I turned south off the trail. Within a few minutes, I could hear the rush of water over rock. The ground dropped away toward a river. After six weeks in the forest, I was tired, dehydrated, and hungry. I had to stop myself from running down to the riverbank and diving into the water. There was a good chance that kind of recklessness would end up with me lying at the bottom of the slope with a broken ankle.
Still, my heartbeat quickened as I picked my way down the rocky slope to the river. I could have a bath, swim. If I was lucky, there’d be fish I could catch and eat.
When I reached the edge of the trees, I forced myself to wait. The riverbank was broad and flat. Rocks of all shapes and sizes littered the ground, everything from huge round boulders and dull gray slabs to fist-size chunks. The rocks provided plenty of places for people, living or dead, to hide. The river raced by, maddeningly close. It looked cool and refreshing. The sound of it rushing over the rocks taunted me.
I moved along the tree line, searching for signs of life and a more open area where I could see anyone trying to get near me. A few minutes up the river I found what I was looking for—an inlet fed by a much smaller river that wound through the trees and up the mountain. A flat expanse of gray rock ran around the inlet. Water lapped gently up its slope. There were fewer rocks, too. A couple were big enough to hide behind, but they were near the water. The rest were smaller than my head and certainly not large enough to provide cover. With one final check around me, I ventured out into the open.
The sun was high in the sky. I could feel it beating down on me as soon as I stepped out of the shade of the forest. I made my way to the edge of the river, crouched, and dipped my hand into the cool, clear water. I splashed some over my face then took a hesitant sip. It was cool and crisp, delicious.
I plunged my head into the river. My body clenched at the cold, and when I pulled myself out again, I was gasping for breath. I shook my head, savoring the chill, then scooped up a few more handfuls. I’d forgotten how wonderful fresh, clean water was.
I slipped off my boots and socks and sat on the edge of the rock. My feet dangled into the ice-cold water below. Within a few minutes they were numb, but I didn’t care—I had clean feet.
I was considering taking my jacket and shirt off and diving in for a full-on swim when I saw a black bear and her cub. She’d wandered out of the forest on the other side of the river and was watching me closely as her cub clambered about on the rocks, occasionally drinking some water or splashing a paw at something passing by in the river. They both looked healthy enough, not that I’d seen any evidence that the contagion was capable of spreading beyond human beings.
The river was a good thirty feet wide and fast flowing. There was no chance the bear was going to be able to get to me quickly, but I kept a wary eye on her, just in case. The cub stumbled across the rocks and bumped into its mother’s leg. She looked down at him, letting out a little snort. The cub bounced away, distracted by something down at the river’s edge.
The bear turned toward the forest and lifted her head, sniffing at the air. A few seconds later, I heard the helicopter myself.
Chapter 2
Flyby
Cursing, I pulled my feet out of the water, grabbed my boots and socks, and half ran, half hopped across the rock to the trees. I ducked out of sight just as a chopper swept over the forest. It was military, the sort of aircraft I’d seen in a dozen Vietnam War films. It even had a soldier sitting in the open doorway, manning a belt-fed machine gun. Presumably, that was for dealing with swarms of zombies.
The swarms were one reason I preferred to keep to the forest, off the beaten path. The other was to avoid the military and other groups of survivors. Hard though my life might be, I had no interest in being rescued.
The chopper came in low and banked to the right, spraying water across the rocks and shaking the trees. I covered my face to protect myself from the dust and debris being blown around. Someone had painted a cartoon caricature of a zombie head on the aircraft’s nose. It had an ax embedded in its skull and the words “Aim for the Brain” written around it.
It looked as though the pilot was going to land on a flat outcrop of rock. I nervously looked for a better place to hide. Then the engine noise increased in pitch, and the chopper roared off up the river. A few seconds later, it disappeared out of sight around a bend. I waited until the sound of its engine had faded away completely before coming out of my hiding place.
The bear and her cub had gone.
I went back to the edge of the rocks and looked at the water. It was so cool and inviting. I hadn’t had a shower since leaving the city, and I stank almost as bad as the living dead.
Not wanting to be caught in the open if the helicopter came back, I settled for taking off my jacket and shirt. I rinsed the dirt and gore from them as best I could and splashed water over my arms and chest. Then, reluctantly, I turned my back to the river and watched the forest for signs of life while the sun dried my clothes.
A dragonfly droned past my ear, snapping me awake. I was tired, and the sun’s heat was making me lethargic. That was dangerous. I dunked my head into the water to clear it then pulled on my shirt and jacket.
A light breeze drifted across the inlet, and I let the clean air and the sound of the water wash over me. It all seemed so idyllic. I could almost convince myself I wasn’t living through a global catastrophe that might prove to be the human race’s extinction event. But I was, and I kept an eye on the horizon and the forest around me, even as I enjoyed the scenery.
I’d been sitting there for ten or fifteen minutes when I caught a movement out of the corner of my eye. Someone was walking through the forest, picking their way between the trees toward the water. And they were on my side of the river.
Chapter 3
Temptation Calls
Whoever it was, they hadn’t seen me yet. I ducked down behind the boulder, low enough that I was almost out of sight but still had a view of the bank.
A few seconds later, a young man broke out of the trees and ran to the river’s edge. He threw himself down on the rocks, hard enough to make me flinch, and began scooping water into his mouth. His clothes, blue jeans and a T-shirt that had probably once been white, were ripped and covered in dirt. His hair was matted and clung to his head, and his face was cut. Blood from the wound had run down his cheek and neck, staining the T-shirt. He had no equipment. No backpack, canteen, or weapons.
The man lapped hungrily at the water. He was trying to drink too quickly, and his body couldn’t keep up. He started coughing and spluttering so hard I thought he might vomit. But he didn’t, and as soon as he got himself under control again, he plunged his hands back into the river and continued drinking.
As I watched him, a familiar coldness grew inside me—the stirring of the shadow. And with the shadow came insight. The man’s guilt hung off him as tattered strips of oily blackness. He wiped his face and left black smears across his cheek. He plunged his hands into the water again, and a black film spread across the surface. My throat turned dry, and it became hard to swallow. Sweat coated my hands.
Eventually, the young man stopped drinking. He lay back on the rocks, one arm resting across his forehead. I could see his chest rising and falling, his breathing quick and heavy. The shadow sent a shudder rippling through me.
The man was a hundred feet or so away and close to the tree line. It would be a simple matter to circle unseen through the forest until I was directly behind him. I could be on him before he knew I was there. It would be so easy. There was no one to stop me.
The shadow rose up. Ice-cold tendrils weaved through my body like a dozen snakes. I felt something cold in my hand and looked down. It was my hunting knife, although I couldn’t remember how it got there. I blinked at it. The blade called to me. I raised it in front of my face. The sun glinted off its tip as I twisted it left and right. I imagined the young man, the knife pressed against the side of his throat. I saw it cut into his flesh, releasing a thin trickle o
f scarlet blood.
I fought back, stifling the shadow’s urges. It was a risk I couldn’t take. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. I wish I could say my actions were motivated by some moral code—kitchen table ethics that had been drilled into me by a caring father. But my father had left us when I was six or seven, for good reason as far as I could tell. My motivations for not killing were purely selfish. The shadow was already deadening my awareness of the world around me. Giving in to its urges would leave me completely exposed.
I forced myself to look away from the knife. And the young man. The shadow writhed. I pushed it down, driving it into the darkest recesses of my body. I’d find a way to quell the shadow without putting myself at risk.
Inhaling deeply, I counted to four then put the knife back into the sheath on my belt. I grabbed the palm of my left hand with my right and squeezed. Long nails dug into the soft flesh. I focused on the pain, acknowledging it, letting it suffuse my whole body. The shadow retreated.
When I let go of my hand, there was a semicircle of indentations in my flesh. I’d pressed hard enough to break the skin in a couple of places. My palm was smeared with blood.
The young man was sitting up now. He was looking around as though he’d realized how exposed he was. A normal person, a good person, would have tried to help him. They’d wave to him, call him over, try to convince him they weren’t a threat and that the two of them would be safer traveling together. And they’d be right. A lone man traveling through the forest was an easy target—for the living or the dead. By the look of him he’d been on the run for some time, and it was a miracle that he hadn’t already fallen afoul of a predator of one form or another.
But I wasn’t a good person. Not even close. He was better off alone, for both our sakes.
The young man took another drink from the river then stood on shaky legs. He looked around, and I thought that maybe I’d been mistaken. Perhaps he did have some equipment after all. He was squinting as he peered left and right, and I wondered if he was nearsighted. Another reason for a good person to help him. I just hoped he’d choose to go in the direction that would lead him away from me.
In the end, he did. I watched him make his way up the river. His progress was slow and unsteady on the rocky bank. He walked without paying the slightest bit of attention to the world around him. I had no idea how he’d survived this long. Maybe he’d been with someone until very recently. I watched after him even after he disappeared around a corner, trying and failing to feel some emotion.
A loud crack from across the river broke the spell. It was probably just an old branch breaking or an animal. Maybe it was the bear and her cub coming back. I took it as a sign to move on. I refilled the water bottles from my pack and considered my options.
Part of me wanted to stay with the river. Ease of movement and the abundance of food and water, not to mention the opportunity to bathe, made it a tempting option. But it was exposed. If I thought it was a good idea to travel alongside the water, so would other people. It might seem like it most of the time, but I wasn’t the only refugee wandering the forest. In the end, I compromised and headed up the inlet, following the path of the smaller river as it wound steadily north.
The slope on this part of the mountain was fairly shallow, and I made good progress. As I walked, I gradually began to relax. My spirits rose. I’d beaten the shadow again, twice in one day. It had been gaining strength over the past few weeks as my nomadic lifestyle wore me down, but I’d shown myself that I could still resist. Eventually, I would need to sate its appetite, but that was a problem I could deal with later, on my own terms.
About half a mile up the river, I spotted a wooden gateway on the opposite bank. Nature had camouflaged it well, and I almost walked right past it. The trail beyond was partially overgrown, still passable but clearly unused for some time. Lush green vines obscured the gateposts. A sign was attached to the top of the posts, but it was so overgrown with ivy that it took me some time to decipher the words carved into it.
CAMP REDFERN
I glanced up and down the river. The forest was quiet. I could afford a detour.
Chapter 4
Redfern
I followed the trail for a couple of hundred yards but left it before I reached the camp’s entrance. Instead, I picked my way carefully between the trees until I could see the camp and then positioned myself behind some bushes that did a pretty good job of keeping me hidden. Then I waited.
Camp Redfern looked deserted. Four wooden single-story cabins sat in a semicircle, two on each side of a fifth two-story building. A carved sign in the same style as the archway at the river hung above the bigger building’s door, declaring it to be THE LODGE. It was built on a raised wooden platform. Three steps led up to a walkway that ran along the front of the building and was home to two wooden chairs. I half expected John Wayne to come charging out, six-shooters blazing, cutting down zombies left and right as they chased him out of the lodge.
A pair of objects shrouded in dusty black tarpaulins, and what looked like a generator, sat on one side of the lodge. A large stack of firewood was piled on the other. Beyond the generator were two small sheds. One had a large M painted on the door in white, the other a W.
The main entrance to the camp was directly opposite my hiding place. A wide track led into the forest. The ground was dry and dusty but heavily rutted. Grass and weeds had begun to reclaim the track.
A fire pit sat in the middle of the clearing in front of the buildings. The earth around it was burned black. By the look of the lumps of charred wood lying in the pit, it had been used fairly recently. Four benches, each just three pieces of wood fixed together in a simple H shape, were arranged around the fire. A white plate sat on one of them, and another lay on the ground near the pit.
A soft moan floated across the camp. It took me a few seconds to find the sound’s source because the zombie that had made it was lying on the ground on the opposite side of the fire pit.
Its entire lower body was missing. All that remained were a few ragged, bloody scraps hanging from its waist. It was wearing overalls, blue and oil-stained. By the look of the trail it had left behind, the zombie had dragged itself along the track to get to the camp and had stopped just short of the fire pit. It moaned again, moving its head from side to side, and I wondered if it had somehow caught my scent. If it had, it would come for me. Flesh is food as far as the living dead are concerned.
The creature let out another groan and struggled to raise its head. There was no way of knowing how long it had been in the camp. If there were people living there, they’d have surely killed the zombie if they’d seen it. Which meant either it hadn’t been there long, or the camp was unoccupied.
I crouched in the forest and watched the lodge for signs of life until my legs started going numb. I shivered. The sun was going down, and pretty soon it’d be dark.
The buildings still seemed devoid of life. The camp reminded me of a documentary on ghost towns of the Americas I’d watched a few months earlier, long before the outbreak had begun creating ghost towns of its own. Even the zombie had stopped trying to move and was lying on the ground, murmuring softly to itself.
I looked at the forest around me. I usually spent my nights up a tree. It was the best way to avoid an encounter with the forest’s wildlife or any wandering undead. I’ve always intended to die in my sleep, but I’m trying to delay it for as long as possible. A few feet behind me there was a pine that looked climbable.
My other option was to explore the lodge. If it was empty, there’d be a place to sleep. Maybe even clean sheets. A ripple of pleasure ran down my spine at the thought. I didn’t dare imagine a working shower. But the camp had obviously been occupied recently. I’d spent the last few weeks avoiding my fellow survivors as carefully as I avoided the dead. I should resist the temptation of the camp, move on. That shadow part of me disagreed. If there were people living here, it would deal with them.
I spent another thirty minut
es watching the lodge and battling with myself over the right course of action. Eventually, the growing darkness forced me to make a decision. I pushed my way back to the trail and walked into the camp.
As soon as it saw me, the bisected zombie grew agitated and started dragging itself toward me. It moaned and ground its teeth together as though it had already ripped a chunk of meat from my calf. One of its eyes was missing. The other tracked me as I walked across the clearing.
I removed my knife from its sheath. The zombie’s moans became louder and more insistent the closer I got. It strained toward me, mouth open. A ribbon of blackish drool rolled over its bottom lip and dripped to the ground. It stank—a mix of rancid meat, blood, and its own waste. Black bile leaked from its stomach.
As I pulled the knife back, ready to plunge it into the zombie’s skull, the shadow stopped me. The sight of the mindless creature struggling to get at me had piqued its interest. There was a thread of something here, a fundamental truth that I’d missed so far.
I stood transfixed as the zombie clawed at the ground, pulling itself closer, inch by inch. When it got too near, I took half a step backward. Like the carrot on the stick, I was always just out of reach. No matter how hard the zombie worked, the end result would always be failure and death. It seemed a perfect metaphor for life.
The zombie let out a frustrated moan and stretched its neck toward me. Its fingers scraped across the ground, nails tearing free. Joints cracked, and flecks of blood splashed across the earth as it snapped and snarled. It strained to get close enough to sink its teeth into me, the tendons in its neck standing taut. The zombie pulled itself forward again. Its ribs caught on a rock and cracked. Pushing the shadow’s protestations away, I plunged the knife into the top of the zombie’s head. It broke through and sank into its brain.
Serial Killer Z: Volume One Page 9
