I didn’t mention the rabids, not wanting to look like a raving lunatic in front of these people we needed to convince. I suddenly understood Ben’s reluctance to talk about them at the clinic; it did sound like something from a horror movie. Ben’s father still wore a stone-faced expression, no crack in his flinty mask, but the other men looked rather pale and concerned, yet still unwilling to step in for us. I felt Ben’s gaze on me but didn’t dare turn to face him.
The tension mounted. Then the screen door banged, startling us all, and a woman rushed onto the porch. Tanned, bony, her steel-blond hair coming loose of its bun, she took one look at Ben and flung herself down the steps with a cry.
“Ben!” I stepped back as she embraced him fiercely, almost wildly, and he hugged her back. “Benjamin! Oh, you’re home! Thank God, I knew you’d come home! I prayed for you every night. Samson, look!” She turned to beam tearfully at the man on the porch. “Ben’s home! He’s come home.”
Tentative hope blossomed through me. Ben’s father pursed his lips as if he’d swallowed something foul, turned and vanished inside, slamming the door behind him. Ben winced, but the woman, his mother I presumed, didn’t seem to care. I felt a tiny twinge of longing, watching them, and swallowed the sudden lump in my throat. I would never see my parents again.
“Mom.” Ben freed himself from her embrace and turned to me, holding out a hand. “This is Kylie. She helped me get here.” His eyes met mine, solemn and grave. “I wouldn’t have made it this far if it wasn’t for her.”
“Bless you, dear.” I was suddenly enveloped in the thin, steely arms of Ben’s mother. She pulled back, holding me at arm’s length, sharp blue eyes appraising. “Thank you for bringing him home.”
I shot Ben a desperate look, and he cleared his throat. “Mom,” he began as she turned back, releasing me from her wiry grip. “What’s happening? Is everyone all right?” He paled, looking back toward the house. “Rachel. Is she...?”
“Your sister is fine,” Mrs. Archer said firmly, and Ben slumped in relief. I gave a little start, not having known he had a sister. “And if you’re talking about that horrid sickness, we heard what’s been on the news, before all the stations went down. That’s why your uncle Jack is here.” She nodded to the two men, who were walking back to their posts. “He lost everyone,” she whispered, her voice sympathetic. “Your aunt Susan, his three boys, all the farmhands. Except Shane, there. It was so horrible.” She shook her head, and tears filled her eyes. “I just thank God that it hasn’t spread out here, yet. I guess because we’re so isolated.”
Ben relaxed, as if a huge weight had been lifted from his shoulders. “Where is Rachel?” he asked, a smile creeping onto his face. “Did she move into my old room, like she always wanted?” He looked toward the house again, excitement and longing peeking through the worry. He looked very big-brother-ish then, and I smiled.
“She went to feed the goats a few minutes ago,” Mrs. Archer said, beaming. “Your sister has turned into quite the little goatherd, Ben. There’s an orphaned kid who follows her around like a puppy. It’s adorable, though we could do without her letting the thing sleep with her at night. But Samson can’t tell her no.” She sighed and pointed a finger over the distant hills, where a sliver of red hung on the horizon. “She’s probably out in the far pasture right now.”
A chill went through me, and by the blood draining from Ben’s face, he was thinking the same thing. At that very moment, it seemed, the sun slipped behind the tree line and shadows crept over the fields like grasping claws.
“Rachel,” Ben whispered, and took off, running toward the pasture and the darkness looming beyond the fence line.
Chapter Nine
“Ben! Where are you going?”
Mrs. Archer’s cry rang out behind us, but Ben didn’t slow down, his long legs hurrying across the field. I scrambled to keep up as he strode through the tall grass to the pasture surrounding the building and leaped the fence without breaking stride.
Squeezing between the boards, I followed. Sheep and goats scattered before us with startled bleats and watched us curiously from several yards away. A massive shaggy dog, pure white with a huge thick head, eyed us warily as we rushed across the field, but it didn’t appear threatening as long as we didn’t bother its herd.
In the farthest pasture, a small group of long-eared goats milled around a figure with a pair of buckets, bleating and trying to stick their heads into the containers. Just beyond them, beyond the fence line, the forest crowded forward with long, dark fingers.
“Rachel!” Ben called, and the figure looked up, a skinny girl of about twelve, light brown hair braided down her back. She gasped, dropping her buckets, which the goats swarmed over immediately, and sprinted into Ben’s arms.
“Benji!”
Ben hugged her tightly, then pulled back a little, shaking his head as I came up. “Hey, Scarecrow. I told you I hate that name— Ow!” he yelped as the girl hauled off and slugged him in the arm with a small fist. “What was that for?”
“Jerkoff!” Rachel snapped, scowling at him, though her eyes were bright and glassy. “You never showed up for my birthday, or Christmas, or anytime you said you would. Stupid jerk, making Mom cry.” She hit him again, and this time he accepted it, his expression going solemn. She glared at him, fists clenched, ready to continue the abuse. “Are you back for good? Or are you going to be stupid and leave again?”
“I’m back for good,” Ben told her. “I’m not going anywhere this time, I promise.”
That seemed to placate her, for her curious gaze suddenly shifted to me. At that moment, I noticed a small white creature sniffing around my legs: a baby goat with black legs and dark splotches down his back. It nipped the hem of my jeans, and I squealed.
“Davy, no.” Rachel freed herself from Ben and gathered the goat in her arms. “He’s not trying to be mean,” she explained. “He’s just curious.”
“Benjamin? Rachel?” Mrs. Archer’s voice cut across the field, and the older woman came striding up, shielding her eyes. “Are you three all right?” she asked, giving us all a worried look. “What’s going on?”
Ben cast a nervous glance at the forest and took a deep breath. “Let’s go inside,” he suggested, leading us all away from the trees and the shadows beyond the fence. “We...Kylie and I...have to tell you something. And everyone needs to hear it.”
* * *
“That’s the biggest load of bull I’ve ever heard.”
I bit the inside of my cheek to keep back a frustrated, snapping reply and faced Ben’s father calmly. “That is the truth, Mr. Archer. Believe it or not, but it’s true. We’ve both seen it with our own eyes.”
We were in the Archer family’s kitchen, huddled around the table. All of us, which was pretty impressive. The Archer clan, it seemed, was quite the large, extended family, with aunts, uncles, brothers and sisters, cousins, in-laws, nieces, nephews, even some farmhands, all packed into one room. When the plague had hit and people had begun dying, the Archers had sent out the call for everyone to come home, bringing the family under one roof.
Ben had not received this call.
“You’re talking about zombies,” Samson Archer said in disgust. “Walking dead people. Movie monsters.” He sneered. “You must think we’re mighty stupid.”
“They killed my friend,” Ben said softly, though I could hear the quiet anger below the surface. “They killed him, and he came back to life and attacked me. I have the scars to prove it.” He looked around the table at the grim, skeptical faces, and his voice grew even harder. “This is real. These things are real, and they’re out there, and they’re coming. If we’re not ready for them, they’ll tear this place to pieces and everyone here will die. That’s the truth of it.”
Silence fell as the reality of everything sank in. I could understand their skepticism, their disbelief. One person they might’ve shrugged off as crazy, but two accounts made them hesitate. Even if I was a stranger, I was still a doctor, and I
was from the city. And then, Ben pulled up his shirt, revealing the still-healing claw marks down his back, eliciting a horrified cry from Mrs. Archer, and that was enough to convince them that something was truly out there.
An older woman, one of Ben’s many aunts, spoke up, her voice shaking. “Shouldn’t we leave, then? We’re all alone here—”
“No.” Samson Archer’s voice cut through the suggestion like a knife. “I’m not going anywhere,” he said flatly. “This has been our home for eight generations, and I’ll be damned if some zombie apocalypse will drive me off my own land.” His steely gaze went around the table, and most everyone looked away. “Anyone who wants to leave, leave. Right now. Because the only way I’ll leave this place is in a long wooden box.”
Or in a rabid’s stomach, I thought ungraciously, but didn’t voice it out loud.
Ben stood up. “We’re not ready for them, not yet,” he said. “We have to get this house fortified if we’re going to stand a chance when they show up. We should start right away—I don’t think we have a lot of time.”
“Since when did you become the head of this family, boy?” Mr. Archer asked in a low, dangerous voice. “Last time I checked, I owned this land and this house, and you were the one who didn’t want anything to do with us.”
Ben paused. He took a slow breath, then met his father’s gaze. “Fine. What would you have us do?”
“We’ll start with the house.” Samson Archer raised his voice for the rest of the group, taking charge. “Fortify the doors, board up the windows. See if we can’t attach some of that old rebar to the frames from outside. After that, we’ll work on the barn—the livestock will need to be protected, as well. We’ll set up watches at night, and we’ll have a safe room the women can retreat to if something gets inside. Everyone got that?”
Everyone did. I was surprised and, reluctantly, a little impressed. Samson Archer might be a mean, sexist sonofabitch, but he knew how to protect himself and his land. However, as everyone at the table rose, preparing to carry out his instructions, Samson gave both of us the coldest, most withering glare yet, and I knew that, even if we survived the rabids sweeping across the land, our biggest challenge was going to be the man standing in front of us.
* * *
That first night, nothing happened. We fortified the old farmhouse, nailing boards across windows and installing a bar across the front door. The next day we continued to secure the house, creating a room in the basement that we could fall back to and lock from the inside if needed. When night fell, we set up watches on the porch and the roof, as the hilltop farm offered a fantastic view of the fields all the way to the woods. If anything came shuffling out of the trees, at least we would see it coming.
Nothing happened on the second night, either.
When the house was secure, we moved on to the barn where the goats and other livestock would be kept at night, closing all windows and reinforcing the heavy sliding doors. The barn became a virtual fortress; the livestock had to be just as well-protected as the humans, as they were the key to our survival now that the outside world was in turmoil. No more running to Walmart for steaks, eggs and milk. At least, not for a long time.
After the third night, people began to mutter. What if we were wrong? What if the house was too isolated to be in any real danger? What if all this work was for nothing? As the nights wore on, tension flagged, nervousness disappeared and people began to revert to their old habits and routines.
Ben and I kept pushing, however. Just because the rabids hadn’t found us yet didn’t mean they weren’t out there. During the day, Ben helped the men fortify the property, while I stayed in the farmhouse and helped the women as they gathered food supplies, water, medicine, candles, soap and other necessities. At night, when Ben wasn’t on watch, I would curl up with him beneath the quilt in the guest bedroom and we would make love, pressed tightly against each other in the darkness. And I would fall asleep wrapped in Ben’s arms, listening to his slow, deep breathing and basking in the warmth of his body.
One morning, about a week after we’d come to the homestead, I walked out onto the porch to find Ben and his father standing in the driveway. By Ben’s frustrated, angry gestures and Samson’s cold glare, it was obvious they were in the middle of an argument.
“And I’m saying we shouldn’t leave the farm,” Ben said, stabbing his finger down the driveway. “Dammit, you haven’t seen these things. You don’t know what they can do, how many of them are out there. Sending people into town is going to get them killed.”
“We’re low on ammunition,” Samson said in his flinty voice. “And the women are complaining that we’re running out of certain things. We need more firepower if we’re going to defend this house from your monsters. The town isn’t far—if we leave now, we can get the supplies we need and make it back by sundown.”
“You’re going to get everyone killed.”
“I don’t need your opinions, boy.” Samson narrowed his eyes. “This is happening, whether you like it or not. I’ve seen no evidence of your walking zombies, and the people in this house have to eat. We’re going into town, so get out of the way.”
“Fine.” Ben raised a hand. “Then I’ll come with you.”
“No, you will not.” Samson’s mouth curled into a sneer, and Ben took a breath to argue. “I won’t have you whining at us the whole trip,” he said, overriding Ben’s unvoiced protest. “We don’t need you. I’m taking Jack and Shane, and you can stay here with the women. I’m sure they can find something for you to do.”
Without waiting for an answer, Samson spun on a heel and continued down the driveway, where Jack and Shane waited in the back of an ancient-looking pickup. Ben watched them, fists clenched at his sides, until the truck bounced away down the gravel drive and disappeared around a bend.
“Dammit!” Ben turned and kicked the ground in a rare show of temper, sending gravel flying. “Stupid, stubborn old man!” He spotted me then, watching from the porch, and winced. “Hey. Did you hear all that?”
I nodded and stepped off the porch, slipping into his arms. “I’m sure they’ll be okay,” I told him, peering up at his face. “Your father is a bastard—sorry—but he knows how to take care of himself. And he knows not to stay out past sunset.”
Ben frowned. “I know he’s looking out for everyone, but he shouldn’t compromise people’s safety just to put me in my place.” He sighed and gazed down the driveway. “I wonder if he’ll ever forgive me for walking out on them.”
I didn’t have anything to say to that, so I just held him as we stood in the middle of the driveway and watched the road, as if we could will the truck and its occupants into appearing, safe and unharmed.
“I guess I should get back to the barn,” Ben muttered at last. Glancing down at me, his eyes softened. “You have apple peels in your hair.” He picked a sliver of red skin from my ponytail. “What have you been doing all morning?”
I grimaced. “Busy discovering that I became a doctor for a reason, since the mechanics of turning fruit into preserves is completely lost on me. I think your aunt Sarah was just about to ban me from the kitchen permanently.”
Ben laughed. Pulling me close, he kissed me deeply in the middle of the driveway. My stomach did a backflip. I slid my hands up his back and held him tight, feeling the hard muscles shift through his shirt. I wanted to take away his pain, the guilt still lingering in his eyes. Because, even though he was home, he wasn’t part of the family; as long as Samson kept him at arm’s length, he would always be an outcast. Just like me, a city girl and an outsider. Someone who didn’t know the first thing about goats, or chickens, or making preserves.
That was fine with me. I could learn. And Samson would eventually forgive Ben, or at least start treating him like a human instead of the mud on his boots. And if he didn’t, that was fine, too. We would be outsiders together, and maybe together we could save this stubborn family.
Ben suddenly pulled back, his gaze intense. One hand rose t
o stroke my cheek, sending little flutters through my stomach. “Kylie, I—”
“Kylie, dear?” Aunt Sarah appeared in the doorway. In one hand she held a long wooden spoon, covered in bits of fruit mush. “Oh, there you are. Are you ready to give this another go?”
We both sighed.
“You go on,” Ben said, reluctantly pulling back. “I have some work to finish.” He caught my hand as I drew away. “Will you tell me when Dad and the others get back? I’ll be checking in every five minutes, otherwise.”
“Sure.”
He looked as if he wanted to kiss me again, but Sarah was still watching us, so he gave me a quick peck on the cheek and left, striding away toward the barn. I stifled a groan and returned to the kitchen and the torture of canning.
* * *
The afternoon wore on, and Samson did not return.
A tense silence hung over the farmhouse that evening. Everyone knew the three men had gone into town, and by now, even if they didn’t quite believe the rabids were out there, we had at least made everyone nervous about the sun setting. Said sun now hovered over the distant hills, dangerously low and sinking lower with every minute. As Mrs. Archer and some of the women bustled about the kitchen making dinner, I busied myself with setting the table, finally free from my disastrous canning attempts. But every thirty seconds or so, someone would glance out the window and down the road, searching for headlights or listening for the rumble of a distant engine. Dinner was solemn, and afterwards, as the kids and women cleared the dishes, some of the younger men began arguing about sending a search party. Surprisingly, Ben was the one to talk them down, saying that we had to give them until sunset, that if we left now, we wouldn’t make it back before dark.
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