After a moment, he looked up, in case Charlotte was nearby but hadn’t seen him. No persons were within sight; only many well-kept houses. He had returned the neighborhood they’d passed earlier. But Charlotte wasn’t one to backtrack. Then she didn’t end up here by her own choice.
Swallowing, he stepped farther into the neighborhood, a cold breeze tugging at his trouser legs. Now that he thought about it, the houses had seemed awfully tidy for places abandoned to the zombies. So—there were more living people here. People strong enough to subdue Charlotte and take her away.
He swallowed hard. Perhaps he’d investigate the place a bit more stealthily.
~*~
Charlotte’s eyes cracked open. She was still swamped with waves of disorientation, but she could at least make herself open her eyes all the way. The sun glared at her with noontime intensity, and her brain refused to stop pounding itself against her skull. But she pushed herself until she could start piecing things together.
She took inventory by feel as she waited for the sun’s cyan afterimage to fade from her vision. Her clothes didn’t seem particularly torn up, but no straps pressed into her shoulders. Cold seeped into her back from the ground, and a dull ache pulled at her limbs until she rearranged them into a more natural position.
“Whoa!”
She blinked a few times. A pale blur resolved into man peering down at her through his glasses.
“Manfred!” He looked over his shoulder. “She’s awake!”
Charlotte’s shoulders tensed, and she tried to locate herself. A rough, white ceiling with russet water spots hung overhead. Off to her right, where the pale man had been sitting, lay an ornate wooden bed frame missing its mattress. To its side stood a caved-in bed stand, the dotted wallpaper behind it mottled and struggling to free itself from the wall.
She tilted her aching head to the other side. Just beyond the window’s light, a large figure rose to its feet. She immediately linked it to the memory of the man who had taken her rifle, and her breath caught.
He stepped closer. Short curls of brown hair covered his head. His large frame carried too much muscle to fit any definition of lanky. His clothes were dull khaki, and his eyes pale blue.
More concerning than his fashion sense were the straps crossing his chest. Between the pattern and the wear, she could easily tell they belonged to her rifle scabbard and ammo bag. Her pulse hammered away because this meant she didn’t have them. His hands were empty, though, and his face was severe but not contorted in anger.
She decided to sit up. Her midsection ached and her head whirled, but she managed to tilt herself upright without any objection from the man.
“Hello.” His voice was brusque and sonorous. “My name is Manfred. I am the leader of the survivors of this area.” He gestured to the pale man. “This is my older brother, Milton. You could call him my second-in-command.” Lowering his arm, he leaned forward. “And you are?”
She took in a deep breath. “Charlotte.”
“All right, Charlotte, nice to meet you.” Manfred paused and began popping his knuckles one by one. “Now, I am going to explain the situation to you, and you will not interrupt me.”
He glanced at Milton, who stepped in front of the window. There went one easy escape. While he wasn’t as big as his brother, he still had some muscle on him. She would have to fight him to get past, and by then Manfred would be able to step in. And she already knew from experience how that would turn out.
The younger brother cleared his throat, and she looked back at him.
“While I took charge of this group because of my strength, I also do my best to keep everyone provided for. Safe. Satiated. That’s not as simple as getting food, though. One difficult problem is that some of us men are single, and the others understandably refuse to share.”
Charlotte’s back grew colder.
“So I’m grateful an attractive young lady like you has come along. Don’t misunderstand me—I won’t allow anyone under my control to be cruel to you. But you are now part of this group and must contribute in the best way you can. We will provide food, safety, and shelter. I’ll also be happy to provide you with some rarer commodities since I realize I’m asking a lot of you.”
Charlotte’s arms trembled, and she doubted it was because they were supporting her weight. She exhaled. “What if I don’t want to be part of this group?”
At once Manfred’s forehead reddened. “You will not interrupt me!”
Cringing—that would have been loud if she hadn’t had a headache—she shut her mouth. He continued to stand right by the door, and his brother hadn’t moved. Nothing else in the room seemed like an exit.
“As I was saying—” Manfred pinned her under a hard look “—you will be safe from all the infected, any hostile passersby, and hunger. Plenty of us will also be willing to watch over you to ensure you do not leave. In fact, a meeting to determine the interested parties is about to take place outside.”
Saying this, he took a step forward and glanced in Milton’s direction.
Charlotte did the same. Down the street, among precise rows of metal folding chairs, villagers stood in clusters. The few she could see were chatting with each other—about who’d be the first to get a night with her, she guessed. The thought sent bile trickling up her throat.
“Get up.” Manfred turned to her and held out a hand. “This is all about you, so you have no excuse to be absent.”
She got to her feet without touching him. Her headache made her a bit unsteady, though, and Manfred took the opportunity to seize her elbow with an icy hand. She ground her teeth but went along as he led her out of the house. Just outside the door stood two stern-faced men in dirt-colored shirts—standing guard, she guessed. They dipped their heads as Manfred exited and then followed him to the meeting, their eyes on Charlotte all the while.
Although she insisted on tripped over herself as much as she could, they still drew closer to the crowd. Thirty or so awaited her. There was no way she’d escape once she was over there, surrounded. And she had to escape. Manfred may have taken her gear, but she could send Arthur in later to get it. Even if she didn’t, she wasn’t any more likely to get her supplies back if she was busy doing lesser things around here.
She already knew his grip was too strong to slip out of. Drawing in a silent breath, she twisted and drove her knee into his groin. His grunt was suppressed, and he didn’t go down entirely, but she ripped her elbow free and turned to look for a clearing. Milton’s fist crashed into her head instead. Staggering backwards, she suppressed a cry as the compounded pain echoed around her skull.
“Stay back,” Manfred warned as she tried to locate him. He barely turned away from his brother before he rushed Charlotte and drove a fist into her stomach.
Doubling over, she lost her footing on the cracked asphalt. Her rear and shoulders smacked into the ground, forcing air from her lungs. She worked to push herself back up, jagged blotches only just fading from her vision.
Manfred grabbed her shoulders and rammed his knee into her stomach. With a cough and a gasp, she twisted and slammed her heel into his kneecap. Unfazed, he switched feet and drove his knee into her abdomen again. He threw her to the ground face-first, and an explosion of pain sent flashes across her vision. He put one foot on her upper back and forced her arms up behind her, his fingers clenched around her wrists.
Her jaw burning where the asphalt scraped it, Charlotte struggled to escape or at least breathe. She didn’t do well on either front.
“Don’t make me fight harder,” Manfred growled. “You won’t survive.”
Coughing, Charlotte let herself go slack as much as she could and waited for him to remove his foot. He didn’t budge.
“All right,” he hollered, voice fading as he turned his head toward the crowd. “Charlotte’s being a bit stubborn, so I would appreciate it if you all would step a bit closer. The meeting will begin shortly.”
Footsteps pounded and clacked towards Charlotte as she
tried to think her way out of this. She flicked her heel back to kick Manfred, but the effect—or lack thereof—was laughable. He just jerked back on her arms. She would have yelped in pain if she’d had the breath.
“I hereby call this meeting to order,” he started once Charlotte quit straining her neck to watch him. The murmurs subsided quickly. If nothing else, that made it easier for her to focus on a plan.
“As most of you ought to know by now,” he continued, “this morning I—”
His feet stumbled away, the weight on her back vanishing. Gulping down air, she flipped herself over and hurried to get to her feet.
She sat up in time to watch a fist crash into the leader’s head. The hand unclenched and grabbed for the shaft nearby, and Arthur ripped his arrow back out of Manfred’s neck. The leader staggered and gurgled more before crashing to the ground.
While the followers seemed frozen, Arthur nocked the same arrow and turned to Milton.
“I’m sorry—did you hit her, too?” he said, putting a wide, crazed grin on his face.
As he pulled back on the bowstring, Charlotte stumbled over to Manfred’s body and slipped her gun out of its scabbard. Her shoulders still felt out of whack, but firing a shot or two could help.
“Manfred?” Milton faltered, staring blankly at the fresh corpse.
Disappointed at Milton’s current lack of fear, Arthur nonetheless aimed for the pale man’s heart and let the arrow fly.
With a shout, one of the brown-shirted men shoved Milton out of the way, taking the arrow in his forearm. He let out a cry of pain but steeled himself and turned to Milton.
“You’re the leader now,” he hissed, taking a step to put his whole self between Milton and Arthur. “Get somewhere safe while we take care of this.”
The stunned look fading from his eyes, Milton’s gaze dragged towards Arthur in time to watch him loose an arrow. A sudden red stain spread out from the middle of the dirt-colored shirt. Arthur ripped both arrows out of the man before the follower fell slack to the ground.
By then the rest of the uniformed villagers had gathered at the site and forced Milton behind them.
Panting more from adrenaline than exertion, Arthur took a second to look Charlotte over. Her ammo bag was over her shoulder again, her rifle ready.
“I guess you’re all right, then?” He kept the human bulwark in the corner of his eye.
She rolled a shoulder forward and winced. “More or less.”
With a brief nod, he turned back to the men and women in front of them. White hands were pushing apart two of their shoulders, trying to force a gap in the wall.
“Move it!” Milton shouted, driving himself through. He stood, stiff but quivering, his glasses cast off to show his wide eyes staring at Arthur. Meeting his gaze, Arthur wiped the blood off his arrows and pocketed them.
Milton screamed in rage and socked Arthur in the jaw. Arthur threw his bow in its sling and out of the way, swinging a foot at Milton while his arms were occupied. Milton grabbed the incoming ankle, jerking it forward, but Charlotte slammed her boot into his wrists. Both men stumbled to the side, but Arthur recovered his foot and lunged, his palm crashing into Milton’s nose. A cry masking most of the crunch, Milton regained his footing and with another yell punched back.
Someone grabbed Charlotte’s shoulders. Jerking, she wrenched herself around and aimed her gun at the dirt shirt responsible. He froze, putting up his hands before backing away. Snorting, she stepped over until she had a decent view of everyone.
After exchanging another few sets of blows, Milton and Arthur took a second to recover. Blood decorated their heads, though most of it had come from their split knuckles. A few moments of gasping passed before Milton drove a fist into Arthur’s stomach. Coughing, Arthur slammed his knee into Milton’s ribs and fired a punch at his chest. Bringing his forearm up to block, Milton snapped a kick to Arthur’s kneecap, and the leg buckled. Growling, Arthur shifted his weight and bashed Milton’s jaw.
Milton stumbled to the side, and a dirt shirt woman helped him upright. Arthur swung a fist, but he dodged. Milton’s knuckles connected with Arthur’s ribcage. Before he could collapse, Arthur smashed his fist into the side of Milton’s head, sending the pale man crumpling to the ground. Two of the followers pulled him up, but he had gone limp.
The line of dirt shirts adjusted, barring Arthur from another strike as two of them hurried away with Milton. Arthur, wobbling so much Charlotte scooted over for support, didn’t pursue him.
She eyed the rigid line of underlings and angled her gun towards them. “I seem to be missing some of my supplies. I don’t suppose you’d mind finding them for me?”
Arthur readied his bow and an arrow to back her up. Though his eye had swollen and plenty of bruises were starting to show, he still looked ready to shoot.
The members of the group no longer had eyes set with determination. They stood as they were until a younger man near the middle dipped his head.
“I-it got divided between the mess hall and the medic’s house,” he said, not meeting her gaze. “So it’ll be quicker if we split up.” With that, he looked at the woman standing next to him.
The two started to pull away from the line. After a moment of regarding Manfred’s body and the pair’s weapons, the rest split off to reclaim the supplies.
The uniforms disappeared in a hurry, leaving the crowd lingering a short distance away. Some people were talking and some seemed unable to, but everyone kept casting glances at Arthur and Charlotte. One child shuffled closer to see what was going on, but a gaunt woman lunged to pick him up. With a wide-eyed glance at the rifle, she fled to the back of the crowd.
Averting her gaze, Charlotte lowered her gun. She wasn’t about to put it away, but she seemed like more of a threat to these people than they were to her. No one looked armed, and while most of them had some meat on their bones, few were anything close to bodybuilders. They weren’t fighting off any monsters by their own strength.
And the one who watched over them was just killed. Maybe their second-in-command, too.
The weight of Arthur’s back against hers subsided, and she turned to check on him. He stood with an arrow nocked, but his form was rather slack otherwise.
“You doing okay?” she murmured.
He took a moment to register the question before turning towards her. “Yeah.” He wiped away the blood stemming from his nose and nodded. “Um, I’m okay, yes.”
“Good.” She cut it off at that because her head was pounding again.
Neither the armed pair nor the villagers moved much until the squads of dirt shirts returned. They presented Charlotte with her backpack, stuffed with every last piece of jerky and the bottle of bleach. The duffel bag, with a few complimentary gauze pads in the medical kit, made its way back to her shoulder.
Charlotte and Arthur pulled back into the woods. They constantly checked their backs until they were far past the last stretch of concrete.
7
Their feet dragged all the way to another neighborhood before their legs threatened to give out. After searching a few battered houses, they settled on one that still had two beds in the same room. Even the covers were intact on the things.
Charlotte peeled back the uppermost, dust-coated layer of cloth and settled down. Gently lowering her head onto the pillow, she curled up and closed her eyes.
A minute later she reopened them. Arthur hadn’t settled on the bed across from her; he was instead hovering by the room’s window.
“You need rest, too,” she mumbled. “Go lie down already.”
Without looking back at her, he leaned against the windowsill. “There could be other people here, there could be other zombies here, there—could be…” He trailed off, swaying on his feet.
She stretched and sat up. “If you just mean someone needs to be on watch, I’ll do it. You’re in worse shape than me.”
He didn’t respond, so she said, “How about we push some furniture in front of the doors, just for
a quick fix? We’re close enough to the other village they probably took in all the people from here, and the infecteds these days don’t spend too much effort breaking into places.”
She rolled her shoulders back, cringing at the bolt of pain it sent across her back. “It would be a lot safer than trying to stay alert for watch and failing.”
At that last addition, Arthur finally turned around and nodded. Aside from a few bruises, his face was a lot paler than she would have liked. Still, she helped him move the splintery chairs and tables to the entryways before demanding that he lie down. He finally obeyed, claiming the farther bed, and she climbed back onto hers.
Making sure her loaded rifle was within arm’s reach, she closed her eyes and slipped into sleep.
~*~
Charlotte woke up late that afternoon. Her head pounded, her shoulders were sore, and her midsection felt like it had been chewed up and spit out. But it was still nice to have slept in a real bed.
She stretched gingerly and sat up, doing a preliminary sweep for infecteds.
Arthur wasn’t on the other bed, nor by the window.
She swung her legs off the side of the mattress and waited for her head to stop spinning. “Arthur?”
The mattress’s creaks seemed to echo as she shifted her weight to her feet and stood. Withdrawing her rifle, she swallowed and stepped through the house. Nothing but dust.
She was ready to turn back when she tripped over a chair. Catching herself on the wall, she inspected the furniture for a moment and realized it had been moved away from the side door. She checked the door to find it locked but no longer dead-bolted.
Frowning, she opened the door and paused. Right where she was about to put her boot lay a careful array of pebbles spelling out “DEER.”
She set her foot back inside the threshold and stared at the word. He had gone back to get the deer from that morning. He had gone back towards the village whose beloved leader he’d killed, at a time he couldn’t even stand up without wobbling.
Along the Winding Road Page 4
