The Wilsons' Saga (Book 1): The Journey Home

by Gibb, Lew

  A blonde, thirty-something woman in sweatpants and a blue Denver Broncos sweatshirt appeared at the top of the stairs. Rachel was still struggling to pull her blade free when the woman launched herself from the halfway point on the stairs. Rachel managed to raise her knife at the last second, and the flying woman impaled herself on the blade while driving Rachel backward. Rachel’s head slammed against the door, and a flash of white light blotted out everything. When she could see again, the zombie’s teeth snapped together inches from her nose. Rachel jerked her head back and banged it into the door again. She saw another flash of white, staggered sideways, tripped over something, and went down with the woman on top of her, mouth opened wide for another bite. Rachel gave up on freeing her knife arm and jammed her free forearm into the woman’s mouth. Even with Rachel’s forearm pushing her head back, the woman was too heavy, and the leverage was wrong. Rachel couldn’t lift the woman with one arm. The move did give her the space she needed to free her other arm. Rachel left the boning knife buried in the woman’s gut and grabbed her pistol, pressed it against the zombie’s head, and jerked the trigger. The woman collapsed with Rachel still pinned underneath her.

  “Holy crap,” Brent said. He was standing over the man and clutching a walking stick with a silver knob on one end like he was ready to open up a can of whoop-ass on the dead zombie. Rachel remembered feeling a couple of extra hard bites that she realized were due to Brent’s stick slamming the back of the zombie’s head.

  “You killed them all in like three seconds.” Brent’s eyes were huge, but he had a big grin on his face as he relaxed and let the stick rest on his shoulder. He let go with one hand and looked like he was thinking about giving her a high five. He seemed to be doing better with all the carnage than she was.

  “You play a lot of video games, buddy?” she said, trying to lever the dead weight off of her. She and Jerry were always debating whether all the video games he played made him more predisposed to violence or callous about people’s suffering. She didn’t hear Brent’s answer because that was when the blood had dripped on her face.

  Rachel sprinted into the kitchen, past Cindy who was still standing just inside the back door with a checked-out look on her face. It seemed like the only thing that got her animated was the idea of moving away from her husband. There were three bottles of water in the refrigerator. Rachel spun the cap off one, bent back, and poured the water on her face while trying to scrub with her free hand. She poured too hard and some went in her nose, making her cough and sneeze.

  She was reaching for a second bottle when Brent arrived at her side. “I can help,” he said. “Lean over, and I’ll pour it.”

  Rachel nodded and handed him the remaining two bottles. She scrubbed her face while he poured. Cindy came over and gave her a paper towel.

  Brent found another bottle of water in the pantry and handed it to her. “You should probably rinse your mouth out.”

  The kid had some cojones. Maybe he had watched a lot of horror movies and this type of thing didn’t freak him out as much as it did her.

  Rachel nodded, then rinsed and spit till the bottle was empty. Brent handed her a tube of bleach wipes, and she used them to scrub her face and the places where blood had splattered her clothes. She had to give it to him, the kid had his shit way more together than she would have at his age. Jerry always used hydrogen peroxide to clean his uniform when he got someone’s blood on it, but she couldn’t find any when she cleared the rest of the house.

  Upstairs, she jacked a clean t-shirt from the woman’s dresser and a small Glock pistol with two extra magazines from the master bedroom nightstand. Back in the kitchen, Rachel found Cindy and Brent sitting across from each other at the table. Brent was powering down a bowl of Cap’n Crunch.

  When he saw Rachel’s raised eyebrows, he said, “Hey, I haven’t eaten since yesterday,” and shoveled in another spoonful.

  “I was wondering what you were using for milk.” Rachel dropped into the chair across from him and grabbed the box. She scooped a handful of cereal for herself.

  “Water,” Brent said, with his mouth full.

  “Nice,” Rachel said and turned to Cindy. “What’s the deal with your husband?”

  Cindy’s eyes brimmed with tears as soon as she started to talk. “Andy was working in Golden two days ago when he was attacked by a bunch of those crazy people.”

  The fruity smell of Cindy’s perfume made Rachel want to sneeze, and it looked like she had freshened up while Rachel was upstairs. She had that everything-in-its-place look that Rachel associated with stay-at-home moms who had too much time on their hands. It looked like a pain in the ass to keep up, too.

  Rather than slow the story down with a discussion about how the people weren’t crazy, Rachel said, “How do you know all this?”

  “He called me right before the phones stopped working.”

  “Was he bitten?”

  Cindy scrunched her face up like she smelled something rotten. “He didn’t say anything about that. Why would they bite him?”

  Rachel wanted to slap her. “What do you think those people outside would have done to you if they got in your car?”

  Cindy closed her eyes as if running the scene back in her mind. Her lips puckered in thought, then she looked like she might hurl.

  Rachel nodded. “So, about Andy?”

  Cindy looked down at her hands, took a deep breath, then continued. “He said they attacked his car, but he got away. Nothing about being bitten. But they chased him down the street. He tried to hide in an old broken-down place. And that’s when the floor collapsed. He thinks he has a broken leg.”

  “And this was two days ago?”

  “I promised him I’d come and get him.” Cindy’s voice was an escalating whine, and her face showed panic and desperation. Her mascara was once again streaked down her cheeks. “We tried to get there yesterday, but we got stuck. Then the crazy people came.”

  “Zombies,” Rachel said. “The crazy people are zombies.”

  “Oh. Okay,” was all Cindy managed.

  “For real?” Brent still sounded amazed and excited talking around a mouthful of cereal. “But why don’t you have to shoot them in the head?”

  “No idea, but they die just like regular people.” Going backward was the last thing Rachel wanted to do. She was going to have her hands full just getting herself home to Jerry and the dogs without taking on the responsibility of Cindy and her family. If Cindy had been at all competent, Rachel would have probably just handed her the Glock, told her Good luck and started for home. Unfortunately, the woman probably wouldn’t make it out of the neighborhood without getting herself and Brent killed, much less be able travel to Golden, retrieve her husband, and get him to medical care. And Rachel was already kind of attached to the boy.

  “So your husband told you how to find him?”

  “Well, I know the street, and he said the house was kind of run down. It was almost dark when we talked, so he told me to start early the next morning.”

  Rachel couldn’t believe she was even considering going back to Golden. In some cultures, maybe even all of them, if you saved someone’s life, you become responsible for them. She knew she was already committed to doing whatever it took to help Cindy and had been since she’d pulled them from their disabled SUV. Now she was just procrastinating.

  Rachel blew out a long breath. “What part of Golden is this house in?” She started digging in her pack for her map.

  Cindy’s expression brightened. “It’s only about ten minutes from here,” she said, like she still thought all they had to do was jump in a car and take a drive out there and pick him up.

  “That’s pre-apocalypse time,” Rachel said. “Since zombies started roaming around, ‘close’ has definitely become a relative thing.” Cindy’s face fell. Rachel shook her head and dropped the map on the table. “Show me.”

  Cindy leaned forward and pointed. A string of pearls swung free of her peach cashmere sweater and made
Rachel question her own sanity.

  Brent pulled Rachel’s sleeve. “He said it’s a blue two-story house with weeds in the yard. You can’t miss it because it’s the worst looking one on the block.”

  “Perfect,” Rachel said, with all the fake enthusiasm she could muster. “Let’s do it.” Maybe she could fool herself into thinking this was a good idea.

  Five minutes later, they were seated in a newish Subaru wagon—no way was she dragging Doris-fucking-Day down the path on foot with a ten-year-old thrown in for a little extra challenge—and getting ready to head out. Brent had found the keys in a bowl by the garage door.

  “Wait,” Cindy said, “I have to go to the bathroom.”

  Rachel had literally been about the start the car, but she gritted her teeth and nodded. Arguing would just delay them longer. They’d already had to wait while Cindy had put Brent’s dish in the dishwasher. Then Rachel almost left her there when Cindy had stopped again to dig a twenty out of her purse and stick it under the SpongeBob magnet on the refrigerator.

  “Hurry it up,” Rachel said.

  Cindy popped the back door, scrambled out, and bustled around the car and into the house, clutching her purse like a lifeline. The place smelled exactly like every other garage she had been in: dried grass clippings, dust, and oil. It would be just as dusty and dirty, too, judging by what she could see in the dim light filtering under the garage door.

  The delay gave her another chance to think about how what she was getting ready to do was by far the stupidest thing she had ever even considered. Not going back for Andy—that was a given. It wasn’t even letting Cindy come along instead of shooting her—Rachel didn’t want Brent to be an orphan. She shook her head and smiled. No, the stupidest thing she had ever considered was doing all this in a fucking compact car. You’d think with such a big house, the owners would have gone for a Tahoe or a Suburban, something big for hauling the kids and impressing the neighbors. But, then again, the Subaru wagon was practically the state car of Colorado, so the odds were against her.

  Rachel looked over at Brent in the passenger seat and rolled her eyes. He’d been studying the map like he was trying to memorize it since she’d told him he was navigating. No way could she could count on Cindy not to fall apart at the first sign of trouble.

  “Hey, Brent. You know how to shoot a gun?”

  “Sure. My dad has a Glock 17 and an AR-15 and a 30-06. He takes me target shooting all the time.”

  “Really?”

  “He took me hunting this year, too. I can take them apart and clean all of ’em. But I can’t shoot the AR till next year.”

  Rachel pulled the mini Glock from her waistband. “Think you can handle this?”

  The boy looked at Rachel with wide eyes. “For real?”

  “Real as the zombies that almost ate me in there.” Brent reached to take the gun, and she pulled it back. “You gonna have my back?”

  “I promise,” Brent said, still wide-eyed and looking at the pistol like it was the Holy Grail.

  “One thing, though.”

  Brent met her eyes without blinking.

  “It’s for extreme emergencies only. Like, there’s a zombie with his teeth six inches from your mom’s throat, and there’s nothing else you can do.”

  Brent nodded, his eyes still fixed on hers.

  “The zombies are attracted to noise.” Brent nodded. “So we only shoot if there’s absolutely no other option. Got it?”

  Brent nodded.

  “All right, then.” She dropped the gun into his outstretched hand. “Let’s hope we don’t have to shoot anything.”

  Rachel was encouraged to see that Brent took the weapon from her in a confident manner. He kept the barrel pointed away from them both as he dropped the magazine, then slid the receiver back and checked the load. He replaced the magazine and gave her a serious nod.

  When Cindy reappeared, her hair was neatly brushed. She climbed back in and fastened her seat belt.

  Rachel rolled her eyes and was about to start the car when she noticed a small hatchet hanging on the wall above the Subaru’s front end. “One second.” She got out and retrieved the hatchet, then passed the rusty, dull-looking thing to Brent handle first as she dropped back into her seat. “That’s a better option than shooting.”

  Cindy spoke in an alarmed voice. “Shooting who?”

  “Zombies,” Rachel said. “I found a pistol upstairs. I gave it to Brent and told him to only shoot as a last resort.”

  “What right do you have to give my son a gun? He’s too young.”

  “Can you shoot?” Rachel asked, turning and fixing Cindy with a glare. Cindy shook her head. “It may surprise you to learn we’re no longer living in the world of the PTA and school bake sales.” Cindy’s eyes were glassy, and her lip started to quiver as Rachel continued. “If I’m going to risk my life and put finding my own husband on hold to help you, I’m not going to be the only one armed in this little group. Brent says your husband taught him how to shoot, so apparently, he doesn’t think Brent is too young. And frankly, I’d rather have Brent covering my ass than you. So unless you want to go find your husband on your own, I suggest you shut the fuck up and let me do this.”

  Cindy settled back in the seat and wrapped her fists around her seatbelt like it would protect her from the crazy bitch in the front seat.

  “I wouldn’t do that.” Rachel met her eyes in the rearview.

  “What?” Cindy asked.

  “If we have to bail out, your seat belt could slow you down.”

  Cindy scrunched up her forehead, and Rachel could almost see her working it out. Then she pressed the button and let the belt retract.

  Rachel started the car, then ran to the garage door and yanked it up as hard as she could. She was glad Brent had remembered there was no electricity and crawled on the roof to release the emergency latch.

  She threw herself back into the driver’s seat at the same time the door hit the top of its track. “Let’s do this crazy thing,” she muttered and threw the shifter into reverse.

  Brent gave her a double thumbs-up.

  A group of three zombies was already visible in the rearview. They were converging on the garage and screeching loudly enough to be heard through the rolled-up windows. Rachel floored the accelerator.

  The car shot out of the garage with the pitch of the engine drowning out the zombie cries and rocketed down the short driveway.

  The three zombies thumped into the rear hatch, and the window shattered with a sound like a short burst from Bob’s AK-47. Glass shards sprayed everywhere, and Cindy screamed. Rachel yanked the wheel, and the Subaru made a screeching turn into the street, rolling over bodies with a sickening series of thuds that Rachel felt through her feet. They bounced twice more, and Rachel slammed on the brakes. Everyone stared at the three mangled zombies in the road until Rachel shifted into drive and floored it once more.

  Brent yelled, “Cool!” as the car accelerated, and Rachel jerked the wheel and swerved around the bodies. She drove into the next yard, yanked the emergency brake, and did a perfect one-eighty on the grass just like she used to in the Kroger parking lot when her dad taught her to drive in snow. Before they stopped, she shifted into reverse and drove through the fence separating the yard from the greenbelt like a demolition derby driver to avoid damaging the radiator. Once out in the grassy area, she turned the car around and headed west on the narrow concrete path.

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  “I can’t figure out what was going on here,” Jerry said. No one had spoken since they had rolled to a stop and gotten their first close-up look at the carnage surrounding the football stadium. Even after eight years as a paramedic, during which he thought he’d witnessed the entire range of bad things that could happen to a human body—like every kind of dismemberment and amputation including one guy who had cut off his own nose with metal shears, an intact brain that had literally popped out of a helmet-less motorcycle-crash victim’s head, gunshot wounds, knifin
gs, and all manner of blunt trauma—had not prepared Jerry for the sight in front of them.

  Their newly acquired Expedition idled at the edge of the stadium’s parking lot. Everywhere he looked, empty shell casings flashed between and on top of the dead bodies that littered the pavement, sometimes two or three feet deep around the massive machine-gun-equipped military trucks ringing the area. Any random body had two or three limbs whose tendons and bones shone bright white in the afternoon sunlight. Their clothing was bloodstained and they lay on dried lakes of blood.

  Their route, following the encounter with Picke, had been fairly uneventful. Jerry couldn’t believe he’d already gotten to the point where collisions with multiple zombies while driving through yards and on sidewalks to evade the rest was something he considered more or less routine. The hood of their SUV was almost as dented and coated with blood and gray matter as the ambulance had been.

  Alberto spoke in a soft voice. “What if they started putting all of the infected people in the stadium, and then they broke out and started attacking the military people around the outside?”

  “I guess that could happen. But, my god. How many people were in there?”

  Maria was trying to cover Isabella and Marco’s eyes. Jerry noticed there were uniformed personnel scattered among the dead and hanging out of a few turrets and wondered how jaded and cynical the kids might become after witnessing so much carnage and death—with much worse in the immediate future—at such a young age. Rachel was always accusing him of being cynical and he was in his thirties before he saw anything close to this.

  “Those are MRAPs,” Holly said, pointing at one of the biggest army vehicles Jerry had ever seen. It was easily ten feet tall with tires as big as he was. “When my brothers were in Afghanistan, they loved those things. No way could the zombies get us in there.”