K. T. Swartz (15 page)

Michael punched the button. “Tommy, we’re on our way.”

He took Main Street to 4
^th
Street, passed an old bakery on the right side, and followed Marleen’s directions to a two story building more metal and wood than siding. Its windows were barred, the front door boarded shut. Sheet metal enclosed the porch, reinforced with metal posts. The only reminders that it used to be a house were the upstairs windows and roof. Michael pulled the SUV beside Tommy’s camper. Arti braked on its other side. Tony’s whistle disturbed the silence. “Wow, look at that place. It’s like a freakin’ battleship.”

“It used to be a B&B,” Cherise said, stabbing a thumb at a small black sign so pockmarked with dents that the name was almost impossible to read. She angled it to the fading light. “The Black Swan.”

“Looks more like
The Metal Swan
,” Arti joked. “Let’s see who’s home.”

“Hold on,” Michael started, as the woman stepped onto the property. From under the snow came an audible
click!
Arti froze. So did everyone else. Michael’s throat went dry. He couldn’t avoid Arti’s eyes when she looked at him.

“I think I stepped on something,” she whispered, her eyes wide.
“Everybody but Arti, back up,” Michael said, waving them away. Tommy grabbed his girlfriend and kids. Liz moved in the opposite direction, toward Arti. Michael grabbed her. “Don’t. You could set off another one if you get close.”

“But–”

“
Back. Up
,” he snapped. “You’re just going to get in the way.” Anger flickered through her eyes; in his grip, her bicep was taut, ready to jerk away. But she didn’t. Fear had her looking back to Arti. Michael lightly pulled on her arm. “You won’t do her any good staring at her like that. Help Rae move the vehicles back. I’ll get Arti.”

Liz closed her eyes. “Don’t let her die, Mike.”

He just squeezed her arm, let her go when she pulled away. Marleen put a hand on his shoulder. “Mike…”

He touched her fingers. “I need some room, Marleen. Take Max and the SUV down the street. We don’t know what kind of explosive this is.”

“I’m not leaving you,” she said.

He turned to face her. “Yes, you are. If something goes wrong, Max’ll need his mom.” Her eyes glistened in the fading light. He pulled her fingers off him. “Go on, Marleen.”

She took a couple steps back, then spun, grabbing their son. Only when everyone had moved several houses down did he kneel on the sidewalk. He lightly scraped away the snow around Arti’s foot. Instead of grass, a squat metal disk sat on the ground, a homemade mine. If the sign was any clue, it probably contained a small explosive and possibly bb’s: hundreds of tiny projectiles meant to inflict as much damage in as large a radius as possible. Its pressure plate sat on top.

“So,” Arti laughed nervously. “You do this often?”

“Once,” he said. “Don’t move.”

“Wasn’t planning on it,” she replied. “You know, I used to live in a small town like this. Of course it was farther south, and in South Carolina, called Goose Creek. I hated it. There was never anything to do–”

“Arti,” he said, looking up at her.

“Yeah?”

“Shut up. You’re distracting me.”

“Oh, right, sorry,” she said. “I tend to ramble when I get nervous. I’ve always done it.”

Michael closed his eyes.

“Sorry,” she said again and this time stayed quiet. He pulled out his knife and unbuckled this belt.

“Whatcha doin’ there, buddy?” she asked.

“I’m going to try to slip this knife between your foot and the pressure plate, then tie it down with the belt,” he said. “We’re lucky it’s not buried, or this would be a lot harder.”

“Cuz this is so much easier,” Arti commented.

Michael turned on his flashlight. “Just watch my back, ok?”

He angled the light to illuminate the gap between her boot’s instep and the mine’s pressure plate. His metal blade scraped her sole. He grimaced. Angled the knife a bit more, with its edge sliding across the mine. Arti flinched with the scraping sound.

“Don’t move,” he warned. She froze. The knife tip poked through, under her shoe. He wigged his fingers through the small gap to put his weight on it. He looked up at her. “When I tell you to, left your foot straight up, and then run.”

She nodded. He shifted to compensate for her weight. “All right. Run.”
Arti jerked her foot straight off the mine – Michael leaned forward, felt the rush of air from Arti as she sprinted across the road. His breath caught in his lungs, but the mine didn’t explode. He laid his belt across the sidewalk. Keeping his weight on the pressure plate, he dug his fingers into the dirt under it. Scooted it across the hard ground, onto the leather. He looped one end through the buckle, pulled it with his teeth to tighten it over the knife. His blade shifted with a soft
scritch!

He froze, his belt still in his teeth. Then he exhaled around it when nothing happened. He looped the belt around the homemade mine again. His gut twisted in a hard knot with the thought of lifting his fingers off the pressure plate, but he couldn’t hold this damn thing forever. He stood. Shuffled down the sidewalk, to the street corner. Looked in all four directions. A large brick house sat on the other side of the road. As big as it was, it would offer enough protection should the bomb go off. He stepped softly across the snow, flinched with the crunch of each step, but he kept moving, past the wrought iron fence with sections missing.

A garbage bin sat on the building’s far side. He set the edge of the mine on it, and lightly pushed it across the angled lid. One hand he removed. And froze. The mine didn’t explode. He sucked cold air into his lungs until they pushed against his ribcage. He held it. Lifted all but three fingers off the pressure plate. As long as he kept them on the mine, it wouldn’t go off. He was betting on the belt and the knife to hold, but actually putting his faith in them – at that moment – just wasn’t happening.

“Let go, Michael,” he told himself. “Let go of the mine.”

A low moan answered him. He looked up. A zombie stood at the corner of the house, barely ten feet away. It held still for a moment, its body wet from the snow. Its shirt clung to black and pink skin. The zombie took a step forward. Clear eyes locked onto his. Michael looked down at the mine, then back up as the zombie took another step. Its legs moved like awkward stilts. The zombie stumbled suddenly, its back foot dragging, pitching it toward the trashcan. Michael ran. Looked back with the thunk of heavy plastic. The zombie leaned against the trash bins, unaware of the danger. The mine slid too half off the edge. And fell. Michael vaulted the iron fence.

From behind, a column of snow, dirt, and plastic rushed skyward. Mud and bits of the trash bins peppered his hair, his coat. He coughed as dirty snow began to fall. Eyes closed, chest heaving, he leaned against the house; couldn’t stop the flutter of nerves in his stomach. His laughter had tears rolling down his cheeks. He stood, dusting off his clothes. On his feet he leaned around the corner. Whistled at the crater in the ground. The trashcans were gone; so was the zombie and part of the brick house’s outer wall.

He looked down the street as his SUV took the curb to get back to the B&B. Tires squealed. His wife bolted from the vehicle, left the door open behind her. And threw herself into his arms. “You bastard,” she hissed. “I thought you–”

He grinned. “You can thank a zombie for that scare.”

Her eyes widened. She slapped the back of his skull. “Don’t ever do that again,” she retorted. Then pressed her lips to his. He melted in her embrace, let the warmth of her body spread through him. She pulled away slightly. “I love you, Mr. Torvo.”
“I love you too, Mrs. Torvo,” he said.
“Hey!” Tommy shouted, waving a hand at them. “You two might wanna wait til you’re inside before you rip your clothes off.”

“Why are you going to rip your clothes off, mom?” Max asked.

Marleen’s cheeks went beet red. Michael laughed, grabbed his son in a hug. “How about we worry about getting inside first?”

“How are we supposed to do that when the yard’s a minefield?” Rob asked.

“You all hold tight,” Michael said as he set Max down. “I’m going to scout out the place.”

“I’ll go with you,” Tommy said.

“Be careful,” Marleen called, her hand on their son.

Tommy fell in beside him as he walked the sidewalk. “So, what are we looking for?”

Michael shrugged. “My guess is the whole yard is booby trapped.” He jerked a thumb at the porch. “That explains the sheet metal.”

He stopped. Looked up at the roof, the two windows on the first floor. Through the bars over the window, 2x4s were visible, tightly stacked one on top of the other. They kept walking, to the short driveway and garage. Snow covered everything; a thick blanket that hadn’t been disturbed. No footprints, so sign of habitation. Could be the house hadn’t been used in a few days, because the back looked like the front.

“Hey, check that out,” Tommy said, stabbing a finger straight up. Michael looked up. To the rope bridge strung from one of the second story windows of the B&B to the brick and siding house behind it, to its balcony. The snow across the roof was disturbed by short skidding marks where footing was unsteady.

“Huh, smart,” Michael commented. “They stay off the ground. I bet the stairs inside the Black Swan are disabled.” He and Tommy followed the rope bridge, where it connected to a third house, this one made of stone. A rope ladder hung down the side, suspended away from the house.

Tommy jumped straight up, brushed the bottom rung with his fingertips. He grunted when his feet hit the ground. “How the hell?”

Michael looked around. The snow on the tree stump several feet away was disturbed. He backed away from it, aiming for the ladder. “Might wanna move.”

Tommy looked over his shoulder, gave him room. Michael sprinted for the stump and pushed off it. He grabbed the rope ladder, his boots slamming into the wall. Hand over hand he climbed up onto the balcony. He looked over his shoulder with the heavy thud of Tommy following. The large man pulled himself over the railing. He shook his head at the rope bridge leading back the way they’d come.

“Shit, who are these people? Trapeze artists?” he muttered.

“Smart people,” Michael replied. “Come on.” He went first. The rope swayed with his weight, but held. He slid his foot forward, his hands on the wobbling nylon railing. It sagged toward the middle just a bit, but then pulled taut. The evergreen tree beside him dusted him with snow. He didn’t look down, only at his slowly approaching destination. For such a tenuous thing, the bridge held. Though the rope under his foot swung side-to-side, it never once tipped him over. Only when he grabbed the second house’s chimney did he look down. And back up.

“Man, there is no way we’re getting everyone across this,” Tommy said. He grabbed the ropes, his knuckles white. Eyes on the ground, he slid forward, feet spread apart. Michael waddled across the roof; he couldn't help but look where someone had slipped about a foot toward the edge. His steps kicked snow loose. Tiny avalanches plopped to the ground, left long streaks of shingles exposed. His breath hissed through his teeth as the roof finally flattened. He looked back at Tommy, who took his hand off the rope, only to grab it when it swayed.

“You go on. This might take awhile,” the man muttered.

Michael stepped onto the second rope bridge. His eyes went straight to the ground, to the prickly holly bushes growing wild now that no one was there to prune them. His boot looked so much bigger than the rope, and the rope so much smaller. He inched forward, and the bridge swayed gently, as if he was on a rocking chair, not hanging thirty feet above the ground. His palms grew warm from sliding over the rope, his grip so tight that the nylon bit into his gloves.

The rope sagged a little more. Sure he could go back to solid ground. The option was there, but the lure of survivors was so much more. For the first time in years he’d seen evidence of people actually
surviving
, where so many had gone mad. They weren’t just running or hiding. They fought back. If one grocery store was clean, how many others were too?

This group had to have more resources than what he’d seen. Maybe they’d share. Maybe they’d offer beds. His son and wife would finally have a safe place to rest, where he wouldn’t have to worry every time he left them. Danville offered so much hope, more than Canada, because it was real. It was here, and he was standing on it. He slid off the rope bridge and onto the B&B’s garage. The window where the bridge was secured was so close. He didn’t want to scare the occupants, nor did he want to be shot mistakenly. Should he knock?

He knocked. “Hello,” he called. “My name is Michael Torvo. Is anyone here?”

Behind him, Tommy snorted. He knocked again, louder this time, and the window shuddered. “Hello, I have women and children out here. They need rest. Can we come in?”

No one responded.

“They ain’t here, man. Just open the window,” Tommy said, his feet shuffling across the roof. Michael opened it with one hand. It slid upward easily. He stuck his head in, pushed past the curtains. Found himself in a bedroom decorated in a rich array of greens, purples, and sandy browns. The bed was carefully made, the pillows stacked in the middle. Tommy followed him in.