Along the Winding Road
Marlee Pagels
Copyright © 2017 Marlee Pagels
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 1542600022
ISBN-13: 978-1542600026
CONTENTS
Acknowledgments
i
Chapter 1
1
Chapter 2
3
Chapter 3
10
Chapter 4
16
Chapter 5
19
Chapter 6
25
Chapter 7
35
Chapter 8
40
Chapter 9
49
Chapter 10
59
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Epilogue
66
72
85
96
103
109
114
123
126
131
141
149
162
171
176
187
193
199
203
209
215
222
227
231
238
243
250
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
It's hard to assemble a list of everyone who has helped this novel come to be, but I will make an attempt. Thanks to my parents for their support of my writing, and a thank you to Steve Wedel for his mentorship. Thanks to my beta readers (again, including Steve Wedel) for their feedback. A special thank you goes to my alpha readers, who supported this story in its earliest stages. Given the circumstances, I don't know what names to call you, so I'll just thank all the reviewers in general, and Holly in particular. I'm glad you stuck with me chapter after chapter, and I hope you can enjoy this story even more than you did the original.
1
A chill slunk down Charlotte’s back as she pried open the side door. Crack, crack—the business end of the crowbar tore at the wood around the hinges, wood chips clattering onto the porch.
She dusted off her tool with her gloved fingers, though she kept it in her grip as she thumped her sole onto the door. Yep, this’d do. She gave one last glance at the empty gravel road behind her before kicking the panel down. It hit the wooden floor inside with a thud of finality, kicking up dust motes that swirled in the sunlight.
Stifling a cough, she stepped onto the remains of the door. It creaked in protest, and she seized the butt of her rifle with her free hand. Even after a minute of waiting, nothing had shown up, rotting or otherwise. Might as well keep the noisier weapon stowed, given the choice.
After checking the rooms for monsters, she slipped the crowbar back into her bag. A moment of rummaging through cabinets and drawers proved this place had already been milked dry. Most likely the whole area was, but perhaps some nice little scrap still clung somewhere. In a more urgent situation, it would have been easy for thieves to overlook something.
She went through a few bedside tables, their warped drawers sliding in an odd way, before leaving the house empty-handed. After crossing a road and some more woodland, she entered the next building through a shattered window. That house also proved to be empty, but the next place had a few bags of instant oatmeal and some dried red beans scattered across a shelf. Whoever had been here last had left in a hurry.
Shoving the oatmeal in her backpack and the beans in a shorts pocket, she scanned the area—no monsters around. This struck her as suspicious, but lulls in the infected populations had come and gone as she had traveled. She was just staying in one of the dead spots a little longer this time.
At the next house, faded boards sealed off the windows, so she checked the front door. Locked and boarded heavily. Considering the handful of food left at the last house, maybe this place hadn’t been raided at all. The prospect of some decent new food urging her onward, Charlotte felt her way to an unlocked door at the side of the building. Tugging it open with a creak, she stepped inside, heels clacking on the tile, and made sure no monsters loomed about. Only then did she start attacking the cherrywood kitchen drawers.
The last person in this room had definitely nabbed a few things, but one drawer had a whole assortment of gelatin mix that had only recently expired. Charlotte doubted they would make her ill, and a high-energy dessert would be a treat. As long as she only needed water, she could make this without much fuss. Leaving it out in the cool night might suffice for putting it in a refrigerator, too.
As she squinted at the instructions, she heard a faint sort of twang. It didn’t seem loud enough to be nearby, but she double-checked the drawer in case she had set off some sort of trap.
She had only skimmed the iron drawer pull before a searing pain went through her thigh and hip. The room began to teeter in slow sways and sudden lurches, but she caught herself on the counter before she could crumple to the ground. With a sharp breath, she stood up straight with a push of her arm and tilted her gaze downward.
A blood-spattered black stick was jutting out from her leg, something like sharp feathers at the clean end. An… arrow? Yes, probably an arrow. Going straight through the outside of her thigh by the looks of it. Was the femoral artery around there? That—that—that couldn’t be good.
Was she gonna die from blood loss? Warmth was slinking down the back of her leg in a sticky river. She had to do something! Do what? Take it out? That would only make it bleed more, wouldn’t it? But it would keep bleeding if she didn’t do anything. And it was still bleeding, bleeding her blood, her blood, getting everywhere—ohh…
Charlotte lost her footing and went to the ground. The throbs of pain and the designs on the tiles grew indistinct, and she just saw a figure drawing towards her before she passed out.
2
Although Charlotte was awake, her thoughts were fuzzy. Her eyelids refused to budge, yet she had the nagging feeling she ought to wake up. But she was so tired. Sleeping in a little longer wouldn’t hurt anything, would it?
Something itched at the back of her mind. What had happened, and where was she? Now that she thought about it, this didn’t feel like her usual pile of blankets. Ah. Right. She was out traveling. But when did she end up on a leather couch? It was awfully comfy. She could rest here a while longer…
At some point in her daze, she heard a voice, but she couldn’t make out individual words. Was she still dreaming?
After a moment of listening, she could distinguish the speaker’s rather delicious British accent. Yes, this was a dream, and a nice one at that…
When she awoke at some point or another, a sharp ache throbbed in her thigh. At last she remembered the arrow and opened her eyes. If she was going to move any closer to Blake, she couldn’t keep the thing in there.
As her vision cleared, she struggled to tilt her head enough to glimpse her leg. Nothing seemed to be sticking out anymore, but a wave of dizziness pushed her head back and cut her examination short. Whate
ver had happened, she was still far from well.
What had happened, though? She couldn’t remember anything after getting shot, aside from a rather shameful level of panic. For the record, though, she hadn’t had an arrow wound straight through her before. If something was going to make her panic, that was a decent candidate. And—why was she thinking about this anyway?
Trying to focus, she closed her eyes for a moment and blinked them open. It was dim, though she could see a thin strip of daylight shooting across her stomach. She was still in the same clothes, but her bags—and gun—were gone. A length of something like dappled curtains was wrapped tightly around her thigh, and a lukewarm cold pack perched atop the cloth. She had sunk into a slick, red couch, though her head and feet were propped up on the armrests.
“Oh! Are you awake?”
Charlotte jerked up from the cushions, but the throbbing below her hip kept one leg from flailing.
“Er—sorry to startle you!”
Heart still perched in her throat, she sat up a little more, bristling as someone approached. Seeing as it could talk—in that hot accent, no less—it couldn’t be a monster. But when she had no backup, strangers weren’t particularly comforting, either.
Though her fists were clenched, in the back of her mind, she realized this was probably the one who had patched her up. Acting this defensive had to be a bit rude. Then again, he could have been the one who shot her in the first place, in which case extra caution was acceptable. At any rate, she couldn’t help but feel queasy.
The man stepped close enough to the weak firelight at her side for her to make out some details. He was in dress clothes, though the white shirt’s sleeves had been hemmed off neatly. The sweat-smeared shorts had likewise come from black trousers. Encircling his waist was a stiff, brown strap, a long bag hanging from it at his right. A darker strap went from his shoulder to his left side, and some half-sleeve that still carried a leathery scent was secured around his left forearm.
The man himself was fairly short, and he would border on scrawny if it weren’t for the width of his shoulders. A wild shock of dark hair bushed out around his head, while his dark eyes flicked away from her the second she saw them.
He continued to the fireplace, pieces of wood clanking against each other as she watched his back. The light in the room grew until she could see the planes of his face when he turned to her. Regardless of his accent, he looked Chinese. He wasn’t as handsome as Armando, but he wasn’t bad-looking, either.
At some point he decided to stop staring at her and say something.
“Hello?” Charlotte’s gaze adjusted to meet his, so he fussed with his collar and cleared his throat. “Er… Well, I’m really sorry about shooting you. I went ahead and tried to fix it up—the arrow went all the way through, so I just unscrewed the head and took the whole thing out. I put, er, some honey on it and wrapped it up, and… I don’t know—maybe there was some more damage, but I didn’t really want to cut anything else up. That seemed a bit invasive when I haven’t actually met you. Oh!” He stuck out a hand. “My name’s—um—Arthur.”
Charlotte gaped at him, unable to make sense of his babbling for a good few moments. So many words were bouncing around between her ears it would take a Gatling gun to shoot them all down.
“I’m Charlotte,” she finally said, drawing out her words as she took his hand to shake. Arthur’s hand remained as motionless as an asphyxiated fish until he seemed to remember what came next. After three quick shakes, he released her.
“Nice to meet you, then.” He swallowed a few times. “So, er, I’m certainly not a physician, but you do still seem to be alive, so I suppose I couldn’t have hit anything too vital, so are you feeling all right?”
She propped herself up on her elbows. “More or less.”
“Um, once again, I’m really sorry about shooting you. Not exactly the best way to greet a guest—oh!” With that, he jumped up, scurrying through an open doorway to the kitchen.
“May I get you anything?” he called. “Um… Would you like some tea? No—why am I saying that? I haven’t had tea in years. God, I haven’t had tea in years… Do you like water?” He smacked himself in the forehead. “No, that’s a stupid question. Everyone likes water. We’d die without water. Um, what I mean is, would you like some water?” After that he finally paused for breath, looking over his shoulder at the woman on the couch.
Charlotte raised and lowered her eyebrows to stay awake. “Yes, water sounds nice.”
“Okay, good! I can do that.”
After a moment in the kitchen, Arthur rushed two cups of water to the living room and handed Charlotte her cup. Once she pried her tongue off the roof of her mouth, she thanked him.
The water didn’t taste particularly clear, but it still soothed her throat. She emptied the cup by the time Arthur was two sips into his.
After taking a full minute to notice, he went to get her refill. As a faint sloshing carried to Charlotte’s ears, she tried to sit up to make things easier. She fell back to the couch with a yelp.
“What happened?” Arthur backpedaled to see her through the doorway, his shoes squeaking. “Are you all right?”
“I’m okay,” she gasped, pressing a hand on the cold pack as if the pressure would make it freeze again. “Just tried to sit up. Didn’t work so well.”
“Ah.” Arthur winced, looking down. Only when his gaze returned to the cup in his hand did he remember what he was doing. He scurried back to the couch and set her water down.
“May I do anything to help?” He wrung his slender hands.
Charlotte turned her head towards the fireplace, but the worn carpet was all she could see. “I have some painkillers in my duffel.”
Arthur nodded quickly and hurried around to the back of the couch. After unzipping a few wrong pockets, he dug through the bag and returned with the medical kit.
“Sorry, again,” he mumbled.
“It’s okay,” she responded, though it was automatic. In reality, this wasn’t okay; she wouldn’t get an inch closer to Blake laid up like this, even as the clock kept ticking. At least she wasn’t dead. But Arthur did seem genuinely regretful for putting an arrow through her, so he deserved those two words of assurance.
“How did you end up shooting me, if you don’t mind me asking?” she asked, feeling around to the latches on the medical kit and opening it up.
“Oh.” Arthur blinked, running a hand through his mess of hair with some difficulty. “Well, I just saw a figure going into the house and shot immediately. I wasn’t expecting a lady. Er, I wasn’t even expecting a human. Honestly I had got to thinking I was the last man alive.”
“Huh.” Charlotte got out a pair of blue-tinted pills and downed them with the last of her water.
Arthur snapped the cup back immediately and sped to the kitchen. Her gaze followed him. At least he was looking after her while she was down, right?
How long was she going to be down, though? She wasn’t sure how many hours or even days she’d been unconscious, especially when she couldn’t see the sun, but stabs of pain still shot through her leg whenever she tried to move it. Walking and running were out of the question for now, regardless of the actual damage that might have been done.
Although she knew the journey was going to be dangerous, she hadn’t prepared to be more or less hospitalized. Maybe she wouldn’t stay down that long, though. Judging from the stain on the kitchen tiles, she hadn’t lost that much blood.
Her eyelids threatening to sink, she slid her hand across the leather of the couch back. It was slick but rumpled, and nicely cool.
After a minute of dragging her fingers across the wrinkles, she looked back at Arthur, whose gaze hadn’t left her. Even if he was stunned at the sight of another person, it scratched at her nerves. She’d actually been awake most of her time staying at Émile’s, and he hadn’t eyed her as much as Arthur had in less than a day.
“So…” She took a swig of water. “How did you end up here?”
“Here?” Arthur tilted his head.
“Judging from your accent, you weren’t born in Texas, were you?”
“Oh—no, no. I do have some family here—mother’s side—quite an interesting lot. Drywall and things tended to get broken wherever they were, so we would visit them rather than vice-versa. Surprisingly none of their homes actually collapsed from the damage. They’re all dead now, but—what was I talking about?”
He gave Charlotte a questioning look before shaking his head. “How I’m here, right, right. Um, well, I came over to Austin for university. And I was still here when it all broke out. Fled in one direction or another—God, the place was swarming with zombies in no time—ended up here. The family that lived here had already either died somewhere or taken their most important things and fled. And, um, well, here we are today. Ta-da.”
She nodded, and Arthur ventured to ask how she’d ended up over here. She related her journey—minus her freak-out over one of the attacks—and he took it in, nodding a bit too enthusiastically and a bit too often. She fell silent and gave him time to process, but he didn’t seem that eager to ask her more questions. At some point she began to wonder if he’d already forgotten what she said.
“Ah!” He jumped, straightening his back. “I don’t have much water left. I’ll go ahead to the lake for more, if that’s all right with you.”
Her eyes left the cup to watch him, and he looked down at the shredded toes of his shoes. “So, um, your gun. Do you think you can shoot if somehow someone comes in here while I’m gone?”
“Yeah.” Charlotte’s elbows nudged her back up against the armrest. She waited, but Arthur didn’t react. “If I have my gun.”
“Oh!” Dropping his cup, he popped to his feet and hurried behind the couch. Retrieving her rifle, he swung it over the sofa, yet he didn’t quite let go when she put her hands on the stock.
Along the Winding Road Page 1