by TW Brown
“Come out slowly,” Paula called. “We are not here to hurt anybody.”
Nothing happened for a handful of heartbeats, and I was starting to think that I had just made a fool out of myself. Maybe I should have just kept my mouth shut. Did I think for one second that I’d noticed something and Paula had not?
“Please don’t hurt me,” a shaky voice called.
At first, just a pair of hands came out from the gloom of the shadows under the stage. They were quickly followed by arms clad in heavy leather, and then the body of the young man that they belonged to. He was dressed in coarse, hemp-weave pants, and what looked like a top made from deer hide. He was missing one boot, but was still sporting one heavy wool sock. I could not imagine wearing so much in this heat. He had to be roasting.
“Come out and then I want you to lie face down on the ground,” Paula said. “Thalia, once he is down, I want you to move in and frisk him. Jim, move in and cover her.”
Paula had shifted her position to get back around more to the front of the stage, but I noticed that Cynthia had moved further past and now had the rear of the stage covered. I took my finger off the trigger of my crossbow since my hands were now shaking to the point where I did not trust myself. I shouldered my weapon and gave the tether a pull so the weapon did not swing around or perhaps slip out in front of me when I leaned down to check this guy.
I was less than two steps from where the man lay face down as instructed when another voice called out, “Please…don’t hurt us.”
5
Vignettes LVI
“Just one more walk-through to make sure we have everything,” Mackenzie insisted.
“Babe, it’s a cabin with one bedroom. I think we can be certain we got everything.” Juan pulled the cinch on the draft horse and gave the creature a pat on the neck as he walked back to the wagon.
He felt like one of those pioneer types from an old western picture with John Wayne. He was actually leading a three wagon train to Anchorage. It had taken him five seasons of building up enough in trade with the Athna Athabaskan people of the Kluti Kaah village. All the while, he had been keeping tabs on the progress in Anchorage. Truthfully, he would have loved to have been able to make the trip last year, but by the time he’d finished trading, the season was late and the weather had turned. Juan had finally found something much more dangerous than the deaders: the Alaskan weather.
“Daddy, Denita took my spot in the wagon.”
Juan turned to see his daughter Della staring up at him with her wide, innocent, brown eyes. He was easily suckered by his girls, but he was no idiot.
“She beat you fair and square last night playing Crazy Eights.” Juan patted the girl on the head.
She obviously had not known that he heard the entire exchange where Della made the deal with her sister about who got first choice of seats in the wagon based on the outcome of their card game.
“But, Daaaa-deee,” Della stomped her foot, “I don’t want to sit by smelly old Rufus.”
Rufus was the offspring of Tigah, a Newfoundland that Juan had rescued as a pup and presented to Mackenzie. Tigah had proved to be immune to the bite just like some people. Sadly, the day came when Tigah passed. Juan had taken the big dog out to the woods and put a splitting maul through Tigah’s head. If dogs could be immune just like people, then they could also turn after dying a natural death just like people. Juan had cried when he swung that maul, but he could not have endured seeing the huge loveable dog as one of them deaders.
During the long trip to Alaska, they had come across a Golden Retriever. The poor thing had been ripped up bad, but her injuries were old enough that it seemed likely that she was immune just like Tigah. Keith had slowly enticed the frightened dog into camp and not more than three days later, the poor thing found herself hitched to Tigah. Juan had been surprised that hadn’t killed the poor Golden since Tigah was easily twice her size. Only three of the nine pups survived. The assumption was that they all might be immune. It had not taken long to prove that to be partially true; at least for Tigah and Daisy’s pups.
Juan had taken one of the males and named him Rufus. Dogs seemed to really hate deaders and were actually a good alarm system.
Rufus was now in his last days. In fact, Juan had struggled to allow the dog to sleep indoors at night even inside the big kennel. He had considered taking the old fella on his last walk, but every time he thought about it, he would remember some stupid moment where the big goof of a dog had done something cute or silly, and besides, Mackenzie was absolutely against it.
“Tell ya what,” Juan decided to use this situation to his advantage. “You keep an eye on old Rufus for me, and I will give you a mint candy each day.”
“Two.” Della seemed to inherit her father’s street savvy. She knew something was up, and she was not above pressing the issue for her own gain.
“Fine,” Juan agreed. “But you have to do exactly as I tell you.”
“I will, Daddy.”
“You tell me every time that Rufus falls asleep. And if he stops breathing, you yell, scream, whatever it takes to get my attention right away. Understand?”
“Is that ‘cause Rufus is gonna turn deader pretty soon?”
Juan sighed. This was definitely not the same world. Back in the pre-deader days, a parent would probably get reported to CPS for being so blunt about death with their children. Nowadays, death was just a part of things. He sure hoped that would change when they got to Anchorage. He wanted nothing more than to give his daughters a chance at a normal life…such as it was these days.
***
Standing here on the shore, Gemma could not help but remember. Sure, there had been many things that had happened since that day—both terrible and wonderful. Still, for the first time in her life, she had felt the burden of responsibility. The moment after her head broke through the surface and she sucked in her breath, her eyes had found the broken body of the woman that had joined her and Chaaya.
Gemma remembered the sadness she felt at seeing the woman’s head turned and bent in a hideous and awkward manner. Even worse, as she got closer, she was able to see one arm bent in several places besides the elbow joint.
The two had swum with the current and let it take them away from the fort. Thankfully, nobody thought enough of the two women to actively pursue them.
It had been Chaaya who started across the river. With the current carrying them along, they were well clear of the town of Gravesend. In fact, when they finally made it ashore just before the river made a turn north, they were in a marshy field. With no weapons, they had to scurry away more than once when a creeping zombie would rise from the muck.
Just before dark, they came upon the village of Cliffe. Too tired to care, they broke into the first house they came to and searched it as quickly as they could. Between the ebbing of adrenaline from the excitement of their escape, as well as the threat of zombies, both women were absolutely exhausted.
Barricading themselves in a tiny bathroom on the second floor of the very first flat they came to, Gemma slept curled up on the tile floor and Chaaya slept in the shower basin. When they woke the next day, they searched the house for any signs of supplies. The pickings were meager and consisted of a can of kidney beans, three jars of pickles—one sweet and two gherkins—and a can of butter beans.
Beggars can’t be choosers, Gemma thought as they opened the can of kidney beans. They looked at the remnants and both had to struggle not to drool at what they were seeing.
“How can so little seem like so much?” Gemma asked, not expecting any sort of response.
“When you have had nothing for such a great deal of time, even the slightest thing could seem like a treasure.” Chaaya plucked a pickle from the jar and rolled her eyes in bliss as she made a noisy crunch.
That had been as satisfying of an answer as she could hope for. The rest of the day was spent systematically going from house to house in a search for more supplies. More than once, they encountered zombi
es inside the house they were searching.
Fortunately, Chaaya had found what would pass for a weapon until they got an opportunity to upgrade. It was a piece of pipe about two feet long and surprisingly heavy.
By the next day, they felt more confident that none of those crazies were on their tails. They had found a knapsack and an actual pack early the previous afternoon. By the end of the second day, both were full of food and they had even managed to scrounge up some bottles of water.
“My friend was going to try to make it to Queensborough,” Gemma said as they sat in their new camp—a second floor flat with a bathroom so small that there was no way she could sleep in the room without partially tucking in her knees.
“I have heard terrible things about that place. Even worse, I know of at least twenty people who went there to check it out and never were seen or heard from again.”
They sat in silence until they both eventually dozed off. Gemma had a dream about Queensborough that chilled her to the bone and made her wake with a start. In it she saw Vix being beaten and chopped up like she had seen Harold. Only, Vix did not cry out so much as once. Instead, she simply repeated the same thing over and over to the rhythm of the beating she was receiving. Even after her head was cut off and hung from the giant board, the mouth continued to move and the words rang clear as a bell.
“This is all your fault, Gemma.”
***
“I see five.” Chad handed the binoculars to Caroline.
She brushed her shaggy brown hair out of her face and lifted the glasses. Chad was already up and moving in a crouch to a fallen tree by the time she had scanned the area.
“Maybe they are just passing through.” Caroline handed back the binoculars and peeked over the tree to where a road once ran alongside the reservoir. The harsh and changing weather of the area had done its part to crumble, wash away, and cover most of what had once been a two-lane highway.
A group was moving with obvious caution. In her experience, that never meant anything good. Still, she could not be blamed for hoping.
“Dad!” Ronni hissed.
Chad and Caroline turned as the young woman came up to their lookout point in a hurry. No longer a little girl, Ronni had grown into a woman with a fierce determination and will to survive. She was hardly the little girl that Chad had fled that FEMA shelter with so long ago.
His daughter was now a product of the new ways of the world having lived over a third of her life in the land of the undead. Her only weakness was the children who had become zombies. She insisted that they were different somehow, and therefore, should not be killed simply because they were zombies. More than once she had stayed Chad’s hand.
“There is a second group.” Ronni pointed back over her shoulder. “They are down by the old cabins.”
“How many?” Chad asked.
“Maybe six or seven. It is obvious that they are searching for something.”
A rustle in some nearby brush made them all go silent. Each pulled their weapon of choice. For Chad, it was an old cavalry officer’s sword that he had stumbled upon in, of all places, a little roadside tourist trap that had a small museum as its main attraction. According to the placard, the weapon had once been the sword of George Armstrong Custer. He had no idea if that might be true, but he could not dispute the fine craftsmanship. It was easy to wield and seldom got stuck when cleaving a skull. Ronni preferred an old field machete. Its grip had practically molded to her hand from so much use over the years. Caroline had been a softball player for as long as she could remember while growing up. She had even been able to extend her years when a college scholarship had been offered. She was in her senior year when the zombies came. She had killed the first one with one of her favorite bats. She kept a duffel of bats that she had obtained over the years. Some had even been modified with spikes, but she had quickly found that spikes could get stuck. She preferred just a standard aluminum bat. Her current weapon was a twenty-nine ounce DeMARINI.
The trio instinctively fanned out to cover the front and sides of the cluster of thick brush that was shaking and rattling in fits and starts. Chad had taken the position in front, with Ronni and Caroline on either side.
When the girl came crawling out on her belly, Chad rushed in and put the point of his sword at the girl’s neck. She froze, her hands going out to each side.
“P-p-please,” she whimpered. “Don’t kill me.”
“Roll over,” Chad ordered.
The girl did so, and Chad took an involuntary step back. The girl had a nasty bite on the left cheek. It had not torn the flesh away, but the area was ugly, red, puffy, and leaking blood. However, a few seconds later he was able to relax and get a clearer picture.
The girl was immune.
While still leaking blood, it was obvious that the wound was several hours old. There would be no way that she should not have the telltale black tracers in her eyes by now. Her eyes, while red-rimmed from crying, were basically clear. The blue shining through the tears was bright and healthy just as the whites were clear of any signs of infection.
“Dad,” Ronni scolded as she elbowed her way in, “get that sword out of her face.”
Chad stepped back as his daughter knelt down. She handed over a canteen after helping the younger girl to her feet. Chad figured the girl to be in her late teens; about the same age Ronni had been when this all started. This was one of those moments where it felt odd looking at a woman who was approaching her thirties and seeing almost nothing left of the little girl that he knew as his daughter.
“P-please don’t let them get me,” the stranger finally managed after taking a long drink from the canteen.
“So those people down there are looking for you?” Chad glanced back to the log where they had been watching the one group, then brought his attention back to the girl. “Why are they looking for you?”
“Because I am one of the damned.”
Chad glanced at Caroline and Ronni who both returned his questioning glance with a shrug. They had no guesses.
“The damned?” Chad finally asked when the girl had not offered anything more.
“The bite did not take me.” She pointed to her face. “I was bitten by one of the dead and did not change.”
Chad cocked his head. The girl was telling him what happened, but he had a feeling that he was missing an important part of the story.
“So these people are hunting you down because you are immune to the bite?” Caroline voiced Chad’s thoughts with an obvious tone of skepticism. “Care to tell us why?”
“They feel that those who are immune to the bite are damned souls that have committed some great sin that prevents their acceptance to Heaven.”
“Melody Whittaker!” a voice shouted from much closer than Chad would like. “Come out, girl. You know how this has to end.”
“I don’t think they are gonna be pleased with the re-write,” Caroline quipped when she saw the firm looks of determination on Chad and Ronni’s face.
***
“…and we can confirm that at least one of the turret occupants was alive as of this morning,” Pitts said to the group clustered around the front of the patrol barracks.
“I say we stomp a mud hole in these fucks!” George Rosamilia growled.
Jody was not surprised. The big man was perhaps Danny’s best friend. While he and Danny had patched up their differences (as they always seemed to do), George and Danny had built a very strong friendship over the years.
“If George gets to go, then so do I,” a female voice sounded, causing everybody that had gathered out front to turn around. Margarita Rosamilia was standing in the shadow of the nearby post office.
Margarita and George were what Jody always considered an “interesting” couple. They would have been a disaster in the old world. It was not uncommon for one or both to be sporting a black eye, busted lip, or other assorted bruises. Whether it was from their “enthusiastic” lovemaking, or a heated argument that got out of control, nobody
ever knew; and what’s more, nobody ever asked. The two seemed to thrive on whatever it was they had between them.
“I have not made any choices,” Pitts said. He sort of choked on that last word as Margarita came to a stop directly in front of him with her arms folded across her ample bosom. “But I guess I will add you two now.” He looked at the rest of those gathered around. “Any other volunteers?”
Jody was not surprised when every hand went up. Not only was this community very serious about its security—and the reality was that this was a security issue first and foremost—but Danny was a popular person in the community. You could bet the taverns would stay open late on the occasions that he came to town for one reason or another.
Jody almost felt bad that his hand was almost the last to raise. In truth, with all the people who had stepped up, he was not actually necessary. Still, Danny was a friend. The fact that they were not as close meant nothing.
His reasons for being reluctant were across the street. When Pitts announced that they would muster at the patrol barracks at four in the morning, Jody peeled away from the group and headed for the park.
“Daddy!” the little girl squealed at the sight of him.
Leaping from the swings, the little girl ran at him with her arms wide, her curly blond hair streaming behind. Jody knelt to catch her as she leaped into his arms. Looking up, he smiled as Selina came up carrying the baby.
“Hi, sweetheart.” Jody stood as Selina reached them and greeted her with a kiss. “How have they been?”
“Alana has been an absolute angel. She helps mommy with changes and feedings,” Selina said. “Haven’t you, baby girl?”
“I’m not the baby!” Alana huffed, crossing her arms indignantly. “Jenna is the baby. I’m a big girl now!”
“Yes, you are the big girl.” Selina winked at Jody. When he only managed a weak smile in return, her own expression faltered. “Go show daddy how high you can swing, okay, Alana?”
