by Angela Scott
The normal temperature for the human body averaged 98.6 degrees. Red ran a consistent 100.9—not a high-grade temperature, but a temperature all the same. Fortunately, the doctor had whipped it out of her mouth before it could provide an accurate reading. He barely glanced at it before shaking the mercury down and shoving it into the mouth of the next person in line. The townspeople had placed their faith in a foolish man, and the happy, naïve settlement would suffer because of it.
She walked along the wooden pathway that led from one store to the next with the dog at her heels. Yellow light from hurricane lamps spilled out of the windows and into the darkened streets. She glanced up at the men on the rooftops, stoic in their duty, and at the townsfolk who went about their business, content to believe those same men could actually save them.
She would've found Cowboy and Wen and insisted that they leave right now, but as the sun went down, the town's officials sealed its only exit. She felt trapped, and the morning couldn't come too soon for her liking.
Outside the saloon, she found a bench and sat down. The dog placed its head in her lap and she rubbed the spot between his ears. She heard Cowboy's voice as he played cards—a wasteful and deadly pastime. Whether people won by means of intelligence or through tricks and deceit, they usually found themselves with a bullet between the eyes.
Red didn't much care for cards, though she did enjoy the occasional drink. She debated whether or not to head in for a shot of something to calm her nerves, but with so many men inside—drunken men—she needed to be on her toes, and didn't want to be standing on them tipsy.
A low, distinct laugh from inside the saloon caught Red's attention. She stopped caressing the dog, and he looked up at her for an explanation. When he didn't receive one, he curled up at her feet. She was about to dismiss it as the work of an overactive mind, but when the laughter resounded once more, her breath locked within her chest and her whole body went rigid as she balled her hands into fists.
He was here. Inside.
No! How is it even possible?
She stumbled to her feet and stood near the swinging doors to see for herself. His dark hair, graying at the temples, and his mustache trimmed and balanced above his lip, made him easy to spot. It was him, sure enough, casually playing cards with Cowboy, drinking liquor, and laughing as though all was right with the world. Except it wasn't.
She turned away from the door and leaned against the building. This can't be happening. It's just a coincidence. Even as she thought it, she knew it wasn't true. He was searching for her, just like he'd said he would.
Red closed her eyes. I watched him die. I watched the zombies attack him. They attacked him!
He shouldn't be alive. Unless... her eyes flew open as the realization set in. He did what he'd set out to do.
Red looked up and down the street; she needed to get out of there now. She was trapped inside the boundaries of the town with a madman.
She pulled her hat down tighter over her head and crossed the road. The dog followed in step beside her, and she never felt more grateful for his company. She walked behind a row of buildings, looking for a possible escape. There were bound to be holes in the barrier that surrounded the town that she could squeeze through, but even so, that meant leaving behind her horse and supplies. She wouldn't last long without them—not in the desert, anyway.
"Come on, boy." She rounded the side of the post office and started for the hotel, the dog still trailing behind her. She'd stay hidden away, like Cowboy had wanted, and when morning came, she'd leave—with or without the men.
She crossed the road, keeping to the shadows, when a hand clasped onto her arm and dragged her forward at a hurried pace. Red spun around, forcing the release of his grip on her. She stood her ground—legs parted, hands formed into fists—ready for the pending attack.
"Don't hit me!" Cowboy said. "It's just me."
She punched him in the shoulder anyway. "Don't ever do that. You scared me to death."
He didn't respond, but grabbed her hand and continued to drag her toward The Grand Palace hotel. She took two steps to each one of his. When they entered the inn, he didn't even tell the dog to stay outside, but allowed him to follow them up the stairs. He opened the door to his room and hastily pushed her inside.
After he shut and locked the door, he turned and faced her. "You're staying here tonight. No arguments." He went to the window and pulled the drapes closed.
"What's going on?" She needed to know what he knew.
"There's a man down at the saloon that seems a little odd. I'd just feel better knowing you're here with me. I don't trust him."
Red sat on the edge of the bed. She wasn't sure how much to tell him, or if she should tell him anything. She still didn't know how far she could trust him. The man at the saloon had proved to be a turncoat, and so could Cowboy.
A knock sounded on the door and they both jumped up and reached for their guns at the same time.
"Hey, it's me," Wen called from the hallway. "You in there?"
Red relaxed a little at the sound of Wen's voice, and Cowboy opened the door.
Wen stepped inside and squatted to give the dog some affection, oblivious to the tension in the room. "I was worried about you, fella. Thought you'd left us for good." The dog wagged his tail as Wen rubbed his belly. "How did you get him inside?"
Cowboy shut and locked the door once again. "He followed me up the stairs. No one said a word."
"What a good dog." Wen rubbed the dog's head before rising to his feet. "He needs a name. I like Bo. What do you think?"
"I don't think it matters," Cowboy said. "We've got bigger issues to deal with."
Wen looked at him in confusion. "Like what? What's going on?"
"There's a man down at the saloon." Cowboy glanced at Red and then back to Wen. "He's a strange one. Has some weird ideas that rubbed me the wrong way. Red's staying with me tonight."
Wen smiled like a schoolboy and bobbed his head. "Nice. I'll have to try that line on the ladies sometime."
Cowboy stepped closer to Wen. "Don't disrespect Red like that. I'm serious. I just want to make sure she's safe. Nothing else is going on here."
She sat back and watched him lecture Wen, with a sense of gratitude rising within her. Perhaps she'd been too quick to judge him.
Wen nodded with a serious expression. "I'm sorry. It won't happen again."
"It's okay." Red attempted to relieve Wen of his embarrassment. "And by the way, the dog's name is Lasso. I already named him."
Cowboy looked at Red with resignation. "Are you serious? The dog gets to have a name, but you don't want to know mine? Isn't that a little odd?"
"No. It's fitting."
Cowboy pointed his finger at her. "Oh, I see how it is. You're just toying with me now, trying to get under my skin, aren't ya?"
"So what's the plan?" Wen attempted to change the direction of the conversation.
Cowboy glanced back and forth between them. "Well, we leave at dawn. You and I will get supplies and prepare the horses. Red will stay here until we're ready to go."
Wen nodded. "Sounds good."
"Speaking of horses, Wen, we need to get you one of your own. Doubling up is a strain on the horse and makes it mighty difficult to take off in a hurry."
"I agree," Wen said. "But—"
Cowboy shook his head. "No buts. You need a horse and it just so happens I found the means to get you one."
"So you lucked out at the card table tonight?" Red took off her hat and set it on the bed beside her. The thought of spending the night in the same town as John Gatherum didn't seem as frightening with Cowboy and Wen on her side.
Cowboy smiled. "Luck had nothing to do with it." He pointed to his head. "It's all about knowing when to hold 'em, when to fold 'em, and when to walk away."
***
Cowboy blew out the candle flame, inviting darkness. He lay on top of the covers beside her. "You okay?"
"Yeah, I'm fine." Part truth and part lie. She sh
ould've felt uncomfortable with him lying so close to her, but he made her feel safe, just as he had back at the wagons.
Nevertheless, John Gatherum nagged at her mind and refused to let her rest. She wanted to kill him. He might survive zombies, but being "different" didn't protect him from bullets, and she wanted to put a bullet in John's head for everything he'd put her through. Unfortunately, she couldn't kill him in a protected town like this one. They'd string her up. Her best bet was to leave, and if she happened to cross paths with him again in a less conspicuous place, she'd kill him. If the end of the world came, leaving only a few survivors, he mustn't be one of them. She'd see to that personally.
"Everything's gonna be okay," Cowboy whispered in her ear. "I won't let anything happen to you tonight—no bad dreams, no strange men. Just me."
"I appreciate that."
"So, you wanna know my name?"
Red couldn't help but smile. "No. I'm perfectly happy not knowing it."
"That's too bad, because I think you'd like it. You might even find it sexy."
She rolled onto her side and saw the outline of his body lying next to hers, one arm tucked under his head. "Is that so?"
"Yep, that's so. If I told you my name, I bet you'd agree."
She brushed her fingers over the whiskers on his jaw line. "I bet you have a nice name."
"Oh, I do." He turned onto his side and faced her. The space between them diminished as his leg touched hers. "I'd really like to know yours as well."
"Maybe someday." She smiled in the darkness, gave his cheek a quick pat, and rolled back onto her other side. "But not today."
Chapter 12 – Milk and Honey
Leaving town proved uneventful. No need to shoot their way out, as Trace had expected. The guards simply opened the gate at dawn and Trace, Wen, and Red rode away. Easy.
Red had tucked her fiery locks beneath her hat and pulled her coat collar up around the sides of her face. She wrapped the horse's reins tightly around her right hand, which unnaturally whitened her knuckles, and rested her left hand on her pistol. She'd been rather quiet all morning, avoiding making eye contact with anyone.
Maybe she knew more about the man in the saloon than she let on, which wouldn't have come as a surprise to Trace. The man certainly knew a lot about her, although he never mentioned her by name. He was forthcoming with his own, though—John Gatherum from Pennsylvania. When Trace asked what brought him out west, John said he was searching for his mentally unbalanced wife—a pretty, red-haired girl with a temper and misconstrued ideas of grandeur. She thought she could survive a zombie bite.
The other men at the table had roared with laughter when John made his claims. "Your wife's nuts," one man said. "I hope you find her before the dead do. They'd be more than happy to prove her wrong."
John had nodded and looked over at Trace with an intense stare. Trace forced a smile and pretended to laugh along with the others, as John proceeded to tell the men of his plans to put Red in her place. Although he never came out and said exactly what those plans entailed, Trace could easily imagine.
In that moment, Trace knew he wouldn't be handing Red over to anybody. He just couldn't do it.
If that man was Red's husband, then Trace was a zombie's uncle. Red would never have married a man like that—he didn't seem her type. Her type was a man more like... well... himself.
But as he watched Red now, with her head lowered and face hidden, he couldn't help but wonder. She'd gone to an awful lot of trouble to hide herself from him, and that had to mean something.
The wanted poster burned a hole in the side pocket of his saddlebag. He would get rid of it at the first opportunity. Money or no money, he wasn't handing her over to that man.
***
Trace caught sight of swirling smoke that floated above the tree line. They followed it, hoping for a place to rest and water the horses. Where there was smoke, there had to be humans.
They came upon a small log cabin that sat pleasantly tucked within the majestic mountain landscape. Large pine and juniper trees surrounded it on all sides and kept it hidden from view. It appeared untouched by the world and its problems. Under different circumstances, this would be the kind of place Trace would want to live, perhaps with a lake or pond nearby for fishing. An ideal home.
"What do ya think?" he asked his companions. "It looks normal enough to me."
"Sometimes when things look normal, it's all an illusion." Red shrugged her shoulders.
Trace stared at her for a moment, picking up on the subtext.
A petite young girl with blond hair emerged from the cabin. She walked around the side to a stack of wood, piled a bunch of logs into her arms, and carried them back inside—a child sent to complete a chore.
"Looks good to me," Wen said. "I think we should see if they could use any help in exchange for some hospitality."
"I agree." Trace looked over at Red, who didn't say a word. "But first, I need to talk to Red alone for a minute, if you don't mind?"
Wen nodded, and rode his horse a little ways off to give them some privacy.
"Everything okay?" Red asked when they were alone.
"That's what I was gonna ask you." He just came out with it. "That man in town—he said he was your husband."
The expression on her face didn't change. No hint of surprise or guilt. Nothing.
He didn't know what to make of it. "Please tell me it ain't true."
Red took a deep breath and slowly released it. "It ain't true."
Oh, thank God. He couldn't have imagined sending her back to that man, yet he didn't think he could continue traveling with another man's wife either. That would have been a dangerous thing to do.
"So, why would he say he's your husband if he's not?"
She slumped in her saddle, holding onto the horn. "Because, excluding myself, there are only three people who know my secret, and he's one of them. John Gatherum will do and say just about anything to get what he wants, and right now, he wants me."
"And from what I gather, you don't want to be found?"
Red shook her head and looked at him. "Honestly, I had no idea he was looking for me. But now that I know—"
"You can't possibly want to go back and find him." Trace had to stop her. "If there's something you feel you need to say to him, I'd suggest you just let it go. He seems rather crazy to me and not the talking type."
She vigorously shook her head, keeping her eyes on him all the while. "Who said anything about talking? I plan on killing him."
Killing John Gatherum sounded like a good idea, and kind of reasonable under the circumstances. "All right then, what do we do?"
"We don't do anything. I'll take care of it when the time comes." With that, she maneuvered her horse down the hillside in the direction of the cabin.
***
The smell of bread baking inside the cabin nearly brought Trace to his knees. Fresh bread—there was nothing better. He couldn't remember the last time he ate bread warm out of the oven with a brown crust and light, spongy middle.
"Would you like some milk, too?" The woman who owned the cabin offered him a cup. She smelled like warm honey and cinnamon. "I have some in a pitcher, if you'd like."
Trace was dumbfounded. Milk. Fresh milk. "You have a cow?" The idea of that amazed him. Most people no longer had access to livestock, and those who did have them had to take great precautions to keep them alive. The walkers would eat anything that moved if there was no other option. They preferred humans, but farm animals would do just fine.
"We've been able to save one." She motioned to her children—a boy of about five and the girl they saw earlier. "For the children's sake."
Trace poured himself a cup full and drank the warm liquid. He looked around the table and noticed a frothy milk moustache lining Wen's upper lip. Red, on the other hand, didn't partake in the treat. She simply tore small pieces off her slice of bread and placed them into her mouth.
The children sat quietly eating their buttered bread
while they watched the three strangers. He found most kids annoying, but these two seemed all right. The girl kept eyeing him strangely, but for a little bread and milk he'd put up with pretty much anything.
"Where's your husband?" Red asked. "You're not out here all by yourself, are you?"
The woman wiped her hands on her apron and smiled. "Unfortunately, we are. My husband died earlier this year, and with nowhere else to go, we just stayed on. It's our home. We built it ourselves when we moved out west, and I can't imagine leaving."
"Aren't you worried about zombies? They're everywhere, you know." Wen slathered creamy butter over another piece of bread. "You need to be careful."
"We prefer to call them the 'unfortunates.' It sounds less"—she nodded toward her children—"frightening. And yes, I'm worried. But we're careful."
The girl stared at Trace from across the table, her eyes unblinking. Something was wrong with that kid. "Thanks for allowing us to rest here for a bit and for sharing your food. We're truly grateful."
The woman smiled sweetly. "We don't get many visitors out this way, so it's us who should be thanking you."
The girl spilled her milk. It ran across the table and over the edge, forming a small white puddle on the floor.
Red jumped to help her, but the mother just smiled at her daughter and dabbed at the mess with a cloth. "Be more careful," she told her.
The girl didn't say a word, and the little boy climbed from the table and proceeded to play with a wooden train in the corner. He didn't look up at them again.
"Is there anything we can do for you while we're here? Any work that needs doin'?" Wen asked. "We'd love to help."
"Oh, you don't need to do that." The woman started to clear the table. "But it's kind of you to offer."
"No really," Trace said. "We can chop wood or work on any projects that need fixing. Really, we'd like to do something."
