Green Fields (Book 2): Outbreak (24 page)

That morning it became apparent that they might have slept cozy in their tent, but now they needed someone to help them disassemble it. And carry it, too, pretty please, with a red cherry on top. Madeline in particular might have sneered at my cat food delicacy last night, but now she distributed their last remaining stale rice waffles between her children, not even taking any herself. Erica—the teenage daughter—was chewing it rather unenthusiastically, but the two kids had to be coaxed to swallow each single bite. It was pathetic and sad and frustrating, and I should probably have felt bad for not offering them some of my dried nuts that I’d squirreled away, but I didn’t.

When it became apparent just how bad off they were, Pia kicked our collective asses and went around the camp, holding open one of our scavenging bags until everyone had pitched in and donated some food. Likely proving that I was still human underneath all that dirt and grime, I dropped the nuts into the bag—over seven hundred calories of delicious fat and nutrients—only to get pelted with them when Pia fished them back out and glared at me. Cat food it was, then. Can’t say I was devastated.

Madeline was clearly conflicted when she was presented with the bag, but hunger won out, and while we were busy breaking camp, she and her kids decimated three cans of tuna—the non-animal-chow kind. Someone must have either hated that stuff, or squirreled it away for a special occasion. I wondered if it had come from Bates, or one of the other guys who’d taken Madeline up on her offer. Guys, plural, because he and Santos hadn’t been the only ones, just the first. Burns was still glaringly absent from that list. Without Martinez’s advice from our guard duty together, I would have been bristling like a cat, but now I managed to remain faintly amused at the weird looks that went to and fro across the camp.
 

My amusement came to a stark end around midday when we stopped—for no apparent reason at all. Sure, there was a nice lake there, with trees, and shade, and shit—but no rest for the wicked, it turned out, when Pia declared that we were going looting again. We’d already started late that morning and now we were delaying even further, and I couldn’t help but feel that it was because of our new additions. Madeline’s kids were surprisingly docile considering that they couldn’t have been used to walking all day until their legs were ready to fall off; yet only Erica made somewhat of a fuss, and was quickly silenced by her mother.

I was even less ecstatic when the Ice Queen called my name among those selected to head out. Neither Burns, Andrej, nor Martinez were up, and for a second I felt the overwhelming need to complain. At one look from Pia, I closed my mouth again, grabbed some spare ammo from my pack and my new Remington to bring with me, and left with the others. We were still south of the Wabash, somewhere north of Marion, and there were targets around aplenty. The first wave of the plague seemed to have hit Indiana somewhat later than the states east of the midwest, and consequently people had had just enough time to panic, pack up their stuff, and get hit by the real deal on the road. There were lots of cars around that were jam-packed with stuff worth sifting through, but there were also zombies aplenty. Close to the river, it wasn’t that bad, but down here we could hardly walk a mile without either dispensing several of them, or spending valuable time hiding away in ditches and behind any cover we could find. Which wasn’t much, considering that we were firmly in agricultural hell, with square quarter fields all around us.
 

I really didn’t look forward to when we’d have to pass closer to Chicagoland in a week or two.

We finally found a stretch of road where a few cars had piled up and the zombies were already done picking through the remains—so we could haul away what they’d left over. Remaining out in the open was out of the question, so we ran out, grabbed what suitcases, bags, and coolers looked most promising, and dragged them back to where we felt safe enough rooting through them, at least one of us always keeping watch. More than once we found nothing, or had to abandon a cache because we’d attracted too much attention, and fighting zombies over dirty—or even fresh—clothes wasn’t worth it. I hit a good streak with one bag in particular where I filched not only a new jacket, but also some cargo pants that looked way more suitable for all the stuff I had to carry with me every day than the zip-off hiking pants I’d grabbed in Lexington. After weeks of constant wear—and the extra chafing from the thigh holsters—they were ready for the dumpster, and I didn’t really feel bad about abandoning them. Yet when I wanted to grab some more shirts and underwear, Pia stopped me.

“We’re out because we need to get what they need not to become a bigger burden to us now. You only get a quarter of your backpack for yourself.”

Scowling, I swallowed my protest and just let the shirts fall onto the floor, going for the next bag instead.
 

I’d never had to shop for anyone but myself in my life, but I was likely still the most qualified what to pick out for Erica and Madeline both, considering the alternatives. Even at her age, Erica was already taller than me but reed thin, and it wouldn’t have surprised me if she’d still fit into children’s clothes. Her mother, on the other side, was, at best, soccer-mom fit with quite the rack to balance the extra curves further down, deviating from my size in the other direction. For the smaller kids, we just grabbed what seemed about appropriate, not caring whether it would be a little too large on them.
 

Zombie apocalypse, fashion drama.

We thankfully also found some food, and Bates continued to add to his never-ending collection of batteries. No weapons, no ammo, and altogether not much really useful stuff for the seven hours that we were out. At least I got to try out my new shotgun, which—no surprise there—almost wrenched my arm out of the socket when I didn’t brace enough. But, oh boy, the—for now—shorter time between the individual shots because I didn’t need to pump the next round into the chamber, combined with the much more concentrated force of the slugs, made quite the impact. Or I was simply learning to aim better, taking out seven zombies and two car hatch locks with ten shots total.

The last item we picked up was a box of condoms that Pia pointedly stuffed into Bates’s pack, with a snide, “If you can’t keep it in your pants, at least make sure you don’t spread it.” I couldn’t help but grin from ear to ear, and when Bates frowned at me, I flipped him off. Called it first, bitch—and he knew it. Going like that, it wouldn’t have surprised me if he’d choose to turn into a monk any day now.

By the time we made it back to camp, I was ready to just curl up and fall asleep, but of course other people had other plans for me. Madeline had apparently been “cooking” for us—heating up a disgusting mix of cat food with oats and some spices—which I declined. I also told her in no uncertain terms to stay away from my pack, including my dirty laundry. Taking care of that myself, followed by almost an hour of strength and conditioning workout, was enough to make me long for the days when it had been just us, and no extracurriculars. And it wasn’t like any of the two women were really happy with the mostly drab-colored clothes we’d brought back for them.

The next day worked in a similar manner. We barely made it around the lake and to the other end when Madeline complained that she had a blister on her heel that Martinez needed to take care of, and her kids were tired and worn out. I fully expected Nate to tell her to shove it, but instead, we made camp, again. And went out looting, again. We’d passed several cabins around the lake, and Pia had the bright idea that there might be preserves and other durable foodstuff stocked inside.
 

There were also lots and lots of zombies inside, locked in since the outbreak, more rabid and starved than most that we’d encountered so far, the girl in the bathroom maybe excluded. With the shotgun ideal for close quarters combat, I got a special spot in blowing apart locks, and everything that came for me the moment the door swung open. Within the first hour, I’d used up all of my own ammo stocks but Pia had brought plenty more, and I ended up with my arms, shoulder, and chest hurting like hell, covered in exploding zombie goo from head to toe. I was so fucking disgusted that my boots were the only thing I kicked off before I waded into the lake, and didn’t give a shit who got a good look at my lily-white ass when I eventually had to change into a new set of underwear. I was probably still looking pissed off as hell because not even Burns seemed to sneak a peek, and when I came back to my pack, someone had already cleaned my shotgun. Thank fuck for small mercies.

Nate’s only comment was that at least now the Remington was broken in.

Two more days of the same followed, although sans the in-your-face shooting when we were back on the road. But at least now dried fruit and a shit-ton of homemade apple sauce—labelled from the previous year so we chanced it after Santos didn’t get sick within twenty-four hours of tasting it—was back on the menu, and we had toothbrushes and toothpaste for everyone to last us until the end of the century. Also some more tampons and panty liners that I squirreled away at the very bottom of my pack where the empty magazines used to be. Those were now fully loaded again and evenly distributed all over the group, with Skip, Steve, and Madeline the obvious exceptions. But at least those three were quickly becoming best friends. Figured.

I’d never thought I’d miss those endless, dreary days of just walking, but I was relieved when one of those followed. Madeline quit whining after noon when she realized that no one was listening, but she was the first to declare that she wasn’t walking another step when Pia called for a halt at around four in the afternoon, with still a good five hours of daylight to burn. Just off the road I could see a sign spelling out “Bunker Hill,” making me wonder if it referred to ‘the’ Bunker Hill, from the movie. Then again, we’d already marched by so many similarly called towns that it was hard to keep track of some of them. I fully expected to be called out for another loot run, but instead Nate had us all gather around, looking disturbingly sombre.

“I guess I don’t have to tell any of you what’s right over that hill there?” he asked, jerking his chin in that direction. Glances were exchanged and somewhat excited murmurs rose, making it clear that I was the only one not in the know.

“More fucking fields?” I ventured a guess, earning myself a bland look from our esteemed leader but some snickers from the crowd.

“Grissom Joint Air Reserve Base,” I was tartly informed. I wondered if that should impress me, and when I said so out loud, Nate gave me a longer look. “Even for an imbecile that should spell it out clearly,” he ground out. “Loads of weapons, ammo, gear—you name it. But also potentially some people loath to part with all that.”

I so did not care for being called out like that, but swallowed my ire when I realized why he’d called for the pow-wow.
 

“So the question is, do we dare risk going near to potentially get shot and killed, or can we chance passing up the mother lode of all supplies,” I summed up what—obviously—everyone knew. At least he couldn’t call me dense now.

“We’re down to less than two mags average for all weapons,” Pia summed up our less than stellar ammunition status. “Even if we ration, we’ll be defenseless by the end of the week.” Not knowing what day it even was, I had no idea how close we were to that deadline, but the very idea gave me hives. Sure, a few shamblers we could dispatch with makeshift clubs and bats, but that didn’t hold up to the crowd control abilities of the assault rifles, or even the shotguns. That we still hadn’t lost anyone to this shit was marvelous, but I had the sure feeling that we were running on borrowed time there.

“Who’s for passing this up?” Nate asked. Not a single hand went up. “Who’s for hitting the base?” A few silently excused themselves from the vote. The rest of us were all for it, me included.
 

“Good,” Nate acknowledged. “Catch some shut-eye. We move out just before sundown.”

I was surprised about that order, but I figured it made sense. If he expected resistance, we’d likely have an easier time sneaking in and out under the cover of darkness. Unless, of course, they had night-vision gear. Or enough fuel for generators to power banks of floodlights. Or all resistance we met had long since turned, and zombies were pretty resilient to the time of day their chow dared run into them.
 

Either way, I felt like we were fucked, and not in a good way.

I tried to sleep, but I was too nervous to really get some quality rest. After the previous weeks, I should have gotten used to operating under tension, but this was different. On the road, there wasn’t that much cause to be on high alert all the time—that’s what we had sentry duty for. The raids were a different thing, but we usually did that in the daylight, seeking out the least risky targets possible to minimize our risks. Now this? This sounded exactly like what we’d been avoiding like hell the entire time.
 

When it was time to leave, I was more than ready, although my heart was—once again—thudding in my throat. After a quick debate it was decided that only eleven of us would move out, with the others guarding our gear. It wouldn’t do us any good if we came back and found our stuff gone, even if we returned with enough ammo to go hunt for new packs. I half-expected someone to break out the shoe paste to paint our faces black, but thankfully, the usual hats and scarves seemed to suffice. Ever since that incident with the zombie girl I’d started wearing a scarf around my neck to make sure that next time I wouldn’t have to scoop gore out of my bra. Some experiences just don’t bear repeating.

Our camp was a good four miles away from the base, and it took us until after full dark to make it there, moving in spread-out single file, cautious to attract the least amount of attention from anything or anyone. Innes and Cho were sent out ahead to skirt the fence of the base on the stretch where we would hit it, hopefully to find us the ideal entry point. By the time we all made it there, they were back, reporting that they hadn’t seen any guards, but there was a healthy amount of shamblers visible all over the airfield. At least they hadn’t learned to use guns.