Fighting for a Future (A Zombie Apocalypse Love Story Book 2)

by Kate L. Mary

  “Okay, this is it.”

  Tori snarls and I take a deep breath. She flails under me. Growling. Snapping her teeth. I put a shaky hand on the back of her head and press her face to the ground. Taking a deep breath.

  “I’m sorry, Tori.”

  Then I slam the pointy edge of the glass into the side of her head. Pain slices across my palm and I cry out, but underneath me Tori goes still so suddenly that it’s like someone has pulled the plug on her. I stay where I am, waiting, but she doesn’t move.

  I roll off her body and lean against the wall, panting. My eyes fill with tears and no matter how hard I try to blink them away, it’s impossible. Tori is dead and Riley and Jim may never make it back.

  I don’t want to be alone.

  When the SUV pulls into the driveway, I’m sitting on the porch, waiting. The sun is so low on the horizon it’s nothing more than half of an orange ball, glowing in the sky. Dust flies up behind the car, leaving a trail of dirt in the vehicle’s wake that makes it appear as if the car is on fire. I don’t move. My hand throbs from where the glass cut me and upstairs, Tori is laying in the bathroom with a sheet over her while the zombie girl is still growling in the bedroom.

  The truck pulls to a stop in front of the house and it takes me two seconds to see that there is only one person inside. Only the windows are tinted and the sun is so bright I can’t figure out who. Jim or Riley? And is the other man coming back in another car? Is he just a few minutes behind? It’s possible. Right?

  No.

  They wouldn’t split up and I know it, so clinging to the hope that the second man will drive up in a couple minutes is silly and childish. Someone didn’t make it back and it’s time to accept the reality of this new world: death is at every corner.

  The door opens and I get to my feet, holding my breath. When Riley steps out there’s a war raging inside me. Tears spring to my eyes but I have no idea what they’re from. The joy at seeing Riley, the realization that Jim is dead, or the relief that the man won’t have to see Tori the way she is.

  Riley only makes it to the front of the SUV before stopping. He leans against the hood like he can’t muster the urge to move another inch. He’s filthy and covered in splatters of blood, both red and black. His hands are clenched into fists and he acts like he can’t look me in the eye.

  “What happened?” I ask, like him, unable to move from where I’m standing.

  “We ran into a horde. Couldn’t get out.”

  When he lifts his head and his eyes finally meet mine, it hits me how different they look. There’s a loss of innocence that wasn’t there before, like all the hope he’s been holding onto has finally drained away. Like he’s actually accepted that the world has gone to shit and we’re living on borrowed time. I hate seeing him like that.

  And I hate that I’m about to add to it.

  “Tori’s dead.”

  Riley blinks, but no shock crosses his face. Maybe death will never shock us again after today. “What happened?”

  “It was Sally. She must have been infected. Last night she kept pulling at her sleeve, but I thought she was nervous. Now I think she was bitten before she got here.”

  “So the bites do turn you.” I nod and he sighs. “We should have checked her. Just in case.”

  I shake my head like I can’t make sense of it, which I can’t. “It doesn’t make sense. How we all survived the virus, but turn from the bites.”

  Riley’s shoulders slump. “Does any of it make sense?”

  No, it doesn’t.

  We’re both silent for a few minutes, then without thinking I go to him. Crossing the distance between us feels like I’m crossing the Mojave Desert, but the second I wrap my arms around him it’s worth it. Like he’s a cool cup of water and I’m dying of thirst.

  Riley wraps me in his embrace as he presses his lips to the side of my head. “I got supplies. We can leave in the morning.”

  “Good,” I whisper. “I don’t want to stay here any longer. I want to get to our beach house and forget this farm ever existed.”

  “Me too.”

  I slide my hand down his arm and lace my fingers through his, then pull him toward the house. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

  Inside, I warm water on the little camp stove while Riley strips. He washes himself in the dining room using a bar of soap and a washcloth, and by the time he’s done with his face and arms, the water is brown.

  He doesn’t dress once he’s clean. Instead, he undresses me. Slowly, kissing me gently as he slides my dress down my body. We make love on the dining room table, comforting each other as best as we can, and when we’re done we stay there. My face on his chest and his heart beating against my head, while Sally’s footsteps scrape against the floor above us. I try to focus on Riley, though, and not on the sound. Riley and me. Us.

  “Tell me we’re going to be okay,” I say, staring at the ceiling.

  “We’re going to be okay.”

  I nod even though I know he’s lying and he knows I know. Sometimes, lying to yourself is the only way you can get through.

  Epilogue

  The atlas is sitting in my lap as we pull to a stop in front of the house. The sun will be setting soon, but for the moment it sparkles across the blue water of the Atlantic. I’ve never seen water this blue. It’s so beautiful that it seems to hold a promise of something good, and I say a silent thank you to Tori for suggesting this location.

  We chose a house right on the beach, the major draw being the brick and iron fence surrounding the property. Seeing it, I can almost imagine that we’ll be able to have a real future here. A safe one. A girl can dream.

  “I’m looking forward to learning how to fish,” Riley says, putting the car into park in front of the house.

  “I’m looking forward to sun bathing.”

  Riley grins, and I return it. The trip was long and exhausting, but we got lucky and didn’t run into any major trouble. The good thing about the government declaring martial law is that travel was restricted, meaning most people died in their homes and not on the road. There were a couple places were an accident had occurred, blocking our way, but in both instances all we had to do was cross to the other side of the highway and keep driving.

  Riley hands me a gun, then grabs a second one for himself. After he lost Jim, Riley was smart enough to clean out the local police station—inspired by the fictional, yet ever resourceful, Rick Grimes.

  “We’ll check out the house, make sure it’s safe first. Sound good?”

  “Yeah,” I say, sounding more sure of myself than I feel.

  We stop outside the door and knock, just like we did when we got to the farmhouse. And just like that day there’s no answer. This time when we go inside, however, we’re greeted by a thumping sound coming from an upstairs room. It sends a shudder down my spine.

  “I’ll take care of it,” Riley says. “Just be there to back me up. Okay?”

  I nod as he heads up, with me right behind him. My whole body is literally shaking, but I do my best to stay calm when he stops outside the door.

  He puts his hand on the knob, then turns to look at me. “He’s going to come out fast. Ready?”

  “Yes.” This time, the word comes out firm.

  I raise my gun and put my finger on the trigger, aiming at the door. Then Riley turns the knob. The door bangs into the zombie when he kicks it open, momentarily knocking the creature back. He recovers fast, but Riley’s ready, and before the dead man can get two steps there’s a bullet in his brain. The body drops to the floor as the shot rings in my ears.

  “Let’s check the other rooms,” Riley says.

  We don’t find anyone else, and a close inspection of the place tells me this guy lived alone.

  “Only men’s clothes in here,” I call from the closet.

  Why the hell would he need a house this size when he didn’t have a family is beyond me, but I’m glad. I don’t want to kill any more zombies today.

  “Well shit,�
� Riley says behind me. I turn to find him frowning. “I guess that means no bikini for you.”

  I laugh. It’s the first time I’ve laughed since we left the farmhouse, and it feels nice.

  “Well,” I say, crossing the room to him. “I guess I’ll just have to skinny dip.”

  Riley wraps his arms around me and pulls me close. “Mmm. I like that idea. If it were up to me, you’d never wear clothes.”

  “Not exactly the safest wardrobe choice during the zombie apocalypse.”

  Riley tilts my face up to his and smiles. “Well, just around the house then.”

  “It’s a deal.”

  His lips cover mine and we stumble to the bed. Kissing. Undressing as we go.

  For once, I don’t feel like we’re having sex to distract ourselves from what’s going on. This time is different. Like we’re doing it as a symbol of a new beginning. Starting fresh here in this beach house. Like maybe we do have a future ahead of us after all. Only time will tell.

  Did you enjoy this novella? If so, please take a moment to leave a review on Amazon, and while you’re there, be sure to check out one my other Zombie Apocalypse Love Story Novellas!

  More than Survival

  Playing the Odds

  The Key to Survival

  The Thing We Cannot Change

  Surviving the Storm

  Want a slightly steamier version of this novel? Check out If Only To Forget on Amazon.

  Broken World

  Chapter One

  The car sputters when I maneuver it into a space, but it doesn’t die. Not yet, anyway. The small orange light screams at me from the dashboard—check engine. Ten hours, that’s how long I’ve been on the road. I didn’t really believe this piece of shit would make it all the way to California, but I’d hoped it would at least get me halfway there.

  I squeeze my eyes shut and rest my forehead on the steering wheel, right between my clenched fists. The orange words dance across the back of my eyelids. Even with my eyes closed I can’t escape them. They taunt me. Check engine. They may as well be you failed. That’s what it feels like.

  I jerk the keys out of the ignition and grab my travel papers off the dashboard, shoving them both in my purse. Leaving the papers behind would get my car broken into for sure, plus I’ll need them if I run into a cop. If my papers get stolen, I’ll be stranded.

  The diner is the type of place I would normally avoid. It’s nothing more than a truck stop really, probably fifty years old or more. I’m sure the walls are coated in grease, and the bathrooms most likely haven’t been cleaned well since the late eighties. It’s full of truckers and white trash. People who remind me of the life I ran from. But I don’t have a choice. I have to pee, and this is the only route open that leads to California.

  The inside is exactly the way I imagined it. Old booths with cracked seats covered in duct tape, the walls brown and grimy. The grease invades my pores and nostrils the second I step in. It goes down into my lungs and coats them in a thick, oily film. I want to get in and out of this place as fast as possible.

  I’ve only taken two steps when a man stops me. He’s big and round, and his face is red and sweaty. The pits of his shirt are stained an ugly yellow-brown color that smells as bad as it looks. Even over the grease and cigarettes his pungent odor burns my nostrils. He also has a gun strapped to his chest.

  “Papers.” He holds his hand out expectantly. His face is hard.

  My heart pounds as I pull the papers out of my purse and hesitantly hand them to the man. Hopefully, he actually works here and he’s not robbing me. I hold my breath while he slowly unfolds them, then exhale when his eyes narrow on the fine print. His mouth is pulled into a tight line when he nods.

  He folds the papers in half, snapping his fingers across the crease before handing them back. “Welcome.” It sounds more like a death sentence than a welcome.

  I return his tense smile and shove the papers back in my purse. “Where’s the bathroom?”

  He tilts his head to the right, but doesn’t say a word. I nod and head in the direction he indicated, keeping my eyes down, trying not to meet anyone’s gaze. I don’t need to look at the people to know what expressions they wear. It’s the same everywhere. Fear, frustration, hopelessness, and loss. It’s how things have been since martial law was declared six weeks ago. And I’m tired of it. I have my own worries. I don’t want to see the despair in other people’s eyes, don’t want to focus on anyone else’s problems.

  The bathroom is empty, thankfully, and just as dirty as I imagined it would be. I squat over the toilet, trying my best not to touch the seat. The pressure in my bladder is agonizing. I’d started to think I was going to have to pee on the side of the road.

  A sigh of relief whooshes out of me when I’ve finally relieved myself. I pull up my skinny jeans and head out to wash my hands. The mirror hanging above the sink is cracked and filmy. I can’t make anything out other than my tangled blonde hair. I work my fingers through the knots and look away from the mirror. Doesn’t matter how I look. There won’t be anyone to impress on this trip.

  I wash my hands and shake them dry before heading back out into the diner. No way am I eating here. It would be a waste of time. Plus, I have no desire to sit and breathe in this grease-filled air. But coffee is a must. I want to make it at least another four hours before pulling over for the night.

  A woman in her fifties stands behind the register. She wears the same uniform as the other waitresses: orange dress with short sleeves and an apron that probably used to be white. The entire thing is now splattered with food and grease, old and worn just like she is. Her hair is short and jet black, the kind of color that only comes from a bottle, and the creases on her face are so deep they’re probably just as full of grease as the walls of the diner. Her arms cross over her chest and she shakes her head, frowning at the man in front of her.

  “Please, I’m begging you. I was on a business trip when this all started. I’ve been stranded for weeks trying to get home to my family. I’ve spent every last penny I had on my physical and a car. I’m starving.” His voice is desperate, begging. Same story, different person.

  “No credit,” the woman says. She won’t budge. Why would she? People like her are making a killing off travelers. A few weeks ago, she probably barely made enough money to live on. And now…well, if this all blows over, she’ll be comfortable.

  The man pleads for a bit longer and I shift from foot to foot, waiting for him to get the point. I should have some sympathy for him. I should. But if I felt bad for every person I passed who was desperate and running out of time…if I did that, I wouldn’t be able to keep going. I’d sit down on the floor right here in the middle of this diner and never move again.

  The television mounted on the wall catches my eye, and I tune the man out. It’s an old tube TV and the reception is awful, but the news is on. Maybe there will be an update on the virus.

  “…travelers are advised to display their papers at all times and to keep to approved routes. Anyone who is found traveling on closed highways or without papers will be arrested immediately and held until martial law has been lifted.

  In local news, police are still on the lookout for two men responsible for robbing several convenience stores in the St. Louis area. They are described as two white males in their mid- to late-twenties and were last seen traveling in a dark blue SUV. They are considered armed and dangerous…”

  “That’s it,” the woman at the counter says, making me jump. She nods to the armed man at the door, then turns to me. I guess she finally got tired of listening to the desperate man. “What can I get you?”

  Her gaze holds mine. Both of us avoid looking at the man as he’s dragged from the diner. Neither one of us bats an eye when he screams for mercy. Begs for help. My throat constricts, burning a little at his cries. But I can’t give in.

  “Coffee,” I say. “To go.”

  She nods and turns away, not even bothering to ask me if I have cash. She shou
ldn’t have to. Not with the giant sign over the register that says Cash Only, and not after the screaming man was ripped from the building.

  I lean against the counter and close my eyes for a second. My shoulders slump and my limbs feel weighed down, like they’re made of lead. I feel a hundred years old, not twenty.

  When I open my eyes, my gaze locks with a man a few booths away. Everything about him screams redneck. From his flannel shirt, unbuttoned to reveal his wifebeater and beer belly, to the bulge in his lower lip. His upper lip curls and his eyes go over my pin-up body. He nods in approval and raises an eyebrow. He’s in his thirties, probably getting close to forty, and he’s hard. Like he’s been dealt a rough life and didn’t have an issue giving some back. I’ve known men like him. Hell, I’ve dated men like him.

  There’s another man sitting at the table with him, but his back is to me so I can’t tell what he looks like. Probably more of the same. The first man grins and picks up a soda can, spitting into it. My stomach churns. He gives me the creeps.

  I turn away when the waitress comes back carrying a cup of coffee. “That’ll be five bucks.”

  I dig my nails into my palms. “Five dollars? What do you think this is, Starbucks?”

  She purses her lips and both her penciled-on eyebrows pull together. “I know this ain’t Starbucks, but I also know there ain’t another place to get a cup of coffee for ‘bout fifty miles. And that’s if you’re goin’ east. If you’re headin’ west, it’s further.”

  I’m going west, of course.

  I rip the cup out of her hand as violently as I can without spilling it and slam a five-dollar bill on the counter. “Don’t expect a tip.”