by Angela Scott
All was fair in love and war, and there weren't no war like a zombie plague.
He gazed over the western plains for any sign of life, and saw nothing except rolling tumbleweed and brush swaying in the slight breeze. He pulled out one of his pistols and nudged the huge door open, just enough to squeeze inside.
A dozen or so smaller rooms and outbuildings surrounded a large, open courtyard. A few shade trees dropped fruit, and a garden in the northeast corner still had plenty of vegetables left to give. Two goats, a lamb, several chickens, and a cow ate in their open stalls, hardly paying attention as Trace moseyed past. There was also a bunkhouse, water well, kitchen, and blacksmith shop. But he fancied the telegraph station most. He didn't know if it still transmitted messages, but the possibility excited him.
He walked around the courtyard, watching for signs of a threat, and opened several doors and scouted out the empty rooms. When he happened upon the captain's quarters, he found an old man asleep on the double bed inside. He stepped back, aimed his gun at the old man, and cleared his throat to rouse him, but the man continued sleeping. He tried once again with the same result. The third time, he kicked the side of the bed, and the old man's eyes flew open in horror when he saw Trace standing there with a gun trained on him.
The man raised his hands, but didn't sit up.
"Are there more of you?"
The old man nodded.
"How many?"
He held up one finger.
Trace liked those odds. He could take them both out if necessary, but perhaps they'd be reasonable and it wouldn't come to that.
"Step out of the bed very slowly. Keep your hands up and don't try anything stupid."
The old man's hands trembled and he adamantly shook his head. Trace again asked him to stand up, but the old man continued to shake his head.
"Now!" Trace had no patience for the man's defiance. His companion could return at any point and put a bullet in Trace's back. "I need you to get out of that bed."
The old man curled his shaky fingers and pointed across the room toward a set of homemade crutches leaning against the wall.
Damn it, Trace thought. He'd yelled at an invalid. "You can't get out of bed, can you?"
The old man shook his head.
"You're not much of a talker, either."
The old man touched his lips and shook his head again.
Trace let out his breath. The old man appeared incapable of caring for himself, and posed no threat. It looked as though Trace would be responsible for yet another lame, dependent person if they took over the fort—a price he would gladly pay.
"Okay, I'm not gonna hurt you. No one's gonna hurt you. But I have a family waiting for me out there"—Trace nodded toward the exit—"and they need a place to stay and rest awhile. That's all we need, just a safe place to rest. So I'm gonna go get them now, and I promise that no one's gonna hurt you."
The old man began to make hand gestures, placing his hands high above him and then dropping them to his heart over and over. Trace had no idea what the old guy was trying to tell him. Was he praying to God? Telling Trace thank you?
"Not sure what you're saying, mister, but I'll be back. We're good people and mean no harm. We just need a place to stay, that's all." Trace hoped that by repeating himself, the old man would realize he meant what he said. "I'll be right back."
He left the old man, scaled the wooden ladder up to the tower facing Wen and the wagon, and looked as far as he could for any sign of movement in either direction.
Nothing.
He took off his black hat, found Wen in the distance, and waved it back and forth. Wen waved his hat in response.
***
Wen pulled the wagon into the inner court, jumped off, and helped Trace shut and bar the heavy doors into place. Trace had already locked up the other set of doors as well. No one was getting in—zombies, intruders, or even the person who had left the old man behind.
"We're sure lucky this place is empty," Wen said, as he helped Fisher down from the wagon and set the boy on his feet.
"It's not." Trace pointed to the captain's quarters. "There's an old man in there. Harmless. Bedridden. He said there's one more person, someone who went outside the walls for some reason. They'll be mighty upset about being shut out when they get back."
"It could've been worse," Wen said. "The place could've been packed with people."
"It actually went far better than I imagined."
Trace removed the blanket that covered Red and Rivers. Except for an increased amount of sweat on their brows, they appeared to be in much the same condition.
Trace lifted Rivers and handed her down to Wen. "Pick a room and put her inside. Make her comfortable."
Wen nodded.
Trace turned to Fisher. "In that room over there"—he indicated the old man's sleeping quarters—"you'll find an older gentleman. He doesn't say much and can't get out of bed, but I bet he'd love to meet you. Why don't you go keep him company and see if there's anything he needs, okay?"
The boy hesitated, then tucked his hands into the pockets of his pants and walked in the direction of the old man's room with Lasso on his heels. Part way across the courtyard, Fisher looked back at Trace.
"Go on, now. He's harmless, I promise. You can both be silent together." A man who couldn't talk and a boy who wouldn't—a perfect pair.
With Fisher out of the way for a moment, Trace carried Red into one of the vacant rooms and laid her face down on the lumpy mattress. It was a nice enough room, with a washbasin and pitcher, dresser, wardrobe, fireplace, and a single window looking out onto the courtyard. If she were awake, Red would probably complain it was too feminine.
He touched the back of his hand to her rather warm forehead. He needed to cool her down and find fresh clothes for her, something besides the shredded, bloodied mess she wore.
"You need water?" Wen stood inside the door. "I'm going to get some for Rivers. She's fevering again."
Trace nodded. "That would be great."
"How's she doing?"
"No worse than before. Let's get them settled, and then make sure the boy and the old man are fed and the horses are taken care of."
Wen left to retrieve the water, and Trace searched the chest of drawers. He found very little of use in there, but the wardrobe held a lot of useful items. Wen returned and poured cool water into the porcelain basin.
"Here." Trace tossed Wen a nightgown. "You can use that for Rivers. Get her out of her soiled clothes."
Wen took it and left Trace alone with Red.
The open sores seethed and blistered on her skin, and even though he'd cleaned off most of the blood the day before, it didn't look any less horrific. As tenderly as he could, he peeled her shirt away from the festering wounds. The material clung on, and he soaked it with water before prying it from her skin. He didn't want to add to her injuries, but she didn't move or protest.
"I'm sorry, Red." He removed the remaining portion of her shirt and actually tore the sleeves from her arms. "I'm trying to give you as much dignity as I can."
After removing her clothes, he dipped the strips of her old shirt in the water bowl and gently dabbed at the wounds in order to clean her back. In one of the drawers, he found a large piece of linen, most likely used as a table covering or material for sewing undergarments. He tore it into wide strips and draped them over Red's back, covering the gaping flesh. Medicine of some sort, to expedite the healing process, would be nice. He'd explore the fort later to see what might be available.
He covered her with a lightweight quilt, but didn't clothe her, since he would need to clean and redress her wounds later. He could imagine her cursing and accusing him of stealing her clothes again. He hoped within a day or two, her back would have healed sufficiently enough for him to slip a nightdress on her.
"Get better." He kissed the corner of her mouth. "I'm giving you no other option."
Chapter 20 – Wild Card
The sun dipped beyond the horizon
and cast a golden hue over everything. Trace looked forward to a quiet evening, especially after spending all afternoon scouting out the place. He'd found plenty of food, clothing, weapons, and ammunition to see them through the winter months, as long as they were smart about it. They couldn't have found a better setup than this one.
Even Fisher had come out of his gloomy shell. He continued in silence, but his eyes seemed less sorrowful than before. They even sparkled a little when Trace gave him permission to climb the lookout towers, though with the specific order to be careful. That was all Trace needed—another person to mend—but he couldn't deny the boy some fun.
Trace and Wen managed to help the old man to his feet and bring him outside for some fresh air. They propped him up in a chair and set up a little table at his side with a mug of black coffee and a plate of food. He'd been in his room for most of the morning, and who knew how long before that. A change of scenery might do him some good. Trace also wanted the old man, who still could not talk, to know they were good people and meant him no harm. There was no better way to prove that than to let the old man see them in action.
Trace had just finished watering the animals, when someone began to pull at his sleeve. Fisher had a mighty fine hold on his arm and wasn't in any hurry to let go.
"What's goin' on, boy? Everything a'right?"
Fisher just stared up at him, and said nothing.
"You hurt?"
The boy blinked.
Trace squatted to Fisher's level and placed his hands on the boy's shoulders. "You're gonna have to help me out here, son. I know you need something, but unless you tell me, I won't know what it is."
Fisher raised his arm and pointed toward the tower he'd been playing in.
Trace glanced from the tower to the boy. "Did you see something? Is that it?"
Fisher lowered his arm, but still said nothing. Damn, Trace wished the kid would just speak. It'd make everything a hell of a lot easier.
"Wen!" Trace hollered, standing once again. "I think Fisher saw something!"
Without another word, he grabbed his rifle and scaled the ladder to the west tower. Wen took the east. They looked over the desert plain, each temporarily at a loss for words at what they saw heading their way.
"Oh hell," Trace whispered.
Bearing down on them from the south, a swarm of decrepit zombies marched toward the fort—more than he'd ever seen in one place before. What worried him most, however, was that mere yards in front of the undead army, someone tried to outrun them.
The man staggered, fell, regained his footing and started running once more, but only after losing some of his lead.
"What do we do?" Wen called from the adjacent tower.
"What we have to!" Trace raised his rifle and fired into the crowd, killing the closest walker, which gave the person below more of an advantage. "Go to the west gate," he yelled to Wen. "Let him in!"
Wen scrambled down from his lookout, and Trace fired again, took down another zombie, and quickly reloaded. There were just too many of them, and they all headed in the direction of the fort. So much for the quiet evening he'd hoped for.
Trace aimed for the fastest walkers and took out two more, blasting through each skull with one highly skilled shot apiece. Four bullets. Four dead zombies.
"Go to the west side!" he yelled to the poor sap who tried to outrun the swarm. The fellow nodded, turned, and staggered off in that direction.
Maybe it was a mistake to let this person in, but leaving him outside the fort walls to be devoured by a mass of flesh eaters didn't sit well with Trace. He skimmed down the ladder and got to the base just as Wen yanked the man through the small opening. Together, all three of them pushed the gates closed and positioned the heavy crossbeam in place.
They stepped back, waited and watched. Everyone knew it was coming, including the old man and the little boy. They glanced from one gate to the other and listened, steeling themselves for the inevitable.
A silent minute passed. Then another.
Then the howls, the clawing of nails on wood, the pushing and pounding on the heavy gates, the smell of death. Lasso barked and ran around the courtyard in search of a way to get at them, but the guard dog only managed to add to the intolerable level of noise vibrating off the stone walls. Trace had to give him some credit, though.
The rest of them stood still and silent, as they watched the gates and prayed they would hold steady. They had plenty of supplies to see them through for a while, but would have to carefully ration their food, since leaving the fort was no longer an option. Not any time soon, anyway.
Fisher slipped his hand into Trace's, and he pulled the boy to his side. "It's okay, they can't get in. We're safe." The boy needed to believe nothing could get to him, even if it wasn't true.
"Should we shoot 'em? Kill as many as we can?" Wen looked to Trace for guidance.
"No, we'd just be wasting bullets."
"So what, then?"
Trace let his gaze fall on the stranger who stood silently before them. "I think we ask our foolish friend here how he got mixed up with the undead like that, and why he led them right to us."
The stranger just looked at the ground.
"Wait a minute." Trace stepped back and pushed Fisher behind him. "You sure as hell better not be bit."
Wen stepped back too. He raised his gun and trained it on the stranger's temple.
"Well, are ya?" Trace asked.
The stranger shook his head, but still refused to look up. "No, I'm not bit. I promise."
Both Wen and Trace took another step backwards, not out of fear or worry, but due to utter disbelief. The high-pitched voice with soft edges indicated that the stranger wasn't a man.
"Holy Moses," Wen said. "He's a girl!"
She looked up then, and her dark eyes darted from one man to the other. "This is my fort." She pointed to the old man still sitting in his chair. "If he could talk, he'd tell ya that's the truth."
Trace shifted his attention to the old man. "That so?"
The old guy nodded and started in again with the hand signs, pressing his closed fists to his heart. Trace wondered what it all meant.
"So this is your fort?"
The girl nodded.
"Then why in the world would you leave it?" Trace asked. "A stone in the door seems rather risky. We're pretty decent folk, but you could have invited in some really rotten types who would've killed you both and taken everything you had."
"I know." She looked back down at the ground. "But I had no choice. My father needed a few things."
"Your father?" Wen looked from one to the other. "I don't see the resemblance."
Trace threw him a not-so-subtle glance to silence him. "Well, it looks like we're all here together now. So we have two options. The first is that we find a way to get along peacefully and help each other." Trace pointed to the old man. "As you can see, we've been good to him and had every intention of continuing to do so, since we thought he might have been abandoned—"
"I didn't abandon him!" the girl snapped.
Trace lifted his hand to calm her. "I see that now. Either we can all get along, or we can choose to go with option number two."
She folded her arms across her chest and cocked her head to the side. "Which is?"
"Well, I was honestly hoping we'd just go with option number one. Option number two could get rather complicated. Besides, I don't think any of us want to reopen those gates, and that would be a big part of selecting option number two."
She slipped the pack from her shoulders and allowed it drop in the dirt. Then she took her time removing her gloves and hat. Jet-black hair, loosely braided, fell over her left shoulder. "Option number one it is, then." She took in Fisher, who peered at her from behind Trace's back. "How old are you?"
The boy said nothing.
"He's not much of a talker," Trace answered for him. "He's a shy one."
The girl smiled. "My father's not much of a talker either."
Trace nodd
ed. "We've noticed."
"So, it's just the three of you then?"
Trace shook his head. Her eyes widened and she glanced around, possibly fearing an ambush. He couldn't blame her. A fort full of lonely men and one lone girl could be her undoing.
"There are a total of five in our party. Myself, my friend Wen here, and my boy Fisher. We also have a woman and a young girl with us."
The girl eyed him suspiciously. "They hiding or something?"
"I guess you could say that."
Red's and Rivers' lives hung in the balance, and Trace wasn't sure he could trust her with such delicate information quite yet. This girl, with her sudden appearance, was a wild card, and who knew exactly how that card would fall.
The noise outside the gates grew louder and more intense as the relentless zombies fought to get in. Even though they couldn't break down the doors or scale the enormous walls, the threatening sounds weren't any less frightening.
Fisher, in the midst of the heightened insanity, wet his trousers. A large spot formed and grew on his tan pants, and the child buried his face against Trace's hip. The kid had been through more than his fair share of zombie mayhem. It just didn't seem right.
Trace lifted the boy into his arms, wet pants and all, and looked from Wen to the girl. "You two make sure there's no possible way any of the living dead can get inside. Maybe reinforce the gates somehow? I'm gonna get Fisher cleaned up and check on the girls."
Wen nodded, then walked over and placed his hand on Fisher's back. "They can make all the noise they want, but ain't nothing gettin' in. I promise you that."
He tousled the boy's hair, but over the boy's head, he and Trace exchanged a meaningful glance. Even the girl swallowed hard, and Trace saw the worry in her eyes.
They were in a heap-load of trouble, no doubt about it.
***
"It's okay, Fisher." Trace helped the boy slip out of his soiled pants. "Accidents happen. Nothin' to be ashamed about."
