Love in an Undead Age

by A. M. Geever

  “No worries, Miri,” Doug said with a wink.

  She watched his retreating form, pale and tall and skinny. She could count every rib, pick out every joint. You’d never think he’s so strong, she thought, thankful for his ability to do just the right thing—a snappy response, a saucy wink—to raise her failing spirits.

  Miranda pulled the boot off Naomi’s foot and began unlacing the other. She looked up to see Doug, Connor, and Seffie creeping toward the house in their skivvies and boots, armed with crowbars and rocks. To her left, Mike was dragging supplies out of the Humvee and stacking them next to the garage.

  Miranda started to roll Naomi onto her stomach.

  “Hold on, let me put this down.” Mario laid a wet vest on the ground under Naomi’s tourniqueted leg. “I started on the clothes. This one is clean. Well, cleaner.”

  They rolled Naomi onto her stomach. Scorched flesh mingled with the oily smell of soot filled Miranda’s nostrils. She switched on her small flashlight.

  “Oh Jesus.”

  The back of Naomi’s jacket and the top of her pants had burned away. Her exposed back was charred black beneath her shoulder blades, interspersed with white and red cracks. Above her shoulder blades, there was no skin, just red and leathery flesh to the base of her skull.

  “Goddammit,” Mario hissed.

  Miranda wanted to look away but could not. Third degree burns from ass to neck. She was as good as dead.

  Miranda ripped her eyes away from Naomi’s mangled flesh. “What medical supplies do we have left?”

  “I don’t think there’s much point, Miranda.”

  Mario touched her arm. A simple gesture meant to comfort, but she realized Mario was almost naked, and so was she. Her heart began to beat faster in a mixture of panic and—to her horror—attraction. His brown eyes held hers like a magnet, a flicker of recognition, longing, hope flashed in their depths.

  “How bad is it?”

  Miranda jerked back to reality, pulling her arm with her. Mike had crouched by Naomi’s head, a bucket in hand. He looked at them, expectant.

  “It’s bad,” Miranda said, acutely aware of how close Mario was to her. She shifted away, hoping Mike would not notice.

  When Miranda did not elaborate, Mike looked to Mario.

  “Third degree burns all over her back,” he said. “I don’t think she’ll last very long.”

  “Shit,” Mike said. He nodded to them before walking on to the water’s edge, filling the bucket, and heading back to the Humvee.

  Miranda started to cut off Naomi’s pants, steeling herself against whatever Mario might say next, but Doug called out softly, “The house is clear.”

  The hustle was on to finish rinsing out their clothes, wash blood from the Humvee, tally supplies, and cover what tracks they might have left behind. Half the ammo and most of the blankets and medical supplies were lost. They still had the C-4, but no fuses to ignite it. All five of Naomi’s and two of Seffie’s vials of vaccine serum had been smashed during the attack. Four of Miranda’s five vials had cracked protective coatings and were ruined. They were down to twenty-nine vials from the original forty in less than two hours.

  Miranda walked up the staircase to the second story of their hidey hole, Delilah on her heels. The adrenaline rush from the attack had worn off, leaving her suspended between almost incapacitating exhaustion and paranoid hypervigilance. Gabe stood on the landing at the top of the stairs, whittling a small tree branch into a stake. Behind him, the door to a bedroom was cracked open. A sliver of light that flickered and leaped, leaking into the hall.

  “You have watch?”

  “Yeah,” Gabe said, pausing his knife mid-stroke. His face was a shadowy imitation of his earlier cocky assurance. “Doug has watch at the front door.”

  “I know,” Miranda said, holding up her bandaged hands. “He just cleaned and wrapped these up.”

  “Not a look that inspires confidence, chiquita.”

  Miranda shrugged. “You saved us back there, Gabe.”

  “We got our asses kicked.”

  “It would have been a lot worse without you on that gun.”

  “Keep an eye on her for me, all right? Naomi’s my girl.” From his tone, Miranda knew he did not mean it romantically. What Gabe was talking about was much deeper.

  “This isn’t your fault, Gabe. It just happened.”

  “I should have taken them out.”

  “Don’t go there.” Miranda touched his arm. “She wouldn’t want you to.”

  “She’s not dead,” Gabe snapped, shaking Miranda off. “Don’t talk like that.”

  Mentally, Miranda kicked herself. She looked Gabe in the eye, hoping he would see her sincerity. “That’s not what I meant.”

  “I know,” he muttered. “It’s just…”

  “I know.”

  Miranda walked up to the crack of light and pushed against the door. Rusted hinges squawked in protest. The musty room was warm from the fire in the fireplace; pieces of furniture fed its hungry flames. The curtains on the windows were moldered but intact. The smell of oil hung thick in the air from everyone’s chain mail being re-oiled to keep it from rusting after their dip in the reservoir. Naomi lay on her stomach on a narrow single bed against the wall, an army blanket draped over her. Everyone else was huddled around the fireplace, where steaming clothes hung from the simple mantle like Christmas stockings.

  Connor stepped aside from his place by the fire as Miranda approached. She took his spot and sank to the floor. Delilah wriggled past her and edged as close as she could to the fire’s warmth to stretch out on the hearth.

  “We can’t take her with us,” Mike said. His intense expression seemed to sharpen his rounded features. “She’s got third degree burns all over the back of her body.”

  “We can’t just leave her here,” Connor protested. “She’ll die for sure!”

  “She’s going to die no matter what. I wouldn’t even be in the same building with her except those brambles outside are so thick, and the rain will mask our scent,” Mike said. “I’m telling you, man, we cannot take her with us.”

  Seffie kept her eyes trained on the gun she cleaned with an oily cloth. “I’d be worried about the Padre not wanting to leave her behind, but she’s not gonna make it through the night.”

  Miranda listened to them argue as the fire’s warmth rolled over her. Her clothes, still wet from being rinsed out, began to steam. She should care about what they were saying, but she was so tired, and the fire was so warm.

  “Are we going to leave Mario behind, too?” Connor asked. “He’s seriously injured. He might even be bleeding again.”

  Miranda snapped back to alertness. Connor wasn’t serious, but a spike of anxiety rushed through her. The idea of leaving Mario behind made her stomach heave.

  Mike scoffed at Connor. “It’s not the same thing and you know it. Mario’s injuries aren’t life-threatening. He’s ambulatory. He’s not broiled like a goddamn burger!”

  “I’m sitting right here,” Mario interjected mildly. “It’s almost four a.m. and we’ll be here three, maybe four hours. Let’s get some sleep.”

  Miranda could not help but notice how worn Mario looked, yet he was also calmer than either Mike or Connor. It’s like he takes this in stride, she thought, wondering how that could be. It’s Mario, she reminded herself, he doesn’t care about anyone but himself.

  “Whatever we do is Doug’s call, not ours. He’s mission leader,” Mike said as he stood up. “I’m going to join him on watch.”

  “Work on him is more like it,” Connor muttered.

  Expending the energy to stand was more than Miranda could manage. She lay on the floor with her head near the fire. She could see Naomi from where she lay. She shut her eyes. She didn’t want to think about Naomi.

  A hand touched her shoulder. She opened her eyes and turned toward Connor’s voice.

  “You okay?” he whispered.

  “Yeah,” she whispered back, turning on her side to
face him. “Are you?”

  Connor didn’t answer right away. “What do you think we should do?”

  She had to fight to not bite her lip. If she did that, he’d know she was lying. “I don’t know, Connor.”

  “You think we should leave her, don’t you? You just don’t want to say it.”

  Miranda squeezed his hand in hers. “I don’t want to leave Naomi,” she said, meaning it, “but I don’t see how we can take her with us. If she could move on her own, that would be one thing, but she can’t. And Seffie’s right, she probably won’t make it to morning.”

  “And if she does?”

  Why can’t he let this go? Unless we turn back, she’s going to die and we can’t go back, not now.

  Her thoughts must have shown on her face, for Connor said, “I can’t believe you think it’s okay to abandon her, Miri.”

  Miranda felt torn between wanting to soothe Connor and wanting to tell him to grow up. “We’ve barely slept the last forty-eight hours,” she said, too tired to defend herself. “Try to get some sleep.”

  Miranda turned over. Connor slipped his hand over her waist and tucked his knees behind her own. She was grateful for the warmth of his body next to hers, the soothing feel of his breath against the back of her neck. On the other side of the fireplace, Seffie was already out. Miranda looked at the stitches on Seffie’s forehead and tried to remember how long was too long for someone with a head injury to sleep. It can’t be much more than a few hours, and we’ll be up by then, she decided.

  Naomi’s raspy shallow breathing was audible now that everyone was settling down to sleep. Mario leaned over Naomi and checked her pulse. He pursed his lips and for a second, he looked almost stricken, but his face went blank when he realized Miranda was watching. He threw some more wood on the fire and settled himself just inside the net of warmth it cast.

  Mario’s eyes glittered in the firelight. He looked at Miranda for a long moment, his expression unreadable, then turned away to face the wall. A few moments later, Delilah left her spot by the fire. She padded up to Mario and began to lick his face.

  “Go lay down with your mom,” Miranda heard him whisper, but the little pit bull had a mind of her own. She nestled herself along the line of Mario’s back and would not budge. Miranda shut her eyes. Exhaustion pulled her under.

  33

  A nudge.

  A whisper.

  “Miranda.”

  Miranda jerked awake. Panic flooded her body. She sat up, gun in hand, looking for the threat.

  “It’s okay,” Connor said. He put his hand over hers on the gun’s grip. “We’re getting ready to move out.”

  Miranda looked around the murky room. Seffie shoved a blanket into a rucksack and headed for the door. Mario’s voice drifted in from the hall. Faint light seeped between the cracks where the ancient curtains met in the center of the windows. The bright flames and glowing coals in the fireplace were replaced by ashes.

  “How long was I asleep? What time is it?”

  “Almost four hours, it’s seven.”

  Miranda set down her gun and stood, setting off protests from every muscle. Her skin felt clammy, but the first layer of clothes she wore were almost dry. She retrieved her boots from beside the fireplace, hopping first on one foot and then the other as she pulled them on.

  “Is it clear of zombies outside?”

  Connor nodded. “But it’s foggy. Visibility is terrible.”

  Miranda jutted her chin in Naomi’s direction. “How’s she doing?”

  Connor shrugged, noncommittal. “I’m going back down. I just wanted to get you up.”

  Miranda started to open her mouth, but Connor was already out the door. She flexed her stiff bandaged hands. They hurt. She flexed them some more. With awkward fingers she tied her boots, donning first her chain mail shirt and then her outer garments.

  Miranda did not need to touch Naomi’s flushed forehead to see she had a fever. Blond hair stuck to her sweaty brow. Shallow breaths wheezed in and out of her parted lips. Miranda put fore and middle fingers to Naomi’s neck to check her pulse.

  High and thready, she’s burning up.

  She squatted down next to the bed and pulled a small flashlight from her pants pocket. She lifted Naomi’s eyelid.

  Pupils fixed and dilated. Did something hit her head, too?

  Gently, Miranda began to feel Naomi’s head, but after a moment, she stopped. What difference did it make? She looked at the young woman, still covered by the scratchy wool army blanket.

  “You’re just a kid,” Miranda whispered. A surge of hopelessness threatened to overwhelm her. They had barely ventured into the mountains and already had lost someone. This wasn’t even the hard part of the journey.

  “Heaven has to be better than here. Enjoy it.”

  Miranda stepped away from the bed, blinking back tears. She took a few deep breaths, then put aside her sorrow, her apprehension about their chances. She turned to find Mario standing in the doorway.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  “Fine,” she said, growing angry that he had likely seen her while her guard was down, perhaps even heard what she had said.

  Mario walked over to where Naomi lay. Sadness settled on the crow’s feet around his eyes. He leaned over the dying woman and tucked the blanket around her shoulders.

  For fuck’s sake, Miranda thought bitterly. Aloud, she said, “There’s no one else here, Mario. You don’t have to put on a show.”

  Mario’s astonished face looked into her own when he whirled around to face her. “What?” he croaked.

  “You hardly knew her. If you’re going to pretend you care, at least pick an audience that might believe it.”

  Mario’s eyes narrowed. His mouth settled into a hard line. “There always has to be an angle I’m working, is that it? Seeing as how I’m such an evil bastard?”

  Miranda’s body thrummed with barely suppressed rage. Mario had not acknowledged the hell he had put her through but had the nerve to stand in front of her misty-eyed over a virtual stranger? She spat her reply as if the words burned her mouth.

  “Something like that.”

  The ripple started at Mario’s feet and raced up his body. A ripple, a blip, an insignificant thing. It was the only way Miranda could describe the motion that unleashed so much fury.

  “Have you thought of anyone but yourself for even a second since you learned the truth?” he snarled. “Have you? Has it even occurred to you to think of anyone but yourself?”

  The force of his words felt like a physical attack, sudden and violent. Miranda took a step back, but now Mario was an inch away from her, their noses almost touching.

  “Do you know how much blood I have on my hands?” he demanded, eyes blazing. “Do you know how many people died to keep my cover? I killed some of them with my own hands,” he said, raising his hands in front of her face so fast that Miranda flinched away. “They had children, families, and I killed them because they were in the wrong place at the wrong time. Do you know how many executions I ordered, how many people I let turn into zombies so you can stand there and hurl this bullshit at me?”

  Miranda wanted to defend herself from Mario’s censure, but instead, she stood frozen. Helpless.

  Mario’s voice became a low growl. “What do you think it did to Walter and Doug, watching you self-destruct? When one word could have ended it all, but they couldn’t say it?”

  A strangled gasp escaped Miranda’s lips. She stepped back again, tripping over a discarded shoe. Mario must have thought she was trying to leave, for he grabbed her wrist and held her in place.

  “What do you think it did to me? I had to let you think everything about us was a lie, that you were only a means to an end! You were all I ever wanted and instead—”

  Mario’s voice broke. He took a shuddering breath, his eyes burning with reproof. “You are not the only one who suffered, Miranda. Quit acting like you’re the only one who paid the price.”

  Mario relea
sed her wrist as if it were radioactive. Miranda sank against the wall, shaking uncontrollably, as Mario’s footsteps stomped down the stairs. She shook her head, trying to dislodge his accusations from her brain.

  “You idiot!” she hissed. “You stupid fucking idiot!”

  She opened her eyes. Naomi lay on the moldered bed, unconscious. Blameless. Dying. Shame overwhelmed Miranda. It snatched at her ankles, filled her lungs, shoved her shoulders under its heavy waves.

  Then the knife was in her hand, the cool, sharp blade against the soft skin of her inner forearm below the pushed-up sleeve and chain mail.

  No, she thought miserably, I’ll put the others in danger.

  She pressed the knife against her skin. A tiny bead of blood appeared. Her hand began to tremble. She could feel it just under her skin, scratching against the surface, howling to be let out. All the misery, all the pain. It only needed a cut, just one little cut.

  Her hand shook harder. Tears ran down her cheeks, sticky and hot. She imagined the bright-red blood, slipping down over the bones of her wrist to drip on the floor. Her whole body shook.

  She dropped the knife as a silent, tearing sob clawed its way through her throat. A moment later she snatched the knife up and stabbed it into the floor. The soft wood yielded under the force of the blow.

  You will do your job, she told herself with a ruthlessness she never directed at others; you will fucking get on with it.

  She grabbed her rucksack and knife and stumbled out of the room. She walked down the stairs in a daze and stepped through the creaky screen door to join the others.

  Mario hunched against the sagging porch rail. Connor sat on the top porch step with Seffie, a forgotten cigarette burning to ash between her fingers. She glanced up at Miranda, but her eyes immediately slid away. It was then that Miranda saw Gabe and Doug at the bottom of the porch steps. Gabe’s upturned face glared at Doug. Delilah stood between the two men, her fur bristling as she growled at Gabe. Miranda dropped her rucksack as she rushed down the steps to grab the dog by the collar.