by Lori Whitwam
Jocelyn looked toward the front of the van, where Patrick seemed oblivious to his two-girl admiration society. “Well, he’s Neil’s nephew, so we know he’d get his butt kicked if he stepped out of line.”
I gave a short laugh, drawing Melissa’s attention. “True, true.” I waited until Melissa returned to talking to Faith before I continued. “I just hope if the girls are both crushing on him, that doesn’t come between them.” Friendships were hard to come by in this world, and I’d hate to see them lose what they had over a boy.
Jocelyn shook her head. “Oh, no, that won’t happen. They’re smart girls. Plus, I think Faith has her eye on Cooper Merriweather.”
I grinned, and Jocelyn looked perplexed. I grabbed her hand and squeezed. “Don’t you see how insane this is? We’re in a convoy going who knows where, planning to set up a waystation in case the community we just left is attacked and captured by marauders, zombies lurch out of the woods at fairly regular intervals, there is a truck of goddamned goats behind us…and we’re worried about our girls letting some boy sweet-talk his way into their pants.”
She looked at me a moment, then started to giggle, covering her mouth with one hand in an attempt to stifle the sound. “Oh, Ellen, you sure have a way with words.” She swiped at her eyes and fought a few final guffaws into submission. “But I’ll say this. As different as this world is now…some things never change.”
I couldn’t argue with that.
We continued to talk, our conversation punctuated with long periods of comfortable silence as we traveled further and further into the unknown. A couple of hours later, Patrick’s walkie-talkie chirped. He listened carefully and made a few short replies, then announced, “Rest stop in about two miles.”
It was all I could do not to cheer.
Less than ten minutes later we pulled into a roadside park. It wasn’t a state rest area, exactly, but did have some picnic tables and a shelter, with pit toilets set well back from the road. Rebecca, Marcus, and Theo went out to sweep the area for zombies or other dangers before the rest of us moved from the vehicles.
When they returned with no threats to report, the group fanned out. Some made their ways to the trees or the pit toilets, while others headed straight to the picnic tables to unpack their lunches. We’d all brought something from home for the ride, but Jocelyn would put together a dinner for all of us that evening, conditions permitting. Melissa and Faith went to help Neil water the animals. They took the horses out to lead them around the park for a few minutes before tethering them to a bike rack to crop some grass while we ate. Wilhelm was not happy to be left out, and made his displeasure known with some very angry vocalization and several emphatic head-butts to the side of the truck.
Lunch consumed, one of the guys found a tennis ball, probably left behind by some pre-apocalyptic golden retriever, and they tossed it around for a while before Marcus signaled everyone to load up. The horses were returned to the trailer, and we climbed into our assigned vehicles.
The trip back underway, Jocelyn dozed off, her head against the window. To my surprise, Cody Boatman slipped into the seat next to me.
“Hey,” he said timidly. “Didn’t have much chance to talk to you before, and I figure we should all get to know each other.”
“Got that right,” I said, smiling. “Though we’ll probably all know each other so well we’ll be sick of each other before too long.”
“Prob’ly,” he agreed, pushing sandy hair away from his face. “I really only knew the other hunters before this. I’ve just been here since January.”
Cody looked sweet, with his longish hair and gentle brown eyes, but like the rest of us, there was a current of sorrow visible beneath the surface. The next part wouldn’t be fun, but I knew my role in the conversation. “What brought you to the Compound?”
He glanced down, his blunt fingernails scratching a pattern on the thigh of his jeans. “Me and my family were homesteaders,” he began, referring to the small bands of survivors, usually close family members, who chose to go it on their own rather than join a larger community. “We’d done good, made it over a year and a half. But one day I was out hunting. I’d seen some tracks the night before and started out early in the morning. Supplies were getting low, and we needed a deer.”
Skip, the self-appointed therapy dog, wandered over and nudged Cody’s arm, encouraging him to rub his head. Cody complied. “Suck-up,” I said to Skip, who merely thumped his tail in response.
Cody attended to the needy beagle for a moment before continuing his story. “I was gone longer than I planned, and I still didn’t get a deer. It was all over before I got there. Our farm was overrun, and everybody was dead. My parents, brother, sisters…my wife.” He swallowed and looked me in the eye. “Our baby.”
Well, shit. Didn’t see that one coming.
“Yeah, me either.” Only when he spoke did I realize I’d said that last thought out loud.
“Sorry,” I said.
“Nah, no worries. Happened. We all have our sob stories.”
“Still sucks.”
“Yeah.”
Then it was my turn. I didn’t have to tell my story often, since the longtime residents already knew. Only when working alongside a newcomer did I have to dig into that dark, ugly time. So…quick, like a Band-Aid, I got it over with. “I was there over three weeks, I think. They brought Melissa in on the last day, before the people from the Compound rescued us,” I concluded. If only they’d found us a day sooner.
“Melissa? Is she your sister?”
“She is now.”
He nodded. “I get that. We gotta make our own families now. This seems like a good one.”
I agreed, and we talked a while longer, about silly things. Dogs we’d had, favorite TV shows, acceptable substitutes for the lack of a steady toilet paper supply, you know—the usual. Cody had a great laugh, full of good humor but not loud enough to be jarring in the tight confines of the van. I felt good about having him as part of our team.
Eventually the conversation wound down, and Cody moved to an empty seat to nap a bit. I looked around and saw the girls dozing, Melissa slumped against the window and Faith’s fair head on her shoulder.
I’d known we’d be stopping well before dark so we could secure our location while it was still daylight. Still, I was surprised when Patrick got a call and announced we were almost to our designated overnight location around five thirty.
We pulled up a long, rutted driveway, through an open gate, and into the yard of a large white farmhouse with Colonial blue shutters. There was a scattering of outbuildings and some budding fruit trees. It looked like a good place to spend the night, except for one thing. Since our scouts had last been through, it seemed a number of zombies had stumbled upon—ha!—this location, and would have to be dealt with before we could settle in for the evening.
Marcus stuck his head in our van. “Ellen, Patrick, Cody, c’mon. We got some work to do.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
It was depressing to realize fifteen zombies represented little more than a minor inconvenience in this nightmarish, twisted world. They’d all been clustered around the wide stairs leading up to the porch, not quite able to manage the coordination to climb up to the front door. I hadn’t even broken a sweat, I thought as I wiped my machete on the rotting remains of khaki pants still clinging to the middle-aged corpse at my feet. His arms and torso were covered with necrotic wounds, but his face was strangely untouched. If you ignored the gore around his mouth and coagulated in his mustache, he could be someone’s favorite uncle. He probably gave the best Christmas presents, and always slipped you a few bucks when your parents weren’t looking.
Marcus and Theo approached, their own weapons bearing evidence of our latest skirmish. “I sent Patrick and Davey to circle the house, and Anton and Cooper to check out the barn,” Marcus said, swiping the back of his hand across his forehead.
“When we’re sure we’re clear, we’ll drag the bodies away from the house
,” Theo added.
I glanced around and saw Melissa calming the horses at the back of the livestock trailer, and the other noncombatants stretching their legs near the vehicles. The guys Marcus had sent to scout around the house and barn came into sight and headed in our direction.
“Ready to clear the house?” I nodded toward the broad, covered porch and the front door, which stood ajar. This made me think it was likely there were hungry corpses inside.
Marcus nodded and exchanged his machete for the shorter dagger hanging from his belt. “Let’s see what they found first.”
Patrick reported the back of the house appeared secure, and no other dead had been seen. The barn also appeared to be zombie-free.
“Okay, Theo and Ellen, you head around to the back door. Me and Patrick will come from the front,” Marcus said. He added instructions for the rest of the team to secure the gate we’d driven through, and to begin removing the carcasses from the immediate vicinity. “We won’t unload any animals until we clear the house and make sure there aren’t any stragglers.”
We were just turning our attention to the house when a flicker of movement at a second-story window caught my eye. We all froze as the window eased open and something spilled out, unfurling against the side of the house.
“Is that a bed sheet?” Theo asked, one eyebrow arched in surprise.
“I do believe it is,” Marcus replied. “But something’s written on it.”
The sheet settled, and the jagged black letters came into view. I made out ‘3 Z Inside?’ and looked to Marcus. “Okay, what now?”
He shrugged. “We go in and kill us three zombies, I imagine.”
“And rescue whoever hung that sheet out the window,” Theo added, taking a step toward the house.
Marcus stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. “Approach anyone living with caution,” he said, his voice low. “We’re not on a weekend vacation, you know. We don’t want strangers knowing our business.”
I didn’t see any way the marauders could know our plans, though they almost surely had recon units who had seen the caravans leave the Compound. But how could they know our route or where we’d stop for the night? I asked Marcus, but Theo answered.
“Marcus is right,” he said, and the four of us formed an impromptu huddle. “There could be any number of people in there. Might be friendly, might not.”
Patrick glanced over his shoulder at the house and added, “And even if they’re not part of a marauder scout crew, that don’t mean they don’t have connections to ’em.”
I sighed. The end of the world, and the human survivors were at least as big a danger as the zombies. Maybe humanity really was doomed. “Fine. But there are twenty-two of us, counting the escorts, and I’m pretty sure there aren’t twenty-two people in there trapped by only three zombies, so let’s go see what we’ve got.”
We all turned toward the house, and Theo and I slipped around to the back door. It had only a basic lock on the knob, which Theo foiled in seconds. We entered the farmhouse kitchen, the large windows giving us plenty of light to take in our surroundings. I heard a scraping from the front of the house. Theo gestured for us to sweep through the large kitchen, checking doorways and remaining alert for anything that needed killing.
As we completed our inspection of the back of the house and proceeded into the dining room, a scuffle and brief sounds of combat met us. We arrived to discover Marcus and Patrick had already dispatched the three zombies they’d found gathered at the stairs, unable to ascend due to a small armchair wedged between the railing and the wall near the bottom, evidently shoved down from above as a makeshift barricade.
“Report quick,” Marcus said in a terse whisper. “We still have at least one person upstairs we gotta deal with.”
“Kitchen and back of the house are clear,” Theo informed him. “We didn’t open what I figure is the basement door. It’s locked from the kitchen side, so we can check it out after we see what’s up there.”
Marcus’ shoulders relaxed slightly. “Supplies?”
I shook my head. “Lots of dirt, but no supplies, unless they’re in the basement.”
“Eh, I didn’t think so,” Marcus said. “Front knob was busted off, and judging by the weathered wood around the break, not recently. Looks like whoever’s upstairs pulled that coffee table in front of it to try to buy a few seconds.” He indicated the heavy pine table and the scratches it had left in the plank floors when it failed to hold back the combined weight of the zombies currently leaking ichor in the entryway. “Let’s get a few more people in here and see what we’ve got upstairs.”
Theo stepped to the open front door, pointed a few times, and motioned with his arm for them to come into the house. Rebecca, Anton Lindahl, and Javier Alvarado joined us in the increasingly crowded foyer after dragging the zombies outside. I was glad to see Javier and Anton both carried rifles. We didn’t know what we were facing, and there was the old adage about bringing a knife to a gunfight to consider.
Marcus and Patrick approached the bottom of the stairs and maneuvered the armchair free, levering it to the side.
“Hello,” Marcus called. “It’s all clear down here.” He paused, awaiting a reply, but was met with only silence. “Hey, how many up there?”
After a few seconds, a hoarse, male voice answered, “One. Just me. No dead.”
I thought the person was probably telling the truth, since if there were more than one or two, they most likely could have taken out the zombies. The three inside the house for sure, and enough of the ones gathered outside to make an escape. But we wouldn’t take anything for granted.
“Where are you?” Marcus asked, putting one booted foot on the bottom stair.
“Big bedroom on the right, facing the front, where I hung out the sheet.”
Marcus looked at us and nodded. “Open the door and place your weapons on the floor in the hall, then go stand in the middle of the room, hands where I can see ’em. We’re coming up.”
“I’m not putting down my weapons,” the man called back. “I don’t know you. You people could be more of the bastards who raided my village.”
Marcus moved up one more stair. “You don’t know us, we don’t know you. We don’t mean you any harm, but we aren’t stupid, either, and we won’t take any shit. Do what I said, and we’ll get this sorted out real quick.”
A moment of silence was followed by the sound of footsteps and some heavy thuds as items were placed on the floor somewhere near the top of the stairs. “C’mon up,” the voice said.
Marcus pointed to me and Anton, and we followed him up the stairs, placing our feet carefully on the worn floral runner. Outside the first door on the right, I saw a handgun, a five-foot long spear which appeared custom-made, and a long-handled hammer. One side of the hammer head was cylindrical and ended in a flat surface, while the other side tapered to a blunt tip resembling a chisel. I’d seen something like it before, but couldn’t think where.
Darting to the other side of the door, Marcus motioned to Anton to take up position on the near side. I stayed back in case there were more people or weapons we didn’t know about.
“I’m going to step in now. Show me your hands, and don’t make any sudden moves, or my buddy here will put one right between your eyes.” What little I knew about Anton indicated he was a cold bastard, and I knew if he decided he had to shoot, he wouldn’t hesitate.
Marcus took a quick peek around the doorframe, then stepped cautiously through, Anton close on his heels, rifle in the ready position. I stepped around the cluster of weapons and followed.
The room contained an un-made bed—presumably the source of the sheet—along with a dresser and a round side table, beside which the chair barricade had most likely sat. In the center of the room stood a tall, blond man with his arms extended straight out to his sides. I estimated him around 6’1”, and his worn t-shirt clung to broad shoulders and thick biceps. I guessed his hair must be long, as it was drawn back and secured behind his
head, a few loose strands falling around his face. Jeans hung on lean hips, and a short beard followed the curve of his jaw.
Stop staring, Ellen. He could be about to try to kill you.
“Name,” Marcus barked, machete in his hand, while Anton kept the gun pointed directly at the man’s face.
“Ty,” the man said, his lips tight and eyes flat with anger. “Tyler Garrett.”
Lowering his machete but not sheathing it, Marcus asked, “Where you from, Mr. Garrett?”
Tyler dropped his head back for a second before looking at us, gaze lingering on me before returning to Marcus. “Listen, can I put my hands down? My weapons are in the hall, and I did go to a lot of effort to let you know what was in here without making a racket and getting those dead bastards all stirred up.”
Marcus made a circular motion with the tip of his blade. “Turn around, real slow. If I don’t see anything worrisome, we’ll talk.”
Tyler started a cautious turn to his right, proving my hunch about long hair correct. Anton never lowered his gun. As Tyler’s right hip rotated into view, Anton roared, “Knife!” The butt of the rifle was braced at his shoulder and his finger was tightening around the trigger in an instant.
“Whoa!” Marcus yelled. “Freeze, everybody.”
Everybody froze, but Anton didn’t look happy about it.
“Down,” Marcus ordered. “Flat on your belly. Arms out.”
Tyler dropped to his knees, then to his stomach, and stretched his arms to his sides. The bead of Anton’s sights never wavered from his skull.
“Ellen.”
At Marcus’ nod, I warily approached the prone man and slowly reached for the wooden handle protruding from his back pocket. I did not examine his ass. Much. I withdrew the object, revealing a blade about two and a half inches long, with an odd sideways curl at the tip. I supposed you could do some damage with it, but it didn’t look particularly dangerous.
