by Anna Abner
In bold, black print it proclaimed a military evacuation. “Paint the letters SOS on the roof of your building and wait inside. Helicopters will arrive and evacuate you to Camp Carson ASAP.” At the bottom were a tiny date stamp and an official U.S. seal.
The government still existed? In Camp Carson there were survivors and soldiers and doctors? It sounded like a fairy tale come true.
“How did you get this?” My hand shook so bad the paper rattled.
“Helicopters dropped them all over this area.”
“Have there been any helicopters since then?” I hadn’t seen a plane in days and days.
“They’re coming,” Russell stressed. “It’ll take time to find all the survivors, but they’re coming.”
I dug my song diary out of my backpack and flipped through it. On the last page I’d scratched tally marks to track my days in the bunker. Below those were notes on important days—the first day they broadcast a zombie on the news, the last day I saw my dad or had electricity. I counted backwards, using the date stamp on Russell’s flyer.
“This is three weeks old,” I told him. An eternity. “I don’t think they’re coming.”
He snatched the flyer out of my hand, and then carefully smoothed out the wrinkles. “They’re coming. They just need more time.”
It was pointless to argue further with Russell. He was determined to stay, and I didn’t need him, anyway. If Camp Carson existed I’d find it on my own. Later.
“Where is the lab?” Pollard asked as he attempted to extricate himself from Hunny’s grasp.
I re-opened my book. In the front was an “if lost, contact” section and a long time ago I’d filled in my home address, my dad’s work address, and our cell numbers. I knew how to drive there, but I’d have trouble finding detours through the city.
“Do you have a map?” I asked.
He chuckled. “Do I have a map.” He jogged over to the convenience store section of the building and grabbed a folded paper map of the Raleigh-Durham area. “There’s Raleigh.” He dragged his finger from one point to another. “And here’s us.”
It looked like a long walk into downtown. Longer than I thought it would be.
“It’s near William Peace University. Number 42 Vitriol Drive.”
“I want to stay here with you.” Hunny tugged on Pollard’s army tee. “We’ll be safe here.”
Shushing Hunny, Pollard found the street on the map. “Right here.” He jogged back into the store and returned with a pink highlighter. “This is our route.” He drew a zigzag line down streets from our exit of the I–40 to the lab. “Simone, how long do you think it’ll take?”
She studied the map for what felt like hours. “When I left, there were fires and looting and zombies everywhere. All of MLK Jr. Boulevard, East Edenton, and New Bern Avenue were so packed with cars and trucks you couldn’t cross them without climbing.” All three streets were between Vitriol and us. “But maybe you can side-track and find an easier route.”
My sore knee would be a huge problem if I had to scale clogged thoroughfares or hop over fences.
“It’s almost ten miles,” Simone added, “so on foot it would take about five hours, if we don’t run into trouble.”
“The dirt bikes would get us there a lot faster.” Pollard frowned at all the intersecting streets.
On second thought, maybe having Pollard along wouldn’t be such a bad thing.
“No, let’s stay here,” Hunny whined.
“You can stay here,” I told her. “With Russell.” They could barricade themselves in the truck stop and live quite happily for the one or two days we’d be gone. And I wouldn’t be responsible for her anymore.
“Are you staying here?” she asked Pollard.
He glanced briefly in my direction. “What are you going to do with this medicine once you get it?”
“We have to take it to whoever is in charge. Camp Carson, I guess.”
Russell perked up. “You want to drive to Camp Carson?”
“Where is it?” I asked. I’d never heard of it so it couldn’t be very near Raleigh.
“North of here. Outside Richmond, Virginia.”
“Yeah,” I mused. “I need to mass-produce the elixir. I need labs and chemists and all kinds of equipment. The army at Camp Carson can do it.” Maybe.
But it was the best idea I had.
Everyone dispersed from the dining room. Pollard and Hunny cleaned up dinner while Russell slipped outside to smoke. I followed Simone behind the cash register.
Pretending to examine the little rack of energy shots beside the cup of novelty pens I asked, “Simone? You were in jail when Pollard found you, weren’t you?”
Her eyebrows rose by increments. “He told you that?” She lifted a narrow bottle of amber whiskey from under the counter and snagged a decorative shot glass from the display behind her. “Yeah, I was in the drunk tank.”
“All by yourself?” I asked.
She nodded slowly. “Thank God I was the only degenerate in there that night. And I don’t even want to think about my final hours if Pollard hadn’t found me.”
Mason had a private room. Something about juveniles needing certain rights and privileges adult inmates didn’t. Every night they locked him into a cell by himself.
“Could you have escaped on your own?” I asked. “If you had to?” Mason was smart and crafty and strong. Maybe, given the right motivation—death being a strong one—he could have gotten out of his cell, out of the prison, over the fence…
“No way.” She swallowed a shot. “Those places are made to keep people in, even during the apocalypse.”
Maybe Mason hadn’t escaped. Maybe Ben had stolen his photo after the plague swept through. Maybe his having my picture didn’t mean anything.
I stared at the lotto advertisement on the counter, not really seeing it. “My brother was locked up in Raleigh when the world fell,” I admitted. “I was just hoping.”
“Sorry, darlin’.” Her voice got a little softer around the edges, a little kinder. “I wouldn’t hold out too much hope.”
“I know he’s dead.” It was like the words whooshed out of me, it was such a relief to say them out loud and truly believe them. “He would’ve come home by now. He wasn’t that far away.” I blinked back tears and shrugged at Simone.
If I had been able to limp from my home halfway to Raleigh in about a day, it shouldn’t take two weeks for him to find me. It wasn’t like I was hiding from him. After everything he’d done to me and Mom and our whole family, it still would’ve been a relief to see him again. To know I wasn’t alone.
“Here.” Simone grabbed another shot glass and poured whiskey into both. “To your brother. May he rest in peace.” She nudged the drink toward me.
I accepted the glass, sniffed it, and winced at the strong scent. Like gasoline. Holding my breath, I downed the shot. Alcohol burned my throat, and I choked.
“It’s awful,” I exclaimed, my voice hoarse.
Simone smirked. “Isn’t it?” She poured a second shot and tossed it back.
“Maya?” Pollard appeared around the corner. He frowned at the signs of our alcohol consumption but didn’t mention it. “I set out extra pillows and blankets for you on the bench next to Hunny’s.”
“Oh.” I glanced at Simone, but she got suddenly busy putting the shot glasses away. “Thank you.”
He motioned me across the room to where he’d made my pallet. “Do you need anything else before bed?”
I shook my head at the puffy mound of bedding. “It looks nice.” It looked suffocating. I’d go along with the plan until after light’s out, but there was no way I was sleeping out there in the middle of strangers all night.
“Thanks,” I said and took my turn changing into pajamas in the bathroom. The whiskey made me thickheaded and a little clumsy, but by the time I settled onto my designated bench I felt almost normal again.
Hunny was the first to fall asleep, and Pollard was the last. I lay on my bench, a
n overstuffed winter jacket for a pillow, listening to each person’s distinctive breath. Hunny hardly made a sound, but Simone snored loudly. Russell’s breath rumbled out of him. And I had a hard time hearing Pollard. Maybe he was just a quiet sleeper.
Confident everyone was out for the night, I collected the tightly wrapped raw squirrel from my pack and snuck out the front door into silvery moonlight.
In the cool evening air I limped awkwardly between gas pumps and abandoned semi-trucks by the light of a half moon, still not one hundred percent convinced this was a good idea. But after he’d followed me, protected me, and written me a message, I felt responsible.
He stood atop a grassy median strip, waiting for me. I felt more than saw his red eyes in the dark.
How would he look all cleaned up and with his hair combed? Nice, probably. Normal.
“Ben?” I didn’t expect him to answer. The most he could do was moan. But he didn’t even do that tonight.
I unwrapped the squirrel and for a moment doubted the intelligence of holding food in front of a zombie’s face. Even though he must have smelled it, he didn’t react. His eyes remained fixed on me like he’d never seen a female before.
“Did you know my brother?” I asked. “Did you know Mason?”
Not a wince, not a smirk, not even an eye flutter. No response.
I don’t know what I expected.
“If you’re going to follow me,” I said quietly, “then you need to eat.” I tossed him the squirrel. It bounced off his chest and thumped against the ground at his feet. “I can get you more tomorrow. If you’re still around. Pollard taught me snares.”
He gave no indication he understood anything I said and completely ignored the squirrel.
I searched his blood-flecked face for the faintest hints of his humanity, but unsatisfied, my gaze wandered the length of him. The left side of his body was covered in a white mist of dried spray paint from his earlier message writing. He was taller than me, almost as tall as Pollard, but thin from the disease. He probably had brown hair, but it was so dirty it was now black. He wore no watch and no jewelry or anything else to give a hint to his personality or his life before the plague.
I had been lots of things six weeks ago—daughter, sister, student, songwriter. Now I was just a teenager with a limp and a sad song stuck in my head.
“I haven’t been able to write a new song since the plague hit,” I blurted out.
Ben shifted from one foot to the other.
“Before 212R I wrote everyday and played my guitar like it was attached to my chest. But now…” I scrubbed the sole of my cross trainer over the asphalt. “The last one I composed, in March or April I guess, was sad too, and I don’t like sad songs.”
The familiar melody flitted through my mind. I hummed a little, the fingers of my left hand curling into chords on the neck of an invisible guitar. “It’s dark, and you’re not home,” I sang softly.
Ben was a kind audience. He didn’t frown or shake his head. He didn’t react at all. So I sang a little more.
“Why do you have to go? If I asked you to stay, would you stay?” I shrugged. “I told you it was depressing. I wish I could write something silly or funny or romantic, but all I hear anymore are elegies.”
Ben watched me, his face blank. Was it possible he understood everything? That he knew what he wanted to say, he just couldn’t make his mouth form the syllables?
“Ben?” I inched nearer. “If you can hear me, raise your hand.” I held my breath, waiting, waiting for him to move his hand for me, to prove he was different from all the other voiceless, violent Reds.
But he didn’t.
“Ben,” I tried again. “Why are you following me?”
“Mmm,” he moaned, his gaze traversing my face as if memorizing every curve and valley. “Mmmrr.”
A chill arced up my spine and tiptoed across my neck. I was in an abandoned parking lot, in the dark, with a Red. All my dad’s warnings echoed in my ears.
Ben was fast and strong. He’d taken out three zombies in moments and come away with hardly a scratch. If he’d wanted to, he could’ve been on me and tearing into my abdomen before I had a chance to scream for help. Not that Pollard could do much. By the time he found me I’d be dead from shock and blood loss.
An image of Ben hunched over my lifeless body flashed through my mind, as clear as if it had already happened. He had blood on his chin and up both arms to the elbows…
“I’m going back inside,” I announced in a shaky voice. “Good night.” I rushed toward the truck stop, only glancing over my shoulder when I’d passed the automobile barricade. Ben had his face buried in the squirrel’s belly as he devoured its internal organs.
I didn’t see Pollard in the shadows until I ran straight into him.
“You have a pet,” he growled.
Chapter Eleven
I stuttered to a stop, my heart thrumming in fear.
Pollard had put his handgun back on his belt, and my skin prickled as if I stood too close to a fire.
He steadied me, but I jerked out of his hold. I couldn’t be near a firearm while so much adrenalin ricocheted through me.
“Congratulations,” he barked. “You’ve turned a human being into a German shepherd. I can put a leash on him for you, if you want. Did you ever see The Walking Dead?”
Very funny. “He’s not a pet, and he’s not dead.”
“He might as well be. Everything that made him human got corrupted when he was infected.” Pollard stared hard, forcing me to look away. “He’s dangerous. And he’ll kill you first chance he gets. Don’t ever go near him again.”
I bristled at his tone. I was not a little child. I’d been in charge of myself for the past two weeks, and truthfully a lot longer than that. I did not appreciate him ordering me around.
“It’s none of your business,” I snapped.
“Is that what happened to my squirrel? You gave it to him? Like he needs any help killing and feeding.”
I tried to push past him into the dining room, but he blocked me.
“Do you know him?” Pollard asked again. “Yes or no?”
“No.” It was possible we went to high school together, but I didn’t remember him. Maybe he’d been a friend of my brother’s. Or at least near enough to Mason to collect my note.
“I don’t recognize him,” I said.
“Then he’s hunting you.”
I glanced at Ben. He was done with the squirrel and had returned to staring at me, hands at his sides.
“He didn’t hurt me,” I said. “I don’t think he will.”
“I don’t care if he can copy words onto asphalt. A monkey can do the same thing.”
I wasn’t sure about that.
“You have a gun, don’t you?” He gestured to the handgun on his hip, as if I hadn’t noticed it. “I have an extra one. If you ever get near him again you better have protection.”
There was no way—not even a chance—that I’d carry a gun. I could barely look at them.
I touched the grip of my short sword. “I’ll be okay.”
Pollard laughed. “With that butter knife? Where did you get it anyway?” Without asking, he pulled it from my belt and examined it. The sword was ridiculously small in his large hands.
“It was my dad’s. He was a big Lord of the Rings fan. It’s a replica of Sting.”
“The sword the hobbit used?” He looked a little more impressed. “Does it glow?”
“Only around orcs.” I smiled, but it felt strange, like I was out of practice. “I’m kidding,” I added when it seemed as if Pollard might believe me.
“It’s sharp,” he said, “but it won’t help against a zombie. They’re too fast and too strong. Especially that one.” He bobbed his head in Ben’s direction. “You need a gun.”
“No.” I finally pushed past him. As far as I was concerned the conversation was over. “Good night.”
It didn’t matter what Pollard said, Ben was different than other Reds. I di
dn’t know how, yet, but he was. If my dad had been there, he would’ve had all kinds of theories about adaptations and strains, and I hated that he wasn’t there to examine Ben. If he’d been there, he would’ve known what was going on. The best I could do was observe and make semi-educated guesses.
If he stuck around long enough for me to study properly.
The thought of Ben disappearing during the night, maybe joining a pack and migrating to a larger city, caused an uncomfortable anxiety in my chest. I didn’t want him to leave. Not yet. I wasn’t finished with him.
I tripped over an empty soda bottle on my way across the room, but not even that or Pollard’s and my hushed argument in the entryway had woken the others. They snored on, oblivious. But I was done pretending I could join them.
Sleeping out in the open surrounded by these people I’d just met had been a ruse. I could never rest comfortably on a bench in the dining room no matter how many pillows and blankets they offered me. It was too open, and the others were too close.
I considered the janitor’s closet, but it stank of cleansers. I wasn’t sure I could sleep in there without suffering a migraine.
In the kitchen, though, I found a walk-in freezer. It was a little bigger than my panic room, about sixty square feet compared to my fifty-square-foot remodeled pantry, but it reminded me a lot of home. Someone had stripped it of all edible material leaving empty shelves and barren crates ringing the perimeter. It smelled faintly of rotted food, but it was manageable.
I missed the familiar shapes of the stacks of canned goods, boxes of crackers, and powdered eggs, plus the bins of toiletries and kitchenware back home. There was no guitar in the corner. And my comfy little cot covered in thick blankets was long gone, but I liked it.
Without asking, I dragged bedding into the walk-in and made a nice little pallet in the center of the room. Beside my bed on the floor I arranged my backpack and sword.
“This is your bedroom, then?” Pollard stood in the doorway with a lit lantern in his hand.
“Yes.” I didn’t want to explain. He’d told me to make myself at home and I had.