Those Who Remain (Book 3)

by Priscila Santa Rosa

  I frown at him. “Good? Good? I’m unarmed now.”

  Roger sighs and shakes his head, “I said ‘good’ because we’re still here. I thought Irons would kick us out for that.”

  I can’t believe him. I just can’t. “And you would think it was justified, wouldn’t you?”

  He raises his hands in the air. “If someone had tried to sneak a weapon into your house after you told them not to, what would you have done, Lily?” I open my mouth, but he points at me and keeps talking, “Be honest. You would’ve done worse. The Captain’s trying to keep order. And we both know how you react to authority.”

  “If you know, why are you acting like this? What else did you expect from me? That I’d play nice with strangers?”

  “I expected you to place Danny’s safety above... anything else.” He might’ve avoided saying it aloud, but the words hang around us all the same. Paranoia. Pride. Mistrust.

  Eyes closed, I say, “I am. I did it to keep him safe. All of us safe. We can’t trust these guys not to screw us over.”

  He sighs. “We are safe. We need to cooperate so they’ll fix Danny. If you’re really thinking about his safety, then you can’t keep antagonizing these people.” He shakes his head and passes his fingers through his hair. “If you can’t trust them, can you at least try to trust me on this?”

  And now my mother’s words are coming back to me, and I hate her, and Roger, and myself. Damn it.

  I avoid his eyes, looking down to my hands. “Maybe you should trust me instead. I got us alive here, and I plan to keep us alive too. If you have a problem with that, then maybe this... Us? We aren’t working out.”

  “Lily—”

  “Just get out.”

  The door closes after a few minutes. I raise my head and stare at it for a long time, blood boiling with anger. The anger he doesn’t seem to share, which infuriates me even more.

  It’s fine for him to ask me to kill his best friend. It’s fine to use me as a guide for a suicidal trip during the worst weather in decades, but when it’s his turn to believe in me, to trust that I know what I’m doing, he won’t. Or maybe I’m just bitter because Irons found out about the knife and hurt my pride by taking it away. I was the one who escalated things by bringing in a weapon. He’s right, I would’ve done the same thing if I was her. Or worse.

  Still, I don’t like that I’m surrounded by people with guns without any means to defend myself or our group. I don’t like not having a way out or even an escape plan. Watch every corner, stay alert, have an exit strategy. This is in my blood and for good reason.

  Right?

  I bury my face in a pillow and muffle a yell. I can’t stay in this room any longer, I need to get out. Anything is better than wallowing in self-doubt. If that means I get to explore the base, memorize it, well, that’s just a coincidence, not paranoia, dammit.

  Getting out of the West Dormitories is easy enough, but my walk through the hallways is followed by multiple cameras. They blink red and turn as I pass them. The hair on the back of my neck rises. Is Irons watching every single place in this damn base?

  Besides the low mechanical whirring sound of the cameras, the hallways are strangely quiet and incredibly identical. The only clue I have of where I’m going and where I came from are painted numbers on the walls. At one corner, faint footsteps echo on the opposite direction. I stop and wait to make sure I know their direction. They become quiet after a few seconds and I keep going. This is the only time there’s any sign of other life nearby. Maybe that explains the continuous stream of camera feeds. She’s low on staff, especially for a base this large.

  I walk for about twenty minutes when a skittering noise to my right gives me pause. A tiny albino mouse squeezes out of the air vent below and scurries away past my legs. That’s not the only thing that draws my attention. I narrow my eyes at the vent: its bolts and hinges are melted down very purposefully. Why take these extra measures to block access to it? And here I thought maintenance would be a high priority for Irons.

  Crouched in front of it to take a closer look, I hear the echoes of another mouse, its feet hurrying across the metal. It suddenly squeals, and a loud thud reverberates, followed by crunching noises. I glue my right ear against the cold vent entrance, hoping to identify the source of the sound, but before I can, a much closer metal clank makes me jump and stand up again.

  Not far from where I am, a thick metal door opens, and a lanky man wearing a lab coat appears carrying an empty animal cage. He shuts the door again with the same loud clank, and a red light turns green above it. Fortunately, he turns in the opposite direction and disappears without noticing me.

  After the echo of his footsteps disappears, my body relaxes again. There’s a sign that says “Quarantine” on the door he used, and thanks to a small round window, I can see what appears to be a decontamination chamber much like the one we went through after arriving.

  I back away from the door at the sound of people approaching. Not just people, but two guards, one of them being Simon. Seems like he’s my group-designated babysitter. They march in unison until stopping in front of me. Simon in particular looks pissed for some reason. I guess he doesn’t like babysitting.

  After a quick flare of his nostrils, he signals for me. “We’ve been looking for you. Irons wants to talk. Follow us.”

  There’s no room for argument in his voice, but I’m not intimidated. If she wants to talk, fine. I can continue exploring later. Whatever Irons wants from me, she won’t get it anyway.

  I half-expect them to question why I was out of the dormitory, but they seem more than happy to ignore my presence altogether as long as I follow. Instead, I use the silence to watch them more carefully. All the guards I’ve seen so far carry tension in their shoulders. They’re alert and stoic, short hair and a blank expression. Professional. Dedicated. Not really the usual bored, underpaid security guards most of these places have. Then again, if the military funded this place and the CDC staffed it, maybe that explains why they would want to hire people with a military background.

  “Do you have family out there?” I ask Simon, watching his reaction from the corner of my eye. He seems to be Irons’s second-in-command if such a thing exists for security guards. “You don’t look too concerned about what’s going on with the rest of the world. Nobody in here does, actually.”

  He turns his grimace toward me. “We have a job to do.” His voice betrays annoyance, not determination, as one would expect of a man dedicated to his mission. “The Captain doesn’t tolerate whining. She doesn’t consider it to be a productive way of dealing with tragedy.”

  “What’s the productive way of dealing with it, then?”

  We stare at each other for a second. He blinks at me before answering, “Getting the job done.”

  Father and Irons seem to have a lot in common. Bruised pride aside, I have to admit she has a point. I doubt this place would still be here if someone softer had been in charge. That doesn’t mean I like the woman.

  We swivel around long hallways of identical colors until stopping in front of a simple metal door with Irons’s name on a plaquette. Simon knocks two times, and we hear the Captain’s voice telling us to come in.

  The office looks too cramped for someone in charge, but I have a suspicion that she doesn’t spend a lot of time here. Irons strikes me as a hands-on boss, not a paper-pusher.

  Just as I close the door behind me, Irons indicates for me to sit down. She’s looking more put-together than earlier, with a clean, ironed uniform, and I actually can see some light makeup covering her tired face.

  “I hope you’re feeling more rested, Miss Hunter,” she says. “Perhaps the walk you took made you less confrontational as well.”

  “Not really,” is my only answer.

  Irons grins at this while opening a drawing on her side of the desk. She unfolds a map between us. “Our last conversation didn’t end on the best of terms, but I want make it clear that I honestly think what you did was very i
mpressive. Not everyone is willing to guide a group of inexperienced people through the wild in the middle of the winter.”

  I stare blankly, waiting for her to get to the point.

  “I just spoke to your friend, Sergeant Tigh. He volunteered for patrol, which I’m extremely grateful for as I’m short on staff, and that got me thinking. You see, I think you’re a great addition to this base, Lily. Perhaps second only to the briefcase.”

  At that, I snort. “Really?” Should I be flattered that you compared me to an inanimate object or worried that you’re trying so hard to flatter me, you’re comparing me to the cure?

  Irons licks her lips and then smiles. “Well, you’re... a very distant second to the serum, I’ll admit that. And, yes, I was trying to be friendly. I might be rusty on my technique.”

  I cross my legs and lift an eyebrow. Maybe this woman has a sense of humor. “So what do you want?”

  “A favor.”

  “I don’t do favors for people I don’t trust to repay them.” Yes, I kind of stole that line from Father. He said that a long time ago, when Mom wanted him to fix a neighbor’s boiler or something silly like that. My father was always intense, even if only to avoid menial tasks for people next door. “Sorry.”

  For a brief second, I spot some anger under her strained, almost too neutral expression, but it disappears quickly, leaving room for a sigh. She then reaches for another drawer. This time she takes out a handgun.

  Instinct tells me to toss my chair right in her face and drop to the floor for cover, but instead my body only tenses, muscles twitching in expectation, eyes fixed on her hands.

  She places the gun on the map, the grip turned in my direction.

  I arch my eyebrows. “Is this the part where I take the gun and shoot you in the face? Is that the favor?”

  The Captain laughs out loud. “Nothing so dramatic. That’s the payment. In advance, too. You can keep that as long as you agree to grant me the favor.”

  “You would give me a gun after all the trouble you went to take away my knife? I don’t get it.”

  “The knife was a gesture of good faith. A way for you to prove you’re willing to work with me. That I could trust you enough with a gun.” Irons clenches her hands together. “You see, before you give someone a gun, you need to be sure they will give it back to you.”

  I could argue with that logic all day long, but to be honest, I’d prefer to be armed again instead of debating ideologies.

  “What’s the favor?” My hand almost reaches for the weapon, but before that I need to know what I’m getting myself into.

  She indicates the map, placing a finger on the tiny island we’re on. “A few weeks back, a snowstorm hit us. It caused some damage to our surface equipment. Solar panels were put out of commission, but our radio antenna suffered the worst of it. It was partly destroyed, and we lost communication with the rest of the world. Without satellites or the Internet working, we don’t have any option but radio waves.”

  “Okay, but I’m not an engineer. I’m actually an English major.”

  She moves her finger to a mark further west of Akimi. Under her finger, there’s only the words: Sena Diamond Mine. “I’m short on people, as I said earlier. I have just enough guards to keep this place safe, but not enough to send outside. So I need you to go there. It’s an abandoned mining complex, but it’s our best chance of finding the parts necessary to repair the antenna.”

  “Like I said, I don’t know anything about fixing things. Unless you want me to bring a whole antenna back with me, I don’t see how—”

  “I’ll send someone with you. An engineer. He’ll know what we need. It’s mostly circuit boards, I suspect. But he needs protection—from the weather, from the infected, and whatever else is out there.”

  I bite my lip. “How far is this mine?”

  “If there’s bad weather, it’s possible the whole trip will take two days. The terrain is difficult, even with a snow-ready truck.”

  “When would we leave?”

  “Tomorrow. Later and the weather might change for the worse.”

  “Do I keep the gun after?” I reach for the weapon, feeling its weight and material. It’s a solid, military-grade Beretta 92.

  Irons nods.

  That’s two days away from Danny, but also two days away from Roger. And I’ll be doing something that sounds useful, instead of staring at a ceiling, wallowing.

  “Fine. I’ll do it. Who’s the guy I need to babysit?”

  This might be a mistake, but frankly, I’m going to choose whatever path leads me to a gun. Every time.

  THE TRAVELER II

  Summer

  I follow Gail’s instructions and reach Bedford by late noon. The main sign is barely visible above the overgrown vegetation and from what I can see from afar, things look pretty rough. Because I’m not dumb, I avoid the main street and stay out of view, hidden by the woods that surround the town. From there, I search for the familiar sun logo of a Super Savings supermarket while also keeping an eye out for humans—or zombies, I guess.

  I’m more afraid of humans than zombies lately, and with good reason.

  After an hour of scouting the perimeter, I venture into town. The scenery is pretty standard for the Zombie Apocalypse: burnt cars, shattered windows, makeshift barricades, the whole package. A few houses are completely destroyed, others only suffering a year of disuse and abandonment.

  I follow Gail’s directions to Mitchell’s ex-wife’s house. The scene is depressing: scorch marks on the windows, no front door whatsoever, and inside, trash and debris everywhere. No sign of the Impala. Birds chatter as I cross the threshold and enter the ruined living room. A muddy pool full of leaves guides my gaze to the hole in the ceiling where water leaks in. Hey, at least the house still has walls.

  The kitchen is completely thrashed. Not a single spoon or cup left untouched. Even the fridge is missing. I kneel next to a table broken in half. A fight, maybe? On the floor below the counter, I spot empty shells among the rubble. Yep, a fight.

  I shake my head. Poor Gail. I don’t think I’ll have good news for her. Still, I better check the second floor just to be sure.

  The burnt stairs creak under my weight, seemingly ready to crumble at any moment. Every step is nerve-wracking. I don’t touch the rail to avoid putting more strain on the stairs, instead balancing myself using my extended arms. I would’ve left my backpack behind to weigh less, but that’s too risky. Losing it would decrease my chances of survival in the long run. On the other hand, falling here would also make surviving in the short run pretty hard.

  Can’t say my life is boring now, can I?

  Stepping onto the much sturdier second floor is a relief even though the fire damage seems even worse upstairs. The charred wallpaper is peeling off the fragile and blackened wooden walls. One of the bedrooms is inaccessible, its door blocked by debris. So I go to the one with the big hole in the floor from a collapsed roof. Rainwater has been gathering in the nooks and crannies of the furniture, overflowing and running downstairs. Apart from a bird’s nest above the wardrobe, I spot an empty suitcase lying on the bed. Someone didn’t have time to pack.

  I explore the bathroom next, but find only discarded makeup and mold on the shower tiles. Empty-handed, I go down again to make sure I didn’t miss anything, but the story behind the destruction seems pretty clear to me: looters came, people fought, somehow the second floor caught fire and people died. If this happened before or after Gail’s son came to town, I’m not sure.

  I check the neighbor’s too but find only ash and dust. Best to move on and explore the rest of the town. I don’t want to linger in one place for long. It’s time I stop playing Sherlock Holmes and focus on finding supplies so I don’t die before arriving at my destination.

  For a place that had to endure looting and violence, the Super Savings Mart looks good. Only one glass entrance is shattered to pieces and I don’t see any bodies around. That could mean one of two things: everyone was really
nice and civilized as they looted the hell out of the supermarket, or someone cleaned the place up.

  Whatever. Let’s do this. I need the supplies.

  Slowly moving between aisles, I search for decent clothes and new shoes. Some hiking boots could be nice. Hats too. My hoodie has holes in it. I don’t bother with food or weapons, those are long gone for sure, but maybe I’ll have some luck with personal hygiene. How long until a deodorant stick goes bad, anyway? I’m tired of smelling like a rotten body. I snort at my own dumb joke. Gotta find humor somewhere or risk going crazy.

  As I grab toothpaste, a metallic clunk at the end of the aisle startles me. A beer can rolls, stopping at my feet. I wait, completely still. Human? Zombie? What?

  Small shadows rush past between aisles. Barks follow. I pocket the toothpaste and a lip balm, grab the deodorant stick, and then reach for the most dangerous product nearby: a toilet brush. I’ve dealt with wild dogs before and it can be risky, especially if they’re starving.

  I wait until their snarls are farther away before moving to the next item on my shopping list. To reach the men’s clothing section, I check each corner and listen closely, watching my step all the way. Most racks and shelves are empty, but looters left some socks and hats behind. Let me tell you, socks are super important in the Zombie Apocalypse. A good sock can keep you warm and protect your feet from lots of painful stuff. Blisters can kill a man these days. If you can’t run, you won’t live long, so they’re always a top priority on my list, just below food and water.

  Feeling pretty happy with three pairs of socks safely tucked into my backpack, I pick a kid’s baseball cap with the Hulk on it and risk going to the outdoors section. Some weeks back, my tent was blown away during a storm and sleeping under the stars isn’t all that romantic anymore. If after that I’m still not dog food, maybe I’ll even check the stock and storage; you never know what the looters forgot to take.

  One of the dogs whines loudly. I peek around a mannequin: they’re fighting each other for a few scraps at the front of the store. As I move, I check them out of the corner of my eye, constantly aware of how fast they could close the distance between us. The last thing I need is to get my ass bitten by Mad Max, the golden retriever of a six-year-old girl, turned feral.