Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse (Book 9): Frayed (3 page)

“Smells like mold,” said Cade, the running commentary
unnecessary but helping to pass the time. “Much better than death ... eh, boy?”

He pulled the curtains to the living room window and
instantly the front room and kitchen was awash with flat white light cast off
the fallen snow outside.

The nearby kitchen was small by most standards. It contained
the usual stove and fridge in white enamel, but no dishwasher. The sink was
filled with soiled dishes and contained an inch of water, the source of the
sour smell. In a drawer he found two packages of Duracell batteries, D and C
cells, four of each; not enough to satisfy that portion of the list, but a good
start nonetheless. He stuffed the batteries in the pack and proceeded to rifle
through the cupboards, spilling anything resembling a spice or seasoning into
the Kelty’s gaping top opening. A long winter was ahead of them, he figured.
The deer meat Tran had dried and squirreled away from the
grazers
in the
group wouldn’t last them long, and the considerable stores of beans and rice
Logan had stockpiled in the dry storage would get old real quick without the
added kick of the scavenged spices.

In the cupboard were a few cans of various types of soups
and vegetables.
Strike one. No cheese, Snickers, or chocolate.
Done in
the kitchen, Cade shouldered the pack, pulled out Glenda’s personal list, and
saw that most of the items on it were the kinds of things you’d find in a
bathroom. So he walked past his four-legged sentry and down the hall, but not
before peering out the picture window dominating the wall above the back of the
sofa. He saw the Ford had collected more snow and was now two-tone, white over
black. Beyond the truck, still a number of blocks away, the cluster of Zs
trundled up the slight grade, seemingly leaning into the driving flurries,
looking every bit like they were on the verge of being stuck fast in quicksand.

He turned from the window and padded down the hall to the
bathroom, which was only as wide as the tub/shower combo built into the back
wall. Compared to the front room this one was a cave, the outside light barely
penetrating the frosted window and opaque shower curtain.

On the moldy tile floor was a pile of paper wrappers and the
slick backings from a dozen Curad bandages. An empty and partially crushed box
labeled “STERILE GAUZE WRAP” sat amongst the hastily discarded wrappers. The
sink was empty, but the previous waterline was a crusty reddish-black stripe,
and below it the white enamel was tinted pink. Cade was no Sherlock Holmes, but
it was clear, based on the evidence, that someone had cleaned a wound and
prepared a makeshift field dressing here.

Feeling around the mirror, he found a catch. Pressing it let
the door swing away from the wall, which revealed the contents of a recessed
medicine cabinet. Three shelves. Lots of antacids and creams but only four
opaque orange bottles, all with childproof caps and instructions and
warnings—both in writing and portrayed by symbols—printed on the labels.

After a cursory glance, and finding that only one of the
bottles contained some kind of a drug with a long multi-syllable name that
matched Glenda’s cursive, he tossed them all, along with the creams, into the
pack.

The bedroom at the end of the single-wide screamed bachelor.
There was an unfinished lodgepole pine twin bed pushed against the outside
wall. A matching nightstand and dresser flanked the bed, which was lit up by
horizontal bars of light spilling in through the dust-coated venetian blinds.
Nothing he saw from the earth tone covers to the antler lamp on the nightstand
suggested a woman lived here.

He rifled through the clothes left behind in the dresser and
crammed anything made from fleece or wool into the pack. There was nothing of
interest in the closet. He checked under the bed and found only dust bunnies.
Lastly, he lifted the mattress off the box spring and looked there only because
it would nag at him later if he hadn’t.

“One room to go … where is everybody, Max?”

Nothing.

“You bark when you hear ‘em. OK, Max?”

Still nothing.

Max yawned wide and then rested his head back down on his
outstretched front legs.

Before leaving the room, Cade skirted the bed, parted the
horizontal blinds and took a peek. Though the snow cut down on the visibility,
it seemed the Zs trudging up Center Street had geared down, going from barely
moving to statue still. The ramifications of what he was witnessing hit him
like a ton of bricks. Apparently freezing temperatures coupled with the
wind-chill was doing to the walking dead what up until now only a quick
double-tap or dagger to the brain could accomplish—render them immobile. Though
only temporary, he guessed, he would take it nonetheless.

The second bedroom left Cade wide-eyed. It was one part
office containing some of the things on his list and two parts science fiction
geek nirvana complete with sculpted statues of popular and, not so,
superheroes. Mostly Marvel and, ironically, the first one he recognized was of
Captain America with his red, white, and blue shield raised and at the ready.
The statue next to Cap was Wolverine in his trademark pre-battle pose, hunched
over, arms curled with the razor-sharp adamantium claws fully extended, their
angular tips nearly touching up front. There were numerous homages to Star
Wars: figures on a shelf and spaceships hanging from the ceiling. For a moment
Cade was twenty and naive and the world was back to normal. No walking dead. No
opportunistic bandits. Just a full life ahead of him and Brook.

A hot tear traced his cheek as he reminisced.

In the front room Max growled at something then came padding
into the man cave slash shrine assembled by an adult unwilling to let go of
days gone by.

The dog gave Cade the usual head tilted sideways look that
seemed to be saying:
Hurry the hell up
.

“Just like a good wingman … reminding me to quit crying and
get the lead out.” Cade relieved the office of the laptop on the desk. Stuffed
it, the power cords, and a stack of software CDs and DVD movies that he didn’t
bother to inventory into the bulging pack.

Turning to leave, he caught sight of himself in the mirrored
closet doors. Simultaneously he looked ten years younger and ten older. The
former impression was due to body mass alone—he was now more muscled up top and
slimmer in the waist. Just about how he’d been put together at twenty-five
years of age. The latter, however, he based on the newly formed wrinkles on his
forehead and prominent, deep crow’s feet in the corners of his eyes. Wearing a
combination scowl and thousand-yard stare, the face staring back looked more
forty-five than his chronological age of thirty-five. Hell, he thought, in a
matter of months the zombie apocalypse had prematurely aged him. If things
continued the way they had been going, in a few more people would be mistaking
him for Duncan.

Shaking his head at the mere thought of looking anything
like the old Vietnam vet, he slid the closet door open and was instantly rid of
the stranger staring back at him.

In a box at the bottom of the closet, he found a handheld
video game of some sort and a dozen tiny cartridges to go with it. They went in
his pocket and he pushed both mirrored doors to the right. What he saw there
defied all logic based on the rest of the pieces of the puzzle already revealed.
Belying the bare bones nature of the dwelling, secured to the back wall of the
closet was a gun safe more at home in a McMansion than a doublewide. He tried
moving the circular wheel affixed to the thousand-dollar-item’s door. It didn’t
budge, and he had no heavy tools nor the time to crack the thing. If only Tice
were here with his high-tech toys, he thought as he slid the door shut and
found himself once again staring at his aged visage.

After flipping his scraggly bearded reflection the bird, he
called Max and retraced his steps through the house and stopped before the
closed door leading into the attached garage.

In the span of a couple of minutes, less time than it takes
to boil an egg soft, the man and his blade had reduced all of the zombies
within sight to motionless forms, their blood black and pooling on the pristine
blanket of white. Here and there a severed head or arm or leg lay where it had
fallen after meeting ancestral steel.

With a grim look on his face, the man ran a scrap of oiled
cloth up one side of the blade and down the other. Satisfied, he dropped the
sullied rag to the ground, where it landed with a soft squelch and left a
vibrant halo of red on the virgin patch of snow. Acting on the assumption that
the main column of dead was well out of earshot, he shrugged off the gilded
scabbard and slipped the edged weapon home. He stowed it behind the driver’s
seat and clambered into the SUV. Wanting to spend as little time as possible
exposed on the open stretch of road, he quickly turned the engine over. Working
the wheel hand-over-hand, he turned a tight right and eventually had the rig
crawling eastbound up the winding, snow-covered drive toward the house and big
red barn.

The diesel engine growled and chugged, fighting both the
incline and the semi-worn tires’ inability to maintain traction in the slushy
muddy mixture churned up by them. Passing by on the left were the remains of
what once were beautiful animals. Reduced to bones and tufts of fur by the
hungry birds, the carcasses looked ghostly wearing the fresh layer of snow.

The man’s only reason for driving this tired old war wagon
was its familiarity to the handful of survivors still residing in the border
area between Wyoming and Utah. Its official-looking appearance carried with it
a certain psychological edge. But why in the world his new son-in-law favored
this throwback to the Cold War over all of the newer unmanned vehicles standing
silent sentry over failed roadblocks on the Interstates and State Routes leading
into and out of Salt Lake City was a mystery never to be solved, he conceded
after a moment’s thought. And he supposed so was his daughter Lena’s decision
to pick the man as her husband from the pool of dozens of worthy candidates she
had grown up alongside.

He heard the transmission slipping as the truck made the
final turn and the two-story house and looming red and white barn door filled
the mud-spattered windshield. He wheeled the SUV around a rusted piece of
antique farm machinery partially blocking the drive and pulled to a halt, nose
in to the fence surrounding the massive pasture now devoid of anything living.

The man stilled the engine, shifted his gaze to the front
porch and, just like clockwork, the silver-haired old man was emerging from the
screen door with a long-gun held at a low ready.

The driver again unfolded his considerable frame from behind
the wheel. Without acknowledging the older man, he hinged the driver’s seat
forward and reached in and came out with a large white cylindrical object. Set
it on the snow-covered gravel and reached in and withdrew a second identical
item. Unarmed, the man walked the distance from his SUV to the porch, one
cumbersome propane cylinder swinging from each of his baseball-mitt-sized
hands. “Ray,” he said, forcing a smile. “And Helen’s upstairs with the
crosshairs on my head, I presume.”

Squinting against the snow glare, the man on the elevated
and covered porch lowered his shotgun and, with one arm outstretched, beckoned
for the monster of a man to join him on the porch. “Alexander Dregan, propane
baron, scholar and a gentleman.”
Switzerland
, thought Ray in direct
opposition to his words. He went on, “Helen and I weren’t expecting another
visit from you until … week after next.”

“I wanted to get ahead of the weather,” Dregan said. He
stopped at the stairs and effortlessly lifted the propane tanks and displayed
them, arms outstretched like a T. “I brought Helen refills. Hope she has pie.
And a few boxes of five-five-six. We’ve been doing a lot of foraging east, and
strangely enough, the pickings in the ammo department are slim to none. And
none
seems to be taking over the neighborhood.”

Ray trapped the shotgun in the crook of his arm. He held the
screen door open and stepped aside. “As they say ... timing is everything. Five
hundred rounds are yours if you keep the cylinders coming through winter. And
Helen just so happened to have baked a pie. Had me two slices last night.
Almost went in for a third—”

“I had to slap Ray’s hand away,” said a voice from somewhere
inside the house.

“Old Ray’s still getting frisky with you, eh Helen?” Dregan
said, craning his head in the door before crossing the threshold. “Where do you
want these?”

Stepping from the gloom, stubby scoped carbine in hand,
Helen replied, “I’m the
randy
one.” Then, abruptly, her tone going all
business, she added, “You can put those out the kitchen door with the others.
And take the empties with you when you leave, won’t you please, Mister Dregan.”

Ray followed the caller inside and, before closing the doors,
cast a furtive glance over his shoulder at the camouflaged SUV and the driveway
winding out behind it.

The door lock snicked shut behind him and Dregan heard Ray
ask how the hunt for his daughter’s killer was going. To which Dregan grunted
and said, “Sore subject. My sons ... they want me to arm up and hunt them down.
Me, I am more inclined to wait until spring and let them come to me. That way
we’re not fighting the weather and vehicle breakdowns.”

“Not to mention the
deaders
,” added Helen, opening the
door leading out to the enclosed back porch for the hulking man.

Again Dregan grunted, but more from the exertion of easing
the tanks down softly than a preamble to voicing a thought. He said nothing and
stepped back into the kitchen, rubbing his calloused hands together.

Shutting the chill out, Helen closed the back door and
rearranged the thick sheet of plastic weatherproofing to keep out the drafts.
Then she shuffled over to the propane-fired heater and warmed her hands.
Finally, without making eye contact, she said, “Almanac is predicting a doozy
of a winter.”

Nothing but small talk
, thought Dregan. He said,
“Farmer’s Almanac didn’t predict the scourge of dead, did it?”

“No … but it was kind of inevitable the way we were treating
our Mother Earth.”

Dregan rolled his eyes. He said, “About Lena’s murderers.
Have you seen any sign of them or that big truck since I was here last?”

“No, we haven’t,” answered Ray immediately. “Again, you’re
jumping to conclusions. Helen made it abundantly clear the last time you were
here … and every time prior … that we
only
offered them harbor from the
dead. Nothing more. Nothing less. For all
we
know … they had nothing to
do with the ambush and killings. Maybe it was coincidence.”

“That’s alright, Ray. Believe what you will”—the big man
cracked his knuckles—“I’ve got the patience of Job. One way or another they’ll
show their faces around here again and you’ll call me and then we will find out
once and for all.”

Helen wrapped the remains of the pumpkin pie in wax paper
and placed it on the counter near Dregan. She looked up at him and said in a
soft voice, “They didn’t seem like killers. Not by a long shot.”

 “We told you … most of them were kids,” said Ray. “You’re
educated, Alexander. You knew who Nietzsche was when I first met you. One of
the few who has. What would those folks with the nice vehicles and weapons have
to gain from killing a couple of teenagers driving
that
?” And though he
couldn’t see it, he hooked a thumb over his shoulder in the direction where the
surplus Chevy was parked.

“Because, Ray,” Dregan said calmly. “
That
vehicle was
stripped of supplies. Food. Ammunition. Their packs and weapons.”

“Could have been the bandits from up North,” said Helen, the
bun of hair on back of her head coming loose and bouncing with each nod of her
head. “I told you that the woman and kids were just out hunting for medical
supplies for her daughter.”

“Yes … you … did,” said Dregan. “And to your credit, that
story hasn’t changed. But those people”—he clucked his tongue and looked Helen
in the eye—“they were the only ones in the vicinity when the crime occurred.
And the Judge says that’s sufficient evidence to bring them to trial.”

“Can’t you just give them the benefit of the doubt?”

“No, Helen, I can’t. I’ve never believed in coincidence. And
blood … it’s always been thicker than benefit of the doubt.”

Helen pulled a chair in from the dining room, sat down and
stared up at the bearded man leaning against the doorjamb. “If they do come
back and we call you, what are you planning on doing with them?”

Dregan said. “
I
plan on letting my gut be the judge
and jury—”

Helen finished “—and executioner.” She pursed her lips, eyes
unwavering.

The big man nodded. “Magdalena
was
my baby girl. If
it comes to that, I’ll make sure the punishment surpasses the crime.”

Switzerland
, thought Helen. She said, “We have the CB
you left us.” She steepled her fingers and looked into his blue eyes. “But
first we’ll let
our
guts decide whether we’re calling you or not.”

Dregan smiled and turned back to face Ray, who had retrieved
the shotgun while Helen had the big man’s undivided attention. He stared down
and met Ray’s eyes. Then slowly lowered his gaze to the shotgun aimed at his
gut. “I can’t commute a sentence If I’ve no gut to listen to.” He reached out
and with one finger gently moved the barrel a few degrees right until the blast
would destroy the plastic-ensconced porch door and not his breadbasket.

Ray didn’t reacquire.

Détente,
thought Dregan. He was still alive. So he
reached inside a pocket, slowly, and came out with a package of batteries,
which he tossed onto the cutting board. “For the radio. Just in case for some
reason it’s not working when they return.”

Ray’s eyes narrowed, then he handed over the sizeable brick
of ammunition they’d promised the self-professed propane baron of Salt Lake
City.

Butcher knife now in hand, Helen smiled and motioned with it
toward the front door. “Thanks for the propane. Best not forget your pie on the
way out, sweetie.”