“Samoas sound good,” Brett replied, his voice tinged with a tiny amount of optimism. He went over to where Faith sat by the window and suddenly froze. “Haven, who’s that?”
She looked up from rummaging through the boxes of food with a curious expression.
Crawling over to him, Haven followed his gaze and felt the hair on the back of her neck stand up. The hood of a black truck glimmered in the dim early morning lighting, shrouded from where it sat within the dense foliage of the woods.
“No way.”
“What?” Brett asked quietly. “Whose truck is that?”
Haven pressed her hands against the window to get a better look. “You remember Cade Foster?”
He looked at her skeptically, his brows furrowed in concern. “That stalker douchebag who wouldn’t leave you alone? Didn’t he finally get locked up?”
She nodded.
“Then what the heck is he doing out there?” Brett exclaimed.
Haven glared at the truck for a moment before speaking. “I have no idea. I really don’t like the fact that he’s just sitting there, facing our house. Doesn’t he have better things to do in the zombie apocalypse, like avoid being eaten?”
Faith’s expression hadn’t changed. She didn’t blink as she stared at the truck. She looked dispirited and fragile, ready to crack.
Brett ushered them away from the window. “Let’s stay out of sight.”
“I’m sure he already knows we’re here. It’s like he’s... watching the horde. Figuring out that we’re still alive based on their numbers and desperation to get into the house,” Haven remarked as she peered at him through the corner of the window.
“I’d pay good money to see him plow through those suckers,” Brett said, sitting on the ground to open a box of Samoas.
Haven couldn’t draw her eyes away from the truck. Something about Cade’s presence at the entrance to the forest deeply alarmed her. There were hundreds of zombies milling about only a few houses away, and yet he was still there.
He was watching her, waiting for her.
She felt goose bumps crawl along her arms, but decided to blame the feeling of unease on the direness of their situation and the chill from the oncoming winter.
***
Houston had trudged through the forest all day. He was very happy to have Texaco with him. It made him feel less disconnected from civilization. He hadn’t seen anyone for two days straight, and it was starting to get to him.
He looked at his compass and then at the map. He hoped to be with Haven within the week, but it was very likely that it would take longer.
The temperature seemed to have dropped steadily. Houston wanted to build a fire, but he worried that the smoke might garner trouble for them later. He pulled out a thick woolen scarf from his backpack and wrapped it around his neck. Snuggling up to Haven with a warm campfire, s’mores, hot cocoa, and a furry dog at their feet sounded like heaven to him. Feeling a sudden burst of energy, he increased his pace, Texaco trotting to keep up with him. He glanced at the darkening sky above them.
“We should probably set up shop for the night,” he said quietly to Texaco. The dog looked up at him and wagged its tail.
Houston decided to hike a bit further and see what they could find in terms of a safe place to hide. He knew that they wouldn’t come across anything as glorious as the tree stand from the night before.
He had been close to drifting off, his scarf a comfortable makeshift pillow against the rough bark of the tree, when he’d heard strange, barely audible noises below them, an odd hitch and drag through the leaves and dirt. Texaco, curled up beside him in the small space, was still and alert, growling softly, so he knew that whatever was on the ground was most likely unfriendly. He couldn’t see anything in the dark and didn’t want to risk alerting the unknown threat to their presence by shining his flashlight down to get a better look, so he just lay still and silently calmed Texaco until whatever was there passed.
The hideaway had been life-saving considering his findings the next morning. Sure enough, there were tracks near the base of the tree. Specifically, there was one clear human footprint with a streak in the dirt alongside it. He was pretty sure that it had been one of the zombies, perhaps tracking them by scent. As they were quite elevated and hidden in their sanctuary in the trees, it had probably become confused as to the location of its prey and had given up. Judging from the direction of its tracks, whatever it was had wandered off towards the west. Houston wasn’t going to worry about it further as he was headed south, but the experience only solidified his reservations about sleeping on the ground out in the open.
A shuffling up ahead made him pause. Texaco’s fur bristled, and the dog emitted a low growl. Houston reached for his gun and turned the safety off.
In a small clearing between the trees was a dark green tent, camouflaged perfectly in its rustic surroundings. He approached it with trepidation.
The tent was moving. Thrashing. And uttering spine-tingling moans and hisses.
He already knew it wasn’t an animal. The snarls coming from the tent were anything but normal.
Texaco was practically in hysterics, circling the simple shelter like a shark, its fierce barks echoing into the forest.
Houston wasn’t keen on attracting unwanted attention, so he called the dog over to his side, sternly telling Texaco to sit still and stop barking. Texaco obeyed instantly, but looked at its owner plaintively as he walked to the tent.
His footsteps crunching over the autumn leaves only made the thing inside the tent more aggressive. It threw itself against the sides of the tent, collapsing it, but continued to struggle towards him.
Houston paused, his hand hovering above the zipper of the entrance to the tent.
He could leave it there and move on, but eventually, the flimsy material would rip apart, and the creature would be free to potentially find him or hurt someone else.
At the same time, however, he really didn’t want to waste a precious bullet on something that wasn’t an imminent danger to him. He only had a small box of rounds in his backpack, and there was no telling what he’d come across on his way to Haven. Besides, shooting the gun might only alert other zombies in the area. The crack of a weapon was unmistakable to them as a sign of the living.
He was just about to tuck his gun into the back of his jeans when the tent lurched forward, knocking him off his feet. Houston gasped for air as he struggled to get up, but the ghoul in the tent pushed against him. Flat on his back, Houston couldn’t shove the rabid nylon-covered lump away so that he could reach his gun.
A dark spot began to form at the part of the tent near his face. He realized that he was looking at the creature’s gaping mouth as it salivated to get to him. More alarmingly, it was inches from him as it started chewing through the fabric. Tiny tears in the material slowly grew into larger holes until Houston was staring at stinking yellow teeth and a black searching tongue. He grimaced and tried to squirm away, but the weight of the enormous zombie combined with the awkward entrapment of the tent made it impossible.
“Tex, get him!” Houston yelled at his dog, knowing he could count on the obedient animal to help him.
Texaco leapt on top of the scrambling mound, biting and growling ferociously as the thing tried to attack its owner. The canine bit down hard on the zombie’s leg and began jerking it away from Houston, providing him with just enough time to grab his gun and shoot the wretched thing in the head. The tent sagged to the ground, a crimson puddle expanding on the fabric.
He winced after he heard the crack of the gun erupt in the forest. They needed to find shelter fast, somewhere far from this place if they didn’t want to deal with any curious visitors.
Houston took out a knife from his backpack and grabbed the tent. Scavenging what he could from the material to use later, he stuffed the nylon into his bag and started jogging from the campsite. The sun was setting quickly, and although it was only late afternoon, with winter approaching, sunlight was s
carce.
After maintaining a decent pace for the next hour, he finally stopped and took a good, long look at his surroundings.
A huge fallen tree trunk lay across a dried-up riverbed, its jagged roots covered in green moss. He studied it with interest. It was high enough off the ground that he wouldn’t need to worry about zombies eating him while he lay sleeping. Also, it would be incredibly difficult for them to traverse the log without some semblance of coordination and balance.
He walked across the sizable log with the dog and set the backpack down.
“You know,” he said, scratching Texaco behind the ears, to the dog’s great delight, “I’m really ready to see a living, breathing human being. I used to love being out in the wilderness, but now that I’m stuck out here without a choice... I don’t know. I don’t think I like it as much. You’re nice and warm and all, but forgive me if I’d rather sleep next to Haven.” He pulled out a bottle of water and took a quick sip, pouring a little in his hand for Texaco before putting it back.
“Hopefully those things aren’t able to trail us.”
***
Haven couldn’t sleep, even though she tried. Her insomnia had nothing to do with the ceaseless moans vibrating around them. Rather, her mind was full. It was filled to the brim with despair and anger and sadness. Giving up on the sanctuary of sleep, she had stayed near the window, her keen eyes narrowed, until the black truck finally backed away, silently disappearing in the depths of the forest.
Icy cold rain pounded on the roof. She twirled her hair anxiously, the knotted, greasy strands slipping through her fingers, as she watched the rain fall outside. She winced as she pulled a clump of gray matter from her locks.
Haven needed to get out of the attic. She needed to scrub the grime off of her body, off of her spirit. She needed to breathe.
Rising to her feet, she quietly slipped past her family, softly stepping on the floorboards so as to not rile the vile beings below any further. She tiptoed over to one of the large cardboard boxes marked “toiletries” in blue ink and pulled out a bottle of shampoo and a bar of soap, wrapping them in an orange towel from a stack in the corner of the room.
“Haven, where are you going?” a subdued voice whispered in the dark.
“I have brains in my hair. I can’t take it any longer.”
“What? You can’t go downstairs!” Brett hissed, his voice rising with alarm as he sat up from his sleeping bag.
“I know, I’m not,” she replied calmly. She pointed to the roof, the pattering of the rain clinking along the shingles.
“For once, could you just stay put and not do something risky?” Brett protested adamantly.
“I promise I’ll be fine. I need to get some air though. I need to be alone for a little bit.”
Without waiting for his response, Haven pushed the window open and crawled out onto the roof. She figured that with the darkness as her cover, she could spare a quick shower unseen by the monsters around them.
Haven inhaled deeply of the fresh night air. Little goose bumps covered her arms, but she felt more relaxed. Nature had that effect on her. Whenever she was upset, she would always go for a run outside. She swore up and down that it was the best therapy around.
She peered over the edge of the roof, careful to stay close to the window and not lose her footing. The zombies gathering below had increased to the point that they crowded the broken windows and doors of the house in a vain effort to get in. They pushed and pulled at their comrades, hissing at each other like lions fighting over a fallen gazelle. The inside was infested, flooded with them like termites in rotted wood. Haven wanted to kill all of them like the cockroaches they were, smash their stiff corpses into pulp. She hated what they represented… an end to humanity, an end to the world and the people in it whom she loved so much. Images of Jake and Amy O’Brien polluted her mind, their dead, soulless faces burned into her memory. She shook her head, trying to forget what she had done to their tiny bodies to cease their endless wandering for flesh.
She peeled off her thin black undershirt and laid it against the windowsill. Wiggling out of her jeans, she sat on the cold shingles and leaned back as the water covered her, soaking her hair. Tears ran down her face, mixing with the rivulets already streaming down her body. She pulled her knees close and wrapped her arms around herself, ignoring the icy chill snaking through her blood.
Haven had always remained steadfast in her faith, a quiet allegiance and dedication that was unwavering in spite of everything she had been through. But now she was angry. She’d already lost her parents at a young age. Would God allow what remained of her loved ones to be picked off one by one by this sinister plague? Her entire world was crumbling around her, and her biggest fears were becoming reality.
Although proudly independent, deep down, one of her greatest fears was living in a world without those she held dear. She couldn’t imagine an existence without them. She couldn’t bear to think of a holiday void of their presence, spending a Christmas without her grandmother filling their little home with love and cheer, preparing a hearty, delicious feast, she and her siblings staying up all night to wait for Santa even though they had known for a long time that he didn’t exist, kissing Houston under the mistletoe...
Now, someone who had played such a significant role in her upbringing, who had been a remarkable role model, her staunchest supporter, was going to die and come back as one of the monsters below. It was inevitable. And while she didn’t care about Phillip, Haven couldn’t bring herself to put down her beloved grandmother.
Cringing, she could picture herself sitting beside a window, staring out into the bleakness of winter, hopeless, bitter, and alone. There weren’t even any cats to accompany her in that future of solitude. While it was such a small event in the grand scheme of things, just the concept, the mere idea of not having them around anymore was terrifying. She couldn’t fathom that emptiness.
“God, why?” she whispered hoarsely into the night. “Why my parents? Why Grandma? Why this?” She swallowed hard, and her body trembled as she fought back sobs.
Trying to rein in the rage she felt, she only succeeded in balling her fists, her nails digging deeply into her palms.
“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice breaking. “Please give me the strength to do what needs to be done to take care of my family. I love them so much. Please help me to forgive Faith. Help me rise above this anger. And please…” she continued softly, “please don’t leave me alone.”
She rose to her feet and shampooed her hair, the soapy suds trickling down her back and strong legs. Haven didn’t care that the temperature was close to freezing. The rainwater felt delicious on her skin. It cleansed her, temporarily washing away the guilt of the atrocities she had committed.
Chapter 22:
The family awoke to a loud bang at the attic door. Dull light streamed in through the window.
“What the heck was that?” Brett exclaimed, grabbing the Glock and pointing it at the door.
Haven leapt out of her sleeping bag and reached for the Remington 870 shotgun. She pumped it once to load a round in the chamber.
“There’s no way,” Haven said inaudibly, more to herself than anyone else.
Another thud. Haven and Brett wordlessly walked over to the attic door, their weapons at the ready. Faith timidly backed into a corner of the room.
“Could it be someone trying to get in? Maybe the police?” Brett suggested, his jaw tense.
“Oh, they’re trying to get in alright,” she muttered.
“It can’t be...” he responded disbelievingly, but his voice didn’t sound so certain.
Haven recalled the images from her night on the roof, how their home was bursting at the seams with zombies. Fear edged her voice.
“Brett,” she whispered so that only he could hear, “the house is flooded with those things, flooded to the point that they’re piling on top of each other to get to us.” The imagery of this “hill” constructed from writhing masses of
zombies made her stomach turn.
He exhaled dejectedly. “So all of that banging is because they know we’re still up here. Dang it. Couldn’t they have just wandered off? We were so quiet.”
Haven nodded. “I’d say we have a half hour, maybe less, before they are able to push the door open.”
Brett asked the question neither of them wanted to answer. “What happens after that?”
Haven stared at the shotgun in her hands. “We kill the ones we can.”
“Won’t that just create more of a hill for the moving ones to climb?”
He had a point. “There’s nowhere to go. You saw how thick they are around us. We could buy a little time on the roof, but once they breach the attic, it won’t take them long to follow us to the roof.”
Brett rubbed his forehead and turned to his younger sister. “Okay, see what you can pile on top of the door. We’ve got a bit of a problem. There are so many of them in here that they have managed to build a little corpse mountain below us. Haven and I think we have thirty minutes before they manage to break the door and get in.”
Faith’s form visibly slumped. “Where will we go? I don’t want to be out there with... them.”
Brett looked hopeful. “What if we created enough of a barrier so that they couldn’t get through?”
Haven shook her head. “Normally, I’d say if we had a dresser or some other hefty furniture, that might work. Unfortunately, we don’t have anything heavy enough to really keep them at bay. All we have are some cardboard boxes filled with supplies and weapons.”
Rosemary’s voice startled all of them. They hadn’t heard her speak in hours. “How can I help?”
“Grandma!” Haven exclaimed, hurrying to her. She knelt in front of the elderly woman, gently pushing aside the sweaty curls that were plastered to her pale face.
Rosemary managed to get into a sitting position. “What can I do?” she asked again, more firmly, although it was blatant that she was mustering all of her strength.
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