mounds of discarded lumber, rusted cars, and other assorted things, it looks like a salvage wonderland. I spot tall cabinets that had been pulled from a kitchen. What I wouldn’t give to have something like that back at Creekside in our main kitchen. It would make it easier to store and organize food for everyday use.

  There are no signs of zombies, though we see evidence of the outbreak. One cluster of houses sits in ashen ruins. Several clusters of wrecked cars sit abandoned on the side of the road.

  We also see evidence of life. I spot a chicken pecking at the ground. It flees at the sight of us, head bobbing back and forth as it runs. I even see a front door hastily shut as we approach.

  “Survivors,” Ben murmurs. “Everyone stay alert.”

  We run past a rock quarry, an RV storage facility, another scattering of homes, and two hotels that overlook the ocean. One of the hotels is half burned to the ground.

  My body has slipped back into the familiar cadence of road running. I don’t have to watch every step for fear of falling when I run on the road. I revel in the sensation of my heart pounding, of oxygen expanding my lungs with each breath. My body has loosened up, the aches fading into the recess of my mind. Even though the ocean nearly killed me, I still love the smell of it.

  The outskirts of Braggs seem to stretch on and on. We pass another hotel, this one two stories high and perched on a cliff. Another scattering of tiny homes comes and goes.

  The ocean disappears, blocked from sight by tall cliffs. A wide river, waters dark and blue, flows along at the base of the cliff and out toward the sea.

  That’s when I see the bridge.

  Or, to be more precise, what’s left of the bridge.

  Suspended above the bridge is a canvas banner that reads Annual Whale Festival. Beneath the words is the picture of a whale.

  Beneath that are the crumbled remains of the bridge.

  “Shit,” I murmur.

  A dozen or so zombies sniff around the edge of the ruined bridge. It’s the first pack we’ve seen since we left Arcata. They snarl and moan at one another, scratching at the concrete.

  I signal a stop. My hand unconsciously strays to the back of my pack, where I have a portable tape player stashed. That tape player, with its recording of an alpha zombie, might be our most valuable possession.

  I study the zombies, wondering if one of them is an alpha. The group is centered around a twenty-something zombie. She tilts her head back and lets out a string of garbled sounds. The rest of the zombies straighten, clustering more tightly around her.

  Yep, that’s an alpha.

  That’s when I notice the water. The zombies are standing in puddles of water.

  But it’s not raining. And there isn’t standing water anywhere else.

  “Shit,” I breathe.

  “What is it?” Ben gives me a sharp look.

  “I think those zombies came out of the river.”

  The longer I study them in the bleak light, the more I’m convinced of it. Their clothes are wet, many of them still trailing small streams onto the ground. I pull out my map, unfolding it to look for another way over the water.

  “You think they came out of the river?” Reed hisses. “That’s fucked up.”

  “What’s fucked up is that was the only bridge into town.” I study the map, wishing desperately for another way over the water. “That big river is called Pudding Creek. It runs for miles to the east.”

  “Can we go back to the part about zombies crawling out of the water?” Reed says. “That’s really fucking creepy.”

  I gesture for my people to fall back. I want to get some space between us and the zombies so I can think.

  One thing is for sure: Swimming across isn’t an option. I may have the alpha zom recording, but there’s no way to know how well the recording will work on zombies under water. I won’t risk my people in Pudding Creek, especially not knowing how many zoms are in the water.

  Going miles out of our way to find a safe way over Pudding Creek isn’t a great option, either. That will take hours we don’t have—that Fort Ross doesn’t have.

  I draw the group to a halt when there’s a solid quarter mile between us and the zombies. I watch the alpha lead them away from the bridge to sniff around some cars abandoned along Pudding Creek.

  Taking a deep breath, I turn in a slow circle and absorb our surroundings. There’s a way around this problem. I just have to figure out what it is.

  “Hey, Mom?” Eric taps me on the shoulder.

  “Yeah?”

  “You ran on railroad tracks to get to Arcata, right?”

  “Most of the time, yes.”

  “What does that look like to you?” Caleb raises a hand, pointing to the southern end of the river.

  Spanning the river is a bridge. Not a bridge for cars; that much is obvious by i
ts wooden construction. It’s old, most likely from the logging era. Even from a distance, I can tell it’s structurally unsound. Some of the supports are broken or missing.

  “It was probably built to hold a train full of redwood trees,” Caleb says. “That’s like, what, ten million pounds? I’m pretty sure it can hold us.”

  Ben snorts. “That thing’s got to be almost a hundred years old. A stiff breeze could knock it over.”

  I shake my head. “We’re checking it out. Come on.” It’s our best option so far.

  We backtrack farther up the road. I draw us to a halt outside of a two-story hotel painted a pale green. Just around the northern side of the hotel is the entrance to the railroad bridge.

  The hotel looks unoccupied. One of the doors looks like it was hacked down with an axe. A few others swing open on squeaky hinges. I spot two dead bodies under the eaves, both of them so desiccated that not even the carrion birds show interest in them.

  “Come on.” I draw my knife and lead the way around the hotel, hustling toward the bridge.

  It looks even more rickety up close. There are large gaps in the structure where the dark blue of the river is visible. The entire thing seems to sway in the breeze.

  The entrance is blocked by a chain-link fence topped with barbed wire. Several friendly signs sit front and center.

  NO TRESPASSING.

  DANGER. UNSAFE CONDITIONS.

  AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.

  I turn to my people. “Anyone know how to climb over a barbed-wire fence?”

  Reed thrusts his arm into the air. “I do! We need something thick, like a leather jacket.”

  “You want to climb over barbed wire so we can cross a bridge that’s made from toothpicks?” Ben lets out an exasperated huff. “This isn’t your best idea, Kate.”

  His words rankle. The worst part is that he isn’t wrong.

  “There are no good choices,” I reply. “This is the best option we have.”

  “Let’s get a comforter from one of those hotel rooms,” Reed says. “We can throw it over the barbed wire.”

  I nod in agreement. “Let’s check out the hotel.”