The Wilsons' Saga (Book 1): The Journey Home

by Gibb, Lew

  She smiled and shook her head. Just having the dogs for company would ease her mind. Maybe the zombies would freak Kodi out like the tree had, but for sure, Gary wouldn’t have been able to sneak up on her like he had with Kodi around. If nothing else, the commotion Mandy and Kodi would have made trying to lick him to death would have kept that little weasel from getting the drop on her.

  The conversation with Jerry about encountering “marauders” came back to her. She couldn’t see Gary doing any marauding, but the idea seemed more prophetic than humorous now. She regretted not taking Jerry’s warning about people more seriously. She regretted not taking everything he had said more seriously.

  She shook her head and took another bite of her Clif Bar. “More things to have no control over,” she said around the mouthful of energy bar. She only managed two chews before she rounded a bend in the path, and a knot of zombies surrounding a big SUV came into view. Rachel spit out the pasty wad and dove for cover. She ended up in a clump of tall grass about fifteen feet from the path and rolled another three feet into a clump of willow bushes before popping her head up to check on the zombies. Her breath came in gasps, and her heart, which had gone from zero to terrified in about three seconds, tried to hammer a hole in her chest. The SUV’s rear-end faced her way, and about ten zombies were shuffling around it like a bunch of teenagers at a kegger, pounding on both sides and the back. The atonal, rhythm-less thuds could have been a modern musical composition: Cacophony for Sheet Metal and Fists.

  “Damn, how do I get into these situations?” she muttered, shaking her head and focusing on the woman in the driver’s seat, who was cowering away from the zombies with her arms up and her mouth wide open in a scream Rachel couldn’t hear.

  “Maybe I should just shut myself in a fucking car and wait for someone to come help me,” she whispered while wondering what the hell she was thinking. Trying to save another person so soon after nearly being killed by her last rescue made her question her own judgement. Besides, she was supposed to have curled up and died already, wasn’t she? Or at least gotten mauled and eaten by the first horde she’d had the bad luck to come across. Thinking about everything that she’d done so far, she found it weird that she’d survived. Weird doesn’t even start to cover it. How about bat-shit crazy? Like the night before, when she’d run through those zombies, shooting and dodging like Laura-fucking-Croft on speed. Where the hell had that come from? Maybe Jerry was right about the will to survive. She’d done it without thinking at all. And, she had to admit, what she was doing was working, so she might as well keep doing it. there would be plenty more chances to get eaten.

  “Like this terrifying situation right fucking now,”

  Part of her mind, a part she wasn’t very proud of, noted that she could slip into one of the backyards bordering the greenbelt, loop around the mini-horde, and keep moving toward her goal. The idea was tempting. She checked her six again. “You know that’s not going to happen,” she whispered. “Why are you even thinking about it?” No one was sneaking up on her from behind, so she started crawling toward the fence closest to her. “And quit talking to yourself. The zombies will think you’re crazy.”

  Rachel slipped through a gate and made her way through the next two adjoining backyards until she was standing on the back patio of the house directly across from the SUV. The house was on a slight rise, and she could see the still-pounding zombies. It didn’t look like they had made any progress since she’d seen them last.

  “This crazy plan might just work.” Rachel drew the chef’s knife and turned away from the scene before she had a chance to think too much about what could go wrong, crossed the yard to the back side of the house and peered through the window in the house’s rear door.

  The living room appeared to be zombie-free, and the doorknob turned in her hand. While she cleared the house, the constant pounding on the vehicle outside made her grit her teeth, painfully aware of the woman trapped in the car, she made her way to the front door and checked the front yard before opening it and letting it swing wide. She retraced her steps to the back gate and, before she could chicken out, took a deep breath, yanked the gate open, and yelled, “Hey, assholes!” as she approached the SUV.

  Fear had constricted her vocal cords, and what came out her lips was more of a loud indoor voice. The three closest zombies turned her way—not the mass exodus she was hoping for—so she kept moving. The first two went down with well-placed thrusts that severed their carotid arteries. The wounds were still pumping blood when the third one’s I found food screech finally made the others turn away from the car. Rachel slashed a gaping wound in its neck and turned to sprint for the house. Before she did, she noticed there was a boy of about ten in the front seat with the woman.

  She checked as she went through the gate to make sure the zombies were all following, then dashed straight through the house to the front door where she waited—breathing hard and gripping the doorknob like a lifeline—for the eight zombies that pounded into the house after her. Just before the leader reached her, Rachel darted through the front door and slammed it behind her. The leader screeched and hit the door so hard, Rachel thought she heard it crack. She definitely saw the door shudder when the next one hit it with a deep thud. The sound of zombies hitting the door continued as Rachel sprinted around to the rear door and yanked it shut from outside.

  Then she went to save the woman and her kid.

  Without the surrounding horde of attackers, Rachel could see the front end of the SUV was high centered on a large rock. The boy watched with wide eyes as she circled the vehicle while the woman, who appeared to be in her early forties, kept her arms wrapped around the boy and her face buried in his hair. She didn’t seem to register that the zombies had left until Rachel tapped the driver’s side window with the handle of her knife. The woman jumped and looked at Rachel like she had appeared out of thin air, a mixture of fear and incomprehension on her mascara-streaked face.

  “You need to get out of there,” Rachel said, barely above a whisper.

  The woman didn’t move until the boy tapped her shoulder and said something. She looked at him and then back at Rachel like someone waking from a deep sleep.

  “Come on,” Rachel tried again. “We need to get moving.”

  The boy reached across his mother and pressed the lock release on her door handle.

  Rachel opened the door. “Thanks.”

  “Thank you,” the kid said. He smiled, revealing a pair of incisors that looked too large for his mouth.

  The woman’s vacant look continued.

  “Good job, kid.” Rachel swiveled her head. There had to be other zombies in the area that had heard the alert screech. “Let’s get your mom moving and get out of here.”

  Rachel checked again for approaching zombies as the kid climbed over his mom, grabbed her arm, and pulled her out behind him. The woman was going be a serious liability if she didn’t get her shit together.

  Rachel gave the woman a light slap on her cheek. “Hey!” she hissed.

  The woman didn’t move.

  Rachel gave her another slap, hard enough to make the boy wince. “Wake up! We need to move!”

  “Her name’s Cindy,” the boy said. “I’m Brent.

  “Rachel.” Rachel gave Cindy another tap.

  “Ow!” Cindy put a hand to her cheek. “You don’t have to hit me.” Her whine was like a fork on a chalkboard.

  “Apparently, I do,” Rachel stage whispered. “This is the first response I’ve gotten out of you. Let’s get going. And keep your fucking voice voice down.”

  Rachel turned and started down the path. Brent pulled his mother along.

  “No!” Cindy screamed. “We have to go the other way.”

  Rachel looked back. Brent was pulling Cindy’s arm with both hands, but she was digging in her heels and trying to go the other way. Rachel moved back to the pair. When she noticed the large pink, Coach purse dangling from Cindy’s elbow, her already low opinion of the woman d
ropped another notch.

  “Cindy, keep your voice down. You’ll have every zombie in the area after us,” Rachel hissed.

  Brent’s eyes widened. “I told you they were zombies, Mom.”

  Cindy pointed back the way they had come and yelled, “We need to go get your father!”

  Rachel grimaced and hunched her shoulders, eyes scanning the area. It was only a matter of time before all the caterwauling—to use another of her grandfather’s words—attracted more company.

  “All right,” she hissed. “Let’s get inside and talk about it.” She started for a house on the opposite side of the greenbelt with Brent and Cindy trailing behind.

  Chapter Fifty-One

  “Uh oh,” Alberto said, slowing the SUV.

  A guy in full camo stood in the center of the road. He was holding a shotgun in one hand with the stock resting on his hip. His other hand was in front of him like he was a traffic cop motioning for them to stop. They’d just rounded a corner a few blocks from the stadium into a transitional neighborhood where local breweries and whiskey distilleries were taking over the warehouses and auto shops that hadn’t already been snatched up by marijuana dispensaries. They’d been making good time, and Jerry had just been starting to anticipate his reunion with Rachel.

  “No!,” Jerry said, drawing the word out while checking behind them for attackers. The spot was a good place for an ambush, he realized. Their SUV was hemmed in on their right by chain-link fencing that ran alongside a long, low warehouse, and on their left by a row of semi-trailers parked against the curb. Alberto checked his own mirror as he brought the SUV to a stop about twenty feet from the man and the pick-up truck that was blocking the road behind him. It had massive wheels and a triple-roll bar filled with fog lights. A large white cloth was draped from its hood to its tailgate. Jerry read the spray-painted warning:

  Domain of Zebulan Picke

  Church of the Benevelent Redeemer.

  Keep Out!!!

  While his mind processed the abominable spelling, Jerry’s head snapped around again. The setup seemed like a scene from a movie—one where the guy in front of the roadblock distracts the unwary travelers, and his companions sneak up from behind.

  Alberto spoke in a low voice. “Isabella, Marco, on the floor.” The tone of command was unmistakable, and the kids obeyed without question. Jerry wondered if the last few days had impressed upon them the value of listening to their elders.

  Jerry rested his hands on the shotgun in his lap as the camo-clad man swaggered toward the driver’s side window. With the stock of his shotgun still resting on his hip, the man brought the barrel around so it pointed in their general direction. Jerry heard the click of Holly’s safety while he wondered if it would hurt to fire from that position. It could easily break the top off the pelvis’s iliac crest if it was positioned just right.

  “What can we do for you?” Alberto said.

  “You’re trespassing in the domain of the Benevolent Redeemer.” The man was almost screaming, and several veins bulged on his high forehead. “Surrender, or I’ll shoot you where you stand.”

  Jerry gripped the stock of his shotgun a little tighter when he noticed the man’s dilated pupils.

  “Hang on, now.” Alberto patted the air with his free hand. “No need to be violent,” Alberto continued in a calm voice. “We didn’t realize we were trespassing. We will just turn around and—”

  “Silence!” the guy screamed.

  Jerry was sure he was on something. Maybe psychotic, too.

  Holly opened her door and stepped out, keeping the automatic out of sight.

  Jerry imitated the maneuver on his side. He rested the shotgun’s barrel against the door, just below the window ledge.

  “Freeze!” the man yelled. His face was so red, he looked like someone on the verge of a stroke. “I am Zebulon Pike.” He pronounced it correctly while shifting his aim between Jerry and Holly. “And I am master of this domain.”

  Holly stepped around her door and moved to stand next to the front fender. When Picke’s barrel shifted toward her, Jerry sidestepped and raised the shotgun. A part of him realized that his focus on assessing Picke’s physical state had allowed him to go into paramedic mode. He’d sized up the situation and decided on a plan of action instead of standing there like an idiot while Holly did all the work. Holly nodded without taking her eyes off of Picke and backed away from the SUV while raising the M-16’s stock to her shoulder. Her dad and brothers had probably told her enough stories that she had a good idea how to behave in a standoff.

  “I think your sign is wrong.” Jerry used his calmest de-escalation voice. “It says Zebulan Picke,” Jerry said, pronouncing it phonetically, “and you might want to think again about who might end up getting shot here.”

  Picke shifted his aim from Jerry to Holly and back again. They were nearly one-hundred-eighty degrees apart, and he couldn’t rapidly move from one to the other. His eyes were glazed and bloodshot.

  “This is blasphemy.” Jerry could hear the frustration in Picke’s voice. “You’re trespassing.” Things didn’t seem to be going the way he’d seen them in his dreams.

  “We’re sorry about that,” Jerry said. “Like my friend said, we’ll just turn around and be on our way. As soon as you stop pointing that shotgun at us.”

  “This is my domain,” Picke yelled. He reminded Jerry of a three-year-old having a meltdown at an amusement park. Jerry worried he might just shoot out of impotent rage.

  “Just put the gun down,” Jerry said. “We don’t want to shoot you.”

  “Goddammit.” Picke’s voice was losing some of its strength. Jerry half expected him to stomp his feet and cry, but he lifted the barrel of his gun and pointed it at the sky.

  Jerry shuffled forward, slinging his own shotgun and making sure to keep out of Holly’s line of fire. Picke was breathing hard, and his jaw muscles were working like he was chewing a two-dollar steak. As soon as Jerry grabbed the man’s weapon, Alberto gunned the Suburban and started a u-turn.

  Jerry racked the slide and checked the area for zombies. The guy’s screaming had to have carried for blocks. “We don’t want any trouble,” he said, “so we’ll leave you to whatever it is you’re doing.”

  When the shells stopped spitting from the ejection port, he tossed the shotgun over the fence. He winced a little when it clattered along the asphalt. He hated to see a nice weapon ruined. “You might want to fix your sign, though.”

  Picke looked at the sign and back at Jerry with a confused expression on his face.

  “You better get somewhere safe. There are going to be zombies coming,” Jerry said, unslinging his shotgun and keeping it trained on Picke while backing toward the Suburban.

  Holly slammed her door just before Jerry jumped in. When he looked over, she was turned in her seat and looking back as they roared away. “I don’t know if we should have let him go.”

  Jerry followed her gaze and caught a glimpse of Picke starting to scale the chain-link fence before they rounded the corner at the end of the block. Then he was thrown against his door. Alberto had swerved around a zombie that was running flat out toward where they had just left. It barely slowed as the SUV kept going. Maybe Picke was screaming in his impotent rage.

  “What else could we do? I’m not ready to kill someone in cold blood. And we can’t drag him around with us.”

  “I guess not,” Holly said. “I just hope he doesn’t hurt anyone.”

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  A drop of blood landed on Rachel’s upper lip. She retched and finally summoned the strength to shove the dead female zombie off of her. She scrambled to her feet, spitting and scrubbing her face with her sleeve. Three bodies lay at the bottom of the stairs and in the hallway, and pools of their blood were already merging into a lake. She couldn’t believe how fast everything had turned into such a shit-show.

  After leading Cindy and Brent away from the greenbelt and the zombies that were almost certain to arrive in response to Ci
ndy’s screaming, they had entered the big colonial through the back door. The place was straight out of a New England architecture magazine with a center hall and stairs bisecting the house.

  Rachel had whispered for Cindy and Brent to stay put, then cleared the kitchen and family room before moving to the front of the house, thinking the place was going to be a bitch to clear by herself. As it turned out, the zombies didn’t have to be tracked down.

  She was about to enter the living room when a miniature zombie with a mangled face and a blood-soaked Barney t-shirt charged out of the shadows on the opposite side of the stairs. His bare feet made little slap-thump sounds on the black-and-white tiles in the entryway. She hesitated, both because he was so small and because his face was a fucking mess. And just like that, he had his chubby arms wrapped around her thigh and his teeth fastened to her hip. Rachel grabbed a handful of fine blonde hair and buried her knife in his neck. As soon as she yanked the blade free, the piranha teeth released her, and the body collapsed on her feet. The spreading puddle of his blood made her step back.

  Then something jerked her knife arm backward. Pain flared in her forearm, and her blade clattered to the floor.

  “Rachel?” The teeth gnawing her arm paused at the sound of Brent’s scream. “Are you all right?”

  The boning knife was already in her free hand. Rachel twisted and stabbed the pajama-clad man in the face. The blade penetrated his eye without the slightest resistance, and her fist slammed into his nose. The man was still falling when the distinctive zombie screech ripped into her ears.