Surviving the Dead (Book 4): Fire In Winter

by James Cook

  “Well done. How did you talk them into it?”

  “They’re helpless against my feminine wiles.”

  “Figures. So what’s the tax situation?”

  She flipped to another page and pointed. “We have six of the eight items on the request sheet. Four of them are under quota, two barely meet it, and the other two are way over, so I’ll get them on the shelves ASAP. The clothes are going to move quickly, but I don’t think we should sell them all. Reverend Griffin stopped by yesterday and told me a lot of families are struggling right now. The cold weather has been especially hard on the children.”

  She stepped closer to me and hit me full force with her baby blues, voice pitched at that perfect balance between beseeching and admonishment. “There’s a donation drive this weekend, Gabe. We have plenty to spare.”

  A woman with a good heart and pretty eyes is a fearsome thing. They can get damn near anything they want out of a man, and all too often, they know it. I crossed my arms, tapped my foot, and pretended to think about it, but only briefly.

  It is a known fact around Hollow Rock that while my prices are very reasonable, I run a business and not a charity. However, I am occasionally afflicted by bouts of conscience that bring out my inner philanthropist and diminish large portions of my hard-earned inventory. Furthermore, I have a hard time obsessing over profit margins when I see kids running around with wool blankets for shoes and coats sewn from bed sheets stuffed with straw. Miranda knew this better than anyone.

  “Not a bad idea,” I said finally. “I’ll leave it up to you what we sell and what we give away.”

  She rewarded me with another peck on the cheek, bringing a flush up my neck. “That’s very kind of you, Gabe.”

  From the corner of my eye, I caught Hicks smirking. I cleared my throat and gestured to the clipboard. “What about the stuff from the hardware store and the gun shop?”

  Miranda flipped another page. “You really hit the jackpot there. It’s going to take me another hour or so to finish counting the ammo. About a third of the forty caliber and nine-millimeter is going to the sheriff’s department, as well as a thousand rounds of .22 long rifle for the town guard. Other than that, we’re in the clear. I suggest we sell the hunting cartridges—buckshot, 30.06, the usual—and about a quarter of the pistol caliber stuff. Also, the shovels, tools, chains, and para-cord. Those are always in demand. The rest we should put in storage. Folks are going to need it come next spring.”

  I glanced out a window at a frost-encrusted tree. “Isn’t spring supposed to start in three weeks?”

  She sighed and put her clipboard on the front counter. “Yes, but something tells me it’s going to be late this year. Again.”

  Thinking about the cold made me notice the conspicuous absence of a fire in the woodstove. I squatted in front of it and began shoveling out the old ashes. “What about this guy?” I tilted my head at Hicks. “We got anything left over for him?”

  Miranda slapped a palm against her forehead and blushed furiously. “Right! Of course. I’m so sorry, Caleb. You’re so darn quiet, I forgot you were there.”

  I stood up and swiveled a stare between the two of them. “Caleb?”

  Hicks looked at me like I was stupid. “I do have a first name, you know. Middle one too.”

  “Right. I guess I just never heard it.”

  “Probably ‘cause you never asked.”

  “What’s your middle name?”

  “Theophilus.”

  I blinked twice. “Seriously?”

  “Yep. Named after my great-granddaddy.”

  “Huh. Caleb Theophilus Hicks. I’m not sure if that makes you less of a redneck, or more.”

  For the first time I could remember, Hicks laughed. “You’re one to talk, Kentucky. You ever hear yourself when you get to drinkin’? Sound like Hank Williams with a throat full of glass. Sing like it too.”

  Miranda’s musical laughter filled the room, and I found myself smiling right along. “To hell with both o’ y’all. Go on and get your loot, Caleb Theophilus Hicks. And make sure the rest of those hooligans out there know to come in one at a time.”

  The soldier’s smile stretched the scars on his face. “Will do.”

  Once I had a fire going, I stepped outside and called Brian in. The instant he looked at me, Sanchez nailed him in the ear with a fist-sized snowball.

  “Hey, come on, man,” the boy shouted, laughing. “I wasn’t ready.”

  Sanchez reached down to reload. “Mercy is for the weak, kid. This is war.”

  Brian made it through the door a fraction of a second ahead of the next volley. White powder burst against the window as he slammed the door shut, still giggling and pawing snow out of his ear. I shook my head and motioned him in.

  “Come on, son. Take off those ratty old boots and let’s see what we got for you.”

  Brain did as I asked, then walked ahead of me in his stocking feet toward the storeroom. I noticed he had begun walking with the same silent, even tread as Eric, but kept his eyes moving and his shoulders loose the way I had taught him. It brought a smile to my face, right up until he stopped, went stock still, and flushed all the way to his ears. I crept over and peeked around the corner where he stared.

  On the other side of the store Hicks stood with his back against the wall, Miranda pressed flat against him, her hands around the back of his neck, locked in a grasping, passionate kiss.

  TEN

  I swore Brian to silence, hustled him over to a display stand, and pretended to explain to him the finer points of fishing lures until Hicks left with his percentage of the salvage. Afterward, Brian helped me stock the shelves and tidy up the store, occasionally glancing over to share a guilty grin.

  One by one, the rest of the soldiers and militiamen came in to collect their pay. There was a great deal of bitching, moaning, and attempts to negotiate for better goods, but Miranda handled them with deft firmness until they at last loaded their boxes into the wagon and trundled off. Brian followed soon after, thanking me profusely for his new boots.

  I stood on the front stoop and watched him walk away, a tight, aching knot in my chest. When I was a younger man, I had always expected I would start a family someday. Wife, kids, grandkids, all of it. But now, my forty-first birthday was looming, and still no wife, no kids, and certainly no grandchildren. None that I knew of, at least.

  There was also the small matter of the end of the world, and roughly seven billion flesh-eating monstrosities polluting the planet. Things like that tend to have a disruptive effect on family planning.

  When Brian turned the corner out of sight, I went back inside. The stove had warmed the store enough to peel off my jacket and wool sweater, so I hung them by the front door and took a seat on a low stool in the storeroom. I was quiet for a while, watching Miranda work. I might not have noticed it on any other day, but there seemed to be a bit more spring in her step. A certain jauntiness over and above her usual sunny nature. Her cheeks were flushed, and a small, delicate smile curled her lips. A secretive smile.

  “So how long has it been going on?”

  She looked up from where she knelt beside a shelf. “How long has what been going on?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  Her hands, previously occupied writing labels on cardboard boxes, hesitated for the barest instant. She recovered quickly, continuing her work with casual ease.

  “Is this one of your jokes, Gabe?” she said, affecting an irritated tone. “Because I’ll tell you, I don’t have time for it this morning. I have a lot to do before the store opens, and it would be nice if you would get off your butt and help me. I know you’re the boss and all, but I can’t do everything around here by myself.”

  Duly chastised, I grabbed a sharpie, picked up an inventory log, and went to work at another shelf. “I’m not mad you didn’t tell me, Miranda. If anything, I’m happy for you. But you have to admit, it is a bit soon. I’m just concerned, is all.”

  The scratching sound o
f her marker ceased. No rustle of clothes or shuffle of boots on concrete. The rasp of her breathing grew more rapid. Sharp footfalls marched to the end of her row, turned the corner, and stopped in front of me.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  I faced her, unabashed. “Miranda, this is me you’re talking to.”

  She glared a few moments longer, chest heaving, muscles twitching in her jaw. I stood my ground and looked her in the eye. The ice between us persisted for a solid minute before it finally began to thaw.

  “It’s not too soon.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  I put my sharpie down, walked her over to my tiny office, and gently pushed her into my chair. Sitting on my desk, I took one of her small hands in my massive paws and held it. She withstood the full effect of the patient, fatherly stare for approximately thirty seconds before her bottom lip began to tremble.

  “I’m ready, Gabe. Really, I am. I can’t spend the rest of my life hiding in this store.”

  “I know.”

  “Caleb is such a sweet guy. So polite and quiet and gentle. He’s not like the other guys around town.”

  My eyes narrowed. “What other guys?”

  “You know what I mean, Gabe. The looks, the leers, the whispers, the subtle and not-so-subtle flirtations. I’ve lived in my own skin long enough to know what men see when they look at me. Sometimes I feel like I’m not a human being; I’m just a piece of pretty meat. That’s how the Legion treated me, like a goddamn sex doll. I thought things would be different here, but now, I’m not so sure. Men are pigs no matter where you go.”

  “Present company excluded, I hope.”

  She turned her face up to me, smiling tearfully, and my heart just about crumbled. “Of course. You’re one of the good ones, just like Caleb.”

  She sighed and took her hand back, arms crossed, twisting side to side in her chair. “I feel different when I’m with him, you know? He treats me like a person. He makes me feel…I don’t know, special. He sees me for who I am and likes me anyway.”

  I reached down and brushed a stray lock of hair from her face. My hand looked like an old catcher’s mitt next to her porcelain skin.

  “Who you are, Miranda, is the strongest person I’ve ever met. Most people wouldn’t survive what you went through, much less have the courage to start over and greet each day with a smile. Sometimes it’s genuine, and sometimes it’s through tears, but you smile anyway. I’m a sorry excuse of a man, darlin’, but you give me hope I can do better with my life.”

  She picked up one of my hands and kissed an oversized knuckle. “Gabe, the only thing you’re a sorry excuse for is a singer.”

  I laughed from somewhere deep inside, picked her up like a child, and pulled her into a bear hug, careful not to hurt her. She wrapped her arms around my neck and squeezed. She was warm, and her hair smelled like homemade soap, and I wondered what a father must feel like giving his daughter away on her wedding day. When I put Miranda down, a few stray tears flowed down her cheek. I brushed them away.

  “So what’s he like anyway?” I asked. “The boy hardly talks. I barely know him.”

  She wiped her face, smoothed her hair, and sat back down. I resumed leaning on the desk.

  “I guess he’s what you might call the strong, silent type,” she said. “He thinks his scars make him ugly, but they don’t. They add something. When I first met him, he was all mysterious and handsome, and kind of dangerous looking. Very attractive. I started flirting with him a little. I thought he would be shy, but he’s not. Underneath that silence, he’s very confident and smart. Some people around town see how quiet he is and think he’s slow witted, but they’re wrong. He’s one of the smartest people I’ve ever met.”

  “Really? I mean, I never thought he was stupid or anything. I’ve seen him in action, so I know he’s clever in a fight. But you don’t have to be Albert Einstein to pull a trigger.”

  “You should try talking to him sometime, Gabe. He’ll amaze you. He likes to read, did you know that?”

  “No. What kinds of books does he like?”

  “All kinds, really, but he especially loves the classics. Dickens, Faulkner, Dante, Shakespeare. And he loves poetry too. You would never guess just looking at him.”

  “No. I wouldn’t.”

  “He writes his own. Keeps them in a journal.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Poems?”

  “Yep. Sometimes he leaves little ones on my pillow. Like this. It’s my favorite.”

  She reached in a pocket and handed me a small square of paper. I ignored the implications of its former residence upon her pillow, unfolded it, and read:

  Sapphire gaze,

  in morning aglow.

  Iron lives there,

  and courage that grows.

  No valley can hide you,

  you are brighter than day.

  I was drifting, and lost,

  and you showed me the way

  Defy you the darkness

  with laughter and light,

  for a heart is a burden

  in the empty night.

  Your smile sustains me,

  you lend me your might.

  From the depths you bring me,

  you make everything right.

  “What do you think?” she asked, smiling shyly.

  “Question is, what do you think?”

  “I think it’s beautiful.”

  I handed her back the little slip of paper. “Remember what I said about seeing the strength in you?”

  She nodded.

  “I think he sees it too.”

  *****

  Carmella Delgado runs two businesses: a laundry, and a restaurant. It’s hard to tell which one is more successful.

  She runs the laundry out of her house, and the restaurant stands a couple of blocks down the street. Constructed post-Outbreak, it is little more than a sturdy box built around a ring of fire pits with underground storage. In the summer, the cooking fires make the place unbearably hot, and the seating is all outdoors. In the winter, however, the heat is a blessing and everyone tries to squeeze inside.

  Because I like to think ahead, I had placed my order with Carmella’s son, Diego, the night before. Diego runs the place, supervised closely by a crew of old women armed with spatulas and tongs, who abide their days conquering tortillas and peppers for hungry townsfolk.

  Mijo Diego had a limited menu that changed daily. They posted the day’s options on a chalkboard by the front door, and you either ate it or you didn’t. In winter, the food was mostly preserved vegetables, reconstituted dried meat, beans, and whatever ingredients they could source from the local farms. Sometimes they even managed to get their hands on fresh venison or pork. When they did, if you wanted some, you either got in line early or you missed out.

  The smell of hot food hit me two blocks away and made my stomach gurgle. Upon arriving, I squeezed through the crowd and made my way to the folding table that passed for a counter.

  “Hola Mr. Garrett,” Diego said, smiling. “We have your food ready. Be careful though, it is still very hot.”

  He handed me a box filled with Tupperware containers still warm to the touch. I pulled it across the table and lowered my head, breathing deeply of hot peppers, roasted chicken, vegetables sautéed in bacon fat, and scrambled eggs. A stack of tortillas lay wrapped in a clean, square cloth next to the meat and vegetables.

  “As always, please make sure you return the box and containers,” Diego said politely. “They are not making any more of them, you know.”

  I assured him I would as he pulled my file from a box and marked down what I owed. He showed it to me, and I approved with a nod.

  Diego didn’t make local customers pay up front, although the rules were different for travelers. Considering what most of his regulars used for trade, it just wasn’t practical. Like most businesses in town, in order to eat at his restaurant, you had to open an account. The accounts were kept in a row of
filing cabinets behind the front table, each one in its own folder. It took a crew of six people to fetch, sort, and maintain the records. Since paper was in short supply, Diego maintained his records on thin slats of wood and wrote on them in charcoal. When someone paid their bill, he quite literally wiped their record clean. Each customer was required to settle their account before the end of the week, as well as return all containers and utensils to be washed, sterilized, and reused.

  Delinquent accounts were a rare thing; Hollow Rock is a small town, after all. But it happened from time to time, and when it did, Diego didn’t waste time or energy sending out debt collectors, or involving the sheriff’s department. His punishment for failure to pay was far, far worse.

  He simply refused to serve you again until you paid your tab.

  I had heard stories about people who got behind on their bills at Mijo Diego, and the lengths some of them went to in order to settle their account. At first, I had dismissed these stories as small town gossip.

  Then I tried the food.

  I am no longer skeptical. If anything, those people didn’t go far enough.

  The steaming bounty went into the basket on the back of my bicycle, held securely in place with a pair of bungee cords. Five minutes of pedaling brought me to the doors of the Hollow Rock Medical Clinic, where I paused to center myself and gather my courage.

  Beyond those doors was one Allison Laroux, M.D., a woman who cared deeply for me, but was madly in love with Eric Riordan. The same Eric Riordan who had taken a bullet in the leg less than eighteen hours ago while helping me detain a group of insurgents. Going after said insurgents had been my call to make, and I had known good and well the Blonde Wonder would rather die than let me face danger alone. So his injuries were, by definition, my fault.

  “Come on, Gabe. Fear is the mind killer. Just get it over with.”

  I decided to treat it like a mission. If I moved quickly, stayed quiet, and didn’t bring attention to myself, perhaps I could escape unmolested. I ducked my head, shrugged into my hood, grabbed the food, and moved. The lobby was empty save for the guard at the front desk. I recognized him; he was one of the regulars on the night shift. That worked in my favor. He was probably tired, bored, and ready for his watch to be over. I needed him to get in—the door accessing the recovery rooms was locked and only the guards had keys. As tired as he was, I could probably get past him with a minimum of noise.