Atlanta Bound

by Lilith Saintcrow

  Steph’s fingers almost creaked, she had them so tightly clenched. A knot of muscle and bone, two small fists that could swing a baseball bat. Some of the splatter had gotten onto her coat. Miz Ginny said they were all likely immune, though.

  God, I hope she’s right. “Miz Phyllis?” Steph’s voice sounded very small, even to her. “Are you okay?”

  “Fine,” the woman snapped. “Just letting off some steam. How about you, honey?”

  Well, she didn’t sound mad anymore. Or at least, not as mad. Steph decided she might as well ask. “Uh. Does…does stuff like this make you pee a lot?” Miz Ginny would know.

  “Yeah. Just like doing a pageant.”

  The more she heard about beauty pageants, the less appealing they were, even if that show with the little girl and her big pottymouth mother had been funny. “You did a lot of those?”

  “Sure did, between catalog work. Gotta practice for the big leagues.” Miz Phyllis blew out between her pursed lips. “What a shitty day. What an absolute shitter of a day.”

  Mark stared out the windshield, his arms crossed high over his chest. “They’s gettin smarter,” he said, darkly.

  “Yep.” Miz Phyllis nodded. The windshield wipers rolled back and forth, icy pellets gathering at the far ends of their sweep. “Sure seems like it.”

  Now there was a hideous thought. Steph squeezed her eyelids shut, but the dark wasn’t comforting. Neither was the realization that it was, well, kind of easy to grab your bat and smack someone. The zombies were okay to smack, but really, what was there to stop you from hitting a live person? Not even an a-hole like Mr French—and Lord was she glad he wasn’t traveling with them anymore, with his nasty mouth and big shoulders—but just, say, someone who…irritated you?

  “But yeah,” Miz Phyllis continued. “There’s always a million trips to the toilet before the catwalk starts. Getting hyped up makes your body get rid of everything so it can run quicker, I guess. And the girls on laxatives or uppers have all sorts of trouble, not to mention the pukers.”

  Uppers? Like drugs? Steph’s eyes flew open. “Pukers?”

  “Bulimics. They’ll take over a stall for half an hour before the show starts, if you let ’em. The anorexics just arrange all their makeup and argue over who exercised the most and ate the least.” Miz Phyllis freed one hand from the wheel to dig in her jacket pocket. “I wonder what some of them are doing now.”

  “Probably growling and chewing,” Mark muttered.

  “Yeah. Along with everyone else.” Phyllis sighed. “Hey, Steph? Do me a favor, will you? My purse is down here, can you dig out my lip balm?”

  “I can—” Mark began, but Steph was already unclipping her seatbelt.

  “No way, kid.” Miz Phyllis now sounded amused, a welcome change. “That’s my purse. Only girls allowed in that clubhouse.”

  “Oh. Yeah.” He subsided, and looked anxiously at Steph as she crept up to the front and picked up the brown leather bag. It had funny round rings for handles, and there was a fancy buckle in the shape of two Cs facing opposite directions on the front. The leather was butter-soft, too, and the inside was ruthlessly neat except for a battered paperback. Ulysses, the blue and white cover said. It looked Serious, like a book Miz Ginny would know about.

  “It’s pink,” Phyllis said.

  “Found it.” Steph dug out a small, very expensive-looking plastic ball. The top half screwed off, so she loosened it. The label said Rose Attar, in gold foil. “You want the cap all the way off?”

  “Sure.”

  Funny. Miz Phyllis didn’t look like a reader. She looked like one of the girls in class who got a nerd to do their homework, then flipped their hair and joined the cheerleading squad. Steph studied the woman’s balanced profile, her poreless skin. How could someone be so pretty and read something serious at the same time? Or did she carry the book for another reason?

  Miz Ginny was pretty, too, but not like Miz Phyllis. Just looking at Ginny was enough to tell you she was Serious even if you didn’t know she was a librarian. It was just something about her, though right now she was looking darn worn-out.

  She had reason, God knew. And that was one of Mama’s pet phrases too. They got reason, she’d say darkly, when someone did somethin’ bad that couldn’t be avoided.

  “Thanks, sweetie.” Phyllis handed the balm back. “You can use some too, if you don’t have a cold sore.”

  “I’m good.” Steph capped the balm and put it back in its place. Maybe, if they ever went to another bookstore, she’d look for that Ulysses book, and give it a try.

  There was no reason you couldn’t be pretty and serious, or pretty and swing a baseball bat hard enough to crunch a zombie’s head in. And if you were serious, or could swing a bat, maybe you could learn makeup and be pretty, too.

  Steph closed up the purse and went back to her seat. The shakes had gone away, and the unsteady feeling. The world was bigger and scarier than she’d ever dreamed, yeah.

  But maybe, just maybe, Steph was too.

  Down Easy

  “Didja see the ones chasin us?” Juju shook his head, his sculpted lips tight. “Man, I don’t like that. I don’t like it at all.”

  There were a whole lot of things not to like about the whole damn world at this point. Duncan’s hands hurt, and his right side did too. He’d gone a little crazy with the crowbar, and his sinuses ached from the change in pressure. “Where did those fuckers come from?” One moment, everything was fine, the next, there were fucking deaders spilling around the corner of the brick gas station like greyhounds let out of the gates.

  Just chasing a facsimile of a rabbit, that’s all. Galloping along, chewing all the way.

  “Dunno. Maybe they heard the cars. Smelled us. Christ.” Juju was none too pleased, but even with a line between his eyebrows and a ferocious scowl he was handsome. “Prolly heard us. They don’t see to well.”

  “Yeah, I figgered.” If Duncan made fists, the tiny tremors in the middle of his bones wouldn’t show. Just as usual—stiffen up, and nobody saw the weakness. Hold yourself tight and strong, so nobody guessed you were fuckin’ shittin’ peach pits. “Nice shootin there, Thurgood.” Was that too much?

  “Hey, you did all right yourself, Harris.” The scowl eased, a slight smile pulling at Juju’s sculpted lips. “Crowbar was a good idea.”

  Met a few guys who swore by them. A warm glow lit in Duncan’s middle. “Just handy,” he said, shyly. “Figured it was better for close-up, that’s all.”

  It had started to sleet; at least Lee’s truck was doing the majority of snow-moving. The heavier this mess got, the more likely the plywood plows would fail. Of course, they were heading south. If they could just get out of this weather, they could toss the plows and only have to worry about a thousand other hazards.

  “Man, I wish I still smoked.” Juju bit at his fingertips to loosen his gloves and peeled them off. The engine had warmed, and even though there were trickles of wet chill from outside, the vents were blowing in baked air to beat the band. “Used to be the best goddamn thing about comin back from patrol. Light a stick and all the trouble just poof! Bye.”

  “Yeah.” Duncan couldn’t unclench his own fingers enough to get his gloves off, but that was fine. He could look at Juju’s clean profile, or at the man’s capable brown hands on the wheel. Duncan’s skin was alive, both from the fight and from the nearness. “That and a cold beer.”

  Juju made a short affirmative noise. Even his chapped knuckles were just right, strong and rough, his fingertips surprisingly delicate. “Only if’n it’s real cold, though.”

  “Nothin worse than a warm one.” What Duncan really wanted was a fifth of something amber-colored and hard as nails. “Unless that’s all you got.”

  “Shot of whiskey might go down easy, too.” Juju grinned, startling white teeth, his cheeks bunching up. The pompom on his hat bobbed a little as the Jeep swayed.

  It was like the man was reading his mind. Could he tell? Duncan hated guessing, but
it was all he had. “Or more than one.”

  “Gotta say, I’m right glad to have you and Miz Phyllis along.” Juju loosened up on the steering wheel enough to scratch at his cheek. “You right handy.”

  “Glad to be along.” You can’t know how glad. Was he into Phyllis? Trying to find out if Duncan was? The man didn’t seem to watch her, but you could hide all sorts of things, if you just practiced long enough. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen someone use a sidearm like that. You’re a crack shot.”

  “Long as I ain’t no cracker shot.” Juju started to laugh, and the sound was music. Duncan couldn’t help but chuckle too, and finally, finally his fingers stopped wanting to curl up or shake. The big muscles in his legs relaxed too, and he could feel his toes again.

  It was getting on to evening, the sky was a flat iron pan dribbling sleet and hurt onto everything below, but as far as Duncan Harris was concerned, the day was looking up.

  Worryin Look

  It was in Allentown that Ginny had her first real sleep since Saratoga, probably a function more of exhaustion than any real relaxation. Lee had decided to keep them well west of both New York and Philadelphia, which meant they spent less time threading through clogged checkpoints but more time scraping at thinning snow with the makeshift plywood plows.

  Brief, pale golden sunlight spilled through a French door, and Ginny had to sit for a few moments, clutching thin blankets and two unzipped sleeping bags to her chest, before she remembered where she was. The other half of the bed had obviously been used, but the Motel 6 room was empty except for that wintery sunshine. Her ribs ached, especially on the right, and it was too cold.

  For a moment, she was simply waking up from a nightmare. Maybe God had looked down and said, crap, I spilled something, let me rewind that. She was on her way to see her parents, to help with the birth of her niece or nephew, soothe Mom’s ruffled feathers, hold her nose and drink a whiskey with her father late at night after Mom was in bed.

  For a single, precious moment everything was fine, the world put back in its usual track and sleepy relief exploding behind her thundering heart.

  Then her long shuddering exhale turned to a puff of white vapor, Traveller leapt into her lap with a wiggle and a thrashing tail, and the bathroom door swung open. Lee stepped out, scrubbing at his hands with a small white motel towel; he halted, seeing her awake. A hot thread of burning wax was probably a candle lit inside said bathroom so she didn’t have to carry a flashlight.

  It was just the sort of detail he’d take care of. On the one hand, it was comforting. On the other, well, maybe she would have liked a few more moments of thinking the world was normal again.

  Or it just might have made the jolt worse when she realized there were no takebacks, no mopping up of the mess, no rewind. Ever. God was asleep and the world was spinning out of control.

  Traveller licked at her face in an ecstasy of greeting. You’re up, he yip-yowled, and his nails dug through sleeping bags, hotel comforter, blanket, and sheet. Let’s do fun things! You’re finally awake!

  Lee was freshly shaven, his jeans buttoned and zipped but his belt loose—no holster yet. A clean green Army T-shirt under a new flannel button-down, his old leather vest unbuttoned too. His coat was neatly folded on the dresser across the room, other things laid in their proper places, and the gun itself was on the nightstand, carefully pointed away from the bed.

  Lee looked at her, his eyes dark and his hair curling stubbornly. His capable hands dropped, the towel hanging limp.

  Ginny cleared her throat. Traveller slid off her lap with a thump, landing belly-up, begging for a good rub along his undercarriage, and she began scratching gently as the dog wriggled with glee. “Hi.”

  “Hi.” Lee studied her, anxiously. “You slept.”

  “I did.” Try not to sound surprised, Ginny. She scrubbed the dog’s chest with her fingertips. The burnt-iron taste of morning filled her mouth; her throat was dry. “You?”

  “Ayuh.” A slow nod. Why was he watching her like that? Trying to figure out if she was going to break down and start screaming? “You didn’t even move when I went on watch.”

  “I’m sorry.” A quick, reflexive apology. Old habits died hard, even if civilization had slid under with barely a ripple.

  “You needed it, darlin.” He folded the towel into thirds without looking. “How you feelin?”

  Shitty, thanks. “Fine.” God, this was awkward. Traveller had stopped yowling, but he was still a-wriggle all over her lap. He licked his chops, long pink tongue flickering. “I guess. You?”

  Lee’s expression didn’t change. “Worried.”

  Well, that was a reasonable response to the situation. “About?”

  “Just our route. Nothin big.”

  “Except yesterday,” she prompted. “That was pretty big.”

  He finished folding the towel. “Yeah, well. Just have to be careful.” Still, his mouth was drawn a little too tightly.

  Maybe she was beginning to be able to read him. It didn’t take much, just paying attention. “Either they’re getting smarter or they’re following us.” Ginny smoothed Traveller’s fur. “Right?”

  “Shoulda known you’d think of that.” A wry ghost of a smile, and morning light picked out sparse golden highlights in his hair. At least his irises hadn’t paled.

  “Or maybe they’re just getting hungrier, and the stronger ones are surviving.” Which was not comforting at all. “But there were some following us yesterday.”

  “Prolly lose em when the snow starts meltin.” And that, apparently, was that. “You want some coffee? Tea?”

  Caffeine sounded like a wonderful idea. Ginny braced herself. “How about a good morning kiss?”

  Small comfort that his face lit up, worry-lines easing and a shy, disbelieving grin pulling up the corners of his mouth, tugging on her heart. Small comfort, too, that he hurried across the room with a long swinging stride, and didn’t seem to mind that he’d brushed his teeth and she hadn’t. Small comfort that he cupped the back of her head and closed his eyes, that he was gentle, and that he smelled like citrus, leather, and safety.

  Tiny comforts, yes. But they still helped, and when the kiss faded he rested his forehead against hers and Ginny had another crazy moment of thinking maybe the world was all right, if not normal. Traveller thrashed, wanting to get between the humans and soak up any attention and stray pets to be had.

  Lee folded down and ended up sitting on the bed, pushing the hound’s snout aside and peering into her face. “You got that worryin look too.”

  There was certainly plenty to be worried about, and now that she’d had some sleep she was fresh and ready to begin again, so to speak. “What if we get to Atlanta and nobody’s there?”

  “Then we find a place to settle for winter, and in spring we start headin west.” He sounded certain, at least. It was another relief that he’d obviously thought about that particular contingency. “California’s best, I reckon. Specially if it’s worldwide.”

  I’m not sure I want to go back to the West Coast. “Yeah.” She rubbed at her bare shoulders, her tank top straps loose. As diets went, this one was a doozy. “I just…how are we even going to do this, Lee?”

  “One thing at a time. Same way as everthin else.” He laid the towel down and took her left hand with warm fingers. Looked at her palm, running his fingertips over the hollow, calluses rasping. “That day they shot up the diner, you was fixin to head out, weren’t you.” It wasn’t a question.

  “You knew that.” Her shoulders hunched. It was too cold outside the nest of covers, gooseflesh spilling down her back.

  “Wouldn’t’ve done no good.” He went right for what worried her most, with unerring accuracy. “You’d’a been too late then, too. They was down a while, Ginny.”

  That meant Flo had been handcuffed to the bed for…God, she didn’t want to think about that. “I don’t know,” she whispered. “I should have left the last time my mom called. I didn’t get to the phone, and I�
��”

  “Sweetheart.” He folded her fingers in, carefully leaving her thumb outside. Making a fist, wrapping his own hands around it. “That ain’t no way to think. No way of knowin they was gonna be zombies, Christ Jesus. Don’t eat yo’self up bout it.”

  Did he understand how helpless she was not to? “I should have left right away.”

  “And got yourself bit, or shot. Sure.”

  Well, that was reasonable, but still. The idea that maybe it would have been what she deserved didn’t bear mentioning. “Maybe I would’ve been able to—”

  “Ain’t no way of knowin,” he interrupted. “You’re alive now, Ginny. I aim to keep it that way.”

  Well, she should be grateful. Instead, she felt like a monster. She hadn’t even dreamt of Fran; a good sister would have nightmares, right? Here Ginny was, kissing a man she wouldn’t have looked at twice back in Cotton Crossing because he drawled and had laborer’s hands. Here was Ginny, a shallow, spoiled, selfish little girl who had let her mother’s last call go to voicemail.

  And shot her undead, rotting sister in the head. Just yesterday, she’d beaten more of the sick, the infected, to death. How could she be so damn relieved when Lee brought out the comforting platitudes?

  “I’m not a very nice person,” she murmured, staring at her hand cradled in both of his. Plus, I’m a coward. “I’m really not.”

  “You do what you gotta, Ginny.” He squeezed her hand, gently. “Let me do the rest, aight?”

  It was seductive to think you could evade responsibility. People did it all the time. It was just awful to find out you, personally, weren’t any different. “It’s all right.” She pasted on a reassuring smile. “I was just thinking about it, that’s all. I should get ready, we’ve got a long way to go today.”

  “We’ll letcha get started then, darlin.” He still looked worried, but he let go of her hand, kissed her forehead, and scooped Traveller up, settling him gently on the ground. “Come on, hound.”