Within ten minutes the vehicles pulled into the driveway of a rather large white house with an attached porch, detached greenhouse, and a small garden. A garden flag flapped mildly in the breeze when the headlights hit it, illuminating the haunting blood stains that covered the otherwise scenic artwork of a blue jay and the tree branches it rested upon. The house appeared secure, and no lights, even candlelight, shone from the inside. Such positive signs indicated it might actually be a safe haven for the evening, considering it was the only house within a mile in any direction down an isolated county road.
A separate cottage and garage weren’t far from the house, and all three vehicles fit on the paved driveway, safely off the road. Metzger worried the vehicles were highly visible from the road, though he doubted many warm-blooded folks were going to pass by. Setting his priorities, he wanted to go through the buildings first before worrying about the parking situation, and how to secure their unwanted guest for the night.
“Can you keep an eye on him?” he asked of Luke, who still had a pistol, receiving an affirmative nod. “If he gives you any trouble, shoot him.”
He knew Luke wanted more responsibility, and though leaving him with a prisoner felt somewhat risky, the man remained bound, posing little threat. The others needed to check the buildings for living or dead inhabitants, and without Sutton the task wasn’t going to move quite as quickly. Metzger always knew the risk of booby-traps existed within any building they invaded, but after the incident at the restaurant he felt even more uneasy.
Leaving Sutton in the box truck, the group worked together with flashlights to clear the bed and breakfast house. Metzger left Jillian and Vazquez to search every inch of the downstairs while he took Gracine with him to the upper level. It worried him that the house was so eerie and quiet throughout, without a sign of anyone having been there recently. The group met up in the living room, deciding to check on Luke and Samantha before checking the outbuildings.
“He hasn’t moved,” Luke reported when they approached the truck, keeping Samantha close to him.
“We’re going to check the garage and the cottage,” Metzger said. “We shouldn’t be long.”
He didn’t feel as comfortable approaching the cottage for some reason. Once again, Gracine tagged along as the others tackled the garage, finding it open and shining their flashlight beams inward immediately.
“I think Colby has a concussion,” Gracine mentioned as Metzger tried the cottage’s main entrance, finding it locked.
Even the main house hadn’t been locked, which now worried him.
“There isn’t much we can do for that except let him rest and keep him out of the fray.”
“I know,” she said firmly. “But he’s going to want to go to that cabin of his, and we can’t just drop him off and leave him there.”
Metzger searched the nearby area for a spare key, finding none. He walked to the closest window, adorned with country wood accents and a box planter at the window base that held flowers withering from lack of attention. Shining the light inside the window, he turned to address Gracine’s concerns when a zombie struck the window from the other side, startling them both momentarily as it growled and clawed to get at them through the glass.
“Nice,” Metzger muttered, sighing as he returned his attention to Gracine. “If we have to, we bring Colby with us to Norfolk. He’ll be pissed, but he can always backtrack to his camp later. At least he’ll be alive to do it.”
“I’m worried that it could be something worse than a concussion. He didn’t say a word on the drive over here.”
“He got fucked up pretty bad, Gracine. It’s going to take a day or two before he starts to recover from that. There was a kid a high school over from mine who took a shot to the head during a football game and it took him about thirty seconds to speak a complete sentence whenever he spoke after that.”
“You’re not exactly encouraging,” Gracine said sharply.
“I’m a realist,” Metzger said, continuing his search for a key. “I’m sure Colby will be fine, though. That douchebag got in a few lucky shots on him, is all.”
“On you, too.”
“I had things under control.”
Gracine gave a laugh that indicated she believed otherwise.
“You just swooped in and stole my glory,” Metzger said with a smirk, feeling reasonably assured he would have dealt with the crazy man personally if given the chance. “But not this time.”
He pulled a key from beneath a large decorative rock at the corner of the house.
“Sure you don’t want me to save you from the scary zombie?” Gracine questioned with a mocking tone.
Metzger stuck the key into the lock, giving the knob a quick turn to make certain it worked.
It did.
“After you,” he said before letting the door swing inward, giving her a few seconds to arm herself before doing so.
Metzger felt reasonably certain the old woman inside the cottage might have been bitten at some point, gotten away, and locked herself in solitude. As he watched Gracine step forward with a knife to deal with her, Metzger felt badly, knowing the woman’s final hours were spent alone and in pain. He witnessed Gracine putting her out of her misery with a swift stab through the temple, angled into the brain, as he stepped inside to make certain no other surprises awaited them. They quickly inspected the cottage, finding no other danger, before dragging the corpse of the older woman outside and behind the cottage.
Three bedrooms were already prepared for guests in the main house, and the cottage provided two additional bedrooms. The group provided Sutton with one of the twin beds located in one bedroom while Gracine took the other to watch over him. Luke and Samantha took one of the other rooms with a king-sized bed, and no one thought ill of the arrangement because they knew Luke had proven himself dedicated to watching over the girl. Jillian took the last of the bedrooms in the main house, leaving Metzger and Vazquez to fend for themselves.
“I’ll watch over our guest,” Metzger volunteered. “There are two rooms in the cottage.”
“I’m going to sleep on the couch here,” Vazquez said. “Unless you need a second pair of eyes.”
Metzger shook his head.
“I’m a light sleeper. He’ll be secured, and if he tries anything, I’ll hear it.”
Assured everyone was comfortable in the main house, and with a promise that they would find some canned goods and cook up some food, Metzger walked outside to find the older man in the back of the truck beginning to stir. He quickly walked into the garage, finding some twine hanging along one wall, which he used to secure the man’s legs before yanking him from the bed of the truck and carrying him into the cottage.
All of Metzger’s sore areas, from his face to the shoulder he injured during the motorcycle tumble, ached simultaneously. Even the night at the farmhouse hadn’t proven truly restful as he dreamed of his parents, losing Albert, and confronting Xavier at the airport. Sleeping solidly felt like a thing of the past, and as he carried the man over his shoulder into the cottage, the decision to keep him alive felt like a hazardous burden. He dropped the man beside the daybed in the guest bedroom, using a second set of handcuffs from Sutton’s collection to attach the chain of the first set of cuffs to the bed frame. He wasn’t about to provide him with a sense of comfort by letting him lie in bed, and he wanted to hear if the diner’s squatter tried to escape.
“Do you speak?” Metzger called after exiting the room, knowing the man was awake, but feigned unconsciousness, forcing him to carry his full weight into the cottage.
No answer came as Metzger checked the bed in the adjacent room, hoping the man remained quiet so he could get some rest in the overnight. The reloaded .357 remained on his right hip, easily drawn to deal with any situations arising in the overnight if Metzger was jolted awake suddenly.
After making certain the bed was to his liking, knowing clean sheets and a soft pillow were far more than he normally dared ask for, he returned to find
his prisoner glaring at him from the floor.
“I’m getting ready to grab a bite to eat next door,” Metzger said, trying to tempt the man into saying something. “Would you like anything to eat or drink?”
For a few seconds the man glared at him from the shadows since Metzger hadn’t lit any of the available candles yet. Darkness overtook the outside, and moonlight only provided so much lighting along the isolated bed and breakfast.
“You don’t really think I was the only one in that diner, do you?” the man stated with more composure and focus than Metzger expected.
“If there are more of you, we’ll deal with them in the morning,” Metzger answered firmly. “How you act around us will determine your immediate future.”
The man slipped a thin smirk, and Metzger couldn’t tell if he was now acting smug, or teetered between the realms of the sane and insane.
“You won’t be going anywhere in the morning,” the man answered in a low rumble of a voice. “They’ll come and slit all of your throats in the middle of the night.”
Twenty-One
Metzger immediately punched the man in the nose, partly from anger, but also to test his mental capacity.
“You shouldn’t tell lies, mister,” he said. “You’re lucky we’ve left you alive this long. If you had friends, they would have come running out to save your crazy ass back there. And we took out your undead friends.”
After hearing the words a look of disappointment and shock crossed the man’s face as though he’d just learned of dear family members dying. Metzger questioned how deep the layers of insanity ran with this man, and what kind of world he created that he considered zombies his friends. Perhaps he conjured up a world of imaginary friends the way little girls created identities and personalities for their dolls for tea parties. He began to question how they could leave this man alive in the world when he presented a danger to himself and everyone he encountered.
Metzger wasn’t certain how much the man understood about the real world versus the one he created in his mind. Obviously he knew how to handle the undead and subdue them as moving scarecrows outside of the restaurant, meaning he might have a split personality that dealt with that aspect of danger before reverting back to his current state of mind.
“What’s your name?” Metzger asked.
His inquiry wasn’t answered as the man scooted back to the wall, turning his head and sheltering in as much of a fetal position as his restraints allowed. He mourned, or pouted, in his own way, leaving Metzger to wonder what snapped the man’s psyche after the world ended.
Perhaps he wasn’t entirely stable in the first place, and the apocalypse provided him ample opportunity to run free.
Metzger left the cottage to join the others with feelings of uncertainty weighing on his mind. He stepped inside the main house, smelling delightful odors of corned beef hash, tuna fish, and what he thought might be baked beans. He seldom consumed such food while he taught school, but now they were delicacies, like lobster or filet mignon when restaurants operated.
“Hungry?” Jillian asked as she stirred a few items atop a propane stove.
“Sure,” he answered almost absently, his mind still trapped in the cottage with the insanity of the older man.
“What’s wrong?”
“It’s that man we found at the restaurant. He isn’t right in the head.”
“Obviously.”
“No,” Metzger said, shaking his head. “It’s worse than we thought. I’m not sure he entirely understands what’s going on with the world.”
“Are any of us?” Jillian asked, spooning some corned beef hash, baked beans, and potatoes onto a plate for him.
Metzger took the plate, realizing he knew the current world better than he cared to. People once hated politics, taxes, and going to work, but at least the world provided a routine, safety, and some semblance of order. Now the world felt lawless, where people needed to shoot first or risk being victims. Metzger didn’t like making decisions that cost others their lives, and he wasn’t certain he could simply execute the older man, even if the group wanted such an act carried out.
At the moment none of them seemed openly concerned about dealing with the situation. They simply wanted some food before getting some much needed rest in the overnight.
Metzger carried his plate, forking some food into his mouth as he walked over to check on Sutton in the closest bedroom. Several candles illuminated the downstairs, allowing him to see the weary looks on the faces of his companions before he reached the room, finding Gracine at Sutton’s bedside. She reluctantly ate, as though instinctively knowing she needed her strength for the days ahead.
“Any change?” he asked.
“No. He’s been unconscious since we got here.”
Metzger took another bite of the warm food before speaking again, basically stalling for time as he thought of the right words, or rather the reasoning behind them.
“I need you to do me a favor.”
Gracine looked at him as though he might be asking a bit much at such a crucial time.
“Make sure all of the doors are locked tonight before you go to bed. Even the bedroom doors.”
She shot him a knowing look, as though she knew to expect trouble.
“Okay,” she said, not blinking, and refusing to look away for a few seconds, as though asking if Metzger had invited trouble by bringing the older man along.
“Just a precaution,” he said, turning to head for the common area where a large table with six chairs provided ample room for the group to eat and converse.
Buster, who had spent time wandering around the house exploring, now approached everyone who possessed a plate, asking for something to eat.
“You’ve been fed,” Jillian said, admonishing him, which he took as an invitation to walk over with a wagging tail to ask for food.
She put down a little bit of the corned beef hash for him, which he immediately devoured before lifting his head like a swimmer surfacing for air to ask for more.
“No,” she said, shaking her head.
Taking the hint, he walked away, but only to Vazquez who sat closest to her.
Metzger decided to eat what he could before Buster visited him with those big, sappy eyes, trying to indicate he’d been starved for days. It only took a few seconds of Vazquez ignoring him before he did exactly that.
“You must have Sutton wrapped around your paw,” Metzger commented, shaking his head negatively at the dog.
Buster protested with a groan before moving on to his next potential mark.
“How is your guest?” Vazquez asked as he ate the last morsels from his plate.
“Not saying much,” Metzger answered, deciding not to comment about the overnight throat slitting the man mentioned.
Had he considered such a statement a legitimate threat he would have placed the group on high alert, but he felt certain much of the man’s recent memories were fabricated within his shattered mental state.
Once everyone finished eating it seemed they all wanted to get some rest. Without proper lighting, no one typically stayed up much past dusk most nights. A majority of past entertainment went by the wayside without electricity, and after their dangerous encounter the group didn’t feel much like conversing. Metzger tossed his dishes into the sink, suspecting no one would bother washing them because they weren’t expecting to ever see the property again once morning arrived and they departed.
As he stepped outside, Metzger took time to walk near the road, observing it to his left before panning to his right. Except for the moonlight, complete darkness overtook the fields surrounding the bed and breakfast. He felt certain there was a time when lights from the small town or the isolated businesses would have been visible from where he stood.
All three vehicles remained in the driveway, and no one seemed motivated enough to move them. Metzger wasn’t certain enough room existed between the back of the buildings and the trees to park the vehicles safely anyhow. Parking them in the gr
ass opened up the possibility of them getting stuck, and it seemed unlikely anyone would travel the rural road in the overnight. And even if someone did pass the house and take notice, it would take a brazen group to assault the unexpected guests or attempt to steal their vehicles.
With his eyes adjusted to the minimal lighting, Metzger sauntered back to the cottage, looking inside before he opened the door as though expecting the older man to be free and prepared to ambush him. He slowly opened the door, able to see the man inside the first bedroom, still attached to the metal bedframe. The frame was solid, requiring tools to dismantle it, and the man didn’t have legitimate use of his hands with them bound behind his back and the handcuffs attached to the frame.
Metzger walked to the room, leaning on the doorway a moment, staring at the man who refused to look in his direction.
Whenever the man shifted, even slightly, the handcuffs made a telltale jingle when the chains rubbed one another or the bedpost.
“What happened to you?” he asked with sympathy, not expecting to actually strike up a conversation.
Getting an idea, he knelt down beside the bed, using a flashlight to shine a beam in the direction of the man’s posterior, trying to get a look at his hands. There he found the gleam of a wedding band against the potent flashlight.
“What are you doing?” the man asked, probably figuring he was about to be violated or tortured.
“You were married?” Metzger inquired, returning to his feet while wiping the dirt from his hands.
A perplexed look crossed the man’s face, as though he wasn’t really sure how to answer, or what the true answer might be. Metzger sensed that a traumatic event in the man’s life suddenly took everything from him, and he didn’t know how to cope with reality any longer. Obviously the man knew a little something about engineering, likely holding a good job when occupations were still a daily practice.
The Undead Chronicles (Book 1): Home and Back Again Page 30
