She wandered the facility for hours. And even after all the twists, turns, double-backs, and dead ends, it was quickly made clear for her. This place was empty; the dead had never roamed these halls. As a bonus, the facility had not been looted. During her reconnaissance, she discovered a cafeteria. She would take a mental note on how to backtrack once her primary aim of washing away the filth was reached.
Her search continued, and a few long corridors later she found it. The locker room, and with it came showers. But the showers were dry; she suspected as much, but she had to give it a shot. Undaunted, she continued to explore. Due to the nature of the facility, she was looking for a first aid station. From all outward appearances, the building seemed up to code. It should have had what she sought; she only needed to find it. Deeper inside the facility and just beyond a waste-processing room, she found what she was searching for. A large steel ring dangled from a chain above a drain in the floor. The ring controlled the release valve to an emergency shower. Its water source would have been separate from the main line, drawing its supply from a rooftop tank. Provided it remained undiscovered, and if the state of the facility was any indication, it should still be full. It was. Soraya wasted no time stripping off her diseased clothing, and she scrubbed like she’d never scrubbed before. When she could no longer smell the sewer on her, she scrubbed again—and then again.
Soraya returned to the locker room. She air-dried as she inspected locker after locker. There had to be something in the way of clothing here: a work uniform, anything. By this point, she would have settled for a towel and been content. If she had to dress in her ruined, filth-soaked attire, what was the point of all the scrubbing? After opening more than twenty lockers, she finally found it: one oversized gray jumpsuit with a name tag sewn in the front that read “Tim.” Three of her could easily have fit in the thing. After she cut the excess lower sleeves and legs from the garment, she was set. Thank you, Tim. Now all she needed to do was find the manager’s office and a supply of antibiotics that she assumed was kept on hand in such a place. She was convinced that she was wracked with disease, so anything that could hopefully stave off illness was a priority.
It was dark outside by the time she got herself together. Soraya would spend the night here after she made sure the place was secure. Once she was convinced that there were no surprises lurking around the facility, she retraced her steps, returned to the cafeteria, and found that it was surprisingly well-stocked. She assumed that no one considered holing up in a sewage treatment plant, crisis or not. After she gorged herself on single-serving bags of potato chips and cookies, she slid a heavy snack machine in front of the door inside the employees’ break room. Then she promptly chose the softest couch she could find and drifted off into much-needed sleep.
The morning was bright and beautiful when Soraya left the plant. She locked up behind her just in case she needed to return for supplies, but if she could help it, she would never set foot in that place again. Her kukri was strapped to her left leg and her sidearm to the right. She had a bottle of antibiotics safely tucked away in her breast pocket and she was on her way. But where? Her friends were gone. Hopefully they were safe by now, but she was still stuck in a city overrun with the dead.
There wasn’t much activity down here by a sewage treatment plant on the outskirts of town. Going back to where she came from—though certainly a foolish endeavor—was her best bet for being picked up if Miller could convince Cortez’s shipmates that she was worth coming back for. Soraya would pick a secure oceanfront location and wait it out for as long as she could. A nearby rooftop gave her a better view of her surroundings. The maze of tunnels and the slick ride to the plant shot her out farther inland than she initially thought; she was probably a mile or more from the resort. She scanned the horizon for the biggest landmark. The Grand stuck out like a sore thumb even against the other high-rises nearby. That is the one, she thought.
The area surrounding the Grand had been bombed to hell. The nearest bridges connecting the resort to the mainland had all been rendered useless. Craters and rubble that had previously stood as landmarks to the resort littered the area. It made no sense to bomb a vacation spot like this. Soraya assumed there must have been a military installation or government safehouse nearby that was concerned with its proximity to Poseidon’s Rest during the early days. As modest as it was, the city would still have held potentially tens of thousands of dead. Knocking out the bridges made sense, but why level so many buildings in the process? Were the pilots just sloppy or inexperienced? If those responsible ever made themselves known, she would ask them.
It took her the better part of an entire day, but the first thing Soraya did with the Grand was methodically clear each and every room of the dead. She put them down, then wheeled them out into the parking lot on servers carts and dumped them in a pile toward the far end of the property nearest to the main road. Leaving them piled like that should be a good sign that someone lived here if Miller ever returned. She only hoped it didn’t attract the wrong kind of attention.
On her second day at the Grand, she secured the first floor, inside and out. A local hardware store had plenty of paint that she used to black out the windows. The hardware store held much more than paint, provided one knew where to look. Even though much of the store’s inventory had long ago walked away, Soraya made the best of her circumstances. She was able to find small tools and rudimentary mechanical supplies that could come in handy later. Her biggest find was a pair of handheld propane tanks that she could use to heat water. The Grand held an overabundance of single-serve packets of coffee grounds, and the kitchen had all the metal pots she would ever need to brew that coffee or even heat water for a bath if she felt like treating herself.
During her first week at the hotel she blocked off all entrances with vehicles, then drove a box truck to within reaching distance of a second-story room. That would act as her way in and out. The last thing she did was tear up the bottommost stairs leading to the lobby and fill the stairwells with furniture. Even if the dead managed to somehow breach her defenses, they could never reach her. And if anyone untoward showed up, the obstacle would slow them down long enough to buy Soraya time to mount a defense or make her escape. Tearing up the stairs that led to the lobby took a lot more work than she anticipated, but it was worth it to know that none of those things would ever get past. Sure, people could traverse the obstacle, but it wouldn’t be easy for them, and Soraya would surely hear them coming.
The hotel contained an abundance of resources, not the least of which were hundreds of articles of clothing. One of the first things she did was find clothes that fit her properly and throw that huge gray jumpsuit out with the pile of dead. After two weeks in the hotel’s penthouse suite, Soraya had already transformed the place into something resembling a home.
Another week passed and Soraya was firmly entrenched in ritual. First thing in the morning, she would bathe using buckets of seawater hauled up to her suite in the dumbwaiter. The sewage treatment plant stayed with her for weeks, and everywhere she went, the faint aroma of shit lingered. After that, she would mark a notch on the bathroom mirror with lipstick, signifying how many days had passed. Then she would sit out on her balcony in her clean bathrobe with a cup of coffee and a snack from a vending machine and watch the horizon.
On the morning of the twenty-third day, she saw something out on the beach. “It cannot be.”
Soraya approached the surf to find a ragged bag of mismatched items beside a tattered gray dress. The bag contained some toys, a half-eaten candy bar, and a couple dead crabs. No real supplies to speak of. That was when she noticed her just in the surf, standing in ankle-deep water. Isabelle stood naked, blade in hand. She had no greetings for a former road companion. There was only anger in her eyes.
“Isabelle!” Soraya was elated to see another living soul, especially someone she knew. “I thought you had died back there.”
Isabelle stared for a moment longer and then just as sudden
ly approached fast.
Soraya was cautious; she wasn’t sure about the blade in Isabelle’s hand or her intentions. She didn’t want to have to disarm her unless she really needed to, so she slowly backed a few paces away from the bag.
Isabelle marched past Soraya with hardly a look and went straight to her belongings. She put her knife away, then slammed the bag shut as if to say, Stay out of my things. Isabelle put on her ragged dress and stood between Soraya and the sun. Her silhouette was gaunt; she reminded Soraya of one of those things.
“Do you have any food?” Isabelle finally said. “I’m hungry.”
Isabelle moved into the penthouse suite with Soraya; there was more than enough room. Truth be told, that single suite alone could have comfortably held the entire group had they not been whisked away to Haven. She still didn’t talk much, but over time, Isabelle slowly warmed up to Soraya. They shared meals and morning coffee and would rummage through nearby buildings together.
On occasion, Soraya would keep a watchful eye as Isabelle took her morning swim. These laps out past the breakers took a little getting used to for Soraya. She would follow Isabelle to the beach and watch as she tossed her dress in a heap in the sand and disappear far out beyond the waves. One morning, Soraya lost sight of Isabelle. She frantically tossed her boots and pants aside and dove into the surf. When she reached the spot where she thought she’d last seen Isabelle, there was nothing; she scanned up and down the beach, helpless against the vast sea. Soraya had begun to head in—she was convinced that she had just lost her only companion—when she noticed Isabelle treading water far down the beach. Only her nose broke the surface. Isabelle stared at Soraya blankly until a swell in the waves revealed Isabelle smiling at the panic-stricken Soraya. That was the last time Soraya chased Isabelle into the ocean.
A few weeks after her roommate moved in, Soraya followed Isabelle down to the parking garage one particularly humid morning. Soraya was never sure if Isabelle knew that she was watching, though she had an inkling that Isabelle knew.
Isabelle had a large carrier trapped inside of a locked van. She opened the door and the thing slid out onto the ground. Soraya was about to rush forward and put it down, but she hesitated. She knew Isabelle could handle herself, and if it looked like Isabelle was in trouble, Soraya would dart from the shadows and intercede. Mostly she was curious about what Isabelle was doing.
Isabelle waited for the carrier to rise and then lunge at her. She side-stepped its attack, then started grappling with it, hitting and punching and kicking it. She would put it in holds, always careful to keep its rot-infested mouth away from her skin as they rolled around on the pavement. This would go on for hours some days. Other days she seemed almost frustrated and would just as quickly put a knife in it but not put it down. Isabelle would go for vital organs—under its ribcage, its inner thighs, or its neck—like she was practicing for fighting a real living, breathing person. Another time she wrapped her hands with strips of torn-up jeans and boxed the beast for over an hour.
Soraya watched many times as Isabelle crawled from one end of the van to the other, slowly enticing the lone carrier to follow. Once the beast joined her in the van, Isabelle scurried out the passenger side door, ran around the back, and locked the creature inside. It was a simple strategy, and it worked. She made it a point to follow Isabelle to the parking garage every trip, usually two or three times a week. There was always a lingering sense of just in case in the back of her mind. If Isabelle had an accident while alone in that dank garage, Soraya would never be able to forgive herself.
Weeks passed uneventfully until an uninvited guest showed up, the first of many. Gary’s boat washed ashore on Deertongue Banks, very near their own shipwreck. Soraya used one of the small boats that the group had left behind during their escape to paddle out to the stranded man. He claimed he was on his way to the Florida Keys when his ship ran aground in the night. His brother had taken his family there months ago, and Gary was desperate to see him again. Though he was exhausted from his ordeal, Gary only stayed a single night. Isabelle watched him like a hawk for the duration of his stay. She would scrutinize each of their guests in a similar manner. Soraya couldn’t be sure if the woman ever slept. In the morning, Soraya packed Gary a bag with fresh clothes and some food before he continued his trek south.
Late one night around day ninety, Soraya awoke to what sounded like bombs going off. She went to the balcony and saw a small caravan of trucks making its way through the resort, its passengers randomly throwing small incendiary devices at buildings as they passed. The fires lasted for hours but luckily never spread to the Grand before the rains eventually put them out. Odd that someone would choose to waste supplies like a potential fuel source only to vandalize an already-ruined city. Wondering why people did the things that they did anymore was an exercise in futility.
Bonnie and Chase showed up a few days later. They were dirty and had a way about them that kept Soraya’s radar pinging. Isabelle watched them intently from a distance, always staying just out of sight. She stared at everyone, even Soraya at times, though those looks had something else behind them. Was it nothing more than a coincidence that two road-worn, suspicious-looking travelers just happened to show up at their doorstep a mere few days after the raiders passed? Perhaps that was their plan all along. The commotion outside with the Molotov cocktails would certainly cause anyone in hiding to poke their heads up for anyone watching. The raiders would then have designated targets. It was all conjecture that Soraya would ponder in the aftermath of what happened next.
Soraya escorted Bonnie and Chase through the hotel, past the demolished first-floor stairs and up into her and Isabelle’s suite. Chase didn’t say much, and he looked at everything with a sideways glance, but Bonnie had a multitude of questions about the hotel, from the trucks parked outside and other various defenses to how many people lived here and what kinds of supplies they had. The woman kept insisting that Soraya was holding back, even after the third time Soraya reiterated that it was only her and Isabelle living in the spacious hotel. In retrospect, Soraya felt like a fool for not listening to the warning bells that were ringing through her head, saying something just wasn’t right with these two. Nevertheless, she welcomed Bonnie and Chase into the suite just as everything went black.
Soraya awoke with the taste of iron on her lips; her head was pounding. She was disoriented and slow to move. Then it hit her, and in an instant, she was on her feet with her kukri drawn. Her face and chest were covered in blood; it wasn’t her own. The surrounding room was in shambles. Something happened while she was unconscious—something violent. The puncture wounds on Chase’s neck and under his chin explained it. Isabelle’s knife lay beside him; a trail of crimson led from the body to where Soraya lay on the floor. She took one step and fell again. She must have been hit exceptionally hard to still have wobbly legs. She steadied herself and returned to a kneeling position. The room was spinning and her vision blurry. A commotion off to the side brought reality screaming back to her. Isabelle was lying flat on her back with the much larger Bonnie atop her; she was on her back as well. Isabelle’s legs were wrapped around Bonnie’s waist and her arms were locked tight around Bonnie’s neck.
Bonnie’s nose was smashed and crooked; blood dripped down the sides of her face and onto Isabelle’s. Isabelle pulled hard, using her other arm as a fulcrum. Bonnie gurgled—her eyes were wide as she reached for Soraya, pleading and panic-stricken. Her hands darted from Isabelle’s choking grip to Soraya and then back again. Everything came flooding in for Soraya. Bonnie and Chase thought they had the jump on them. What they didn’t consider was Isabelle’s feral nature. That was a fatal error.
Soraya dragged herself to a seated position with her back against a blood-soaked couch. She would have to switch the ruined furniture out for something else or move rooms entirely. Bonnie gurgled some more behind a series of delicate popping sounds as Isabelle pulled her neck back farther past its breaking point. Bonnie stopped moving.
Isabelle didn’t. Bonnie’s neck was so twisted and bent that had Soraya not been so close to passing out again she might have vomited from the sight.
Soraya crawled over and tapped Isabelle on the arm. “You can let go now. They will not be getting back up.”
Slowly, cautiously, Isabelle released her grip. She made her way to her feet and then stared at her handiwork around the room. She saw that Soraya was still on the ground, leaning heavily on the furniture. Isabelle rushed to her side. “Are you okay?”
“I am probably concussed, but otherwise, yes, I am fine.” Soraya allowed Isabelle to help her to her feet. “What happened?”
“That one.” Isabelle pointed to the dead man across the room. “He hit you in the back of the head with that crystal ashtray. The other one thought it was funny. They didn’t see me coming. They were too busy congratulating themselves and going through your stuff.”
“Thank you, Isabelle. I was careless. I would be dead if you were not here.”
“This is what I mean when I say we can’t let just anyone in.” Isabelle helped Soraya to her bathroom. She heated some water for her while Soraya tried to steady herself.
Soraya leaned against the shower wall. Balance was an issue. “I am going to be of no use for a few days. Do you think you will be okay without me?”
Isabelle didn’t answer; she simply turned her gaze back to the living room and the two dead bodies lying in bloody, broken heaps.
“Of course.” Soraya almost laughed.
For the next eight days, Soraya was mostly bedridden. Isabelle brought her food, kept her hydrated, and helped her to the bathroom daily. Most days, Soraya was wobbly and looked like she would tip over at any minute. Dutifully, Isabelle sat on the edge of the bathtub and within arm’s reach of the toilet, should Soraya lose balance again and fall.
The Roaming (Book 3): Haven's Promise Page 28
