“I think we should check out that house,” Doyle whispered back without turning, his eyes still locked on the windows that faced the one out of which he was peering.
“Not that I mind, but are you sure?” Rose queried, stepping up beside him to stare through the glass door.
“With that kid showing up the other day, I think we should.”
“Agreed.” James reached between Doyle and Rose and flipped open the lock.
Doyle opened the door himself, wincing at the crack and whoosh as the rubber seal let go. He stepped carefully out onto the small porch, thinking of the water-stained hallway and rot. Several boards creaked as he made his way to the steps; the others behind him tried to avoid those spots, only to find their own noisy wood. Doyle felt relieved once he got his booted feet on the grass and dirt, but that didn’t stop him from immediately turning and scanning beneath the porch. James, who had been following closely behind him, joined in the investigation, clicking on his flashlight to banish the murk in the far corners. They found gravel, spider webs, a few hardy weeds struggling against the limited light, and nothing else.
Everyone moved slowly across the backyard, watching their every step. Considering that there were no major depressions in the yard, no one expected there to be a zombie in hiding, but snakes and rodents weren’t so easily spotted. Long grass like this was perfect for infected rats; it was why, no matter how hot it got, the group wore long pants tucked into their boots for the entire journey.
At the fence, Doyle peered through the cracks, seeing nothing more than another unkempt yard. Using hand signals, he gestured for Canary to bring over the plastic slide that stood near to her. Once it was set against the wood, he used it as a step, getting just enough height to peer over the top of the fence. Nothing moved in the grass on the far side. While the yard he was in had a few weather-worn kids’ things lying around, the next one was barren. A bush huddled in each corner, having grown to nearly the height of the fence, and a small tree stood long dead, in the middle of the space. Looking straight down, Doyle could see a few stones that had once marked off an area, most likely a garden, but it had been overrun by grass and weeds, choking out whatever used to be there.
He gestured what he saw to the others and then hauled himself over. One by one they followed; Rose had to concede to James’ offer for help when she struggled to climb over on her own. Once she was over, she gave her shortened arm a disgusted look, as though it were a subordinate that constantly failed its assigned tasks. In Rose’s mind, it probably was.
There was nothing in the yard that could have made the noise they heard last night, and so the group approached the house, checking under a porch once more before stepping onto it. This porch was far more rotten than the other one had been, and Doyle had to test every placement of his foot before putting his full weight on it. Some of the boards were disturbingly spongy. Canary followed him, and the two peered through all the windows they could reach, while Rose and James waited on the grass.
When Doyle and Canary still couldn’t see anything that might have made the sound, they returned to the dirt and signed their lack of findings to the others. They all agreed there was a possibility that the sound had come from deeper in the house, or even upstairs, but no one really believed it had. They all thought it had originated from the yard, and the fact that they found nothing that could have created it was disturbing. Just in case, James and Doyle peeked into the other nearby yards, but there was nothing obvious in them either.
Signing slowly, often having to spell out words because she couldn’t make an accurate sign, Rose said they should forget about it and move on. They were already being extra vigilant in watching out for themselves; this wouldn’t change much. Doyle nodded his agreement, and then led the group around the side of the house.
The street was virtually empty, with only a few cars remaining in driveways. They were probably abandoned by two-car families who needed only one to get to the evacuation centre. There weren’t very many trees on this street either, just a few out of control bushes here and there. On the plus side, it meant there wasn’t much to hide anything, but unfortunately that also included themselves. Sticking as closely as he could to the fronts of houses, Doyle led his little team. He had begun to think this was a stupid trip, that he had put himself and others in danger for a dumb reason. He refused to turn around, however. For him, this was no longer just about books, but about proving to himself that he could still survive outside the Black Box fences; that people didn’t have to remain so scared and huddled together. As he dashed across a street, he hoped he wasn’t going to be proven wrong.
***
The four of them lay huddled together in the shade beneath a long-haul trailer, peering out around the rear wheels. Doyle could see the bookstore, a small, one storey, boxy-looking structure they should have reached either their first day out, or at least by the morning after that. There were faded signs hanging from a few windows, and no security measures could be seen beyond them. One of the windows had already been smashed, whether deliberately or from a storm it was impossible to say at that distance. Between the trailer they hid beneath and the bookstore, fourteen zombies had been counted.
“Fifteen,” Canary breathed. “There’s another over by that large fallen tree branch.”
Doyle looked for the branch she meant. He squinted, not knowing what she had seen, until a small flash of yellow resolved itself. A child zombie was entangled in some smaller branches on the far side, partially hidden by the larger section of tree limbs.
“We have two options,” James sighed. “Either fight our way through, killing them all, or continue to lie here and wait for them to stagger away.”
“I don’t think they’re goin’ to stagger away,” Rose huffed. “Most of them ain’t even movin’, just standin’ there, and those that are, keep followin’ that damn bird.”
Along with the moving corpses, there was one completely dead person lying facedown on the pavement. A bird, some sort of hawk or osprey, kept alighting on the poor individual’s back, taking a few pecks at his flesh, and then taking off again when the zombies tried to grab it. The bird would circle a bit or land nearby, the zombies that had been able to track its movements, shuffling after it. Once they were far enough away from the corpse, the bird would swoop in for a few more bites and then repeat the process. Doyle had to admit, it was a fairly clever bird.
“Maybe we can lure them off,” Doyle suggested.
“That would require someone to be bait.” Rose was shaking her head as she whispered. “In my experience, unless the runner knows exactly where they’re goin’ and knows the route has a very high chance of being clear, such plans don’t work so well. You have to pre-plan a really good hidin’ spot, or some sort of barricade to stop the zombies. It’s doable, but we’ll need to start plannin’ now.”
“I think we should just take them out,” Canary decided. “There’s not that many of them, fewer than that herd we bumped into, and none of them are acting like they’re very smart or fast. I know you can’t always tell that just by looking at them, but I figure the bird would have caused it to reveal itself if there were one.”
Doyle continued to weigh the options in his mind, conscious of the fact that everyone was looking at him. This was his mission; he had to call the shots. He scanned the area again, counting the zombies, then turned and looked behind them at the way they had come.
“Okay, we’ll take them out. But first, I want to see what’s through that doorway behind us. We should have an escape route, just in case.”
The others agreed, and they all crawled backward out from under the truck and then dashed back into the alleyway from which they had entered the street. On the right side of the alleyway, a metal door with no handle led into the one-story building. James dropped his bag and removed a slim piece of metal from it, which he used to jimmy open the door. Doyle entered first, his flashlight sweeping the corners and his axe at the ready. The small group made short work of
searching the space, which appeared to be some sort of trash room. Several trash bins, just small enough to fit out the doorway, stood gathered along the walls, a few of them at capacity with garbage that had been thrown away long ago. It had either lost its stink during that time or was weak enough that Doyle didn’t notice it.
“All right, so this is our fall-back position. We’ll prop the door open, and if we’re forced to retreat, we’ll duck in here, shut the door, and barricade it with these trash bins. Everyone agreed?”
The other three nodded. Doyle hoped they weren’t forced to run away. He took a cursory glance through the other door that led from the trash room into the rest of the building, a coffee shop based on what he saw, but pursuing zombies could easily get in through its broken front windows if they missed the alley.
“Okay, Rose, I want you to borrow James’ rifle.”
“Why?”
“You’re going to be on overwatch, on top of the truck.”
“James should do it, he’s the better shot.”
Doyle gritted his teeth, trying to figure out how to say what he wanted to say without pissing her off.
“It’s ’cause of the arm, isn’t it?” Rose interpreted his expression. “All the more reason James should do it. I’d need help to climb up on the truck and would get stuck up there if no one could help me down. Besides, it’s been far too long since I used a rifle.”
“She has a point, I really should be the one up there,” James sided with her.
Canary tentatively nodded her head in agreement.
“Fine, James is on overwatch then.”
Rose slipped off her bag. “Canary? Wanna help me get this on?” She pulled a bundle of straps and metal out of the bag.
“What is that?” Doyle’s brows pinched together. He knew Rose was constantly making things to help her with her handicap, but this one was new to him.
Rose slid her short arm through the straps, all the way up to her shoulder. Canary helped her tighten them. A chunk of metal, shorter than a baseball bat, but rounded on the end like one, became attached to what remained of her forearm.
“Wouldn’t a knife be better?” James wondered, clearly never having seen the device either.
“Nope,” Rose shook her head, flexing her arm to test the tightness. “This is more to hold a zombie back,” she explained, placing the end of the metal against Doyle’s chest as an example. “I don’t want it to be sharp. I don’t want to stab a zombie with somethin’ that’s attached to me in case it gets stuck.”
“Have you ever tested it?” Doyle asked as it was removed from his chest.
“Not really. I haven’t been outside the walls since I made it, and I could bruise someone pretty bad if I tested it against them.”
“I’m sure it’ll work great.” Canary smiled and patted Rose’s shoulder, nothing about her suggesting she was lying. She seemed to think Rose’s contraption was actually useful.
“Okay then. Everyone put your masks on.”
A variety of masks were taken out of bags and secured over faces. James didn’t put his on completely, letting his bandana hang around his neck and his ski goggles sit on his head. Since he would be up on the truck, he wouldn’t be in much danger from spraying blood. Canary wore a white painting mask with a pair of swim goggles over her eyes, and Rose wore a full-face mask, her expressions completely visible beneath the Plexiglas. Doyle had a firefighter’s mask, the upper half transparent, while the lower half was covered by a breathing apparatus, minus the connection to an oxygen tank. Because of his former profession, he never found himself uncomfortable in it.
Once packs were returned to backs, and everyone nodded that they were ready, they headed back outside. James went straight to the truck, easily scaling the side of the cab and reaching the top of the trailer, where he lay down with his rifle in a position where they could see his hand signals.
Doyle, Rose, and Canary went around the front of the truck where they would be making their stand. Canary stood closest to the truck. Her screwdriver was the shortest weapon and needed the least amount of room to wield; her other hand gripped her pistol as back up. Doyle took the outside, giving himself quite a bit of room to swing his axe, while Rose was in the middle where the other two could watch out for her.
A trio of zombies noticed their appearance right away and began their awkward shuffle toward the three humans. Doyle set his feet and gripped his axe with both hands, ready to swing it like a baseball bat. One clean hit was always the best.
The first to arrive went straight for Doyle, its long, bony fingers reaching for him, completely oblivious of the threat to its being. This one was old, its skin grey and peeling, revealing its innards. The moment it was close enough, a distance Doyle knew well from years of practice, he swung the axe. It thunked into the zombie’s skull, nearly cleaving off the entire top of it. The dead thing went down instantly, not a twitch remaining. Doyle ripped his axe back out, the blade drooling thick, dark blood behind it. He turned just in time to see Canary put down one of the zombies with a lightning quick jab to the side of the head. Her screwdriver was in and out of the thing before it had finished taking a step, only to collapse at her feet, a small round hole now in its temple. The third zombie was just about to reach Rose.
“Don’t help,” she demanded, spotting Doyle taking a step closer.
Doyle hesitated, thinking he should help her anyway, but his pause was just long enough for the thing to reach her. Rose thrust with her self-made prosthetic, not hard enough to knock it over, but enough to cause it to stumble back a step, a chunk of loose skin sliding off the top of its head like a bad wig. She continued to hold the thing at bay, letting it paw at the metal against its bony chest, the thing too stupid to realize it wasn’t actually a part of her. Rose swung the hammer then. She must have built her arm extension with this in mind, as the zombie was at the perfect distance. The thing’s skull cracked, its legs giving out beneath it. While it was crumpled but still moving, Rose swung again, her aim perfect as she smashed the exact same spot. Her hammer broke through the skull and flattened the brain beneath, ceasing the zombie’s movements for good.
Rose turned and grinned at Doyle, the blood spotting her mask seeming to spot her face.
“Pretty good,” Doyle complimented her, his voice muffled, “now let’s see you do it several more times.” He pointed to where the rest of the zombies were now coming for them, having heard or seen their fellow rotters go down.
The zombies came at them in uneven clumps. Some reached them alone, while others were in bunches. Doyle didn’t bother to count how many. There were definitely more than they had counted while under the truck, several of them appearing from around corners and out of broken shop windows. None came from behind, however, which was the real worry. James kept an eye out, but didn’t have to fire. With each zombie the trio on the street took down, they moved back a step, keeping those that had fallen out from underfoot. The fallen bodies worked to their advantage, as the next wave of zombies found themselves tripping over the sprawled limbs and torsos. It was a chaos of blood and sweat, Doyle’s arms eventually tiring from the constant swinging. Rose tired even faster, having to haul around her prosthetic. By the end, she was accepting help, often using the punt to move a zombie either Doyle or Canary’s way, depending on who wasn’t currently occupied. She frequently swatted them to the ground near Doyle, where he could chop into the zombies with gravity’s assistance.
When at last his eyes could perceive no more immediate threats, Doyle looked up to James, who held up one finger and pointed. The last zombie was making its painfully slow way toward them. It was the boy that had been tangled up in the tree branch. He was young, too young to have been born before the Day. He must have been freshly turned, his skin not yet sagging. Now that he was heading toward them, Doyle could see that he wasn’t tangled in the tree branches, so much as he was pierced by them. The boy’s little legs were straining to haul the large tree branch behind him, suggesting he was a sm
art one. The regular dummies never used strength. Over the past few years, a number of interesting facts were learned about the undead, such as the smart ones were created only by bites from other zombies, not by dying of other causes and then turning because of the airborne infection that lay dormant within their systems. So the boy had been born after the Day, recently bitten, turned, and then impaled on a large tree branch.
“I got this one,” Doyle told the others, stepping through the killing field to meet him. Behind him, James climbed down off the truck, but undoubtedly readied his rifle again once his feet were planted.
Doyle approached the zombie carefully. If it suddenly slipped loose of the tree, it would become very dangerous, very fast. Tiny growls and snarls issued from the dead boy’s throat, his teeth snapping punctuation. The branches made it a bit difficult for Doyle to get into a good position. When he was finally ready, he swung for the boy’s forehead. At the last possible moment, the boy lunged, one of the branches holding him snapping. This caused Doyle to catch him in the neck instead of the head, his axe slicing through his weak flesh and becoming buried in the largest part of the branch. The head continued to snap as it fell and rolled toward Doyle’s ankles. Doyle responded by squawking and stumbling backward, tripping over his own feet and landing painfully on the pavement. The head stopped out of reach, its teeth still gnashing.
“Yeah, you got this one,” Rose teased, stepping up beside him. She used her prosthetic to jab the head away from Doyle and the large tree branch. Once in the open, she held it as still as possible while Canary bent down and stabbed her screwdriver through it.
“Smooth,” James chuckled as he helped Doyle to his feet.
Doyle didn’t bother to dignify their friendly taunts with a response; he just walked over to the branch and set to work pulling out his axe. It was wedged in pretty good and took several tugs to come free; Doyle stumbled backward again when it did, although this time he kept to his feet.
Defensive Instinct (Survival Instinct Book 4) Page 19
