by A. M. Geever
If I die out here, none of this shit with Mario or Connor will matter.
Connor’s voice was pitched low.
“Mike saw what might be tanks of something in the basement, so you and Doug are going to check it out. If it’s flammable, we’re going to blow up this house so we can make a suicide run for the house two hundred yards away, because the truck over there that’s been sitting abandoned for ten years will magically have a working battery and gas that hasn’t turned to jelly. Am I missing anything?”
Miranda clenched her jaw, half expecting to feel the crunch and crack of enamel. She searched the outer compartments of her rucksack.
“That’s about the size of it,” she said, trying to keep her voice down.
“Have you ever seen a gas explosion, Miranda? It’ll be a miracle if we’re not all killed.”
Miranda’s fingers found the thin steel cable. Thank you fucking Jesus. She grabbed the cable and started for the door.
“I should be the one going down there with Doug,” Connor continued.
“You’re not. Let it go.”
“You’ve got burns on your hands,” he tried, sounding exasperated.
Miranda whirled around to face him, her body vibrating with anger. The room swam a little, making her acutely aware that he had a point, but not enough of one. Everyone was banged up.
“And you’re sixty pounds heavier than me,” she snapped, unable to keep her voice down. “I’ll be easier to pull up, and you don’t know Doug like I do. And you don’t get a fucking say. It’s decided.”
Connor’s whole body seemed to slump. “I can’t lose you, Miri.”
He looked forlorn, lost. Every line of his body implored her to stop, to listen to him.
“This isn’t about you and me,” she said, trying for a more even tone. “It’s about the mission. I’m not trying to get killed, Connor. I’m just doing my job. I promised Father Walter.”
“This is a terrible idea.”
“Terrible is all we have right now.”
Miranda turned and stalked out to the hallway. Connor’s footsteps fell in behind her. Doug stood next to the blown-out stairs, almost prancing in place, anxious to go. Mike and Mario waited with him. Seffie wasn’t in sight. She must already be up on the garage roof, Miranda thought. It was the farthest point from where the tanks were, if Mike was right.
Mike looked calm, sure. Mario tried to project a similar confidence but couldn’t pull it off. Miranda could see anxiety in his eyes, worry in the straight line of his compressed lips.
At least he tries to pretend he has faith in me, she thought with no little annoyance. She knew that wasn’t fair to Connor, but he was letting his feelings get in the way. Just like you did back at the reservoir, an unhelpful voice whispered in her head. Connor and Seffie thought Mike’s idea would only get them killed. They had a point, but waiting around hoping the zombies would move off was not a realistic option.
“You ready?” Doug asked.
Miranda nodded as she handed the steel cable to Mike.
“We’ll lower Doug first,” he said.
Bigger and stronger, Mike anchored the line. Connor took hold of the cable and stood in front of him. Mario and Miranda positioned themselves nearer to the edge of where the staircase had been, guns trained below in case of trouble. Doug bumped down the top two steps on his butt. If what was left of the steps gave way under him, he wouldn’t jerk the cable as hard as he would if he were standing, which improved the odds Mike and Connor wouldn’t lose their grip and send him falling fifteen feet to the floor below.
Outside, the zombies moaned. They scratched against the siding and windows so insistently that the walls sounded like insects burrowed inside.
Doug lowered himself over the edge.
Miranda scoured the area below as Doug descended. Doug scanned the room as he touched down, then unclipped the cable and looked up at her. “Come on.”
Miranda grasped the cable sliding past her feet as Mike and Connor pulled it back. She clipped it to her belt and looked up at the others.
“Be careful,” Connor cautioned.
Miranda nodded. “I will.”
She sat and swung her legs over the edge. She turned back to say ready, but Mario spoke first through a tight, forced smile.
“Don’t get dead, Miranda.”
His words pulled her up short. Her flippant farewell from the early days did not sound so clever anymore. How many times had she said those three words as she left the safety of Santa Clara’s walls? She always dismissed his worrying, yet her parting words had never been ‘I’ll be careful’ or ‘I love you.’ Just a smart-ass wisecrack about what he feared most. She had done it every time and never considered how her jesting made him, or any of the people who loved her, feel.
What kind of person does that?
Mario wasn’t trying to caution or temper her like he once had, like Connor was now. She couldn’t tell if he meant anything by the remark, apart from the obvious. With an effort, she looked away.
“I’m ready.”
Miranda twisted off the step. Her belt dug into her back. She held the cable tight with one hand to keep from overbalancing and flipping backward. She dangled in the air, feeling suspended not between up and down, but future and past. The somber faces of her comrades slipped out of sight as the cable lowered her down.
When her feet touched down, she unclipped the cable but didn’t look up. She pulled the hatchet from her belt and turned to Doug.
“Let’s do this.”
36
Mario leaned against the wall, doubtful he could stay upright without its assistance. He felt like he was covered from head to toe by a lead dentistry vest, the kind that protects vital organs during x-rays. The longing that washed over him at the idea of doing something as mundane as going to the dentist, instead of waiting for Miranda’s safe return, caught him by surprise. He had been spared such vigils the past five years.
The gunshot wound throbbed. He checked the red spot on the bandage, bigger now than when they had stumbled upon their refuge an hour ago. Miranda and Doug’s impressive track record at staying alive did not tamp down the almost suffocating fear Mario felt, but if anyone could handle themselves well in a bad situation, it was those two. They always come back, he told himself, this won’t be any different.
Mario studied Connor as the younger man paced the hallway. When Connor got to the stairs, he crouched on hands and knees and craned his neck to get a better look before jumping back up. And then, unable to stay still, he did it all over again. Connor’s restlessness distracted Mario from his own pain and stupor. If he didn’t feel about to collapse, he would probably be just as jumpy.
Connor looked down to the first floor. “They should be back by now.”
“It’s only been five minutes,” Mike answered, voice firm. “Give it another five before you start to worry.”
Yeah right, Mario thought as Connor leaped to his feet and paced like a caged tiger, back and forth, forth and back.
Connor had played things wrong with Miranda earlier. Mario had almost felt sorry for him as the entire team listened to them argue, hissing at one another in not-hushed-enough tones. He had been in the same position so many times himself until he realized that he could not change her. Once Miranda decided to do something, there was no dissuading her. Cajoling, begging, threatening, pleading—Mario had tried them all. None worked.
As soon as Mike floated the idea, Mario had known it would be Doug and Miranda. His own injuries ruled him out. And Miranda might shoot him, just because. Mike’s strength was best utilized getting them in and out. There was no reason Connor or Seffie couldn’t have gone, but it didn’t make sense. Miranda and Doug had teamed up for years. Each knew what the other was going to do before they knew it themselves.
“I want to go down,” Connor said.
Mike fixed Connor with a stare as unforgiving as a hickory switch. “Connor, you’re my friend, so I’m only going to say this once. If you
try to go down there, I will shoot you.”
“Mike,” Connor implored.
“I’m not kidding,” Mike answered, unmoved. “They’ll be back any minute.”
“Why aren’t they responding? They should be able to hear us through the hole they hacked in the floor.”
“Over all the noise that horde outside is making? Maybe they’re actually busy.” A sly grin crept over Mike’s lips, lighting a devilish gleam in his eye. “Or maybe your lady doesn’t appreciate you trying to protect her.”
Connor snorted in disgust.
“You know what your problem is, Connor?” Mario heard himself say. “You think you know what she needs, but you don’t.”
Connor turned and looked at Mario, eyes narrowed. “And you do?”
Mario started to laugh before he remembered how much it hurt. “The last time I thought that… Hell, I don’t know what she needs. Some honesty, maybe.”
Connor flinched, then nastily drawled, “And when did this confusion cloud your judgment? When you lied to her about switching sides?”
Connor’s reaction, the flinch, surprised Mario. Had Mr. Perfect done a little lying of his own?
“I told myself I was protecting her but now,” Mario winced as he took a breath. “Maybe she could have done it, played along, convinced people. Doug and Walter still don’t think so. When Walter said it was for her own good, well.” Mario scrunched his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose against the piercing stab of his conscience. “What a joke that turned out to be.”
“I think I have a better idea what she needs than you,” Connor said, his voice full of accusation.
No, it wasn’t that. Condemnation. Connor’s superior attitude filled Mario with rage. What the hell had this sanctimonious little prick ever done? What had he ever given up? What price had he paid?
“You don’t even know who she is anymore,” Mario snarled, his hands clenching into fists. A detached part of his brain noticed that his arm did not hurt as much. “You think she’s the girl you remember, but she’s not.”
“Cool it, you two,” Mike broke in, “we don’t need this kind of—”
“Guys, come here! Come see!” Seffie’s voice, from out on the roof.
“Connor, go check it out,” said Mike.
Connor shook his head. “I’m staying here.”
“Worrying over your girlfriend doesn’t help her any, and Mario’s in no condition to be out there,” Mike answered, his voice rising in irritation.
“Guys, come here!”
Mario looked back to the blown-out staircase, loathe to leave, but Mike was right. Miranda would be okay or she wouldn’t. As much as he hated to admit it, there was nothing he could do for her here. He was damned if he was going to be self-indulgent like Connor.
“I’ll go,” he said. Mike started to protest, but Mario shushed him. “I’m fine, I’ll go.”
With more effort than it should have required, Mario heaved himself off the wall and headed for the master bedroom. His toe caught on a ripple in the moldering carpet as he crossed the room and he froze, waiting for the howl of pain from his ribs to subside. If it wasn’t for this whole breathing thing, it wouldn’t be so bad, he thought. Seffie’s head and shoulders were outside the window.
“Don’t just stand there, Mario, hurry up! You won’t believe this!” she said, her face aglow with excitement. “It’s a miracle!”
Puzzled, Mario squeezed through the window. He squinted, even though the day was far from bright. He had not realized how dim it had become inside. An ocean of groaning zombies surrounded them, the smell of rotting flesh even stronger than indoors. He leaned into the house, away from the downward slope of the garage roof, and cautiously followed Seffie. At the far edge of the roof, she thrust out her arm and he followed the line of her pointed hand.
“What am I looking for?”
And then he saw it. Some of the zombies were walking in the direction of the far end of the house, where Miranda and Doug were.
“Miranda and Doug are over there!” he said. “This isn’t—”
“No, no, look,” Seffie urged, still pointing. “That’s what I thought at first too, but they keep going. They’re heading into the woods.”
Mario looked again. Seffie was right. Perhaps fifty zombies had walked beyond the house. But that still left hundreds around them.
“How long have they been doing this?”
“Maybe fifteen minutes?” Seffie guessed with a shrug of her shoulders.
Mario nodded. In the minute he watched a few more zombies began to head in the same direction. If enough of them went that way, if even just a third did, they might actually be able to get out of here.
“We have to stop Miranda and Doug. We need more time.”
“Oh shit,” Seffie said, eyes growing wide.
She turned and scurried toward the window, Mario two steps behind her. His ribs cried foul at the overcompensating required to keep his footing on the slanted roof. Seffie was almost to the window when something flashed past Mario’s peripheral vision, then thump! The fletching from an arrow erupted from the side of the house, less than a foot from Seffie’s head.
Seffie reared back, arms pinwheeling as she tried to regain her balance. Mario watched in horror as she fell. Unable to get clear of her, Seffie slammed into his legs. They tumbled and slid, limbs tangled. Seffie clawed at him blindly, desperate to stop her fall. Shingles crumbled under Mario’s outstretched palm as he tumbled headlong toward the edge. Seffie slipped past him, her fingertips skimming his injured left arm.
Mario caught her bicep. Her fingers clamped around his elbow like a vise. He glimpsed a flash of Seffie’s terrified brown eyes, then she slipped over the edge of the roof.
As the edge rushed toward him, Mario’s right hand scraped against the metal gutter. He jammed it inside and closed his fingers around the gutter’s edge. The shove against his arm as their fall slowed shot bolts of pain through his body. His legs pivoted down from above. His left foot sailed over the edge of the roof and into the air. Mario pressed his right foot against the roof and miraculously, his toe caught in the gutter.
“Don’t let go of me!” Seffie shrieked. “Don’t let go!”
Mario looked down at her as he clung to the gutter. Zombies snapped and snarled below. Their hands ripped the air, mouths opening and closing like unhealed wounds.
“I won’t let go. I promise.”
Mario tightened his grip on the gutter. Seffie shrieked even louder and started to thrash. A zombie had her by the heel. Mario’s arm began to shake as Seffie kicked at the zombie with her free foot, his injured bicep muscle ill-equipped to handle both her weight and the flailing struggle to free her foot.
His grip loosened.
Seffie’s panicked eyes met his. “Don’t let me go, goddamn you!”
Mario bent his knee slightly and twisted his foot so his toes now rested against the lip of the gutter. He pushed with his forearm and foot to try and slide himself farther back on to the roof, but the zombie below tugged hard. Mario screamed in pain. Black spots clouded his vision. Unprepared for the force of the pull, his foot flew free and his arm slipped out of the gutter.
Mario closed his fingers over the edge.
The zombies pulled.
The gutter began to bend.
A shadow flitted above. Mario looked up. A cable extended from the house. From the arrow, he realized. Another shadow, no, a person! Voices, and then a hand caught his wrist. Mario looked up into the sun gold eyes of a stranger.
A soft hiss, then the downward pull of the zombies yielded. Another man’s face, another hand gripped Mario’s forearm. Then slowly, infinitesimally, they began to rise.
He heard Connor say, “What the hell?”
The strangers had Mario waist-high over the edge of the roof. Connor reached down for Seffie. Mario felt almost weightless as Seffie let go. The golden-eyed man and his partner heaved Mario the rest of the way onto the roof. They collapsed back, gasping for a
ir. Tremors that he was helpless to stop racked Mario’s body. He saw Seffie scramble over the edge with Connor’s help and likewise collapse against the roof.
A crossbow stuck out from under the golden-eyed stranger’s shoulder. The clothes he wore were made of heavy homespun in shades of tan and gray. He wore his tawny-brown hair pulled back in a braid, and his complexion was flushed with the ruddy color of a person who spent a lot of time outdoors.
“Who the hell are you?” Mario asked.
The man laughed. Beyond him, his companion said, “We are your rescue.”
37
Doug twisted the knob on the cellar door and nudged it open with his toe. Beyond the door, darkness. It reminded Miranda of a tomb, though their surroundings were hardly silent. It was noisier down here, closer to the zombies. They scratched against windows and walls. Those that spied Miranda and Doug as they made their way through the house moaned louder, which caused a ripple effect. Miranda shivered as she followed Doug into the black.
They made their way down, step by step. The beams of illumination from the lights on their assault rifles lit dust motes swirling on invisible currents. The cellar had been cleared earlier when they first stormed into the house, but they had been in one hell of a hurry. Musty air filled Miranda’s nostrils. Musty, but without the smell of death.
At the foot of the stairs, Doug went left, Miranda right. Her heart pounded as she checked the room—opening a closet, checking behind a washing machine. She relaxed as she called clear.
“I’m clear,” Doug answered. “The tanks are over here, just like Mike said.”
Miranda retraced her steps. Doug’s flashlight beam traveled along the wall, illuminating several propane tanks, the kind that used to be used with a gas grill. Doug picked a tank up off the floor a few inches.
“Empty,” he said, then tried another. “Much better,” he said. He lifted a third tank, then turned to her, a shit-faced grin lighting up his face. “This is gonna be fucking awesome.”
