Scarlett nibbled on a hunk of venison while listening to the forest sounds. On any normal day, it would have been a lovely picnic outing—if the torrent of gunfire didn’t still ricochet in her ears. Were Betty and Mario alive? She closed her eyes and focused on the small area between her brows, using it as her eyes. A foggy image appeared and then disappeared. She focused harder as if her forehead were a new muscle in need of exercise. The image came in a bit clearer. This time she saw a man. Mario. There were tears in his eyes. Even more devastating, she felt his pain. Anguish. A piercing in the heart. She snapped out of it. The intense pain too much to bear. Betty was dead. Mario had been the one who had killed her un-dying body, once Betty’s soul had departed. Scarlett didn’t doubt her sixth sense this time.
Chapter 11
Scarlett and Twila had followed California State Route 49 for several days in the shadows of December’s gray skies, ready to make a run into the woods lining the roadside if they spotted trouble. Mario had been right. There were numerous creeks along the way, where they rested for Willow’s sake. Scarlett had lost track of the miles. Her thighs and tailbone were sore to the point of numbness after riding the horse so long. They alternated walking and riding, giving their muscles a break, including poor Willow’s. She was surprised at the mare’s stamina.
Since they had left the ranch house, Twila had withdrawn from her completely. She couldn’t help think Twila had seen the same image of Betty’s death. Scarlett didn’t have the time or energy to console the child. They trekked on. Each afternoon, Scarlett stressed over finding a safe place to stay the night. So far, they had slept in abandoned vehicles on the side of the road with Willow tied to a road sign post. Sleep had remained elusive; she was exhausted from the constant alert mode, jumping at every sound.
The setting sun highlighted the ridgeline behind them, reminding they hadn’t found a place for the night. A two-lane country bridge came into view. They usually rested under creek and river bridges when the banks weren’t too steep. “Hold on,” Scarlett whispered into Twila’s ear. She slid off the horse and then led Willow under the bridge. She spied the area with a set of lightweight binoculars from Mario’s ALICE pack. No signs of people or creepers. She didn’t need to check her watch to know they were out of time. It would just have to do.
“We have to sleep outside?” Twila complained while Scarlett set down their two cumbersome packs.
“Off you go.” Scarlett lifted Twila off Willow. “This will be fun. Have you ever been camping?”
Twila frowned.
Scarlett dreaded spending the night in the cold. The hooded parkas Betty had given them were a godsend. She hadn’t checked out the tent yet. That ought to be fun. After unpacking everything they needed for the night, an uncanny feeling warned they were being followed. Or was it paranoia?
“Don’t change into your pajamas. And keep your shoes on. We’re still in Raver territory.”
Twila nodded with an unhappy groan.
Scarlett unrolled the canvas tent, and after thirty minutes of fiddling with it, she finally staked it up. She extended the tent’s shelter using the camouflage tarp she had brought from the old barn. It gave them a few extra feet of coverage to store the packs.
“You can brush Willow while I look for firewood,” Scarlett said, grabbing the horse brush from a pouch in the saddle.
Willow whinnied when she saw the brush in Twila’s hand.
“Willow’s too tired,” Twila whined.
Scarlett ignored her and scouted for deadwood, dried pine needles, and pine cones. Dried sappy pine cones, she discovered, were great fire-starters. After gathering several armfuls, it was too dark to risk flashing the LED flashlight around since it could be seen from far away.
She started on the firepit and scraped a small circular area clear of debris with the collapsible shovel packed in the same bundle as the tent. Luckily, Mario had packed a Bic wand-type lighter, which came in handy. She started a flame with the dried pine needles and added scales from a seasoned conifer pine cone, gradually adding twigs until the flame was hot enough for the dried deadwood. There wasn’t enough wood to last the night. At least they could boil water for tonight and the next day. As nightfall descended she became accustomed to the dimmed-firelit surroundings, watching Twila stare into the fire.
“Mommy’s tired. Do you want to cook dinner tonight?” Scarlett hinted, hoping to bring Twila out of her sullen mood.
“Really? You’ll let me cook?” Twila’s mood changed instantly.
“For starters, put the cooking pot on the metal stand.” Scarlett set up the folding metal cook stand over the firepit. “See, like this. Remember, always boil the water for fifteen minutes.” She really didn’t know how long the water should be boiled. “Here’s my watch. Tell me after it’s bubbled for fifteen minutes.”
Meanwhile, Scarlett sorted through the food. She had eaten all the venison but still had a few can goods left from the barn along with several days’ worth of dehydrated soups salvaged from the bug out. What would she have done without the supplies from the Padilla’s? Surely, they’d have died from the elements. An internal flash demanded attention. She closed her eyes. A faint whisper warned, “Leave at first light . . .”
***
“Mommy—”
Twila was tugging her shoulders. “It’s been fifteen minutes.”
Scarlett jumped back with the sensation of awakening from a bad dream. She was about to pour the dehydrated miso soup packet into the camping pot. “Then all you—”
“I want to do it,” Twila insisted.
Scarlett finished brushing down Willow and then sat next to the warming fire, relieved Twila’s mood had changed. It gave her time to worry about the vague warning and spending the night in the tent. She’d never been the outdoorsy type. She had reluctantly endured annual summer camping trips with her sister's family, but they usually rented cabins, and her brother-in-law had done most of the grunt work. Before the pandemic, she had spent her weekends house-hunting with Kevin or drinking margaritas with her best friend or sister. Such a long time ago.
After they’d finished their somewhat lumpy soup, which Twila had announced numerous times was “The best soup in the whole wide world,” Twila helped with the quick cleanup.
“All right, let’s pack everything except the sleeping bag and tent. And then we’re going to sleep.”
“It’s too early,” Twila complained.
“The sooner we get to sleep, the sooner we’ll wake up to a warm, sunny day. Besides, you said you loved cuddling with me in the warm sleeping bag,” Scarlett said as convincingly as she could.
“You sleep. I’ll protect us from the bad guys.” Twila’s tone was as serious as ever.
“You can take the second watch.” Scarlett played along and smiled inwardly. Her heart tingled with love for the adorable yet peculiar child.
***
Something wet and fuzzy rubbed against Scarlett’s cheek. She jumped up and hit her head on the tent, face to face with Willow. It took Scarlett a moment to get her bearings. Willow had nudged her head under the tarp and opened the tent flap. A gunshot cracked off in the distance.
They were ready to go in ten minutes. Not bad, she thought as she brushed out the extinguished firepit with a large branch and then covered their evidence with the branch. She also scattered dried pine needles over their footsteps. A child’s footprints would be a dead giveaway.
Scarlett straddled Willow with Twila between her arms, and they continued south to southeast along State Route 49. An intense sense of urgency wafted in the morning breeze. Twila must have felt it too, for the child’s disturbing sullen mood returned. Willow trotted along at a slow and steady pace.
After several hours, the inexplicable tension mounted. They hadn’t even stopped for breakfast or lunch. The mare needed a break, so Scarlett slipped off the horse and led it by the reins, letting Twila ride. The child was lost in her own thoughts. Whenever they approached a more secluded area, Scarlett scanne
d the perimeter. As far as she could tell, they weren’t being followed.
Willow snorted; her tail flickered; her chestnut hide rippled. A warning? A bolt of electricity shot through Scarlett’s spine. “Shhh,” Scarlett warned, pointing to a set of golden-brown rolling hills in the distance.
Scarlett focused in with the binoculars and spotted a mega-horde roving about aimlessly. An ominous shadow-like cloud enveloped her. She wasn’t sure what to do about it. All at once the horde froze in their tracks. Their horrid heads tilted up toward the sky. Shit! They know we’re close. Based on her prior observations, creepers sniffed the air when a food source was in their vicinity.
To avoid the horde, they ended up backtracking in the shallow waters of a meandering creekbed. Would the water disguise their scent? It always worked in the movies. The detour took them farther away from SR 49 than she liked. To her surprise, they came upon a boarded-up building. A cabin! They hid in a grove of leafless trees for over an hour where she spied the house for signs of life.
“Stay here with Willow,” Scarlett ordered in a hushed voice. Reluctantly, she left Twila and snuck to the log cabin’s wooden door. She knocked as if expecting someone to open it. No one did. The splintered door looked like it hadn’t been used in a hundred years.
Scarlett peeked through the partially boarded broken window. It was obviously vacant. Finally, she tried the front door. The doorknob turned, but it appeared to be locked from the inside. She snuck to the back of the cabin. The back door stood open a few inches. How long had it been open? Unfortunately, something blocked the door from the inside.
If I can squeeze through— Grunting, Scarlett shimmied her way in through the narrow opening between the back door and a huge wooden shelf, which had apparently been shoved against the door. Someone had definitely been there: before or after the Super Summer flu?
The sunlight streamed through the slits of the logged layers of the old cabin. Jeez Louise, it looked like a house Laura Ingalls might have lived in. An old-fashioned kettle hung above the hearth of the oversized fireplace. Apparently, the fireplace had also served as the stove. A thick wooden picnic table sat in the middle of the one-room cabin. A mason jar of forgotten dried flowers decorated the center of the table. Daisies? she wondered.
In one corner, a raggedy blue-gingham curtain hung from the ceiling. With gun in hand, she swept back the curtain. Empty, except for a cot, standing on three metal-framed legs. A patched quilt, the kind her Aunt Marge always had ready on a cold winter night lay folded at the foot of the cot. The cabin didn’t have much else to offer except peace of mind.
Scarlett sprinted back to Twila. Woo hoo! No tent tonight. It wasn’t exactly the Hilton, but it was definitely a luxury after last night. She would have never even considered the cabin before the flu outbreak. Her life had changed drastically since the pandemic. And, so had she. She was tougher, braver, and yet more frightened. Cautious. A survivor. Twila’s Protector. A warrior . . . highly unlikely.
“I’ve got a surprise. I think I found Laura Ingalls’ cabin!” Scarlett always tried to make a game out of things for Twila. That was, when she wasn’t in panic-mode, which was most of the flipping time. She took the reins and led them to the cabin, still wary of their surroundings.
“Around the back. The front door’s nailed shut.”
Scarlett tethered Willow to the back porch post. She eyed a tall, skinny building with star and moon cut-outs a few yards away from the back porch. We just got upgraded. The outhouse was a welcomed feature after roughing it in the woods for days on end. The concept of time seemed to be losing its control over her, day after day, riding, walking, scouting, barely eating, barely sleeping, and always aware of every single movement in the horizon.
“You found a secret hiding place.” Twila oohed and aahed, eyeing everything.
“Let’s play house,” Scarlett said encouragingly. Normally they wouldn’t have stopped so early in the day. But they needed a break. They bustled about unpacking their supplies, giving her the perfect opportunity for a complete inventory of Mario’s lifesaving pack.
Before sunset, Scarlett went outside to check on Willow. The mare had already eaten the patch of grass in her vicinity. She untied the reins, letting Willow graze. While she collected kindling for the fire she came upon a lean-to. Perfect, Willow can stay here. It even had an old trough, half-full from the recent rains.
After Willow was settled for the evening, Scarlett brought in several armfuls of dried twigs and branches to start the overly-seasoned firewood stacked on the back porch. She’d wait until dark to light the fire, knowing the smoke might give away their position. She was confident the horde was far enough away and wouldn’t track them there. Still, there could be other travelers in the vicinity. Something Mario had said stuck in her head. “You’ll always be in someone’s territory.” Meaning, it was never safe.
Scarlett leaned one of the picnic table’s benches against the front door even though the door was nailed shut. Then she shoved the bulky shelf back against the back door to keep anyone from entering unannounced. The small one-room cabin had three haphazardly boarded-up broken windows with gaps to let in the cold, fresh air, which thankfully weren’t big enough for any two-legged creatures to enter.
Something about the way the windows were boarded over made her think someone had stayed there during the pandemic. All possible entrances except for the one back window had been boarded over from the inside. It looked like who’d ever been there had left through the back window and then boarded over it. Then she noticed a jar of nails on the fireplace mantel. It brought back a chilling memory of the day she had boarded over the condo’s windows. At first, attempting to align the two-by-fours perfectly, careful not to ruin the frame . . . until bony hands had broken through the glass, clawing for her. Then it had been a matter of hammering the nails into the wood as fast and haphazardly as possible. She shuddered, the flashback all too real.
Scarlett and Twila snuggled around the cozy fire, enjoying their dinners. Twila was in full mode, roleplaying Laura Ingalls. It was a great delusion for both of them. For once, Scarlett felt at peace.
Chapter 12
Justin had to admit; the International Harvester Travelall was a sweet ride. Its rugged, beat-to-hell appearance reminded him of a vehicle from Crocodile Dundee. It had definitely needed a cooler name because he’d been tired of saying International Harvester Travelall all the freaking time. So, he had officially tagged it the Trav.
Justin shot a glance at Dean sitting next to him. Dean was supposed to be riding shotgun but had fallen asleep. Again. He felt bad, dragging Dean halfway across the country to find Ella. I’ll let him sleep a little longer. Besides, Justin had somehow missed the turn-off to Santa Fe hours ago, the turn-off he’d promised Dean he absolutely wouldn’t miss. He’d been forced into several detours in order to bypass all the mega-car pile-ups, which he was starting to think might be barricades. Luckily, it was no problem for the Trav to off-road it for a while.
It was Luther’s turn to sleep in the uber-comfortable sleeper Dean had renovated in the back of the Trav. With any luck, Luther was still sleeping and hadn’t noticed they were sort of lost. They took four-hour shifts, driving, riding shotgun, and sleeping in the back. They’d been on the road for three weeks, scavenging gas and food along the way, avoiding the roving hordes as much as possible.
It was dusk. Justin debated turning around for the umpteenth time, thinking he could make it back to the main road before Dean and Luther found out he’d screwed up. Otherwise, they’d be ragging his butt about it for days.
Wait—is this the road? It was the only road he hadn’t tried. Two jackknifed big rigs blocked the entrance. How bizarre, the road signs were sprayed over with black spray paint and repainted with reflective red dots and dashes like a secret code or something.
All of this driving had him craving a Starbucks thirty-one ouncer Trenta and a box of Krispy Kremes, which made him start craving all the computer-geek food he lived on b
efore the Super Summer flu, which made him think of his iPhone. How had he lived so long without it? A part of him couldn’t wait to get to Texas just so he could surf the net and scarf on junk food. Those were the days. He smirked. He was starting to sound like Dean, reminiscing about the good old days.
Thinking about it, after his Internet withdrawal, he didn’t miss the whole social media thing. The constant random texts from friends and frenemies. All those emails he said had gone to his spam folder because he hadn’t wanted to deal with them. And don’t get him started on Facebook and Twitter. The barrage of idiotic posts had driven him insane. It was like his friends didn’t have anything better to do. He’d pretended to read their self-important rants, making sure he’d liked their Facebook posts, or they wouldn’t like his. And then there was the constant social stress of not having as many friends as your friends. He barely knew most the people on his friend’s list. Meanwhile, his friends had bragged about their multitasking abilities, when scientific studies had shown multitasking destroyed the brain. Lamestream media, fake news . . . distraction after distraction. My brain is so much clearer now.
“What the heck? Dean, Luther!” Justin’s voice escalated in volume. “Guys? Uh, Holy shit!” Justin kept one hand on the wheel while he frantically shook Dean’s shoulder and stomped on the brakes. Floodlights flashed, illuminating the dark country road.
“What? I’m awake,” Dean grumbled, clearly not awake. Dean snapped to when men in cammies swiveled a machine gun around, aiming at the Trav. “What in tarnation?” Dean said, definitely awake.
“A guard post,” Justin rambled.
“Stop the vehicle!” The loudspeaker demanded.
“What should I do?” Justin freaked.
Dean glanced around. “Stop, for Heaven’s sake,” Dean’s voice faltered.
Humvees surrounded the Trav. A swarm of men in army fatigues rushed their vehicle. “Hands in the air!”
Only The Dead Don't Die (Book 2): The Hunger's Howl Page 11
