by Lori Whitwam
Melissa reluctantly agreed to go back to the house we shared. I convinced her arriving at the pavilion, the central meeting space for our neighborhood of the Compound, before the captains had even finished meeting with the council wouldn’t do any good. Plus, I smelled like week-old road kill.
We arrived at our house to find our two roommates currently absent. I assumed Bethany was still working at the new greenhouse and Rebecca was on guard duty. We were greeted enthusiastically and vocally by my Beagle, Skip. I gave him some leftovers I’d saved from breakfast and put him in our fenced back yard where he’d undoubtedly rejoin his ongoing battle with a gopher that lived under the shed.
I rinsed off quickly, using the sun shower bag I’d rigged in our downstairs bathtub. We’d recently received some scavenged solar panels, and could run the pump to provide limited running water, but we tried not to use it unless we needed to.
I emerged to find Melissa pacing in the front hall, fists clenched at her side. I approached and gently slid an arm around her shoulders. “Try to take it easy,” I said. “No point getting upset till we know what’s going on.”
“I know,” she said in a thin voice, “but I have a bad feeling.”
I was starting to feel the same way, but hid it for her benefit. “We’re safe, Melissa. It won’t happen again. I won’t let it happen again.”
We hustled the two blocks to the broad, grassy lot with an old-fashioned pavilion in the middle, and I was startled to see over a hundred people—the majority of the population of our neighborhood—already gathered.
“See? I told you,” Melissa said, her eyes narrowed in accusation. “We’re late.”
I sighed, and we found a spot off to one side where we could see the pavilion and were close enough to hear the news, whenever it came.
As it turned out, we were not late. People continued to arrive in twos and threes, and I spotted Rebecca and waved her over to join us. Her olive skin was flushed from a shift on the wall, and her long, wild hair had begun to escape the single braid trailing down her back.
“Do you know what’s going on?” I asked.
“Not exactly, but it can’t be anything good.” She scanned over the crowd as if searching for an approaching threat. I had no doubt if she saw one, it would be promptly dispatched. Rebecca was one of the most ferocious fighters I knew.
Restless boredom soon set in, leading to increasingly improbable speculation on the nature of the news. It was over an hour before Rich, our neighborhood captain, finally stepped into the pavilion. The crowd fell silent; the only sound was the hum of generators at nearby houses.
“Thank you all for coming,” he began, his voice strong and carrying well across the crowd. “I’ll keep it short and to the point for now, then once we know more, we’ll have additional meetings.”
That sounded ominous, and I felt Melissa stiffen beside me.
There were some murmurs and rustlings among those gathered, and Rich raised his voice and continued. “Four days ago, one of our patrols encountered a band of men just east of Elizabethtown. They followed, undetected, to discover their base and intentions.” His speech had taken on the formal cadence and language of a press conference. “They were led to a large, fortified encampment located in a storage facility. They were able to contact another patrol unit, who joined them to observe the camp.”
“Oh, shit,” Rebecca muttered. “We wouldn’t be having this meeting if those people were raising ponies and baking cupcakes.”
I concurred, and Rich’s next words confirmed our fears.
“They estimated the numbers at well over six hundred, all adults, mostly men. Our team was able to get close enough to gather quite a bit of information. They also successfully captured two individuals, who were extensively questioned.”
I knew what “questioned” meant these days, especially when paired with “extensively,” and a chill slithered along the length of my spine.
“The camp is without doubt a marauder stronghold. They’re gathering recruits from smaller bands in the territory, and are heavily armed.” He looked from face to face among the crowd, imparting the seriousness of his words. “They have targeted us. They have the numbers and the armament to be a very serious threat to this community. They are well-supplied and adding to their numbers and stockpile as we speak.”
“Well, let’s go get the bastards!” a voice shouted. Others professed similar sentiments.
“Now, folks, you know better than to rush into something like this,” Rich said, drawing hard on his authority. “We’ve got more people, true, but not all of them are fighters.” He was right. While our population was creeping close to a thousand, requiring annexation of additional chunks of the former subdivision every few months, some of our people were women, children, the elderly, or others not suited to combat. And if we sent the majority of our trained fighters to Elizabethtown, the Compound would be unprotected, and an easy target for attacks from other sources. We couldn’t take the battle to the marauders.
Rich again quieted the crowd. “Our information indicates they won’t be prepared to move on us for at least three months. Our patrol was not detected, so we have time to make smart decisions.”
I translated this to mean the extensively-questioned marauders had been dispatched and disposed of quietly somewhere. Their comrades would assume they’d gone off on their own, or had met a zombie-related fate.
“So what’re we supposed to do?” someone demanded.
“The council is working on a variety of plans right now,” Rich said. “As soon as things are decided, you’ll all be notified, and we’ll figure out what needs to be done and who’s going to do it. For now, we need to focus on bringing as many of the crops and livestock we have outside the walls inside, and send out scouts to monitor the roads and set some traps to make things as difficult as possible for any forces attempting to advance on our location.”
Melissa slipped her hand into mine, something she hadn’t done since shortly after Quinn’s death a year and a half ago. I gave her a reassuring squeeze, and wished someone could reassure me.
Rebecca stood, feet widely spaced as if preparing to charge into battle, blade swinging. “A lot of double-talk, but you know what the options are, don’tcha, Ellen?”
I certainly did.
“Fight or flight.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
A few years ago, Joshua Guess, author of the Living With the Dead serial blog and novels, challenged me to create a short story with its roots in his fictional post-apocalyptic world. However, being a long-winded novelist and not a short story writer, I ended up with a fourteen thousand word novella, simultaneously too long and too short. Now, the whole story has been revised and expanded to more fully tell Ellen’s story, and more books are on the drawing board to continue her tale.
Thanks, Josh, for allowing me to borrow a little corner of your world and plant the seeds for my own story.
My gratitude also to editor Darryl Cook, who helped me revise and re-shape the new face of The Dead Survive. An editor can’t effectively edit her own work, and your help was greatly appreciated.
I was so glad not to have to source my own cover, and thrilled to have Limitless enlist Ashley Byland of Redbird Designs. Ashley came through with the perfect art, and I look forward to seeing what she does with the rest of the series. Thank you, Ashley!
Thanks to the regulars at Lori’s Dead Talk, the Facebook group where I host live chats during episodes of The Walking Dead, especially Melissa Jensen and Lisa Shackelford. You folks keep my creepy, bloodthirsty side energized and ready to wreak havoc. Plus, you’re a lot of fun!
As always, thanks to my husband, who is responsible for every good thing in my life. And when I’m writing or swamped with editing jobs, he gives me the one thing nobody else can…time. I love you, and I’ll always find time to walk on the beach.
About the Author
Lori spent her early years reading books in a tree in northern West Virginia. The 1980s and 90s
found her and her husband moving around the Midwest, mainly because it was easier to move than clean the apartment. After seventeen frigid years in Minnesota, she fled to coastal North Carolina in 2013. She will never leave, and if you try to make her, she will hurt you.
She has worked in public libraries, written advertising copy for wastewater treatment equipment, and managed a holistic veterinary clinic. Her current day job, conducted from her World Headquarters and Petting Zoo (her couch) is as a full-time editor for indie authors and small publishing houses.
Her dogs are a big part of her life, and she has served or held offices in Golden Retriever and Great Pyrenees rescues, a humane society, a county kennel club, and her own chapter of Therapy Dogs International.
She has been a columnist and feature writer for auto racing and pet publications, and won the Dog Writers Association of America’s Maxwell Award for a series of humor essays. In addition to zombie apocalypse stories, she has released a contemporary romance novel, Make or Break.
Parents of a grown son, Lori and her husband were high school sweethearts, and he manages to love her in spite of herself. Some of his duties include making sure she always has fresh coffee and safe tires, and convincing the state police to spring her from house arrest in her hotel room in time for a very important concert. That last one only happened once—so far—but she still really, really appreciates it.
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