The Dead and The Living (Book1): The Dead and The Living

by Wimer, Kevin

  Chris turned from the window and walked to a waist high stand that had a medium size bowl on it and a container of water next to it. It was his washbasin. Chris filled the pan with water and then dipped his hands into it—cupping them and then splashing his face. The cold water shocked his system as it took his breath and caused him to shiver. This had been his routine for two weeks now. It was starting to get old. He placed the palm of his hands onto the stand as the water dripped from his face. He leaned the weight of his body onto the stand while looking at himself in the mirror. He looked like hell. Death had a better look than Chris did at this very moment. It had been a couple of days since he had shaved. It would be a few more days before he took the time to get rid of the stubble that was slowly turning into a beard. Chris stared into the mirror at the man staring back at him. It had once been an image of a stranger—not anymore. He knew the image of the man staring back him. He knew him well. He stood there for a moment as his mind filled with thoughts. He thought about his life before the outbreak. He thought about his life months into the outbreak. It was three of those months that he wished he could relieve. He wished he could go back and tell himself to run—run from Deacon and his group. It was the thought of running that pissed him off. He wished he could go back in time and kill Deacon on the spot. He thought about the lives that he would have saved if he had done just that.

  The feeling of guilt was eating at him. It was a feeling that would never go away—not even after he killed Deacon. It was a feeling that would forever remain with him. It would be his guiding light in this new world. Chris vowed to never let a man like Deacon live. He vowed to help those that couldn’t help themselves. Tex had told him that he needed to let that shit go. Shit happens in this world and there is nothing we can do about it. Chris argued that there was something he could have done. He could have killed the man before tucking his tale between his legs and running away like coward. Tex had no answers for the response Chris had given him. It wasn’t needed. Chris knew what Tex meant by his silence. He could have done it. He could have prevented everything from happening. The man blamed him for everything but couldn’t bring himself to say so.

  Chris looked at himself in the mirror as the fiery rage within him burned hotter. He cupped his hands and dipped them in the water basin and splashed his face. It didn’t feel as cold as it had just moments before. He turned from the stand and grabbed a towel that hung on the wall by the mirror. He began drying himself off as he stood at the window looking at the camp below. The fence line had been repaired. It wouldn’t keep out a horde of walkers—as they already knew—but it would deter the living from trying to get in. Tex had formed a group that included Ron and Cubbie to repair the fence and put up a new perimeter. It was much like the one that had been around Deacon’s camp. Tex had also found some vehicles that weren’t worth much—barely running and rusted—and had placed them in various spots beyond the fence. It would slow down anyone that dare try and attack Graceland. The cars had also been rigged with explosives. It seemed Ron had a thing for blowing shit up and he was damn good at it too. Chris had mentioned to Tex about going to West Virginia. Maybe moving the group there. It was put to a vote and quickly voted down. No one wanted to leave. Graceland was home. It was voted that once warmer weather was upon them that a hunting party would be sent out to hunt the land Chris had told them about. Chris would oversee the hunting party. He would pick a handful of men and woman to form this party. The thought of having fresh meat on the table had thrilled everyone. The canned stuff that they had been eating for months no longer tasted like meat. It tasted like the canned they were housed in.

  Chris walked to his makeshift closet and found a clean pair of clothes. He quickly dressed and then grabbed his backpack and made sure he had the items that he would need for his patrol. He checked his handgun and his rifle. He had enough loaded magazines to fight a small battle. The truck that he would be using had enough to help him win that battel and maybe wage a war of his own. Chris’s stomach rumbled with hunger. It had been nearly twenty-four hours since he had last eaten. He took a breath and started to head for the door when someone knocked on it. Chris stopped in midstride and wrinkled a brow while looking at the door. His heart and mind raced. Images of Deacon filled his mind. The bastard had snuck into the camp once—what would prevent him from doing it again. Chris placed the palm of his hand on the butt of his holstered handgun as he slowly walked over to the door and opened it. He took a quick breath not realizing that he had been holding it.

  “Going out?”

  Chris looked at Brandy. It was the first time he had seen her out and away from her room. Brandy had kept herself locked away in her room while giving herself some time to heal. No visitors. Ron had stood guard outside her room for a few days after her return to Graceland—Chris had taken a handful of those shifts too.

  “I was just—”

  “You are hunting him . . . aren’t you?” Brandy asked, cutting him off.

  Chris nodded. He couldn’t argue with the truth. He wasn’t just scouting the roads. He was hunting. He was hunting the bastard that had taken her. The bastard that had ordered people to their deaths. The same son of a bitch that had sent a kid here to do his dirty work.

  “Yes.”

  Brandy pushed Chris out of her way as she entered his room. She stepped deeper into the center the room before turning to face him. She looked at him and remembered how she had felt the night she had been taken. She remembered how the overwhelming urge to have a panic attack had gripped her. She remembered how it was the thought of Chris that had soothed her troubled mind. She remembered that it was Chris who had saved her—along with the raiders that had invaded Deacon’s compound.

  “You need to stop,” Brandy said, in a voice that had a tone of authority to it. It was something that Chris hadn’t heard in a while, “And stop right now.”

  The two stood there looking at each other. Chris wasn’t sure what he should say. He knew that if he told her that he would stop it would be a lie. He wasn’t going to stop. He wasn’t going to stop looking for the man that had taken her. The same man that had killed members of Graceland. He wouldn’t stop until he killed Deacon and there wasn’t a point in lying to her about it either.

  “I’m not going to stop. I’m not going to stop looking for him until he is dead.”

  Brandy narrowed her eyes as she looked at Chris. She looked at him and knew that he meant what he said. He wouldn’t stop. She admired that about him. It had been that same determination that had brought him here to the group and to Graceland. Chris was determined to bring her the letter that her father had written. It was the kind of man Chris was. Determined. Stubborn. She also knew that he was so much more than those two words. It was the anger of guilt that now boiled within him that made him someone different. He was and wasn’t the same man she had feelings for. It had taken her some time to admit that what had soothed her soul in that basement of horrors was something more than just a friendship. She had feelings for him. Feelings that she couldn’t ignore.

  “It wasn’t your fault, Chris,” Brandy said as she took a few steps towards him, “None of this . . . is . . . or was your fault.”

  Chris felt a lump forming in his throat. He looked at Brandy and could see a small trace of bruising that had yet to completely heal. He wanted to grab her and take her into his arms and hold her. He wanted to tell her that he was sorry for what those men had tried to do to her. Brandy had told him everything that had happened one night when he had been standing guard outside of her room. She was stronger than Chris had given her credit for.

  “Brandy, it is my fault. If it wasn’t for me—”

  Brandy reached out and took his hand. It stopped him from saying another word. He felt the warmth of her hand in his. It was a spark of electricity that now surged through his body. He looked at Brandy as she pulled him closer to her. He felt her body against his as she pressed her head into his chest and wrapped her arms around him—squeezing him tightly i
n an embrace that no one should dare try and break.

  “You saved me Chris . . . I was . . . I was just about to lose it when the thought of you entered my mind,” turning her head up to him, “It was that thought that caused my mind to stop and focus on what I needed to do so that I could return . . . Return to you. So that I could tell you,” pausing as her words hung in the air, “Bringing me the letter that my father wrote . . . That’s the kind of man you are. The kind of man who would go to Hell and back to bring someone he didn’t know a letter that would give them peace.”

  Chris looked at Brandy as a tear slowly escaped her eyes and ran down the side of her face. He could feel his heart beating like a drum. She meant more to him than someone that had been mentioned in a letter. Chris’s mind filled with thoughts. He had found something at Graceland. Something that he had been searching for long before the outbreak. Something that had been missing in his life for years. Family. It was odd to think that it had taken the world going to Hell for him to find that, but it had. He had found that with not only the members of Graceland but with Brandy. She was family. She was also more than just family to him.

  “That letter gave me the closer that I needed. It gave me the peace that I needed,” Brandy said, looking up at him as he wrapped his arms around her and his chin atop of her head while holding her, “It also gave me something so much more . . . Something that . . . Someone that I don’t want to lose.”

  Chris could feel Brandy’s tears soaking through his shirt as she spoke. He could feel his eyes starting to water. The two had grown closer over the last two weeks. Maybe the two of them had been closer in the weeks before the attack on Graceland. He could feel the wall that he had built around himself crumbling. It was a wall that had been in place since the day his mother had been killed. Chris could feel his will to leave and to hunt Deacon fading. He wasn’t sure for how long but at this very moment he didn’t care. He wasn’t going to leave. He was going to stay right here. Right where he belonged.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” Chris said, “I promise.”

  Brandy turned her head as she looked up at him. She could see the look in his eyes and knew that he meant it. She prayed for weeks that Deacon, if still alive, would leave the survivors of Graceland alone. She prayed that the man would be long gone from the area that he had tormented since the outbreak. She prayed that he would be eaten by one of the zombies—if not a whole horde of them. It was wrong of her to pray for that, but she did and felt no remorse for doing so. Brandy was sure the vile man was somewhere plotting his revenge. He wasn’t the type to let this go. She prayed that the men and women of Graceland would be safe. She prayed for more day’s like the one she was having right now with Chris. Brandy stood on the tips of her toes and felt his lips meeting hers. The sound of those working to rebuild Graceland echoed through the room as both Chris and Brandy were locked in a warm embrace. The world outside Chris’s room—for the moment—no longer mattered to them. The only thing that mattered was right here and right now.