Apocalypse Cowboy: Futuristic Romance with Zombies (2 page)

Should I follow?
And do what? She didn’t have just herself to think of. Beth and Uncle Fred depended on her.

Disturbed by her encounter, Hannah brought the supplies home and, once out of her sister’s hearing, told her uncle what had happened.

“Sounds like his wife died and he went mad. Poor bugger,” Uncle Fred said, his expression sad. He kindly didn’t say anything about Brody, also probably another cause for Mr. Connor’s grief. Even unspoken, it still crossed her mind.

“I can’t leave him like that,” said Hannah. “If you’re okay with it, then I think I should ask him to come stay with us.”

“I’ve got no problem with it. But keep in mind he might not want to come. And don’t go unarmed.”

“He wouldn’t hurt me.”

Uncle Fred, a former military man, shook his head. “Don’t be so naïve. People who’ve been traumatized can do crazy things.”

“And even if the world’s gone crazy, I need to do the right thing.”

Her uncle sighed. “You’re just like your mother. If you’re determined to do this, then you should have something a little less unwieldy than that huge shotgun. Hold on a second.”

Uncle Fred wheeled his wheelchair into the main floor bedroom, once a den, which they’d converted for him. His paralyzed legs were a gift from the time he’d served overseas. In less than a minute, he returned with a lock box. He opened it to reveal a gleaming black revolver.

“Isn’t that your service weapon?” she asked, not daring to touch it.

“Yes. Take it.”

“But it’s yours.”

“And I want you to have it. This way, you can have it on you at all times. We’ve been foolish thinking we were safe out here. The fact Brody’s dad survived is a reminder that we’re not the only ones. And we need to remember that, while he might not wish us harm, other survivors may think differently.”

“You mean the zombies.”

“Them, and others like Mr. Connor who might have also suffered a mental lapse. You’re a pretty young girl, and desperate men do desperate things.”

Surely he didn’t imply…

Judging by the hard line of his lips, he did, and Hannah couldn’t help but shudder.
I’d rather die first.

With a deference to the gift he bestowed upon her, Hannah lifted the weapon from its velvet-lined case. It felt big and heavy in her hand, but not unfamiliar. She knew how to use a gun. Her father had taught both his daughters young, saying the best way to respect firearms was to know how to fire them and see firsthand what they could do. The next day, when she drove her SUV to Brody’s old house, she had the cold weapon stuffed down the back of her jeans.

Parking in the empty driveway, littered with leaves, she sat for a moment staring at the house. Nothing from the outside indicated anyone lived within.

The whole street sat quiet. So still that it gave her a chill and she wanted to drive away.

Chicken.

Heart hammering, she exited her SUV and trudged up the steps, which creaked at her weight.

Still nothing moved. Not a sound shattered the quiet, which was why when she knocked she practically flinched as the rapping sound echoed down the street.

No answer. She debated knocking again but decided against it. She turned the handle to the front door. It wasn’t locked. She entered. Minutes later, she raced from the house and fell to her knees in the long, yellowing grass, heaving and sobbing.

She’d arrived too late.

Returning home, she told her uncle what she’d found, the tears rolling down her face as she dealt with yet more horror. One that she could have prevented if only she’d not been so frightened the day before.

In that moment, she resolved to not let fear rule her again. She started by making more frequent trips to town, intentionally making noise to draw hiding souls out. She went door to door, calling the names of those she knew, gun in hand just in case they didn’t prove friendly.

Yet all her searches yielded no more sightings of people. But she did find other things. She brought back food each time, and once she figured out how to rig a trailer to her SUV, she also taught herself how to siphon gas from the large underground tanks using a garden hose so they could fill red plastic jugs.

At the garage and hardware store, she snagged spark plugs for the generator, along with kerosene lamps and all the full propane tanks she could find for their camp stove. The list of supplies she and her uncle thought of boggled the mind, but fear of what the winter might bring made them want to be safe rather than sorry.

Much like ants, they prepared for the long winter and stored their supplies in the house, cellar, basically any nook or cranny they could find. Fuels and gases were stored in an old weathered barn at the far end of the property. Even then, she kept a wary eye on it, expecting it to spontaneously combust in a huge ball of flames.

Living close to the Canadian border in a small township in Maine meant dealing with seasonal changes. Tiny flakes of snow began drifting down in the first week of November. By December, the roads were impassable, and they huddled in their lonely house, their wood stove pumping out heat, keeping them from freezing.

Cooking became the chore no one wanted. To prevent carbon monoxide poisoning, they had to cook on the porch. Talk about freaking cold. They often made do with canned soup warmed on the wood stove.

The winter passed slowly. For entertainment, they played cards and board games, and, once a week, they fired up the generator and watched a movie. Oddly enough, flicks like
Mad Max
and
Waterworld
became favorites. They would laugh at the primitive conditions those heroes lived in and pretended to thank their lucky stars. But in the dark of night alone in her bed, Hannah cried.

How she wished now she’d left town with Brody when he’d asked her to enjoy a few more months of passion and happiness before everything ended.

Spring arrived, the world waking refreshed and full of signs of life, plant life, that is. Of people, she saw nothing. Even the animals seemed subdued, her chickens not as noisy as before.

The roads eventually cleared of the snow and ice. As soon as she deemed them passable, Hannah prepped herself for some new scavenging trips. Trailer hitched to her SUV, she drove to the next township.

Nervous, she kept the revolver in her lap the whole time, her eyes darting and searching the derelict buildings. She saw only stray cats and dogs. Apparently the deadly flu had not affected the animals. She briefly wondered if she would ever get desperate enough for meat that she’d eat cat or dog like some overseas countries did.

She shuddered. Not while she had some chickens she wouldn’t. If she had any cowgirl skills, they could have beef. Cows now roamed the fields in wild herds while horses whinnied as they galloped, their manes flowing behind them.

The good thing about seeing the animals, though, was it probably meant no zombies.

I hope. What if they’re picky eaters like I used to be and they’re waiting for a Hannah-snack?

Way to freak herself out. But imagining a decaying psycho chewing on her leg didn’t deter her from her task.

She’d come to this town to shop, and by damn, she would shop until she damn well dropped.

Pulling up in front of the Wal-Mart, her one-stop store for all the supplies they’d need, she hopped out and initially tucked the gun in her waistband. The heavy, cold metal made her uncomfortable, but Uncle Fred’s oft repeated, “Protect yourself at all times,” and her own paranoia wouldn’t let her leave it behind.

Unlike the businesses in her hometown, the door of the store here remained intact and locked. A sure sign of no survivors and even better for her raiding needs.

A large rock helped her shatter the glass pane of the sliding door. She took a moment to smash the shards and then sweep them out of her way with a broom she’d brought before she grabbed a cart.

The ruckus she made didn’t bring a horde of zombies shuffling down the street. Nor did anybody come out and yell, “What the hell are you doing?”

Maybe there really were no other survivors.

The thought depressed.

Good thing she had a task to keep her mind focused. She pulled a list from her pocket and went to work. With the aid of a large spotlight, she went back and forth until her SUV and trailer groaned under the weight of the goods. There was still lots to scavenge, but it would have to wait another day. With her gas supply dwindling, she had to make each trip count.

As she drove back through the town on her way home, she spotted a bookstore and slowed to a stop. She eyed her packed front seat and loaded back seat. Yeah, she had little room left, but a few paperbacks would prove so welcome to waste away the long hours.

“Screw it. I’m going in.”

She spent a good twenty minutes picking and compiling a pile. Arms laden with books, she emerged from the bookstore with a smile and began cramming them into the open spots she found in the Jeep.

The arm that snaked around her waist and yanked her backward almost made her pee her pants.

“Guuuh.”

The eerie moan did not reassure.

Oh my god. Zombie.

Almost worse than the knowledge was the stench. Rot, pure and simple. About to be joined by urine if she didn’t do something.

Flailing, Hannah rammed an elbow back and heard something snap. Ew.

She had no time to get squeamish about having possibly broken something on the creature. The grip around her loosened. She took advantage. She broke away and whirled to see her very first up-close zombie.

Ugly was the first word that came to mind. The thing leered at her through wild strands that hung in an illness-ravaged face. As it came toward her, the stench of its unwashed body and the clear intent in its red-streaked eyes made her cringe.

The zombie didn’t mumble brains, but the “Guh’s” and clacking teeth spoke eloquently. At least it didn’t have insane speed or strength. Emaciated, it was probably no stronger than her, but still very deadly.

Fumbling at her waist, she drew the gun, hands shaking as she aimed it. But she hesitated.

“Please don’t make me shoot,” she said through throat-clogging tears. “Please. Just go away.”

Her pleas went unheard. The thing lunged and knocked the gun from her hands.

Oh no.
Her survival instinct kicked in, and she turned to run.

But the impending buffet had galvanized the zombie, and it moved faster than expected.

Its heavy weight hit her from behind, and she fell to the ground hard. Momentarily stunned, she still reacted and flipped onto her back, her hands grasping at the writhing body atop her, struggling to keep its snapping jaws at bay. She fought like a mad woman, thrashing and bucking underneath its weight.

“Get off me, you bastard!”

As if the zombie heard or cared. Her assailant said not a word, its eyes alight with a maniacal gleam. Its fingers, tipped in jagged nails, tore at the skin on her arm as it also struggled to gain the upper hand.

Feeling her blood running hotly, she screamed.

But, of course, no one heard her.

There was no one left to save her. No boyfriend on a motorcycle to ride to her rescue. No daddy or uncle with a shotgun to chase her attacker away.

If she was going to survive, she’d have to rely on herself.

From the corner of her eye, she noted her gun within reach if she dared let go of the zombie to grab it. But if she did, would she have time to use it?

If she didn’t, she’d probably die.

She let go with both hands and lunged sideways, screaming again as teeth clamped onto her bicep to chew.

Before she could think about it, she swung the gun back and fired. She missed, but the noise started the thing. The teeth gnawing on her arm loosened, and she used that reprieve to take aim again, better aim this time.

The warm splatter of blood made her sob, but the wild eyes going sightless filled her with savage glee.

I did it.
She’d fought and survived.

Not unscathed. Her arm burned, the scratches and bite mark bleeding profusely, but she ignored them because pain meant she lived.

Fearful that others might arrive, and horror beginning to set in as she noted the still body with the widening pool of blood spreading, she ran for her SUV and jumped in. Gunning the engine, she roared out of town, the burning pain in her arm a throbbing reminder she’d almost died.

After that incident, Hannah never wanted to leave the house. She could have happily stayed shut in her home, shotgun in hand, shooting at anything that moved. But Hannah wasn’t a coward, and it wasn’t just her.

A fact she was reminded of when her younger sister, Bethany, naïvely said, “If you won’t go, then I will.”

The thought of her sister going out for supplies in her place goaded her into action. Despite the panic that threatened to paralyze her, she made several more trips to other nearby towns. Her gun was always in hand. And when she came across the rare zombie, thankfully only one at a time, she no longer hesitated.

Spring passed and so did summer. Their house was packed to the rafters with supplies. Their new life, while not horrible, made her ache with loneliness. Sure, she loved her sister and uncle, but if she’d been alone, Hannah doubted she would have fought to survive.

What did she have to look forward to? The world had died. The only other living person she’d seen, apart from her family, had gone crazy. Everyone else had turned zombie.

Years of being alone stretched in front of her. Never again to feel loved or another person’s touch. She dreaded the day her battery stash ran out. Her handy-dandy pocket rocket wouldn’t last forever.

A hysterical giggle bubbled inside her. How could she think of pleasuring herself when billions had died?

Masturbation became her last escape, sometimes the only thing that reminded her she was still alive. In the quiet of the night, she let her fingers dance over her flesh, and she remembered better days. Or, more specifically, days spent with Brody, her first and only love.

Rugged, with slightly long, tousled hair, and blue eyes. Just looking at him had always made her breath hitch and her panties damp. His face still dominated her dreams and erotic fantasies, even though she continued to hate him for what he’d done. When she touched herself, she would pretend he lay in bed with her, his mouth and hands pleasuring her.

But his phantom actions would never give her the family she longed for.

Part of her now wished she’d thrown responsibility to the wind and enjoyed a few more blissful months with him before tragedy stuck, but who would have taken care of her family?

And why did gardening always make her thoughts turn to her memories of the past?

She ripped at the weeds that had cropped up in more aggressive numbers than the vegetables, an ongoing battle she used to vent her frequent frustration.

Why do I bother? We’ve got enough canned vegetables to last us a lifetime.
Hannah shuddered at the thought of eating mushy peas for the next forty or fifty years. With renewed vigor, she hacked at the thick root of a dandelion.

Intent on her task, it took her a moment to register the sound in the distance. Much like an audio mirage, her ears didn’t believe what they heard, and when she did clue in, her jaw dropped.

That sounds like a motorcycle.

Pulling off her gloves, and with a rapidly beating heart, she strode to the front of the house to see Uncle Fred peering at a cloud of dust fast approaching.

“Get the gun,” Fred said, his eyes squinting in the sun. “And help me get into the house.”

Hannah wanted to protest that they couldn’t be sure whoever approached meant them harm, but she only had to think of the movies she’d seen—to recall the madness she fought daily—to know prudence should come first.

After wheeling her uncle’s wheelchair quickly into the house, Hannah bolted the door and called for her sister. “Beth! Get down here.”

The long, tanned legs of her sister, followed by the rest of her, came skipping down the stairs. “What’s got your panties in a knot?” asked her blonde sibling. “I thought you wanted that bathroom clean.”

“I still do, but someone’s coming. Quick, get into the cellar and take Uncle Fred with you,” Hannah ordered as she grabbed the shotgun from its spot in the corner by the front door.

But Beth didn’t budge. With bright eyes, she asked, “Why are we hiding then? Maybe whoever it is has got news of other survivors. Maybe it’s a man.” She clasped her hands together and bounced a bit in excitement.

Fred snorted. “You’ve got less brains than most blondes, Bethie. What if it’s a scout for some gang looking for gals to sell? What if—”

Hannah cut off her uncle before he listed all the possibilities that could befall two girls in a lawless land—it tended to be lengthy. “Just get your ass downstairs now. I’m not taking any chances.”

“That’s the problem,” Beth grumbled as she grabbed the handles to Fred’s wheelchair. “We finally find someone alive, and we’re going to hide like rabbits in a burrow instead of befriending him.” Even as she complained, Beth wheeled their uncle down to the cellar using the rickety ramp they’d built for emergencies.

With the door shut behind them and the sounds of the motorcycle closer, Hannah cracked open the shotgun and made sure it held some casings before she snapped it shut. Sliding the pump forward, she chambered a shell and then stood behind the front door, resisting an urge to go on tiptoe and peer through the half-moon window.

I hate to say Beth is right, but what if whoever is coming is friendly? It would be nice to see other people again.

Or the person coming could be a psycho rapist who would hurt her and Beth before killing them all.

Safety lay in staying here, undiscovered
.
She wouldn’t chance the well-being of her family, no matter how lonely it got.

The sound of the revving engine echoed loudly in the still house, and Hannah found her hands sweating around the stock of the gun. Taking deep breaths, she tried to calm down. The chances of the person stopping were small, infinitesimally so.

Nothing to see here. Just a lonely little house on a farm.

Hello, heart attack. Hannah’s heart stuttered and almost stopped when the motorcycle turned into their driveway and rumbled to the front of the house. The engine shut off.

What had they left lying around that had given them away? At Uncle Fred’s urging, they’d made sure the front of the house looked abandoned with the lawn growing wild. But, to her uncle’s chagrin, she drew the line at breaking windows for a more authentic look. When she’d taken the rock from his hand, which he’d claimed to need for staging, he’d pouted until she let him trash an old station wagon that she brought over from a neighbor’s place.

Boards on the front porch creaked, a hillbilly’s house alarm her dad used to jokingly call it whenever her mother would ask him to fix it.

Breathing in fast pants, Hannah moved back from the entrance and shouldered the shotgun, aiming it at chest height. Silly really because the front door was locked and whoever stood out there couldn’t get in.

She watched in terrified fascination as the handle turned, first one way then the other. A muffled curse followed by a
thump
as the visitor kicked the locked portal. Hannah stifled a sob as her finger trembled on the trigger. More creaking was heard as the person went back down the steps. Then even worse. Silence.

Silence because he’d given up? Could they be so lucky? Hannah let out the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.
Are we safe?

Not yet. She hadn’t heard the sound of the bike starting back up
. Why isn’t the stranger leaving? What is he doing?

The tinkling of glass breaking in the kitchen made her swing around to the doorway that led into the kitchen. The curtain over the window hid the intruder, but Hannah had a clear view of the side door. She noted with horrified fascination the hand that came through the broken opening and turned the latch to unlock. She stared in frozen disbelief as the kitchen door swung open, allowing a tall figure wearing a low-brimmed cowboy hat, bandanna, and long leather duster to enter her home.

Terrified, not just for herself but also for her family in the cellar, Hannah pulled the trigger.