“What is it, Powder? What do you hear?” Misha asked, encouraging her to go find it.
She looked back at him when he spoke, but remained rooted in place. She whined a little, uncertain what to do.
“Crichton, is that you?” Misha risked calling out in a slightly louder tone of voice. “Harry? Ki-Nam? Angela?” But he got no response. He figured Powder would only wag her tail if it was someone she knew, or food, and since she wasn’t eating, it wasn’t the latter.
Misha checked the area, making sure there wasn’t one of his friends lying injured nearby, but he couldn’t find anyone. He had his dogs search too, but they came up with nothing. Collecting the horses, Misha walked for another block before stopping again.
“Sherlock? Are you following me?”
“Guilty,” a soft voice called from one of the rooftops.
Misha groaned and ran a hand over his head, forgetting how much mud was drying in his hair and regretting it instantly.
“Come down here,” Misha ordered.
He stood there, waiting in the street, until Sherlock appeared and walked over to him.
“For how long have you been following me?” Misha demanded.
“Not long. Powder noticed me almost right away,” Sherlock told him. “So, in a way, I haven’t really been following you; you just happened to stumble into the area in which I am. Why are you here anyway? Where are the others?”
“We got separated by a horde of zombies,” Misha told him. He grudgingly admitted to himself that he was happy to see the man. He loved his dogs, but another human voice provided a kind of comfort that they could not. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen any of them?”
“No, sorry.”
“You wouldn’t happen to know where we are, would you?”
“Like, on a map? Nope. Why, are you lost?”
“I got turned around a little.” Misha didn’t want to admit that yes, he was lost. “I’m not quite sure where my home is in relation to this spot.”
“You think it’s west? Because you’re heading west.”
“I know I’m heading west.” Misha had to bite back a snap. “And no, it’s south, but I need to make sure I’m far enough west that I’ve passed the bay, or else I might run into the zombies again.”
“I don’t know about a bay. I haven’t been in this area long, so I can’t help you with that. Sorry.”
“Well, I have to keep going.” Misha started walking once more, bringing the horses and cart with him. Sherlock kept pace beside him, which Misha kind of figured he might. He had tried to steal Rifle because he was lonely, after all. The thought still sparked a coal of anger in Misha’s gut, but he understood loneliness, and supposed that meant he might be able to one day forgive Sherlock. Maybe.
They walked in silence for nearly an hour before Misha next said anything.
“If you saw any indication that a person had passed through the area, you’d point it out to me, right?”
Sherlock nodded. “I haven’t seen any tracks, not even from animals that aren’t your own.”
“When did you last eat?”
“I found some prickly pear this morning. Wasn’t very good.”
Misha grabbed one of the coconuts he had found and handed it over. Sherlock stared at the hairy fruit while he walked for nearly a minute. When he turned to Misha, he held it out toward him.
“I don’t know how to open one of these,” he admitted.
Misha brought the cart to a stop in order to show him how to crack it open, as well as how to separate the meat from the shell in order to eat it.
“I think I preferred this morning’s cactus.” Sherlock made a face as he sliced off pieces of coconut meat while they walked.
Before night fell, Misha had finally turned them south. Sherlock pointed out a furniture store that had doors large enough for the cart to fit through, so they spent the last of the light clearing away the debris in front of it. The furniture inside was no longer arranged in its nice display locations; instead it was heaped all over, mostly near a window that had broken. With Sherlock’s help, Misha was able to manoeuvre some of the furniture in order to block off the opening, working carefully so as not to break the other windows that had cracked. Some holes in the padded furniture suggested mice or even rats made their homes there, but the dogs failed to locate any that were still alive.
“What do you think of this lamp?” Sherlock asked after they had checked out the place and confirmed that it was secure.
“It’s a lamp,” Misha responded. He had never been one for interior decorating.
“I like it,” Sherlock told him. “I like abstract things like this. It’s not supposed to look like anything real, and yet it can still evoke feelings.”
“Uh huh.” Misha didn’t care. He wasn’t one for art, either. “Why are you still following me?”
“I’d say I was walking with you as opposed to following you.”
“Okay, then why are you still walking with me?”
Sherlock shrugged. “I like your dogs.”
“But you walked with me, not my dogs.”
Sherlock grinned as Misha turned his own word specificity against him. “Maybe I like you because I like your dogs.”
“I wanted to kill you.”
“But you didn’t. You didn’t even try.”
“You know I’m heading back to my community, right?”
“I know.” Sherlock took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I think I might like to go there with you. If you’ll let me.”
“I thought you didn’t like communities?”
“Maybe yours won’t be as bad as I first thought.”
“What if I decided not to let you?”
“What if I decided to just start wandering around until I found it?”
“I could tell them not to let you in.”
“And I bet they would listen, but I don’t think you would do that.”
He was right. Misha had no interest in banning Sherlock. What would be the point? Besides, he clearly had certain skills that they could make use of.
Misha found a rope hammock still suspended between its display posts over in the patio furniture section. It was damp like everything else, but given the amount of mud Misha was covered in, he didn’t mind. He let Sherlock borrow a tarp from the gear on the cart, which he used to cover a soggy, mouldy mattress on which he had chosen to sleep.
The night was long and not filled with much sleep. Even though Misha had decided to bring Sherlock back to the container yard, he still didn’t completely trust him, not enough to let his guard down. He kept his dogs close, and every time he awoke from strange dreams, he shone his light over at the dark lump that was Sherlock. He knew he woke him up a few times doing that, but it didn’t stop him.
One of the times he checked, Sherlock wasn’t there.
“Turn the light off,” Sherlock hissed from nearby.
Misha immediately obeyed. He rolled out of the hammock, then he and Sherlock located each other in the dark.
“Zombies outside,” Sherlock whispered.
Misha didn’t know how he could tell, given the darkness, but he believed him. His dogs and the horses might have all been asleep, but if any were awake, they were keeping quiet and still, scenting the threat. Straining his ears, Misha heard a faint scuffing in the direction of the broken window. Creeping slowly along on his fingers and toes, placing every limb deliberately, he made his way toward the window. By huddling against the furniture they had placed there, he could hear the sounds more distinctly. There were definitely awkward, shuffling footsteps making their way past. Some were even close enough for a rattling, wheezing, unneeded breathing to be heard. Sherlock had made his way over as well, just as silently as Misha had. They sat together and listened as the unknown number of zombies shambled by. Misha’s heart hammered in his throat the whole time, dreading that his light might have been seen and that the dead would try to get in. But they had gotten lucky. The things outside kept walking, and left the
living in peace.
After deciding that they had moved on far enough, when he hadn’t been able to hear them for several minutes, Misha made his way back to his hammock. This time, when he awoke from sleep, he didn’t check on Sherlock. He actually slept better for it.
***
When morning came, Sherlock scavenged the immediate area for food while Misha got the horses ready. Thumper and Potato could definitely use a good brushing down, but that would have to wait until they got home. Misha wondered if the cranes had been reinstalled, or if they would need to lay down the ramps again.
“Found some berries,” Sherlock announced once Misha exited the furniture store with the cart.
They split the berries between them and shared a coconut. It wasn’t much of a breakfast. They hung around the area for a little bit, searching for anything else to eat, while letting the dogs forage. Rifle enjoyed stretching his legs, and even Trigger left her puppies for a little bit to get in a quick run, and gobble down something dead and rank smelling. Misha had Sherlock show him where he had found the berries, which had been attached to an uprooted bush. He carried the foliage back to the horses to see if they would nibble on it.
When they got moving, they headed south as much as the streets would allow, keeping up a constant search for anything to eat. Sherlock spotted a few tracks in the mud, most of them belonging to the dead.
“How do you know it’s the dead and not those people who pretend to be?” Misha asked him.
“Well for starters, that one’s walking on the side of its ankle near as I can figure,” Sherlock told him, pointing to a distinct drag mark. “Not something a living person is generally willing to do. The fakers can never quite imitate the slow shuffle of the dead; they tend to want to move a little quicker and a little less painfully. Also, they leave less of themselves behind.” Sherlock scrunched his face and pointed out a coil of black intestines that had become snagged on a branch in the street. The dog pack shied away from it as they walked past.
They also finally began to see signs of animal life here and there. Nothing worth trying to track down and catch, but it was nice to see that it wasn’t just them and the dead moving about. A few song birds even darted overhead.
“We have to keep an eye out for alligators,” Misha warned Sherlock, not knowing if he had ever had to deal with an infected one before.
“What’s the worst animal you’ve ever seen infected?” Sherlock asked him.
“Alligators,” Misha replied, not knowing what could possibly be worse. “You?”
“You mean other than humans?” Sherlock joked.
“Yes,” Misha answered seriously.
“I saw a silver back gorilla once. They go full zombie, in case you didn’t know. I guess it had been a zoo animal. It was still terrifyingly strong.” Sherlock sounded more sad than frightened as he described it. “It bit a guy, someone I never knew, and took out a whole chunk of his ribcage. Ripped his arm off afterward like it was nothing.”
“I’m glad I don’t live near any gorillas then,” Misha commented.
“Yeah. At least, as far as you know, you don’t. I’m not sure if the gorilla I saw was ever put down or not.”
“Well then we’ll keep an eye out for gorillas as well as alligators.”
“Hey, was that a joke?” Sherlock smiled, teasing him.
Misha didn’t give him the satisfaction of a response.
They continuously foraged for food while they walked. Sherlock knew what meat was still safe for them to eat, provided they could cook it over a fire. Even though they shouldn’t be out there another night, Misha told him to gather it anyway. The container yard could do with whatever food they brought back. Sherlock actually got Misha talking for a little while, explaining what life was like at the container yard. Misha was careful not to describe their defences other than the wall—and even that in not much detail—just in case. But he talked about how they were assigned jobs suited to their skills and preferences, how they made lights for the containers, and how everyone tended to eat at the community centre. Sherlock occasionally had questions, some of which Misha answered, and some of which he did not.
Up ahead, Slide stood in the same posture that she had adopted in the little container yard when she had smelled the zombies. Misha brought Sherlock and the horses to a halt, and gestured for him to remain quiet.
“Stay here,” he whispered.
Misha hurried over to Slide, who was at the head of the dogs. The rest of the pack, seeing Misha’s crouched way of walking, knew that something was up and gathered silently behind him. Slide stayed where she was, nose pointed forward, as Misha made his way past her. Most of the dogs hung back, but Bullet stuck close to his side, his head low and his ears pulled back.
Ahead, a dump truck on flat tires blocked half the road. Misha pressed himself up against it and peered around the side with Bullet standing right behind him.
There were six zombies staggering around in a clear spot up ahead. Not enough to cause too much concern when there were two people to take them out. He and Sherlock shouldn’t have to go around.
A tap on his shoulder made Misha flinch. Sherlock was behind him, or rather behind Bullet. He didn’t know sign language, but he was still able to make enough gestures to let Misha know that he wanted to look around the corner too. Misha let him. When he was done, they hurried back to the cart.
“You should have stayed with the horses,” Misha snapped at Sherlock in a quiet voice.
“They knew to stay put,” Sherlock defended himself.
“It’s not them wandering off on their own that I’m worried about. What do you have in terms of weapons for taking out a zombie?”
“We should leave those ones alone,” Sherlock suggested.
“Why? There’s only six of them.”
“How closely did you look at them?”
Misha shrugged. He didn’t know what Sherlock was getting at.
“Well I looked closely. They’re fairly fresh, but what’s worse, is that they all have bite marks.”
“So?”
“I’ve never seen one of the really scary zombies without a bite mark. You know, the ones that can run and stuff?”
“I’ve seen slow zombies with bite marks.”
“Yeah, but do you want to risk it? What if all six of them are the scary kind? The fast kind? The odds for us aren’t so good then. Even two would be bad. And I think they might all be the scary kind. The way they were moving was a little more fluid than the others.”
“They were staggering.”
“And they weren’t staggering as badly as others,” Sherlock insisted. “We should go around.”
Misha looked at the nearest intersection. It wasn’t like the streets were so littered that they were trapped going this one way, and it shouldn’t add too much time to go around. He wished he knew what the street layout was like in this area. If it were a grid, great, barely anything would change, but if the street they took started to loop away from where they wanted to go, it wasn’t so good. Still, if Sherlock was right about the zombies being the smarter kind, it would be a lot safer to avoid them. He did notice things that Misha didn’t, so he decided to trust the other man’s judgement.
“All right, we’ll go around,” Misha told him. “I’m going to drive the cart; go sit on the back to watch our rear.”
Sherlock looked relieved as he went to do what he was told. Misha quietly called his dog pack to him and instructed them to follow closely. Bullet would certainly understand what that meant, but some of the other dogs were a little finicky about whether they followed that order or not. Misha would just have to hope they did.
He climbed up onto the driving board, where Rifle changed positions in order to place his head on Misha’s lap. Looking back to make sure Trigger and her puppies were comfortably settled, he also checked that Sherlock was seated well enough that he wasn’t about to fall off. Satisfied, Misha flicked the reins, and Thumper and Potato responded instantly. He guided them
around the nearest corner, away from the garbage truck and the zombies up ahead. If those zombies were the smart kind, and they heard the horses’ hooves on the pavement, then Misha and Sherlock could have a problem, which was why Misha wanted to be on the cart. If the horses needed to run, he didn’t want them leaving without him.
Constantly glancing over his shoulder, Misha kept expecting to see the zombies chasing after them, and was always pleased when he saw that they weren’t. His pack was also obeying his order for the time being, all of them clumped together and trotting along behind the cart. Maybe having Sherlock back there helped keep them on task.
The road took them farther west than Misha would have liked, but they did come across another road that went south again before he got too worried. Based on how long they had travelled south already, they were definitely west of the bay. Without knowing how far north he had been, he decided that it would be safer to just keep travelling south until he reached the sea, and then follow that home. When they crossed over a river, he thought that they must be close. It might have even been the river that dumped into the bay where the container yard was, but Misha wasn’t going to risk following it without knowing for certain. The ocean was a certainty.
“Hey, can we walk again?” Sherlock asked from the back. “I think I might be getting motion sickness sitting backwards like this.”
Given the scavenging opportunities, Misha didn’t mind slowing down. He hopped off the driving board. Rifle whined until he was lifted down as well. Apparently he felt like walking too. Seeing Misha back on foot, the rest of the dogs scattered, going back to their search for edibles in the area. Bullet stuck by Misha and Rifle though, even after he was given the release command.
Misha knew they were nearing the ocean when the buildings began to be more spread out, and the shops and houses disappeared. Here, there were factories and warehouses, and, eventually, the sound of waves. The smell of salt reached them shortly before they saw the expanse of water from between the buildings. As they approached the shore road, Misha could see all the debris floating around against the rocks, and a few stray pieces bobbing about farther out.
Survival Instinct (Book 5): Social Instinct Page 56
