Someone coughs, spitting after.
“If I die, you die too, friend. Most gruesomely, as well, since I am starving.”
Another kick and a grunt. I move a little, just enough to see a bald man on the floor, his mouth dripping blood. He adjusts his body, turning his face in my direction.
Our eyes lock. Crap, he saw me.
I hide and cover my mouth to stop a gasp from ruining everything.
I need to leave fast before he tells. My eyes search for a way to sneak past them. Behind me is a locked up store, so that’s useless. My body stays still: the mall’s corridor is wide and open, I barely managed to hide when they showed up; if I move, they’ll see or hear me.
“Where is it? I’m not going to ask again.”
“In the bottom of a lake, slowly sinking into oblivion. I wish you luck in finding it.”
He didn’t give me away. I’m safe. No need to risk moving—best to wait until they leave.
A shot echoes against the walls and cold floor. My heart races, sweaty palms covering my ears. I lie down, ear next to the floor, to see what happened through the bench’s gap. The bald man gets up, alive. I close my eyes, taking a long, relieved breath.
“Yes, well, clearly drawing attention is the best course of action right now.”
Another shot.
“That’s the point. Let’s see if the threat of being eaten alive is more motivating than my gun.”
This guy is crazy. I need to leave.
“Be reasonable, my friend. There is nothing in there that will help you.”
This time the shot rings right next to me, a burnt smell invading my nose. Far away, footsteps echo.
“Hear that? They’re coming. I have a gun. What you got, friend?”
“A girl. Ready to come to my defense.”
My eyes widen, heart pumping in my ears. Crap. He’s going to rat me out.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“She is right over there, behind the bench.”
“Is this some lame trick?”
“Perhaps, but what if isn’t? Can you risk it?”
What do I do? What do I do?
Steps, too close. I turn my head left to right, without a clue where to go. His feet appear first, and then I raise my head. He’s dressed in some kind of military uniform full of pockets and belts with pouches that I don’t recognize, and a red star is painted on his chest. After that, I can only stare at the gun’s dark hole pointed straight at me.
“Get up. Hands over your head,” he says, in a hoarse voice. “Now.”
Flinching, I do what he wants.
“Who are—”
The bald man tackles him before he can end his question. Both fall on the floor, the gun rolling over to my feet. I grab it, hands shaking badly. The bald man keeps punching the other guy’s face, and I cringe at each crunching noise, frozen by the violence. The hitting stops and only the sound of the bald man’s breathing remains. He gets up slowly, leaving the other bleeding and bloated below. He turns in my direction, with a smile.
“That went surprisingly well,” he outstretches a bloodied hand. “You can give me that now. Our friend here is quite unconscious.”
I raise the gun instead.
He laughs, cleaning his stained hand on his pants. “You are very quick on your feet, aren’t you? What is your name?”
“Why do you care?”
He finishes cleaning up, flexing his fingers to test his bruised knuckles. “Usually bonding with someone makes that person think twice before shooting you. I am Professor Spencer, it is a pleasure to meet you.”
Mrs. Patterson’s advice fills my mind. “Don’t get too close to strangers, ever. You’re small, so travel light and travel fast. Hide, then run. Don’t wait for nothing or trust anyone.” I step back and the gun stays raised. I hold it with both my hands in order to hide how much I’m shaking.
“I don’t care who you are.” I watch him as he moves closer. “Just leave me alone.”
“Well, that is unfortunate, because I would love to have that gun back. Since it would come in handy soon.”
Somehow, I’m not shaking anymore. I narrow my eyes and grip the gun tightly. “No. I’m keeping it.”
For a second I think he’ll jump at me, but instead he lets out a sigh, cleaning the sweat off his face with the shirt’s sleeve. “Very well. I draw a line at robbing children. Apparently. There are things a man just will not do, I suppose. Keep it. I will leave, I suggest you do the same.”
He starts to walk past me, toward the movie theater and the opposite direction of the distant noise, but I stop him, gun pointed at his face. No way I’m turning my back to you.
“No, go to the other side. I want to see you leaving.”
“You are quite bright. Perhaps we should team up.”
“No, thank you. Now please leave. If you try to follow me, I’m going to shoot you in the face.”
I can see my attitude amuses him, because he didn’t stop smiling once during all of this, which is something very creepy all by itself. Walking backwards, I watch him leave, never letting him out of my sight.
After we both reach our ends of the corridor, I turn and run, gun firmly in my hands. I debate going for the exit, leaving the mall behind, but decide quickly that a parking lot during the night is more dangerous. I stop in front of the cinema’s entrance. Tired, feet hurting thanks to the new pair of shoes, I stare at the “Revenge of the Jedi 3D” poster on the ticket office’s window, before moving on to one of the screening rooms.
Dad bought tickets for that movie. We were supposed to go weeks ago, but Mom had to work. She always had to work.
I close my eyes and sigh. A dark room like this could hide lots of things; maybe it could hide me too. I curl up in a seat, placing my backpack below and outside view. A few hours of sleep wouldn’t hurt.
The Hunter's Daughter II
November 28th, Saturday, 4 pm
We lie on the grass, stomachs against the ground. One hundred yards below, my target stumbles between the trees. I feel the wind with the tip of my finger, and calculate its influence along with the recoil, the target’s movements, and my own aim.
“Keep it steady, breathe in and out,” Father whispers, breaking my concentration.
I side-eye him, adjusting my position.
He gives me a smile. “I know, I know. I’ll let you work.”
I watch the target through the cross-hair. It takes me some time to get accustomed to the weight of the .223 rifle. Crossbows are my hunting weapon of choice, but a long shot like this would be too difficult to pull it off with a bolt.
From this distance the man looks like any other man. We could just let him wander off. We could ignore him and not take the risk of shooting a sane, but lost person in the wrong place, at the wrong time. He’s no threat to us. Not right now, at least.
But he could be. He could be suffering from whatever disease has spread and infected the entire country. Or he could be just someone trying to escape the chaos, like we did.
“He’s getting away.” There’s a hint of annoyance and impatience in Father’s voice. We have the advantage and the higher ground. We can’t take any chances and he expects me not to hesitate.
My finger pulls the trigger—the man falls, head thrown backwards with the bullet’s impact, blood and brain splattering on wood and grass.
Father gives me a smile. “Good shot.”
“Thanks,” I answer with eyes fixed on the lifeless form spread on the ground.
We climb down the slope to inspect the body. Father moves closer, kneeling next to it, while I keep watch on the surrounding trees. The day is chilly and windy, with leaves being swept away by gusts of cold air.
“Another factory worker,” he whispers to himself. “Hell.”
At the sound of his voice, I glance to check the body myself. It still has all its parts intact. For a brief freezing second, I wonder if we made a mistake and I killed a man, not a monster. Further inspection r
eveals the dark lumps and yellow blotches on its face and hands. I sigh, relieved.
He wears the same blue and red uniform with the pig logo we saw on all the others. This is the fifth guy wandering too close to our safe zone.
Wood cracks and someone hisses near us. I throw Father’s rifle back to him then draw my pistol from the holster. The thing walks slowly at first, like a lost camper, and then it sees us, letting out a half scream/half crazed laugh. He sprints in Father’s direction, so fast I miss the first two shots. At the sounds of the bullets, he snaps his head, and turns to run straight at me.
I roll over to the side, letting the man run past me and trip over the body I was in front of. I steady my aim and shoot him squarely in the back of the head. He shakes for a bit, convulsing, before falling onto his ex-colleague, this time truly dead.
Father lowers his rifle. “You wasted two shots.”
I holster my own firearm.
“And didn't pay attention to your surroundings,” he adds, making me wince.
I almost point out that he was the one who insisted there was only one guy in the clearing below and it was safe to snipe him. Instead, I let the pettiness die inside me—it won’t help me survive.
“I know. Sorry.”
“Just make sure it doesn't happen again.”
We search the bodies for anything useful. Father checks their pockets and tosses their wallets on the ground. I grab one. My fingers feel the stained-red leather on the first guy’s wallet. His name was Trevor. I find various pictures of two smiling kids; laughing at the beach, skating on the street, opening presents below a Christmas tree. No wife. I guess marriage can be hard for normal people too. Or maybe that’s the bitterness talking. Maybe he was a widower, not a bad husband or she, a bad wife. Maybe the wife was the one taking all the pictures. Either way, he’s dead.
“Lily, let’s go.”
I throw the wallet back to its owner.
We reach the cabin before the sun sets. He cooks dinner, while I keep watch on the roof. Strong smells attract them as much as sounds. Father didn't expect things to be this bad, ironically enough.
The first time we saw an infected, we backtracked the man’s steps to find out where he came from—an easy task since he bled all over, losing limbs on the way. Almost twelve miles north of our cabin, we found the McCarthy’s meat factory.
After we surveyed the grounds for weakness, it became obvious we would need to get up close and personal to clear the place out. The factory had two buildings, and a parking lot filled with employee cars. Most of the infected were still inside. It would take days to lure them out and snipe them off one-by-one, and we didn't have enough bullets. Father decided to wait it out and not rush into danger. The news shook him anyway. We were supposed to be safe, away from civilization, from riots and risk of infection. Father never expected that the factory would be a problem.
His mood hasn't improved since.
Especially now that we've been killing infected almost every day. Father thinks we’re dealing with a disease transmitted by saliva, and his theory seems correct, since all of them have bites somewhere on their bodies. Our tactic since then was to keep our distance, approach slowly, aim for the head, and if things get ugly, avoid the mouth at all costs.
It worked pretty well when it was just some stragglers, with bodies all messed up, without arms or other parts. Sniping them from the higher ground helped. The last few days, things changed; they started to show up in small groups. I’m worried about what this means, and I’m sure I’m not the only one.
A thump against the roof below tells me dinner is ready. I climb down, and get inside. We don’t have a lot of luxuries, but the cabin offers enough comforts: a pair comfy armchairs in front of a fireplace, cabinets, stove, fridge, dinner table, bunk bed and an indoor bathroom. The last one’s an especially wonderful thing to have.
Our dinner table is small, but still has three chairs. We eat in silence. The meat is nicely cooked, not too salty or burnt. Most of our days are like this, quiet and calm. It’s a routine I could get used to: waking up, cleaning and gun maintenance in the morning, hunting by noon, reading books in the afternoon, keeping watch at night, sleep.
It’s a good life, free of the rumors and judging stares I had to face in Redwood, but the empty chair taunts me. It’s hard to ignore it. Most of the time, my eyes stay firmly on the plate in front of me, but every now and then, I catch myself wondering what were the odds of spotting my mother between the trees, stumbling around with pieces of meat dangling from her dark teeth. The image strangles the insides of my chest. I did the right thing to survive. My mother ignored me for years, refusing to see me even when I pounded my clenched fists against her front door. Why should I feel guilt over her fate?
I need to distract myself.
“Do you think they’ll form a herd?” I break our routine silence. “They act like animals. Some animals herd.”
Father slices his beef many times, breaking it up in smaller parts. He used to do that for me back when I was younger. Mom scoffed at him, wondering how could he worry about me choking on food, but not care that a six year-old girl was handling a gun.
I have to stop thinking about her.
“They might scare off our game, the way things are going.”
He looks up from his plate, a sigh escaping his lips. Father doesn’t care much for talking during dinner. Or during any time, really. Especially since I’m pointing out the obvious. He trained me to worry about every possibility and scenario and expects me to know all of this already. I also suspect he doesn’t like me reminding him of his miscalculation with the factory. Dealing with frustration isn’t the Hunter family’s greatest strength.
“If they do, we’ll deal with it. Carefully,” comes his final answer.
Next day, we have to deal with it. During another hunt, we find four infected munching on some poor deer. The same deer we’ve been tracking for hours and managed to hit. I recognize Father’s bushy frown and tight jaw. He’s not pleased. At all. I learned to identify his quiet rage after years of fighting between my parents. He never raised his voice—he never needed to.
Ignoring his own rules of engagement, he strides toward them with a double-barrel shotgun in hands, while I follow him two steps behind, waiting for the inevitable.
They’re so focused on stuffing their disfigured faces with meat that Father’s shots are too quick for the first two to react. They fall down with holes on the back of their heads.
He kicks the third one in the stomach, his rotten body falling over the fourth. The shotgun goes inside the monster’s mouth, and bullets penetrate both heads. It’s over in mere seconds, and makes me proud to be my Father’s daughter.
The hunt is finished. We go back to the cabin, but instead of going inside, he marches to our pickup truck, and starts loading supplies. I don’t need him to say anything. I know he wants to go to the factory.
“Are you sure this is a good idea, Father?” I ask, as I sit inside the car, closing the door.
“We need to deal with this. Weren’t you worried about it yesterday?” He passes me a pair of rubber gloves and a surgical mask.
“Yeah, but… there’s too many.”
“Nothing a few bombs can’t solve,” he answers with a smile.
I guess caution isn’t his priority anymore. Turning my head, I see the sports bags in the back. By their presence, I know Father’s plan. It doesn’t do anything to put me at ease. Planting homemade bombs on strategic points requires getting close, too close.
He drives slowly on the dirt road, so we take about an hour to get there. It’s easy to see why we need to go on offense. Winter will eventually reach us, and our food supplies won’t last forever. If the animals run away, we end up without a lot of options. Besides, our stockpile of ammo isn’t infinite; picking up and killing them off one-by-one seems counterproductive.
The reasons are all logical, but my gut instinct tells me defensive tactics are easier. A trap system would h
elp, especially with their lack of intelligence; just put some meat against the wind, and they come running. We could build fences around the cabin, to make it safer. A front attack seems too risky.
I don’t know why I don’t say any of that out loud.
We park the truck out of view, close, but not enough to risk being overrun if the escape goes wrong. We go on foot the rest of the way. He brings the shotgun, while I’m with my trusty SIG Sauer handgun. We don’t plan on using them, since the noise would draw the things like flies in a summer barbecue. Instead, our main weapons are bowie knives and the bombs we’re carrying in three bags. I have padlocks ready too. For protection, we cover our mouths with masks and rubber gloves up to our arms.
The factory has two main structures. The first is a warehouse, probably outfitted with assembly lines, where the meat was processed for delivery to the region’s restaurants. The second, with glass windows and cars parked out front, is a two-story office building.
A huge billboard pictures the McCarthy’s logo: a pig smiling and wearing a cowboy hat. The slogan below reads: “Best pork chops in the country”.
Father’s plan is simple, in theory, at least. Clear the parking lot of the few infected, plant the bombs inside the warehouse, lock every door with a padlock, and boom. The goal is to be quick, efficient, silent, and let the explosion wipe out them.
We approach the parking lot with light, but fast, steps. The heavy bags slow us down. I’m sweating below the mask and the gloves itch a little. The cars give enough cover from the wandering infected. I count three, bumping against the vehicles, but with all limbs intact.
Father kills two from behind with his knife. I end one by sinking my own inside the back of his skull. My hand vibrates with the impact, but it feels just like stabbing a pig’s head. By the time I was thirteen, Father had placed fifty pig heads in front of me, in order to strengthen my arm. Mother thought the whole thing was borderline Satanic, but never stopped either of us from doing it.
The warehouse has three double doors, two on both sides and one on the front. There’s also a huge gate in the back for loading and unloading cargo. We lock the side ones and enter the front doors. We leave the first bag next to them, then move in.
Those Who Remain Page 8
