Jake's Law: A Zombie Novel (12 page)

“What we did was murder
,” she insisted.

Jake stopped walking and grabbed her arms.
She tried to pull away, but he gripped her too tightly. “Murder plain and simple,” he said. “I’m not making excuses for anything I do, not to you or anybody. They were a threat to you, me, and to any other survivors out there, and I killed them, gladly. I won’t lose any sleep over it. I’ll handle any other threat in a similar manner. You’d better get used to it.” He stared into her eyes. “The danger excited you last night. You felt the adrenaline surging through your body. Now, you’ve had time to think about what we did and you feel guilty. Don’t. Thinking too hard can get you killed and maybe those around you.”

He released h
is grip on her and continued walking. Reed had gone on ahead. If he had overheard the conversation, he gave no indication, as he went inside his RV and closed the door. Jake knew he shouldn’t have responded so vehemently, but her accusation had struck a raw nerve. She was right. It had been murder, intentional murder. They might be forced to murder again to save themselves. She had better get used to the idea that not all survivors deserve to live.
Jake’s Law #6 – Bad people deserve bad ends.
He knew that if it came down to him or someone else’s life, he would choose himself. 

He gave Jessica the space she needed to think. He made himself
scarce by feeding the animals and doing small jobs around the farm. He inspected his crops, hoeing the weeds that seemed to grow better than the crops in the summer heat. It was a constant struggle. The corn was almost ripe, as were the melons. He picked a few tomatoes, cucumbers, and basil for a salad, and some okra to fry. The green beans and peas would be ready in a week or so. He had a pressure cooker and jars ready for canning. They would provide needed nourishment during the winter.

He was so absorbed in his crops that he failed to see the jet returning until it was
almost upon him. The noise of the A-10 Thunderbolt’s GE turbofan engine rumbled down the valley as it passed overhead at a height of less than nine-thousand feet, barely clearing the mountains. It was too late to hide. The slow moving Warthog would have noticed the sun reflecting off the solar panels from miles away. He resisted the impulse to wave at the pilot to prove he wasn’t a zombie. He tensed and waited for the Warthog’s GAU 8 Gatling gun to cut loose, spewing uranium depleted 30 mm bullets down the valley at 3,900 rounds per minute. Nothing happened. It didn’t even make a second pass, instead gaining altitude and flying off toward the northwest. A sense of dread swept over him. Why had the jet chosen his canyon to inspect? Was it coincidence or something more ominous?

Davis-
Monthan Airbase in Tucson had been abandoned for almost a year, but somewhere within flying distance, enough military personnel survived to maintain jet aircraft. It might be from Luke Airbase west of Phoenix. Undoubtedly, the pilot had been taking reconnaissance photos. He hoped no one decided to make use of them. 

Jessica heard the jet as well. She stood on the balcony staring up at it. To her, it probably meant possible rescue.
To him, it meant trouble. In other regions, the military had rounded up survivors into FEMA camps. Last he had heard, conditions in the camps were appalling, akin to survivors tales of the 2005 Hurricane Katrina aftermath in New Orleans. He wanted no part of military intervention. After the jet left, she looked down at him but made no attempt to wave or talk to him. She went back inside. He resumed his gardening.

He had broken a new record. In less than forty-eight
hours, he had managed to allow evil to insinuate itself into his Garden of Eden.

10

June 11, 2016   Split Rock Canyon –

Jessica watched the jet fly away with a sinking feeling in her stomach. She didn’t really expect rescue, but the jet meant that someone somewhere was still alive. She had almost given up hope
on humanity. She was one of the lucky ones, though she had not yet come to terms with her good fortune. So far, her life after the apocalypse had been a cascading series of poor decisions. Had she made another one by staying with Jake? Only time would tell.

Before the Staggers, she had been happy and content with her job as a nutritionist and yoga instructor at the Foothills Spa. Her boyfriend was a caring man whom she deeply loved. When the plague struck and people all around her began dying, she had thought it providence that both she and Lloyd were immune. They bought a pickup load of supplies and barricaded themselves in their condo to wait for help. After three weeks
, no help came and their store of supplies ran out. They ventured to several stores searching for food, but found most of them already looted. Against Lloyd’s advice, she had insisted on one last store. When the zombies cornered them in an office, he had shoved her out a window and remained to fight them off while she escaped. His screams still echoed in her mind.

Later, she had encountered two more people
, and together they managed to survive. Not learning from her previous mistake, she had insisted that Ben go out for supplies, even though Liz had been vehemently opposed to the idea. Zombies had followed him back, and both he and Liz had perished. If not for Jake’s providential appearance, she would have died as well. Her decision to sleep with Jake had been born both by desperation at the thought of facing zombies alone, and by her physical need. He was a good lover, though strangely cold and withdrawn.

Her moral compass had changed considerably since the apocalypse.
At first, it had been little things. Even taking food from an abandoned home had felt like stealing. Now, she had participated in cold-blooded murder. The blood on her hands this time was deliberate. It didn’t wash off with soap and water. It left a stain that reminded her of the world in which she now lived. Jake was a survivalist. He had anticipated how bad things could get. He had considered what he might have to do to survive and had come to grips with it. Could she become as hard and as cold as him? She had made mistakes, but she was learning quickly. If sex could keep her alive, she wasn’t opposed to using it, but now she wondered if teaming with Jake was another big mistake.

Jake
had been right about one thing, and she despised him for pointing it out to her. Though the idea of murder was abhorrent to her, the danger had excited her. Not the killing itself, but the thrill of the operation. For once, she had been doing something other than running or hiding. She had been acting rather than reacting. The shame had come came later. Jake was a hard man. Maybe that was why he had survived. She didn’t want to become a hard woman, ruthless and uncaring, but she knew that if she didn’t follow his rules, Jake’s Laws, he might kick her out.

She sighed. She had never been so calculating before the plague. She had considered herself
a strong, single woman; a professional with reasonably attainable goals. The collapse of her world had left her frightened and alone, thrown her into a world of chaos and confusion. She knew now that survival meant more than simply staying out of the hands of zombies. It meant developing the proper skills. If that meant selling herself to Jake, so be it.

Jake
returned to the house carrying an armload of freshly picked vegetables. She decided to ignore their earlier encounter. She smiled and took them from him. His lips moved, as if he wanted to say something, but he turned away abruptly, leaving it unsaid. She hoped it had been an apology, but he was a stubborn man. If an apology from her would help soothe his ruffled feathers, she would swallow her pride and offer it.

“You
’re right,” she said.

“Being right doesn’t make it any better,” he said, surprising her
with his candor.

“What do you mean?”

“Killing people is never going to be easy or right, but it is necessary at times. Zombies are easy. They’re no longer human, but what about the infected? They can kill you as quickly as a zombie. We may be immune, or we might just be lucky. Can you kill someone that isn’t a zombie, someone who can speak and reason, but by his or her very presence can kill you?” He shook his head. “It’s a hard choice to make, but you may have to make it.

“I once had the responsibility of upholding the law. I believed it was the only way to maintain order and stability. In Afghanistan, I saw firsthand what lawlessness looked like. People died every day with no one to turn to for justice or protection. The Afghan Army couldn’t
or wouldn’t do anything. We couldn’t do anything without risking political repercussions. I wrote my own set of laws and tried to live by them. I did the same thing here. I could see the writing on the wall for us. I became a survivalist. I still tried to do some good as a deputy, keep our laws in effect, but I knew something was going to happen in my lifetime.” He chuckled. “I never suspected zombies. When the President declared Martial Law, it broke my heart. It meant our laws were finished. That just left my laws. I kept them few and simple, easy to interpret. They keep me straight, at least in my heart. They might not be nice laws, but they are effective. Someday, when things get better, I’ll set my laws aside, but not yet.”

She nodded
, puzzled but strangely shaken by his sincerity. “I think I understand.”

His face became grim.
“You think I’m a cold, heartless bastard. You may be right. It’s my choice, and I’ll live with it. You don’t have to. You’re a good person, and that works against you now, but you’re the kind of person the world needs. Simply surviving isn’t enough. You have to think beyond the plague, beyond all the death and destruction. When that time arrives, I’ll be superfluous. If you survive and keep your humanity, you can rebuild the world. I can teach you survival. That’s all I’m good for.”

His admission touched her deeply. In his own way, he was apologizing, not for killing the men, but for scolding her for
condemning him. “I’ll try.” She paused. Was her next question too personal? “Tell me, what’s with the badge?”

He reached up and touched the badge on his chest. “It’s a long story.”

She laughed. “We’ve got nothing but time.”

“My great-grandfather
, Cody Blakely, was an Arizona Ranger. The Rangers originally formed in 1860 to fight Indians but disbanded in 1861 when the Confederacy took over the territory. In 1882 when the Indian raids and the Mexican border troubles grew worse, the Rangers were reformed under Captain John H. Jackson. My great-grandfather lied about his age and joined up when he was sixteen. He was a lieutenant by eighteen. The Arizona Rangers were a bad ass bunch of hombres. They took on gangs of outlaws, Mexican border bandits, and renegade Indians. In most cases, they were judge, jury, and executioner. I wear the badge to remind myself that the only law now is my law, Jake’s Law.”

She looked at him and caught him smiling at her.

“You’re wondering if you’ve made a bad decision hooking up with me.
Maybe you did.”

She tried not to
let her agreement show on her face. He turned to walk away.

“Jake,” she called out.
Had she been too hard on him?

When he turned to look at her, s
he couldn’t read his expression, but his jaw was clenching and unclenching, as if he dreaded what she might say.

“I’m sorry I tried to be your conscience. I owe you my life. I’m … not sure how I feel about things, but I won’t second guess you
again.”

“No,
you be my conscience. I need one.”

He had surprised her. He was a deeper person than she had thought. He just had difficulty expressing himself to others.
If she was wrong about one thing, she might be wrong about others. She wouldn’t underestimate him again.

Later, they
sat on the balcony with the heat rising from the canyon floor in invisible currents that shimmered and danced at the edges of her vision. The balcony was still in shade, making it comfortable. She relaxed, leaning back in her chair, enjoying the day. Jake sat stiff-backed, staring out across the canyon, as if keeping an eye on his domain. Music drifted up from Reed’s RV. She recognized a few strains of one of Handel’s organ concertos and smiled. Reed’s classical musical tastes mirrored her own. The eighteenth-century German composer’s music was perfect for yoga meditation. She wondered what type of music, if any, Jake liked. She considered a person’s choice in music to be very telling about their character. She smiled at a fleeting mental image of Jake cleaning his rifle while listening to Bach.

Near sundown, Reed joined them. He brought along a bottle of wine.

“This Pinot Grigio should go with whatever we’re dining on,” he said.

“A fresh garden salad and venison for you two.
Salad and cheese for me,” she said.

As she rose to get started on the meal, Jake stopped her. “We should all prepare the meal.”

“The kitchen’s too small. We can take turns. Tomorrow, you cook.”

“Fair enough,” he said.

She could hear the pair talking about the previous night’s escapade as she chopped veggies for the salad. A package containing several cured venison steaks sat in a refrigerator drawer next to slab of bacon. She chose two and tossed them in a frying pan. She sliced some carrots and potatoes and placed them around the venison. The smell of cooking meat almost nauseated her, but she endured.