Roadtrip Z_Season 2_In The Ruins

by Lilith Saintcrow

  “Nosir.” The chin went back in, but the scowl remained.

  Good Lord, Lee would have had the sense slapped into him if he’d ever looked like that, probably by his sainted Nonna herself. “You think you got some special critter radar gonna tell you where they is without lookin?”

  “Nosir.” Mark was beginning to get it. The ugly flush along his thin neck shouted as much. His shoulders trembled—probably, given his daddy’s temper, he wasn’t sure if Lee was gonna start yelling or cuff him one.

  Frank Kasprak had always been a bully, and a useless one to boot. “All right then.” Lee nodded, like Mark had redeemed himself a bit. “You just keep that in mind, and keep a watch out for our girls, y’hear?”

  “Oh, for God’s sake,” Ginny muttered. “Lee—”

  “Yessir.” Mark did an about-face and headed for the other side of the truck.

  Lee shooed Steph away with her armful of baseball bats and eyeballed what was left. Not much, just the ammo. He should hop up in there and give Ginny a hand, the cartons were heavy.

  “They’re just kids.” Ginny bent her knees, sinking into a crouch far more gracefully than any man could manage. Maybe it was in the hips, the way a woman could do that and look catlike instead of squatting-toad. “Also, was that our girls bit really necessary?” She blew a stray curl out of her face, a quick, annoyed little huff.

  Yes ma’am it was. He contented himself with a nod.

  “Are you sure?” Ginny didn’t move, examining him. “Well, I suppose you are, or you wouldn’t have said it.”

  He hadn’t noticed how thick her eyelashes were, a fringe around quiet dark eyes. Looked like she wasn’t sleeping well, too, from the shadows underneath them.

  Well, nobody these days was gonna be sleeping well. Up to and including old soldiers, like him. Still…it would be nice to see some of that ease up. See her maybe relax a little. He was an idiot for thinking he could offer anything comforting at this point, but he could try. “We’re all right, Ginny. I aim to keep it that way, that’s all.”

  Maybe he’d hit on something reasonable after all, because a small, lonely curve of a smile brought the corners of her lips up. “I know. You’re doing a good job, too.”

  That was nice to hear, and that pain high under his left ribs came back. Another pinch. Maybe his ticker was getting clotted up? Maybe he shouldn’t have had gravy every time he went into Mayburn’s Diner.

  Ginny glanced over her shoulder again as the sleet-hiss intensified, hunching further, her small smile vanishing into fresh solemnity. “Steph was telling me there was one at the grocery store.”

  Of course she’d worry about that, too. “Juju said the same.”

  “Why aren’t there any here?” She bit her lower lip, small white teeth sinking in. Just looking for more of the weight of the world to strap onto her back. It was enough to make a man wonder about her family, seeing the attempt.

  “Not a lot of food?” He made it a question. Easier that way, instead of saying, ain’t sure and just glad it’s working out that way.

  She rocked back on her heels. Her pretty boots were already showing strain under hard use; he’d picked out better ones in her size at Bateley’s. She’d just accepted the big brown shoebox and packed it away with the rest of the stuff. Not even a murmur.

  And right now, she didn’t start screaming, or even look shocked. Just sat on her heels for a moment, blowing out a soft breath between her teeth. Hisssss, said the sleet, and thump went Lee’s heart again, because she set her shoulders and her chin, and nodded. “That’s a good hypothesis.” Her voice dropped, she made another little movement like she wanted to look over her shoulder. Checking on Kasprak, he realized. She was so quiet, so contained, you could overlook how much worry she carried on those slim shoulders. “And a scary one,” she continued, softly. “I don’t think the kids have thought this through yet. Juju probably has, though.”

  Lee shrugged. There wasn't anything to say.

  “I think we’d probably better turn the lights off tonight.” Her gloves, cloud-grey and pretty instead of warm, curled up as the fingers inside them tensed. “Because if we’re all lit up, that could mean food to those things. Or it could mean something else to other survivors.”

  And here he thought she’d need convincing, or an explanation for the decision he’d made in the truck on the way back. “That’s a good idea.”

  “I’m just full of them. I can’t stop.” She rose, a dancerlike unfolding. Why did God design women to move that way? It wasn’t fair. “Like what happens when we run out of canned food.”

  Jesus, woman, don’t borrow trouble. “There’s a lot of it out there,” he began, hedging the words carefully.

  “Sir?” Mark called, soft, nervous. “Mr Quartine, sir?”

  Oh, god damn it. “What?” Maybe he said it a little sharper than he meant to.

  “We should, uh, maybe go inside?” The boy’s voice cracked. “I think they’ve found us.”

  Losing Count

  “It’s so bizarre,” Miz Mills breathed; she had taken off her coat and dove-grey sweater sleeves swallowed her hands; its hem reached almost to her knees. Traveller leaned against her leg, gazing adoringly at her chin. “Look at that.”

  Steph wanted to say she would rather not, thank you very much. She shivered, but forced herself to look out the window, because if Miz Mills could do it, so could she. Her own red wool sweater, a gift from her grandma three years ago, was stretched and full of holes, shapeless. Next to Miz Mills, she felt like a popped balloon.

  A small, very scared popped balloon.

  The zombies moved in irregular ovals through the parking lot. Mr Quartaine on Miz Mills’s other side said nothing, just watched, a line between his eyebrows and his arms crossed over his chest. His familiar leather vest was damp, his fleecy coat open halfway. Sleet smacked the glass, melting, ran down in ripples.

  “We could shoot from the roof.” Mr Thurgood’s face had turned little chalky, under all its melanin. He was still all zipped up. Maybe it helped him feel better. God knew Steph was wishing she hadn’t taken her own jacket off. She was cold all the way through, even though they still had heat.

  “And let them know we’re here?” Miz Mills shuddered. “Thank God you brought the dog up. He’d’ve gone crazy barking.”

  The zombies weren’t pressing against the glass doors downstairs anymore. Mr Quartine had herded the teens and Miz Mills inside, carrying two boxes of ammo like they weighed nothing and whispering for Juju to kill the lights. The stairway doors were barricaded now, and they gathered in the room Steph and Ginny had slept in last night, looking over the parking lot. The shuffling dead people now ignored the truck and Mr Thurgood’s 4x4; several had circled the vehicles while Ginny and Steph, holding hands like a pair of schoolkids, stood behind the hotel desk and watched.

  The chewed-up, shambling things that had once been people also bumped against the glass door with small soft sounds, and Mark had let out a funny whooshing breath.

  Easy, Mr Thurgood had whispered, his hand to the gun at his side. Just move nice and slow. Let’s go up.

  “Do they know we’re here?” Mr Thurgood’s elbow touched Mark’s. “Kasprak?”

  “I…they weren’t hurryin.” Mark was sheet-white, except for two round patches of hectic red high on his cheeks. He was zipped all the way up, too, the mangy fake fur around his pulled-up hood mixing with his bangs. “Just wanderin across the road. Wouldn’t’ve seen em with the rain and all, except that one in the red hat.”

  The Red Hat zombie was a potbelly man in a dark parka with a flopping, torn-open parka hood spilling onto his broad shoulders. Steph shuddered again, hard, and Ginny put an arm around her shoulders. When the librarian spoke, it was with the businesslike calm of a teacher. “It’s good that you did. I wonder if they’re going to stay there, or if…”

  “You think they might move on?” Why are we all whispering? Steph leaned into Miz Ginny’s warmth. It wasn’t her mama’s, but it was
still powerfully comforting.

  “Well, they could be moving like a herd, looking for…looking for food.” Miz Ginny’s arm tightened. Her thumb moved a little, stroking Steph’s arm. “That would make sense.”

  Steph was suddenly, irrationally glad she’d made her hotel bed this morning. It wouldn’t be decent for the menfolk to see her sheets. Ginny’s bed was made too, but her suitcase was open on top of it. Everything packed neatly, in its proper place. And all new, too. Nothing ripped, or torn, or patched. She was probably used to traveling, and knew all about who to tip and when, even in big cities.

  Miz Mills had such a pretty voice, despite the flat Yankee twang. “They could decide there’s nothing here, and move on,” she continued. “They didn’t see us, I don’t think, but maybe they can smell us? Sense us?”

  “Their hearin’s good.” Mr Thurgood spread his pink-palmed hand against the glass, fingertips touching gently. Faint condensation ringed his skin, living heat meeting cold slickness. Steph wondered what glass was made out of—Miz Mills probably knew. “Damn dog’ll bring them right inside if he starts talkin when someone takes him out.”

  Mr Quartine still said nothing, just watched. His chin tilted down a little, and he studied the zombies milling in front of the hotel like they were a kind of puzzle, one he was sussing out. Steph wished he’d pipe up, because then she’d know what to do, even if it was just sitting tight and pretending they weren’t trapped in here.

  “We’ve got a little while before that’s an issue.” Practical, and soft, Ginny rubbed at Steph’s shoulder, and Steph had the funny idea that maybe she wasn’t so much comforting someone else as trying to convince herself. “There’s a whole other side to the hotel, I can take him out there.”

  The line between Mr Quartine’s eyebrows deepened. Standing like that, with the dark shadow of stubble on his cheeks, he reminded Steph a little bit of her own daddy. Except Bull Meacham was never this silent. Not in a million years.

  Not even while he slept. Her daddy’s snores could knock a house down.

  Well, he’s quiet now. Except for the growling. That was a bad thought, and Steph did her best to shove it away. She wanted to bury her face in Miz Mills’s shoulder, even if the woman wasn’t her mama.

  “There’s so many of them.” Mark leaned forward. He hugged himself, his chapped hands swallowed by his coat sleeves. His parka was holding up nicely, even if his boots were leaking. “I keep losing count.”

  “Lee?” Mr Thurgood prompted, reaching for his collar. He opened his coat with his free hand, finally, and his sweater was cheerful black and yellow stripes. Like a bumblebee. It didn’t match his hat or the rest of him, but it was nice to see the color.

  Mr Quartine shook his head a little, a don’t bother me motion. A scream rose in Steph’s throat, gurgled on the fries she’d had for breakfast, and died away. Maybe potato starch hadn’t been a wise choice, but what else was there? She suddenly longed for cereal—Rice Krispies, which she hadn’t had since she was in grade school, crackle-popping their happy little song. With nice cold milk.

  Milk was all gonna sour soon if it wasn’t already, unless it was those fancy cartons of rice, almond, soy you could get at the Lewiston WalMarts. Were there cows going unsqueezed out there? Trapped in big barns? What about pigs waiting for their next meal? Or…or even pets? Dogs like Traveller, or cats?

  Once you thought one uncomfortable thing, a bunch of others just showed up in a cascade. You couldn’t help yourself. “I don’t like this,” Steph heard herself say, in a high, nervous little voice. “I don’t like it, I don’t like it.”

  “I know,” Miz Ginny soothed, and stepped back, which meant Steph had to. Traveller almost fell over when they moved, he was leaning on the librarian’s leg so hard. “Come on away from the window, sweetie. I, uh, think we can leave it alone for a while.”

  “Lee?” Mr Thurgood persisted, peeling his fingertips away from the window. “We should all sleep together tonight. Barricade the door.”

  All of us? Why, that ain’t decent. A mad, inappropriate, completely irresistible desire to giggle shook Steph’s shoulders. The trembling, nasty thought she might begin to scream floated across her brain, retreated, and came back, circling like a buzzard over the highway on a summer day. Just looking for some tasty roadkill.

  Miz Ginny edged backward, drawing her along. “Come on. We should go sort through the groceries you brought.”

  “Uh…maybe…” That would mean going outside the room, and Steph was in no particular hurry to do that. Traveller followed, his nose all but glued to Ginny’s calves.

  Mr Quartine finally stirred. “Kasprak. You want keep watch here for a half-hour? Juju and me’ll check the doors again, make sure they can’t get in. Find a good OP.”

  “OP?” Miz Ginny looked over her shoulder.

  “Observation post,” Mark supplied, absently, his hands falling to his sides. “Yeah. I can do that.” He stared into the parking lot, his fingers twitching. Still trying to count them. Like sheep, when you were trying to sleep. One-one-thousand, two-one-thousand, on and on.

  “Good man.” Mr Thurgood clapped Mark on his skinny shoulder. “What we gonna do about the dog, Lee?”

  That brought Miz Ginny around in a tight, small circle, her comforting touch sliding away. Stray curls, working free of her thick dark braids, bounced. “What do you mean, do about the dog?”

  “I mean, he’ll bring the whole damn crowd of them down on us.” Mr Thurgood was no longer quite so greyish, but his expression wasn’t comforting at all. It was set, and a strange gleam flickered in his dark eyes.

  “He can go inside somewheres if he’s gotta,” Mr Quartine said, with sharp finality. He rubbed his right-hand knuckles along his jaw, scratching his stubble. “When we leave we can muzzle him to get him into the truck. Ain’t no problem.”

  Traveller, maybe understanding they were talking about him, wagged his tail, tentatively. It whapped Steph’s shins, and she folded down to the floor in a hurry, scratching the dog behind his ears. He made throaty little sounds of joy and flopped almost into her lap, his nose pushing into her face. Probably thought she wanted to play. Her mama had a pug once—Baxter, who ended up dying of cancer when Steph was four. “He’s a good dog,” she said. “A real good dog. The best dog, aren’t you? You are.”

  Her daddy hated dogs. Factory shit-sniffers, he called them, which always made her mama smack him lightly on the shoulder and say, Language, Bull!

  “Miss Virginia?” Mr Quartine glanced away from Mr Thurgood, who looked sour as hell and spread his hands a little. “You mind stayin here with Steph and Mark while we make sure we’re buttoned up?”

  “All right.” Miz Ginny nodded, slowly. Virginia was a pretty name, to match the rest of her. “And thank you for asking.”

  For some reason, that made Mr Quartine smile, a tight, rueful expression. He looked at Miz Mills like she was the only thing in the world for just that brief moment, and it was almost painful to see, Steph decided. Like you were peeping something you shouldn’t. “Old dogs and new tricks.”

  “Let’s get goin.” Mr Thurgood headed for the door, with long swinging strides. “I ain’t had lunch yet.”

  God, I never want to eat again. Steph pressed her fingers against her mouth. Traveller, thinking it was a game, licked at them. His nose was cold, and wet, and his big brown eyes were patient and merry.

  “I keep losing count,” Mark Kasprak muttered, again.

  Nobody but Steph heard him.

  Macabre Game

  I should’ve thought about a pet store on the way back. Ginny hugged herself, cupping her elbows in her palms and stepping out into a gloomy, rainy late afternoon. The exercise room on the ground floor looked out onto a little bit of landscape and concrete around a winter-drained pool. It also had a brick wall and a locked iron gate a chihuahua couldn’t have wriggled through; Traveller’s shoulders were far too thick for him to fit.

  It didn’t stop him trying, and Ginny called him b
ack, whisper-yelling his name. He listened reluctantly, and did another circuit of the area, finally deciding one of the potted bushes was acceptable to pee upon.

  The Best Western was a dark cave now, and the parking lot an indistinct smear full of fading reflected snowlight. The shambling things—oh, hell, why not call them “zombies,” it was a good, precise word—had lost interest after bumping against the foyer door for a little while. Afternoon had turned into a soggy, chilly evening, the temperature rising enough to make the sleet plain old liquid rain again. At least it wasn’t freezing; the roads would be sloppy but passable in the morning.

  Hopefully.

  Ginny stepped back in through the sliding glass door, careful not to get in front of Juju’s rifle. “If he was a phone, he’d have a silent switch.”

  “We can duct-tape his lips,” Juju said, and it took her a moment to figure out he was joking, he sounded so level. She elbowed him, and he swallowed a laugh. It was good to hear, Ginny thought.

  She was willing to bet nobody was laughing a lot right now.

  Even though the zombie-things were nowhere in sight, their entire group was speaking softly, even upstairs. Except Traveller, who trotted back inside and gave himself a hearty shake, splattering rain everywhere and telling them all about the weather. She got a thin white hotel towel over him and scrubbed while he moaned happily, staring up at her like she was the best thing since kibble or an empty bladder.

  Juju slid the door closed, locked it, and peered out into the dimness. “Looks clear. Mebbe they don’t come out at night.”

  “We can hope.” She got the dog’s undercarriage too, wrinkling her nose a bit at the reek of wet canine. At least there would be no shortage of shampoo, dog or otherwise; that didn’t go bad. She’d read somewhere you could wash a dog with tomato sauce, too—or was that only when they came across a skunk?

  Which made her think about the local flora and fauna. This disaster was probably good for the environment. Not a lot of engines running, humans no longer taking habitat. You could get a headache untangling all the ecological ramifications. Greenpeace was probably overjoyed.