LEFT ALIVE (Zombie series Box Set): Books 1-6 of the Post-apocalyptic zombie action and adventure series (36 page)

“Charlie?” I hear her voice drifting across the street. I smile.

“Yeah, Lindsay,” I shout back through the window at her. “It’s me.”

“What the hell are you doing here?” she calls.

“Heading south,” I reply, making my way to the door. The man has two bolts left for his crossbow and there’s no way that I’m going to be able to work it. Lindsay might want it over her bow, but I don’t see why she would. She’s an excellent marksman with just the bow. I step out of the doorway and into the warm, humid sun. Lindsay is standing up behind the car and looking at me as if I’d come back from the dead.

“I was heading east,” she replied.

“Run into some friends?” I ask her, lowering my voice just in case the crossbowman was telling the truth.

“Listen,” she steps toward me and lowers her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she says with a genuinely apologetic voice. “I was a hard ass and I’m sorry for being a bitch. I understand. You were married. You have daughters you’re trying to get to. Maybe when all of this craziness settles down, we can have a civilized conversation without Zombies trying to eat us.”

“I’d like that,” I smile at her.

“Good,” she smiles at me, a radiant, beautiful smile. “We make a good team after all. I save your ass, you save mine.”

“I think the score makes us equal?” I say, heading south.

“Not even close, asshole,” she answers.

We continue south into a neighborhood, looking for somewhere to hide for the night. The sun is sinking toward the horizon and that means we have about three hours of light left. If we want to find somewhere to set up without using our flashlights, then we’re going to need that light. Lindsay unslings her bag and rummages through it as we continue wading deeper and deeper south through this never-ending, stagnant water. Eventually, she produces two cans and I smile looking at them. They’re knock off brand fruit cocktails.

“Classy,” I say with a grin.

“I found them in the back of a car,” she answers. “That’s when the patrol found me. I ran for nearly twelve blocks and they still caught up with me. They’re relentless sons of bitches.”

“They most certainly are,” I answer.

Before she can say something witty, a horn blast draws both of our eyes toward the east where it originated. They’re maybe four or five blocks away, but they spotted us. Lindsay doesn’t hesitate. She stuffs the cans in her pack and zips it before grabbing my arm and running as fast as she can to the south. As for me, I stare at them, watching the pack of maybe seven running toward us at full speed. They don’t abate, they keep running as long as they can, until we vanish behind a wall and I can no longer see them. Lindsay doesn’t run for very far before she finds a house with a porch that draws her attention. Running toward it, she flings open the door, leaving me a few steps behind her. As the door swings back, threatening to impede my flight, I see that the lock and handle have been blown off by a shotgun.

Closing the door quietly, Lindsay is already lurking deeper into the house and I follow her. Quietly I creep back into the corridor, watching through the tainted windows as the hunters pass down the street, shouting to one another, seeing if anyone else has a lead. One of them takes the steps in two bounds and kicks open the door to the house. I step into the pantry, completely unaware of Lindsay’s location and praying that she’s found somewhere safe to hide.

The fanatic makes his way through the house, flipping over a lamp, a small table, poking his head into the kitchen, but not far enough to see me. He storms through the house before throwing open the back door and disappearing into the yard, running after the others. I stand quietly in the kitchen, listening as the others make their way through the backyards and into the next houses and through the gaps between the homes. Slowly, they begin to fade into the distance and I keep still, just in case there are a few lingering around.

I hear footsteps through the house and I pray that it’s Lindsay. They’re quiet and determined footsteps. Keeping a grip on my machete and cocking back my bladed stump, I wait for whoever it is to step into my line of sight. After a moment, the footsteps stop.

“We’re clear, Charlie,” Lindsay’s voice whispers through the house, and I let out a long, deep breath.

I pull the curtains over the windows. They’re damp and moldy, but they still do the trick, casting darkness across the living room as I do so. The house is pretty much in the same state when it was abandoned during the Panic. There are still TVs and furniture in the house. It hasn’t even been looted by the madmen in the white clothes. All around this room, there’s peeling wallpaper and the signs of decay that this musty, dank house is full of ghosts. The bookshelf is slouching and everything on it has fallen onto the floor. This whole place reeks of forgotten, drowned memories. I keep a watch through a crack in the curtains, unwilling to give up on the fanatics who fled south after us. Somehow I know that the road south is going to only get more and more difficult.

“What do you think about heading west?” I ask Lindsay, who is in the next room searching through fully stocked kitchen drawers. The people who lived here were by no means wealthy, but they did have a significant amount of stuff. They weren’t those advised to board up and relocate with the quarantine measures. I’m not even sure if Atlanta had quarantine measures. By the time Georgia got hit, most of the east coast was slipping into anarchy and everywhere between the Appalachians and the Rockies was already fair game for chaos. “We can cross that canal again, get out of the major city and circle around it on the interstate.”

“They’ll be watching the interstate,” Lindsay replies. “Someone will be, at least.”

There’s always someone watching. I grind my teeth as I watch the empty street. Where can we go in this mess of a place where there aren’t lunatics somewhere? I don’t like this feeling. I can’t stand how they’ve gotten under my skin. I’m trapped, like a rat in a corner. I’m running through the walls and I’m scurrying as fast as I can, but they have all their bases covered. They have everything set up for me to get myself trapped and captured. I’m going to die in this town, seriously die here if I don’t make my next move very carefully. I look toward the kitchen where Lindsay is working on the fruit cocktails. She’s going to be just fine. She’ll get out of this situation, but I’m a different story. I’m older. I’m injured. I’m maimed. I’m weak. She’s got everything she needs to leave Atlanta in the dust.

“Smells good,” I smile at her. She looks up and smiles at the stupid joke, but it’s all I can think of right now to pass the time. I know she’s as worried and scared as I am. I can see it in the way she moves. She’s plotting. I don’t know how long she plans to stick with me, but I hope she’s been genuine with me about combining forces for the meantime. She walks out of the kitchen and hands me the can with a small spoon that’s designed for children. “To help savor it?” I ask.

“Why not?” She shrugs. “Might be our last meal.”

“What I’d give for a few fingers of Jameson,” I sigh before following her toward the dining room.

She giggles at that. “Really? I wouldn’t fix you for a Jameson’s man.” She looks at me with something dangerously close to being impressed in her eyes. “I thought you’d probably sip whiskey sours or something.”

“No,” I smile and shake my head. From the humidity and the heat, the wood of the furniture in the dining room has warped with the table as well whose faux exterior has bubbled and cracked. “Believe it or not, I was a writer before I was a professor. Drinking’s one of the prerequisites.”

“You serious?” Lindsay cocks her head to the side. “You’re full of surprises, Charlie.”

“A genuine man of mystery.” I take a bite, tasting pears and peaches for the first time in what feels like an eternity. I lean back in my chair and close my eyes, savoring the flavors dancing on my tongue right now. When I open my eyes, she’s watching me, smiling at my euphoria. “What about you? What’s your last drink?”

“Huckleberry Martini,” Lindsay says without a moment’s hesitation. I look at her with a baffled smile on my face. She looks at me and shrugs. “Probably just a Coors.”

“Your last drink in this life and you choose Coors?” I shake my head.

“Fuck you,” she laughs. “I enjoy the classics.”

“That isn’t a classic,” I take another bite. “That’s piss.”

She punches my shoulder and I bear it gracefully as I take another bite, trying to master eating with only one hand and not spilling my can everywhere. “You know,” I sigh after a moment. “One day, they’re going to figure all this shit out. All the crazies and the cannibals are going to die out and those who have their shit together are going to fix us. We’ll all just be a page in the history books where humanity almost killed itself off again. But nonetheless, there’ll be history books.”

“Yeah?” She looks at me with an interested look on her face. “You sure about that?”

“I am,” I answer.

“Why?” she asks me.

“Because we’re humanity,” I answer. “Two people being hunted like fugitives in a miserable, hellish world, laughing and getting all nostalgic over a can of fruit medley.”

“Fruit cocktails,” she corrects.

“Foolish of me,” I laugh. “We’ll survive.”

“Us or humanity?” she asks.

“Oh, humanity for sure,” I sigh. “As for us, I think we’re fucked.”

Her face goes somber at this, but I know that she’s thinking it too. She looks at me with eyes that are full of understanding and unfortunately, agreement. I’m trying to see a silver lining, but we’re too deep into this demented city to find a way out without there being a thousand storm trooper fanatics waiting for us. I look at her and watch her eat, thinking how beautiful she looks right now, in this desperate, forsaken moment.

“If we don’t make it,” I start saying but quickly realize that it’s not what I need to be saying. “If I don’t make it,” I correct myself. “Can I ask something of you?”

She looks at me, anticipating what’s about to come. “Yes, Charlie,” she says solemnly.

“Just make it to Florida,” I say to her quietly. “Make sure they’re safe and that they know.”

“I’ll tell them, Charlie,” she nods to me, but then clears up her demeanor. “But you’re going to tell them yourself. We’re both getting out of here.”

I smile and hold up the can I have and raise it to my friend. “To you, Lindsay,” I say with a prideful voice. “An unexpected angel in a very dark and desolate place.”

She smiles sweetly back to me and shakes the hair out of her face while holding up her own can. “To Charlie,” she says, “a genuine man of mystery.” We clank our cans together and down the remainder of our juice.

We decide to sleep in shifts. Lindsay takes the first shift, pointing out that I’m barely standing and that I’m hurting bad from the flight through the city. I take the couch in the front room by the door, wrapping up in an old and disgusting feeling blanket that I don’t really mind at the moment. I can’t remember the last time I slept with a sheet or a blanket. It doesn’t take long for sleep to take me and as I drift, I succumb to the sweet embrace of it. I don’t think I dream any more. I think that dreams are too tormenting these days. All I do now is recharge. I take what few precious moments I have and I spend them on avoiding the nightmare of my life.

I’m jostled awake by Lindsay who covers my mouth and lifts a finger to her lips when I blink and start to remember where I am. Tossing the blanket aside, she slowly lets me rise, uncovering my mouth and gesturing toward the window. Standing up, I look at the door and realize how completely obliterated the frame was during the forced entry, whenever that terrible day was. If someone finds this house, there’s nothing keeping that door shut. I look to Lindsay, who is standing by the window, peeking through the crack in the curtains. She gestures for me to come over and I slowly walk toward her, making sure that there are no creaking or groaning boards underneath my feet. As I stand next to her, she slowly parts the curtains just a little.

What’s lurking outside is almost instantly visible, contrasting against the world of darkness and abandonment beyond the dusty, smeared window. It’s the warm, orange glow of a torch painting the buildings all around the street. Craning my neck, I see one of the white fanatics, wearing a long, white coat that looks like wool with a black cross painted on the back. He has a white hood pulled up over his head as he wanders the street, stopping in front of every house, looking at the windows while he taps the side of his leg with a long, pointed machete. Holding the torch as the beacon that it is, he slowly climbs the steps and tries the door of the house across the street and three homes down. Without even trying for the door handle, he kicks open the door and disappears into the house.

“This isn’t good,” Lindsay says under her breath. “We need to move.”

“Agreed.” I turn from the window and walk over to the couch where my pack is sitting. “Keep an eye on him.” All she does is nod to me while I unzip my bag and grab Lindsay’s pack. I stuff everything that I can into my pack, leaving two bottles of water in Lindsay’s pack to lighten the load for her if she needs to make a run for it. I’ll carry everything we have. I know how this is all going to play out and I’m not letting anything hinder her. She has to make it to Florida. She has to make it to the girls. I take out my map of Ohio where I’ve marked Jason’s house on it and place it in Lindsay’s pack. When she gets to Florida, she’ll show the girls and they can make their way back together. Hopefully, they’ll understand and follow her.

“He’s moving on to the next house,” she hisses at me.

“We need to move,” I tell her.

“Wait,” she shakes her head. “I don’t think he’s interested in this side of the street. I think he’s only going through those houses.”

“I don’t think we should stick around to find out,” I whisper.

“If this guy’s out alone, then there will be other fuckers out there.” She shakes her head. “Let’s stay put and if he comes to this house, we’ll take him out silently.”

“They’re coordinated, Lindsay,” I walk up to the window and watch the house across the street, the warmth of the torchlight swelling and shrinking against the curtains and the windows of the house as he searches for us. “If he doesn’t report back to someone, they’ll know exactly where to look for him. They’re not scattered and chaotic like everyone else.”

She looks at me with doubtful eyes. I don’t blame her for doubting me. I don’t want to go on the run either, but we aren’t going to be able to hide out forever. We have to keep moving. They’ll tear apart this whole damn city to find us, even though it makes no sense. They’re dedicated to teaching us a lesson and at this point, I think we’ve killed enough of them that they’re not going to just give up on the whole I-think-they-just-vanished routine. They’ll tear apart Atlanta for our heads.

The zealot comes out of the house and then heads up the street, peeking through the windows of cars and then up the steps of the next house where he just inspects the windows as well. This time, he tries the door and it opens. He enters cautiously and disappears again. Lindsay and I remain at the window, watching him as his torch gives away his every move. What I would give to have a satellite view of Atlanta right now. I want to see how many of these crazies are out there with torches, searching the ruins of their old city for us. Are they on every street? Every block? Is this guy alone? I can’t imagine that he is. They seem to be smarter than that. If I were them, I would have spotters following the man with the torch. I would have them watching the other houses for movement, waiting for people like me to peek out from behind my curtains to see what he’s doing. I take a step back and Lindsay follows.

“Okay, we should get out of here,” I tell her.

“Wait,” she shakes her head and returns to the window. Suddenly she takes three sharp steps back. “Shit, he’s crossing the street.” I look to my left at the house where he’s heading to. I can hear his footsteps through the demolished door. Lindsay looks at me and shakes her head. We’re too late. I gesture for her to follow me. Quietly, we sneak across the room to the couch I was sleeping on and she helps me slide it quietly across the carpet toward the door. Even as quietly as we try to move the couch, it’s still making enough noise that I’m uncomfortable. Suddenly there’s light on the curtains and we both know that he’s almost at our door. We pick up the pace, but there’s no time. Lindsay abandons the project and I’m left shoving the couch. I hear the man’s footsteps on the steps leading up to the porch.

Ditching the couch, I move as quickly as I can toward the door. Lindsay is across the room, grabbing her bow and picking up an arrow when the zealot gives the door a kick. It swings open three inches before I hit it and immediately slam the door shut with a boom, and the man mutters something beyond the door. The torch light shifts against the curtains and against the opposite side of the room, moving across the wall in hues and shades as he peeks in through the windows, but only sees curtains. Lindsay rushes back silently toward the door and presses her back against the far side of the door, near the ruined handle.

“Must be jammed,” the man on the far side of the door mutters in a raspy, worn voice.

I let out a quiet sigh, hoping that he’s giving up on his endeavor. I look at Lindsay who is also thinking the same thing. She slowly shakes her head, unwilling to give up her terror just yet. I’m about ready to shove off the door and take a peek to see what he’s doing when there’s a loud bang and the door explodes against my back. I shake with the impact, but the door doesn’t move. Unfortunately, the man on the other side catches on.

“Shit,” he mutters and I hear his footsteps heading toward the steps. “Hey!” he shouts at the top of his lungs. “I found them! They’re over here!” He shouts as loudly as he can and I look at Lindsay with wide terrified eyes.