Survival Instinct (Book 5): Social Instinct

by Stittle, Kristal

  “You should take off your boots and let your feet dry out.” Sherlock had wandered over, making barely a splash as he walked. His own boots hung via their laces around his neck, the ends of his socks poking out of them.

  “You should be careful. You could rip your foot open on something beneath the surface,” Misha warned him. Why he cared if Sherlock injured himself, he had no idea. But he did take his advice and stripped off his wet footwear. It was certainly more comfortable that way.

  “There’s probably sharks swimming in the water out there right now.” It seemed that Sherlock wanted to make conversation. “It’s definitely deep enough.”

  Misha tried to show no reaction to his words, but apparently Sherlock had picked up on something anyway.

  “You don’t like sharks? I find them fascinating.”

  “One of my best friends was killed by a shark.”

  “Oh? I’d say that’s a good reason to dislike sharks. Most people tend to not like them because they don’t understand them. It’s the same with the zombies. They’re less scary once you know about them, how to avoid them, and, when you can’t do that, how to safely take them out.”

  “Are you saying you like the zombies?” Misha didn’t even try to hide his disgust.

  “No, I wouldn’t say I like them. I have a certain fascination with them, like I do with sharks, but I avoid them whenever possible. Why take the risk, right?” Sherlock walked some more, disappearing and reappearing around the large bank’s support posts, disguised to look like old colonnade pillars.

  “Why do you keep moving around? Why can’t you just stay put somewhere?” Misha finally asked.

  Sherlock considered the question. “Things rarely work out well for me if I stay in one place for too long.”

  “I meant, why don’t you sit down and stop sloshing around?” Misha thought sloshing was too loud a word. Sherlock kept rather quiet in the water.

  “I know, and that’s what I meant too. People don’t like me very much, but even when I’m alone, something bad eventually happens. A zombie comes, or an alligator, or a pack of coyotes. Lots of times bugs crawled over my skin. Tree branches break, roofs collapse, and buildings flood.” Sherlock gestured around himself. “I haven’t found a place yet that seems to want me, so I feel better when I keep moving.”

  “Well it bothers me. Go pace upstairs, or else sit down for a while.”

  Misha had been hoping he’d go upstairs, but instead he sat on the steps again, a little higher than last time, for the water was continuing to rise. He sat too close to Rifle, which put Misha on edge. Then again, if he went all the way upstairs, he would be too close to most of his pack. Either Misha had to be bothered by his walking around in the water, or by him being too close to his dogs. There was no winning.

  A whine made Misha look down at the water again. Bullet was still standing there, but the water was now reaching his chest. He was concerned, but he also wanted to stay near Misha. After checking on Trigger, Misha let Bullet hop up onto the driving board with him, but made sure he stayed on the far end so that the new mother wouldn’t get snappy.

  “That harness was originally Rifle’s, right?” Sherlock asked. “It looks like it’s supposed to fit a bigger dog, and it looks about as old.”

  “Why do you keep hanging around and talking to me?” Misha finally asked, exasperated.

  “You don’t like me because I tried to take your dog, and I understand that,” Sherlock answered. “Angela detests me because she thinks I’m one of those raiders, which I’m not, and Crichton is very difficult to read. I can’t tell what he thinks of me.”

  “Then go hang around Harry or Ki-Nam.”

  “Ki-Nam frightens me. There’s something dangerous about him that I can’t quite put my finger on. I get the impression that if he were told to kill me, he could do it without feeling a thing.”

  “And Harry?”

  Sherlock shrugged. “Harry’s… boring.”

  “So you’d rather hang around someone you know doesn’t like you?”

  “Yes. You’re far more interesting.”

  Misha sighed. No wonder this guy kept getting kicked out of communities.

  “Who’s the most interesting person you know?” Sherlock asked, unable to keep his mouth shut for very long.

  “I don’t know.” It wasn’t something Misha had ever thought about before. He was pretty sure most people didn’t rate their colleagues on their interest level.

  “Think about it,” Sherlock encouraged him.

  Misha didn’t spend a long time thinking, hoping to end this line of enquiry faster.

  “I guess it would be Freya,” he decided.

  “Freya? Who’s that, what’s she like? Tell me what makes her interesting.”

  “She’s mute, and could probably rip your head off with her bare hands.”

  “Is she your friend?”

  “I guess. Probably more of an acquaintance. We don’t exactly hang out.”

  “I don’t think you hang out with anyone. Other than your dogs.”

  “I have friends,” Misha bristled.

  “I didn’t say you didn’t. I just don’t think you’re the kind of person to ‘hang out’ with anyone. Who’s your best friend?”

  “Rifle.”

  “Your best human friend?”

  “What does it matter to you?” Misha tried to keep from snapping. He could see that his tension was transferring to Trigger.

  Sherlock shrugged. “It doesn’t. I just wanted to know more about you.”

  “And how does asking me about people you don’t even know do that?”

  “By the way you look when you answer.”

  “I imagine I look pretty hostile due to the one who’s asking.”

  Sherlock actually grinned, although why, Misha had no idea. “So who is your best human friend?”

  “If I tell you, will you stop asking me questions and leave me alone?”

  “Sure. For a while at least. I can’t leave you alone forever in this confined place.”

  “I’d probably say that Danny is my best friend.”

  Misha expected another question, but he was wrong. Sherlock did what he said he would do, and left Misha alone. He went upstairs where Misha could no longer be certain of his exact whereabouts or what he was up to. That lack of knowledge didn’t improve Misha’s mood.

  He leaned over and gently patted Trigger on the head. Below him, the water continued to creep upward.

  ***

  They were forced to remain in the bank for the rest of the day, and the following night. Much to Misha’s relief, the water stopped rising before reaching the cart’s axles, which was the determinate height he had chosen to move Trigger and the puppies. During the night, the water level began to go back down, which the horses were pleased about. Misha slept, cramped, on the driving board, after shooing Bullet off. He and Rifle stayed on the landing of the staircase, eager to receive ear scratches whenever Misha popped upstairs for food, or drinkable water, or to relieve himself. He chose not to piss in the floodwater, figuring it was dirty enough without him adding to it. Misha learned during that time that horse shit floated. He didn’t think Sherlock would be walking around barefoot in the water after that.

  The clouds must have been thinner the next day; more grey light managed to reach inside the bank. When Misha woke up, he saw that the water had retreated to below the level of the main floor, leaving behind a film of muck. It wasn’t as bad as the zombie slime, but Misha still didn’t like having to step on it when he put his booted feet down.

  After stretching, he walked over to the stairs leading up from the entrance. It was drizzling outside, nowhere near the crashing destruction that had frightened him. The water level was about half way up the steps, and Misha thought he could see it lowering. One of the doors at the bottom of the wide staircase was blocked by a car that must have been lifted up and pushed against the glass. If the bank’s doors weren’t as strong as they were, they likely would have broken.<
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  Retreating upstairs to find some breakfast, Misha first had to stop and say good morning to his pack. All of them but Trigger had gathered on the landing in the night, creating an impassable carpet of fur until Misha woke them and moved them out of the way. Finally making it the rest of the way up, he discovered that all the humans, Sherlock included, were awake and sitting around in the office where they had stored the supplies.

  “The water’s receding,” Misha said as he sat beside Crichton and accepted the tiny meal he was offered. The dogs followed him into the room and proceeded to beg, by sitting or lying down near someone and staring at them with sad, watery eyes. Misha found himself flanked by Rifle and Bullet, the latter wedging between Misha and Crichton.

  “We saw,” Harry said, responding to Misha with a gesture toward the window. “I think it might recede enough for us to head out at some point today.”

  “Good,” Crichton nodded.

  “What are you going to do with me?” Sherlock immediately asked. “I doubt there’s any sort of trail left I can follow for you out there.”

  “You can leave whenever you want, and go wherever you want,” Crichton told him, much to Angela’s annoyance.

  “Okay.” Sherlock gave no indication about what he might do.

  The morning passed slowly. After remaining cooped up for so long, Misha was energized and ready to go, but the water was not so accommodating. Trigger and the puppies were doing fine. The new mom even stood up and stretched for a while, leaving her pups alone in the nest for a few seconds while she paced the length of the driving board. She also relieved herself on the pile of dirt in which the crops they had saved were growing.

  Walking around the main floor was still a bit dangerous without the water. The mud and tiny pools it had left behind made the marble really slippery in places. Still, Misha explored, feeling a need to move. He looked around in all the same places that Sherlock had already been. Bullet followed him into every corner, his feet becoming covered in slime. The exploration worked out in the dog’s favour when he pulled a slimy, rotten stick out of the muck, and proceeded to carry it with pride. When Misha finally made his way back to the cart, the other dogs all wanted Bullet’s stick, and so a game of chase-me started up, shot through with interruptions of tug-of-war. Misha enjoyed watching them play. He was glad that they weren’t so hungry that they didn’t have the energy for it.

  They decided to leave when the water was low enough. They were hoping to reach at least the halfway point back to the container yard, home, before the sun set. It’s where they would have been before the storm, if Misha hadn’t decided to have Sherlock follow the trail of the raiders.

  The first job was to get the doors open, the ones that didn’t have a car pressed against them. A lot of mud had built up around the base of the doors, and so it took a bit of effort to move them. Once open, however, the mud then oozed around and helped hold them open. The horses were carefully walked down the steps, which was a lot harder for them than going up had been. Getting the cart down was even more of a challenge. Misha emptied one of the packs, filled it with padding, and placed the tiny pups inside so that they were out of harm’s way if the cart lost control. Trigger whined and licked his hands the entire time he held them to his chest. Crichton insisted he not put the puppies in danger by helping with the cart, so Misha could stand aside and watch, relatively guilt free. Sherlock actually helped with all the moving, even though he said he wasn’t going to come with them. The pack the puppies were in was needed to transport supplies, so Misha settled them back in the nest on the cart once more. The chopped wood had been used to block in Trigger’s nest, and to secure a rain tarp over it. While the others retrieved the gear from the office, Misha got his dogs ready. Because Trigger would be in the cart, he was going to be the one to drive it, with Rifle joining him on the driving board. Spring, Barrel, and Stock would ride upon the cart as well, since the water was uncomfortably high for them; they would tire quickly in it. Bullet and Slide should have probably also been on the cart, the water reaching their bellies, but it was already crowded enough, and they were strong dogs. They could handle walking through the water, especially if they didn’t end up travelling far. Being such large dogs, Guard and Powder were fine with the depth. Trigger was unhappy about sharing her ride, but Misha made sure the other dogs gave her space, while also issuing firm lie down and stay commands so that they would stay in place.

  “That’s the last of it,” Crichton announced, checking one last time that everything on the cart was properly secured. “Let’s head out.”

  Sherlock walked with them to the end of the block, and then went his own way. There were only a few goodbyes exchanged, and neither he nor Angela acknowledged their departure from one another. Misha couldn’t help but wonder where he was going to go.

  Everything looked so different. Windows had been smashed, roofs had collapsed, trees broken, and of course, there was debris everywhere. The storm had created sudden and violent change, sending everything into disarray.

  It was slow moving. Not only was there some water resistance to deal with, but debris constantly got in the way. They had to wind their way around cars and trees, and even pieces of buildings. They always managed to find a route for the cart to follow, but it was nowhere near a straight line. It didn’t help that it was still raining, reducing visibility. Misha was soaked to the bone.

  They travelled along a very gradual uphill route, so that eventually the water was low enough for even Spring to make her way through it. Only Rifle remained on the cart with Trigger and the pups. The dogs were all quite happy about the aftermath. The storm had brought a fair number of fish ashore, which had died or become trapped in puddles. Certain land animals had also failed to escape. Their corpses became part of the garbage. There was plenty of meat for the pack to chow down on as they travelled. Crichton was even kind enough to grab a few fish for Misha to give to Trigger and Rifle.

  When Ki-Nam called for them to stop, he did so abruptly. His head was swivelling about, having sensed something he couldn’t be sure of.

  “Sniff check,” Misha commanded the dogs nearest to him. “Go on. Sniff check.”

  While being told to sniff check generally meant sniffing the people near them for signs of infection, Misha hadn’t taught them a command for sniffing around the area; they tended to do that anyway. By ordering a sniff check though, the dogs became alert, and began to specifically check for the scent of zombies. It was Spring who found something. Her high-pitched yapping flew out of her body as she raced away from the tangles of a fallen tree just ahead of Ki-Nam.

  Drawn by the bout of barking, a zombie crawled out from the branches. Twigs peppered its dead skin so that it appeared similar to an upright porcupine. Misha tested the breeze. They were upwind from the mess, which was why the dogs hadn’t been able to scent anything ahead of time. The dogs gathered near the cart, all of them silent now. They waited for Ki-Nam to take out the dead thing, but instead, the man retreated.

  “There’s more,” he hissed. “A lot more.”

  A chorus had started up, loud enough to be heard over the rainfall. The moaning and groaning of the dead. There was a lot of gargling, as most of their lungs had filled with water. The sound came from everywhere. Misha wanted to give Spring the benefit of the doubt, by assuming she had barked in surprise, because it was possible that the little dog may have just killed them all.

  They came from around the corners and insides of buildings. They crawled out from under cars, rising up out of the low water. They ripped free of the trash that hid them, trailing seaweed, and torn strips of thin plastic, and muddy leaves. They were everywhere, all around them. There was no way for the travellers to circle up defensively around the cart: there weren’t enough of them.

  “Misha, get out of here,” Crichton ordered.

  “What?”

  “Get the cart out of here before it’s too late. We need to get those supplies back home. Run, before they close off your escape. W
e’ll catch up.”

  Misha couldn’t allow himself to think, only to follow the command. He wheeled the horses around and snapped the reins. Thumper and Potato needed no urging; they were more than glad to get the hell out of there. A sharp whistle drew the dogs with them, but Misha had no idea if they would be able to keep up, especially if they reached deeper water. But as long as they started running, they should be all right.

  The horses crashed through the water, weaving together around obstacles already passed once before. Misha had to focus, to find the largest openings through which to guide the horses. Rifle whined beside him, bouncing around on the driving board where he had no purchase. Misha couldn’t offer him any aid or comfort, forced to trust that he wasn’t yet too old to keep holding on.

  He looked back only once, and only over his shoulder at where Trigger and the puppies had been resting beneath the tarp. Trigger was on her feet, her legs splayed as she braced herself over top of her babies, who bounced about in the nesting. The tarp half hung over the side, as some of the wood had jostled enough to let it loose. Misha didn’t want to look back any farther. He didn’t want to see his dogs falling behind, or the humans as a horde of the dead closed in around them.

  The way back was eventually blocked by more of the dead, a soggy mass that had been unknowingly gathering behind them. A handful had barnacles clinging to them and they could barely stand or move. These were zombies dredged up from the bottom of the ocean, the ones that had wandered in and never wandered back out again. How many had once been part of the comet horde? How many had been jostled over the sides of the bridge on their way to the container yard, or had been pushed over the edge into the river once they got there? The number was probably a large one, and the current had carried them out, safely away from the container yard. And now the storm had brought them back.