“Three days here won’t be so bad,” Troy says. “We’ll clear out those houses and see what’s inside.”
I try not to scream in frustration. Every day the chance of finding Rose and Mitch decreases, and my desperation has grown greater than my fear. “I have to go,” I accidentally say aloud, and the conversation stops.
“Go where?” Lana asks. “Now?”
I shake my head, face burning under their watchful eyes. “No. I don’t know. I have to get to Oregon.”
“That’s where we’re headed, buddy,” Troy says. “We can’t leave just yet. Another few days and we’re out of here.”
I tamp down a flash of anger. Is there anything worse than being called buddy in a patronizing tone? I’ve been waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike out on my own, but maybe there won’t be one. Now that they have the truck, they won’t mind if I leave in the sedan. I’ll only take what’s mine and whatever gas it has left in its tank. Besides, Troy will probably want help clearing out those houses tomorrow, and I’m not up to the task.
I’ll leave in the morning before they wake.
33
Craig
I surreptitiously packed my bag last night and hoped I’d wake before the others. It turns out I needn’t have worried; I volunteered for the last watch shift, and when the sky is light enough to see shadows, I slide from my blankets in the corner of the living room already wearing my boots.
I tiptoe past Francis on the couch and around the mattresses that hold the others. Troy mumbles something in his sleep, and I freeze until he flips over. I set the short note I wrote on the kitchen counter and palm the sedan keys, clutching them in my hand so they don’t clink on my way to the door.
My stomach twists. Underneath the nervousness of being caught, of hitting the road on my own, is a heavy sort of sadness. I don’t know what I’ll do if I can’t find Rose and Mitch. Troy’s prediction that people will be the biggest threat feels like more of a prophecy in this moment. Of the three people we’ve come across, two moved us along with the barrel of a gun. But I was lucky. The first people I met saved me from certain death more than once, and here I am leaving them without a proper goodbye. I remind myself that’s half the reason I’m leaving. I can’t expect them to carry me forever, and I don’t want my stupidity, my weakness, to be the cause of their deaths. There are more than enough ways to die out there without adding Death by Craig into the equation.
I unlock the door and step into chilly, still air. The quiet of the dawn is peaceful, and nothing lurks under the nearby trees. I make sure the front door is closed tight, feeling guilty I can’t re-lock it even if a zombie wouldn’t know to turn the knob.
The hills are beautiful in the blue-gray light, their eastern sides edged by gold. I walk to the sedan slowly to minimize the crunching of gravel under my boots, then gingerly lift the door handle. The road is downhill, but the car sits hidden behind a rise in the driveway, so I’ll have to run the engine instead of coasting. It doesn’t matter; by the time they hear the rumble and realize something’s up, I’ll be gone. They won’t chase after me.
I throw my pack in the passenger’s seat, then pull it closer and fumble for my Xanax. I pop half a pill and insert the key into the ignition, fingers stopping just short of turning it. It’s idiotic to leave. My best chance is to stay put, travel with them, but I can’t stand to be as inept as Dad thought I was. It’s proven true other times in my life, and, frankly, I’d rather be dead on my own than have it proven for keeps in front of an audience. Besides, I might make it. If I have no choice, no one watching, I might actually prove the theory wrong.
A knock on the passenger’s side window makes me leap. My head cracks on the car’s ceiling. “Shit,” I say as Lana opens the door. “You scared me.”
“Sorry.” Lana tosses my pack into the back and settles on the seat, then watches the hills. “Where ya off to?”
I don’t look her way. “North.”
“Don’t know if you heard, but that’s where we’re heading.”
“I heard,” I say. “I didn’t want to be in the way any longer.”
Lana opens her hand. My note is crumpled in her palm. “So I read. Thank you all for everything. You’ll be safer without me. Good luck, Craig.” She tosses it into my lap. “You know you’re going to die out there?”
“Yeah, I know.” I lift my shoulders. Even Lana, booster of confidence, knows I’m going to die. “Better than killing you all along with me. Have you not noticed I’m a pussy?”
It feels good to get it out in the open. Admit it. Lana’s silent for a minute, then she says, “Here’s what I’ve noticed. You killed one when you had to, you pulled me to safety under the freeway, and you saved Daisy from being bitten. I saw that Lexer. He was this close to biting her cheek.” She holds up her hand, two fingers an inch apart. “No one else would’ve gotten there in time. You saved her.”
I haven’t thought of it that way, but I’m still not winning any awards for valor. “And then you and Troy had to save me when I didn’t do a fucking thing to stop him from eating me.”
“That’s how it works. We’ve all been afraid, we’ve all been in a tight spot, and we’ve all been saved. You’re scared, too scared, and you need to face your fear.”
“Why do you think I’m sitting here waiting to drive away? Which I could do if you would get out of the car already.”
Lana laughs. She has a good laugh—on the husky side, like her voice. “I like you when you’re snarky. I’m not getting out until you do, though. I’m going to help you face your fear.” I turn to her, and she raises her eyebrows. “I’m pretending you didn’t write that note. In fact, you woke me up early to kill those zombies in the houses as a surprise for everyone.”
It’s my turn to laugh, though it fades when Lana’s serious expression remains. “I’d at least like to get in a few miles before I die,” I say.
“Snarky again.” Lana yanks the keys from the ignition and pockets them. “Now put that spirit into the rest of you.”
She leaves the car and stretches her arms above her head, then bends to peer in the window with a c’mon already expression. I open my door. I’m not going anywhere without keys, and the truth is I want to stay, even if it means extra days. I just didn’t want to be a burden.
Once I’m out, Lana trots to the steps and returns holding Francis’ knife, then pulls Francis’ gloves from her pocket and hands everything to me. “He won’t mind you borrowing them. Let’s go.”
She sets off for the first house as though she has no doubt I’ll follow, which I do while pulling on the gloves. I have my dad’s hands—big for my size—and they just about fit. When I catch up to Lana, she says, “It pisses me off when men refer to a weakling as a pussy, so you need to stop that right now. Whether woman or cat, pussies kick ass. Call yourself a coward or whatever other insult you want, but not that.”
I can’t help smiling. “You sound like Mitch. Sorry. It’s my go-to. My dad called me that.”
“Well, your dad was wrong.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time,” I say, unsure if she means Dad was wrong about me or wrong for using the word. I don’t ask for clarification on the grounds that I want to believe it’s both.
“You’re limping,” she says. “How’s the blister?”
I glance at Lana, whose smiling eyes declare nothing gets past her. “It hurts,” I say. “I found some Band-Aids in the house’s medicine cabinet, but they’re not doing much.”
“I have some good bandages for that. A bad blister can kill you out here, you know.” She stops in front of the ranch house down the way. “There are four inside this one. The best thing to do is get them in a position where they can’t come at you, but you can reach them. Remember the house where we got the pickup?”
I nod. Lana enticed that zombie to the window, and now I watch as she steps onto the front porch, cuts through the screen, and pushes up the window glass beside the door. Francis’ knife is heavy but comforting i
n its solidness. And seriously badass. If I can’t kill a zombie with it, I may as well lay myself on a platter with a sprig of parsley.
When the window is up partway, Lana knocks on the glass, then steps back. “They’re coming.”
There hasn’t been enough time for the Xanax to kick in, though I’m not sure it would be enough to touch my fear, anyway. My hand shakes. My knees knock, which I’ve always thought was some literary bullshit but now find is a thing—I actually tremble hard enough to clunk my knees together. That’s the real bullshit, that I’m so afraid. The Lexers are behind a window, for shit’s sake.
I hear footsteps just before a face presses to the glass and an elderly woman drops to jam herself sideways out the opening. Her sagging skin has cracked along each wrinkle, and her front teeth are missing, though that doesn’t stop her from snapping at air. The other zombies growl in the background, hands on the glass, unable to advance with her in the way.
“You have gloves,” Lana says. “Touch her.”
I step forward, skin crawling. The woman’s arm shoots out to grasp my jeans, and I jump back. Her hisses grow to a babbling mess of grunts and growls. Her purple tongue lolls over her lips. It’s wretched what humans have been reduced to, but I suddenly understand they want to eat me with a singlemindedness that can work in my favor. The other Lexers aren’t unlocking the door or devising a plan to sneak out the back and up behind me. They’re impatiently waiting their turn at the window. This doesn’t mean you can afford to be blasé about the whole thing, but they’re somewhat predictable.
I step forward again, and when the woman snatches at my leg, I clutch her wrist. It’s disgusting, even with gloves. But she barely fights my hold, only tries to drag me closer.
“Good,” Lana calls over the noises. “Now get her in the ear or eye.”
I focus on the whorls surrounding her ear canal, then aim for that dark spot and bring the knife down with all my strength. The crunch jars my arm up to my neck, and my shoulders shudder involuntarily. Brown liquid oozes out around the blade. The smell of death increases tenfold. But she’s limp. Gone. I did it.
No sooner does Lana shove the old lady inside the window than a man takes her place. His graying combover has come loose and flops to his chin on one side. The other side of his face has been gnawed down to bone, possibly by Grandma. I shake my head, remembering my own grandma—sometimes it’s better to think of them as it instead of people.
I watch the Lexer, really take it in, now that my brain has convinced my overtaxed nervous system that I’m safe. Well, safe enough that I have time to assess what my best move would be. I played drums years ago and know muscle memory is essential when it comes to playing a beat. Killing Lexers likely won’t ever be akin to mindlessly tapping out a boom-chuck rhythm, but if I do this enough, maybe it’ll get easier.
I sidestep the Lexer’s arm and stand behind its head at its shoulder, then pin its temple to the windowsill while I fight its bucking. They’re strong, I can’t forget that. No pain means they don’t need a breather. No life means no fear. The man twists his head, wild eyes fixed on me and mouth opening like a fish stranded dockside.
Fuck you, I think, and grunt as I jam the blade through its temple.
I’m ready for the next until Lana pushes the window higher and jumps back from the man who comes for her. This one is younger, maybe forties, short and big enough that he fills the window frame when he bends out of it.
“Don’t think,” Lana calls, her knife at the ready. “Go, or it’ll make it out.”
It’s already leaning out far enough that its next move will be to fall at our feet. I rush forward the way I’ve seen the others do. I bat the Lexer’s hands out of the way, stab for its eye, and miss when it moves. This is why they hold them still. I grasp its dark hair, draw my arm back, and send the blade through its pale iris.
It falls forward, head striking the porch floor with a thud. Lana grabs an arm, I get the other, and we pull it through to make way for the last one, whose hisses are soft in comparison. Once the body is out, I move for the window again, steps faltering at the sight that greets me.
It’s a kid. Maybe eight years old, with long brown hair still half in braids. Her—its—mouth and teeth are coated with dried blood the way I now realize the others’ weren’t. This little girl did in her family. Maybe they tucked her into bed, hoping the fever would pass. It’s possible they believed their sweet girl could never hurt them. But she did.
Her quieter hisses are no less ravenous. She grunts, her chest pressed to the windowsill and dirty hands clawing for me while her brown-crackled teeth bang together.
I jump at a hand on my shoulder. “You have to,” Lana says. “It’ll kill you just as dead.”
This is insanity. Unbelievable. The word has bounced around my head ever since this nightmare began. It kept me trapped and scared and unwilling to act. But this is real as fuck. Would I rather die at the teeth of one of these things than finish it off, even if it is a little girl zombie wearing Laura Ingalls braids in her hair?
No, I wouldn’t. I want to live.
I step into the circle of her arms, ignoring her scrabbling fingers and satisfied growls, then angle the knife under her chin the way Lana did on the freeway. The girl topples into the house, skinny arms flung out to the sides. And, like that, the morning is silent again—until the applause begins. I spin around. Lana stands clapping behind me, while the others watch from the lawn doing the same. Except for Francis, who slaps his good hand on his thigh.
My initial response is to feel stupid. I’m not six years old and in need of a participation trophy. But they seem genuinely enthusiastic, and instead of wondering if they mean it—if they like me—I flourish Francis’ knife and bow to hoots and catcalls.
“Let’s do the next house,” Troy says, and laughs when I groan.
Troy let the five Lexers in the second house out the front door, much to my distress. But I managed to kill two while all except Francis took one each. Though my arm is sore and I stink to high heaven, I’m more than a little proud. I’m also stuffed with food and soon to take a hot shower, since we found a generator and a half-stocked pantry. The room smells of the brownies currently baking in the oven, which both warms the house and is a major improvement over the aroma of the brown liquid I cleaned off my glasses. All in all, I’m happy. Content, even. It’s freaking me out a little. I don’t do content. Discontent, anxiety, the heebie-jeebies? Yes, yes, and yes. Contentment? Nope.
Daisy sits cross-legged on the floor eating vanilla icing out of a container, and she points at me with her spoon. “We have to find you a better weapon tomorrow. There’s a workshop behind the first house. I bet I can make you something cool.”
“Like what?” I ask. Daisy shrugs and plugs her mouth full of icing.
“Daisy built custom bicycles,” Lana says. “From scratch.”
I’m not surprised. Daisy has a tough-girl vibe that proclaims she knows her way around machinery. “How’d you guys meet?” I ask.
“Walmart,” Troy says.
“Really?”
“Yeah, we all ended up there one way or another.” Troy picks at the label on the beer he drinks—another find—as though his one way or another isn’t the best memory. “We had supplies and weapons, all that stuff. The plan was to hole up and see if it blew over. Did you hear the radio reports?”
“I didn’t have a regular radio. Only the TV. Until it went out.”
“TV went dark before radio, but it was all bullshit anyway,” Francis says. “Stay inside and all that, but how could you stay inside without water?”
Troy swigs his beer. “They were surprised at how fast the whole thing went down. One guy at the Walmart knew someone who worked in the governor’s office, and he told us the Guard pulled out of California fast. They said it was to concentrate on keeping it from spreading to other states, but it was already in the Midwest, and he’d heard of a thousand cases along the East Coast—and that’s only what they knew of.
They’d grounded air travel and were opening treatment centers there, thinking if they rounded up the sick in time, they’d be able to stop it.”
“Worked like a charm,” I say. “Do you know what happened on the East Coast?”
“The reports said they blew up New York and D.C., who knows where else. After that, there wasn’t much of anything. Europe and Asia reported the same shit. Things went bad for us before we heard much more.”
News has always been transmitted to me through media—newspapers with photographs and television with video, all supported by corroborating sources. It feels wrong to rely on word-of-mouth or emergency broadcasts made by God knows who, but I suppose that’s how news will travel for the foreseeable future. “What happened at the Walmart?” I ask.
“Lasted less than a week,” Troy says. “Then some people busted in and brought Lexers with them. There were, what, twenty-four of us?”
“Twenty-five,” Lana says quietly. “We’re all that’s left.”
I don’t have to point out that only four people sit with me now, a sixteen-percent survival rate. A sixteen-percent survival rate of the survivors. The survival rate of the general population has to be in the single digits, especially in California. “If it’s everywhere, why are you guys heading north? Where are you going?”
The four of them look at each other, then Daisy speaks, “Troy knew of a place by the Sierra National Forest, but we couldn’t get close. We heard there might be Safe Zones in Oregon. But we thought no matter what, there’s more water and fewer people. Maybe we’d find a house in the mountains or something. Make a home base.”
They’re almost as lost as I am. Instead of depressing me, I feel better I’m not the only one without a solid plan. I’ve killed a few zombies, but it hasn’t made much impact on my fear of traveling alone. Even my fellow travelers banded together after a few days in Walmart; there’s safety in numbers. I speak my next words carefully. I want them to sound authentic and not desperate, because although it’s partly that I’m afraid, it makes me sad to think of parting ways when people are so hard to find. “If Rose and Mitch are there, I know they’d insist you guys stay with them, too. Maybe we can find a place like that for all of us. If you want to come to Eugene, that is.”
The Cascadia Series (Book 1): World Departed Page 31
