Those Who Remain (Book 3)

by Priscila Santa Rosa

  “I just pulled the slide. You can see there’s no round in for now. This is the barrel. That’s the muzzle.” At each name, he places a finger on the respective part. “Here’s the hammer which controls the firing. This is the trigger. And that’s the magazine. The magazine holds the bullets.”

  I nod, repeating the names in my mind to memorize them quickly. Jacob then places a finger on a tiny silver lever.

  “This is the decocking lever. What it does is make it harder for you to pull the trigger the first time. So, every time you want to store the gun, you pull it first. Now, even with this, there are ways to misfire if you aren’t careful, which you always need to be. Respect your weapon. It isn’t a toy.”

  I almost say, “I know that. I’m not stupid,” but his tone reminds me of my mother’s lectures on the evils of sugary drinks and saturated fats. She didn’t want my input, just my attention. Smartass comments usually just prolonged the whole painful situation.

  Jacob presses a button near the decocker and pushes the magazine thingy he took out yesterday back inside. He then pulls the slide again. I hear a click of the hammer adjusting its position.

  “I just loaded a round into the chamber. This means the gun is ready to fire. Which means...?”

  “Being extra careful.”

  “Good. You were walking around with it cocked and loaded, and that’s dangerous. You could’ve hurt yourself. Or other people.”

  Heat rises to my cheeks and I gulp. “I didn’t mess with it. I found it like this.”

  He gives a side glance but says nothing, instead continuing the lesson. He tells me to keep my finger off the trigger unless I’m absolutely sure I know at what I’m shooting and what’s behind it. Just to make sure I get the message, I have to hear stories of stray bullets, of kids blowing their own heads off, and other disasters from being stupid around guns. Things get especially creepy when he explains to me the difference between calibers by describing the damage each one does while entering and exiting a human body. He speaks in a low tone full of reverence, like someone telling ghost stories they actually believe in.

  His stories are intense, but what fills me with nausea again is the memory of blood coming out of that man’s mouth as his eyes rolled upward. That, and Mrs. Patterson’s cold and stiff face looking back at me, blood trickling from her forehead to her nose and then her gaping mouth. I tried so hard to forget that image, but there’s no pretending anymore. I know how guns work.

  “Any questions?”

  I know the damage a gun can inflict.

  “No.”

  Jacob places the gun, now loaded but “safe,” or decocked, or whatever it’s called, in my hands.

  Breathing heavily, I give it back to him.

  “Not so eager now, huh?” He smiles and unloads it again. “Maybe tomorrow. I’ll teach you how to aim.”

  With the weapon safely tucked out of view, I finally relax and notice the bags on the backseat of the car. I hesitate for a second, but if I’m going to travel with this guy, I need the courage to speak out and ask questions.

  “Why are you moving?”

  He closes the trunk and turns to me. “Moving?”

  “You lived in a cabin, right? I saw this car parked next to it.”

  His bushy eyebrows knit together into a frown. He could fit right in on a reality show about a grumpy lumberjack living alone in the woods and screaming at hippie hikers.

  “It seemed pretty safe,” I continue, circling the car. “So why are you moving?”

  “Clearly it wasn’t safe enough. You found it,” he grunts and sits on the driver’s side. “Now get in, we’re leaving.”

  That’s a good point, but I’m not convinced. I sit down on the passenger seat and turn to him. “Is it because of your daughter? Are you going out to find her?”

  “I liked you better when you didn’t trust me. It was quieter.” He sighs and turns the engine on. “Just put your seat belt on.”

  I pout and roll my eyes. “I was going to.” After surviving without an adult around for months, I guess my tolerance for being told to do obvious things is low. “And I don’t trust you yet.”

  “Good.”

  I make sure to pull the belt really hard and push it firmly into place and then I look at him. “So... Where are we going?”

  Without taking his eyes off the dirty road, he answers, “North.”

  I cross my arms, already looking for warmth. I don’t want to go north. I’m done with snow, ice, and being cold and hungry all the time. But he’s driving a car, and a small one too. That means he’ll have to take the main roads eventually and, when he does, I can leave and head south on my own.

  That’s a good plan. Better than staying alone so close to Redwood. The further away I move from this place, the better I’m going to feel.

  Our car ride is—no surprise—silent. He drives carefully. The snow from yesterday has melted, but made the road slippery and muddy. He also doesn’t use the heater and I have no choice but to keep my vomit-smelling coat on.

  Bored, I start to look for things to do. I mess with the radio buttons, but there’s only static. It would’ve been really weird if there were actually something playing anyway, almost funny. Next, I open the glove compartment.

  A pair of bright yellow gloves falls on my lap. I give Jacob a glance, but he seems too focused on the road to bother with me. I search inside the compartment. There’re some papers and CDs in it. Kenny G and lounge music CDs. The papers are old grocery lists.

  “Buy tampons and lipstick, and send dress to the dry cleaners,” I read one of them out loud. “Was this car your daughter’s?”

  He adjusts his grip on the wheel, then fiddles with the rearview window above us. “What do you think?”

  I put the stuff back in the compartment. “I think Kenny G is something old people listen to. But not—”

  “Old people like me,” he says with a smile.

  “Yeah. So the chances of her even knowing Kenny G without you introducing the guy to her are very low; and I don’t think she would drive this type of car either. This isn’t Europe. Nobody drives cars like this here. Well, no one like you, and probably not your daughter.”

  He chuckles. “So, what’s your final conclusion?”

  “You stole the car.”

  Jacob turns his face slightly in my direction. “Problem with that?”

  It takes me a few seconds to decide. I can’t really fault him for doing what I did already, and there’s no sign of blood or a fight. Maybe he didn’t kill anyone for it. So what’s the harm?

  “Nope.”

  Besides, I don’t plan on staying with him for long, just long enough for me to learn what I need to survive on my own—and before he starts to ask questions.

  “Good girl.”

  Despite myself, I smile at his approval.

  THE TRAVELER I

  Summer

  It’s another quiet, hot day. Heat waves mix faded white lines with the chalky gray of the empty road ahead. It has been a little over a month since I found a working car. Rust, clogged fuel systems, dead batteries, flat tires, and—yeah, and total lack of parts to fix any of that—means I’ve been relying on my footwear for the better part of the year.

  Speaking of footwear, the sole of my left boot has enough holes for the ground to fry my foot from the inside, but that’s okay—I have a high threshold for pain. Being sweaty and hot is what’s really bothering me. I bet if weathermen still existed they would declare this the hottest summer of the century. And, for once, they wouldn’t be wrong.

  It doesn’t help that I keep every inch of skin covered. Gotta protect myself from that evil sunburn, after all. I snort and adjust my backpack. It’s getting too light, so I’m heading to... I think it was Bedford? All these small towns blur together after a while, but I can’t risk going to bigger cities for supplies.

  Anyway, the town’s name doesn’t matter, because I’m lost. And hungry. Nothing good happens when I’m hungry.

 
So when I see an entry to a little dirt road with a sign for “Talon’s Ranch,” I take the detour. Ranches are the closest thing to a safe haven these days. Isolated and usually self-sufficient, they can last longer than any other human settlement. That is, if they escape the hordes and the bandits. A month ago I found one burnt to a crisp, but luckily the basement pantry had some supplies that were still edible. Even if I don’t find anything to eat, maybe it’ll have a building where I can take shelter from the sun for a few hours.

  Doesn’t take long before I see the first cow. It stands in the middle of the pasture, eating grass while staring directly at me. That’s the life, isn’t it? Eating. Just eating without another care in the world. Chewing delicious dried-up grass. I’m really hungry.

  I step into the low grass, approach the cow with a hand extended in its direction, and whistle like I’m the freaking cow whisperer.

  The animal sways its head slightly to get rid of flies but doesn’t react to my presence. Good. I guess it isn’t scared of me. That means this ranch hasn’t suffered a zombie attack so far. Or, zombies killed the cow’s owners, yet didn’t bother with the animals.

  “If you’re planning on eating my Zelda, I would rethink that choice.” The voice is accompanied by the familiar click of a rifle’s bolt.

  Guess the owners are still alive. I raise my hands in the air and slowly turn. In my fascination with the cow, I failed to notice an old lady with a kid hiding behind her legs as she points a rifle right at me. She wears a dirty apron over a flowery shirt and brown pants. From the way she holds the weapon, I don’t think this is her first time threatening strangers.

  “I’m a vegetarian,” I say, trying hard not to smile.

  “What? Can’t hear you under all that.”

  With a sigh, I point at the scarf covering half of my face. She nods at me. I slowly reach for it and pull it down to say, “I don’t eat meat anymore.”

  My voice is weird to me now; rusty, alien. Like when you hear a recording of yourself and it bothers you how metallic it sounds, only worse. Maybe it’s lack of use.

  The lady narrows her eyes at me. “What do you want, then?”

  I have few precious seconds to convince her I’m not a threat. Time to act diplomatic. If I still remember how.

  “I’m looking for Bedford. Managed to lose my way.” Dropping a familiar name, justifying my trespassing. Let’s see if it works.

  “Keep north. You’ll get there eventually.” She adjusts her grip on the rifle as beads of sweat roll down her wrinkled frown. She’s getting tired of holding the heavy weapon. “Now get going.”

  Time for plan B.

  “I really need water. And food. I’m starving. Do you have some to spare?”

  She snorts and puts her finger on the trigger. “Turn around and leave my property. I don’t take kindly to beggars.”

  It suddenly hits me that she’s still seeing me as a homeless bum. Just a drifter. Not a dangerous, possibly murderous... person. Man, this is... I almost feel pity for them.

  “I could work for it. Need anything fixed?” The boy behind her lights up at the word. I take my chance. “I’m good at fixing stuff.”

  The boy tugs her worn pants but the lady keeps her eyes fixed on me. “What kind of stuff?”

  “What you need fixin’? Bulbs? Toilet? Washing machine? TV?” Again, the boy’s eyes grow wide.

  We stay still, staring at each other for a good while before she finally lowers her gun. “Fine. But then you leave. Have any weapons on you?”

  I smile. “Nope.”

  “Move closer. Slowly.”

  She pats me down for weapons with one hand, then turns around and starts walking, the kid hopping along. Interpreting this as a sign that I’m now trusted enough not to get shot for moving, I follow them.

  Talon’s Ranch has a rustic, but well-built and maintained main house with a cozy front porch and an old pickup truck parked out front. Nearby are a barn and a water tower. What surprises me is the solar panels installed on the rooftop. Seems like the old lady cares about her carbon footprint.

  “You got power?” I ask her as we get inside the house.

  Stairs to the second floor are next to the entrance of the living room and there’s a hallway leading to what appears to be a back kitchen. I form a mental map of the place, just in case I need to make an emergency exit. The old lady leads me to the living room with the boy close on her heels.

  “We got power. My son”—she narrows her eyes at me—“who’s gonna be back soon, built it. He has his own company, sells solar panels and those other eco-friendly gizmos.”

  I nod at her, pretending I believe he’s coming. If he was really around and capable of setting up a whole alternative power system, why would she need me to fix anything? But I don’t want her nervous. I need her to relax; to trust me enough to feed my empty belly.

  Their living room has a worn yellow sofa facing the old TV, an almost-empty bookcase in the corner, and a series of round family portraits decorating the wallpapered walls. As we move in, the kid leaves the safety of his grandmother’s apron and reaches for me. I stay still and let him take me by the wrist. Feels funny being touched by another human after all this time. Of course, he’s not really touching me, but the pressure of his fingers on my sleeve are enough to stress me out.

  The kid hops toward the TV, then eyes me with a puppylike expression. He looks about six, dark curly hair and baby-faced. “Can you fix it?”

  I stare at him. Does he think I can make Saturday-morning cartoons show up again? Then I see the DVD player and the pile of movie cases nested next to the TV. Now I’m jealous of the little guy. I haven’t seen a proper movie in ages.

  “The boy has been nagging me about this for days now.” The old lady stays a few steps away from the entrance of the living room. She still holds the rifle over her shoulder. “So, can you fix it or not?”

  I kneel next to the TV set. It’s maybe three years old. I check the socket and power cord. They look okay, not burnt. A small red light at the front of the machine is on, but pressing the power button does nothing. It could be a faulty capacitor or circuit board.

  “I’ll need to open the back. Screwdriver?”

  “Get your father’s toolbox, Lincoln.” The boy scurries away like a little mouse on a mission. His grandmother steps closer as she watches him leave.

  His footsteps echo around the house, almost seeming to shake its old foundation. The sounds become muffled and dust comes down on me from the ceiling. He’s on the second floor now. I feel the tension leave my muscles, and maybe I’m wrong, but the grandmother also seems to relax and loosen her grip on the rifle’s strap slung over her shoulder.

  “How much do you know about what’s going on out there? You know... about the disease?” I ask her, throat actually itchy from so many words coming out. I’m not used to speaking long sentences. Usually, conversations with human beings don’t last more than “stop,” “don’t shoot,” and “go away.”

  “I know it was bad. Haven’t seen anyone sick yet, but my son has. Came from Bedford with Lincoln, running away from the craziness. Not sure what you’re looking for over there, but I don’t think you’ll find much. Seems things haven’t improved by the looks of you.”

  I ignore the nod at my haggard appearance. “And how much does Lincoln know about it?”

  She sucks a breath in through her teeth, blinking slowly. “He knows enough to be wary of strangers. And listen to his grandma.”

  I nod, getting the picture. Her guard isn’t down yet.

  Lincoln’s hurried steps start up again and we wait for him. This time, he moves slower. The big red toolbox is far too big for his tiny frame. I relieve him of the weight and he smiles, grateful. My eyes quickly move away from his happy face and back to the TV again before I get even more weirded out by this overly cute interaction.

  After pushing the TV stand away from the wall, I unscrew the back panel to reveal the machine’s insides. Dust reaches my eyes and nose.
I cough and sniffle.

  Unsurprisingly, two of the capacitors are faulty. Now what?

  “So?” Grandma asks me.

  I get up and dust off my clothes. “I need to replace some of the parts. Do you have an old computer or TV lying around somewhere?”

  “I might have one of those in the attic.”

  “Can I see it?”

  There’s a long pause before she nods and tells her grandson to stay put while we go up the stairs. She stays two steps behind me all the way to the hallway with the trapdoor in the ceiling.

  “So, what’s your story?” she says while I reach for the cord to pull the door down. “What you expectin’ to find in Bedford?”

  I climb the wooden steps and stick my head through the entrance. “Food. Supplies.” My eyes adjust to the darkness, revealing shapes of covered furniture and old boxes. I search for a switch on the wall. I feel the bump and press it. “The usual.”

  The attic is spacious, with piles of old stuff scattered at every corner and a small lightbulb hanging from the middle of the room. A layer of dust covers everything, but otherwise the place appears clean. Old photo albums, books, clothes, toys, and broken junk fill multiple cardboard boxes. A bike without a chain rests on the corner wall. Finally, I spot an old tube TV on the floor with a busted screen.

  I bring it down and we go back to the living room. The kid hovers over me as I work to open the old machine in search for capacitors that would fit on the circuit board.

  Grandmother and grandson watch me with interest as I work on attaching the new, not faulty capacitors. The task itself is pretty easy with the right tools, but my covered palms sweat more than usual, and I keep looking over my shoulder at the pair of onlookers. I’m not sure if I’m afraid of messing up the repair or if this is just a general distrust of all human beings, especially those less than a mile away from me.

  When I finally finish soldering the parts and close the TV again, the kid rushes to the remote control and clicks on the power button while jumping up and down. We stare at the screen, waiting. It takes a few seconds, but the TV powers up and static fills our eyes.