Miles barked a laugh. “Yeah, no. It was bad enough having her be a babysitter back in the day, and that was with Martha riding herd on her.”
“It could be worse, she could actively dislike you instead of being aggressively interested.”
“You are an evil, evil man. Especially considering I’m married to your daughter.”
Larry laughed. “What can I say? I need all the entertainment I can get. Watching you squirm under the attention of our secretary qualifies.”
Miles shook his head. “I don’t think Tish would be quite as amused, Pops.” He shrugged. “Who knows, maybe Jaid will get the point that I’m married and not interested. It’s not like there’s a shortage of guys around who wouldn’t jump at the chance.” He glanced around. A crew was working in front of one of the storage silos, and a few folks were walking toward the school along with them. None of them were close enough to overhear. “Anyway, on a more serious note — that thing we talked about last week? I talked to him, and he went for it. When the salvage crew comes we should have a better line on where all the garbage is coming from.”
Larry shook his head and sighed. “Ain’t a thing new under the sun. Sure as we’ve got drunks stumbling out of Tom’s bar every night, there will be folks that take it to the extreme. This area was a hotbed for meth abuse before the dead started chowing down on the living; why should it change? We can talk till we’re blue in the face about the dangers of drugs. That doesn’t change the fact your wife and Doc Scott have the coma patients in the clinic. You and I both know we turn a blind eye to the few funny-looking plants in some of the greenhouses. But that’s because pot’s useful for other things than smoking. If you’d told me ten years ago I’d be taking this sort of attitude about drugs, I’d have laughed myself silly. There was no place for it in the service, but let’s be honest, this ain’t the service.”
“Funny enough, they issued meth to soldiers in World War Two. Well, the Nazis, anyway.”
“That’s not funny at all, history boy. Besides, the Nazis lost.”
“Exactly. The last thing we need is for somebody to freak out and start ringing a dinner bell for those things out there.” He sighed. “It’s bad enough with alcohol, but at least most of our people just get sad and quiet when they drink.”
“You don’t have to convince me.” Larry pulled some slips of paper out of his pocket and waved them. “Just you wait. I think one of these noise complaints is promising. We might get a line on who our Jesse and Earl are.”
“Jesse and Walt, Pops. I know we’ve got those disks, don’t tell me you forgot the names of the characters already.”
“Well, like you said — I am getting old,” Larry grinned. “And you are going to be paying for that remark for a while, don’t you worry.” He waved a hand as they approached the side entrance to the old equipment barn. A tall, slender figure stood outside and leaned against the metal wall with the door propped open.
“It’s about time you showed up, Trina Matthews!” the slender woman said. “I thought you were skipping school today.”
Miles’ daughter turned, favored him with a goodbye kiss, and scampered inside the door. Larry leaned in and gave Val McKee a quick hug. “You doing all right, girl?”
“Can’t complain, Mister Larry, can’t complain. Howdy, Miles.”
Miles smiled; he couldn’t help it, Miss McKee was just someone you liked. She could go from stereotypical school teacher to mother bear at the drop of a hat. The few children in the community that hadn’t been born inside of it were there because of Valerie McKee.
When Miles and a few others had realized that there were survivors in the local elementary school, they’d gone in with guns blazing. They saved the day, but the tall, slender woman in front of them had ensured that there were children left to save. Her frail appearance was misleading. A tipsy Larry had said it best, not long after the rescue. “Val McKee survived the zombie apocalypse because she brooks no nonsense.” Coming from a retired Marine Gunnery Sergeant, it was the highest of praise. “Hey, Val.”
The interior of the converted building was bustling. Half of the room featured rows of tables and a serving line. During town halls, they dragged a podium out into the middle of the room. Low conversation and the clink of silverware filled the air. The servers and diners plowed through breakfast, and Miles was glad he’d eaten at home. It smelled particularly unappealing today. The other half of the room served as a school; colorful mats lay on the concrete floor. Rows of shelving filled with salvaged books, movies, toys, and games defined the borders. As Miles watched, Trina slipped her shoes off at the edge of the mats and scampered into the classroom area. There were perhaps twenty kids and around that many adults. Most of the adults sat on the mats and stared off into space. The children playing and moving past the sitting adults elicited little reaction. A few had distant smiles on their faces as they watched the children burn off energy before school started. Miles took a moment to watch the scene, then glanced at his daughter’s teacher.
“This is safe, right, Val? You’d tell me if there were concerns, right?”
She gave Miles a sad smile. “It’s okay. It’s good for the older kids, too, Miles. Sometimes I think Trina is one of the lucky ones. She was born after the worst of it — she doesn’t have the same memories as some of my first kids.”
Across the room, Trina climbed into the lap of a kind-faced woman in her mid-40s. Her eyes remained fixed on some unseen point front of her, and she began to rock from side to side. As she hugged Miles’ daughter, her lips began to move, forming the words to a silent song. Trina smiled at Miles and Larry as she rubbed the arm of the woman holding her.
Val followed their eyes. “Betty doesn’t talk, but when your daughter’s around she sings, Miles. It’s not perfect, but it’s what we have.”
Miles shrugged. “That’s our world now, isn’t it?” He turned to leave but turned back after a moment. “Val, does Trina ever laugh in class?”
She hesitated. “Not as much, but she’s happy, Miles. She’s a real leader, too. Likes to stick up for others.” She glanced over at Larry and winked. “Reminds me of a few guys I know.” Val turned and studied the classroom for a long moment. “I’ll be the first to admit that this is unconventional, but I think it’s helping. I really do. Some of us just dealt with Z-Day better than others. Give them time. They’ll come back. Charlie did.”
Chapter 2
The silent man knelt in the driveway as he studied the house.
At one time it had been a brilliant white. After eight years without maintenance, the paint was closer to dirty dishwater than eggshell. The external appearance was of little concern to the silent man. His intent eyes flickered from window to window. He assessed the condition of each in turn and studied the faded drapes behind with just a bit less interest. The contents were far more valuable than the structure.
The front door was a solid, albeit weather-worn slab of wood. The shine of the brass doorknob and lockset was dull but remained intact. He had yet to determine whether the house remained occupied, but it was secure outside.
Crunching noises shattered the silence. The sound announced the presence of two men as each walked around a different side of the house. They wore heavy canvas overalls and leather jackets despite the hint of spring in the air. Heavy boots and leather gloves capped their extremities. Like the home, their clothing showed the wear of long years.
The silent man’s own clothing was similar enough to that of the other men to consider it a uniform. His own hands were bare, and he carried a Bowie knife in a scabbard strapped to his left leg. Vivid red scars encircled his right hand, twisting around his palms and down his fingers. The damage to his pinkie was such that it hung at an angle. The digit was stiff, unyielding, and almost completely sheathed in scar tissue.
Despite the scars, he flexed and released the fingers on his right hand. It was a habit gained in physical therapy intended to maintain dexterity. By now, he’d been doing it so long it was an u
nconscious reflex — almost a nervous tic.
The two newcomers flanked the silent man and crouched down. He glanced at each in turn and cocked his head to one side in a silent query.
The larger of the two spoke. He was a balding, well-tanned man with a salt and pepper beard that spilled over the open collar of his jacket. He towered over each of his compatriots and weighed more than the two of them combined. Not much of it was fat — his build was more wall than pear.
“The back door’s shut and all the ground floor windows are tight on my side. Corey?”
The other man, younger and clean-shaven under a mop of sandy blond hair, nodded in agreement, “It was tight on my side, too.”
The silent man considered this for a moment and then gave a slow nod. He raised his eyes to the second story of the house. Finally, he turned to look at the larger of his two companions. The silent man swept his hand across the lawn, indicating the knee-high grass. It had risen after months of compression under snowdrifts.
“No tracks. No crawl trails, either,” Dalton offered.
The silent man gave a faint smile. Like the younger man, he was clean-shaven, but he had a lined face that seemed inclined to dourness. The addition of a smile to his expression made him look more melancholy than amused.
He gave the big man a pointed look and then jabbed a finger at Corey. Dalton showed bright white teeth in the graying forest of his beard. His own expression was much more on the cheery side, giving him the air of a maniacal Santa Claus by way of Harley Davidson.
“All right. Kid, did you check for crawl trails?”
Corey bristled, as though the concept of the question itself insulted him. “Seriously? Come on, Dalton. This ain’t my first rodeo.” He looked to the silent man, who cocked his head and made a ‘go on’ motion. “Yes, I checked. How long are you guys going to keep up this ‘haze the new guy’ garbage?”
Dalton grinned again. “Don’t get prickly, kid. Just checking your eyes and what’s between your ears. The Wild doesn’t have much forgiveness in it. Best to learn that before you have to face real consequences.” Before Z-Day, it had been a high-end subdivision with a dozen Craftsman-style homes. Each home lay on the outer side of a circular lane. Inside the circle was a decorative pond. The flowers and landscaping around it were overgrown with weeds after years of neglect. In a way, the overgrown roses and perennials still held a raw beauty worthy of appreciation. The stench of rotting flesh from something half-submerged in the pond forced any study to be a quick one, though.
A heavy wooden fence surrounded the entire addition. Despite the years of neglect, it stood straight and firm. The solid construction was a good omen for the construction quality of the homes. A thick forested area sat outside the fence at the back end of the development and overgrown cornfields flanked either side. The surrounding greenery lent the area a secretive hush and absorbed any echoes.
A low, decorative stone wall held down the addition’s southern border. That wall transitioned to the more conventional, and taller, board fence at either corner. The faded white house was the first home on the left, and close enough to the stone wall to use it as a fence on that side.
“You’re good, kid, but not so good you don’t have things to learn. If you don’t want to listen, that’s fine. No hard feelings, you can find another crew or another line of work.”
Corey considered the older man’s comment and nodded. “I’m listening.”
“It’s hard to pick up tracks on a paved road, but biters tend to wander. We can see by the lack of trails or tracks that there ain’t any in here moving about, at least not recently. The grass is your friend, so use it.” Dalton jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Our ride will keep it that way long enough for us to pack up and boogie.” The decorative stone wall lacked a gate, but the faded yellow school bus parked across the drive blocked access to the road. The low wall wasn’t tall enough to serve as a long-term barrier. It would serve as an effective temporary blockade if biters outside the perimeter discovered them, though.
“This place is creepy as hell,” Corey murmured. “It’s like nothing ever happened here. Where are all the people?”
The bigger man grunted. “Flu put a lot of people down before things fell apart, kid.” Corey had been just shy of nine years old on Z-Day and presumably occupied with other things than the news. He nodded in understanding, and Dalton continued.
“They’re still here, more than likely. Keep quiet and hope they don’t realize that we’re here before we get a chance to work our way around the block. Keep your head on a swivel and don’t get too comfortable. Things have a way of biting you in the ass — hah! — if you aren’t paying attention. Just move slow and do what we tell you to do. You’ll be fine. This is the best job around, anymore. Definitely beats —”
The silent man cut off Dalton’s speech with a sudden, authoritative wave of his hand. The big man nodded and turned back to Corey. “That’s it then, kid. Start fetching totes — Charlie’s going in.”
The hinges gave a muted squeak as Charlie opened the door. With one ear aimed inside the house, he tucked the lock release gun into an inside pocket of his leather jacket. It was amazing what one could find in the back of an abandoned police cruiser.
He turned to Dalton. The big man leaned against the house to one side of the door. Charlie nodded, and Dalton handed him a pistol with a small flashlight clamped under the barrel. The rifle that Charlie had been carrying was already slung over the big man’s shoulder. It was too long and bulky to maneuver in close quarters.
He inspected the action of the handgun with the familiarity that only comes from long practice. Satisfied, he withdrew a black cylinder from another pocket on the inside of his jacket and screwed it onto the pistol’s threaded barrel.
In a world bereft of machinery, other sources of unnatural noise like a gunshot could carry for miles. Like Dalton had told Corey, this was about taking their time. The longer they went without discovery, the more salvage they could claim.
He took a moment to ensure that the sound suppressor was secure and nodded to the other men. He stepped inside and closed the door.
As expected, the house was well-built and remained tight. In a way that was both good and bad. Charlie had lost count of the number of homes he’d searched in the last few years. Some held up while others leaked like crazy. He’d walked through homes with shattered windows, broken pipes, and collapsed roofs. He’d picked his way through jungles of mold and rot, and scenes of long-past horror. Such was a scavenger’s life; anything to keep the community going.
The search wasn’t so critical now. They were self-sufficient — anything the salvage teams found now was a luxury. Alcohol, books, canned food, and spices had become ancient artifacts. These were the treasures of the new age.
The art to the science of what the salvage teams did lay in knowing what lasted and what didn’t. Beer was almost always a lost cause; soda was iffy also. Canned foods, even past the expiration date, were fine if they weren’t bulging or rusty. The items with the most utility tended toward small and compact — soap, hygiene products, vacuum-sealed dry food, and bottled water. Thus, the totes outside.
The dry food, in particular, required careful inspection for rodent damage. If the house was tight, it was generally good. Hard liquors and wine in bottles were always worth scavenging, and usually worth quite a bit in trade. A cattle farmer named Tom Oliver was running a pretty brisk business with the community’s first bar and grill. He was still working out the kinks in his home brew beer, so ‘real’ alcohol was always appreciated to fill in the gaps.
Books, audio disks, and movies they took without question. Given that these articles didn't last forever, even duplicates were something to cherish. They enforced gentle care with an almost manic fervor, but wear was unavoidable. Paperbacks, in particular, tended to be a bit creaky at their age. The binding was already falling apart on many of the items in their library. There had been idle talk of starting a print shop to salvag
e, bind, or even reprint damaged books. It was a pipe dream for now — none of the survivors had any real experience in that line of work.
Charlie was particularly fond of books. While this house was a great environment for books to endure, that usually meant things deadlier than books had also endured.
The living room was clear. All that his flashlight revealed was dust-covered furniture and a long-cold fireplace. Charlie strode across the room and pulled the curtains open to let more light in. Dalton and Corey were still hauling armloads of storage totes across the lawn.
Charlie turned and studied the layout of the room. The bottom floor was open concept. The back wall led to the dining and kitchen area while a short hallway off of the entryway led to a pair of closed doors. He guessed they were most likely the garage and a closet or powder room. A staircase bifurcated the lower floors and led to the second-floor landing.
When in doubt, take the path of least resistance.
With slow, careful steps, he reached the end of the short hallway and placed an ear against the first door. Silence.
Charlie stood motionless for half a minute before reaching down and testing the doorknob. It turned without resistance. He paused again, turned the knob, and pushed on the door.
The beam of the flashlight revealed a well-appointed garage. A bright red minivan sitting on four flat tires occupied one of the two slots. A workbench, tools, and various clutter filled the rest of the space. There looked to be some interesting material inside, but Charlie didn’t move. He swept the beam of the flashlight across the breadth of the garage with his free hand tight on the doorknob. Nothing stirred save for the motes of dust that danced in the beam.
Charlie pulled back and cocked his head to one side. He lowered the pistol and tapped the sleeve of the sound suppressor on the door jamb. Knock. Knock. Knock.
A Place Outside The Wild Page 3
