Survival Instinct (Book 5): Social Instinct

by Stittle, Kristal

  “Father?” Jacob said in a low voice, and tilted his head toward two young men who had appeared behind him.

  “Yes, yes,” Paul nodded. “Come here.”

  The two young men shuffled up beside Paul. They were likely even younger than Onida was.

  “You haven’t yet said where in the south you are going,” Paul mentioned as he turned to Shawn and Onida. “It’s all right, you don’t have to say, but we were hoping you could do us a favour. These two young men came up here to deliver news and packages from a neighbouring community to the south. Unfortunately, when they tried to get back home, they discovered the way had become too dangerous.”

  “In what way, dangerous?” Shawn grumbled. He seemed to know what was going to be asked.

  “Bandits. We were hoping that you could accompany them home. There aren’t many bandits from my understanding, and they may have even moved off since we last checked. You said you’re quite capable with a bow, did you not? And if we build straw men to sit on your horses, to make it appear as though there were more of you, the bandits should leave you alone. Afterward, the straw and clothing we make the false men out of will be yours to keep, as well as some supplies. You’ll probably still want to do some work around here for more, but it would be a start.”

  Shawn’s brows furrowed with thought. He contemplated the request. Onida kept her mouth shut. She didn’t have much experience outside her village, especially not when it came to dealing with bandits. Then again, she knew that Shawn had lived in his cabin for a long time. He might know how to deal with bandits raiding on his land, but road bandits? He would have as much experience as Onida did.

  “We’ll do it,” Shawn decided. “Provided you show me the route on a map and I like the look of it.”

  Paul beamed. “Excellent. Excellent.”

  Onida shovelled in a mouthful of mashed potatoes. They didn’t taste as delicious as they had a minute ago.

  III: Mountain Life

  Owen sat on the porch he had built for himself and watched the storm approach in between the peaks. He was worried about the wall. As people often pointed out, he was always worried about the wall. When it came to storms, however, he had a very good reason to worry. When he had first begun building the thing, gathering bricks and mortar from the nearest town, he had only been thinking about the dead, about keeping out those walking corpses. The pass had been perfect: a narrow slot that was the only entrance to the high valley. Unless someone had climbing gear, they couldn’t get in any other way, and while some of the zombies were smart, they weren’t climbing gear smart.

  People had arrived before the wall was done. Some of them had just moved into the valley without offering any assistance, leeching off his hard work, but he let them. Others had asked first, and helped with the bricking. The wall was now about thirty feet tall, and maybe three feet thick. But it wasn’t strong enough to last forever.

  Owen knew there would be problems with the wall after that first rain up there in the mountains. The valley was where the water naturally gathered, and the slot was where it escaped. With every brick they laid, they prevented that natural exit. Despite having drilled some deliberate holes in their wall, Owen knew that every time the rain fell, the wall would weaken. The rushing water was wearing down the brick, especially with the mud it picked up along the way. If the storm was particularly bad, the valley flooded, and someone would have to clear out all the debris that ended up heaped along the bottom of the wall. On their side of the wall a pile of mud and rocks had collected that no one knew what to do with, and so they had just left it. The caves they lived in were up the sides of the valley and kept dry, even during the worst flooding, but on multiple occasions their crops had been washed away.

  “Owen, get inside before the snow gets here,” urged his sister-in-law. It was for her and her children that he had built that wall. After his brother had died during the evacuation, he knew he needed to watch over them. He knew he needed to do better by them than he had in the past.

  “I’m worried about the wall,” he told her, getting up from his rickety lawn chair.

  “I know you are. But come inside. At this time of year, it’s going to snow, not rain.”

  “Snow melts,” Owen pointed out.

  “If the wall holds, it holds, and if it doesn’t, it doesn’t.”

  “But what if it doesn’t?” Owen grumbled as he allowed himself to be led inside.

  “Well, we won’t need to worry about the walking corpses, because they’ll all be washed away too.”

  Any zombies that found their way up the pass always ended up getting washed away with the next storm, sometimes after they were frozen in place through the winter. No one ever had to go near them.

  “Yes, but they’ll come back,” Owen pointed out.

  “And by that time, we’ll have built a new wall. A better wall, that will have good drainage, and that you won’t have to worry about so much. You can do that, can’t you?”

  She was trying to coddle him again, just like she used to. Just like she still did most of the time. Owen hadn’t been able to handle the city where they used to live. Everything there had been too bright, and too loud, and too full of people. Here, there were only twenty-five people, twenty-six once Marsha and Bradley had their baby. Owen liked it up in the mountains much better, where there was a lot for him to do with his hands. Still, as he was led into the cave, he looked back at the storm and worried about the wall.

  Section 4:

  Hurricane

  19: Misha

  7 Days After the Bombing

  He wasn’t thinking. He shouldn’t have gone squirming through the opening of the fence on his own. He should have woken up the others. Of course, Misha wasn’t entirely alone: Bullet was leading him. Leading him to Rifle.

  They passed a corpse, totally dead, and Misha’s whole body trembled. What if Rifle had been attacked? What if he were the next corpse?

  Bullet was so confident in the direction he was leading Misha, that he only dropped his nose to sniff a few times while waiting for Misha to catch up. They were headed toward a building. It had been a large textile factory, full of machinery that was stripped for parts as needed. Misha did not want to go in there. He hadn’t brought a source of light, and the windows wouldn’t let in much of the moonlight. Inside, there were hundreds of hiding places.

  But Bullet didn’t go to the main door. He turned and headed for the loading docks along one side. Was that better or worse? Misha didn’t know if there were any openings along the outside of the building that Rifle could get into. Why he would want to get in there was another, more pressing matter.

  Bullet slowed as he neared the corner. The loading docks were just around the other side. His ears pricked forward, picking up some sound that Misha hadn’t. The dog’s posture wasn’t one of fear; he was merely alert. Placing his hand on his machete, Misha followed closely behind the Australian shepherd as the two of them rounded the corner.

  They found Rifle, but not in any situation for which Misha had mentally prepared himself. His brother was sitting on the pavement beside one of the loading ramps. A living person was with him, feeding him something that Rifle was enjoying. He couldn’t make out the features of the person very well in the dark. He was guessing it was either a short, scrawny man, or a woman. Whoever they were, the moment they noticed Misha and Bullet, they took off. Or tried to. Apparently this individual was attempting to steal Rifle and had tied some sort of rope to the German shepherd’s collar. When the stranger tried to flee, Rifle stubbornly refused to move, and the improvised leash nearly yanked over the unprepared, would-be thief.

  Misha ran at the stranger, worried about what they had been feeding Rifle. The leash was abandoned, and the shrouded individual took off running like a startled rabbit. Bullet loved chasing rabbits. By the time Misha reached Rifle, Bullet had latched onto the escapee’s sleeve. He growled and tugged, pulling the person off their feet and onto the ground.

  Rifle wagged his ta
il at Misha, but Misha couldn’t stop to pet him and look him over. The quickest way to find out what the dog had eaten, was to ask the one who had been feeding him.

  Bullet hadn’t gotten any skin, just a mouthful of sweatshirt, but he worried and tore at the fabric every time his prisoner attempted to get up. His growling intensified too, which would make anyone afraid. When Misha reached them, he drew his machete and pointed it at the stranger.

  “Bullet, release,” he commanded.

  The dog let go, but continued to stand guard.

  “Stay still,” Misha next commanded the stranger.

  Using the tip of his machete, he pushed up the bill of the person’s baseball cap. The person’s facial features still didn’t help Misha identify the gender. The face was soft and hairless, so either a young man or a woman.

  “What did you feed Rifle?” Misha demanded.

  “What?”

  “My dog! What did you feed him?” His shouting caused his captive to flinch.

  “Some meat. Just some meat. Venison. Deer. I had killed one a while ago and knew the last of it needed to be eaten before it went bad.” The voice was that of a woman attempting to pitch her tone lower, but her fear made it inconsistent.

  “Why were you trying to steal my dog?”

  “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. It’s just that your dogs are so well trained, and the way you worked with them, I wanted that for myself.”

  “So train your own dog. Wait… have you been following us?” Was it possible that Misha hadn’t just been paranoid? That this woman had actually been tailing them?

  “Yes. I’m sorry. I just wanted to know if you were safe to approach.”

  “And you couldn’t determine that over a few days, but you could decide to take my dog? Is there anyone else?”

  “With me? No. No, there’s just me.”

  “Get up.” Misha took a step back to give her some room. “The others will want to talk to you.”

  “Crichton, right? That’s his name? The one who’s in charge?” This statement nearly brought Misha’s blade back to her face. It was creepy, knowing she had been following them. How much had she heard and learned?

  “You clearly know the way. Start walking,” Misha gestured back toward the campsite. “Don’t try to run or Bullet will just take you down again. What’s your name, anyway?” While her back was turned, Misha quickly untied the rope from Rifle’s collar and pocketed it, making sure to pat the dog’s head afterward. He wanted to thoroughly check Rifle over right then and there, but knew he had to wait until his prisoner was secure.

  “Sherlock,” she answered his question.

  “That’s not your name.” Misha couldn’t imagine anyone naming their baby girl Sherlock, especially not since she was old enough to have been born before the Day.

  “A name is just what people call you, right? People call me Sherlock.” The fear was leaving her as they walked, her voice smoothing out in that lowered pitch she adopted.

  When they reached the fence, Misha whistled loudly. All his dogs were immediately up on their feet. The humans also jolted awake, with Harry cursing loudly as he banged his head on the cart. They were all over at the fence and helping to hold it open within seconds.

  “I found this one by the textile factory,” Misha explained. “She says her name is Sherlock, and she was trying to kidnap Rifle.”

  “He,” Sherlock snapped at him, a sudden flash of anger. “I’m a male.”

  “You’re a male?” Angela questioned. “You don’t seem like one.”

  “Fuck you,” Sherlock snapped at her next.

  “If you have a penis dangling between your legs, then I’m the Second Coming of Jesus,” Angela snapped right back.

  “It’s not about what’s between your legs, you piss head,” Sherlock growled at her, and then Misha understood. She, or rather he, was transgender. It explained the odd voice pitch. Sherlock wouldn’t be able to get any hormone therapy, or vocal training, or gender confirmation surgery, and so he had to make do with what he could on his own. Misha had known a transgender woman at college, a friend of one of his roommates.

  “What did you call me?” Angela challenged.

  “Step back, Angela,” Crichton told her as he stepped between the two. “Sherlock, you’re in no position right now to be throwing insults. I suggest you reassess your situation and priorities.”

  Even in the dark, Misha could tell that Sherlock flushed a bright red as his eyes darted about those who surrounded him.

  “Ki-Nam, why don’t you start a fire?” Crichton suggested. “It would be better if all of us could see one another clearly, and I wouldn’t mind some more warmth.”

  When the fire was lit, and they were seated, Misha started examining Rifle while the rest of his dogs investigated Sherlock with their noses. He didn’t seem to mind the dogs’ attention, occasionally giving one a scratch behind the ear. Sherlock had put his hat back on when Misha marched him to the camp, but he took it off now so that everyone could clearly see his face. His hair had been butchered, cut short in uneven clumps. He had likely done it himself.

  “I’m Crichton,” he introduced himself. “This is Ki-Nam, Angela, Harry, and Misha.”

  “I know,” Sherlock told him, as he was almost knocked sideways by Powder bumping her large head against him.

  “He’s been following us,” Misha told everyone. The dogs all appeared to like Sherlock, and while that normally put Misha at ease, this time it had the opposite effect. He didn’t like that they weren’t cautious. He really didn’t like that Rifle had been somehow lured off.

  Crichton nodded his head at Misha’s statement. “How long have you been following us?”

  Sherlock shrugged. “A while. Since you left that trail of slime. There were a bunch of you, all breaking off into smaller groups. I chose to follow yours because of the dogs.”

  Most of the dogs were now starting to investigate Rifle because Misha was.

  “Why did you follow us?” Crichton asked next.

  “Because I wanted to learn about you. And I liked the dogs.”

  “How did you get them to trust you?” Misha interjected before Crichton could ask anything else. It really bothered him.

  “While you were sleeping, I rubbed against stuff in the area, or rubbed trash against my body that I then put in places where you wouldn’t notice but they would. I left some food out too, although I didn’t have much to share. They got used to knowing I was around, and that I was a source of food. Dogs are very food driven.”

  Misha knew that was true, and hated that this guy had found a way to manipulate that fact.

  “You’re very quiet,” Crichton commented. “We didn’t know you were there.”

  “He almost caught me,” Sherlock pointed to Misha.

  “How did you get on the roof?” This time it was Harry who was asking.

  “I’m good at climbing. Most of the stuff in my pack is climbing gear.”

  “Were you ever going to make contact with us?” Crichton wondered.

  “No, I had decided not to. I just thought I’d take one of the dogs for company and then go somewhere else. But I was unlucky. I couldn’t get close enough to this place to hear what your guard schedule was going to be. If Misha’s was later on at night, I would have been gone before he noticed that Rifle was missing.”

  “Rifle wouldn’t have gone much further away with you,” Misha told him, his voice carrying ice.

  “He might have.”

  “No. He wouldn’t.”

  “I would have tried for one of the other dogs then,” Sherlock said, as if it were no big deal. “Rifle was the only one awake who wasn’t on patrol, but I think I could’ve woken up another without alerting any of you.”

  Misha remembered how many times in the past he had gotten up in the middle of the night to let Rifle out of the container so that the dog could pee. He must have been relieving himself when Sherlock had offered him food from beyond the fence.

&
nbsp; “Why did you decide not to make contact?” Crichton’s voice continued to remain level, absorbing Sherlock’s comments without any sort of reaction. Beside him, Angela fumed, but was successfully managing to keep her mouth shut.

  “Because you’re afraid of someone. Most people tend to call out when they think they’re being followed by a stranger. At least, people who aren’t that afraid of zombies, which you clearly aren’t based on what I’ve seen. You think there’s some other threat in the area.”

  “We used to live here,” Crichton explained. “A large group of raiders took it over. We did this in response,” he gestured to the crater behind them, hidden in the dark beyond the firelight. “We don’t know how many survived.”

  “And you’re worried I’m a surviving raider,” Sherlock figured. “Let me tell ya, hearing that you blew up an entire group of people doesn’t make me feel all warm and fuzzy toward you guys.”

  “We never said we blew them up,” Angela growled, highly suspicious.

  “I have eyes that can see,” Sherlock retorted. “The crater, the debris. There’re all the signs of a large, underground explosion. This area doesn’t seem like the kind for caves, so I’m guessing you were in some sort of bunker. Did the raiders ask to be let in, and you turned them away?”