In the fifth house, the kitchen hid in a far corner of the home. After a bit of searching, Charlotte located the right door and hollered to the others, but Arthur lingered in the den for a moment. An adult-sized skeleton that no longer stank reclined on the sofa. It looked undisturbed aside from the scattered bones of its right hand and the bullet hole in its right temple. On the table in front of it lay a scrapbook, open to a photo-smothered page entitled “Our First Date” in letters made less cutesy by the blood spatter over them.
“Find something interesting?”
Jumping, Arthur spun around to find Charlotte exiting the kitchen with a water pitcher in hand.
“Oh, um, no, what?” He shook his head. “Sorry. No, nothing to see in here.”
She opened her mouth but stopped when her line of sight fell on the skull. Averting her gaze to her loot, she shook the pitcher. “It says it has a fancy water filter, so I thought it might be worthwhile.”
“Yes, yes, good idea.” Stumbling away from the couch, he opened the door for her before pausing. “Er, you were done in there, I assume?”
“Yeah.” Stepping over the threshold, she thanked him and then yanked him outside. He blinked at her before realizing there were zombies to shoot. After rolling his shoulder back, he sent a few arrows flying before the intruders got too close. Dalton followed them outside as he retrieved the arrows. While Charlotte tried to find space in her bags for the pitcher, the trio moved on to the next house.
Despite his gnawing hunger, Arthur found himself unable to focus on the various drawers he pulled open. “Our First Date.” It didn’t seem to have ended well in the most recent case he’d stumbled upon, but he had been planning to ask Charlotte out, hadn’t he? His odds still weren’t good, but she at least seemed to have upgraded him from a chew toy to a companion. Would it be rushing things if he asked now? If she was signaling that she wanted to be friends, would asking her for a date seem uncaring, or presumptuous? Moreover, no matter how she took it, it wasn’t as if she would actually go out with him, so why would he bother? He ought to have been thankful for this much companionship, not just desirous of pulling her even closer.
But, hypothetically, if he were to ask her to a picnic, what should he have been looking for? Some extra food may turn out to be nice, but it would be incredibly suspicious to store some away at this moment. He would probably end up shooting something down for the date, anyway; he’d just have to cook it specially. Perhaps there were still gourmet seasonings and such to be found; few raiders would have gone to the spice racks rather than the pantries.
Keeping an eye out for that, he shuffled through the kitchen’s contents as Charlotte suggested they head to the next house.
So would the meal just be meat? Some canned vegetables could have been around here, but those were usually the first things stolen. Fresh vegetables were possible if someone had had a background garden, but he had yet to see any such thing here.
The picnic would need desserts as well. He immediately thought of chocolate, but the odds of finding some in condition to eat were only a bit less dismal than the odds of the date happening in the first place. Fruit, then? There were probably apple trees around here somewhere, but when were apples in season, anyway? It was still spring, so everything just seemed to be flowering.
Oh, yes, flowers. There would have to be some of those, too.
A vase of artificial lilies sat on the counter, so he dumped the impostors and jammed the container into his backpack.
That wouldn’t be the only decoration necessary, though. At this rate, they were only getting farther from the lake and its picnic tables, so a quality tablecloth would be important as well. He already had a few candles in his bag, although some decorative holders would be a nice touch.
Or would candles be too much? Then again, this was all just a wistful fantasy, so why not go all out?
Unsure whether he was more depressed or anticipatory, he scoured the kitchen for equipment. He nearly skipped over a jar of olives in his haste.
“What’s that?”
He spun around to face Charlotte, but he could feel his face heating up without provocation. “Um, olives.” He fumbled with the jar until he finally managed to hold it steadily at eye level. “Do you, uh, think these are still good?”
She squinted through the glass. “They look fine to me.”
“O-okay.” Doing his best to not drop the jar no matter how much his hands were sweating, he shrugged off his backpack and hid it inside. Then he realized he was supposed to eat those about now.
“Wait a minute.” She seized one of the drawstrings so he couldn’t put the backpack on. “I’ll do the shooting for a while—go ahead and eat.”
“Ah, um, right. Right!” He pulled the olive jar back out, scrambled to close up the pack, and slipped it back on. He shot a glance back at her to make sure she hadn’t caught sight of the vase, but she was already walking to the door.
~*~
By the time evening rolled around, Charlotte was wondering what on earth was going on with Arthur. He always managed to calm down for a few seconds so he could shoot, but she was wondering if he was about to spontaneously combust. Trembling all the while, he’d drop the jar of olives as he was eating, fumble and catch it, hurry ahead, fall back, quietly bicker with Dalton, and surge forward again. Once the olives were gone, he fiddled with his backpack, wrung his hands, wandered off the side of the road, threw random glances at her and panicked further if she returned them, and tapped his feet whenever they had to stop. While he didn’t keep still on a good day, it was enough to worry her.
“You doing okay over there?” she finally started.
He jumped, stumbling over his own feet when he landed. “Yes! Yes, of course—yes.” He hurried to take the lead again.
“Okay. Do we need to stop or anything?”
“No! No.” He twisted the loose strings on his collar. “Um…” He turned around and started, “Ch-Charlotte, would you—” Cutting off, he spun back around and kept walking.
“Would I what?”
“Nothing! A-absolutely nothing! Never mind, go about your business.”
She looked over her shoulder at Dalton. “Do you know what’s up with him?”
Dalton opened his mouth but hesitated, and that gave Arthur time to whip around again.
“Don’t say anything!” the archer gasped, and Dalton nodded, giving her an apologetic look.
Chewing on her lip, she followed the quaking Arthur a little longer before a smile dawned on her face.
“You’re not trying to ask me out, are you?”
He tripped on his heels, his hands and rear hitting the ground before he stumbled back onto his feet. “N-no! O-of course not! Why would I—why would I—why would I do that?” He emitted a short, hysterical laugh and nearly tripped over his own feet again.
Trying not to smile too much despite the nearly inaudible pitch of his voice and the deep red of his face, she shrugged. “All right, then. I guess you’ll never know what I would have said, but if you don’t want to ask, I won’t force you to.”
Gasping like he was punched, he staggered after her but couldn’t seem to catch his breath enough to say anything.
“Ch-Charlotte,” he finally managed, but his mouth clamped shut when she stopped and turned to look at him. Struggling for a second, he cursed himself and sucked in as deep a breath as he could. “Charlotte, would—would you—” another deep breath “—would you like to go on a date with me?” Eyes squeezed shut, he stood so stiffly he would probably faint if the ensuing silence didn’t kill him first.
She finally let herself giggle. “Sure, why not?”
“I’m sorry. It was a terrible idea, and I completely understand why you wouldn’t wan-wa-wai-wait.” He blinked his eyes open, staring at her mouth. “What?”
With a snort, she started walking again. “If you want to keep a girl around, you should listen to her better.”
He hurried to catch up and then kept pace with her. �
��I’m-I’m sorry—did you say yes?”
“Yes.”
“As in—as in, ‘yes, I’ll go on a date with you’ yes?”
“Yes.” She laughed. “I’ll give you a chance. Tonight?”
He blanched, taking a step backwards. “No! God, no! I’m not ready yet!”
She put a hand on his shoulder. “All right, all right! It can wait. Stop hyperventilating.”
“I’m not—I’m not…”
Giggling, she let her hand fall to her side. “So, tomorrow? In two days?” She winked. “I’m pretty much free all week, so whenever is fine.”
“Um… Um…” He scratched at the scabbed gash on his chest. “Two days sounds fine?”
“All right, great.” She grinned. “See you then.”
He nodded, staggering after her in a daze.
17
Two days later, the road split through a stretch of brushy wilderness. The sun was already fading from yellow to orange before Charlotte slowed to a stop.
Turning to Arthur, she smiled and said, “Ready for dinner?”
He picked at the stained collar of his Pink Floyd shirt. “I-I-I suppose. If you wouldn’t mind, um, staring at the road ahead or something, I’ll, uh, start getting things set up. O-okay?” While the blood wasn’t yet rushing to his face, his breathing was as strained as his twitchy grin.
“Works for me.” Setting down all her bags but the duffel of bullets, she walked forward, rifle ready. A glance back at Dalton confirmed he had already unloaded but was conversing with Arthur. The latter was swinging his arms around beneath his load of deer, while Dalton went through one of his bags and nodded.
She had to wonder what Arthur was planning if he needed Dalton’s help. Given the circumstances, she had no idea what the archer could do, assisted or otherwise.
Turning back towards the north, she shot down a distant infected and waited.
~*~
Just before the sun hit the horizon, Arthur called for her. “I, um, think everything’s more or less ready.”
Getting to her feet, she put away her rifle and turned around. She had to do a bit of walking to get to the setup, but Arthur couldn’t just move it closer to her. Two tall candlesticks, nicked but polished, stood embedded in the mud at the sides of the “table.” A few smaller candles dotted the square, beige tarp between the tall candlesticks. In lieu of a proper tablecloth, two lacy place mats lay halfway hidden under mismatched but fine china dishes. Sauced lumps of meat with decorative green sprigs sat on each of the main plates, and smaller plates held slices of grapefruit arranged in starbursts. Silver forks and knives were located to the side, pinning down paper napkins. In the middle of the tarp stood a well-scrubbed vase with various tiny flowers spilling over the rim.
Arthur stood at the far end of the setup, tense to the point of trembling. He had shed his walking clothes for a faded dress shirt and waistcoat that matched the accompanying grey slacks. His sneakers didn’t quite fit with the rest of the outfit, but they reflected bits of flame just as well as the melted candle wax.
“Um…” Having no chair to pull out for her, he spread her section of the tarp out smooth and invited her to sit. After seeing Dalton on the other side of the road watching for infecteds, she put her last bag to the side and complied. Arthur hovered over his spot and then spent a minute straightening one of the candlesticks before he joined her. Shifting his knees, he picked at his collar and glanced at her before gazing down at the food.
“Well, um, everything’s ready with, uh, Dalton’s help, so dig in, and all that.” He grabbed his fork and knife too eagerly but paused to properly position the handles against his palms.
“Fancy,” Charlotte chimed, cutting off a piece.
“U-uh-huh.” He stuffed a piece in his mouth.
Not sure what to expect, she tried her first bite. Orange, thyme, parsley, meat. Not that tough, either.
By the time she finished chewing, she felt Arthur’s gaze on her. When she looked up at him, he hurried to cut up more of his meal, though not without stealing repeated glances at her.
“It’s great.” She dabbed some of the sauce off her lip. She’d had better meals, but, if she limited the category to deer, she wasn’t sure she could still say that. The herbs were faded from age, but they were still recognizable and complemented the meat well.
“Um, thanks.” He forked another piece and looked at it. “We’re, uh, lucky we found that orange tree earlier.”
“Yeah, it’s a nice touch.” She chewed through another piece before glancing at the empty spot of tarp opposite the grapefruit plate. “Don’t tell me Dalton’s bringing in wine or something.”
“What? No.” Frowning, Arthur looked at the meal for a few moments before it finally clicked. He already knew there was no wine—but there were no other drinks, either. He had completely neglected to get any.
“Hang on,” Charlotte started, setting the sauce-covered edges of her silverware on the rim of her plate. “I didn’t think to bring my water bottle with me. Let me go—”
“No, no, no, no, no!” He scrambled to get to his feet first. “I-I’ll get it. Um…” Heart pounding, he walked onto the roadway. “Wh-which bag?”
“Not that one,” she said as he tried to unzip her backpack. “On the far left. Um—my left, sorry.” She tried to laugh, but his shaking was starting to unsettle her.
He fumbled with the bag handles as he tried to get them out of the way.
She sighed. “Goodness, Arthur, I can get it—”
“No! S-stay where you are!” Gulping down air, he finally tugged at the zipper. “Um, please.”
“All right.” She shifted her legs, occupying herself by cutting her meat into squares.
After another minute of shuffling, Arthur finally retrieved the water bottle. For a moment he wondered why Dalton wasn’t helping in this dire situation, but since he seemed to be busy pummeling two zombies with his staff, he let the matter slide. Besides, he couldn’t expect Dalton to do all the work. This was his date, and he was the one screwing it up, too.
How could he forget to bring drinks? When was the last time he’d had any sort of meal without washing it down? Hadn’t he planned on swiping some crystalline glasses for this? What was wrong with him? He should have thought of drinks when he set out to prepare a meal. Just as he should have remembered how to shake hands when he first set out to introduce himself. He had done such a splendid job with both of those.
Grabbing his own water bottle as an afterthought, he hurried back to the tarp and set the drinks down panting.
“Thanks,” Charlotte said, picking up hers.
“Sorry.” He shoved another forkful into his mouth.
Still swallowing a draft, she waved her hand. “Don’t worry about it. I have plenty of water, anyway.”
Arthur made a mumbling noise and flipped a piece of meat over in the sauce. This date was supposed to be noteworthy, not just a matter of having enough for a meal. It may have not been lavish, but it was still supposed to be special.
Charlotte forked a piece and spun it on the plate. “So, what are we supposed to talk about on a date, anyway? I can’t exactly ask you how your day or week has been going since I’ve been there the whole time.”
As she chewed, he fidgeted, tugging at his shirt collar. “I-I don’t know. I’ve never, um…” He put another bite in his mouth.
“Thought about it much?” she suggested. “Yeah, me, neither. I think it’s usually a get-to-know-you sort of thing, but we already know each other pretty well. Let’s see—” she put her empty fork to her lip “—what do I not know about you?”
His jaws continued chewing even though he had already swallowed.
“What’s your middle name?” she finally started, pointing at him with her fork.
Arthur drew back. “U-um, Danger, of course. No, um…” He stalled—forgetting his own name again?—before finally saying, “Er, Byron.”
She laughed. “Seriously?” For a moment he thought she was c
ommenting on his hesitation, but she continued, “In case you didn’t sound British enough before. So, Arthur Byron… Wait, what’s your last name again?”
“Um, Deering.”
“Huh.” She nibbled on her fork before getting another bite.
After a moment, he started, “And you?”
She lowered her fork. “Charlotte Grace Heiman,” she answered, tracing the words in the air with one finger as she said them.
Not sure how else he was supposed to respond, he nodded and continued eating.
Looking at the darkening sky, she took a drink. “Charlotte Deering. Hm, doesn’t have any particular ring to it, but I’ve heard worse.”
Arthur flushed, struggling to figure out whether she meant that literally or was commenting on his chances in general. Watching candlelight glint off his fork, he sawed off another piece of meat and popped it into his mouth.
“So,” Charlotte eventually started. “Nice conversation we have going here.”
He fidgeted. “A-as you said, there’s, uh, really not much to talk about.” Swallowing, he jabbed his fork down for his next piece of meat. Judging by the screech of silver on china, there was nothing left to stab. Hands shaking, he switched his empty plate and the one with grapefruit, clanging them against each other.
“Sorry.” Cringing and setting the plate down, he sucked the sauce off his fork and started on the grapefruit.
As the sour juice squirted between his teeth, he tried to figure out a conversation topic. But all he could think about was how terrible an idea this was. He forgot the drinks, he couldn’t think of anything to say, he nearly broke the plates, which didn’t match, anyway, and nothing here matched, and the only things of worth were Dalton’s doing, anyway, and—and why would he expect anything better, anyway? He already shot her, dragged her off her path, and generally made himself a nuisance whenever possible. A contemptible attempt at a date wasn’t going to fix that.
“Where did you find the grapefruit, anyway?”
“What? Nowhere,” he stammered, gaze shooting up to meet hers. “Um—I don’t remember? By a house.”
Along the Winding Road Page 13
