by Brant, Jason
Every yard had fallen into disarray.
The driveways were cracked and buckled.
Windows were broken, doors smashed.
Cars covered the street and sidewalk at odd angles. An old accident down the road had blocked traffic during the initial panic of those final days. People had attempted to drive around it on the sidewalks only to create a bigger jam.
Most likely died there and then, trapped inside their cars with their loved ones and the few valuables they’d grabbed on their way out of their homes or offices.
It was a common sight Brandon saw so frequently during his days scavenging that they’d become little more than obstacles he climbed over in search of goods. The old days were of little interest to him anymore.
He glanced left, then right, unsure which direction led to the house.
Knowing he didn’t have time to waffle over the decision, he cut left and jogged toward the far sidewalk. His eyes scanned each dilapidated home he passed, hoping something would jar his memory.
The shadows darkened around him.
Demons would flood the streets any minute.
With even a pinch of luck, he would be locked inside the safe house before the first of the creatures burst from the graveyard.
A home with yellow siding and blue shutters stood two driveways down. Shingles had blown off the roof. One end of a second-story gutter had torn loose, the other hanging precariously above a shattered window on the first floor.
That was it.
The building had deteriorated since he’d seen a picture of it over a year ago.
Brandon wanted to holler in victory.
He angled toward the house.
And then a man shouted nearby.
2
Brandon froze in place, listening. For a moment, he dared to hope the shout had only been his imagination running wild, that fear had twisted his mind into hearing things that couldn’t possibly be there.
This side of the city had been deserted for years.
No one could have survived out here.
If the demons hadn’t devoured them, the bandits would have cut their throats.
Just when Brandon decided he had imagined the voice, the man bellowed again. The anger and fear in that cry made the hair on the back of Brandon’s neck stand up.
He glanced over his shoulder toward the noise, but didn’t see anyone in the street. The shouting was close, though. Around the corner at the most.
The shrieks of the damned continued to grow in number and volume. The darkness had finally released them, and the hunt had begun.
Brandon knew the intelligent decision would be to flee to the safe house, secure the area, and hunker down for the night. Investigating the shouting man would likely get him killed. In short order, the demons would descend upon whoever made that racket.
A woman screamed.
Brandon sprang toward the sound before he’d even realized he’d turned around. Crossing the street in a flash, he darted toward an intersection ahead.
Pausing at the last house, he peered around the corner, careful not to expose himself to anyone who might be nearby.
A man stood in the middle of the street, a gun held in his hand. His hair dangled in front of his face, the ends of it blowing around as he huffed and puffed. Like most people nowadays, he was gaunt and filthy. He wore a leather jacket paired with blue jeans, the knees ripped out.
He was a bandit, of that Brandon had no doubt.
Apparently, gangs liked to dress alike even after the apocalypse.
The man pointed a pistol into the face of a man kneeling before him.
Brandon couldn’t get a view of the captive’s expression from this angle, but the man’s hands were up.
A few feet away, a woman with brown hair pulled into a bun also had a weapon, but hers was aimed at the bandit’s head. Even from halfway down the block and in the failing light, Brandon could see the rage on her face.
Beyond the small group was a large moving van. Someone with horrible taste had spray painted it matte black. The outline of the moving company’s logo was still visible on the side.
The back door was the kind that slid into the roof.
It was open.
A dozen people sat in the back.
Rope lashed their hands and feet together.
Most had rags stuffed in their mouths.
Another rough-looking hombre stood guard at the door, holding onto a handle above his head. He held a rifle in his other hand, pointing it at the group in the street.
Tattoos crisscrossed his bare arms. Straight hair ran past his jaw. Week-old stubble covered his chiseled chin and hollow cheeks.
Whistling, the guard waved the end of the barrel toward the van. “Waste ‘em and let’s get the fuck outta here!”
Brandon swallowed.
Of all the days he could have slept in.
“She’s got a gun pointed at me, asshole!” the man in the street shouted. “The hell you want me to do?”
“Stop bein’ a pussy is what I want.” The guy in the truck laughed. “You can’t take care of a little girl and that cry-baby cuck, then maybe you shouldn’t be runnin’ with us at all!”
The shrieking from the cemetery intensified.
The cries echoed throughout the city.
“Gettin’ busy around here. We gotta roll, dickhead,” the guard in the truck hollered. “Let’s go!”
The man on his knees shouted something toward the truck, but Brandon couldn’t make it out. Sounded like drag him or maybe drain him. Didn’t make any sense to Brandon.
Not that it mattered.
He was either going to help the couple in the street or run to the safe house.
Running to the safe house would increase his odds of survival much more than trying to help the strangers. But he knew he wouldn’t sleep a wink over the next month if he abandoned them.
Damn it, he thought as he searched for a way to end the standoff ahead. If he ran around the house, the backyard might be close enough for him to do something. What that something might be, he didn’t have a clue. Though he had a pistol on him, using it never occurred to Brandon.
The idea of shooting another human being wasn’t something he’d ever contemplated. He just didn’t have it in him to kill someone else, no matter how bad they might be.
If he could distract the shooter for a second or two, maybe the woman would put him down. Then again, if she were too afraid to fire at someone, like Brandon, they would all be killed. The moral dilemma of helping someone else kill a man, while being unable to do it himself, wasn’t lost on Brandon.
When he reached the rear of the dilapidated building, he paused behind a back porch that weeds had long since reclaimed. Through the overgrowth and latticework surrounding, he spotted the standoff. A chain-link fence, rusted and damaged in places, stood between them.
The gunman had moved closer to the guy on his knees. He held the pistol within two feet of his soon-to-be victim.
Brandon finally had a better angle to see the face of the kneeling man, shocked at the expression of the captive. The man wasn’t scared shitless from having a gun shoved in face. Instead, he looked downright pissed off.
He stared up at the gunman with pure vitriol.
The woman beside him appeared a little more composed as she continually ordered the gunman to drop his weapon. Medium height with a slender but strong musculature, her skin was bronzed with a deep tan and her brown hair was sun-streaked with golden-honey hues.
Her feet were shoulder-width apart, knees and waist slightly bent.
A perfect shooter’s stance.
Brandon scanned the area around him for something to throw at the gunman. A bike, tangled in weeds and grass, sat beside the chain-link fence. Rakes and shovels had been propped against a small shed at the back of the property.
He had little chance of throwing anything that far with any kind of accuracy.
“Drop the gun, bitch, or your boyfriend eats it right here, right n
ow!” The gunman made a show of racking the slide on his pistol and ejecting a live round.
Inching forward, Brandon finally spotted a row of bricks lining what used to be a flower garden. He could barely see their outlines through the grass and the darkness.
He tore one free of the earth.
Inched around the porch.
Hurled it as hard as he could at the gunman.
The brick slammed against the man’s shoulder with an audible thud. He stumbled a half step sideways from the impact, his arm spasming.
Fire belched from the end of the pistol.
Thunder echoed through the empty streets. It mixed with the shrieking of the demons into a cacophony straight out of Brandon’s nightmares.
The shot missed the kneeling man by mere inches, the bullet ricocheting harmlessly off the concrete. Both men paused, staring at each other.
The woman didn’t hesitate.
She shot the gunman in the forehead.
He fell straight down, collapsing onto the street in a jumble of limbs.
The engine of the van roared as it sped away, the guard in the back casually popping shots off in their direction. He shot the rifle from his hip with one hand like an action movie star.
“No!” The man on his knees exploded to his feet and chased after the van. “Stop!”
The woman lunged forward and grabbed him around the neck, keeping him from sprinting down the street. “There’s no time!”
“We’ll never find them if we don’t catch up to them now.” He tried to shrug her off, but she held firm as he dragged her several feet.
“Hey!” Brandon glanced over his shoulder, making sure a demon wasn’t closing in on him. If they weren’t swarming out of the cemetery by now, it would only be a matter of seconds. “Come with me.”
The man finally stopped struggling in the middle of the road. He peered at Brandon with desperation in his eyes.
“I can help you find them, but we have to get off the streets right now.” Brandon motioned for them to follow him. “The demons are coming!”
“You know who they are?” the woman asked.
Brandon wasn’t entirely sure he did, but it was obvious what he had to say to get the couple moving. “Yes!”
The man cast one final gaze at the accelerating van as it disappeared around a corner. He whispered something under his breath before turning and running toward Brandon.
Without waiting, Brandon spun on his heels and sprinted the way he had come. He grabbed another flare from his pocket and struck it without slowing down. As he turned down a sidewalk and ran in the direction of the safe house, he tossed the flare into the graveyard.
The beasts were definitely moving closer, the receding twilight giving them all the cover their fragile skin needed.
Heavy breathing was barely audible from behind him as the couple struggled to keep up. During the day, Brandon would have heard them from two blocks away, but now he could hardly make them out over the din of the damned.
The house with yellow siding and blue shutters waited two driveways down. Brandon hauled ass down the sidewalk and cut down the short driveway, plunging into the backyard. Stairs descended to a basement on the far side. He took them two at a time, already digging in his pocket for the massive key ring he carried at all times.
A thick, rusted storm door waited at the bottom. After he jumped the final few steps, he bumped into the door with his shoulder as he fought to free the keys.
He finally pulled the ring from his pants, tearing at the rubber band holding the keys together with shaking hands. Securing the keys was a trick he’d learned from another scavenger several months earlier. The rubber band kept them silent as Brandon skulked around the city.
Making unnecessary noise nowadays brought attention.
Attention brought bandits.
Bandits brought death.
Brandon flipped through the keys as quickly as he could, struggling to read the notes he’d written on a small piece of white paper taped to the end of each one. His pathetic handwriting didn’t help him.
The couple finally reached the stairs behind him, their breathing ragged.
“What are you doing?” the man asked between huffs.
Brandon didn’t answer. He moved the keys closer to his eyes, squinting at each as he worked his way through the stack.
The shrieks from the cemetery drew near.
A heavy sigh escaped him when he spotted the key with Moravia scrawled on the end.
He jammed it into the lock on the door handle and twisted.
The lock clicked.
Brandon threw his shoulder against the door, slamming it open.
He staggered into the total darkness of the basement.
Spun around.
Waved frantically for the couple to join him inside.
They paused for a split second as they stared in, still unsure. A shriek from the other side of the house got them moving. They brushed past him and disappeared into the dark.
Brandon whipped the door closed, cutting off the small amount of light leaking in from outside. He blindly fumbled along the metal for the numerous locks lining the edge of the door. Working as quickly as he could, he flipped and latched as many deadbolts and chains as he could find.
Demons cried out from the backyard as they swept past the house in search of them. Brandon and the strangers would be safe as long as they stayed quiet. Hopefully.
There should be a thick piece of metal he could wedge against the door to fully secure it, but he feared knocking it over while searching for it and alerting the beasts outside to his presence. The smaller locks would have to suffice until the demons had moved away and he had a chance to find a source of light.
Each safe house had scentless candles and flashlights stashed inside to allow wayward scavengers at least small comforts as they sheltered through the night. It had taken months of work to get each of the locations stocked, secured, and mostly sound and light insulated, but that dedication had paid off for Brandon tonight.
He was relatively safe.
He was warm.
There would be food, water, and books somewhere in the recesses.
Taking his pack off, he dug inside for a small pen flashlight he kept in one of the interior pockets. He found it and clicked the back, a beam of light cutting through the darkness.
Brandon searched to the left of the door. Spotted the heavy metal bar leaning against the wall. A useless light switch was a few inches above it, grime coating what had once been the white casing. He quickly grabbed the bar and slid it into place in the middle of the door, barricading it shut. The demons would have a better chance breaking in through the ceiling than getting through the metal door now.
Brandon turned around.
The couple stood a few feet away, their chests rising and falling with heavy breaths. Sweat covered their faces, soaked through their shirts.
“Thank you,” the woman whispered. The intensity on her face made Brandon recoil slightly. Her piercing gaze held his. She was beautiful in a tough, hardened way. “We wouldn’t have survived that without you.”
“You’re welcome.” Brandon’s eyes fell to the gun she still held. He couldn’t help but notice that she stood in a ready position, her feet slightly apart, knees bent, as she had in the street.
The woman wasn’t taking any chances with him yet.
He needed to put her at ease before things escalated.
“I’m Brandon.” He gave her a little wave before turning to the man. “This basement is mostly sound dampened. Mostly. So we can talk quietly.”
Like his partner, the man stood under six feet and had a slender, but strong build. His wavy hair hung down to his chin, the color lightened from the sun. A tan darkened every inch of visible skin.
His eyes burned with a fire that would have made the devil himself wilt.
“She’s Eifort,” the man said. “And my name is Lance.”
And then glass shattered above them.
3
Cass bucked against the bindings lashing her feet and hands together. Her teeth ground against a swath of fabric their captors had shoved into her mouth and tied behind her head. Spittle had wetted the cloth as she hollered and cursed against it.
The man sitting across from her chuckled at her struggles.
A .45 rested loosely in his hand, the muzzle pointed at Cass’ stomach.
He was a squirrely little bastard, his stature and frame slight. Probably had little-man syndrome, if Cass had to guess. That and some kind of psychosis. Why else would the fucker have kidnapped a bunch of women and children, half close to starving to death?
Cass stopped wrenching at her bonds to glare at the man.
His chuckles ended.
“The hell you lookin’ at bitch?” He grinned at her, his expression barely visible in the back of the dimly lit truck. A single overhead light provided what little illumination they had. “Better wipe that dumb-bitch look outta yer eyes.”
Cass didn’t so much as blink.
“We got a tough one here, boys.” The man stood and stepped toward her, his footing unsure as the truck jostled along city streets at a high speed. He knelt in front of her and unsheathed a knife from the back of his waistband. Their faces were less than a foot apart. “Keep lookin’ at me like that and I just might have to pluck one of those pretty blues out.”
Cass continued to glare. She tried to shout eat me, but the gag made it come out muffled and unintelligible.
“Sit down, Wayne,” another man said. He stood in front of a large pull-down door, holding onto a beam above his head for balance. “You can sort her out after we know what we have here.”
Cass wanted to inspect the asshole standing at the other end of the truck, but didn’t dare take her eyes off the moron a few inches away. She wanted, needed, him to know that when she got free, she would tear him apart.
Not seeming to get the message, he stood up and walked back to his seat.
But he would soon enough. He’d understand when he took his last breath.
No one fucked with her family.
