LEFT ALIVE (Zombie series Box Set): Books 1-6 of the Post-apocalyptic zombie action and adventure series (9 page)

It’s so cold that I instantly feel as if someone has thrown me into an arctic lake. I feel my body shaking and realize that it’s because I’m laughing hysterically. I can’t stop as I pull back and run my hands through my greasy, forgotten hair. I laugh and laugh and laugh as I bend over again and pull the lever up and down, dumping what feels like buckets of water on my face. I drink as much as I can stand, knowing that drinking so much is probably the dumbest thing I could do right now, but I don’t care. I’m saved for a little while longer. It’s moments like these that tease me, that make me want to thank God, even if the world has fallen to shit.

I take another drink before feeling my wound. I had abandoned my bandage long ago and as I probe it, I discover that it’s actually doing very well. It’s completely scabbed over and doesn’t hurt at all. I smile and pull the crank one more time. Yanking off my shirt, I rinse my arms and chest and even my back as best as I am able. Still smiling, I ring out my shirt and whip it in the air a few times before putting it on and wondering if there’s anything I can store water in nearby. I remember seeing a bunch of pots and pans in the first house, but I need bottles. I look toward the east where the third house is, and decide that it’s worth going and looking for something there.

But before I take a step toward the third house, I stop in realization. The water is clear coming out of the pump. I think back to when my grandmother finally died and I stopped out at the old house and walked around for nostalgia’s sake. I remember going to her old pump that I hadn’t touched in years. Jack and I played with the pump while we talked about how much we missed that old place. It had taken forever for water to finally come out of the faucet and when it did, it had been brown and rusty, almost putrid. I look back to the faucet where it is still dripping clear droplets into the mud slick I’ve made. There is a cold reality to that clear, crystalline water.

Someone has used that pump, and recently.

I keep my eyes darting back and forth to the two houses as I keep moving, glancing every few seconds. I make sure that I haven’t missed anything, that there isn’t someone coming for me. I look then to the north and south, watching for any trails of dust. My time is limited if someone else spots these structures. I’m far enough from the 75 that I don’t think anyone will spot them on the horizon. They might have a visual range of over a mile, but I think I’m at least two miles away from the interstate. I don’t know. It’s still a risk. I’m not running, though. I need to save my energy for if someone spots me. The water was refreshing, but now I’m beginning to feel sick. I drank too much. My body is a torn mix of emotions as I close in on the third farm house. I was wrong. It’s more like a mile away.

I need a plan, a better plan. I’m walking blindly across the heart of America without a map and only a road to keep in sight. If I travel west, I know I’ll hit the interstate, but that’s dangerous. A road is an artery for those who are better supplied, better fed, and better armed than me. If I get tangled up with them, then I will end up the loser. No, I need to find a map. I need to know what’s near me, what’s smallest, what’s manageable. A man without a strategy is a stranger wandering in this vast world blind. I need my eyes back. I need to know where I’m going. But before that, I need supplies.

Water, I need water. Thankfully, I have a free, infinite resource at my disposal. I just need something to carry the water in. I think about how far I might travel with just one bottle of water. I have survived days, barely, with no water. If I took a few sips a day, I might make it to the next town. Once I make it to the next town, I could find something else to drink, hopefully. I stop and look at the farmhouse, shaking my head.

No, I need a better plan than that. I close my eyes and think for moment, going over what I know. The towns and cities were full of killers, men and women who would have stocked up on guns, blades, and ammunition. If any remained they were well supplied by actively raiding every building around them. Nothing would remain unguarded, if there was even anything left to protect. Every cup of water will most likely have been spoken for by now. I need to stick to farms. If I stick to farms, the likelihood of coming across another well like this one is greatly increased. Also, rural communities will be less likely to still have marauders. Sure, they’ll be picked clean of supplies, but they’ll be easier to travel through safely.

I close my eyes and picture a map in my head. I know I’m heading toward Cincinnati and I know that Dayton is still between me and Cincinnati. Both of those will be hard to maneuver around unless I can see a map now and start adjusting. I’m going to Florida, so if I travel southeast, I’ll be in better shape than if I keep following the interstate. I open my eyes and look west. The 75 has gotten me a long way and I’m almost saddened to leave it behind me, but it’s too dangerous. I look back at the farmhouse and decide that I’ll keep moving that way. Suddenly, I realize that this means traveling in the daytime. Part of me is now conflicted with this revelation. I cannot travel at night without a compass, so that leaves me for walking in the daytime.

“That’s okay,” I tell myself. God, I’m talking to myself now. But I have a good point, I’m the only intelligent person around to talk to. So long as I’m away from prowlers and hunters, I’ll be fine moving during the daylight hours. It’s only when dangerous people are seen and more trails of dust kick up into the air that I need to begin to phase into nocturnal travel. I can do this. I smile to myself. There’s hope now. I’ll stop being nocturnal and start moving in the daylight. I’ll keep moving south until I start seeing more structures then divert toward southeast until I am around Dayton and then Cincinnati. I’ll survive. I can do this. I’ll stick to rural America. I smile as I get close enough to the farmhouse to actually start making out its details.

Unlike the others, this one is built out of bricks. The dark red of the bricks has faded in the hostile world of storms and blistering sunlight that has engulfed the house, but it still stands strong. There are small, dead trees where the lawn used to be and a few larger trees that must have been growing strong for over a hundred years before the end came. There was still the flowerbed with the dried up bark still there, or at least, that which hadn’t blown away in the storms. The wrap-around porch was lonely and forgotten, almost haunting. There was a second story to the house and I noticed that every window had blue shutters that had been nailed shut. That was my first sign that someone had held out here for longer than the Panic. Someone had found this house and I felt a flush of anger. Hopefully they hadn’t looted the place before leaving. I just need a single bottle and I’ll be happy. I decide to tour the property before I make any decisions about entering the house. It’ll also give those who might be living inside a chance to make their presence known. I doubt there’s anyone still here, though.

There’s a carport that has been abandoned as well. There are no vehicles or tracks leading away from the carport. I don’t know if I should trust that. My eyes search the yard for signs of footprints or tracks in the dust. If I find any, I’m turning around and heading straight back to the second house with the well. But so far, I see nothing that gives away their presence. I assess the odds of someone living in that house but never coming out. I look up to the second story where a single shutter is propped open. The window faces south. I turn and look toward the south. Maybe I’m closer to Dayton than I realize. If so, then the survivors who had lived or holed up here may have gone to Dayton to search for supplies. They might have run into hunters or other survivors, or maybe Zombies. Perhaps they’re dead or pinned down somewhere now. I decide that it’s worth sticking around.

The house is beautiful. I wonder how many others like this were abandoned now.

In the initial Quarantine, everything west of the Mississippi and east of the Rockies had been evacuated and left uninhabited. Of course, there were those who refused to give up their homes and were left there at their own peril. I remember hearing reports about how survivor communities were banding together, trying to scrape a living in the wreckage that had been left to them as a sort of post-apocalyptic inheritance after the military moved everyone willing to leave out of the area. Sure, the government had tried to force people, but there were those who resisted or hid, biding their time until the government pulled out completely. A diameter that encompasses eight and a half states is too much for the government to monitor effectively. Eventually, they gave up caring. If survivors wanted to root around in the waste of America, so be it.

Back when I had my radio, I heard rumors that some of those communities had found ways to survive other than scavenging. I almost instantly think it’s through cannibalism, but I don’t know anymore. There just aren’t enough people. So many starved. The refugee camps were the worst back during the Panic. The government forces opened fire on mobs of refugees just wanting more to eat. That kept them in submission for a while, but eventually they struck out. When the Mississippi was contaminated, Louisiana, Mississippi, half of Kentucky and Tennessee, and Illinois were all quarantined as well. When the dust storms started, everything west of the Appalachians was considered ‘under Quarantine’ or whatever that meant at the time. Basically, people were told to pick up their stuff and flee to one of the coasts, but that didn’t work out so well. I was witness to that. Here in Ohio, I wonder how many people in country farms like this one watched their crops wither and die within days, helpless to stop it. I look at the house and figure that the people who nailed those shutters up were probably the owners of this property. I suspect that if they were still here, then they would have come out shooting, trying to get rid of me, maybe even kill me. Hell, I wouldn’t even be surprised anymore if they came out with steak knives ready to eat me.

I figure, I’m alone.

I continue my journey around the house and discover an old shed, the kind that are painted real cute to look like little barns. Next to it is a lean-to for a tractor that has disappeared as well. I wonder if they took that thing into the city, hoping to make it further as an unstoppable machine. I approach the shed that has a sunroof. I find that odd, thinking that maybe there is a built in greenhouse inside. Or maybe they just wanted to save on electricity. Either way, I see a lot of abandoned power tools outside and a few empty bags of bark, potting soil, and fertilizer. I look at the cover of the fertilizer bag with a cartoon sunflower smiling and showcasing the brand name. I shake my head at it and look away. We were impatient and irresponsible, and our salvation became our ruin.

Looking back at the house, I see the familiar cellar doors that I think every farmhouse seems to be equipped with. There’s a clothesline stretched across the back yard between me and the doors, and I see an abandoned dog house next to the cellar. I continue my walk until I come full circle around the house, seeing a grave with a cross staked into the ground. Around the neck of the cross is a collar and the name ‘Barney’ written on the wood in black paint. Part of me feels sad. At least this dog got a grave. After all the plants died, it was the animals who suffered next. I was certain that there wasn’t a single creature left under God’s blue sky now.

Sure, I’d heard rumors that people should flee to mountain tops. They said that the contaminated soil couldn’t make it up to the top of peaks and that life could continue in the mountains. But I don’t have much faith in that, no one did. In fact, people took to the seas and skies in hopes of finding islands as refuge against this hellish end. I still don’t know how well that went. Everyone heard the reports of war ravaging places like the Caribbean, Greenland, Iceland, and Australia. Some said that Europe had survived the plague, that there were too many mountains between China, India, and Eastern Russia to carry the poisons. I don’t know if that’s true, but I do remember hearing that the French and British were shooting down any airplanes that were trying to illegally land in the country. I wonder if they still had dogs in Europe. Do they still have deer and cattle? No. They’re dead too. Europe was just a dream of dying Americans. Likely, there were survivors across the pond that spoke of an untouched America.

I’ll start with the basement. Basements are terrifying and scary to begin with, so I decide that if I’m going to be freaked out by this place once I’m inside, I might as well make my way from the bottom up. Touring back around the house, I look once more at the shed and decide that I’ll explore that little place later. First, the house. Mason jars, bottles, even rancid milk jugs would work for me. I just need something to carry water in. I walk in front of the cellar doors and think about how far a gallon of water will take me. If I could find two gallons—or three—I could walk for days without needing to stop and be well hydrated. I smile and reach for the handles of the cellar. I might be able to make it all the way around Dayton before needing to refill my supply. I pull the handles.

The cellar doors burst open and fling me back. I hear something that sounds like a war cry as I sprawl across the hard ground, arms and legs flailing as the wind rushes out of my throat upon impact, skidding across the hard, dusty surface of the lawn until I come to a painful stop. I can feel the warm earth against my back and I’m certain that my shirt has ripped. Whoever has attacked me has receded back into the basement, and the cellar doors violently bang against the frame as I cough and choke in a few breaths, gasping to fill my lungs. I roll onto my side and chest as I hear the doors burst open once more, a person breathing angrily as their heavy footsteps boom against the stairs as they climb out into the daylight. I panic, trying to speak, but unable to find the breath. I cough and suck in another breath as I struggle to push myself up.

Propping up and getting to my knees, I feel something as unforgiving as steel smack across my back with enough force to fling me back onto the ground, face first. What little air I have sucked down is once more forced from my lungs before I can speak. Dust jets up into my eyes, and my eyeballs immediately feel like sandpaper when I blink, filling my vision with tears. God, it hurts. My back is in so much pain that I cannot imagine what my attacker has hit me with. It has to be a metal bat.

Something slams into my ribs and I am riddled with agony. I cry out for him to stop in a wheezing, breathless voice, but my attacker doesn’t hear me, or won’t hear me. I’m terrified that he might not care, that he thinks I’m a robber or cannibal. I am kicked again and this time, I’m forced onto my side as I suck in a breath and immediately lose it again. I’m terrified that I’m going to suffocate. As I roll into a ball, the man keeps kicking me again and again as I finally get a breath down. Wrapping my arms over my head and face, I quickly begin to lose patience with all of this. I need to get to my feet. I need to get out of here.

Peeking through the gap between my arms, I see that this man is young, in his early twenties and a bit too clean to be a scavenger. This man has been here for a while, maybe even the original owner. He’s muscular, so he’s been eating well enough, but he has obviously withered some since the Panic. I can see it in his twisted, enraged face as he bares his teeth and pulls his leg back for another kick. I see in his right hand that there is a crowbar, the weapon he smacked my back with. God, I hope he didn’t break my back. Of course he didn’t, I realize, or I would be paralyzed. Breathing does hurt though, and I fear I have broken ribs.

As he kicks me again I grab his leg and twist my entire body, pulling him off balance, making him struggle momentarily to stay upright. It’s enough time for me to lift his foot up and shove him backward. It does the trick. The man slams onto his ass and dust billows around him. I take my opportunity and clamor to my feet, drawing my knife and brandishing it without hesitation. The man quickly climbs to his feet and adjusts his grip on the crowbar. I say nothing. There’s no reasoning with this man.