Dying Days 2 (11 page)

"I agree."

Darlene waited for him to move, but he didn't. "Aren't you going to help me? Give me a ride, or at least keys to a car?"

"I'll give you a ride, but not right now."

"Why?" Darlene was on the edge, excited and ready to roll.

"On the off-chance you didn't notice, we're on the wrong end of midnight and it's very dark out. A motorcycle, breaking the silence of the night, is like a dinner bell."

"We need to go," Darlene said.

"Yes, but in the morning. At first light, when I can see them before they see us."

Darlene knew he was right. "We're wasting time."

"No, we're being smart about it. And I never said I was coming with you."

"I never asked you to." Darlene smiled. "But you're coming with me to present your findings to the people in charge."

"Really?" Russ said, clearly amused. He locked his fingers behind his head and leaned back. "Ever ridden on a bike?"

"Yeah, a few times."

"Ever shot a rifle from the back of one?"

"Of course," Darlene said with a laugh.

"Ever been to a jazz club in New York City?"

"Several," Darlene said and laughed.

"That's a lie, and I'm thinking the rest of your answers are as well."

Darlene sat down on the table. "Hey, you don't know if you can do something until you do it."

"I suppose. I've always set my sights on certain things and then done them, like computers or playing bass or doing standup."

"You were a comedian?" Darlene asked.

Russ smiled. "I said I did them; I never said I did them well. I'm a mean bass player, you'll never hear better."

"Especially now, right?"

"Well, there is that. Somewhere out there, John Paul Jones of Zeppelin is eating someone and not getting his daily practice in. What a waste."

"Do you have a bass here?"

"I thought you'd never ask. I soundproofed one of the classrooms. Do you play an instrument?"

"Not even the triangle."

"Well, too bad. It's been forever since I've jammed with someone else. I don't suppose you were planning on sleeping tonight anyway. We may as well hang out, talk, arm ourselves, fill our bellies with junk food, and then be off."

"That sounds like a plan." Darlene hopped off the table and followed her host.

*   *   *   *   *

Ellen put up her hand, stopping her daughters from waking their father. "Let him sleep. He's been in this hot kitchen for fifteen hours again."

Trish and Tonya followed Ellen back into the bar area, where they sat around a table. They'd lit some candles and placed them around the bar. On nights the lights were still on, people would bang on the door asking for a drink, regardless of the time.

The first thing they'd do each night was lock the doors, then shut off the lights and the sign out front, and ignore the late patrons. There'd always be tomorrow.

Not anymore, Ellen thought. She was tired and her girls looked worn out as well. "There's going to be some changes around here."

"Shouldn't we wake dad?" Trish asked.

Ellen thought about it but shook her head. The man would go along with this plan, and they'd been married long enough for her to know it. He'd never suggest it himself, and he'd probably feign an argument with her to prove he could keep up this pace, but Ellen knew he'd be happy.

"Tonight was our last night open."

"Huh?" Tonya finally said.

"We're killing ourselves here, fifteen hour days, and for what? We don't need any more rings or ankle bracelets. Money isn't worth the paper it's printed on."

"What will we do?"

Ellen smiled. "We'll do what we Harden's always do, girls. We'll adapt. I figure we can open up in the late morning and simply trade away whatever alcohol we don't want to keep in exchange for food only."

"Then what?" Trish asked.

"I'm thinking we should have enough to last us a few solid months. Your father can offer his help for some pay and so can you girls. I'll get a job in supplies or something since I have all this experience; and maybe you two can as well. Really, who knows what will happen? I just know living like this isn't living."

There was a knock at the door.

All three women laughed.

Ellen rubbed her eyes. "I'm wiped out. It will be good to get up tomorrow and not have to do this all day."

"Maybe we can put a sign in the window?" Tonya said.

"That's a great idea. Let everyone know we won't be opening but we'll be looking for trades of food only for bottles of wine, beer and hard liquor."

There was another knock at the door, this time harder.

"Drunks never give up." Ellen was glad the bedrooms were next door so she didn't have to hear the banging. She was sure it went on at all hours of the night.

"There's going to be some people upset, especially ones who work all day and then show up afterwards, expecting us to be open," Trish said.

Ellen pondered that for a moment. "Maybe we simply close tomorrow, put up signs, and have everyone come back the next day or later tomorrow night?"

"I think we'll have a riot on our hands," Tonya said.

Suddenly the door itself shook from the pounding and someone outside was screaming to be let in.

"This is ridiculous," Ellen said. "Get me the shotgun."

When Trish hesitated, Ellen winked. "I promise not to shoot anyone, but you can't be busting down my door, neither."

Now several people were banging and yelling.

"Stand back," Ellen said to her daughters as she was handed the shotgun. She unlocked the door and pulled it open a crack.

"What's going on?"

There were several people outside and now she heard a gunshot, close.

"The zombies! They're in St. Augustine," someone said in a panic. "We need help."

Ellen swung open the door and pointed her shotgun at the floor. "Hurry up and get inside."

She stood to the side as people started pouring into Kimberly's Bar.

Chapter Fourteen

The walk home had been nice and pleasant for David. He strolled through the quiet, deserted streets and took small sips from the bottle Mike had given him.

When he got onto his block, he thought he glimpsed movement, but it was too dark to be sure. He stopped, drew his pistol, and waited. As much as he wanted to think that they'd created a utopian society, where everyone worked equally and put in equally, he wasn't stupid.

While they technically didn’t have a leader, everyone had come to recognize David as the person to go to when there was a problem or a decision needed to be made right then and there.

His greatest fear was the population finding out—and sooner than later they would—that the storerooms were nearly empty. Too many people eating too much food, and the people out daily foraging having to go further and further to find anything edible.

Soon, the house of cards would topple, and David didn't want to be in the line of fire when it happened. Unfortunately, he thought he would be the focal point when it all came crashing down, and he didn't know how he would handle that.

Three people were on the other side of the street as he passed another house. He gripped his pistol. He didn't want to kill anyone and hoped they were just people heading home after a long day and not looters or thieves.

David was stunned when the first one came into the weak moonlight. It wasn't alive, and clearly neither were his companions.

Swearing, he shot the first one in the head and watched it fall. From the shadows, another three replaced it.

He turned to run to his house but there were ten more coming down the street.

"Honey! Honey! Everyone, wake up! We're under attack!" he yelled and moved forward, shooting as he went.

David ran out of bullets quickly, and still the zombies came on. His initial impulse was to pull back, go find help or ammo, and then return.

That was when his wife appeared, disheveled, in the doorway of their home, the house they'd set up here together, a new start in this horrible world, to live the rest of their lives together.

David rolled up his sleeves and started fighting his way to his wife, yelling at her to get back inside the house.

He punched one zombie in the face and kicked at another, but more appeared.

He wanted to cry when she got back inside but two zombies slammed into the door and shattered it.

"No!" he yelled, throwing his fists and shoulder-blocking to get to her.

David Monsour, defacto leader of St. Augustine, went down with a fight, bitten and ripped apart, the screams of his wife the last sounds he heard.

*   *   *   *   *

Someone was up and about in the house. John, who felt like he'd just fallen asleep, rolled over and tried to bury his face back in his pillow.

Another bang, like a pot falling to the floor in the kitchen, pissed him off. That's just rude, he thought. Can't people be quiet?

He was about to yell when he heard the table or chairs break.

We're being robbed? Maybe I was followed here by some drunken asshole who wants to grab our stuff before we can trade it, John thought.

He couldn't use his crossbow in such close quarters so he pulled his handgun and slipped his clothes and boots back on, waiting for someone to bust into his room at any moment.

John wondered why no one else in the house had stirred yet, although he hoped they were gathering their weapons and being quiet like him.

The door opened without a squeak, which he was thankful for. The hallway was dark but his eyes were already adjusted to the gloom, and he didn't see movement.

He took a step, and then another, putting his back to the hall wall so nothing could get behind him. In the dark, with the silence and the tight quarters, he was feeling claustrophobic.

He reached the bedroom next to his with another step and he tried the doorknob. It opened. He slipped inside but the bed was unused. Back into the hall, gun drawn before him, he continued down the hallway.

John checked the other two bedrooms on the floor and found them empty, but only recently. The beds had been slept in, and clothes and the occupants’ supplies were still in both rooms.

As he stepped into the main living area, he froze. Someone was standing near the front door, which was opened. There was movement outside as well.

"Hello?" he finally said. He didn't want to shoot Kayla or anyone else.

When the figure moved awkwardly towards him, he pulled his pen flashlight and shined it at the person's face. What stared back at John didn't blink. Its eyes were milky white and dead.

"Shit," John said and shot it in the face, the noise deafening in the house.