“It worked out, Lee.” Softly, soothing. She reached up, either trying to pry his hands away or calm him down, settled for grasping his wrists. “I know it was probably upsetting, but—”
“You ain’t listening, goddammit.” His fingers tensed up so hard they were creaking and he was tempted to shake her, just to drive the point home. “You coulda gotten bit. You coulda got—”
“I didn’t.” Like it was logical, like it was reasonable, like it mattered that this single time she’d been lucky. “You were right there, and if you hadn’t been Juju would have—”
“Juju couldn’t get no clear shot, goddammit." He suppressed a wince at swearing in front of her. "You have got to listen to me, Ginny. You stay under cover.”
Clearly it made no sense to her. “But they didn’t see—”
“I don’t care.” His yell rocked her backward, and he knew he was puttin’ his feet wrong, but he couldn’t stop himself. “You ain’t trained, you can’t handle yourself, and you see one of them critters coming for anyone, you do not get in the way. You stay put and you wait for me to fix it!”
“You weren’t around to fix it!” she flared. “And it was fine! Everything’s fine, it worked out, so why are you yelling?”
You weren’t around to fix it. Jesus Christ, he couldn’t keep his eyes on her every second of the day. Nevermind that he wanted to. It would ease his mind powerfully, that was the truth.
Everything he’d planned on saying jammed up in his throat. Because you could have gotten hurt. You could have died.
Ginny leaned back, and his arms straightened. He didn’t want them to, he wanted to pull her in, get her close. Fold around her, and pretend that cold scaled thing in the bottom of him wasn’t thrashing around. But she kept going, until he had to let go, either that or bruise her. His hands dropped to his sides, and God help him, but they were working like he had a throat he wanted to squeeze.
It wasn’t far wrong. He did. Just not hers.
“It worked out this time.” His lips were numb. “It ain’t gonna work out every time, Ginny. This ain’t no game. It ain’t no Sunday drive.” What would get through to her? “Them things are gonna kill, and we got nothin on our side but ammo.” And baseball bats, but I ain’t too sure about those. She didn’t even know how to use the lady Glock they’d picked up for her in the sporting goods store. There wasn’t a lot of time for shootin’ practice while they were moving, and the risk of drawing more critters put a dent in lessons as well.
And her expression whenever he mentioned practicing, like it was a bad smell.
“We’re also smarter than they are,” Ginny pointed out. Soft, crisp, and reasonable, like they were standing in the Crossing library with the counter and manners between them on a Sunday afternoon. “I’m not going to stand and do nothing when someone needs help, Lee.”
“Yes, you are.” There it was, plain and simple. “You are going to keep yourself out of trouble when I can’t, or I’ll—”
“You’ll what? Are you threatening me?” Her chin came up again, her arms folded, and there was that look. Stubborn enough to drive a man’s fist through a wall, and so beautiful it stole all his breath and every bit of good sense he had left too. “You want to think really, really carefully about how you end that sentence, Mr Quartine.”
A dry rock lodged itself in his throat. This was why a man didn’t open his mouth, it only led to trouble. Juju can handle himself, I don’t worry none about him, he wanted to say. Even the kids were familiar with hunting, so they were better equipped than she was, for Godsake, and Lee wouldn’t cry if the French fellow got himself bit or worse. But Ginny was Yankee, she was city, she didn’t have the sense or the training to keep out of the way in combat and he didn’t have the time to teach her thoroughly.
The silence, full of dripping water and the thin melody of the crick, rasped across his frayed nerves. Their voices would carry down the hill to the lot, dammit. He searched for something, anything to say that would drive the point home, that could shatter that goddamn rock in his throat and make her understand.
“Now,” she said finally, a high flush working up her throat to her cheeks, “I get you’re upset. This is an upsetting situation.” Precise and educated, every Yankee word a tiny bullet striking home. “But you will not ever drag me around like luggage again, or yell at me, or threaten me. I’ll take my chances alone before I put up with that behavior. Is that clear, Mr Quartine?”
God damn the woman. Lee stood, frozen. If he moved, if he even twitched, he was pretty sure he’d do something he’d regret.
She waited, time ticking out in drip-drop increments. Finally, she nodded as if he’d agreed. “Good. I think this discussion’s been productive, at least. I’m going to go back and help with setting up for the night.” Her small hands were whiteknuckle, and her shoulders trembled. The words weren’t quite as steady as they could have been, either, and Lee could have kicked himself up one side and down the other.
He watched her walk away, her head down and her steps a little uncertain. The new boots were holding up nicely, and dear Sonny Jesus but the way a woman's hips moved was not even remotely fair to a poor sucker like Lee Quartine. Now she was probably afraid of him, too. He was a goddamn idiot.
Lee shut his eyes, listening to the water, and found out his palms hurt, four little jabs in each. He’d driven his fingernails in.
Hard. Hard enough to bleed.
A Fuckin Unicorn
Juju settled himself a little more comfortably in the driver’s seat, cold air slipping through the window, open half an inch to keep the windshield clear. The driver’s cabin was dark, faint moonlight outside bouncing off small, thin scrims of snow. It hovered just above freezing. They’d make good time tomorrow.
Even with the accordion door pulled closed behind him, he could hear the familiar song of a barracks at night. Mark was already out, to judge by the snoring, and Steph’s faint whistles as she breathed out through a partially-blocked nose provided counterpoint. Ginny’s breathing was regular and deep, and Lee was on the floor in his sleeping bag, quiet as a meditating snake.
You sleep in the truck, Lee’d informed French shortly, glowering so hard the frat-boy bastard hadn’t dared make a noise. At least the canopy meant French wouldn’t get snowed on, and they all had quality sleeping bags. Juju would have put the asshole in a tent to teach him a lesson. Either that, or told him to get lost. Why Lee was letting him stay was beyond Juju.
No, he decided, it wasn’t. It was because of Ginny and her we’ve got to stick together. Christ. Apparently she was thinking this was a buddy movie or some shit. All the same, she’d busted out of the RV showroom yelling, distracting the first critter and drawing the second one out too. You couldn’t see it, she’d said. I had to do something.
At least she wasn’t a coward. But misguided bravery was worse than none at all. What would Tip say about this?
Well, right on schedule, the worst thought in the world showed up when he was on watch. Cool tickling fingers went down Juju’s back. He shifted in the seat again, reaching for his inside pocket. The flask was there, but as soon as his fingertips touched the warm metal he decided that was a bad idea, too. Lee was just about mixed-up enough to bust his chops for drinking on watch, and he’d be right, too.
Still, it was awful tempting.
The rest stop was deserted except for a small white Toyota two-door parked all the way at one end. Obviously abandoned, it still bothered both Juju and Lee. Maybe it had been left there before the Pocalypse hit. There was no orange Highway Patrol grease-pencil on its windows, though. A car meant a person, and a person possibly meant one of the walking…dead.
Zombies, the kids called ’em. Maybe the remaining living had overslept through Gabriel’s trump, and only the dead hadn’t hit their snooze buttons.
His watch ticked on, second by second. The lot was empty except for the glimmer of that white Toyota. Juju kept reaching for the flask, fingertips running over a sharp engraved edge,
deciding not to draw it out. Finally, unable to help himself, he began to imagine what Tip would say about all this.
You just stick with Lee, and you’ll be all right.
That was comforting. It was what Juju had a mind to do anyway. Staying in the Crossing or traveling didn’t make a damn bit of difference now. It might even be good to get out of the state, Christ knew he hated it, but every fucking place was the same when your skin wasn’t whipped-cream.
And what about that French feller?
You watch him. Boy’ll get snake-mean, sooner rather than later.
Which wasn’t exactly what Tip would say. He’d more likely point out that a fucker like Brandon French would shoot you in the back if he thought he could get away with it, and let both Lee and Juju come to their own conclusions.
There was the trouble. You couldn’t be absolutely certain of what a dead buddy would say. You could guess, sure, but you’d never know if you were right. People changed, and they could surprise you. Like Lee, falling all over himself for a Yankee girl. Or Tip himself, keeping to his word over and over again. When you found a cracker who did what he said he would, it was like seeing a fuckin’ unicorn.
Juju stiffened and leaned forward, the blood draining from his cheeks. He felt it go, everything withdrawing from extremities and retreating to his core, fingers going cold, toes too, balls drawing up and and his scalp stitch-twitching as his hair tried to stand. Something moved in the darkness near the brick building, BUCKS on one side, DOES on the other, a breezeway around a closed-off portion in the middle for the Kiwanis to hand out coffee or the Parks Service to sell maps, the two vending machines standing dead and dark. He exhaled, his hand falling away from the flask yet again.
The thing—zombie, dead thing, critter, whatever you wanted to call it—darted from one pool of shadow to another. If not for slices of pale skin showing through ripped clothing, Juju might’ve missed it, because the damn thing froze for long periods of time before lunging with that eerie, gut-clenching speed. Then it would hunch again, and Juju squinted, toying with the idea of turning the headlights just to get a clear look.
Bad idea, Juju. Might be more than one.
The shape was small, and something about the way it moved said female. It made another one of those spooky, darting movements, and Juju realized what the fuck it was doing. Once the shapes he saw made sense, he stared, transfixed.
There was something every rest stop or restaurant parking lot had, something that followed humans over the globe, digging in accumulated detritus. Where there was food, the rats always followed. Winter would be lean without people throwing away pizza boxes and chicken bones. Although there were bound to be plenty of corpses around, maybe the rats wouldn’t go for them if they were ambulatory?
The thing halted again, and Juju held his breath, black flowers blooming over his vision and every inch of him cold as if he was outside. He forced himself to exhale again, wishing he could roll the window all the way up. To do that, he’d have to turn the key, and the parking lights would come on. No need to tell every potential attacker where there were more snacks inside a vehicle casing, no sir.
He was ready for it, but still, Juju flinched when the thing jerked forward, its bony paws closing around a bundle of struggling fur. Its arms bent, and its moon-pale face dropped. A faint crunching noise reached Juju, or maybe it was just his ears expecting and informing his brain like the good Boy Scouts they were. His stomach turned over, and bile scorched his throat. Holy shit.
The thing finished its meal, crouching in the lee of the brick wall. Its head came up and it sniffed, blackish stuff smeared over those flour-white cheeks, before it dropped to all fours and loped around the corner of the building, a quick insectile movement.
He was holding his breath again, Juju realized. And sweating.
For the rest of his time on watch, he didn’t feel sleepy at all.
Hunt Eat Sleep
The creature that had once been Penny Elaine Edwards, running out of money on a cross-country trip, hunched and scuttled down the hill, splashing through the thin thread of running water at its bottom with an animal’s instinct to break its trail. The white Toyota at the rest stop had been hers, and once or twice in the last week the creature had approached it warily, some ghost of a memory lingering in the soup of hunt-eat-sleep-hunt filling a collection of frayed nerves and twitching muscles. There was something locked in the Toyota’s trunk, reeking of food, but instinctive nervousness—and the complexity of the task of opening—dissuaded the creature each time.
It chewed as it ran, loading its stomach uncomfortably, and slowed, working halfway up another hill. The world was a grey smear in daytime, but in the darkness its filmed and useless eyes tracked any movement with uncanny accuracy nevertheless. The rustle of twigs or fall of a thin droplet from naked tree branches was a clarion, echoes rippling in every direction, tiny details leaping out as sound pushed at air. The habit of using predator’s forward-facing vision to track was cut deeply into its smoothing, cheese-eaten brain, so the eyes rolled uselessly to track what it could hear.
A confusing, complex tangle of scents thickened, became a clot, and the creature with its flayed hands plunged into a dark, stinking hole. Wriggling past a narrow throat-entrance, it tumbled into darkness, and a small grinding noise welcomed it. It hunched, its hands grabbing and grasping, and when its fingers met the border of another feverish body they stopped and became gentle pats instead of claws.
Stomach-bloat squeezed, a sudden cramping, and the larger, female creature regurgitated a torrent of fur, flesh, and squirming naked tails still twitching with nerve-death, all greased with digestive fluid. The smaller moving thing—once Jonathan Edwards, on a road trip with his mother and wondering why they had to pack and leave in the middle of the night again—buried its face in the mess, slurping and chewing.
The bigger creature settled at the entrance, gnawing at a still-warm bundle of fur. After a short while, it dozed, its jaws still grinding at tiny bones. The smaller one, gorged to bursting, crept to its side and snuggled in, its mouth still working absently too.
They dozed, their ratcheting chest-deep growling taking on the quality of a purr. Jonathan had forgotten leaving behind his teddy bear Mr Stumpf, his mother’s frantic insistence on flight, and the cigarette burns, healed and fresh, crawling over his arms and legs. He’d forgotten his daddy’s bleary red eyes and horrifying hot breath, too. Little Jon’s feverish little claws had torn his mother’s shirt, his teeth working into her flesh spreading infection, and now Penny had also forgotten whatever had driven her into the Toyota and over the state line, the trunk full of thudding awful heaviness and a growling noise.
They had both forgotten fever, and landlords, fathers, and father-cigarettes with their hateful, hurtful red eyes. Now the world was simple.
Hunt to eat. Eat to sleep. Hunt again.
And again.
Actually in Kentucky
Rolling hills rose on either side, patched with snow behind the thin strip of leafless trees on either side of the interstate. “God,” Ginny said, despairingly, tucking a curl behind her ear and returning both aching hands to the wheel. “I’m actually in Kentucky.” She leaned forward, peering out the wide, spatter-dotted windshield, and Steph laughed.
“What’s wrong with Kentucky?” Mark wanted to know. “It don’t look no different.”
The RV was a whale, and it wallowed like one. Ginny’s shoulders were tight as bridge cables, but it was better than watching Brandon drive, and at least this beast was an automatic.
Brandon was in the truck with Lee, and she was extremely glad she wasn’t trapped in a small space with both of them. It was much better with Mark and Steph, even though they were healthy young animals confined for far too long. The kids, trading off the shotgun seat every hour with Traveller scrambling into the lap of whoever had that coveted real estate, were wide-eyed with wonder. Steph had taken trips out of state before, but Mark admitted he’d never even been over th
e county line.
“Nothing’s really wrong with Kentucky,” Ginny amended hurriedly. “I just…haven’t been here before.” And never expected to visit during a zombie apocalypse.
Scabrous dark patches dotted the countryside, winter’s first snow fading as the melt deepened. The nights hovered around freezing, mornings slick until the temperature ticked upward a crucial few degrees. The RV was a lot better than camping, Ginny had to admit, but pumping gas in and waste out were hardly her favorite chores. Her mother would have been horrified; Mom’s idea of travel involved a decent hotel as a bare minimum; if there wasn’t a Four Seasons, she wasn’t interested.
House-sitting while Mom and Dad went to the time-share in Mexico wasn’t ever going to happen again, Ginny thought. Add that to the long, long list of things extinct as the dinosaurs.
Steph snorted. “Probably expect everyone to be toothless.”
It was a little uncomfortable to hear it said aloud. Ginny aimed for a neutral tone and feathered the accelerator as the road rose. “Or to be riding thoroughbreds. I’m not sure this is bluegrass country yet, though. Too rocky.”
Juju’s black 4x4 was in the lead, its taillights weak rubies in the thin sunshine. He was cheerful, but Brandon was starting to get to him, too. Behind the RV was Lee’s truck, a comforting red-and-white bulk peeking at her from the mirrors every time she glanced. They had the walkie-talkies, switching off front and rear every few hours to give the lead driver a rest. Each time they did, Ginny turned on the radio and let it scan both FM and AM.
Nothing. Nada. Zip. Zilch. There wasn’t even static.
“That’s the fourth time you’ve sighed,” Mark said, helpfully. He scrubbed at his hair, trying to make the unruly patches lie down.
“Fifth.” Steph piped up, from the seat behind. “It’s my turn for shotgun, Mark.”
In The Ruins Page 14
