Who had told him that? Dean wondered. The nurse had been with Ella or him the entire time, and the nurse hadn’t mentioned forty-eight hours of bedrest. Of course, it was the logical thing to do. Dean wouldn’t risk Ella’s health just because he felt slighted by their holier than thou attitude. “I’ll check with Justin,” Dean decided.
“No need. The young man shall stay to comfort the young woman. You should return to your compound to check on your other member.”
Cunning, it was exactly what Dean was thinking. Moving her again could be dangerous. Not to mention, the roads were most likely icing up again. What if he had an accident with Ella in the car? On the flip side of the coin, if Dean didn’t return to the resort, Luther might worry.
“That settles it. See you bright-eyed and bushy-tailed in the morning,” Dean said.
Father Jacob merely nodded.
Dean peeked in on Ella and Justin. “Is she better?”
“She’s sleeping. She’s gonna be okay. Really. I know it in my heart,” Justin proclaimed.
It seemed like an odd statement coming from Justin. “You mind staying the night? I should let Luther know how Ella is,” Dean said.
“Ye-ah, he’s probably super worried.”
“Hang in there, son. I’ll return in the morning.” Dean rubbed Justin’s tense shoulders before he left.
Chapter 7
“Thanks for the ride,” Justin Chen said as he got out of the truck. Justin quickly relocked the gate. He was super jazzed. Ella was doing great. She hadn’t lost the baby. And, they were getting married. Tomorrow! He couldn’t wait to tell Dean and Luther. He practically skipped his way through the Anti-Z-Maze, which he called the AZM.
“Where’d you come from? We thought you were staying at the church for another week,” Luther exclaimed when Justin walked into the resort’s dining room.
“Ye-ah, what a relief. The past three days drove me cray-cray. Brother Michael dropped me off,” Justin said, nodding to Dean.
“How’s Ella?” Dean asked.
“Super-duper! Tomorrow’s the wedding!” Justin announced.
“So soon?” Dean rubbed his chin.
“Why wait? They’re planning an awesome feast for us. I promised we’d be there first thing in the morning. I need to bring Ella’s wedding dress. And the veil,” Justin rambled.
“What’s the groom wearing?” Luther asked.
Justin felt his face go rigid. “Dude, I’m getting married tomorrow. And I don’t have a thing to wear!”
Luther and Dean exchanged big-eyed glances, and then they all burst into laughter.
“I’m sure we can rustle up somethin’ for you,” Dean replied. “As I recall, there’s a trunk of costumes in one of the cabins on the lower forty.”
“Awe-some!’ Justin nearly sang.
“Better wait ’til morning,” Dean started.
“Dude, I can’t wait.”
“Alrighty then, let's gear up. Should get there before dark, beings we don’t have that area of the resort locked-down.”
***
Dean wasn’t kidding. One of the cabins had a closet and an old trunk crammed with flashy, gaudy costumes. Justin ruffled through the piles of silky, sequined clothing.
Dean laid out a black tux, matching pants, and a white silky shirt on the bed. “Looks like these will fit you,” Dean said, adding a pair of black suspenders.
Justin rolled his eyes. “Boring.” Justin waved a paisley pink cummerbund and bow tie. “Now this is—awesome.” He put on a white top hat and did a little dance number with a gold-tipped walking stick. “Ella will love it!”
“Good God Almighty, Father Jacob will kick us out for sure,” Luther bellowed.
“Ye-ah, maybe it will put some zest into Father frown-face.” Justin smirked.
“Might have to wear my sunglasses,” Dean gawked, shading his eyes in jest.
“It’ll be the best wedding since the zompoc. Even the church people are excited,” Justin said. Though, they were sorta weird. They always talked in secret code. They treated him like a celebrity when Father Jacob wasn’t around and stared at him when they thought he wasn’t looking. So besides all the “Thou shalt not do this or that,” they were kinda cool.
***
Justin had set the mini-alarm clock for five a.m and had bugged Luther and Dean to set their clocks several times. He couldn’t be late. No more excuses. Be there or be square. It was his motto. When the alarm finally did go off bright and early, he was a nervous wreck. He stumbled to the dining room to find Luther and Dean greeting him with—pancakes. Eat? At a time like this?
“Guys, we don’t have time for breakfast.” Justin couldn’t hide his exasperation.
“You need the calories. You don’t want to pass out at the altar,” Dean said, loading his plate with a stack of pancakes.
“Who made pancakes?” Justin’s stomach growled watching Luther slather a stack with Aunt Jemima’s. They hadn’t had pancakes in months.
“I know a thing or two about cooking.” Luther wiggled his eyebrows.
“You guys are the best friends, ever.” Justin couldn’t resist, and he grabbed a plate.
“Now, eat up,” Dean ordered with a smile. “I’ll pack the Jeep. Where’s Ella’s dress?”
“It’s still in her room. In the closet. Don’t forget the veil. And grab the white shoes by the dresser,” Justin garbled with a mouthful. He was anxious to get there for the day-long celebration. Sure, he was nervous, and at the same time, he was ready—ready to spend the rest of his life with Ella.
He thought about that awesome day he had first met her at the Sweet Suites hotel in Vacaville soon after the Super Summer flu had zombified most of the U.S. He had fallen for Ella at first sight with her gorgeous, super-huge, brown eyes and her pixie haircut. Ella had been so shy. He cherished the days in Sacramento when they lived on the roof, camping out, hiding from the Stockton Boys while he stealthily scavenged the nearby homes for food, supplies, and cool surprises. It had been the best time of his life. Well, except for the zombie-apocalypse part.
“Luther, want to give me a hand with the door? Don’t want to soil her dress,” Dean called out.
The front door to the resort slammed shut. “Good God Almighty! Nobody’s going nowhere,” Luther thundered. He returned to the dining room with the wonkiest expression on his face. Justin freaked for a second.
“Guys, you’re just messing with me.” Justin ignored them and poured more syrup over his pancakes.
Dean stood in the doorway shaking his head. “Now son, before you get all riled up—”
Wait. Dean wasn’t one for joking around. Justin dropped his fork. It clattered to his plate. He ran to the resort’s entrance. “Holy shit!” Nearly three feet of snow and it was still coming down.
“Looks like we’re in the middle of a dad-gum blizzard,” Dean grumbled. “Sorry to say, I never did commandeer a snow plow.”
“There has to be a snow shovel around here somewhere,” Justin yelped, making a beeline for the maintenance room.
“And do what? It’d take a week to shovel your way to the church,” Luther said.
“What about the wedding?” Justin bemoaned.
“It’s a tough break, son. Afraid Ella and Father Jacob’s people are snowed in just as much as we are,” Dean said matter-of-factly.
“For how long?” Justin couldn’t believe his bad luck.
“Reckon, it depends on good old Mother Nature,” Dean said, securing the front door.
Justin ran to his room in a torrent. Ella, he shouted in his mind. For a millisecond, he saw a brief image of Ella lost in the snow, crying out his name. Ella, I promise, we’ll get married soon, he avowed as if trying to alleviate her fears. Or, was it his own fear eating away at is heart?
Chapter 8
Scarlett Lewis poured a kettle of boiling water over a bag of English Breakfast black tea. She’d been out of coffee for months, and the tea was the best thing she had for a caffeine fix. Actually, the once w
ell-stocked bug out was running out of all sorts of things, except for the buckets of dehydrated powder mixes, which she was afraid to use. She didn’t trust the obscure brands, their labels boasting a 30-year shelf life. Yeah, right. The people who resorted to such food couldn’t exactly report the manufacturer to the FDA if they came down with botulism.
It had rained all week. Based on the forest’s lush greenery, she supposed all the rain was normal for the western slope of the Sierras. Meanwhile, Scarlett was restless, cooped inside the treehouse. Twila hadn’t been the same since the tea party incident and moped the days away, shutting herself off. Scarlett had analyzed the disturbing incident over and over. She still didn’t understand why the creeper-child hadn’t attacked Twila. Had Scarlett overreacted? Perhaps Scarlett was the delusional one. Not Twila. And she began worrying over the possibility Katie was a homeless child in need of help.
Scarlett picked up a drawing from yesterday. Twila’s drawings usually gave her insight into Twila’s emotions. She wasn’t a psychologist but had taken many college courses in child psychology. Besides, it didn’t take a master’s degree to see the disturbing changes in the drawings.
Twila loved drawing whimsical landscapes with brightly-colored flowers, rainbows, butterflies, and fairies. Just holding yesterday’s drawing gave her the heebie-jeebies. It was a colorful picture of a tea party under a tree. The drawing had been scribbled over with black crayon, and a black smudge had ripped through the paper where the crayon had apparently snapped in two. From anger? She put the broken black crayon in the box.
Scarlett was beside herself on how to deal with the poor child. Who knows what she had gone through before Zac had found her all alone. Scarlett couldn’t possibly give Twila the therapy she needed. In time, she thought. Time heals wounds. Or buries the wounds under layers of scar tissue where they fester for a lifetime.
She decided Twila needed a week-long break from homework. After all, as a teacher herself, she realized how important breaks were for morale, allowing Twila to work out her issues during playtime, whether it was playing with her make-believe kitty and friends, drawing, coloring, or reading the Laura Ingalls Wilder books.
It looked like another day of rain. Another excuse to delay the hour hike into town in search of a vehicle. Steal one. A suicide mission—unless it actually worked. Her number one problem besides her own fear—she didn’t have the slightest idea how to hotwire a vehicle. She should have listened to Zac’s advice. He had warned her to leave the valley last April.
Twila yawned her way into the kitchen, clutching her Little Mermaid robe to her chest. “There’s my favorite little girl.” Scarlett forced a cheerful smile, all the while dreading Twila’s mood of the day. “Blueberry Bash Oatmeal?” It was Twila’s favorite, and there were only two packets left.
Twila darted to the patio door, shaking her head. “Something bad!” Twila yelled.
“It’s all right. I’m spending the whole day with you,” Scarlett promised. Then an unreasonable fear gripped Scarlett. She jumped up out of the chair. A loud crash! Something had just hit the side of the modular bug out. It sounded like it came from the bedroom level.
“Mommy?” Twila gaped.
“Probably a tree branch,” Scarlett said, calming herself. “I’ll go upstairs and check it out.”
“Wait—” There was panic in Twila’s voice.
“It’s just a bad storm. That’s all.”
Another crash knocked the treehouse out of its position, sending both of them to the floor. The lights flashed out. “Now, that’s just flippin’ great!” It must have damaged their meager solar power unit.
“Mommy!” Twila screeched.
“Are you all right?” Scarlett felt around for her vest, which she kept on the back of the kitchen chair for easy access, and grabbed her flashlight. Twila stood there, shivering. “Sweetie, you need to put your shoes on.” Scarlett snatched the shoes by the patio’s door. “Hurry,” Scarlett said, buttoning her vest—ready for trouble while Twila reluctantly tied her shoes.
“Here.” Scarlett handed her the spare flashlight hanging on the hook above the kitchen sink. “I’ll be right back.”
Scarlett climbed to the bedroom level. “What!” The branch had gouged the capsule’s siding. The wind and rain whipped in, flooding the room. Without warning, the bug out lurched onto its side. She tumbled with it along with everything else. The emergency backpack hit her in the head. She grabbed it without thinking.
“Twila?” Scarlett tried shouting above the roaring wind and torrents of rain. “I’m coming.” With the flashlight in her mouth, she groped around for the ladder like a sailor on a doomed submarine as the water gushed around her feet and hands. She crawled across the submerged ladder and followed it to the kitchen. She shoved the emergency backpack through the collapsing hatch opening and then shimmied through. “The whole place is falling apart.”
“Twila?” The child stared blankly into space. “Are you hurt?” Scarlett shook her gently. Twila just stood there as if lost in another dimension. Crash! The capsule slipped another notch, bumping to a halt. If it had fallen to the next level of limbs, they were in trouble. The oak’s lower limbs are thin; it won’t hold you for long, an inner voice warned.
She tossed the emergency backpack over her shoulder and then grabbed Twila’s hand. “Follow me,” Scarlett said, not sure if Twila heard. Twila was in the middle of one of her blank-out seizures. It was something Twila did when she was scared. An automatic defense mechanism, which was probably the reason the girl had survived so long on her own. Sometimes, Twila went catatonic, which she supposed was better than hysterical screaming.
A cracking sound. The capsule split open like an eggshell. She fell through the air with her hand still clasped to Twila’s. They jerked to a halt in mid-air. Taking on the brunt of Twila’s weight, she managed to hang onto Twila’s hand as all sorts of objects rained down. Suspended in air like a paratrooper dangling from a tree, it took Scarlett a few seconds before realizing the emergency pack’s strap, which she had slung over her shoulder, was stuck on a metal support beam protruding from the tree. The thin strap was the only thing holding them. For how long?
Under the lightning-streaked sky, the debris-littered ground revealed sharp objects from the shattered bug out. It wasn’t safe to drop Twila directly below her. The remaining section of the module hung precariously in the tree above them. One more jolt, one more little nudge, and it would most likely slide through the branches, crushing Scarlett and Twila upon impact. Meanwhile, Twila dangled like a limp ragdoll from Scarlett’s hand. She’d have to let go of her soon.
The tingling sensation in her arm warned it was about to go numb. She tried swinging her arm but only managed to move it a few inches. Scarlett swung harder and harder, building the momentum. She continued swinging until Twila’s limp body cleared the ring of bushes encircling the bug out. And then . . . she let go of Twila’s hand, flinching and screaming in her mind, praying the child would land safely. A dull thud followed.
The capsule tipped downward, ready for its descent. Think! It was simple. She reached into her vest pocket and pulled out a small knife. She sawed and hacked at the strap until it gave, and then she quickly flung the knife in the opposite direction of Twila, so it wouldn’t stab either of them in the landing. She landed on the kitchen’s table from the looks of it.
In a flash of light, which she wasn’t sure had been lightning or her actual sixth sense, she saw what remained of the shattered capsule slide through the branches. Scarlett rolled out of its way a split-second before it crashed to the ground. Their home, the treehouse that had protected and sheltered them from Ravers and creepers—destroyed.
“Twila?” Scarlett gingerly palmed the ground. She had dropped the flashlight during the fall. Got it! She found Twila huddled in the fetal position, motionless. She checked her pulse while flashing the light around the perimeter. The pulse was faint. Lightning streaked the sky in multiple hits, sending a sparking sensation do
wn her spine. As impossible as it sounded, these sensations, she had learned were warnings: her intuition. They needed to get out of there!
She tied the emergency pack’s slashed straps around her waist, heaved Twila’s body over her shoulder, and with flashlight in hand, set off. The sky rumbled angrily above while the erratic lightning gave their position away. Where to? The only place within walking distance was the old barn. Surely, the old building hadn’t withstood the horrendous storm. It was the only image that came to her. Besides, how long could she carry Twila?
What’s that? She twisted her head around as far as she could with the weight of Twila’s body impeding her agility. Run, an inner voice urged. A series of flashes splintered across the sky, cracking the earth’s atmosphere into jagged fragments. In that millisecond, she saw the horde . . . juddering toward her. She took off in a full run, balancing Twila over her shoulder. The barn flickered ahead. It seemed like eons, sloshing through the soggy underbrush while the relentless rain pelted against her. She trudged on.
The old barn hadn’t collapsed. She stormed into the doorless barn with no time to check it for safety. How close was the horde? She couldn’t see them, but their noxious scent of death permeated the air. Using the last bit of her waning strength, she hauled Twila up the loft’s wooden built-in ladder. By the time she laid the child down, they were already scratching at the foot of the ladder. Their tireless groans consumed the darkness.
Frantically, Scarlett checked Twila’s pulse; it was ever so slight. “Wake up,” she pleaded.
Now what? They were trapped until the creepers gave away their hiding place to the Ravers. Creepers never left when food was within their grasps.
“Goo-ga la!”
Scarlett fought back the terror paralyzing her limbs. Get a grip, she struggled.
“Grrrrrr-ra-ga—”
Scarlett stood at the edge of the ladder, knife ready. Somewhere deep inside was an unreasonable fear that creepers had learned to climb. She waited. And waited. Their incessant pounding reverberated through the barn’s weather-grayed walls into the depths of the darkness.
Only The Dead Don't Die (Book 2): The Hunger's Howl Page 5
