We run for another five minutes, Stout leading the way. I glance down at my watch.
“Mile thirty-five,” I say. “Only one hundred sixty-five miles to go.”
We round a bend of oak trees—and there, in front of us, out here in the middle of nowhere, is a house.
21
Breaking and Entering
THE HOUSE SITS IN THE middle of a large pasture, partially concealed by ancient, gorgeous oak trees. Stout stops and wags her tail at us, as if to say, See guys? I knew where I was going.
Frederico and I crouch behind a large patch of thistles, taking careful surveillance of the scene.
The old farm house has a deep front porch, peeling yellow paint, and second story dormer windows. To the right of the house are half dozen cars in various states of disrepair, all of them classics— two Mustangs, a Cadillac, and several cars with tail fins I can’t name.
A few hours ago, my first instinct would have been to see if any of the cars was in working order. Now, between the military blockades and the zombie swarms, I want to avoid all cars like the plague.
There are two cows in the field to the left of the house—both of them dead. Four zombies—two teenage boys and two adults—feed on the animals. A family, before the outbreak got them. And if a family in the middle of bum-fucked Egypt got infected, is there any place that’s safe?
“Do you think we can get inside?” I whisper. The property is surrounded by a pasture fence and topped with barbed wire.
Frederico gives me a look. “Do we want to get inside?”
“If we’re quiet, we can avoid the zombies,” I reply. “We really need food.”
He sighs. “I know.”
“Let’s try the fence. We can dig under it.”
There are natural dips and rises along the property. We find a small stream that has burrowed its way under the fence. We claw at the moist earth, slowly widening the opening.
As soon as Stout realizes what we’re doing, she jumps between us. She paws at the earth, sending up great gouts of dirt. Frederico and I fall back, grinning at each other and letting her work. Within minutes, the opening is wide enough for us to crawl through.
Frederico goes first, dropping into the muddy hole and wriggling through. I peer through the fence, watching the zombies eat the poor cows. They give no sign of having heard us.
I follow Frederico, grimacing as I slide through the mud. Yuck. Cold and wet. It slicks the side of my face and the front of my shirt and pants.
Stout is the last one through. The three of us stay near the fence line, edging around the perimeter of the property.
One of the zombies is a little girl, no more than seven or eight. Her profile is outlined against the brilliant green of the surrounding grass as she dines on a cow’s large intestine. The scene makes my stomach roil.
A long, low moan rolls across the pasture. I freeze, thinking we’ve been spotted. Frederico and Stout also halt, all three of us staring in fear at the zombies.
The sound rolls out a second time, and this time I recognize it for what it is: a moo.
One of the poor cows is still alive.
I look at Frederico. He shakes his head and continues on. There’s nothing we can do for the poor animal without risking ourselves. Stout tucks her tail between her legs and slinks away.
We reach the porch of the farmhouse. There are signs of violence: blood pools by the front door and smears down the steps; an overturned chair; a half-eaten finger on the floorboards. The gore makes my skin crawl, but now isn’t the time to let my nerves get the better of me. With Frederico on my left and Stout on my right, we mount the stairs.
The old wood creaks underfoot. We freeze, automatically glancing at the zombies. One of them—the father—turns his head in our direction, chewing on a bright-red cow organ as he does. None of the others look up. The father chomps away, white-eyed gaze rolling in our direction.
The ten steps between us and the front door suddenly seem like ten miles. Eyeing the stairs and the battered wooden porch beyond, I see a field of land mines. One wrong step could alert the zombies to our presence.
“We go fast and keep our steps light,” Frederico says. “Get inside and barricade the door.”
“What if the door is locked?” I whisper back. Logic says it’ll be open, since it appears the entire family is out in the pasture with the cows . . . but what if there’s someone else? A survivor? An uncle, or a grandma? Someone—or something—inside?
Frederico pulls off his pack, removes his shirt, and wraps it around his fist.
“If the door is locked, I smash through the glass panel.” He gestures to the small glass squares that fill the top half of the door, then winks and holds up his cloth-wrapped fist.
Holding up three fingers, I count down: three, two, one.
Tensing all my leg muscles, I bolt up the stairs and across the porch. I stay on my toes, keeping my steps as light as I can. Frederico does the same.
Despite that, the porch groans and creaks like an old man. Only Stout manages to whisper over the worn wood like a ghost.
We make enough noise to draw the attention of the zombies. The mother and teenagers lift bloody faces and turn in the direction of the house, but they don’t leave their cow buffet. The father, however, rises to his feet, moans, and takes a few steps in our direction.
Fuck.
I grab the door handle, giving it a desperate wrench.
Double fuck. It’s locked.
Frederico doubles back with his fist and rams it into the glass. In a decent display of prowess, he punches through a small pane on his first try.
As he extracts his cloth-covered fist, I dart forward and shove my hand through the opening. Some of the shards dig into my wrist as I fumble with the doorknob and turn the small lock embedded there. I try the knob—and the door swings open.
Stout, zipping past my legs, is the first one through the doorway. Frederico and I barrel after her. It takes every ounce of self-preservation not to slam the door. I force myself to gingerly close it.
There’s a dead bolt and a chain. I slide both of them into place, thankful neither had been in place before; they would have seriously complicated our breaking and entering. With only the doorknob being locked, it makes me suspect—hope—the house is deserted. During whatever violence had ensued when the family was turned, it would have been easy for the door to have swung shut on its own with only the bottom lock in place.
Still, it’s never safe to assume.
“Sofa,” Frederico whispers to me, moving across ancient, nasty shag carpet to a stained couch in the living room.
We each grab a side and move it in front of the door, then turn and scan our surroundings in silence. Nothing stirs.
With the living room cleared, we move on. Inch by inch, we make our way through the house. I’m armed with a screwdriver and railroad spike. Frederico has his lug nut wrench and hammer out.
We enter the family room. It’s crammed with furniture and a large array of video game equipment. It smells like cat urine, a stench that makes my nose itch. A quick sweep of the room shows it to be empty.
Next comes the office and kitchen. Both empty. In the kitchen are three black trash bags filled with empty soda cans and beer bottles. My mouth waters at the sight of a can of kidney beans sitting on the Formica countertop, but I force myself to look away. We can eat when we’re sure the house is empty.
We move up the stairs, Frederico in the lead. Blood spatters every stair. At first I try to step around it. After a few steps, I give up. I need to keep my eyes up and not worry about soiling the bottom of my shoes.
We find Stout in the upstairs hall, ears flat. She stares into what looks like the master bedroom.
Fuck. If Stout senses someone, it can’t be good.
I mentally steel myself to the reality that I might have to kill another zombie. God, I hope it’s not a kid zombie. Or a baby zombie. God, please no. Could I stab a zombie baby through the head to put it out of its
misery? I don’t know.
Nodding to one another, Frederico and I advance into the master bedroom, weapons raised.
The room is dark, the metal burgundy blinds lowered and closed. The bed is unmade, the comforter and sheets in a lumpy mess near the footboard. Goopy red stains mar the carpet.
The bathroom door is open. We pad forward, pausing every few steps to listen. I glimpse the edge of a toilet and yellowed, chipped linoleum.
Scratch-scratch-scratch.
The noise sends a jolt of adrenaline through my body. Heart pounding, I turn toward the sound.
There’s something inside the walk-in closet. The door is shut, trapping whatever it is on the other side.
Scratch-scratch-scratch.
Frederico moves to one side of the door, knuckles white on his weapons. He gestures to the door with his chin. I nod, sliding the railroad spike back into my pack and only keeping the screwdriver out. With my free hand, I grip the doorknob. My breath comes out in ragged, frightened gasps.
Steeling myself, I yank open the door. Frederico takes half a step forward, wrench raised over his head.
A small, black-and-white cat zips out of the closet, tearing past us and out into the hall.
Straight into Stout.
Yowls of alarm fill the air, followed by frenetic barking.
22
Portland Malady
“FUCK!” FREDERICO DARTS into the hallway with me on his heels.
We arrive in time to see Stout and the cat streak downstairs. Barking rings like a cannon in my ears.
“Stout!” I hiss, barreling past Frederico and racing after the dog.
There’s a humongous racket from the kitchen, followed by more barking and yowling. It takes me a second to register the sound.
The cans and bottles in the plastic garbage bags. They’re spilling all over the kitchen. And from the sound of things, Stout and the cat are right in the middle of the mess.
“Stout!” I race into the kitchen, fisting my hand in the scruff of the crazed dog. She strains against me, woofing madly at the cat.
The terrified feline stumbles over several beer bottles in its haste to get away. It streaks out of the kitchen under a barrage of barking. I brace both feet against the linoleum, struggling to hang onto Stout.
Frederico strides into the kitchen, face dark. Without hesitation, he cuffs the dog on the side of the head.
I suck in a surprised breath. Stout whines and stumbles from the impact. She looks up at Frederico, ears going flat.
“Bad dog,” Frederico tells her, his face a mask of fear and fury. “Bad.”
Stout presses her belly against the floor, tucking her tail between her legs. She stares up at Frederico with pleading eyes.
He ignores her, stalking out of the kitchen. A few seconds later, I hear a door close.
“Locked the fucking cat in the bathroom,” he says, returning to the kitchen. “You can let her up.”
Slowly, gingerly, I peel my fingers from Stout’s scruff. She slinks toward Frederico. He glares at her, then sighs, shoulders sagging.
“So much for keeping a low profile,” he murmurs, gently petting the dog.
A dull bump sounds from the side of the house. A heartbeat later, there are moans, followed by more bumping.
I feel sick. Creeping forward, I lean across the Formica countertop. Peeking through the once-white drapes that cover the window over the sink, I have a clear view of the south side of the property.
The father and son zombies kick the house with their feet and claw at the siding. The mother and other son draw near, reaching out with their hands.
As I watch, the father zombie inches to the side, following the contour of the house and heading toward the back. I jerk away from the kitchen curtain, as though the creature might sense my presence.
“It’s coming around the back,” I hiss. “We have to block the other door.”
We hurry toward to the back of the house, entering a room with a slanted floor that looks like it was once an outdoor porch. Somewhere along the line, it was converted into a laundry room.
I scan the narrow room, looking for something to block the door. If I wasn’t worried about making a racket, we could just tip over the washing machine.
“Over here,” Frederico hisses.
In a corner of the room is a six-foot cabinet made of cheap particleboard. He braces himself against one side. Understanding his intent, I position myself on the opposite.
“One,” Frederico whispers. “Two. Three.”
I heave. Thankfully, the cabinet isn’t too heavy. Things rattle inside as we lift it a few inches off the floor and shift it away from the wall. We set it down, rest, then move it again.
We shift it two more times before a broom falls out and clatters to the floor. An answering moan sounds from outside. I wince.
“Fuck it,” Frederico mutters. With a loud screech of particleboard against chipped linoleum, he slides the cabinet across the floor. The noise sends chills up my back.
“They already know we’re here,” he grumbles, wedging the cabinet in front of the door. “No use dicking around. Come on, let’s eat and get the hell out of here before they figure out how to get inside.”
Back in the kitchen, he dives into the refrigerator, pulling out everything edible. He piles up bread, cheese, apples, leftover pizza, and a six-pack of Coke. I rummage through the drawers, producing silverware and a can opener.
“Protein.” Frederico plops down two packages of lunch meat.
Without another word, we gorge ourselves. I throw open the greasy lid of the pizza box and inhale three slices of what looks like meat lover’s delight. Frederico piles lunch meat and cheese atop slices of bread, building a sandwich at least four inches high before shoving it into his mouth. With his free hand, he pops open a can of Coke, sucking down long draughts of the sugary liquid between bites of food.
I polish off the pizza and start in on an apple, simultaneously heading for the pantry.
“Carbs.” I place several cans of black beans on the counter. More rummaging produces several cans of SpaghettiOs, chili, and corn. I make my way down the counter, methodically opening each can of food as I go. Frederico seizes a can of beans and starts shoveling it into his mouth. I inhale two cans of SpaghettiOs.
Stout wuffles softly. Still on her belly, she looks up at us with woeful eyes.
Without saying a word, Frederico upends a can of beef chili onto the floor in front of her. She pops up, tail springing to life, and eagerly laps up the chili. I dump another two cans onto the floor for her, figuring she must be at least as hungry as we are. Frederico finds a mixing bowl and fills it with water for her.
I spot a radio—a boom box that looks like it was transported from the eighties—sitting on the kitchen counter. It’s covered in dust but otherwise looks intact.
I make sure the volume isn’t too high, then flick on the radio and am rewarded with a classic rock tune. I tune into the AM bandwidth, turning the knob and scanning the stations until I find a news station.
“. . . unknown malady has entered the United States through the port of Portland,” says the radio host. “The CDC has erected a containment unit around ground zero. They are working ‘round the clock to diagnose this unknown disease. All citizens with signs of infection are instructed to check in at CDC stations for immediate care.
“Though the CDC refuses to comment, there are rumors the illness is spread by bodily fluid. Initial symptoms are similar to the flu: fever, chills, and aches. If not treated within several hours, those infected begin to show signs of dementia. If left untreated, they will turn violent. In some cases, the infected have attacked and killed. There have been reports of over three hundred attacks and eighty-six fatalities linked to this unknown disease.”
Frederico and I spend the next thirty minutes listening to the news while we eat and drink everything in sight. I’m so hungry I barely taste the food as it goes down. My body burns up the much-needed fuel; life and ene
rgy return to me, filling me from my toes to my head. We chew and swallow in silence, making minimal noise so as not to miss a word of the news report.
“Military checkpoints have increased. Every major road out of Oregon has a checkpoint. New checkpoints have been erected in neighboring states in the cities of Boise, Redding, Eureka, and Tacoma. No one is allowed past the checkpoints unless they submit to a mandatory blood test.”
My mind boggles at the scope of the outbreak. Authorities are obviously trying to contain it, but it’s not working.
“Portland is under martial law. Citizens are required to submit to mandatory blood tests. Mobile blood banks have been dispatched to draw the blood while police round up citizens. Anyone found dodging the mandatory testing is imprisoned immediately.”
Frederico ventures into the freezer. He emerges with two gallons of ice cream. He passes the vanilla chocolate chip to me, prying the lid off a strawberry one in his hands. We sit together in silence, spooning huge mouthfuls of ice cream into our mouths.
“Flights in and out of Portland have been grounded. Military personal have been deployed to all ports in the United States. No signs of the Portland Malady have been detected at any of the other ports.”
Portland Malady. Is that what they’re calling it now? My mouth twists into a bitter grimace at the political sugarcoating.
Stout joins us, cocking her head and staring at us. With a shrug, Frederico spoons out some strawberry ice cream and plops it onto the floor. The dog chases it around the floor, tail wagging as she laps at the cold lump with her tongue.
“Joining us now is Charles Fitzpatrick, a member of the Portland longshoremen. He was a witness to the outbreak. Charles, tell us what you saw.”
The longshoreman launches into a gory retelling of attacks he witnessed from a small bathroom window.
Frederico and I sit slumped onto the dirty kitchen floor, leaning against the cupboards. We’re surrounded by the remains of our feast: empty cans, wrappers, and bags; dirty forks, knives, and spoons; crumbs, bread crust, and apple cores.
Undead Ultra Box Set | Books 1-4 Page 13