by Morris, Jacy
"Bet it was tough out here, all alone," Mort said.
Mort nodded at the man's imagined response.
"I know. I had me some friends out here, but I don't know where they are now. I don't know if they're alive or dead, or walking around dead. You know what I mean?"
He listened to the man's words.
"I don't know if I can find them. I'm… tired. You know? Yeah, you know. That's why you ain't got no head."
Mort stood up then. He realized that something was wrong with him, but he was ok with that. He scoured the house from top to bottom, calling to the headless man as he found more batteries for his flashlight and more shells for the shotgun. He liked the shotgun better than the rifle. It just felt better, and he knew he had more leeway in taking out the dead with it due to the spread of the pellets.
When he was done, he closed the door as well as he could with the splintered doorjamb and began the snowy trudge back home. Each step felt like a dozen. Every time he lifted his foot, it felt like his feet were bowling balls. The chill wind brushed across his face, and he shivered, shrinking down into the warmth of his old, olive-green military jacket. It helped, but only barely. The real cold was inside of him growing in his heart, threatening to spread to every cell in his body. Mort was not an educated man, but he knew when something was wrong. He knew that the way he had been thinking over the last week was not right. But he didn't know what to do about it.
He was plodding along when a deer sprang across the road. It stopped in the middle of the lane, its head up, and its ears twitching. It was thirty yards away, close enough that Mort could possibly shoot it. All he saw was food standing on four legs. Slowly, so as not to disturb the deer, he raised the shotgun to eye level. He peered down the sight, and then he couldn't do anything. His finger felt frozen and locked on the trigger. His mouth watered simply from the idea of eating the deer, but he couldn't do it.
As he stared down the sight, he wondered what the point of it would be. How long could he live off of one deer? Was this deer's life worth his? As he pondered the question, the wind shifted, swirling small crystals of snow around his face and spraying his scent over the deer. Its ears twitched once, and then it bounded into the woods.
Mort let the shotgun drop to his side. Though his stomach gnawed at him, he felt fine about not shooting the deer. Let it live.
He continued his trudge back home. As he approached the road, he saw a path of broken snow. Immediately, he dropped into a crouch, though his aching knees and hips rebelled at the movement. The tracks in the snow didn't give him any clue as to the owner. The prints were small, and whoever had been to his house had walked over their own path, muddying things. He couldn't tell if they had come from his house and gone back to it or the other way around. He walked slowly, his heart thumping in his chest, his hands freezing on the metal of the shotgun. He needed a set of gloves. Maybe he could fashion some out of some old socks or something.
Mort shook his head and focused his mind. He shouldn't be wandering, thinking about gloves. There was someone at his house, or maybe someone had been there and left. Maybe it was someone from the compound, come to make him pay for what he and Katie had done to them. Maybe it was a random survivor breaking into houses the way he had done. One thing was for sure, it wasn't one of the dead. The tracks were too distinct for that. The dead left trails of broken snow without solid prints, as they tended to drag their feet when they walked. No, here and there, he could spot a fully formed boot print. This person had been striding as they walked.
Licking his dry, cracked lips, Mort continued up the path, expecting someone to pop up at any second. He would be ready to fire if they did. The ten-minute walk took twice that time as he approached quietly, walking in the already broken path ahead of him, so he didn't have to crunch through the frozen surface of the snow. Still, his approach made more sound than he cared for. He listened intently for sounds of anyone else approaching, but all he heard was the howl of the wind and the clatter of leafless branches as they brushed against each other.
He rounded the last turn in the road and found nothing. The door to the house was closed, and there were no bodies shambling around the property. But they could still be inside. He was thinking about how to enter the house and take the person by surprise when he noticed the message in the snow. Still alive. Katie and Joan. Compound.
He reached out to touch the words but then drew his hand back, not wanting to mess the words up. He read them again and again until they made sense to him. They're alive. They're waiting for me. The shotgun dropped to the snow, and he put his hands to his eyes as tears formed there. He smiled as he cried. The big man resisted the urge to crawl over to the words and lay on them.
Eventually, when he thought he was developing frostbite, and the cold, gray sky had turned even darker, he lifted himself to his feet. His knees and hips had stiffened from sitting on the ground, and he staggered up the steps to the house. That night, with a belly full of oatmeal covered in ketchup, he slept as soundly as he had for a month. And for the first time in a week, he didn't think about killing himself. It was a good day.
****
Katie's journey back to the compound had started out fine. She had made it across the washout with no problem, despite her exhaustion. However, as she tried to make her way back to the compound, something happened.
First, she felt a flash of hotness in her shoulder. She stopped in her tracks, wondering at the strange sensation. The warmth radiated from the spot where Joan had inadvertently shot her. She reached inside her shirt and touched her hand to the spot, wondering exactly what was going on. The scar felt warm to the touch, feverish. Even though it was freezing out, she undid her shirt and looked at the spot. The scar, still fresh and tender, had developed a black ring around it, and the word "infection" popped into her mind.
This wasn't the first time she had felt the strange sensation, but it was the most intense. Usually, the feeling lasted for a minute or so, but this time, it did not seem intent on going away. She picked up her pace. She wanted to get back to the compound. Joan would know what to do.
Katie hustled through the woods, not caring how much sound she made. Her body broke out in a hot sweat, and she was breathing so hard that she barely noticed the sound of the dead thing before it was reaching out for her. Its cold hands grazed her forehead, sending a chill through her burning hot body.
She spun and saw the rotten face of a gangly dead man. The skin of its face hung in tattered ribbons, dangling and jiggling with each movement. Thin, white hair hung down the sides of the man's face, as if, when alive, he had grown spider webs instead of actual hair. The muscles in its bare arms bunched as it tried to grapple Katie's much smaller form to the ground.
Katie fought the urge to scream. Where there was one of the dead, there would always be more. She pushed and fought, trying to create enough separation between her and the dead man so that she could pull the rifle from her back and kill the damn thing.
It was persistent, though, and its fingers grasped at her heavy jacket, limiting her movements. It pulled her tighter, its yellow teeth gnashing inches from her face. She was losing. She wasn't strong enough. It pulled her closer and closer. She felt the baby inside her kicking, and she took a deep breath and clenched her jaw. With the last of her remaining energy, she leaned into the embrace of the dead thing. She ducked her head under its arm and pushed as hard as she could, knocking the dead man off-balance. She thought she was free, but as it fell, one of its hands managed to grab a hold of the strap of her rifle.
The weight of the dead man falling to the ground pulled her to her knees on top of the creature. Her breath plumed before her, and she pounded at the dead thing below her, trying to untangle the dead man's hand from her rifle strap. In the distance, she could hear the crunch of more snow, and she knew that her time was limited.
She gave up on trying to pull the dead thing's slimy, cold fingers from the strap of the rifle, and she held a hand in front of the dead ma
n's face. It snapped at her, and its arms and hands followed, trying to grasp at Katie's proffered hand and bring it to its mouth. With the rifle strap now free, she rolled to her side, clicked the safety off, leveled the rifle at the creature's head, and fired. Blood sprayed the white snow, and the dead man's head rocked back.
From the woods, she could hear the hungry groans of the dead. They were all around her. She threw up then, her hands on her knees, the fire in her shoulder threatening to overwhelm her. Not here, she thought. I won't die in these fucking woods.
She pushed herself upward. Her entire body quivered with adrenaline, or was it fever? She pushed through the snow, moving as quickly as she could, the rifle gripped in her hands. To her left, she saw one, a woman in jeans, plain and undamaged, but judging by its tell-tale shambling gait, as dead as a doorknob. To her left, she spied another one, a child this time, slow and clumsy. It didn't matter because the circle was closing in on her, and she had no delusions that any help was coming for her.
Joan was too injured, Dez was too crazy, and the other women wanted nothing to do with her. They would probably be ecstatic if she died in the woods. So she pushed herself forward. Her vision swam in her eyes, and her rifle felt heavy in her hands. She glanced from side to side. There were more of them now, homing in on her.
She burst through the trees, stumbling and falling into the clearing around the compound. She had never been so happy to see the ring of trailers and the peak of the old ranger station jutting into the sky. "Help!" she called in a strangled gasp.
She had to scream a couple of time before she found her voice. There was no response from inside the compound. She reached the gate, two large swinging doors hammered together from plywood and chain-link fencing. She leaned against it and pushed at the gate, but it didn't budge. She fumbled with the chain that held it closed, but the padlock was locked tight, and the key was missing.
"Open this fucking gate!" she called.
Then she turned around, because she heard them getting closer. She should have tried to climb the gate as soon as she saw it was locked, but she had wasted her time, hoping that someone would open the gate for her. It was too late to climb. The dead, though they moved slow, had moved fast enough to catch up to her. There were five of them now. She had more than enough ammunition, but she was so tired, so exhausted, that it took all of her strength to lift the rifle and aim down the sight. She took aim at the nearest of the dead and squeezed the trigger. She tried to hold her breath, but she was too fatigued, her lungs begging for oxygen. Even her heart was messing with her. With every beat, it seemed the end of the rifle wobbled. She fired anyway, and the dead thing fell to the ground.
Behind her, she heard the rattle of the gate. "Hold on," Tammy said in her mousy, white trash drawl. "I'm gettin' it."
Katie sent up a silent prayer, though she wasn't religious and didn't think anyone would answer. The second of the dead, the child, approached her, snarling to reveal tarnished braces. Its left arm ended in a ragged stump where something had gnawed the hand off. She raised the rifle and aimed. Her breath was coming back to her, but hot fire still shot through her shoulder. She was able to hold her breath longer this time, and when she pulled the trigger, it was with the certainty that the dead kid was going to go down. She fired, and down it went, collapsing like a puppet with its strings cut.
"Stop shootin'!" a voice yelled from the other side of the gate. She thought it was Theresa, but she couldn't be sure. Liz and Theresa both had the husky voices of long-time smokers. "You're going to bring more of them dead."
Katie almost laughed. What the fuck did Theresa want her to do? Stand there and let the dead gnaw on her in silence?
She heard the chain rattle, and the gate opened behind her. She stepped backward into the compound, never taking her eyes off the dead. Tammy and Liz pulled the gates shut while Theresa threaded the chains through the two ends of the gate, locking them shut with a padlock. She gave the padlock and the gates a good tug, and then turned and gave everyone a thumbs up.
Katie collapsed in the snow, breathing hard, her heart pumping blood as fast as it dared. Sweat poured down her face in rivers, but it wasn't from the exertion. Something was most definitely wrong. Her vision swam from side to side, and she felt the baby inside her kick harder this time. She felt pain, but she couldn't tell from where.
"Where's the firewood?" Theresa asked.
"There isn't any," Katie said.
"Then where the hell were you?"
"I was looking for my friend," she said. She wasn't afraid to tell them the truth, and nothing they said mattered to Katie anyway. They were breeding stock, pure and simple. That's how they had behaved; that's the role they had made for themselves in the apocalypse, so that's how Katie saw them. That they shared the same health condition, namely being pregnant, didn't cross her mind once.
"And damn near got yourself killed, too," Theresa said. The other women, Liz and Tammy, just looked on, but Katie knew they were thinking the same thing.
Katie sat up and wiped the sheen of sweat from her forehead. "Yeah, well, when we're all too pregnant to go running around out there and gather wood, you'll be glad I found him."
"Did you find him?" Tammy asked.
"I don't know. Left him a message. We'll see in the next day or two."
Theresa harrumphed and stalked off with Liz to sit around the campfire. They ignored the dead outside banging on the gates. Katie tried to sit up, but her back was killing her. She held her hands out to Tammy and said, "Help me up."
Tammy looked over at the other two women, as if asking for permission, but Liz and Theresa were too busy talking about whatever bullshit they talked about. So Tammy gave a tiny shrug and bent down to help Katie stand. Katie almost pulled her to the ground in the process, but eventually, she was able to rise to her feet. She staggered towards the ranger station, towards Joan, but before she was out of calling distance, she turned and said, "Thanks for opening the gate. You guys might want to clear the dead when you get the chance. With those gunshots, there's bound to be more of them coming from the highway." She turned and went inside to find Joan, a pall of blackness growing around the edge of her field of vision.
Chapter 4: Supermarket Sweep
They moved at a brisk pace, Tejada talking and planning as they walked. Everyone had a part. Everyone had a buddy. Everyone had a key piece of equipment to pick up. Tejada's shopping list went like this, tents, small and compact, sleeping bags, canteens, and water bottles, portable camp stove, propane bottles, waterproof matches, lighters, lanterns, hatchets, one for each person, and as many batteries as they could stuff in their pockets. Any room left over in their packs would be used for food.
They were finishing up the last leg of their loop. After meeting up with Amanda, Tejada ordered the soldiers to move away from the campus. There was nothing there for them now. Whiteside lamented the stash of smokes he had left in the guard building. "I had like two cartons up in there!" he said in his redneck drawl.
Brown just looked at him and said, "Today's a good day to quit."
"Man, momma didn't raise no quitter." He paused for a second, and then his brain, sluggish, but occasionally quite clever, led him to say, "Why do you think I'm still here. I'm a stubborn sumbitch."
"I'll give you that," Brown said.
Whiteside took it as a compliment. Ahead, Tejada turned a corner and shouted, "Doubletime!"
Whiteside broke into an easy jog. He coughed and hacked a thick wad of phlegm into the white snow. It sat on the surface, brown and thick, before it melted out of sight.
"Yo, that shit is nasty," Brown said. "You sure you're not ready to quit?"
"You sure you're not ready to shut the hell up? What are you? My momma?"
"Somebody ought to be."
"Well, until I see you washin' my drawers and making me some fuckin' breakfast, give it a rest."
"Shut it up, back there," Tejada yelled. "Get focused."
They were half-a-mile down the ro
ad when Tejada brought them back down to a quick walk. The line of the dead that trailed after them was further back now. They didn't move so fast in the snow, and they tended to not be so single-minded on chasing the living once they were out of sight. Whiteside hoped they could lose the bastards when they entered the store. Whiteside had been assigned the task of gathering matches and lighters… and where there were lighters, there might be cigarettes.
He was still keeping his fingers crossed when they hit the road that would take them back to the Fred Meyer's. The plan was to get in, get what they needed in one quick swoop, and hightail it out the other side of the store. The layout of the store was fresh in their heads. Tejada had given orders to kill anything that crossed their paths. Whiteside didn't have to be told twice. Once they hit the store, they would split off with their partners and rush through to the other side while picking up what they needed on the way. Once they had gotten whatever was on their shopping list, they were to link up with each other, some distance back from the main doors, so they didn't have the dead bunching up at the exit. When everyone came together, they would rush out and leave the damn grocery store behind… hopefully, with pockets full of cigarettes.
For a brief moment, Whiteside experienced a flash of panic. We're outside, with no place to go. No walls, no real food, no smokes. We could get overwhelmed at any moment. Then, the store appeared in front of them, and he stuffed his worries into the back of his mind. They walked down a hill, purposefully and as silently as possible.
A small gang of Annies congregated around the broken glass of the store's door. The dead were entering through the exit they had created when they had visited Fred Meyer the first time. Whiteside's boot made a scuffing noise as he misjudged a concrete curb buried under snow, and a half-dozen sets of dead eyes turned in their direction. Immediately, the groans and growls of the dead carried across the parking lot.
"Take 'em out," Tejada commanded. 10 rounds of ammunition were expended, and the bodies hit the ground. Behind them, the dead were topping the rise that led down to the Fred Meyer's parking lot.
