Z Children (Book 2): The Surge (11 page)

“I
didn’t mean anything by it, Virginia. I just—shit, you know how I feel about
men in general.”

“Yeah,
I do. But cut him a little fucking slack, all things considered. We’ve got
tits…he’s got a dick. Live with it. He knows more about surviving than we do.”
I was almost never vulgar, and I could see Chris’s expression change as she realized
how strongly I must feel about JW if I was cursing. The way the vein throbbed
visibly on her temple was another clue. Chris loved it when I got fiery. Her
lips were trying to upturn. I didn’t feel like joking or flirting with her, so
I deepened my frown and looked away from her face.

“Point
taken,” Chris spoke to the back of my head. “You have to admit though—he’s
about as manly as a man gets. Big, stinky, and hairier than his scarred-up
dog.”

“Chris,
just drop it.” I started walking away from her, but then I turned to face my
partner again. “And his name is Ranger. His scars were earned, every one of
them. He saved my life too.”

“Okay,
okay.” Chris raised her hands in defeat. “But JW still stinks…” She let her
voice trail off and this time I allowed the barest hint of a smile to spread my
lips.

“Maybe
a little. I don’t smell peachy either, though. Now come on, I don’t want to
fall too far behind them.”

“You
lead, I like watching your butt.” Chris was full-out grinning now.

“Little
old to need an anatomy lesson there, Doctor Hastings,” I shot back, already
walking away from her.

“I’ll
never be too old for a refresher course from you, Doctor Lynn.”

“Love
you, Chris.” Because I knew that was her way of apologizing. And I did love
her, so much.

“Always,
babe. Now turn around and start walking.” Chris gave me a sharp smack on the
ass; I was still just in reach and my left butt cheek stung afterwards.

The
lingering pain was familiar, nice. It reminded me of why we’d fallen together
to begin with—our banter, the jokes, the sexual tension. But I’d fallen in with
JW, Bonnie, and Ranger for a reason also. And that reason couldn’t be forgotten
or pushed aside.

* * *

THE GROUP

Ahead,
JW heard the sound and the brief chuckling that followed. He couldn’t help but
once again reflect on the company he found himself in.

Virginia
walked fast enough to catch up to the trio that had taken the lead. The group
walked for nearly two hours before a vehicle came into sight. Chris trailed
several yards behind the four for most of the time. The sun was disturbingly
low now. It would be setting soon. More than once, one of them commented on how
strange it was that the roads were so barren.

But if
the virus—or whatever was infecting the children and adults—had spread as
rapidly here as it had in other places, then people had little warning. They
hadn’t tried to escape because they hadn’t known they needed to.

JW
stared through the scope of his .30-06 rifle. He had long ago slung the M-16
over his ruck, opting for the range the scope on the old rifle gave him. He
felt safer now. He was in the open with Ranger by his side; it was natural for
him—the solitude and great expanse, the absence of walls. He could drop his
alertness a little, not all the way into the green, but he could let it just
hover a tad into the yellow. Which, for him, was as good as green in a perfect,
Z-less world.

JW
took his time observing the big UPS truck ahead. It was one of the new “Sprinter”
class. Lots of room, good range, and the only glass was upfront in the cab
section. If it was operational, it would be perfect. It was also one of the
first vehicles that the group had seen since trekking out on foot that wasn’t
surrounded by a quagmire of abandoned vehicles.

“Ranger
and I are going to go over and inspect that vehicle.” JW turned and scanned his
little ragtag group of survivors.

Virginia
was sitting on the ground, nursing a sprained ankle—courtesy of a pothole.
Civilians never understood that—you can’t just look ahead, you have to look
above, below, behind. He’d taken his fair share of falls during his training
days.

Chris,
standing at the edge of the road, staring into the sparse woods that separated
the two sides of highway, was holding the Beretta. She’d insisted on a gun and
JW had obliged after some conversation and assurances that she knew enough not
to discharge accidently.

“You
sure you’re comfortable with that, Doc?” JW had tried calling Chris by her
name, but she wasn’t like Virginia and Bonnie. He couldn’t seem to get
comfortable with her. He didn’t know what it was and couldn’t put his finger on
it.

“Yes,”
the tone in her voice was irritated and cocky. That singular word spoke
volumes. “You surprised a woman knows how to handle a gun?” 

And
that’s when JW realized what it was about the woman that kept him from treating
her like a familiar. She didn’t like men. Not just didn’t like; she detested
them. That, and her unwarranted cockiness, irritated him to no end.

“I’ve
no problem with a woman carrying a gun, as long as she knows where to point it
before she pulls the trigger with her Barbie-pink manicured nails.” JW’s gaze
flicked down to Chris’s hands—each finger tipped in a pale hue better suited
for a little girl at a princess parade. The color didn’t suit her at all. The
bitch needed blood red or nothing.

Chris’s
posture stiffened and her lips came together in a hard, stoic line.

JW
ignored her change in attitude. “There are only twelve rounds left, so if you
have to use them, make them count.”

“Considering
the circumstances, I don’t have much option but to make them count.” Her voice
was more of a mutter as Chris bit her bottom lip and went from bitchy feminist
to uncomfortable noob. “Look,” she took a deep breath, “I took a few classes at
a shooting range nearby. I was a fair shot. Instructor called me a natural.”

“Your
instructor…” JW stifled a snort that would surely jumpstart a full-blown verbal
war. “Listen, that’s not training…not the kind of training you need out here.
You paid someone to let you pull the trigger while they sent you on an ego
trip.”

“It’s
better than nothing,” Chris bristled again, her show of low confidence
dissolving into resolute indignation.

“You’re
right. I’m not denying that. But if you’re doing it wrong and I correct you,
yank up your big girl thong and just take the advice. Don’t get dead because
you don’t want a dick teaching you how to shoot.” JW didn’t wait to see the
resurgence of hot air leave Chris’s bravado but instead made a low whistle for
Ranger and began moving towards the delivery truck.

* * *

JW

By all
accounts, the truck looked brand new.

We
were only a short distance from the edge of the Dallas sprawl driving-wise—not
on foot—and I felt safe assuming that the truck’s tank would be relatively
full. That was a good thing. Big Brown didn’t allow passengers—I’d applied for
a job once when I’d first been discharged, but they wouldn’t let Ranger ride
with me—so, at the most, there should be only one body. Another good thing. There
was a good chance that the body was the walking dead. Not such a good thing.
One though? I could handle one easily.

Approaching
the truck, I was suddenly hit by a wave of déjà vu that left me reeling. At
some time in my past, deep in the shit, I’d approached a delivery vehicle—not
unlike this one—and it hadn’t gone well.

Three
of my men had died. Three of my brothers.

Shaking
my head hard, I took a centering breath and, like I did often nowadays, thought
about the bottle of Ativan that was nearly empty.

I was
still ten feet away from the back of the truck when Ranger let out his warning
growl.

Danger.
That wasn’t a surprise, but it wasn’t imminent.
Stay icy, edge back into the
red and away from the calming yellow.

Man,
I love that dog.

Keeping
the rifle at low-ready I began to cut a nice wide arc around the truck.
‘Cutting the pie’ they use to call it. It was a maneuver that allowed me to see
inside the truck before anything could see me. What caught my eye wasn’t inside
of the truck, though. It was the front of the truck, partially obscured by the
lower bumper and front wheel.

As I
continued the arc, I began to form the scenario in my head. The UPS truck had
hit a Z kid, maybe one of the first ones—early in the morning, hitting the road
for deliveries outside Dallas. Cautiously, I moved in order to bring the body
on the ground full into view. The driver had run over it, pinning the
once-a-child’s body under the wheel against the asphalt.

I
could imagine the horror and panic the driver had felt—I’d experienced it
myself; I was experiencing it daily. Putting a bullet in a body so small… a
fresh hell each time. In this war, this red war that spilled blood that should
be innocent but wasn’t because the innocent were dead and hell-bound now, every
kill felt like my first kill.

The
bloated corpse of the driver was a motionless form next to the Z kid—which was
now opening and closing its mouth, a low, but weak growl escaping between
sundried lips. Its only free arm was reaching for me, fingers opening and closing
as if they wanted to grab ahold of my pants and pull me down for a mealtime
that didn’t consist of sun-baking UPS driver tartare. I’m sure it was the dried
blood on my clothes, the cuts and abrasions I’d suffered from my haphazard fall
at the hospital. One cut on my leg was giving me more hell than the others, and
I was beginning to think that I’d underestimated its severity. Wrinkling my
nose, I refocused on the dead adult and flesh-hungry Z kid.

The
stench from the decaying body was intense.

Even someone
as hardened as me, who could normally swallow down the bile and move forward,
had a hard time fighting back the need to vomit.

The
emaciated face of the hideous creature looked away from me and back to its
rotting meal. It snarled right before it burrowed its greedy mouth against the
nearly meat-free expanse of the driver’s neck.

Transfixed,
I watched as the pinned Z tried fruitlessly to tug the driver’s large body
closer so he could gnaw on an area of body that was not already ruined by its
mouth. It was strong, managing to shift the body several inches to allow its
mouth to reach the thick fat-layered-over pectoral muscles. It slurped and
sucked as the sun-dry layer of skin sloughed off and revealed rich, browning
wetness beneath.

Slowly
and deliberately I pulled my eyes away from the lunching Z. I laid the rifle on
the ground with care, retrieved the .45 and screwed the suppressor on with
exacting movements. Ammo was precious, but this had to be done—if for no other
reason than to stop the insanity. Stop the monster in the child’s body from being
what it was. With one well-aimed shot, the Z quit moving.

It was
free.

And so
was the poor driver.

Someone
else might have broken, set down their weapons and walked away…from everything.
But I moved my gaze to the truck, blinked slowly, and when my eyes reopened
after the third blink, I set my eyes on the dog that was carefully inspecting
the brown delivery truck for any lingering dangers.

Once
Ranger gave the all clear with a sharp bark before sitting down on his
haunches, I approached to look inside myself. Full tank of gas, as I’d suspected.
It didn’t even look as if the driver had made one stop. There was barely enough
room for the group to squeeze in between packages, but it would have to do
until morning. Maybe, if they were really lucky, some of these boxes would have
food. I could go a while longer without eating, but I knew Bonnie was starving.
I’d heard her stomach growling in the Hummer before the gas had run out. I was
tired, dog tired, and by the looks of it, Ranger was too. Stepping down and out
of the truck, I—the man that was suddenly feeling like the drifting stranger
again—waved the rest of the group forward.

As
Virginia, Chris, and Bonnie began to walk, my gaze went to the horizon behind them
and the silhouette of the city in the distance. The light was fading fast now,
sunset was imminent. Nighttime. But at least they had a vehicle. Ranger stood
and ran to Bonnie, cutting a few circles into the pavement before settling in
next to her, matching her stride.

* * *

BONNIE

“Why
don’t we just throw the boxes out the back and be done with it?” I asked
grumpily, my stomach cramping. I was starving. So hungry.
What I wouldn’t
give for one of those generic strawberry pastry tarts or a handful of dry
cereal.
Thinking about that made me think of Dad; laying out his shirt and
yelling at him that he was going to be late for work. Kicking at a smaller box
that had fallen into the incredibly narrow aisle between shelves, I grumbled
incoherently.

“Come
on, honey, like JW said, UPS hauls a lot of stuff that might be useful. So just
read the labels and call it out.” Gin was trying to sound soothing.

“It’s
all crap!” I kicked the small box again and it busted; red shredded paper began
to spill out along with individually wrapped…

Picking
the broken box up quickly, I gasped and my stomach gave a happy leap inside of
me. It made me feel even more empty and starved. A small label on the box read
Auntie
Dee’s Cookie Palace
and my fingers greedily emptied the remaining red
confetti, tossed the personalized note that was intended for ‘Katie’ and I
found myself standing with three giant skull-shaped sugar cookies decorated in
neon icing.

I
wanted to stand there and stuff my face with all of them. They looked so good.