by R. K. Weir
A
WORLD
TOGETHER
R.K. WEIR
Kindle Edition
A World Together copyright © Ross Weir, 2017
All rights reserved.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, incidents and dialogues are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Book cover image bought from www.coverquill.com
First Edition: February 2017
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
For my brother, who introduced me to zombies at a questionably young age
CHAPTER ONE
Stella
EVERY MORNING I LIE AWAKE, waiting for the birds to sing. But they never do. I fall asleep with silence and I wake up with it. No trilling bluebirds or whistling kingfishers. Without them I'm left alone with thoughts I can't tune out from.
Curled up in the backseat of an abandoned car, I stretch my cramped limbs as best as I can in the small space. Not the most comfortable of places to sleep but definitely one of the safest. Sitting up, I yawn and look out the window. It's still dark out, but I can just see a faint, orange glow beginning to line the hills.
Two sunsets and one sunrise. I've been counting. That's how long it has been since I left Logan and the others. That's how long it has taken me to reach Las Vegas on foot. This will be my second sunrise without them. I sit for another few minutes, waiting and watching as the sun creeps over the hills and casts its heated glare over the barren desert.
Rummaging through the small compartments and pockets of the car, I find a few packets of stale potato chips. Hardly a feast, but better than nothing. I dig in, hoping that the meager amount will be enough to stifle the grumble in my stomach.
Once the cold air of night has been warded off, I step out of the car, welcoming the rising temperature of a typical Nevada summer. I glance around to make sure that the area is clear, and then, like a bird spreading its wings after being cooped in a cage for too long, I begin to stretch out my muscles properly. My stomach has stopped rumbling but my mouth is as dry as the desert surrounding me. I ignore it as best as I can and try not to think about how hot the day will be.
I pick my bag up and sling it over my shoulder before I start walking. It's the bag Joey gave me right before I left. I've already rifled through its contents, hoping that maybe he had kept some food or water in one of the pockets. He hadn't. The bag is filled with pills and weed and other substances I've only ever seen on TV. I thought about dumping everything, but figured it was better having something to trade than nothing at all.
Now is not the first time I have come to regret my abrupt exit. I should have taken some supplies with me when I left. But I think if I spent any more time with them, I might have ended up staying. And that would be a bigger regret than any I have now.
Leaving them was the right thing to do.
Now I can focus on getting to the coast without having to worry about anyone else. Yet still I find myself thinking about them, and if they are waiting for me. They haven't passed me yet, unless I missed them during the night. Which is unlikely. The engine of the bus coughs and sputters enough that I'm sure I would have heard it. Its loud rumble would have woken me from any sleep I managed to get.
I stare down the stretch of road that is laid out in front of me, just able to see the high-rise buildings and outlines of infamous casinos in the distance. As I'm walking, I begin plotting out strategies in my mind. In a few short hours I'll be in the middle of it all, and I have no idea what to expect.
By chance, I've managed to avoid large cities ever since the outbreak. But now, if I don't want to wither away in the desert, I have no choice. Will there be thousands? Just waiting like spiders for an ignorant fly to stumble into their web? The image is a scary one, but it dies as I approach the landmark "Welcome" sign.
Welcome to Fabulous Las Vegas Nevada.
Scrawled over the words is a sloppy message that someone has managed to scribble. I hop over the small fence to get a better look, imagining the masses of tourists that used to congregate on this small island between two oceans of road. Standing before the sign, I squint up at the words smeared across its surface.
Free from infection. Overrun by the living.
The words are painted in red, and for a minute I think it might be blood. But the texture resembles that of spray-paint, like it was vandalized by some angst-ridden teen. Except this isn't graffiti or any sort of senseless vandalism. This is a warning.
Whoever chose this spot to write their message, they had little space to get it across. They would have had to pick their words carefully. And they chose the word 'overrun.' Maybe I'm just a pessimist, but somehow I don't think this is a good thing. The way in which a church can be overrun by non-believers, and a sewer can be overrun by vermin. I'm not sure if I would prefer hordes of infected over hordes of the living. In small numbers I'd rather deal with people. Only because I'd rather take a bullet than get bitten.
But with the infected you can predict their moves. They don't have plans or strategies. Just a single desire to bring death by any means possible. People are more complicated, unpredictable and driven by their own personal motives. I don't like dealing with people, but I look back at the vast length of empty road behind me, and I realize I have no choice.
I step around the sign and begin walking again, taking note of the abandoned cars strewn down the road. If I can find one that works, I'll be out of here quicker. But as I approach the car closest to me, I notice its gas cap is popped open. Someone's siphoned the fuel from it, and I doubt they'll have left any. I open the door and slump down in the driver's seat so that I can confirm my suspicions. The key, like I thought it would be, sits jammed in the ignition. From the faded color of the paint, odds are this car was abandoned during the outbreak. Back when everyone was in a rush to leave that the highways got so clogged they made a dam, restricting the stream of people from getting out.
I twist the key in the ignition and am not surprised when nothing happens. The battery is probably long dead. Looking down at the road that leads into the city, tightly packed with cars left to rust, it's a safe bet that they're all in the same condition. Spitting a curse, I get out and kick the door shut, only now noticing that every gas cap of every car is popped open, jutting out like stale flags. It's either a coincidence that every car has been drained, or one person has made the effort to siphon every single one. Maybe I'll have better luck once I'm off the highways.
The heat of the sun is uncomfortable now that it has taken away the chill of night. Wiping the sweat from my brow I continue dragging myself towards the city. In an effort to keep my mind occupied, I make a game of reading the brightly colored billboards on either side of the road. Whenever I see an ad for water though, I shut my eyes and trudge blindly until I've passed it.
The heat only worsens with every passing second. I'm lifting my hand up to create a semblance of shade when something down the road makes me pause. Hand hovering in the air, my trudge becomes a stumble as I come to a halt, my gaze caught in the distance.
As if the sun itself fell from the sky and landed outside a fancy hotel, I squint at the familiar ball of yellow. A sound escapes me and I can feel my cracked lips tugging into a smile. I don't want to get my hopes up in case I'm mistaken, but even from a distance I'm sure I recognize the brightly painted vehicle.
Logan's Jeep.
The same one that was stolen from us by a group of bandits. In truth, it could just be another yellow Jeep; the odds of this one being Logan's are slim. Yet still I find my hopes being raised, because I doubt that any other car is as brightly painted with this particular shade. A shade I specifically remember running to when I had a horde behind me.
And so I find myself ducking down beside an abandoned car, because if this is Logan's Jeep – which I'm positive it is – then that most likely means the bandits that stole it are somewhere nearby. Probably in the hotel it's parked outside of, a tall building that towers above all the others around it, making the adjacent structures appear flat in comparison. If the bandits are in there they could be anywhere from the ground floor to the top.
I lift myself up enough to peek over the hood of the car I'm crouched beside and wait, watching. The Jeep looks empty and there's no movement in the area surrounding it. After a few moments my calves begin to burn with discomfort, so I stand, satisfied that for the moment at least there's no one else around. Crossing the road and over to the Jeep, I glance up at the many floors of the hotel and the many balconies that jut out from them. I don't see anyone, but I can just imagine cracking it open like a hive and finding hundreds scurrying around inside. A shiver runs down my spine and I find myself reaching back and feeling for the knife tucked in my jeans, comforted when I find that it's there.
Reaching the Jeep, I peer inside, instantly recognizing the mess of papers lining the backseat. There's no doubt in my mind now that this is definitely Logan's. I shake my head with a smile, finding amusement in the odds of coming across it like this. I can just imagine how happy Logan would be. But I stop that thought before it has a chance to fester, because I don't want to remind myself of him.
Unlike all the other cars clogging the highway, the Jeep's gas cap is closed and I can only assume this means that there's still fuel left in it. I reach for the door handle and give it a tug, not entirely surprised when I find it locked. I wasn't expecting to be that lucky. I move around and try all the other doors just for the sake of trying. They're all locked. Whoever has the key is probably in the hotel, and they probably aren't willing to trade it for a "Please". There's also the fact that said person isn't very friendly, considering they stole the car in the first place.
That leaves me with pretty limited options. If I can't get the key, I can try to break in and hot-wire it. They made it look easy enough in the movies; just rip out a couple of wires and twine them back together in a different order. But breaking into the car will set off an alarm, and I'll most likely be found before I have the chance to try anything. I kick up a cloud of dirt at my feet, frustrated that I can't think of a solution. I'd rather leave the car behind than risk a confrontation with those bandits, but that just seems like such a waste. If fate exists, then surely I must have found Logan's Jeep for a reason.
The sound of shifting gravel distracts me and I spin around to find a man watching me. He must have come from the hotel, but how long has he been standing there? My hand snaps behind my back, clutching at the knife handle in an instant. The sudden movement catches his attention and his eyes dart to it. They hold there for a moment before slithering back up to meet my gaze.
"Well, well, well," he says, smiling. "What do we have here?"
A round gut sticks out above his tightly coiled belt and his pudgy hands hang empty at his sides. Tangles of gray are caught in his unkempt hair and his features are chiseled with aged lines. Old, unfit and unarmed. I can take him, but I'll have to be quick before he has a chance to alert his friends.
"What have you got behind your back, sweetheart?" he asks, his voice as gruff as he looks. He stands all but three feet away from me. If I lunge I can have the knife in his neck before he even knows what's happened.
But just as I begin to make my move, his hand reaches behind his own back and in a flash returns with a gun. A small pistol, or maybe a revolver – I'm sure I'd know if I'd bothered to learn more about guns – but it doesn't matter the type. The sight of the weapon is enough to stop me.
"You weren't about to try and hurt me, were ya?" he asks, his smile only growing wider. A large rucksack hangs on his back and I can only assume he was on his way out for a scavenging run. Bad timing. "Why don't you drop whatever you've got behind your back and kick it over to me?"
I make no move to do so, my mind racing with thoughts, none of them a solution. A moment passes and he waves the gun, as if to remind me that it's there. At this distance there's no chance of him missing if I try to run. I have no option but to do as he says. The knife clatters at my feet and I kick it over to him. He glances down at it.
"That's it? A cute little knife?" He doesn't even bother picking it up. Instead he kicks it away, off to the side where it's out of reach from both of us. "You tryin' to steal our car?" he asks.
I shake my head. "Just admiring it." Acting smart may not be the right way to go, but I doubt he'll react kindly to crying either. He huffs out a sound that might have been intended as a laugh, but sounds more like a phlegmy gargle.
"Nice try, sweetheart. What's in the bag?"
"Nothing really," I shrug, "just some food."
"Well shit, I didn't know you guys did delivery." With a chuckle he holds out his free hand. Of course he would want to rob me. If I'm lucky, that's all he will do. I shrug the bag off my back and hand it to him.
Managing to keep the gun centered on me, he unzips the backpack and holds it on its end, giving it a shake and spilling out all of its contents. Pills, weed and other substances, all contained in hundreds of little ziploc bags pile up in a small mound at his feet. Everything but food, not that he seems to care. He drops my bag just so he can cover the smile on his face. His attention is so focused on the litter at his feet that I think now might be the time that I can take him by surprise. But before I even have time to calculate my first move, his wide eyes snap up to mine.
"What the hell are you? Some kind of post-apocalyptic drug dealer?" he scoffs, a happy sound. Dropping his hand to reveal the grin on his face, his eyes, still wide, once again graze over the pile at his feet. The little packets are worthless to me, but they clearly hold some value to him.
"Look, you can have all of it if you just let me go." I think of maybe asking for the Jeep as well, but that will probably be a step too far and I'm not willing to press my luck.
He laughs and points to his gun. "You don't really think you're in a position to be making negotiations, do you?" Kneeling down he scoops up some of the packets so that he can get a better look. I would have kicked him in the face if he didn't keep his eyes glued to me.
He inspects the bags in his hand, shaking his head every few seconds. "Man, some of this shit I haven't seen since high school!" He drops them with a smile, taking the rucksack off his back. "The boys are gonna be happy about this!"
He throws the bag at me and tells me to gather everything up in it. I don't know why he doesn't want me to put it all back in my own bag, maybe so he can take the credit for finding it. I do as he says, and I take my time. The more time I have to think of a way out of this, the better. But as I drop the last packet into the bag and zip it up, I haven't managed to conjure up anything.
Even though he hasn't said a word he must have gotten impatient because he grabs my arm and yanks me up from the ground himself. He doesn't give me the chance to pick up my own bag when he begins leading me towards the glass doors of the hotel.
It would be so easy, I think, to blame Joey for this. Maybe if he hadn't filled the bag with his drugs things might have turned out differently. Maybe if there was nothing but food, the man would have been bored and let me go. But I w
on't blame Joey, because I know that placing blame will get me nowhere. I should have dumped the drugs as soon as he had given me the bag.
But I don't even have time to blame myself, because as I'm dragged through the glass doors and into the hotel, I can't shake the feeling that I've just stepped through the gates of hell.
CHAPTER TWO
Stella
The hotel lobby is extravagant, and seemingly untouched by the world outside. Although its interior is dark, stripped of artificial lighting and lacking in windows, I can see just enough to notice the scrubbed-away stains on the carpets. Whoever has set up camp in this hotel has clearly made the effort to pretty it up. If one didn't know any better, you'd never suspect the faded splotches of being blood. Paint maybe. Or spilled wine.
I can just imagine the type of person that would have made the mess. A woman who stumbled in her high heels, clad all in pearls and fur. The type to shout, "Oh, dear!" and then look around to see if anyone had noticed her embarrassing blunder, not caring that she had gotten a few drops on her expensive coat because she has a trunk-full of them upstairs in her room.
I can almost imagine myself right there with her, on a holiday with my family, snickering in my brother's ear about how pretentious she looks. But the fantasy is ripped away from me by the prod of the gun, nuzzling itself into my back and shoving me forward. Reduced to an excited schoolgirl, my captor has not stopped giggling, muttering to himself about his new found trove of drugs. He doesn't seem nearly as interested in me, and I can only interpret this as a good thing.
Maybe, if I'm lucky, his friends won't be interested in me either and I'll be able to slink away while they all rip into their goody-bag. Of course, luck has not been on my side as of late, and I don't plan to count on it. Whatever plan I think of will have to rely entirely on me and me alone. If I include even an ounce of luck, I'll only be setting myself up for failure.