LEFT ALIVE (Zombie series Box Set): Books 1-6 of the Post-apocalyptic zombie action and adventure series (11 page)

One.

And she used it to kill herself.

“Selfish bitch!” I roar at her corpse before throwing the gun at the cute little barn. It bangs the side of the shed before bouncing back into the dirt and sends up a plume of dust that quickly chases the wind. “Come on, asshole,” I growl as I grab hold of Jason’s boots and drag him closer to me. His eyes staring up toward the clouds. “I hope she finds you in heaven, dick.” I push up his jeans and search his boots for anything that he might have been hiding. I find nothing and pat him down, searching every pocket before tossing him aside in anger.

I move to the girl and quickly pull off her shoes, feeling her smooth, hairless legs and feeling truly disgusting. But more importantly, what woman still shaves her legs in this nightmare of a world? I toss her shoes away after searching them and then reach up for her shorts, feeling the pockets. Searching her back pockets made me feel even worse than touching her legs and I step away in revulsion. It’s then that I notice the ring on her left hand and catch the sparkle of the diamond’s flashing light. My God, I realize. They were engaged. I look at them, two idiots. What were they thinking?

“Why not call out?” I shout at Jason. “Why not warn me and tell me to leave? You fucking moron!” I turn and look at the body of the beautiful woman. “And you! Why did you do that? Why?”

I can feel tears rolling down my cheeks as I shout at them. It’s not because there’s no bullets or that I just killed a man who actually sounded pretty decent, even if he was an idiot. It’s not that the most beautiful woman I’ve seen in ages just committed suicide in front of me rather than come with me and keep me from insanity. No, I know exactly where the tears are coming from. They’re coming from the fact that I’m a monster. They’re spewing out of the fountain of reality that tells me that I’m the reason why both of these people are dead. Jason was defending his home and his woman who undoubtedly was always at risk of being raped and murdered, of drawing attention to them in this new world. He was defending her from some stranger and I can’t blame him for that. But instead of trying to explain myself or backing down, I’d killed him. I could have cut his arm or punched him in the face or done a number of things, but I chose to kill him. I chose to stick my knife in him and gut him. Now, this girl and Jason were dead. All because of me.

No regrets?

I step away from them, my stomach twisting with pain and disgust at what has happened. “Fuck me,” I whisper to myself before turning and looking at the gaping mouth of the cellar, the source of all of this. The source of my interest. I try and forget about the two dead people outside and I think about the well a mile away. Slowly I descend into the cellar, looking for bottles to get me to Florida.

The cellar is cold, as if it knows that I’m the one who killed its dwellers. I take careful steps, listening for the sounds of anyone else in the darkness, but all I can hear is the ringing of the gunshot echoing across the wasteland. I shiver at the thought of it. Just seconds ago, I had been talking to someone. Talking! I haven’t spoken to anyone in months and she seemed really nice—sweet and innocent. I hardly knew her, but I felt like I’d lost the last beautiful, civilized person in the world. I try to shake it off, but there’s nothing I can do about it. It hangs about me like a millstone tied around my neck. I step into the darkness a little deeper and realize that the light coming through the doors isn’t the only light inside this thick darkness.

There’s a lantern in the corner of the basement and there’s another half a dozen candles scattered throughout. They’re placed in glass bowls that I reach out to touch but discover that they’re actually made out of a thick plastic. Smart. In the corner of the basement is a sort of makeshift bedroom that I assume they’d been using. I look at the old dresser they’d placed next to the bed and the pictures of each other they had sitting on the dresser and nightstand. Most of them were engagement photos and I look at them with a disgusting, churning in my stomach. Part of me was glad that they were still together, but mostly, I felt sick.

As for the rest of the cellar. There was a lot that I could use. This was a farmhouse and a nice one at that. The wall was stocked with tools used for all sorts of tasks. There were yard tools, basic construction tools, welding, painting, and even automobile tools. It looked as if Jason was set to build a New Jerusalem here if he wanted to. I think about taking a shovel or a hoe with me, to use as a long distance weapon, but I figure that it would be cumbersome. I had abandoned my rebar when I fled the subdivision and in hindsight, I was smart. There is no way I would have dragged that with me across the wasteland and still have it. I discard the idea of taking a shovel with me and continue searching in hopes of finding ammunition. I find nothing.

There are rolls of clear plastic, windows, and wood enough to build another one of the sheds. There is a stack of drywall and buckets of paint and nails. None of it is readily useful to me, but it did make me wonder what it was that Jason was planning. I seriously doubt that it was the girl who had been plotting all of this. A corkboard by the wall has a map of the area and as I suspected, I am closer to Dayton that I had anticipated.

There are dozens of blue pins all around Dayton as well as green pins. I look at the board with a furrowed brow, not sure what any of them mean. They all are spread out in strange clusters, but obviously they had been important to Jason. I ignore my cramping stomach as I look down at the table in front of the corkboard, looking at the phone book that is flipped open to construction supplies. I look at the map once more and see that there are several locations to the north of Dayton that are marked with black pins. Other locations are marked with red. Jason had been scouting and searching for supplies, but construction supplies confused me. With the phone book, there are dozens of papers with numbers scribbled out, some of them are marked in liters and gallons, others in weight increments.

I abandon the madness of that board and table and turn my gaze toward the stairs. I found nothing that seemed overly useful for a journey. As a safe house, this place is well stocked and ready for expansion. Part of me wonders if Jason is hiding everything of value. Maybe he built a little hidey-hole to put his ammunition and valuables in. As I take the stairs, I look back at the cellar doors. I stop ascending the stairs and decide that a smart man would shut those doors. Deciding that I’m a smart man, I walk across the basement and pull the doors shut. I notice that one of the doors has a sliding bar and I shake my head in disappointment.
Why not lock the cellar door, Jason? Why not save yourself?

Up the stairs, I push open the door and step out into a warmly lit house that is full of sunlight that is filtered through glass and lacy, thin curtains. I’m in a hallway that leads away from the front door. As I step into the house, I’m reminded of the past, almost wanting to call out to see if anyone is here. I listen for breathing, motionless and only hearing my heartbeat as I wait for someone to make a sound. The girl had said that they were alone. I don’t know why I doubt her. Slowly I close the door and turn around to look at the door. There is no door. It’s just part of the wall. I stare at the wall in disbelief. Jason had been a very busy boy. I trace the wall from one end to the other, noticing how seamlessly Jason had built the new wall to make it look as if there was no door. Clearly I had stumbled across him before he could do something about the cellar doors.

The house has not been tossed. In fact, it looks as if someone has been living happily here since the Panic, unaware of what was happening in the outside world. Everything was dusted and cleaned, the carpet was even well taken care of. I walk into the living room and sit down on a large, overstuffed sofa and look at where the flat screen sits on the wall and try to imagine what Sunday football must have been like in this house. I look at the photographs on the small table and lamp next to the sofa where I see the girl and her parents with two other girls that I assume to be her sisters. I wonder where they are now. Are they alive? Her parents had disappeared, probably following the Quarantine orders to seek sanctuary elsewhere.

I think about Jason and his girl, wondering why they came here. I had heard rumors, nothing more, of the Southwest being the last holdout. For ages, civilizations and animals had lived in hostile, devastating environments and had adapted and learned how to survive. I think it was Port Huron who had spoken about this once. It was talk about how the people of New Mexico, Arizona, Southern Utah, and southern Nevada were in the best condition, as was southern Texas. Of course, if they were doing well, then that probably meant that most of the West had headed to sanctuary in the dry, arid deserts they’d once mocked. So what brought Jason and his girl here? Was it truly just a desire to be with family?

There’s one picture where Jason is actually there. He really was handsome, and strong looking. I’m surprised I took him in the fight. I want to know what it is he did for a living. For as stunning as the girl was, my thoughts were swirling around Jason now and I found that odd. I pick up the picture of Jason and the girl, holding it and looking at him. He had gone to the University of Arizona and was in his graduation cap and gown, standing in front of the university sign, a Sun Devil grinning behind him and his scantily clad girl.

I decide to leave the living room. There are too many ghosts in there. I walk down the hallway, past an office and into a dining room with immaculate and beautiful furniture. The girl’s father must have done pretty well for all of this, or maybe it was her mom, no need to be sexist, I suppose. There’s more pictures of the family and their three daughters through various stages of their life. I spy one picture that catches my eye for a second. It’s the oldest daughter and the girl outside standing in front of a dorm room hall, hugging, with overstuffed boxes at their feet. I have that exact same picture in the cabin that probably no longer exists. When Lexi had gone off to college and we took a road trip to drop her off. Val and Lexi had stood in front of the dorm hall, laughing and grinning while I took the picture like the proud parent I was. That had been a sad trip, but it had also been a hell of a lot of fun. I remember the ride back being deathly quiet. God, I miss them.

In the kitchen, I am taken aback. I stand in the doorway and look at the enormous, beautiful kitchen. But it’s not the cabinetry or the appliances that make me stop. It’s the fact that everywhere I look, there are bottles of water. I stand motionless, staring at the hoard that I’ve stumbled upon and grin with excitement. Gallons, two-liter bottles, sixteen-ounce bottles, pretty much every bottle imaginable is sitting in the kitchen full of crystal clear water. There is a wheelbarrow in the pantry full of empty bottles and I suddenly realize that Jason and the girl had been the ones using the well. I feel even sadder at the fact that it had been them I had been so afraid of.

As for food, there is nothing but a trashcan full of empty cans that are beginning to smell a little too ripe to be around. I throw open the cupboards and find that every one of them is bare. I begin to feel more and more frustrated as I look around for anything that might fill my cramping stomach. The only thing I find is a container of salt. I look at it for a moment, envisioning french fries and potato chips, listening to my stomach growling, sending shocks of pain through my already aching ribs. I remind myself that salt is not the same as salty foods and close the cupboard, abandoning that train of thought. The cramps begin to hurt more and more, so I open one of the bottles of water and drain it, hoping water will keep me satisfied for a little longer.

I discover the master bedroom and rummage through things, out of curiosity’s sake more than anything. I am enamored with this household. I wish I could go back in time and not kill them. There was something very interesting going on here. Part of me wants to find wherever Jason is stocking up his food. Clearly they weren’t eating too well, but enough so that they were alive. The girl looked a little tired and worn compared to her photographic counterpart, but still very well. Jason, on the other hand, was not doing so well, but was still fed. I know that there is food in this house and I’m determined to find it, but I’ll get to it when I get to it.

Pulling back the closet doors, I find a bunch of clothes, as to be expected and up top I notice that there’s a bunch of old shoe boxes stuffed with trinkets and memories that mean nothing to me. I leave them alone, not wanting to desecrate those poor memories. While I’m searching through the closet, I find what I more than expected to find in a farmhouse closet. Three shotguns are leaned into the back corner in the darkness. I pull them out one by one and eagerly inspect them. The man was smart, keeping them unloaded. Only idiots keep guns loaded. I set the guns out on the bed and throw open the other closet doors and find a tall safe and know instantly that the ammunition is in there. My shoulders slouch forward and I slowly reach out and try the handle, just in case. Again, of course it’s locked.

After checking at the bottom of every drawer and every night stand, I take the guns off the bed and check under the mattress for ammunition. Nothing. I sigh and leave the bedroom behind me, making my way toward the guest bedroom. There’s nothing in the guest bedroom that I can find of value, but I still look at all the faces in the pictures, trying to decipher little pieces of their lives. When I’ve given up in the guest bedroom, I head upstairs.

Before I even reach the top of the stairs, I know exactly where I want to go. I remember the room that had the shutters opened to the south. Maybe there is a hunting rifle there for when Jason kept watch. All the doors upstairs are shut and that makes me nervous, so I draw my knife, moving quietly, heading for one doorway after another. I push open the door and discover a bathroom. The shower curtain is drawn and the whole place looks as if it’s been splattered with pink. I remember pink. It’s the universal mark of girls. The moment I step into the bathroom, I immediately notice that it’s muggy. I look up and see that there’s plastic on the ceiling and it’s covered in droplets of water. I look at the walls and see that the walls are covered with clear plastic as well. Everything about this room is suspicious, so I leave it behind. It reminds me of a room where you might kill someone and I have chills running down my spine.

The next room I enter belongs to a girl who loves music. Band posters and pictures of the youngest daughter with high school friends cover the walls, and it immediately reminds me of Val. There are books well above a high school student’s ability on the shelves, and academic awards cover one of the walls. But all of this is no interest to me. My eyes are immediately drawn to the hundreds, if not thousands of mason jars in the room. The window is completely covered with black plastic and as I pick up one of the mason jars, I realize again how cold this room is. Holding the jar in my hand, I turn it in the light behind me and see that there is a package inside the mason jar. I blink and read it once more, just to make sure that I’m reading it correctly. It reads: Burpee, Green Globe Artichoke. Slowly, I set the jar down and look all around the room in the pale light from the doorway.

“You’ve got to be shitting me,” I whisper.

I step out into the hallway and slowly close the door. Who did I kill? I turn and move to the next doorway, gripping the brass handle and twisting it before stepping into the room. Written on the far wall in great, black strokes is a saying. I recognize it immediately. Ralph Waldo Emerson. It reads: ‘Bad times have a scientific value. These are an occasion a good learner would not miss.’ I feel an even greater, sinking feeling in my stomach.

It is the color that draws my gaze along the bright window. The room is empty except for newly installed shelves and tables that line the walls. Along the walls are several brown potting plants, each of them holding an adult plant that I recognize from when I was a child at my grandparents’ house. I notice immediately that they have been growing tomato plants. All the other planter pots are full of topsoil and each of them has a tag sticking out of them, but nothing growing in them yet. I read: Onion, Basil, Red Pepper, Pumpkin, Watermelon, Eggplant, and Radish before I stop and reach the tomato plants. Who have I killed? There are dozens of plants here, maybe hundreds, and then there was that room full of seeds. I look at the walls where there are drawings, designs, scribblings, and numbers written out like a madman, but maybe to the right mind, it would make perfect sense.