by David Rogers
Jessica found herself in what looked like a ransacked and tossed department store, a small one anyway. She blinked at the dim interior as she skidded to a halt, feeling grit and dirt between her boots and the floor. It was lit only by a handful of thin and narrow windows up near the double height ceiling; the abrupt transition from bright Florida sunshine to this giving her eyes a fit as they struggled to reconfigure to it.
Standing just ahead of her she saw Byron, with Nate at his side. Carlo sat near them, with Arcelia standing next to him. They weren’t the only ones; she saw a number of other people scattered around the room. Some were sitting, some were on their feet. Most had weapons in their hand, but no one was pointing one at her or Austin. Or, even at the door.
Behind her, Milo pounded in and skidded to a halt several steps beyond and to the side of where she stood; so fast he fell on his ass as his feet went out from under him. As the Houseboater came to a stop, Byron lunged for the door.
“Quick, help me Nate.”
Jessica started to step aside, only to feel Austin’s hands on her shoulders again moving her with him as he got out of the way and pulled her along. Two of the people she and Austin and Milo had gone through all this to find hauled the door shut, then reached up and snatched down a metal shutter that clicked when it reached the floor. Both of them sagged in relief, and most of the frenzied energy just dissipated from their bodies. A moment later there was a rattling thump as zombies outside crashed into the metal shutter between them and where their prey had gone.
Turning to face her and Austin, as he stood with his hands still on her shoulders behind her, Byron looked at them. Behind him, the shutter continued to reverberate and thud as zombie fists pounded and clawed on it. “What the hell are you guys doing here?”
Chapter Seven — Guess who’s come to dinner
The knife curved along the notch in the stick slowly, peeling back another thin layer of wood. Candice finished the stroke and switched her grip on the knife to cut down at the end of notch, further deepening the depth without changing its angle. She considered the stick for a moment, then went back to the slicing grip and carefully carved another thin shaving out of the length of the notch before cutting it out the same as the other.
Putting the knife down, she reached for the other stick she’d already prepared and tried to fit them together. It was carved almost identically to the first, but the two notches still didn’t nestle fully into one another. The picture in the book she had flattened out next to her showed them locking together almost like a key, completely in contact with one another. Frowning, she retrieved the knife and shaved off a few more slivers of wood.
She was kneeling on the stick she was working on. Actually, she was kneeling next to it with one foot propped up to hold it down securely against the floor with most of her body weight so she could use both hands on the knife. And working slowly, and also carving away from herself; exactly as she was supposed to when using a knife. When she cut down, she kept both hands together on the grip and pressed down patiently, pulling to add a slice to the gentle downward force. That was how to keep the knife from getting away from you, which could lead to getting cut.
When she tried to fit the notches together again, they were just about perfect. Satisfied, Candice looked at the book again, then reached to move the other books she had holding it down, so it stayed flat and open, so she could turn the page. The next picture showed the two sticks fitted together vertically, and the placement of the ropes. An exploded view coming off that picture revealed little ridges carved completely around the sticks to help the ropes stay seated and attached against the sticks.
Replacing the weights to hold the page open, Candice repositioned her sticks so she could hold the knife down against them, then carefully rolled the sticks against the floor and blade. As they moved, the knife’s edge started cutting out the little ridge. It was much easier, and quicker, than preparing the notches had been.
When she finished that, she looked at the book’s next section, then frowned in frustration. The next steps were tying the ropes, and only one of those was any real trick; the snare part. That was a knot that tightened only one way. The problem was the other rope, which had to go on tree branch or sapling or something else that would keep tension on it.
After the tree rope was tied to the upper notched stick, the snare placed, and tension applied with the two notches fitted together, when an animal disturbed the sticks they’d come apart and the tree would try to straighten. This would tighten the snare, and catch the animal. Then Austin would be able to come check it and bring it back so they could eat it.
Glancing around the sitting room, Candice didn’t see anything she could use to simulate the tree. When she thought about what was in the house, she couldn’t think of anything either. The sticks had been easy enough; the wood pile on the back deck had plenty. But they were all short, and none of them had the bendiness the pictures called for.
“Darnit.” she muttered. But she knew better than to go outside. Mom had been specific. Only Austin went out alone, and even he took mom anytime he went near places zombies were likely to be; which was why she was here and both of them were out together.
Well, at least she could practice the snare part. The knot had to be tied a certain way, but there were pictures explaining each step of that as well. Then she could carve some more notched sticks, which was really the part that took the longest in preparing these things.
When mom and Austin got back, she could show them the book, and what she’d done, and it would be something that gave all three of them more time to work on other things. Things like not food, since the snares could bring down food and save Austin hunting time.
Leaving the notched sticks and knife on the floor, Candice turned and stretched out for the rope she’d pulled out of one of the bedrooms, from the storage piles and other supplies that were stocked in the house. Flopping down on her stomach in front of the book, she propped herself up on her elbows with the rope in both hands and studied the pictures to see where to start. As she picked up the rope, she kicked both feet up from the knees behind her and flexed them idly back and forth while she went to work trying to duplicate the pictures.
* * * * *
“We came looking for you.” Milo said, sounding more excited than just the running could allow for. “I asked them to help, and we’ve been searching for two days.”
“I wish you hadn’t, but I won’t say I’m not glad to see you.” Byron said, looking at Jessica and Austin. “I mean, you’re stuck here too now; but out anyone else I know who could be, you two aren’t on the bottom of the list.”
“What’s going on here.” Jessica asked as she caught her breath and lowered the shotgun. She clicked the safety on, but didn’t release the weapon. Everyone in the room was armed, and not all of them had their weapons in holsters or slung behind their shoulders. In fact, she reached for more shells and started reloading the shotgun, just in case; an instinctive reaction to seeing so many weapons.
It wasn’t that she didn’t understand why there were so many; the zombies banging on the shutter spelled out the reason clearly enough even if she were as clueless as Milo. But they were all strangers, and it would only take a second or two for the interior of the store to turn into a warzone if someone decided to start firing.
The building looked to have been some sort of store. Shelves were knocked over and shoved into an untidy mess towards the far side of the big room, which had quiescent florescent lights mounted on the high ceiling. Clothes were strewn amid the overturned shelves, without any real sameness or groupings to suggest it had been a department store. Unless they’d been purposefully separated from their like-styled and colored groupings, which Jessica was pretty sure no one would’ve taken the time to do.
“To be honest we’re not entirely sure.” Byron said as she scanned around cautiously.
“Who are the bastards outside?” Austin asked. “They were shooting at you.”
�
�Crazy.” an older man said from where he sat, next to another older man. They had cards out, in their hands and on the floor between them. Both had white hair and beards that were starting to look wild from lack of cutting. The one who’d spoken was bald on top but with thin wispy strands of hair from the fringes of his head starting to reach down to his shoulders..
Other heads nodded around the room. The old man held his hand up next to his ear and circled it with a finger. “Craaaaaaazy.”
Jessica glanced around, then looked back at Byron. “What are you, prisoners?”
“You are too.” someone said.
“That’s as good of a description as anything else.” Byron said with a shrug. “I mean, they haven’t said word one to us, haven’t come in here at all but—”
“But we can’t leave.” Arcelia said, stepping up next to Byron. “If anyone tries to leave, even if the zombies thin out a little, they shoot at us.”
“And they’re keeping them here.” Nate said. “They stay up on the roofs, make sure the zombies notice and hang around, so we’re surrounded.”
“Have they killed anyone?”
“Not with the guns.” a younger man said from where he stood with two others a few yards away. The one who’d spoken was white, one of his friends Hispanic, and the third black. All three had pistols, but only the white one had his out. It was pointed at the floor, and he had his finger resting on the trigger. They looked to be in their very early twenties, and in good shape. The black one had the build of someone who had definitely hit the gym on a regular basis, while the other two seemed like dedicated runner types.
“Not yet you mean.” his friend, the Hispanic one, said.
“They’re using the zombies to keep us in here.” Byron said with a shrug. “And as prison guards go, zombies are pretty good at it if you don’t care about a few prisoners getting eaten.”
“Has anyone been eaten?” Jessica asked.
“Not yet.”
“How long have you been in here?”
“A week.” Carlo said. He was sitting on the floor, with his legs stretched out in front of him. There was old blood on his pants, and a bandage wrapped around his right calf showed through a rip in the fabric.
“Two.” the card playing old man said.
“Two and a half.” the young man with the pistol said.
“Over three.” a woman on Jessica’s left said. She was standing next to another woman, both of them clutching rifles across their chests like they were shields. The one who’d spoken had blonde hair that needed washing, obvious even from across the room. The woman standing next to her had black hair wound up behind her in a bun with pins and clips visibly holding it back.
There was one other group, a trio of Hispanic men standing the furthest back in the store, against a pile of toppled over retail shelving. They were watching the conversation intently, but didn’t say anything even when Jessica’s eyes lingered on them.
“About two for them too.” Arcelia said, noticing where Jessica was looking. “They don’t have good English.”
“Some.” one of them said.
“Can they get in here?” Jessica asked, looking at the walls of the store. There were the normal Florida style windows, on the front and what of the two adjoining sides she could see, but covered with metal storm shutters. There was still some thumping and rattling happening against the shutters, but it was starting to drop in frequency and intensity.
“Who, the crazy ones or the zombies?”
“Either.” Austin said.
“Well the Crazies haven’t tried. The zombies haven’t either, but we’re pretty sure that’s just because the Crazies on the roofs tend to distract them. You know how it is; they see them up there, and they stay interested in that and sort of forget what’s on the other side of these walls.”
Jessica stepped to Austin’s right side and looked, up, at him. He glanced at her, then around at the people in the store. “I don’t suppose anyone’s tried shooting their way out?”
“Not enough bullets.” the black haired woman said. Her friend looked at her, then back at Austin.
“Unless you came loaded for bear.” Byron added hopefully.
“Not for something like this.” Austin said with a frown. “But there’s, what, sixteen of us in here?” He looked around, obviously counting. “No, seventeen.”
“All of us trapped. The unlucky.” the old man playing cards said. He punctuated it by selecting one of his cards and tossing it down where his friend could see it, the gesture looking almost triumphant. “Beat that.” he said, staring at his opponent.
“What if we pulled together some hand weapons?” Austin said, looking around again; this time obviously studying the stuff rather than the people.
“No.” one of the Hispanic trio said. “No tocar.”
“No touch.” Arcelia said, her demeanor sounding almost reflexive as she translated. “They don’t want to bash their way through the horde unless it’s already in here and there’s no choice.”
“Neither do we.” the blonde woman said. “Not all of us are athletes.”
“Hey, we don’t want to go toe-to-toe with them either.” the young black man said. His companions were nodding as he spoke. “That’s asking to get eaten.”
“If we cooperate together, organize, it could work.” Austin pointed out. “And we’d still have the guns. We could get to the alley next door, use the chokepoint.”
“I’m sure you probably do alright when it comes to beating your way around out there,” the second old man said, turning to look at Austin appraisingly, “but if it’s all the same to you I’ll keep waiting for a lucky break.”
“Gonna be a while with your luck.” his opponent said, selecting another card and dropping it. “Hah, trump.”
“Are they feeding you?” Jessica asked, looking at Byron.
“There’s a whole pile of food in the back, stuff from convenience stores with some other bits thrown in too. And there’s a rain barrel under a drain spout in the back room, something they punched through the ceiling. It catches some fresh water most afternoons, but it’s starting to hover around half full now.”
“You three are going to make that worse.” the blonde woman said. “Not to mention the toilets.”
“There’s working toilets?”
“Two port-a-potties.” Carlo said, gesturing at the back of the store. “But one of them’s getting pretty full.”
“And they’re both ripe as fuck.” the muscular young man said.
Jessica shook her head. “This doesn’t make any sense.”
“Tell me about it.”
“No shit.”
“We don’t get it either.”
“Yeah right.”
She blinked at the tumult of overlapping responses that rumbled forth from the group in the store. “I mean, who would herd people into the middle of a zombie horde and just keep them there?”
“We’ve got no fucking idea.” Nate said. “But for all the sense it doesn’t make, they’re doing it pretty good.”
Austin looked around again. Jessica felt him moving and looked up at him. His eyes were on the walls now, sweeping across the area with careful precision. She looked back at Byron. “So we just wait?”
“Unless you come up with a better plan.”
“Give me some time.” Austin murmured softly.
As Jessica looked at him again, one of the women spoke up. “What’s that?”
“So there’s food, water, the perimeter’s been secure for weeks, and we’re all armed.” Austin said in a voice that carried. “That about it?”
“Yeah.” Carlo said, nodding.
“Then all we have to do is come up with something.”
“Good luck soldier boy.” the bald old man said. “More power to you, give’em hell.”
“You’re a soldier?” one of the young men asked.
“Soldado?” one of the quiet trio said, though his eyes were on the weapon Austin carried. With the scope Jessica
knew, because she reacted to it the same way even if she hadn’t had it all confirmed for her by Austin, the weapon definitely looked military. Which, to be fair, it was. Contrasted to even her shotgun, which had been liberated from a police cruiser in Clewiston, much less the hunting rifles she saw in the room, it was certainly not a civilian weapon.
“Ambos de usted?” another of the Spanish speakers asked, looking at Jessica.
“She’s not a soldier.” Arcelia said. “Ella no es un soldado.”
Looking from Austin to herself, she realized that compared to everyone else in the room — even Byron and his team, who she knew were competent and capable when it came to dealing with zombies — the two of them looked like they’d just walked in from the front lines, or at least an action movie.
The others were all in jeans and shirts, or black or brown slacks instead of the jeans. Half of them wore sneakers of some type or another. Everyone was armed, but mostly just with pistols; and she and Austin were the only ones carrying two, plus long guns. That didn’t even count the hidden backup pistol Austin wore concealed in an ankle holster. Or the fourth backup he had in his pack. He firmly believed in being prepared, and had the strength and endurance to carry a lot to support his subsequent packing list.
Even discounting their backpacks, which might be fair since the others were all in waiting mode so maybe there were some bags laying around somewhere she hadn’t spotted, no one else had gear harnesses or even much of anything else on them besides the aforementioned pistols.
The sensation of feeling like she was playing dress-up was back. Jessica shook herself mentally and tried to maintain an even expression that didn’t show any embarrassment.
“If you’re a soldier, why aren’t you a zombie?” the blonde woman asked.
“Or dead.” her friend added.
“I was a soldier.” Austin said, showing no sign the question bothered him. It wasn’t entirely unfair; along with students and to a lesser extent older people, the armed forces had been hit hard by the zombie outbreak even before teeth and insatiable undead hunger were factored in. “I left the Army before the outbreaks. I was private security when it all started.”