Z Children (Book 2): The Surge (24 page)
“I’m
not going to pass out on you. I’ll make sure you know where to go,” JW
grumbled, sinking lower in his seat, acting like the conversation was closed. I
could tell his ego was battling with his common sense—stay awake to make sure I
didn’t screw up directions or give into what his body needed. He rubbed at his
neck again.
“Neck
stiff? Maybe it’s a guilty conscious. Where the hell are you taking us, JW?
Tell me, or I’ll get that damn map out now and drive where I think we should
while you’re sleeping.” It wasn’t an empty threat, I’d do it. In the back of
the truck, I heard someone stirring. Virginia likely, woken up by me and JW
arguing. For the millionth time it felt like.
“I’m
just tired and a little sore. Don’t get your panties in a twist, split-tail,”
his grumble melted into a barely-intelligible mumble. I let him slide on the
offensive nickname. Although a small part of me wanted to punch the sick sack
of male crap right in his rugged face.
“You’re
more than just a little sore, JW. You need medicine. I need to know where the
fuck we’re going.”
He
only grunted.
“JW?”
I gripped the steering wheel so hard that my knuckles went white. “JW?”
He
mumbled something in response. It sounded like gnarly onions.
And
then he was snoring.
You’re a dumbass, but at least you have enough brain
cells to know you need to sleep. Fuck. Where is he taking us? Just keep driving,
Chris. Keep driving until you see the signs for 190 and then wake up that son
of a bitch. And maybe find a hospital or a pharmacy so the bastard doesn’t lead
us into hell and then up and fucking die.
Ranger’s
body was pressed against the passenger seat and JW’s thigh. He glanced at me
and I knew that he knew also—he sensed it, or smelled it, or knew it in
whatever way a dog knows when his master is unwell. Maybe it was just the sound
of JW’s voice or the fact that he’d let down his guard and was sleeping
fitfully in the seat that was too small for his large body. However Ranger
knew, he knew. His friend was in trouble, and there was nothing he could do.
This wasn’t like being in the field—hiding and ready to ambush or drawing fire
away from his partner. This was a war within JW’s body, a battleground that was
closed to his furry brother-in-arms.
“Don’t
worry, Ranger. I know what he needs.”
Not that I want to give it to the
stupid jerk.
To my surprise, my mental voice wasn’t nearly as pissed-off as
I thought it’d be.
The
too-perceptive dog glanced at me again. I swear he nodded. I could feel
Virginia now. She’d moved towards me and was standing directly behind me.
***
BONNIE
It
felt like nowadays I was either exploding with words, upset and unable to contain
myself, or I was too scared to speak a single syllable, like my tongue was
under mouth arrest.
That’s
why I loved the journals. I could speak with the pencil, get the words on
paper, try to keep my cool instead of yelling—avoid losing it like when I’d
yelled at Chris because she was being so flipping ungrateful to JW. He’d saved
her life. He’d risked…
No,
calm down. It’s over.
I was
learning things from JW. Like how to be calm even when I wanted to scream.
Keep
your wits. You’ll survive.
He’d said that in passing at the gun shop. I’d
only half-listened, but now the words were fully with me, burned into my skull.
Clutching
the small book closer to my body—the journal that was already so near me that
it was almost inside of me—I laid as still as silence, listening to Chris and
JW talking less-than-kindly to one another. His voice disappeared after only a
little conversation. Chris, for her part, continued to mumble unhappily after
saying something that seemed almost kind to Ranger.
That
made me like her a bit more.
Of
course, two minutes later, she started talking to Gin and my like-o-meter
plunged back to near-loathing.
“JW
seems to be resting well considering.” Gin was kneeling between the front
seats, her hand lifted and rested momentarily against JW’s forehead. She sighed
heavily, dropped her hand back down. “Burning up, though.”
“What,
no more sugarcoating?” Chris was being sarcastic. And bitchy. In the back of my
brain, a little whisper sounded,
Language, Bonnie.
It was Gin’s voice,
funny enough. Strange to have someone trying to protect my innocence when we
were totally surrounded by purity-ruining destruction and horror.
“Don’t
be ugly.”
“What
is with you and him, Virginia?”
“Come
on, Chris. Don’t start with the jealous act again. I can’t stand that.”
“But
you’re totally over the moon with his macho ‘I know better than all you women’
crap?”
“It’s
not crap. He really does know what he’s doing. I’m being smart. I’m listening
to him so that I can survive. You should understand that.” Gin rocked back on
her heels, putting more space between herself and Chris.
“Yeah?
Smart? What the fuck are you going to do if he dies on us? We have to find
meds. And now he’s taking us to fucking New Orleans. Not even Atlanta. Still
glad you’re following him blindly?” Chris jerked her head back for a second,
knocking her upper body against the seat roughly. She whispered something
incoherent and then righted herself and glanced over her shoulder at Gin.
“I’m
not following blindly. I had a feeling he’d changed plans when we didn’t get
off 49. He could have easily taken a southbound road a while back. But he
didn’t,” Gin spoke matter-of-factly, but I could easily hear an undertone of anxiety.
“You
knew
?”
Chris flexed her fingers on the steering wheel. The inside of the truck seemed
dark now, with the clouds growing ever-thicker and the rain pattering against
the metal roof ever-quicker. “And you didn’t say anything to him? You didn’t
tell me?”
“He
knows what he’s doing, Chris.”
“Or
he’s leading us into a damn death match in an over-crowded city.” Chris made a
sound—muffled, restrained, a scream contained within a box that no one could
see. “That’s it. I’m not going there. I don’t give a shit what his reasons are.
I’m not driving until 190, I’m not following blindly like you.” The vehicle
started to slow, to move closer to the edge of the road. “Where’s that damn
map.”
“JW
was here first. He saved Bonnie. He saved me. He saved you.”
Gin’s
voice was shaking now. I didn’t like that. It made me feel queasy and uncomfortable.
Like when you parent cries or when Grandma would cry because she’d suddenly
remember that Mom had just up and left me and Dad. She’d stutter and stumble
over her words, saying how she hadn’t raised her daughter to abandon her
family. But then she’d forget again. And I could try and forget again. My
mental voice shut up so that I could listen to Gin’s words.
“…want
to go another way,” she paused, sucking in air as if she was drawing her nerve
from the very air around her, “then you’ll have to go alone. We’ll find you a
vehicle. I’m sure JW will give you some supplies.”
The
delivery truck was no longer headed for the side of the road. It was listing
back, nearing the center line—not that going over the lines mattered. We were
the only vehicle in sight. “You can’t mean that, Virginia. You can’t want to
separate, baby.” Chris’s voice was full of emotion now, wet and raspy. She’d
gone from tough steel to brittle porcelain in a heartbeat. Her head hung for a
moment, her eyes off the road. I wanted to tell her to watch where she was
going, but she gathered herself quickly, focused on her task. “You really
would, wouldn’t you?” She didn’t look at Gin again. “You’d choose him over me.”
It was a statement, hollow and broken.
“I
choose
to survive,
Chris. And I want,” Gin moved closer to Chris again,
placed her hand on Chris’s right thigh, “more than anything, for you to survive
also. By my side. Trust him because you trust me.”
Chris
didn’t say anything, but I saw the barest movement, the briefest nod.
“As soon
as we get to New Orleans, we have to find him meds. If I’m going to put all my
faith in that bullheaded grunt of a man, I’m going to need him at his best,
one-hundred-fucking-percent his masochistic asshole self.”
It was
Gin’s turn to nod. But, since Chris could not see her while she was staring out
past the rhythmically swishing wipers into the rainy afternoon, Gin added a
quiet, “Agreed.”
The
conversation died with that last word.
And I
did not like the quiet. So I opened the journal I held. It was already
half-filled.
Don’t
die, JW. Please.
I
wrote the words quickly; the blunt pencil made the words thick and ugly—a style
that matched my lack of eloquence. Then I wrote the words again.
Don’t die,
JW. Please.
And
again.
Don’t
die, JW. Please.
Eventually,
I had four pages of the same four words. Each page sported damp marks. Tears.
I
looked up then, when I placed the last period after the last please.
Gin
was staring at me through the shadows that separated us, penetrating the space
I took up on the shelf. Her expression was understanding. “He’s going to be
fine, Bonnie. I promise.”
I
nodded, even though I’d never put much stock in promises made by adults—even
those made by goodhearted, well-meaning ones.
Perhaps
if JW promised. If he said he was going to be okay, maybe I’d believe him.
PART III
“Susan,
the answer is NO!” Grant Fields slapped his hand against the side of the boat
in earnest. He was leaning slightly over, his eyes focused on the waves lapping
against the side of the
Nancy-Grace
. They were floating nearly a mile
off shore. They had been for several hours, delaying the inevitable. The water
filtration system was a bust and they needed water in a bad way.
“Dad,
I’m the only one who can do this. You know that.” Susan was pacing the length
of the boat, agitated and tired. She was mentally prepared to go now, but she
worried that if her dad kept arguing, she’d lose her gumption.
“No.
End of discussion.” To say Grant Fields wasn’t happy with the situation was a
damn understatement. He knew he was physically handicapped compared to his
daughter; he wasn’t a fool, but there was no way he was letting his
one-and-only child, his baby girl, go into the rat-infested, skin-you-alive
city alone. He had more experience, that more than made up for the physical
lacking.
“No!”
Susan shouted the word, but quickly gained control of her voice. She didn’t
want to scare the twins—if they were even awake yet. Putting steel into her
words, she continued, trying to sound level-headed and matter-of-fact. “The
discussion
isn’t
over, Dad. You’re going to stay here. You’re going to
protect the kids. I am going to go find water and whatever else we need. I’m
more mobile. I can run. You. Can’t.” She spoke the last two words independently,
clipping them off for effect.
“These
kids don’t need me. They need their mother. You drop me off a bit closer to
shore in the dinghy and then bring this boat right back out here. I can handle
this. My leg’s not that bad.”
“You
sit too long and you nearly fall trying to get up. It aches so bad in the
morning that you have to massage it for half an hour. Don’t tell me that your
legs ‘not that bad’, Dad.” Susan was on the emotional edge of a too-tall cliff,
ready to fall off into a full-blown fit.
Stop being so hardheaded, Dad.
Please. Just let me go and get this over with.
Susan wished she could
launch the words into her father’s head and force him to agree so they could
get this damn thing over with.
“You
are needed here with the kids.
Your kids
. Besides, what the hell are you
going to do if you’re attacked? Just because you have a gun doesn’t mean you
can hit anything!” Grant slammed his palms down again, so hard that they stung
with pain afterwards. His face was the color of cooked beets, and Susan knew it
wasn’t good for him to get his blood pressure up, but she had to stand her
ground. “You won’t last fifteen minutes. Dammit, Susan, you’re more stubborn
than your mother sometimes.”
“And
how would an argument with Mom go? Would you win it?” Susan tried not to look
smug. He’d brought up her mother, she hadn’t. He’d opened the door to that
reminder.
Grant’s
face deepened in color—if that was even possible—but then it began to cool,
fading to a pale that was stark in comparison. “She’d win. She’d always win.”
His left hand went to his face and he rubbed at it roughly.
“I can
do this, Dad. You have to trust me.” Susan walked closer to him, touched his
shoulder gently. “I’m not weak. Not anymore. You don’t have to protect me all
the time.”
Sighing
and losing some of his will to fight, Grant turned towards his daughter. “I
have always trusted you, Susan. Don’t ever question that. But I can’t lose you.
I can’t drop you off into the unknown and steer back to safety. I just can’t.
And…” Grant looked at his daughter, purposefully and with determination
changing his expression. He did not move, though; he did not want to dislodge
his daughter’s hand. If he could, he’d still cradle her like a babe and keep
her safe forever. “And you’ve never been weak. You’ve been in shit situations.
You’ve had people treat you wrong, but you fought your way out. And you didn’t
lose yourself. That ex-
husband
,”
Grant said ‘husband’ like it was
toxic and sharp, “was not a man. He was a sniveling, cowardly son of a bi—” He
stopped talking immediately when he saw a small head peeking out of the boat’s
cabin.
Susan
glanced back, knowing what had halted her father’s speech. Marcel had the cabin
door partly opened; his eyes wide with concern. “It’s alright, baby. Grandpa
and I are just talking. Go back to Sophia, please.”
Marcel
looked at his granddad. Eyeing him for a moment, squinting and trying to decide
whether he should listen to his mother, but the young boy eventually nodded.
The nod was swiftly followed by an impish wink and then a halfhearted smile
from Grant—the only male figure Marcel had in his life to look up to—which made
Marcel sprout a lopsided grin—lopsided because Marcel’s eye was still a bit
squinted from the recent winking. This type of interaction was normal between
the two; they had a special bond, one that sometimes left Sophia out in the
cold.
“Everything’s
good, bud. Don’t you worry,” Grant’s voice was assuring now. Marcel nodded once
more, the grin still stuck firmly in place and then he turned and disappeared
down into the belly of the boat.
After
Marcel was out of sight, the adults stood in silence for a moment. The short
conversation with the child had done wonders to calm both Grant and Susan. They
were below boiling point now, back to being rational humans rather than volatile
blood sacks of emotion.
“We
can argue all day, but you know it has to be this way. I’ll be safe. I’ll go
slow. I won’t take chances. I promise.” The hand she was still touching her
father’s shoulder with dropped. It found her other hand and she threaded her
fingers together. She willed herself to not shake, to not show her dad how
scared she really was. If he saw, then the argument would last much longer.
“I’m
scared for you, baby.” Grant let the rawness he felt seep into his words. It
was a drastic contrast to the anger he’d so recently displayed. Anger at the
situation. Anger at everything.
“You
don’t have to be.” Susan attempted a smile. She failed.
“You
won’t make it. You won’t make it, and I’ll have to tell those kids that you’re
gone. I can’t handle that.” Grant swiped at his eyes. He’d only cried three
times in his life—the birth of his daughter, the death of his wife, and the
adoption of the twins. He’d be damned if he let tears weaken his already-crumbling
position.
“Thanks
for the vote of confidence, Dad.” Susan tried once more to force a smile, tried
to make the words sound like a joke, but unlike the shaking of hands, she could
not control the shaking of her voice. “I’m going. No more arguing.” Now her
hands did shake, and the vibration traveled up her arms and down her body to
rest in her toes.
“If I
lose you…God, if I lose you to whatever this is…whatever’s happening. Zombies.
Cannibal freaks. That’s not the way you’re supposed to go. I’m not supposed to
outlive you. It has to be me, Susan. Me, baby. I’ve lived. I’ve had a life.
I’ve had more love than any man deserves. I’m getting my gear and you aren’t
going to stop me. This is it now. This is the end of the conversation, when I
say, not you.”
Grant
turned away from his daughter, grimacing when he took a few stunted steps. He’d
stood in one place too long, his bad knee was locked up.
“Dad…”
Susan’s voice trailed off. She didn’t need to finish. He knew what she was
going to say.
“Yeah.
I know. Don’t say it.” Stopping in his tracks, shoulders slumped, Grant
mentally resigned himself to what had to happen.
Susan
walked the few steps to him, moved in front of him, blocking his path into the
cabin. “You’re scared. I’m scared. I know I can’t do what you can do, but I
also don’t know how to run this boat myself. If something breaks, I won’t know
how to fix it. And then what? I’m going to be out in the middle of the water
trying to paddle to shore?” She wasn’t a complete boating novice, but she also
didn’t know enough to be comfortable. “You said you trusted me. You said I’m
not weak. Leaving my kids behind to go into the unknown, to possibly not come
back, that scares me more than anything has in my entire life, but I’m going to
go anyways. And you’re going to stay, even though watching me go probably
scares you more than anything in
your
life.”
Grant’s
face was pointed at the boat deck now; it matched his slumped shoulders.
Susan
saw no ire in her father’s face anymore, not the slightest trace. He was having
to choose between two great evils—fear for his daughter and fear for his
grandchildren. She could tell it was tearing him up inside. He would do
anything to keep them all safe, even if it meant him going on what would surely
turn out to be a suicide mission.
“I
won’t send you in blind. Let me go down and get a few things, try and prepare
you at least. Why don’t you make the kids some breakfast? I think we have some
oatmeal left, maybe a jar of peanut butter stashed under the sink. I’m sure
they’d like a break from fish.” Grant didn’t wait for his daughter’s response.
He disappeared into the cabin. Susan followed him slowly, wanting to put some
distance between them. She needed to do that for her own fortitude. There was
tension in the air, magnified by proximity to her father. And if she left and
didn’t come back, then everyone would have to learn to accept the absence.
They’d have to move on without her.
I
have to come back.
Susan thought fiercely.
I have to. They need
supplies. Fresh water.
Susan moved as she thought; she lapsed into an abyss
of worst-case scenarios until she came back to reality. She couldn’t even
recall the steps she’d taken to arrive at the small kitchen, sorting through
the shelves and pulling down several mason jars of oatmeal. It had been
mechanically, done by sensory memory and will.
When
Susan popped open a jar of the food, the smell of the oats wafted up in a
nostalgic wave. They’d been cold-prepped and pressure sealed, one of her dad’s
favorite meals. He’d throw in half a cup of oatmeal, a tablespoon of raisins,
maple syrup, a little salt, water, and then seal the jar. It had been a specialty
of Susan’s mom’s—she called it Nancy’s Overnight Oats—and he’d eaten it nearly
daily since her death. Susan didn’t know how long ago he’d made these jars, but
they were out of the dry oatmeal.
Dipping
in her pinky finger, Susan swiped out a chunk and slid it into her mouth. Sweet
from the raisins and syrup, just salty enough to balance out the sweetness,
creamy in texture. It took her back to mornings talking with her mom before
school.
“I
stocked the food a month or so.” Grant’s voice took her out of her childhood
kitchen, away from her mother’s smiling face and the smell of her coffee—always
black and sweet. “You don’t have to test it. It’s good.”
“I
figured it was fine. I just wanted to taste it. This always reminds me of Mom.”
“Me
too.” Grant lifted a small backpack and a stained brown box up onto the
countertop as Susan spooned equal amounts of oatmeal into two bowls.
“You
want some?” Susan turned to grab another reusable plastic bowl from the small
cupboard that housed all the dishes.
“Not
hungry,” his voice was gruff, unhappy.
Susan
just nodded. “Sophie! Marcel! Breakfast!”
The
groans that greeted her call told her that both her children were asleep—even
Marcel, who’d been so recently awake and nosing about. She couldn’t blame them.
There was precious little to do for entertainment on the boat. A small television,
a stock of twenty or so movies—only five of which were appropriate for kids—an
array of magazines. They both loved fishing, but even that got tiring when each
fish caught ended up being for a meal. Everyone was relatively sick of fish by
this point.
Five
minutes later, the twins came stumbling into the small kitchen and living room.
“Please tell me it isn’t fish. My stomach hurts.” Marcel rubbed his belly for
affect. Susan didn’t smile though. That was another thing they needed. Medicine.
Not just for Marcel’s indigestion, but for her dad’s joints and blood pressure
too.
“No,
no fish this morning, baby. Oatmeal.” Susan watched as her son’s face twisted
in dislike.
“I
miss pancakes,” Marcel’s voice was small.
“With
chocolate chips,” Sophie added as she jumped slightly to seat herself at the
counter atop the barstool that was a tad too high for her comfort. Marcel was
quick to join her.
“Well,
I’m going to go into this town, and if I stumble across any pancake mix and
chocolate chips, I’ll be sure to grab some.” She smiled as she scooted the
bowls closer to her children.
“You’re
not going in there for treats,” Grant reminded her coldly. Not that Susan
needed the reminder.
“I
know, Dad.” Susan looked at her father and then pointedly back at the kids.
There was no sense scaring them.
“Flashlight,
protein bar, last of the water—”
Susan
interrupted Grant, “You keep the last of the water. I’ll find some. You don’t
have that ability here.”
Grant
started talking like he hadn’t heard her, but she noticed he took the water
bottle out and set it aside on the counter. It needed to stay behind. The kids
were more important. “Cigarettes, vodka, matches and
this.
” He pulled
out a well-oiled leather belt. From it hung a large revolver, lovingly kept. Several
pouches were stiff and full. What really drew Susan’s eye was the long night
stick.
She’d
only heard her father talk once about his time on the force. He’d quit for her
mom. She’d vowed to never marry a police officer—she’d lost her dad in the line
of duty. So he’d quit. He’d quit a job he loved for the woman he loved and
worked in a factory instead. Until it shut down.