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

Page 76

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


  Melissa was looking at him, really seeing him, as his thick hands moved over the fret board, making the guitar’s neck seem impossibly fragile. I silently implored him to keep playing. He started the song again, and Melissa inched closer. By the time he’d played the song a third time, she was sitting right next to him, her head lightly resting below his right shoulder as his fingers plied a makeshift pick over the strings. When he got to the final chorus, I realized Melissa was singing, barely more than a whisper, but singing along with him.

  I was flabbergasted. This might be the scariest-looking man in the Compound, and she’d just seen him on the verge of beating the hell out of another person. Yet he’d gotten more of a reaction from her than anyone else since we’d been freed from the hotel. I supposed the fact that his anger had been in her defense made a difference, even if it had been frightening at the time. I needed to think about that later.

  He played a while longer, and sometimes Melissa sang along in her small, sweet voice. I let the tears flow down my cheeks without shame. When he rose to leave, I followed him to the door. I didn’t think about it, but I leaned into his strong chest and lifted my arms to rest my hands at the back of his neck. I felt him tense for an instant, before his arms wrapped loosely around my waist. My heart raced, being so close to him, to anyone, and I whispered “Thank you.”

  I felt his lips brush over the top of my head, and then he was gone. I took Melissa back to her room and read to her until she fell asleep.

  ***

  Quinn came by often to play for Melissa. After one visit, he asked if I’d noticed the way her fingers sometimes moved while she sang. I hadn’t. He said he had a hunch, and asked me to give him ten minutes, and then bring Melissa to a house down the street.

  When we got there, he led us to the living room where an upright piano gleamed against one wall. “I saw it when I was working on the windows. I asked, but none of the people who live here know how to play.” He smiled at Melissa. “I bet she does.”

  I’ll be damned if he wasn’t right. Melissa stared at the piano for a moment, a look of wonder spreading across her face, before approaching it reverently and seating herself on the bench. Her fingers hovered over the keys, and she began to play. I recognized hymns, among some more recent popular songs, and a few of the house’s residents appeared to listen. After a while, Quinn ushered them to the kitchen, and returned a few minutes later with a huge smile on his face.

  “The piano is hers. I’ll get a couple of guys to help me move it tonight.”

  “Really? How did you talk them into that?” I could barely contain my happiness for the frightened, damaged, but healing girl seated at the keyboard.

  “No big deal. I’m going on a scouting trip tomorrow, and I promised to look for a few things for them.”

  I couldn’t help it. I burst into tears and gave him another hug, this one even tighter than before.

  ***

  Quinn left on his expedition the next day, looking for tools and parts he needed to help maintain the various pieces of machinery at the Compound. He took four men with him, but I was still worried. We withstood attacks almost every day, whether small groups of zombies or looters, or larger zombie swarms, and I’d seen Quinn fight many times. That’s why it was so hard for me to get past my underlying fear of him. He fought wildly, with deadly accuracy and little regard for his own safety. If an attack came when he didn’t have advance notice to put on his makeshift armor, you could see that demon tattoo on his back, glistening with sweat and splashes of blood.

  He’d never been anything but kind to me, and he’d shown incredible compassion for Melissa. Still, I retained enough foolish stereotypes from our fallen society to make me equate “men like him” with danger.

  After allowing myself to touch him those two times, for those hugs that I probably needed more than he did, I wondered exactly what danger he truly posed to me. I found myself both anticipating and dreading his return. I was doing better interacting with the general male population. They were all very respectful, and even though I knew that could just be the face they chose to present to the world, none of them struck that chord of menace in my core that Quinn did. I got more confused when I realized that probably said a lot more about me than it did about him.

  ***

  It was nearing dusk a little over a week later when a commotion broke out near the main gate. It was more fortified now, but remained a regular target of attack by both zombies and what we now called marauders. Though I’d been trained in basic battle skills, I wasn’t a regular combatant. I was getting stronger from all the physical work, but my resolve was still too unpredictable, and when I explained this to the council, they’d agreed that I would better serve in a supporting role. That evening, I went to find out what we were facing, and if there was anything I could do to help.

  I was shocked to see Quinn and his party racing toward the gate, with a small, mixed group of zombies and marauders converging on them. I surmised that the marauders had staged an ambush, and the zombies had been nearby and attracted by the noise and motion.

  Quinn was running, carrying a large cloth bundle, when the first marauder reached him. He placed the bundle at the base of a large tree, and I thought I saw it move. Dismissing the thought, I watched Quinn fight, whirling, swinging his machete. He took on three of the marauders, killing them all, before the first zombie reached him. His team was also fighting, and I watched one of them fall, a large slash wound to his thigh. Quinn came to his defense and swung his machete, spilling the marauder, and most of his entrails, to the ground. I was sickened, but couldn’t turn away until the last threat had been dispatched. Quinn returned to the tree to get his bundle while his friends raced for the gate, only to have one more zombie emerge from the cluster of trees and lunge for him. He swung a final time, sending the zombie’s head flying. I didn’t know what was in that bundle, but it had nearly cost Quinn his life.

  Once the team was safely within the Compound’s walls, we learned that they had hit a booby trap in the road a mile or so away, blowing two of their tires. The marauders who had set it were foolish. If they’d done it farther away, they would have had a better chance to kill the team and take whatever they’d found. But so close, our guys were able to run to the Compound. A retrieval crew was sent out immediately, since they determined that most, if not all of the marauders had been killed as our team made their way to the gates. The zombies, well… those were just a bonus.

  Quinn’s gaze swept the growing crowd, searching. When he saw me, he broke into a grin and began forging a path in my direction. I found an open spot in someone’s side yard and waited, my entire body trembling. When he emerged from the last group of people, I couldn’t help it. I launched myself at him. He saw me approaching at warp speed and quickly placed the bundle down, just in time for me to fly into his arms. He swept me up, and I buried my face against his neck. Then I leaned back and smacked him on the shoulder.

  “You almost got killed! Whatever’s in that damned pack isn’t worth getting bitten or shot!”

  He opened his mouth to answer, but at that moment a tiny, thin whimper drifted up from the bundle at his feet. I froze. Had he been hunting, but his prey had recovered from its near-death experience? No. It couldn’t be.

  Quinn set me on my feet and bent to unfasten one end of the makeshift pack. A brown and white head appeared, and I fell to my knees. It was Skip. Quinn had found my dog. I started to grab for him, to pull the pack away, but Quinn put a hand on my arm.

  “Go easy,” he said. “He’s hurt.”

  Time slowed as I gently tugged back the canvas folds. When fully unwrapped, I saw an ugly, oozing wound on Skip’s right shoulder. He held that foreleg tucked up against his chest. But his tail thumped on the ground, communicating his recognition and pleasure at our improbable reunion.

  We rushed him across the street to our medical clinic, where the man with the leg wound was being stitched up. Skip was examined, and the verdict was that he’d taken a
bullet, deflected by his shoulder. There was some damage to the joint, but after the wound had been cleaned and debrided, and he’d received a thick bandage and hefty dose of antibiotic, everyone thought he’d recover, though he might have a bit of a limp if he had scar tissue or bone chips interfering with free movement of the joint.

  I didn’t care. Skip was alive, and we were together. He was a precious piece of my life from before, and I could scarcely believe it. Quinn had done this for me. He’d remembered my plea, and made a point to find him, and to bring him home. I knew Matt was gone, and my parents likely were, too. But now I had Skip, and Melissa, and maybe even Quinn.

  While I waited for Skip to come out of the light sedation, Quinn went to Josh’s house to get some extra dog supplies. He brought some food and two battered stainless steel bowls, and an old pillow he thought would make a comfortable dog bed. I could kiss him, I thought.

  So I did.

  I don’t know which of us was more surprised. His arms tightened around me during the initial impact of my celebratory kiss, then loosened as if to give me space to escape if I wanted. As our mutual surprise abated, the kiss turned less wildly impulsive and more deliberate and exploratory. He was careful, I could tell, to let me set the pace, and I was grateful. When I drew back, I could feel the heat in my face. I could also see the warm, slightly awe-struck expression on his.

  ***

  We took Skip to my house and settled him on the pillow beside my bed, and put full bowls of food and water nearby. While I sat there, stroking the velvet of those much-loved beagle ears, Quinn told me how he’d found him. His team had followed voices to a small, ragged band of hunters. Some stealthy observation indicated they’d spotted a dog, which was becoming known as easy prey to some of the less scrupulous survivors. Quinn sent one man to misdirect them, claiming to have seen the dog headed in the opposite direction, while Quinn pursued the trail the hunters had been originally following.

  He found Skip, limping badly, and pitifully weak. He wasn’t positive, but based on my description of Skip and the circumstances of his disappearance, he thought it likely he’d found my dog. He wrapped him in a small canvas tarp he was carrying.

  “I kept his head out, but when we hit that booby trap, I guessed there would be marauders nearby, and I know beagles. They bark. So I had to cover his head, hoping he’d be quiet till we were safe.”

  All I could do was say “thank you,” over and over. And maybe kiss him a few more times.

  Leaving Skip to rest we went out to the kitchen to find Quinn something to eat. Melissa passed us, and went into my room. I left Quinn at the table and followed her, wanting to make sure she didn’t accidentally jostle Skip’s injured leg.

  What I saw – and heard – when I entered the room stopped me in my tracks. Melissa was sitting by Skip, his head nestled carefully in her lap. And she was talking.

  “You’re a good boy, aren’t you? I know you’re hurt and scared, but it’s going to be okay.” Her delicate hands stroked over his head and down his back, avoiding the bandage. “You’re safe now, I promise. Nobody will ever hurt you again.”

  I stuck my head out the door and hissed, “Quinn, come here! You have to see this.” I hoped my voice carried to the kitchen, but wasn’t so loud it disrupted Melissa’s one-sided conversation with Skip.

  Quinn joined me in the doorway, and just stared. “Does she know who he is?”

  I nodded. “I think so. When I wasn’t reading to her, I told her stories. I told her about Skip, and made up versions of how I’d find him again someday.”

  “Listen to her,” he whispered. “She’s saying all the things people have said to her, trying to help her.”

  I was amazed, grateful, and for the first time since we realized something had gone terribly wrong with the world, I thought I might be happy.

  ***

  The next few weeks flew by. Quinn didn’t take any more assignments outside the Compound, and he spent a lot of time with us. Melissa continued to talk to Skip, and eventually started giving one-word answers to our questions, such as her age – fifteen, as I’d guessed – and that her last name was Donato.

  There were occasional skirmishes, but I barely noticed the smaller clashes anymore. There was one rumor that was troubling, though. Some of the scouts thought a few of the zombies they saw were “different.” They seemed to be faster and more intelligent than the ones we were used to seeing. If true, that was very disturbing.

  Regardless, life went on. Skip healed, his limp improving every day. It was such a delight to have him with us, accompanying us around the Compound, and sleeping on my bed at night.

  Quinn and I did a lot of talking, too. He’d taken to holding my hand as we walked, and there were quite a few more kisses. He didn’t push me, though, and I appreciated that more than I could say. Although I was finally seeing who he was, rather than who he appeared to be, I wasn’t yet ready for anything more intimate. I did tell him everything that had gone on at the hotel, though, and he listened. He showed anger at hearing what had been done to us, and sympathy, but he never displayed the one reaction that could have derailed our emerging trust. Pity.

  He also told me about his early life, some of the bad choices he made, and I began to understand the reasons behind them. He talked about sitting in prison, seeing all the ruined lives, and vowing that when he got out, he wasn’t falling back into that life.

  ***

  I seldom went outside the Compound’s walls, but my improving mental state left me eager to broaden my horizons. Quinn came to me early one morning and told me about a cherry orchard a couple of miles away. It had rained the night before, and the day was expected to be hot. Those who had been monitoring the trees thought the cherries should be picked soon, or risk losing many of them to rot.

  “Would you like to go?” he asked.

  I thought about it for a moment. “Yes, I would. My grandparents had cherry trees in their yard when I was little. I used to love climbing up and picking them for Gram.” I smiled at the recollection of that simple time. “Though I’m sure I ate as many as I put in the bucket.”

  Quinn laughed, telling me to be ready in an hour. I asked Melissa to take care of Skip while I was gone, and her solemn nod told me she would see that he was safe and happy, no matter what.

  We met the other volunteers, and we went in three pickup trucks, their beds carrying dozens of five-gallon buckets… and several armed guards. We weren’t crazy, after all.

  The guards moved through the orchard before signaling it was safe to start gathering the abundant fruit. The limbs were heavy with ripe cherries, and more decorated the grass beneath the trees. The air was sweet with the fragrance, reminding me of cherry pies and cobblers. I decided to check our library for books on canning, hoping to make some cherry preserves to brighten the winter.

  We spread out through the orchard, some of us picking from lower limbs, while others climbed to reach the fruit higher in the boughs. I put a full bucket down, knowing one of the men would haul the heavy container to the truck, and found an empty one. As I savored a cherry and spit the seed in the grass, I felt something pelt my shoulder. I turned to find Quinn grinning, in the midst of launching another cherry at me. It struck me in the forehead. I reached up to the point of impact, and my fingers came away with a tiny smear of bright red juice. I looked at Quinn. “Oh, it’s on now,” I said, laughing.

  When was the last time I’d laughed? Far, far too long.

  I dropped my bucket and scooped a handful of fruit from the ground, chasing after Quinn and hurling small red projectiles at his fleeing form. We darted in and out of the trees, slipping on the over-ripe fruit beneath our feet, and laughing so hard it was a wonder we could run at all. He swung around, turning the tables on me. He caught me around the waist, looking down into my face. I pushed my hair back with juice-stained fingers, and tried to catch my breath.

  Joy danced in Quinn’s dark eyes. How had I ever thought he was frightening? Surely I should have se
en that only goodness dwelled behind that intimidating mask. I silently berated myself as every possible kind of idiot.

  “Guess we should get back to work, huh?” he asked.

  “Maybe. I don’t see anybody else goofing off.” As I said that, I realized I didn’t see anyone else at all. In our game, we’d found ourselves near the far side of the orchard.

  Beside me, Quinn stiffened and raised a hand to indicate I should be quiet. “Damn,” he said, his brows lowering as his expression turned to one of concern.

  I heard it then. Shouting. A gunshot. Another. Quinn grabbed my hand and we ran back in the direction we’d come. As we raced through the trees, real fear set in. It soon became clear there was a group of zombies between us and the others, and the battle was underway. They moved faster than other zombies I’d encountered, and seemed to be working in pairs to drive the members of our group apart, making them easier targets.

  I had only a small handgun, but Quinn had his machete. He never went out without it. I fired once, but I was a poor shot, and we knew it was best to kill the zombies with silent weapons to avoid attracting others.

  He left me beneath one of the larger trees. “Stay here,” he said. “I can take out the ones in the rear before they realize I’m behind them.”

  I started to argue, but Quinn wasn’t having it. “I can’t concentrate if I’m worried about you. Stay here and be quiet.”

  I reluctantly agreed, knowing he’d be much more help than I would, and he hurried into the fray. For a man of his size, he moved with astounding speed and grace, cutting down zombies with stroke after stroke of his blade.

  He’d eliminated most of the zombies in his vicinity, leaving only a handful still engaging our people near the trucks. He wiped his machete on the grass, and turned. I saw him focus behind me, and whipped my head around. At first I saw only a flash of movement through the trees, but then two zombies came into sight, moving faster than I would have expected.

 

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