And that’s when Lincoln hugs my legs as hard as a skinny six-year-old can. As I stand completely still, frozen in the spot, muscles tense at the contact., the boy runs over to the pile of DVDs, picks one of them, and inserts it in the player.
I blink at the screen: the familiar side-scrolling yellow text shows up accompanied by a soundtrack I grew up with. I quickly gaze at the opposite wall instead.
“Again? You saw this ten times already,” the old lady says to the boy, hands crossed over her chest. “Space wizards? I can’t see the appeal. What happened to enjoying a good old western?”
But Lincoln is already too absorbed in the movie to respond to his grandmother.
She sighs and tells me to follow her to the kitchen. Immediately the smell of baking crust hits my nostrils and my stomach grumbles at the sight of half an apple and butter on a flour-covered counter. I salivate at the thought of an honest-to-God apple pie. She stopped midpreparation, probably after the kid saw me in the field and screamed for help, but the sugary fragrance is already in the air.
“Well? What you’re standing about for?” Grandma says while placing the rifle on a rack next to the back door. “Sit down if you want to eat. Deal’s a deal.”
I’m more than happy to do what she says. With Lincoln’s movie as background noise, Grandma works her magic to prepare food that smells like perfection. For someone living on canned beans and Caramel Galaxies for months, home cooking is better than Christmas morning. Not just the food, either. I’ve gotten used to the silence, the heat coming off the pavement, dust, and sweat. Walking for miles is tiring and lonely, even if I deserve the punishment.
But here I am, sitting at a set table under a sturdy roof, the heat of a working stove nearby, and the quiet sounds of a distant TV playing. Being accepted into a normal home, untouched by destruction and tragedy. About to eat a piece of delicious pie.
I don’t know if I should cry or laugh. Maybe I’ll take a nap instead. Eventually, I relax enough to close my eyes.
“How long have you been traveling?”
I open my eyes slowly at the sound of her voice. She’s taking the pan out of the oven, glancing at me.
“Three months.”
Steam comes out of the pie as she cuts it into smaller pieces. I adjust myself on the seat, anxious to taste it.
“And where might you be traveling to?”
I cough a little. “Nowhere, really.”
“You were alone all this time?” Grandma puts a plate with a generous slice in front of me, cleans her flour-covered hands on a towel, and then sits down across the table.
“Yep.” I stuff my mouth with a large chunk of delicious crust, sugar, and apple. It’s like my taste buds wake up from a yearlong coma. My eyes actually start watering; it’s that good.
“No family?”
I stop munching on the pie for a second or two. After swallowing it, I finally answer her, “Not anymore.”
She drums her fingers on the table before glancing in the direction of the living room. “You can stay the night if you want.”
Eyes off the pie, I stare at her for a few seconds. “Are you sure about this?” And I’m not just asking the old lady either. After all, can someone be that trusting of strangers after the devastation of a zombie apocalypse? Maybe she’s actually a cannibal planning to kill me in my sleep or the pie is poisoned and she’s just waiting until I drop dead. Who knows?
“Look, son, don’t take this the wrong way, but I feel pretty confident I can deal with you if you turn out to be a thief. So, I don’t see this as a risky proposition.”
I could tell her about how there are worse things than thievery happening all over, but why shoot myself in the foot?
“Well, in that case, I appreciate the offer. Thanks...?”
“Gail. I would ask your name in return, but something tells me you won’t share it.”
With a smile, I finish my pie in silence.
After the meal, Gail leads me to the barn, arranging some hay and a worn pillow before leaving me alone.
Time marches on, but my eyes stay glued to the wooden planks above as I flex my fingers and tired joints. Normally, I don’t sleep more than a few hours. Safer that way.
Chances of a horde passing by the farm aren’t that high, true. These days most zombies travel in packs, lured by the same noises and smells. The world got quieter, so they band together, bumping each other in the direction of the loudest, most attractive target around. One cow mooing all night long might draw their attention, but they tend to stick near towns and bigger cities when not roaming alone in the woods.
That’s hope talking. And hope is pretty much useless in life anyway, so I spend the night looking at a map to figure out what the best route to Washington D.C. is and casting funny shadows with my flashlight out of boredom.
Gail comes to see me at six in the morning, carrying a bundle of clean clothes and a bucket of water with soap. “Zelda smells better than you. Get washed.”
I only strip when I’m sure she’s outside feeding the chickens with Lincoln, as far from the barn as possible. After a cold and refreshing bath, I change my inner layer of clothing with a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. I keep my jacket, hoodie, and gloves on. They might be dirty and gross, but I feel exposed without them. I pick up my backpack and exit the barn after petting Zelda’s ears. Looks like it’s going to be another hot day with a bright blue sky and yellow sun cooking the top of my head.
When the kid sees me, he stops throwing food at the chickens and waves frantically. I approach the pen, pulling my backpack up and adjusting it over my shoulder.
“Leaving already?” Gail asks, as Lincoln runs over to the fence.
“Unless you have something else in need of fixing, yeah.”
Gail instructs her grandkid to keep feeding the chickens and then nods for me to follow her. We go back to the main house and into the kitchen. Resting on the table is a medium-sized plastic container filled with goodies.
“Wow, is that...?”
She nods and opens a wrinkled smile. “For you, yes.”
I touch the box with reverence, at a loss for words. During all these months traveling alone, not once has someone trusted me or given me anything but black eyes and threats. This kind gesture is way too much. I don’t deserve it. I take a deep breath and yawn to stop myself from actually shedding tears. Shedding tears is not cool or fitting for someone like me. Nope.
“It has some strings attached to it, though.” Gail places a hand on my shoulder and I hate to say it, but I flinch a little, my fight-or-flight instinct getting the better of me. “My son is...”
Her pause comes with a heavy sigh and swallowing. I let her be, knowing all too well how hard is to admit our losses out loud.
“Mitchell got it in his head he needed to search for his ex-wife and bring her back to the farm. They were good friends even after divorcing and... he left us, went to Bedford and never came back.”
“You want me to look for any news of him.”
She nods. “A body, a sign; anything. Now, I don’t know where exactly you’re going or if you’re in a hurry, but if you bring me something, there’s another box waiting for you, and shelter for the night. I ask that you take this one only if you intend to come back. If you want to keep moving forward, I’ll respect that, but don’t give false hope to an old lady.”
It could delay my trip for a few days and lingering in towns is never a good idea. Yet, I nod. “Yeah, sure. I’ll try to find out what happened to him. Do you have any photos or information I can use?”
The relief and joy on her face remind me of, well, I’m just glad to be the one responsible for it. Old ladies are a weak spot of mine. Some people melt at the sight of children and puppies. Well, my heart belongs to mothers and grandmothers.
In a few minutes, the kitchen table is covered with family albums and photos. I help her sort out the most recent ones of Lincoln’s father and mother. We finally find a photo of the family standing in front of her
son’s car. It’s an old red Impala.
“That’s the one he drove to Bedford. Hannah lived two blocks from the Super Savings Mart. You can’t miss it.” She scribbles the exact address on a piece of paper for me.
After pocketing the photo and address, I push the lunchbox into my backpack, adjusting it on my back to spread the weight. Lincoln and Gail accompany me to the field to say goodbye. Without flinching or hesitating, the boy hugs my legs, and Gail waves as I turn back in the direction of the main road.
I’m not sure how long my luck will last, but if I die in the next few days, at least I’ll die with that image in my head.
THE HUNTRESS XII
January 19th, Tuesday, 8 pm
“Do you regret it?”
Tigh’s voice comes out of the shadows as I feed the fire with wooden sticks. My shoulder aches with the effort, but I lower my head before he can spot my pained grimace.
“Regret what?”
He nods in Dr. Paz’s direction. She’s taking care of our pet zombies. Taking care of... I shake my head. “Not yet.”
Tigh sits next to me, placing his rifle on the ground. He looks tired, but otherwise in a good mood. He managed to catch a rabbit yesterday and apparently the pride hasn’t worn off yet. I place a hand on my bad shoulder and try to bury my frustration. I hate being useless.
“The sheriff looks like he’s having second thoughts. Will he be trouble?”
The long journey and Danny’s transformation have taken their toll on Roger, who can barely sleep or even look anyone in the eye anymore. Whatever hope we had of things getting better back at Redwood is gone. I think Roger hates me for what we did. I hate myself too, but I know deep down he blames himself more than anyone else. We delayed Danny’s death, but at what cost? And for how long?
“Well? Is he going to do anything stupid?”
Something stupid for Tigh would be using the only vial with a cure in the whole world to bring Danny back. Thinking Roger would be capable of that is what’s really stupid. “No.”
“How’s the shoulder?”
“The same.”
There’s a pause before Tigh continues, “We need to talk about what’s going to happen once we reach the base.”
I merely nod, already expecting the Sergeant to put things out in the open. Roger and I are compromised, and he knows it. Our interests are selfish now, beyond helping place the cure in the right hands. He’s suspicious of us, and with good reason—I’m suspicious of him too. I need to be sure he isn’t going to be an obstacle to Danny’s survival.
“It’s probably being guarded by the Army; by my superiors,” he continues, scanning me from the corner of his eye. He’s analyzing my reactions. “They’ll want to kill your friend and the other infected to keep the base safe, so you need to give them a good reason not to.”
This surprises me somewhat. I was expecting a lecture on the greater good, not a warning to be prepared.
“I’ll tell them I’m going to break the cure vial if they don’t let us in with Danny,” I finally answer him, not really serious. This time, I’m the one watching him. “How about that?”
He gives me a small smile. “Works well enough. That is until you get inside, and they take the vial away by force. And now you’re dead, along with your friends.”
“You’re okay with me taking the vial and using it as a bargaining chip, then?”
Tigh stares at the fire for a few seconds, hands resting on his knees. “Yes, because it’s going to fail, and the result suits me fine.”
“It suits you fine because it would mean the Doctor couldn’t blame you for it.”
I can see I hit a nerve because he stiffens at my words.
“You should focus on thinking of a better plan than that. Or this trip will be very disappointing to everyone involved.”
Everyone. It doesn’t make a difference to me, but it sounds like he’s including himself on that list. That’s two strikes; one more and I’ll tease him about Maria.
“How about you? Do you have a good plan to stop them from shooting at us the second we reach what’s probably a high-security and, supposedly, secret base?”
“I do.”
Raising an eyebrow, I ask, “And...?”
He gets up, dusting his pants of ashes and earth. “And I should help her.” He nods at the Doctor.
Strike three. With a smile, I stare as he approaches her. She’s attempting to fix Danny’s broken ankle while avoiding his black teeth and fingers. I wince at the sight, mood darkening. He barely looks like Danny anymore. He’s lost all of his hair now, and the lumps are starting to show up everywhere, distorting his face beyond recognition.
Each day we haven’t arrived at Akimi is one more day Danny stays this way. One more day I wonder if Roger will ever forgive me, or himself. One more day I question whether my mother was right, and we missed our chance to move on from this.
After the doctor does her daily examination of my shoulder and we finish the rabbit Tigh caught, we each go inside our respective tents. I don’t bother saying goodnight to Roger since he’ll barely nod at me anyway. Even less chance of us sharing a tent for some warmth after another tiring day.
No, it’s better to give him some space to sort his feelings. I have to believe he’ll talk to me once he does that. We are not my parents.
Trying to sleep is useless, so I don’t. I stare at the blue cover above me, as my ears absorb every hoot, chirp, growl, and shuffle. I flex my shoulder for a bit, wincing at the discomfort, but at least I can still move it. Here, inside the tent and under layers of warm clothing, my injury hurts less. And then, Danny laughs. It’s not his usual laugh, open and genuine, but harsh and short. Like a hyena mocking its dead prey. How much is left of Danny inside that body?
I grab a blanket from my pack and go out again. Tigh’s watch is almost over and mine is about to start, so I nod at the Sergeant, who returns the gesture and passes my hunting rifle back to me. I wait until he’s inside his tent to walk toward Danny.
He and Mouse are tied securely to a tree, sitting on the snow-covered ground, legs stretched out. As I approach, Danny’s bright green eyes fix on me before I can avoid them. He doesn’t recognize me or anyone, yet if I face him, I can almost fool myself into thinking he does. The illusion doesn’t last long since only his eyes remain the same. Everything else is gone.
Do I regret it?
I place the blanket over his body, dodging his attempts at reaching me. He kicks the clothing off while thrashing around, so I kneel down, take the blanket, and cover him again, tugging it under his butt to make sure it stays on.
I will. I’ll regret it if the cure doesn’t work.
With one last look, I go back to the fire and start my watch. In silence, I work on cleaning the rifle as wood crackles and burns. An owl takes flight and hoots.
And... There it is. The sensation of being watched. This isn’t the first time the hair on the back of my neck has been raised at the feeling. It’s been happening for days now, but I have no proof anyone is even following us. I only have my gut instinct and the fact that someone shot those wolves that attacked me back at the community college. I can only think of one person who would bother saving me without revealing himself.
But Father left the cabin even before Maria and Tigh’s arrival. He had no way of knowing I left Redwood too. Even if he did, he’s a man of his word. He said we would never see each other again and so we won’t.
Maybe the sensation is plain wishful thinking, the weird Hunter way of missing my father.
The night is long, cold, and exhausting. Roger wakes up to trade places with me, but in the end we sit together and wait. Dawn is barely different from the night, with dark clouds covering the faint sunlight. Suddenly, after a long, cutting silence, Roger rests a hand on mine. I almost turn to see his face, hoping to catch him smiling, but decide to look at the sky instead. Somehow, I’m sure he’s not smiling.
“I’m sorry,” he says, taking a deep breath before continuin
g, “For acting like this. Shutting you out.”
“It’s okay.”
“We shouldn’t have done this, Lily.”
“This is his best shot. Our only option.” Not true, I could’ve stolen the cure, but I can’t admit I thought of that.
His hold on my hand gets tighter. “We have no idea what we’re doing. We have no idea if this is going to work, and...” Finally, I turn my face to look at him. His eyes are red and watery. “The last thing I did was hit him in the face. He’s my best friend. I shouldn’t have left him alone. I should’ve tried harder to talk to him.”
Roger lets out a pained sob, and I just stare, not sure of what to do. He takes both my hands in his and we are now face to face.
“Lily, I know I shouldn’t ask you this, but...” I bite my lip while waiting for him to finish his request. I know what he’s about to say. “If things don’t work out—”
“You want me to kill him.”
He doesn’t nod, but there’s no denial. Part of me hoped he would ask me to steal the cure instead.
“I can’t kill him. I can’t. It’s the right thing to do, but I can’t do it. Do you hate me for asking this? Am I a horrible person?”
I shake my head. “No.”
I wish I could say more. Say he’s a good person who’s been put in an impossible situation. Say I love him anyway and he’s doing his best. Say that I want to spare him pain, even if killing Danny would hurt me too. Most of all, I wish I was a better person because right now I do hate him a little. I do think he’s horrible for asking me to do this.
I hate him because he thinks that I could do it, and I hate myself because I’m sure I can do it. I don’t want to, but we need to be prepared. Deep down, I was expecting this, so I don’t yell at him or cry. I hate it, but I have to do it.
“If he can’t be cured, I’ll do it. I promise.”
He doesn’t thank me or yell at me. He just stares forward. I don’t think either of us know what this might mean for our relationship. Without another word, I go to my tent, not to sleep, but to try make sense of what happened on my own. Not long after, Tigh and Maria wake up, and we pack for another day of walking in the cold.
Those Who Remain (Book 3) Page 4