Living With the Dead: Year One (Books 1-2, Bonus Material)

by Guess, Joshua; Ribken, Annetta; Ayers, Rachel; Whitwam, Lori

  Her only condition was that I stop drinking. That was hard at first, but got easier with each passing day.

  A lot of new people started arriving. Sometimes it was a caravan with a few dozen people, and other times small groups of survivors arriving on foot. One day, a group of six men had almost made it to the gates when a dozen zombies appeared and cut them off. I was taking food to the people guarding that part of the perimeter, and what I saw terrified me.

  No, it wasn’t the ragged, mutilated zombies that sent flaming daggers of fear into my gut. It was the man.

  He looked exactly like I’d have expected Mason to look, if I’d only heard about the sadistic, vile things he’d done, rather than experiencing them up close and personal. He was about twenty yards outside the gate when I saw him. The late afternoon sun was quite warm, and they must have been pushing to get here before nightfall because he and a few of the other newcomers had their shirts off, folded and tucked into the waistbands of their pants. His thick, dark hair was plastered to his neck and the sides of his face with perspiration. He got closer to the gate, and when he whirled, swinging a machete at one of the zombies, I saw a gruesome tattoo covering most of his broad back, some sort of winged demon that appeared to be ripping its way out of his spine. I thought he must surely be a demon himself.

  The zombies were quickly dispatched, and the gate swung open enough to let the exhausted men inside. I stood, my back to the small gap in the wall from which I’d watched the battle, unable to stop staring at what I was sure was the physical embodiment of evil. As they passed, the man looked right at me. I started to close my eyes, but he gave a hoarse shout and lunged at me, drawing his machete back to strike. I screamed and ducked my head, only to stumble and fall. When I looked up, there was a decapitated zombie lying just feet away. It must have been in close to the wall during the fight, and slipped through the gap when we’d turned our attention to the new arrivals inside the perimeter.

  Mr. Evil had just saved my life.

  ***

  The community population had grown to a level that I thought it would be possible to avoid him. When this proved incorrect, I became convinced he was seeking me out, finding ways for our paths to cross.

  Even when faced with almost daily fights for survival, people still found time to gossip, and our newest residents caused quite a stir. I heard they’d all served time in the Luther Luckett Correctional Complex up in LaGrange, and had been finishing a sentence at a halfway house when the outbreak started. There was a lot of discussion as to whether they should be allowed to join us, but they’d communicated with the council prior to coming. They were completely honest about what their past lives had been like, and swore a commitment to making their roles in this altered world positive ones. That was what had bonded them together at the halfway house, and why they struck out together when the town was swarmed.

  It helped that they brought some useful skills to the table. Mr. Evil, whose name I learned was Quinn, had worked as a diesel mechanic when he wasn’t incarcerated, one was a welder, and two others had solid backgrounds in construction. It was decided they could stay, as long as they proved to be hard workers and abided by the rules the council had established.

  To avoid encounters with Quinn, I spent more and more time working on the library project with Jess. This had the added benefit of spending time with her two dogs. I could pet them for hours, taking comfort in their unconditional affection, though I ached every day wondering what had happened to Skip. I put the word out to those who ventured outside the Compound working patrols or scavenging for supplies, asking them to keep an eye out for him, but nobody had seen him.

  One day, Jess needed to check on some aspect of the ever-increasing garden plots, and I’d promised to stay at the house and sort through some new manuals that had been found at a technical college.

  “I’ll probably only be a couple of hours,” Jess said. “I told Josh to ask around and see if he could find someone to come by and tell us which of the books are most useful, or if any of them are too outdated.”

  The idea of being alone in her house with a man – any man – set my stomach churning, but I nodded. Shortly after she left, there was a knock at the door. Of course, it was Quinn.

  He wasn’t as tall as I remembered from when he was swinging a machete at my head, but he was broad, seeming to take up more space than the laws of physics would dictate. The sleeves of his chambray shirt were rolled above the elbows, revealing powerful forearms with tattoos much more crudely drawn than the one I’d glimpsed on his back, probably obtained while in prison. His dark eyes revealed little emotion, but something told me he was working hard to present a bland, non-threatening appearance.

  It wasn’t working.

  We mumbled our way through brief introductions, though we were well aware of each others’ identities. I moved away, putting the boxes of books between us. I couldn’t help watching closely for any sign that he planned to harm me, even as I felt foolish for doing it. I was simply unable to get past his resemblance to a photo that could come out of central casting under “homicidal thug.”

  I shook my head to clear my thoughts and realized he was speaking. “Are these the books Josh asked me about?” He was looking at the boxes at my feet. “I had a couple of training classes while I was locked up, so I should be able to tell you which ones will help people learn, and which ones are more advanced.”

  His voice was softer than I’d expected, with a subtle hint that he might have at one time lived farther south than Kentucky. “Yes, um, those and one more box in Josh’s office. He was looking through it last night.” Damn. I sounded like I’d been inhaling helium.

  He studied me for a moment, then to my relief he moved away, clearing a space on the worktable against the wall. He moved the boxes, and started sorting the books into piles on the table. I went to retrieve the other box, waking both dogs from a nap in the process. They followed me back to where Quinn was working, their keen canine gazes studying him intently. Seeming to make some sort of decision, they settled to the floor beside the table. In between placing books on one pile or another, Quinn dropped his hand to stroke one of the dog’s heads, or ruffle an ear. They were calm and relaxed in his company, and while I’d long advocated trusting a dog’s opinion of people, I couldn’t bring myself to do so in this instance.

  He murmured softly to the dogs, his voice gaining volume little by little. Soon, I realized he was speaking to me, as much as to the dogs at his feet. “I had a dog growing up. He was a lab-mix named Bogart. Man, I loved that dog, but he died while I was in jail.” He looked in my direction, not quite meeting my eyes, as if afraid I’d bolt. “It was all so stupid. I was stupid. Everything I knew about cars, stealing them was easy, and not much risk. But when the guys wanted to break into some houses, I should’ve stayed out of it. They said no worries, the family won’t be home, and we aren’t going to carry any guns. Except the family was home, and Dale had his brother’s Glock in his jacket pocket, and he dropped it after he shot over the guy’s head and we ran. Got caught, ‘course. Stupid.”

  I found myself replying. “My dog is missing. The looters were robbing my brother’s store, and Skip started barking. They shot Matt, then shot at Skip as he ran away. I don’t know what happened to him.”

  His dark brown eyes softened. “I’m sorry,” he said. “What kind of dog?”

  I described Skip, and where I’d last seen him. Quinn said he’d watch for him whenever he was outside the Compound. I felt a little more hope, knowing one more person would be on the lookout for Skip. I carried the last box over to the table, and Quinn reached to take it. I was holding it against my chest, and his hand brushed my ribs, just below my breasts. I gasped and dropped the box, taking several lurching steps backward. I knew it had been an accident, but I was unable to stop my reflexive response.

  Quinn held his hands in front of him, palms facing me, indicating harmless intentions. He slowly reached for the books as I tried to catch my breath a
nd slow my racing heart. Once he’d placed the box on the table, he said, “Look, Ellen, I understand you don’t know me, but I’m not like those men. I’d never hurt you, or anybody else who wasn’t trying to hurt me or someone I care about first.”

  I didn’t like that he knew about those men, but everyone did. “I know,” I said, too quickly.

  “Maybe in your head you know that, but your heart, your instincts, they haven’t caught up yet.” He pulled a stack of manuals from the box before turning back to me. “I wish you would try to trust me.” The last was spoken so softly I had to strain to hear.

  “Why?” I asked. “Why does it matter if I’m afraid of you?”

  He sat down, one hand absently drifting down to rub Riley’s ear. “I don’t know. It just does.”

  “If you want me to trust you, you have to do better than that.” Where had that remark come from? I didn’t want to know him well enough to trust him. Did I?

  He sighed and fanned through the pages of a thick Caterpillar diesel service guide. “I guess it’s because of how we met.”

  “You mean when I thought you were going to decapitate me?”

  “When I saw that zombie right behind you and stopped it from killing you.”

  “So, what? Is it like those warrior movies where after you save someone, you’re responsible for them?” I didn’t like the sound of that at all. I wanted him to keep his distance, not become my shadow.

  He rubbed one broad hand over the dark stubble that covered his jaw. “No, not like that. Well, maybe a little. But it’s more about how it gave me hope.” I raised an eyebrow, indicating skepticism or confusion. Either way, he took it as a sign to continue. “While I was in the halfway house, I promised myself that I wasn’t going back to my old life. I was going to stop being a selfish punk and do something good with my life. Then the outbreak happened, and we were too busy trying to save our own asses to worry about anything else. I saw a lot of people die, but I was never able to do anything about it. After a while, I wasn’t even sure if I would, or if I’d just keep running. But when I saw you, and that zombie, I didn’t even think. I reacted, and that’s when I knew I could do the right thing, that maybe I really was capable of doing something to make this fucked-up world a little better.”

  He seemed drained after that speech, as if he’d been holding it in a long time. I still didn’t know exactly how I fit into this new reality, and part of me envied that he seemed to be figuring it out. “That’s wonderful, but it doesn’t have anything to do with me. Not really.”

  “Yeah, it does.” His gaze intensified, and I started to get more uncomfortable again. “I don’t know why, but I notice you. I want to get to know you better.”

  I looked away. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  The corners of his mouth twitched, and I thought I detected the hint of dimples. “Oh, it might be a terrible idea. You might find out you don’t like me at all. But I want to find out.”

  This was so totally the opposite of a conversation I wanted to have. I shook my head slowly, preparing to tell him to forget it. I wasn’t anywhere near ready.

  He wasn’t about to give up the topic. “Listen, Ellen, I know what you went through…”

  The high-voltage switch to my rage was triggered at the mention of ‘what I went through,’ and I almost took a step toward him. Through gritted teeth, I said, “You have no idea what I went through! Maybe you were in prison, but I bet you were never completely helpless. You have no fucking clue what that’s like!”

  “So tell me.”

  “No!” I was gasping, panicked. I didn’t want to even think about it. I went out on the fortified front porch, slamming the heavy, reinforced door. It took a lot of effort, but my anger allowed me to produce a nice, satisfying thud. When Quinn left about twenty minutes later, I refused to look at him, reentering the house only after he had crossed the street.

  ***

  It was impossible to avoid Quinn. I saw him during his shifts on the wall, or hauling wood when I was working in the gardens. Whenever he seemed about to approach me, I fled. But I couldn’t stop thinking about what he’d said. In the time before, Mason would have been a harmless character on the periphery of my life, zombies would never exist, and Quinn would have been the monster who murdered me in my bed. But everything was inside out now, and I no longer knew what was real.

  Melissa still hadn’t spoken. I wondered if she’d had emotional problems even before being captured, but doubted it. I’d heard whispers from some of the other former captives that her mother had been killed the same day she was taken. I wondered if her mother’s dying cries were the only reason Mason had known her name. She performed simple tasks around the house we shared with a few other women, and I tried to spend as much time with her as possible. There were some books left in one of the bedrooms, and I read her Anne of Green Gables and Island of the Blue Dolphins. The latter had some interesting parallels to our own survival situation. She no longer looked quite as haunted, but she still couldn’t bear to be in the presence of men, and her silence dragged on.

  One night, I was heading home after organizing a new stash of books on herbal remedies, and I passed by the gardens. Melissa rarely went out, but our housemate, Bethany, had apparently decided they needed some fresh air. I saw Bethany on the far side of the garden, talking to a man, while Melissa stood with her back against a storage shed, three teenage boys in a semi-circle in front of her, like a pimply pack of wolves. Her arms were drawn to her chest, her head down, and she was clearly terrified.

  I shouted for them to get away from her. I could hear their taunts, things like “retarded,” and “dumb,” and “only good for one thing.” When I heard that last comment, a red haze clouded my vision, and I began to run. Before I could get there, though, two of the boys were scrambling away, and the largest of them was hoisted off the ground by a very large, very strong hand. Quinn.

  I skidded to a stop on the loose dirt, frightened by the scene before me. Quinn held the struggling boy, looking like some dark avenging angel. There was a wildness to his eyes that chilled my blood. He held his adolescent prisoner by the collar, almost strangling him. His other hand was clenched in a massive, potentially deadly fist. I went to Melissa and put an arm around her before turning my attention back to Quinn. “What are you doing?” I demanded. “Let him go.”

  Quinn continued to give the kid his death-glare for a moment before turning to me. With a deep breath, he lowered the red-faced kid to his feet, but didn’t release him. “Did you hear what he was saying? And he was scaring her.”

  “You’re scaring all of us right now.”

  Quinn bent toward the boy’s ear, and I heard the deep rumble of his voice. He was undoubtedly saying things that started with “If I ever catch you near her again…” I decided I didn’t want to know the specifics. I was glad the situation had been resolved without bloodshed, but I was worried about Melissa.

  When her tormentor scrambled away, Quinn turned toward Melissa. “You should stay back,” I told him. “She’s still afraid to have men too close to her. I don’t know what Bethany was thinking, leaving her alone like that.” I caught the negligent housemate’s eye across the yard and glared. She looked away, obviously aware that it was a bad time to try to explain herself to me.

  Quinn stopped a couple of yards from the quivering teenage girl. He kept his focus to one side of her, rather like you’d look at a skittish dog you were trying to coax to come to you. “It’s okay, Melissa. I won’t hurt you. Did those boys do anything to you?” She didn’t answer, as I’d known she wouldn’t.

  “I appreciate your help, Quinn, but I should get her home now.”

  “I hate that she’s scared of me.”

  “It’s not you. It’s not anything you did.”

  “I know, but…” His voice caught, and I’ll be damned if I didn’t see the shimmer of tears in his eyes. “Before, I had a sister just a little bit older than her.”

  Looking at the two of
them, I saw how that could be. Their dark hair and high cheekbones were similar, though Melissa’s eyes were a soft gray to Quinn’s nearly black ones.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “We’ve all lost so much.” I thought again of Matt, and Skip, and my unsuccessful attempts to reach my parents. So close to the epicenter of the outbreak, I had little hope they were still alive.

  “I looked for her before I came here, but I never found her.” He glanced at Melissa, who seemed to be listening intently. “Our dad drank a lot. When he’d get bad, Sabrina would hide in her room, curled up with a blanket between the bed and the wall. I only knew one way to calm her down.”

  “What was that?”

  He didn’t answer right away. “Take her home. I need to talk to somebody, but I’d like to come by later. I have an idea.”

  I started to argue, but Quinn strode purposefully across the yard and around the corner of the house, out of sight.

  I was reading to Melissa when a knock sounded at the door. I opened it to find Quinn, holding a battered acoustic guitar.

  “Two of the guys in the house next to mine had guitars, so I asked to borrow one. I had to promise to scavenge some new strings next time I’m out, but it’ll be worth it if it makes Melissa feel better.” He stepped inside, and it felt as if the oxygen level in the room dropped sharply.

  “Okay,” I said, “but not in her room. Out here where there’s more space.”

  He sat on the couch. At first, Melissa stood across the room, but soon moved to the opposite end of the couch as he strummed softly on the old guitar. I recognized a few 60s folk songs and country ballads, but it wasn’t until he began to sing that I saw Melissa respond. It took me a moment to identify “Imagine,” John Lennon’s soulful plea for peace, and my first reaction was shock that someone so large and imposing could play something so gentle and beautiful. Then I chastised myself, looking at Quinn through newly-opened eyes.