“We’re never going to find supplies if we keep running into burnt houses,” Lindsay says grumpily. She’s not happy with the way things are going and I can’t say I blame her. Everything about today is opposite to what she is usually doing. Her life is drastically changing from what she had originally settled into. I understand how difficult that must be. She’s used to finding a place and sucking it dry before moving on, and even then, it’s not too far from where she was originally that she moves. When I was stuck in the parlor, it nearly drove me insane. I am constantly on the move, unlike her. So I know exactly how she feels at the moment.
“We just have to get away from Cincinnati,” I tell her, moving onward. “We’ll find better spots elsewhere.”
“Elsewhere?” Her voice is mocking, as if I’m a naïve little boy dreaming of a better world just over the distant horizon. It bothers me.
“Yes, elsewhere,” I repeat.
“Wake up, Charlie,” Lindsay says with a disappointed voice. “The world is fucked. You and I are probably the last sane people left in the world. We’re sitting on top of a ticking time bomb—no! A fucking egg timer. We’re just running out the clock and when it goes DING we’re all dead. It’s a losing game we’re playing, Charlie.”
“No, it’s not,” I answer with as much certainty as I could hope for.
“Oh yeah? So where’s the good guys, Charlie?” Lindsay laughs and I don’t dare look back at whatever smug gesture she’s making. “Where are all the people building houses rather than burning them down? Where are the people fucking and having babies instead of killing and eating people? Where are all those people at?”
“Dying off, just like us,” I answer.
“Losing battle,” she mocks.
I stop, snapping without a moment’s hesitation. My vision blurs and I know that I’m shouting at her, but the words just come pouring out. “What do you know, Lindsay? Huh? Did you see a lot of good people while you were tracking and killing your friends? You don’t know a god damn thing about the good people in the world because those good people left are getting real fucking smart, Lindsay. They’re on to people like you and me. They hunker down and they hide. They’re waiting for the clock to definitely run out and then when people like you and me are dead, they’re going to come up from their little holes and save the world. So stop bitching about other people saving the world and start acting on for the better or you’re just another one of the psychos they’re waiting to watch die.”
She stares at me for a moment, her face an expressionless mask. It drives me insane the way she’s just standing there. I know that this is it. This is the moment where she flips me the bird and just walks away. My little companion is done with this. I’ve pushed her too far and she’s finally broken under me. Good job, Charlie. I’m definitely making friends.
I don’t know why I’m still talking to her. “A week before you found me, I stumbled across a farmhouse, not too different from this one,” I say, haunted by the past. “I didn’t make myself or my intentions known and a guy attacked me, or so I thought. Turns out he was just defending himself and his fiancée.”
“Who was he?” she asks.
“Some guy named Jason,” I shrug. “I killed him before we could really start talking.” There’s a change in her posture. It’s subtle, but I pick up on it. “His fiancée pulled a gun on me. She’s probably the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. Anyway, instead of killing me, she kills herself, claiming there’s nothing left for her in this world.”
“Were these some of your supposed good guys?” She’s trying to sound like a bitch to keep me riled up.
“Unquestionably,” I say, turning and walking away. If she doesn’t want to hear the rest of the story, then fine. I keep walking and don’t hear her following. In that moment, I decide that this is our parting. This is the goodbye to our short little fellowship.
Then I hear her walking. “How do you know they were good guys?” she asks. “God, why the fuck are we saying good guys? This isn’t an eighties movie.”
I ignore her comments. She’s addicted to inane babbling. “He was growing plants,” I answer.
She stops. “What the fuck did you just say?”
I turn and look at her, stopping as well. “He was growing plants. He had plans to grow hundreds, maybe thousands of them. He had equations too, ways to build compost and make new dirt. I’d never seen anything like it. There were hydroponic schemes and greenhouse designs. He was just some kid from Arizona, so if he was figuring it out, then I have no doubt that someone else out there is figuring it out as well.”
“Then why the hell did you kill him?” Lindsay shouts.
“I didn’t know this beforehand,” I shout back. “It wasn’t like he was advertising it and giving me much of a chance to just walk away.”
“God damn it, Charlie.” Lindsay runs her hands through her hair, pacing as if she’s going over something in her head, a thousand scenarios. I remember the feeling. I remember feeling the same exact way standing in that upstairs room and finally realizing who it was I had just killed. It was an overwhelming and earthshattering emotion to find that hope was not just a vague concept on the horizon but it had become something vastly more tangible and instead of hope, there was possibility. We had moved out of abstract concepts and into reality with Jason’s farmhouse. I knew in my heart that there were others out there. There were others who had the exact same idea and were undoubtedly better equipped. They would be building the world Jason envisioned and I wanted to be part of it. “Do you remember where the house is?”
“I do,” I nodded.
“You have to take me there.” She runs up to me and grabs my shoulder, pulling me around to face her. “You got to show me what it is they had there.”
“When I find my girls,” I tell her. “Once I’ve found them, I’m going to do exactly what it is he envisioned. I’m going to start building a better future.”
She lets go of my arm and shakes her head. “God damn it, Charlie,” she says again, breathless.
“I know,” I answer.
We walk for what seems like hours. The burnt farmhouses become more and more foreboding so we adjust to head south again like the original plan. We’ll walk until the Ohio River and then head directly west. I don’t bother checking the map, but when we pass over a larger road, we search for any vehicles that might be of use. Cincinnati appears to be a tough place and the range of its devastating populace is becoming more and more impressive. Most of the cars are burnt out husks that have been rolled or smashed into. What few vehicles are left are well worn and abandoned after the gas has been run out of them. My patience for whoever is doing this is running out quickly and I want ten minutes with whoever it is. Nearly every abandoned, intact, vehicle is the kind that would be perfect for what we need if they had gas. Of course, I’m not that lucky and eventually I give up the search and keep walking south. The world reminds me of an empty house, slowly being torn down. There’s nothing beautiful anymore. There’s nothing left to appreciate.
“I need to shit,” Lindsay says finally.
“What?” I turn back to her and before I can say another word, she’s squatting and pulling her pants down. “Lindsay, are you kidding me?” I look away for the sake of modesty, but I’m dealing with a woman who no longer believes in that sort of thing. I take a peek back, just to make sure she isn’t having a laugh at me, but all I see is her looking around until she catches me.
“Keep a watch,” she snaps. “Pervert.”
“Says the woman shitting in the open.” I shake my head and look toward the west. There’s nothing to see. There’s nothing to watch for. There isn’t a damn thing out here. “You don’t have a drop of shame in you,” I accuse her.
“Why? Should I wait until the next bathroom we come across?” Her words are drenched in a marinade of sarcasm.
“You’re a piece of work, Lindsay,” I shake my head.
“You see that?” she asks me.
I turn
and look toward the south where she’s pointing as she pulls up her pants. I do see what it is she’s pointing at. There’s a dot on the horizon that draws me like a moth to a flame. Who cares if it’s anything of true importance, but it’s a sign of the old world. I start walking, listening to her as she keeps in line behind me. There are more buildings to the south and I quickly realize that it’s a small town that we’re encroaching upon. As we let each minute pass, one step in front of the other, I begin to see that one of them is far more promising that the other.
“It looks like a home improvement store,” Lindsay shouts to me.
I look over my shoulder and hold my finger up to my lips. It certainly does look like a home improvement store and I immediately feel excited. There will be supplies in a home improvement store. There will be hammers and equipment there for us to look through. I start to pick up the pace. I feel like a child at Christmas. I feel like we’ve found our first bit of luck in a long time.
Chapter Eight
“What are we waiting for?” Lindsay complains.
I stand perfectly still, listening. This is much harder with a woman that has the attention span of a four year old with attention deficit disorder. I look over at her with a scowl written across my features. She’s being annoying. She looks at me and immediately stops talking. She holds up her binoculars and looks over the town on the horizon once more. I don’t care how many times she asks, I’m not going into that town not knowing who is there. I look at my stump. The last time I did that, I still had both of my hands. Getting maimed tends to change the way you see things.
“Get comfortable,” I tell her.
“Oh Jesus, Charlie,” she grumbles as I drop my pack. “We’re not waiting out here all night, are we?”
I hold out my right hand and she hands me the binoculars with a grumble and something that sounds close to a curse before she stomps off a few feet. The binoculars are good, heavy equipment that she had to have stolen from someone who knew exactly what they were doing when they picked them up. I wonder if she knows just how good they are. Looking at the horizon, I see the home improvement store again and watch for any signs of movement. It’s been quiet for hours, but that doesn’t fool me. Blanchester had been quiet for hours. Turning the binoculars northwest, I search the horizon for signs of Zombies wandering the wasteland. The pack that had made their way through Blanchester had come from Cincinnati. They might be wandering in all directions.
When Lindsay had been taking care of me, back when I was hardly lucid and barely keeping my eyes open, I remember her telling me that the dust was toxic. She said something about it leeching its way into my skin and that’s where the Zombies came from. People who were caught out in the enormous blowing torrents of sand and dust. I had been afraid when she told me that. I had spent my share of time in the storm, but she had assured me that I was just fine. I hope she’s right. But as I think about the Zombies fleeing Cincinnati and whatever horrors lurk there, I can’t help but picture the way Detroit had been when the army of killers invaded from the north, right on my heels. Hundreds were fleeing in every direction they could to escape all the fighting. Now, knowing what I do about the Zombies, I wonder how many of those fleeing refugees had been caught in storms, unable to find shelter out on the wastelands when the winds rose. What a horrible way to deteriorate. To be caught up in a whirlwind of toxic ash and dust that slowly turned you into a mindless horror, feeding on the flesh of those hiding.
Part of me wonders what it is that keeps them moving in packs. If one of them is wounded or dying, they turn on their vulnerable friend and tear what little flesh is on them apart. But what keeps them social up until that point? What barrier keeps them from just eating one another, actually? Maybe it’s the primordial need for companionship. I look at Lindsay and think about how desperate I was to keep her around. We are from different worlds, but in the end, I want her here with me. If a flying saucer were to hover over my head and send down a beam of light that sucked Lindsay up into oblivion, I would be left bitter and hateful towards everything. Why? I barely know her after all. It is companionship. It is the desire to not be alone. I look back toward the town. Maybe that’s why the Zombies resist the urge to just kill each other—that is, until the temptation is just too great.
I lower the binoculars and sigh. The sun has long since fallen beyond the horizon and I can feel the cold sweeping across the barren world. Lindsay has her arms wrapped around herself and she’s shivering. When I look over at her, she tries to act like she’s fine, but I can tell she isn’t.
“Alright.” I stuff the binoculars in my bag. “We go in quiet and we go in cautious.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Lindsay smiles. “Try not to lose another hand.” I look at her, shocked that she would even think to joke about that. I want to punch her in the face. I want to wrap my good hand around her throat and strangle her. Clearly, this is the reaction that she was wanting. She bursts out laughing and buckles over as her whole body ripples with laughter. I feel myself blushing as I continue glaring at her. “Too soon?” she gets out before I start storming off toward the improvement store. “Poor sport!” she shouts at me before chasing after me.
The first obstacle of the improvement store is the exterior fence. I reach it well before Lindsay makes it. Even for all of my injuries, she still is the slower, more cautious one when it comes to venturing across the wastes. I glance back at her. She’s hunkered down with her bow ready, an aluminum arrow set on the drawstring. I think the word is nocked. Or is it notched? I look back at the fence, giving up the vernacular of archery. Dropping to my knee, I listen for any sounds. My pause isn’t in vain.
I can hear Lindsay approaching, but I also hear something inside the improvement store. There’s movement beyond the chain link fence. The sound is familiar, like footsteps shuffling slowly and I instinctively know that they belong to the Zombies. As Lindsay makes her way next to me and drops down onto a knee, I hold a finger to my lips and then tap my ear. There’s no prior establishment of non-verbal communication, but she picks up on it. She nods to me and we both are in sync.
Leaning close to her, I whisper. “I don’t think I can climb the fence without hitting my stump.”
“So go around,” Lindsay grins devilishly.
I try to say something to her, but she’s already climbing the fence with one hand. I watch her enviously and completely useless. She swings her legs over the top of the fence and drops down into a crouch with as much agility as a cat. There is something miraculously silent about her. I watch her without the words to say something witty or encouraging. She’s on her own until I can find an opening. I look past her into the depths of the improvement store where I know there are Zombies. Lindsay looks back and nods to me, encouraging me to find my way in.
We separate and I don’t like it one bit. I’m wandering helplessly around the exterior of an enormous improvement store. I find the corner and start heading south once more, but it’s then that I see the Zombies. And they see me. There are three of them lingering between the awnings that hid the weathered stacks of wood that have been abandoned in the wake of the world’s end. These three are still in their clothes, but their gaunt faces with their sharp features give away what they truly are. They move lazily, tired from a day of wandering and hunting, no doubt. I start to move faster once they see me. Even with a chain link fence between me and them, I still feel naked under their gazes. I rush, moving faster and faster as their dragging footsteps follow. One of them grunts and shrieks, as if to stimulate the others into better chase.
The north face of the fence that surrounds the property has been plowed in by a large pickup truck which has rolled in the improvement store entrance. The gate has also been bashed in by a vehicle, but there’s no sign of it, other than the yawning, buckled gates. Fortunately for me, I’ve found my entrance. But unfortunately, so have the Zombies. Something smacks hard into the outside of the pickup truck and I see that it’s sprouted an arrow. I look at it and then
to where it came from. Lindsay completely missed the Zombies charging toward my position. I look at her and she doesn’t give me a second thought. Another arrow hisses past me and disappears into the darkness of the night. She almost hit me. The shock of it rolls through my head, battling with panic as I pull my machete free and ready myself to fight off three of these horrors.
I can’t help but wonder what happened to the marksman who killed all those Zombies who were trying to kill me days ago? Where was she at right now? A third arrow hisses past me, rattling the chain link before it clatters against the road behind me and I know that I’m screwed. Before the first one reaches me, the Zombie directly behind him drops. It is too dark to distinguish whether these freaks are male or female, but I think it’s a woman. An arrow bursts through her forehead and she stumbles forward and face plants hard. The grasping monster closest to me doesn’t even pay attention to her demise, his eyes are all on me. The fellow bringing up the rear looks at the dead Zombie before him and then slowly looks over his shoulder, spotting Lindsay.
She’s on her own.
The Zombie closest to me is just inches away. I wave my bladed stump and the blade sinks deep into the creature’s chest, ripping open a jagged slash that would have sent any rational person screaming into hysteria. But, as much as it hurts my attacker, it hurts me more. My savaged arm riddled with uncontrollable agony, I swing wild, missing my target before he collides with me. He slams into me with all his strength and sends me flying onto my back and he’s coming down with me. Pain flashes throughout my back and chest as I try to cope with the sensation of hell inside of me. All I can think to do is stab. I sink my machete into flesh, but at this point, I’m not sure if it’s me or him. I don’t know if I can distinguish within the sea of pain. The Zombie roars and I take that as a good sign. Forcing my stump up, I catch the creature and just start ripping and shredding in any direction, refocusing the pain that is filling me with each attempt to use the knife on my stump.
LEFT ALIVE (Zombie series Box Set): Books 1-6 of the Post-apocalyptic zombie action and adventure series Page 24
