What We Left Behind (11 page)

Steve walks alongside me. He relaxes a bit on hearing David’s quip, holding his steel pipe with a little less purpose. I look at the baseball bat in my hand. I rinsed the bloody wood off in a stream, but it still looks terrible. Splinters have formed on the wooden barrel as sections of the bat begin to come apart. At some point, it’ll break. Relax? Keep calm? Not likely.

I found my gun in the grass, not far from Deanne’s fingers, and I wonder if she was reaching for it in those last few moments as I crushed her skull. Probably not, but it freaked me out. If my bat breaks, I’m going to need to switch to my gun pretty darn quickly, and that thought is unnerving.

I sneak another peek at the zombies in the conference center, turning my eyes while trying to keep my head facing roughly forward. Bony hands tap at the glass.

I’m not convinced we’re safe, but I understand why David doesn’t want us to stare at Zee. Hundreds of excited zombies could easily push through that floor-to-ceiling glass. Best not to provoke them.

The thought of a zombie horde suddenly cascading out of the hotel doesn’t make for the most inspired mind picture. Would they survive the fall? At a guess, I’m thinking no, as they’d break bones and stuff, but if enough of them piled up, the ones at the back would survive the drop.

“Why do zombies die?” I ask, seeing the body of a young man lying on a lawn behind a chain-link fence. His head has been crushed by something, probably some other survivor with a crowbar or a steel pipe.

“What do you mean?” David asks, looking over his shoulder at me as we wander along the desolate street.

Thinking about it, I agree with dad. I say, “If Zee can die, then he wasn’t dead to start with. I mean, we call them the Undead, but that’s just a word. Calling them that doesn’t make it true.”

The logic seems pretty simple to me, but I’m not sure if I’m making sense.

Steve says, “They sure look like walking corpses.”

“And maybe that’s the problem,” I say, “We’ve read too much into their scary looks. It’s hard to shake old attitudes.”

“I don’t know,” Jane says. “But I hope your dad’s right. If we can prevent someone from turning, we could win this bloody war.”

The sun sits low on the horizon, casting long shadows through the city.

“How far to the clinic?” I ask.

“It’s a couple of miles that way,” David says, pointing to one side.

“Why aren’t we going there?”

“Because night’s falling. We need to find somewhere to hole up.”

“No,” I insist. “We need to get there today.”

“Haze,” David replies with an air of patience that doesn’t suit my panicked state. He’s gentle. He says, “We can’t. We lost too much time today. We cannot go through the city at night. We have to wait till morning.”

“But my father,” I protest.

David stops and turns toward me. His eyes speak volumes about what’s going through his mind. His dark pupils are determined, but his focus is betrayed by his weary shoulders. I understand. I don’t like the conclusion, but I can see he needs to rest. We all do. And none more so than Jane. She looks pale. She’s already gone farther than she should have given her head injury. David’s been carrying her pack for miles. If his legs are anything like mine, they’re aching.

David has the heart not to say anything. He lets me read the answer on his face. Jane’s quiet as well. I think she’s running on empty. They both seem to realize I need to accept defeat for myself.

I sigh.

The day conspires against me. Dark clouds roll overhead. The sound of thunder breaks in the distance, rumbling like an angry giant. Rain begins to fall in a light sprinkle.

I fear for my father. The more time that passes, the more likely it is that he’s turned. As much as I hate to accept the possibility, he’s beyond hope. That realization is repugnant—repulsive. I don’t want to accept it, but I must. I want to run. I want to run as fast as I can and never stop. I feel manic, as though screaming at the world will somehow make a difference. In truth, dad was beyond hope the moment he cut his palm open on those shards of broken glass.

And Ferguson, what a bastard! I hate him, and not just because of what he did to my father. I hate him because he’s blind to anything but his own agenda. He’s shortsighted. He has closed his mind and damned anyone that longs for change. Is it too much to want to be free? Why is it too much to hope for a better world?

A tear runs down my cheek.

“It’s okay,” Steve says, resting his hand on my shoulder and offering kind words. But it’s not okay. I shrug him off, stepping away from him. Nothing is okay. This world is all fucked up. Now there’s a word I’m not supposed to use, but I have to because it is.

I’m on the verge of swearing out loud, but anything I say will be hurtful. None of this is their fault. I couldn’t have asked for such loving, loyal friends. I can’t dump my heartache on them. They deserve better.

Slowly, I nod my head in resignation and stare at the ground.

There’s a crack in the concrete by my feet. A weed has taken hold where life should have failed. A tiny green shoot defies the odds, reaching up and clinging to life. The last rays of the setting sun catch the lone leaf. This poor plant is doomed to a life of hardship only to wither and die. Whether it dies under a scorching sun or the snows of winter makes no difference. It can’t win, but it doesn’t care. Life doesn’t need to win. Life needs to try.

I take a deep breath and realize I need to move on.

“So what’s the plan?” I ask, finding my resolve in the impetus of life to fight for change.

David rests his hands on the pack strapped to his chest, which doesn’t look comfortable at all.

“There’s a storm rolling in,” he says. “That’s good. A bit of rain will wash away our scent trail. We need to find somewhere to rest for the night.”

He turns and walks on. I’m glad to put some distance between us and Hotel Zee.

Steve says, “I thought we had to keep moving, that if we stop somewhere, zombies will find us.”

“Oh, they’ll find us,” David says without looking back. “But so long as we have a defensible position with several points of entry and exit, we’ll be fine. Set up a diversion over here, and we slip out over there.”

We walk up a long hill.

“Zombies aren’t the problem.”

And right about now I’m humorously wondering about David’s sanity, but he explains his point. “You don’t have to kill every zombie you see. So long as you can see them and keep them at bay, they’re not much threat. Think of them like lions at the zoo. So long as you’re not in the enclosure, you can make faces, tap on the glass, throw popcorn at them, whatever. Just don’t fall in there with them, right?

“There’s a big old house on the top of this hill that should do nicely. Large lawn. A fence made from steel railings. We’ll set up camp there.”

“Right,” I say, picking up the pace so I can walk along with Jane.

The rain starts to spatter.

A cool wind blows from behind, urging us on.

David falls back and walks along with Steve. They’re chatting as though we were back in the commune. Steve jokes around with David about skipping chores.

“How are you doing?” I ask Jane.

Jane looks at me with bloodshot eyes. If I didn’t know better, I’d think she’s been bitten, but there were no bite marks. David checked her pretty thoroughly, far more than he did after I ran into the zombies by the oak tree. Is she infected? I hope not. I doubt even she knows.

“I’ll be fine,” she says. She’s being brave.

“I just wanted to say thanks.”

Jane smiles.

“We can do this,” she says.

I nod.

That it’s too late for my dad isn’t something I want to get into, but I realize it’s not just his life in the balance. All of our lives are at risk, and not just us teens here in the city or even those back in the commune. This could be a game-changer for the whole of humanity. If dad’s right, his death won’t have been in vain. I’m pretty sure he’s dead by now. If he turned in that cellar, he’d make a hell of a racket. They’d kill him. They’d have to. They’d have no choice. I understand that. But maybe his life and death can make a difference. Maybe we’re on the verge of change. Oh, how I hope he’s right. It’s too late for him, but maybe it’s not too late for us.

“What do you think’s happening back there?” I ask. “Do you think they noticed we’re gone?”

“Oh, yeah,” Jane replies, laughing. It’s good to see a little excitement light up her face. “David knows his dad pretty well. Between you and me, I think he’s counting on Ferguson coming after us, giving us some backup if we get into too much trouble. I doubt they’re more than half a day behind us.”

“And Marge,” I say.

“Marge will be going crazy by now. A bunch of teens sneak into the city alone without the guards noticing? I bet she read Ferguson the riot act!”

“You really think she’ll let Ferguson take the marauders out after us?” I ask.

Jane looks over her shoulder. I follow her gaze. The meadow looks small from here. I can’t make out the old oak we sheltered under, but I know it’s back there. Beyond lie the hills and the commune. With the sun going down, the forest is dark and foreboding.

“Ferguson will come for David, of that much I’m sure,” she says. “But as for what role he’ll play after what happened to your dad, I don’t know. I heard her threatening to strip him of his position. I think she’ll do it. She was pretty pissed about what happened to your dad.”

Such a punishment seems kinda trivial in comparison to what has happened, but I’m glad Ferguson doesn’t get to walk away without any consequence. I’m sure it hurts his pride to be publicly ridiculed by Marge. The marauders are a boys’ club. I bet it eats them up that a woman is forcing change on them. It was an accident, I get that, but it was caused by Ferguson’s ego. It’s good to hear his pride has come back to haunt him.

We walk up to the old house as large, heavy drops of rain begin to fall. Up until now, the rain has been gentle, barely a drizzle, but from the thunder growling overhead and the lightning rippling through the cloud banks, it won’t be long before the heavens open and there’s a torrential downpour.

“Come on,” David says, opening a rusted old gate and leading us into the grounds. What grass there is grows to waist height, but the stony ground means it’s patchy, growing in clumps.

The house is grand. It’s an oddity. We’re in a semi-industrial area. There are lots of small garages and workshops on one side of the road, and rundown homes on the other. There’s nothing quite like this historic old home for miles.

I haven’t seen Zee for a while, although from the top of the hill I spot a couple of zombies roughly a mile farther down the road. Their dark silhouettes wander aimlessly across an intersection. They’re oblivious to the rain.

The three-story timber house is at least a century old, if not more, judging by the ornate woodwork. Paint peels from the clapboard, but the house must have once been magnificent. The old mansion is set on at least two acres of land. Trees line a circular driveway. Instead of concrete, the drive is made from pebbles, which is good as they’ll make a hell of a racket if anyone walks on them. Wrought-iron gates block the drive, so we should be safe. A stripped-out rusted car sits on the lawn.

A crash of thunder directly overhead makes me jump. The flash of lightning casts eerie shadows across the ground.

Steve closes the gate behind us and rattles the catch, making sure it can’t be pushed open.

“Quick,” David says, jogging up onto the wooden porch as a hard rain falls, soaking us. He drops his packs beside a swing seat that must have once allowed the occupants to sit on the porch and watch sunsets. Jane sits on the seat and swings gently back and forth. The wood groans and the chains squeak softly. She’s braver than I am, or perhaps just too tired to care. The seat holds her weight, but I’m not sure for how long.

“I wouldn’t,” I say and she looks at me as though I’ve just said something rude. I’m spoiling her fun. “Just be careful.”

“Yes, mom.”

I grin and leave her to the swing.

David tries the main door. It’s unlocked. He opens the door, saying, “OK, let’s get settled and get something to eat.”

“Aren’t you going to check for zombies?” Steve asks, cutting me off, although that was precisely what I was going to ask. I drop my pack on the porch, but I’m not as careful as David and it lands with a thud.

“Nah, there are no zombies in there,” David replies, peering into the darkness.

“How can you be so sure?” I ask. I could have sworn I heard something growl when my pack hit the wooden deck. Maybe my mind’s playing tricks on me.

“I’m pretty sure the marauders would have picked over the bones in this place. I’ve been past a couple of times. Never seen any lookers.”

Lookers—I’m guessing that’s a term for trapped zombies, like the ones at the hotel.

David rummages around in his pack in front of the wide-open door. My fingers tighten around my baseball bat. I can’t take my eyes off the pitch-black darkness beyond the door frame.

Lightning breaks around us, lighting up the night with a flicker of neon blue before the crash of thunder booms overhead, rattling my bones. Goosebumps break out on my skin. The hair on the back of my neck stands on end.

Steve asks what I consider to be a couple of very intelligent questions.

“What if they were trapped in one of the back rooms, or if they only just made it inside?”

David laughs.

“Are you guys afraid?”

“Yes,” I say quite boldly. To my way of thinking—denial, a reckless disregard for safety, and a blithe ignorance of danger are things to be ashamed of, not fear.

Steve says, “It looks haunted.”

My eyes glare at him.

“You’re not helping.”

“There’s no such thing as ghosts,” David says.

“But there are zombies,” I reply, surprised I have to point this out.

“All right,” David says with a sigh of exasperation. “Fine. We’ll search the building. I’ll get Jane settled and sweep the first floor. Haze, you take the second. Steve, you get the view from up top.”

“Alone?” Steve cries. “You’re not serious, right?”