Scavengers

by Nate Southard

  Finally, he turned away from the doors and walked down a short hallway toward Tandy’s stockroom.

  ————————————

  Blake reached the front yard of a broken two story, and his boots sank into an inch of mud. He’d forgotten all about the spring rains and what they had done to the ground. The lawn squelched as he ripped his feet free and tried his best to maintain some kind of speed.

  “Ah, shit! Sweet, jumping shit!” The curses only robbed him of breath. The mud tugged at him.

  He heard the zombies snarl in some sort of triumph, almost celebrating his sudden deceleration. The sound thrust spikes of fear into his legs, and he dug deep to find more speed. He charged across the wet yard, arms swinging. Squelching sounds behind him said the dead had bogged themselves down, as well. He still had too far to go before he’d reach safety to find the sounds comforting, though.

  The slog from street to side yard felt like a month-long wrestling match. He plowed through mud and wet grass, fighting for every inch and trying to ignore the sounds of starvation that threatened to crash over him like a hungry wave. Only as he reached the two-story’s side yard did the ground dry out enough for him to sprint again. He poured on as much speed as he could muster, pounding the mud from his shoes with each step.

  A chain link fence separated the home’s backyard from the front. Privacy boards surrounded the neighboring yards. Blake raced for the chain link, picking up as much speed in a dozen steps as his tired legs allowed.

  He shoved off with his right leg and leaped, trying to hurdle the fence. His left leg cleared the metal links, then his body. He started to arc downward, actually believing he’d done something to help his situation, and then his right foot hooked the top of the fence and sent him slamming into the grass. Tightening one fist around the shotgun, he reached out with his other hand. His palm slipped over the wet grass, and then his cheek did the same. Pain exploded from his bruised shoulder as it crunched against the ground. He ignored it, clambering to his feet in a clumsy, terrified burst of energy.

  He heard a zombie land in the grass as he bolted for the back fence. Two more touched down a second later. Their hungry screeches filled his ears but failed to block out the sound of still more zombies smashing into the fence without making a single effort to clear it. Maybe his little idea hadn’t been a terrible one.

  He tossed the pump-handle over the eight-foot privacy fence that stretched along the yard’s rear edge. Two more steps, and he jumped again. He grabbed hold of the top of the boards and pulled, trying to boost himself over into the next yard. His arms and ribs burned as he dragged himself upward. His feet kicked at the old wood, slicking it with mud. He brought his chest over the top, then his stomach. Another foot and he could pivot over the top.

  Strong fingers closed around his ankle and pulled. He screamed as he nearly fell from the fence. More fingers raked at his other leg, struggling to tear through his jeans and get at the flesh beneath.

  He lost his grip and slid down the fence. His jacket bunched up as it scraped across the ridge of timber, new cuts joining those that already decorated his stomach and chest, and he let out a pained grunt as the same ridge slammed into his armpits. The collision dazed him, and he almost let go of the fence. Teeth clamped down on his ankle, and reality snapped back into focus with the force of an atom bomb.

  He pulled his feet in, bending his leg at the knee as quickly as he could manage. Screeches of protest greeted him as his mud-slicked legs slipped free of the zombies’ grasp. The dead men lurched forward, and he kicked them both, sending them sprawling.

  He scrambled over the wall with renewed frenzy. He climbed, kicking his legs at the fence until his weight carried him over and he crashed to the grass on the opposite side. Wind blasted from his lungs as he landed on his back and side. Something cracked, and at first he thought it was a bone. He patted himself down, trying to hitch in a breath and examine himself for damage at the same time. His hand found the shattered remains of his walkie-talkie. So much for letting the others know he was all right.

  He staggered to his feet as he heard the rasping dead men slam into the opposite side of the fence. The wood rattled up and down the length of the yard.

  He stumbled away from the wall of timber like a punch drunk tough deciding whether or not he wanted more. Once he found his shotgun, he picked it up with cold fingers. He tried to walk and dropped to one knee. Then he groaned and climbed back to his feet.

  More snarls appeared on the opposite side of the fence, and he knew the zombies had either figured out how to navigate the chain link, or enough of them had hit the fence to tear it down. He looked to the top of the fence as a set of torn, desiccated fingers grabbed hold. So they could figure out that much. It meant he needed to get moving again.

  A face with a ragged pit where its left eye should be rose over the top of the fence. It opened its jaw and rasped a threat. Blake raised the shotgun and fired. The skull disintegrated along with a half-circle of wood.

  He heard more impacts along the fence, bodies slamming against boards in a mad attempt to reach him. Backing away, he looked around for an escape route. The privacy fence sealed in the yard and kept him hidden from view. He could use that to his advantage. Examining his possible escape routes, he decided to go left, away from the center of town. He ran to the fence and boosted himself over, amazed at how much easier the feat was when you didn’t have two cannibals grabbing at your ankles.

  The thought reminded him of the bite on his ankle. He needed to check it, make sure his attackers hadn’t broken his skin. Once he found a moment of relative peace, he’d make sure he wasn’t dying or infected or any of it. But first he needed to get away from the pack of man-eaters on his tail.

  Another privacy fence surrounded this yard. Good. He crossed the grass and hopped over into the next patch. More wooden fencing. He looked back the way he’d come and listened. The zombies didn’t sound any closer. He imagined their primitive brains would keep them from finding him so long as he stayed good and quiet. Most of them had probably forgotten what they’d been chasing in the first place.

  He examined the house that stood next to him. Another two-story. A sliding glass door and pair of bay windows provided access to the house. None of them provided much in the way of security, especially not with most of the glass shattered inward, but he’d be pretty safe if the zombies couldn’t find him. Even if they did, he could control his defenses rather than have dead men swarm him from all sides. In the meantime, he could keep an eye on the grocery from the upstairs windows, see when Morris and Chris returned for Eric.

  He stepped through the sliding door, careful not to touch the jagged rim of broken glass that jutted from the metal frame. More glass crunched beneath his shoes, and he cringed, hoping the sound hadn’t carried far enough for the dead to hear. He took another step, this one even more cautious, and soon he was clear of the pebbled shards.

  He stood in a dining room. A kitchen opened to his left. He stepped into the room, making himself a little less visible to anything that might wander into the backyard, and checked his ankle. He lifted his pants leg and almost cried when he saw nothing had broken through the leather of his high top. Just to make sure, he jabbed a finger into his shoe and found his skin to be intact. He sighed.

  “Made it this far, Baby.”

  He dropped to his knees and breathed deep. It felt impossible that he actually had a moment to catch his breath. He yawned as his waning adrenaline left him exhausted. Even the dirty tile floor he knelt on looked comfortable enough to use as a bed.

  No. He had to make sure the rest of the house was safe, and then he had to get upstairs and keep an eye out for the others. Just because he’d survived a trip through four yards didn’t mean he could make a life here. He still had to get back to Millwood, back to Holly.

  “Right,” he whispered to nobody in particular. He climbed to his feet and brushed off his knees. He stretched his muscles, feeling them already begin t
o ache, and then he left the kitchen to inspect the rest of his hiding place.

  SEVENTEEN

  Eric stood in darkness. Sweat popped up on his forehead and ran down his face. As he felt his way down the short hallway, he listened to the stockroom beyond. It was still and silent. He thought maybe he should find the quiet comforting, but that wasn’t the case. He knew silence didn’t mean anything but the possibility of an attacker hiding, waiting. The thought sent a shiver over his skin.

  When he fished a tiny steel flashlight from his pocket and clicked it on, things just got worse. The thin beam cut through the darkness. The way it illuminated just a slice at a time took him back to his last night in Chicago.

  “Ah, hell,” he said.

  ————————————

  He woke up beneath the table, his shoulders raw and bleeding. Matching quartets of stinging furrows marked the skin there, and he knew Renee had dug them with her nails. He touched them, found them sticky with drying blood.

  He sat up, and the blossoming pain at the back of his skull jostled his memory. Aw Jesus, he needed a line. The coke that remained in his system had started to fizzle instead of crackle, less white hot current and more wet cigarette. He could bump, find Renee, and then pound a little respect into her. Maybe he’d pound it in her ass this time.

  He shambled into the kitchen, feeling his way through the darkness. He’d left his bag of powder on the counter, more than enough to last them the weekend. Do a quick cut and then find Renee.

  Where was she? It sure was quiet in the house. Girl must be hiding.

  He grabbed hold of the counter and felt along to where he thought he’d left the bag. Slowly, he stood again and ran his hands over the marble countertop. Nothing, a little gritty residue that might be some coke. He sniffed if off his fingers and found that, yes, it was cocaine. It fueled him a little, but just enough to bring his need into sharper focus. He had to get a line up his nose before he went psychotic.

  His fingers scrabbled over the marble, searching for the bag. It should be right here. What the fuck? It hadn’t gotten up and walked off, and nobody could have run away with it.

  But that wasn’t true at all, was it? Somebody could have made off with the bag.

  “Renee?”

  No answer.

  He looked around the kitchen and found nothing but indistinct shapes in the darkness. A fucking Midnight Party. Brilliant idea right up until the moment he needed a bump and couldn’t find one. Jesus Christ, was she just fucking around with him? It wasn’t funny, that was for damn sure.

  He was in the kitchen. There had to be a flashlight in there somewhere, in a drawer or cabinet under the sink. Right, and what was he going to cut his hands on while feeling around for a magic light stick?

  “Renee! Hey, where’s the fucking coke?”

  His voice echoed through the house, but he received no answer. Sweet Jesus, she was going to drive him insane.

  His hands curled into fists as desperation and anger stroked him with scabbed fingers. How in hell was he supposed to pull this off? He needed a light to find Renee, and he needed a damn miracle to find a light in the first place. A growl escaped his throat, and he thought a scream might follow it if he didn’t figure this mess out in the next few seconds.

  His growing cry twisted into laughter when he remembered the refrigerator. It wasn’t a nice laugh, but a hollow, shaking, cold sound that bounced around the kitchen like a cue ball made of bone. It sent dual shivers dancing up his arms. He decided to remain silent for a few minutes.

  A few seconds of feeling his way past the sink and stove brought him to the fridge. He grabbed both handles and opened the fridge and freezer together. Pale, sickly light washed over the kitchen.

  “There goes that rule,” he murmured. A shrug followed it. Fuck the Midnight Party. What use was it if he couldn’t find his stash or piece of ass? Simple -

  no good at all.

  He checked under the sink first, found a collection of cleaners and neatly folded washrags and hand towels that probably hadn’t been used by anybody but the cleaning lady. A box of SOS pads stood at full attention, but there was no flashlight. Not even any candles or matches.

  The other cabinets turned up the same result. He started on the drawers, and the third one he pulled was the winner. A small Maglite rested next to a collection of pens and notepads. He grabbed it and twisted the end until the bulb flared to life. The flashlight burned brightly, the batteries fresh or close to it.

  “Hey there, Renee. You can run, but you can’t hide.” He closed the refrigerator. The flashlight’s beam sliced through the dark kitchen like the blade of a sword. He swung it back and forth a few times, making lightsaber noises with his mouth, and giggled. Okay, so maybe the coke hadn’t completely worn off yet.

  He left the kitchen and swiped the flashlight’s beam over the dining room. He saw the shattered plates and a good red wine stain, but no Renee. It hadn’t occurred to him to worry about her yet. She was playing a trick, probably trying to scare him, jump out of a closet screaming her head off or something like that. Or maybe she’d walk up behind him, reach around to grab his cock and start tugging. He wouldn’t mind that. Maybe he’d even be a little gentle with her this time. She’d probably hate him for that, though. Whatever. He’d give her something to think about later.

  He moved from the dining room into the hallway. If she had gone anywhere it was probably to the bedroom. She always liked to spend a lot of time in there on the first night of their weekends. It usually wasn’t until the next morning that the other rooms of the house came into play.

  “Don’t think I won’t find you!” he called down the dark hallway. “It’s only a matter of time, baby. I’m coming, and when I find you you’re gonna have a lot of explaining to do.” The grin on his face stretched. Once he had a few lines burning through his veins, the party could get cooking again.

  He crept down the hallway as silently as he could manage. The floor barely creaked beneath the soles of his bare feet. She’d never hear him coming.

  “That’s right, baby,” he whispered. “Coming to get ya.”

  He slunk toward the bedroom door, dropping into a slight crouch. He felt laughter bubble in his gut and fought to keep it down there where it belonged. Last thing he needed to do was give himself away. Even if Renee knew he was on his way, he wanted to give her a bit of a shock.

  He covered the flashlight with his hand. Enough light spilled between his fingers to let him make out the door. He stepped to within a few feet of it and waited, drawing in his breath and releasing it again, deciding what he wanted to do.

  He set his left foot and raised both hands over his head. He carried the Maglite like a dagger, and he roared as he removed his other hand and let the light out once again. Kicking open the door, he charged into the bedroom like an escaped maniac.

  But Renee didn’t scream. She made no noise at all, didn’t jump or cringe or show any sign that she knew he was there. She lay on the bed, naked and still, eyes glazed and staring at the ceiling, just a few inches above her crusted nose and blood-smeared mouth.

  Something cold and heavy appeared in Eric’s stomach. His guts swirled around it, growing tighter and tighter, dragging down on his pounding heart. Sweat slicked his skin, and suddenly he was freezing. He tried to move but couldn’t. He stood in the doorway, naked and covered in scratches, his eyes red and wet, his nose running and begging for powder. When he tried to speak, something clicked in his throat. No other sound came.

  He stared at Renee’s splayed body, trying to make sense of it and trying to figure out what to do. His bag of coke had been ripped open and dumped on the nightstand in a mound the size of a woman’s fist. A few clumsy attempts at lines spread out from the pile, but what really sealed the deal was the vaguely nose-shaped depression in the tiny snow drift. She’d gotten greedy, just dived in with everything she had.

  “Aw, hell.” He wondered how much coke the girl had in her system. What had been
the magic dose to kick her past high as a kite and all the way to crash and burn?

  He stepped forward, unaware he’d moved. Something in his brain caught up and asked him what he was doing. He had to know if she was really dead. Maybe she was still breathing, had some kind of heartbeat working in her chest. If that was the case, he could call an ambulance and beat feet before they arrived. He’d stick around, but she wouldn’t want him going to jail for her mistake.

  He told himself that last part again, almost believed it.

  He returned his gaze to Renee’s body and realized he was now standing over her. Carefully, he reached out and took her wrist in his hand. Her flesh was cool, and he didn’t think that was a good sign. He ran his thumb along the inside of her wrist, searching for a pulse but finding nothing, so he leaned in and placed his ear just above her nose and mouth. For a long time he hovered there, listening for any sign of breath, trying to hear anything beyond the hammering of his pulse in his ears. He felt nothing, heard nothing. She didn’t respond when he waved his hands in front of her eyes. His guts twisted tighter still as he ran out of ways to deny Renee was dead.

  He stood up straight but continued to stare at her limp, pale form. His skin tingled and flashed hot and cold, hot and cold. He clamped his jaw shut. If he opened his mouth, he’d scream. His breath whistled through his nose, but it didn’t feel like enough air. Hot panic settled like a shroud over his body and threatened to suffocate him.

  He needed to leave. At the end of the day, that was all he could do. Renee was already dead, had been for God only knew how long. He couldn’t do anything for her. Paramedics couldn’t do anything but pull a sheet over her face.

  He could just grab his shit and go. Renee’s husband would find her Monday afternoon, and he could deal with it then. If the guy didn’t know his wife was a coke-fiend, now was a good time to learn. Sure, it would be hard on the guy, but maybe he should have kept a closer watch on his little trophy, figured out what she was sucking up her nose when he wasn’t home.