by M. D. Massey
Last year, Justin had changed his career path to major in IT. He had a special affinity for all things computer-like. A super-geek! Dad had been super pissed. They hadn’t spoken much since last Thanksgiving. The gloomy sky intensified his regrets. He sighed, thinking about the things he wished he’d told his parents before the world had gone cannibalistic.
He clicked the bike into a lower gear and veered into the Home Depot parking lot. Cars, SUVs, trucks, and lots of trash littered the lot. He scanned the area for Zs and spotted a mini-horde by the store’s entrance. They sat with their backs against the store, heads down, still in zombie slumberland. No problemo. He’d be out of there before they reached his end of the lot.
He started with the outer most aisle. The doors to a black Toyota were locked. He didn’t waste time breaking in. No need to, not when there were hundreds of unlocked vehicles. He came to an awesome, green Mustang. “Sweeet,” he crooned. The driver’s door was open, the new norm. So many people had left their vehicles in a panic—never to return. Well, not as humans, he mused, sliding across the chilly leather seat. I should take it back to the hotel. Dual exhaust pipes. No zombie-sneaking with this car; Zs would hear it half a mile away. Too bad. He reached for the ugly Coach purse on the backseat. Awesome. He snatched the blinged-out cell phone case.
Justin continued his search down the row of haphazardly parked vehicles. The Zs sitting against the storefront dazedly looked about and sniffed the air. Do they smell me already? Just a few more cars, he thought. With his zombie-slasher knife sheathed and strapped to his right leg, he was ready for battle. But, he preferred to avoid them. He hated the smell of zombie guts in the morning. He usually puked when he had to clean his knife after a de-activation.
An all too familiar odor drifted in the early morning breeze. Those things hella stink. He opened the door to a wrecked Scion. It lurched on him. Justin had never seen a zombie move that fast. He didn’t panic. He had practiced this move countless times (in real-time and video game time). He snatched his knife. And swish! He slit the Z’s flesh-rotting neck. Its protruding jet-black eyeballs rolled back. The Z collapsed to the pavement and juddered uncontrollably like a shorted-out cyborg left in the microwave ten minutes too long. Its deteriorating flesh liquified, melting off its neck and face in gory gobs of goo.
“Dude, you’re spoiling my breakfast.” Justin gagged, completely grossed-out. He headed back to the hotel. The safe-zone . . .
“Hey, LuLu, I was looking for you,” Justin said, finding her in the dining room.
“Hey, hon.” LuLu’s left eye twitched.
Wow, did she wink at me, or does she have something in her eye? “I was wondering, is anyone using the conference room by the elevators?” he asked.
“Nope, we only use the larger room for storage. Why do you ask?”
“No reason,” Justin responded, trying to act nonchalant.
“Whatcha up to?” LuLu asked in that tone a parent uses when you’re up to something.
“You know—stuff.”
“Justin.” Her tone deepened. “Did anyone ever tell you that you’re a pathetic liar?” LuLu scolded.
“Uh, it’s nothing really. I need the room for my project. It’s sort of a surprise. ’Cause, it probably won’t even work. And—”
“And you don’t want Dean to know about it until you have it all figured out. Am I right?”
“You got it.” Justin nodded.
“Your secret’s safe with me.”
“Cool. I’ll catch-you-up later if it works,” Justin quipped.
“Sure thing, kiddo.” LuLu winked again.
She definitely winked that time. It made him nervous, but he was so jazzed about his project he didn’t care. He had his very own workroom. It was a nice size room about twenty by thirty feet. He could set up a lot of buffet tables in there.
By mid-afternoon, he was almost done setting up the tables when he heard Dean’s booming voice calling for him. Now what? He didn’t want to risk Dean walking in on him, so he slipped into the lobby a second before Dean turned the corner.
“There you are. Been lookin’ all over for you, son. Found a La Superior truck. The Stockton Boys are geared-up. We’re ready to roll when you are,” Dean announced, but it was more of an order.
“Dude, you mean like right now?” Justin couldn’t hide his disappointment, eager to get working on his project. Besides, he was still freaked-out over this morning’s close call.
“Son, something on your mind? You know how important the food supply is,” Dean reminded.
“Sure, okay. Where are we going?” Justin asked, resigning himself. It was no use arguing with Dean. It was like trying to win an argument with his dad. It just wasn’t happening.
“Peabody Road and Elmira. The Stockton Boys happened to come across it during today’s fuel run,” Dean said hurriedly.
Justin knew the area. He and Parker used to order food to-go at the Mexican restaurant. Like they have the best nachos ever! “Dude, what’s the name of the Mexican restaurant back in the corner?” Justin asked as if it mattered.
“I know the one you’re talking ’bout. Mary loved that place. El Azteca, I think. Haven’t been there in years—not since Mary . . .”
Justin recognized the sadness in Dean’s eyes and heard it in his voice. I guess I’m not the only one dealing with the past. Justin felt like a butt-head for not wanting to help. “Give me five minutes. I’ll meet you guys by the trucks.” Justin ran to the kitchen to snag a bite of whatever Ella was cooking. But really, he just wanted to see her smile. Ella always inspired him.
12
Scarlett sat on the balcony of the Natomas townhouse and played an old-fashion game of solitaire in an attempt to ignore the onslaught of anxious thoughts tormenting her. The chilly October air was a relief after the endless, scorching-hot summer. The ocean-gray sky teased of rain, wanting to let go, yet not quite ready to release its bounty onto the parched landscape. She took in a deep breath of cool air and leisurely shuffled the fancy rose playing cards. She dealt out seven piles of cards, taking the time to stack each pile perfectly on the marble patio table.
She needed it to rain. She had managed to use what little water was left in all the hot-water tanks of the nearby townhomes. She probably should have refrained from taking those frigid one-minute showers on her scavenging days. At the time, it had seemed like the civilized thing to do, for life without a shower was unbearable. But with only two cases of sixteen-ounce water bottles left, showers or even sponge baths were out of the question. The news media (back before society had disappeared) had promised either a mild El Nino this fall or a Godzilla El Nino next fall for this part of California; no signs of it yet. As usual, the weather had its own agenda. A wry smile crossed her lips when she uncovered the first Ace, the Ace of Hearts.
She debated over staying there until spring, recalling the “shelter in place” plan was usually the safest and most logical plan of action. The lack of water was her biggest problem at this point. She had placed numerous buckets and cooking pots around the complex, ready to harvest the first rains of the season. Could she wait it out? She put the Ace of Spades on the top foundation, two down and two to go.
At least I have plenty of food. Scarlett was extremely pleased with the inventory she had collected (stolen) over the past few weeks. Once she had overcome the fear of leaving the safety of the townhouse, she had become quite adept at breaking into the nearby homes, acquiring an abundant supply of food and supplies, enough to last through April.
“To leave, or not to leave,” she pondered. If she left her comfort zone, there would obviously be trouble, deadly trouble. It’s safer to stay here.
Thoughts kept interrupting her solitaire game as she found a home for the King of Spades. Yes, I might finally win a game if I can just get to the Six of Hearts. Strange how such a silly game gave her a cheap thrill these days.
That’s it—water—or no water, I’ll just have to suck it up! She had decided once and for all t
o wait it out until April, and if help hadn’t found her by then, she’d go looking for help. Why April? She really wasn’t sure.
“Yes, finally won a flippin’ game.” She hadn’t intended to say it so loudly, and she nervously checked the field below for creepers. She noted several packs off in the distance, no doubt lusting over the jackrabbits. Relieved, she sank back down in the wicker patio chair and sipped the rest of the not-so-hot chamomile tea. Surely, California would be back to normal by April. The thought of seeing Cyndi again made her lonely heart ache. She closed her eyes, remembering . . .
“Run!” Shouting interrupted her longing thoughts. There, in the field behind her townhome, were two figures. Running. Yes, running—not stumbling. She counted seven creepers closing in on the right. What? Several small packs approached from all directions. Once again, it made her think creepers communicated on some level. The man and woman didn’t look like they were going to make it out of the field. The packs flanked them from three sides with stragglers joining in on the chase, forming a humongous horde. Scarlett didn’t have the time to drive out there and save them. It would be too late.
The woman had difficulty running. She stopped every few yards and gasped. The man was several yards ahead and almost to the decorative wrought-iron fencing that separated the field from the townhomes.
“Hurry!” The man shouted. He went back for her, but the woman waved him on. She started to run again only to trip. She fell face-down onto the ground. A lone creeper appeared from nowhere. She screamed. The man turned around and started running back to her.
“Go!” she screamed. The man stopped and fiddled with the rather large pack on his back. He must be looking for a weapon. But the woman was out of time. Scarlett grabbed the rifle next to the door. She fired off a shot, catching the creeper in the back of the head as it lunged at her. A headshot was the only way to kill them. She had finally figured that out after a few days of target shooting practice.
The man looked up and acknowledged Scarlett with a frantic wave. He ran to the woman, pulling her to her feet.
“Jump the fence!” Scarlett yelled.
They ran toward the row of townhouses overlooking the field—creepers closing in on them. A calming energy settled over Scarlett. She methodically began shooting the creepers dead in the head. She missed only once, steadied herself, and continued her target shooting. She stopped to reload. What? They were coming from everywhere! Had creepers been there all along, hiding in the knee-high weeds—hiding in plain sight? It was a thought she found rather disturbing. The man helped the woman over the decorative four-foot fence. She plopped to the ground.
“Go around front!” Scarlett yelled while he helped the woman to her feet again. Scarlett reloaded and continued shooting. There were too many to kill! Scarlett could only hope they’d make it to her front door—in time. The fence would buy them time since creepers had a difficult time maneuvering over obstacles.
With rifle in hand, Scarlett dashed down the stairs. She tore open the front door just as the man and woman turned the corner of her building. Another pack appeared from the east. Scarlett let off a string of shots.
“This way!” Scarlett motioned.
And, they were safely inside. Scarlett peered out the peephole and watched in horror as creeper after creeper crowded onto the front porch, clawing and pounding on the front door. The three of them stared at each other in the townhome’s entryway. The terror in their eyes leached into hers.
The man was out of breath, patting his chest. The woman collapsed to her knees. He caught her. “Sonia, Sonia!”
“Is she all right?” Scarlett worried.
“She’s weak, recovering,” the man gasped, still trying to catch his breath.
Scarlett cringed and cautiously backed away.
“No, no, not with the flu,” the man insisted. “We need to get her to a bed.” His eyes pleaded.
“I’m fine,” the woman rasped.
Scarlett was a bit uneasy inviting a sick person inside. But, she couldn’t deny the young couple help, not after finding people after all this time.
“Take her upstairs. There’s a spare bedroom. The room with the peacock bedspread.”
“Aren’t you coming?” he asked as Scarlett headed toward the garage.
“I’ve got more two-by-fours in the garage. I’d better board over the front door like I did the window,” Scarlett stated with more assertiveness than she felt.
“Great idea!” He nodded. He helped the woman up the stairs while hauling the stuffed pack strapped to his back.
Adrenaline. It was like a superhero drug. Better than steroids, she mused. Scarlett lugged out an armful of pine two-by-fours, dropped them on the entryway’s stone floor, and then began furiously pounding huge double-headed nails into them. The hammering brought more creepers to the front porch, but she had no other option at that point. When she was satisfied with securing the front door, she anxiously ran upstairs to greet her guests, ignoring the uneasiness lingering in the back of her mind.
To Scarlett’s astonishment, the woman sat against the bed’s quilted headboard—nursing a baby. “Dear God! You have a baby . . .” Scarlett’s eyes pooled, her first feeling of happiness in months.
An awkward moment of silence followed. What exactly do you say after you’ve just saved a family from man-eating atrocities?
“Water? Do you need some water?” Scarlett broke the silence. The couple nodded in unison. She ran out of the room and returned with two bottled waters (worth their weight in gold until the rains came). It was the icebreaker they needed, for they all started talking at once.
“Thank you, Sweet Jesus. Thank you, Sweet Jesus,” the woman chanted while clutching the baby against her breast, her lips trembling.
“We can’t thank you enough. Where the hell did you come from anyway?” The young man asked somewhat bewildered. “Let me guess. You’re in the military—a sniper? If you hadn’t been there . . .” He looked down at the floor, shaking his head.
“Where did you guys come from?” Scarlett asked, finally able to get a word in amongst the excitement. “And no, I’m definitely not in the military. Just have a good aiming eye. How did you guys get stuck in the field?”
“See, the truck broke down, threw a rod or something—” he started.
“I told you to take it easy. It’s a miracle we made it this far in that old piece of junk,” the woman added.
“Yeah, yeah.” He shrugged. “Anyhoo, I’m Sam, this here’s my wife, Sonia. And this—this is our son, Sammy Junior.” Sonia proudly held up the sleepy baby.
“How old is he?” Scarlett cooed, and Sammy Junior opened his eyes a mere slit.
“Two months.” Sonia beamed.
“How did you guys survive—with a baby? Are you staying at one of the evacuation shelters? Is everything normal where you came from? Oh, by the way, I’m Scarlett Lewis from Roseville.”
“Thank you from the bottom of my heart for saving us—our son.” Sonia sobbed, adding more trails to her tear-streaked cheeks.
Sam butted in. “We could really use some food. Can your people spare any? I don’t mean to sound ungrateful. If you want us to leave, we’ll go right now. We sure as hell don’t want trouble.”
Scarlett returned in a flash with a box of granola bars. “Here, this will get you started. How about a spaghetti dinner?” Scarlett proclaimed. “Then we can talk all night over Moscato wine.” The tension in the room disappeared; the dinner invitation seemed to soothe everyone’s anxiety.
Scarlett stepped onto the balcony to light the barbecue grill, apprehensively scanning the field. Not a single creeper. From the sound of it, they were all at her front door. Meanwhile, she calmly prepared a lovely, Martha Stewart-apocalyptic dinner. The contrast was so absurd it almost made her giddy. On a whim, she added canned corn and canned peaches to the menu. They would have a mini-feast tonight. She couldn’t believe “the moment” had finally arrived. People at last!
Scarlett checked on the
young couple. They were busy making a makeshift bassinet out of a plastic storage carton and blankets. They were gaunt and haggard. Sam looked as if he hadn’t shaved since the Summer Super flu, reminding her of Shaggy from the Scooby-Doo cartoon except with a full-blown hillbilly-like beard, and Sonia was in desperate need of a shower. They must have had a rough time of it these past few months.
Scarlett cleared the dining room table, which was still cluttered with her latest inventory report, and set out her best china, sunflower paper plates.
“What can I help you with?” Sonia asked when the couple joined her in the dining room.
“Absolutely nothing. You need your rest.” Scarlett pulled out a chair for Sonia. “Sam, do you mind opening the wine?”
Scarlett’s mouth watered when she served the dinner. She usually skipped dinner and was always famished by breakfast. She rationed her caloric intake, afraid the food would run out before the government rescued her. She had searched all the homes in the complex and was out of homes to raid unless she hit the apartments across the way.
Scarlett could tell they were starving by the way they both gobbled down the spaghetti. She noticed Sam scanning the dining room. Is he eyeing my supplies?
“I see your people have been busy,” Sam said. “How many in your gang?”
“What do you mean, gang?” Scarlett felt her brows furrow, not understanding.
“Ya know, how many people in your group?” he repeated sarcastically.
“Just me.”
“No frickin’ way. How’d you survive?” Sam seemed astonished.
“Well, I’m not so sure. Just plain dumb luck—I suppose,” Scarlett faltered, thinking over the past few months.
“I think it’s even more astounding the three of you survived. How’d you manage that?” she countered.
