Within These Walls: Series Box Set

by Tracey Ward

  I can’t understand that statement and I can’t look him in the eyes, so I stick to what I know. Silence.

  He picks up a weapon; a tire iron. Not your average, store it in the trunk of your car tire iron. This one is long and incredibly sharp at one end, round and blunt on the other.

  “That’s really not the best—“ I begin, but he cuts me off with a smile.

  “It’s perfect.” He swings it around, spinning it back and forth, testing its weight and reach.

  I grab my go to weapon, the most used of them all.

  “Is that what I think it is?”

  In answer I whip my hand out. The baton extends to its full length of 16 inches. It’s all steel, all deadly.

  “It’s an ASP,” I reply proudly.

  “That is killer.”

  I can’t stop the chuckle from rising out of my chest. I flip it in my hand, offering the handle to him. He takes it up eagerly to test it out with a couple practice swings.

  “It can break bone, can’t it?”

  “Oh yeah,” I say with a nod. “It’ll crack skulls.”

  “Where did you get this and are there more of them?” He collapses it down then swings it out as I did, snapping the baton out to attention. He laughs when it extends.

  “I found it in an apartment years ago. It was the only one.”

  “Dammit.”

  “I know. I did a happy dance when I found it.”

  He hands it back to me. “You happy dancing? I can’t picture it.”

  “I’d rather you didn’t.”

  “I’d rather see it.”

  “That’s not going to happen.” I stash the ASP in my pocket and lift the wood from the door. “You ready for this?”

  “I’m always ready.”

  I look back at him, eyebrows raised. “How’s your hand?”

  He rolls his eyes at me. I hate the gesture so much I feel a little like punching him again. “I told you, I made a mistake. It was one time.”

  “Your one time mistake almost got both of us killed. It still might.”

  “I said I was sorry.”

  “No,” I say, shaking my head, “you did not. When did this imaginary apology happen?”

  “Well I meant to say it.”

  I lean back against the unsecured door, crossing my arms over my chest.

  “What?” he asks impatiently.

  “I’m waiting.”

  “Seriously?” When I don’t respond he sighs heavily. “Joss, I am so terribly sorry. Please forgive me.”

  His voice is dead, completely insincere. I continue to wait.

  He sighs again as his shoulders slump slightly. “I’m sorry.”

  “Thank you,” I say happily, popping up off the door and swinging it open.

  Before I head out into the hall I look both ways like I’m crossing the street. I’ve been blindsided by a zombie before. It’s like being hit by a truck that’s all teeth, drool and stink. It sticks with you.

  “Is this really a good idea?” he whispers as we step out into the hall.

  “Now?” I whisper back sharply. “You’re asking that question now?”

  “I’m just saying maybe we should wait until first light.”

  I know what he’s really worried about; squaring off with Risen with an untested partner. Fighting with the wrong person, or another person at all, can prove fatal. You put your faith in them to cover you in some way but what if they make a mistake? What if they fail you? What do you do then?

  You let the infected have them and you run, that’s what.

  Then you live alone and you keep your mouth and memory shut.

  I shake my head, not willing to let him use this lame excuse. It’s a shady way of saying I don’t trust you.

  “You know why that’s stupid.”

  “Because there will be more of them by then,” he mutters grudgingly.

  “Exactly. If we kill what’s out there now, they’ll work as a deterrent for others. They don’t come around their own stink.”

  “We’re gonna have to clear them though.”

  “No we won’t.”

  “What? Now who’s being stupid? You have to clear them or people will know you live around here. Dead undead on your doorstep is like a Welcome mat to Colonists. Your home could be compromised.”

  “It already is,” I say, my quiet voice dripping with venom.

  He touches my arm, stopping me. I make a point of looking up at his eyes and ignoring where he’s touching me even though the contact is searing my skin through my clothes. He does it like it’s nothing and I think to him, having lived with his brother and surrounded by other people, it’s just that; nothing. They probably touch each other all the time. To me, though, it’s everything and it’s almost as beautiful as it is frightening.

  “You’re talking about me?” he whispers, his brow furrowing.

  “Of course I’m talking about you. You know where I live. You know what I have. I can’t stay here anymore. When you leave tomorrow morning, so will I.”

  “For good?” I nod and he shakes his head, clearly annoyed. “You don’t have to do that. I swear to you, I’m not a threat.”

  “Maybe not now because you don’t need anything. But what happens in a month or so when the winter hits hard? What if you need something you know I have? What if your gang loses control of their home and it’s cold outside and you’re desperate? You’re swearing to me that you won’t lead them all straight to me?”

  “Yes,” he says, his eyes hard.

  I shake my head. “I don’t know you. Your word means nothing to me.”

  His jaw clenches as his hand tightens on my arm. He’s angry.

  “I hate the thought of you losing your home because you saved me.”

  I roughly shake off his hand. “You and me both.”

  When we get to the gate at the bottom of the stairs I miss the wolves. If they were still here the dead wouldn’t be. The wolves would have made quick work of them, shredding them to pieces and leaving nothing but a disgusting, comforting pile of gore and guts. The animals don’t eat the zombies. In fact, most of them stay clear of them, predators being the only ones who attack them. You can tell they’re around when deer go blazing by you down an alley or in the middle of a mall. Birds will take to the skies screaming and screeching like crazy. They’re a natural warning system but even they can fail you. Even the wolves will let you down sometimes.

  Waiting at the gate for us is a group of eight dead. Eight bobbing heads. Eight gaping, moaning mouths that I can smell from here, the thick rot of their insides wafting up and out toward us with each movement. Eight sets of hands clawing through the gate, some clawing through each other not caring if it hurts or if it’s right.

  It’s a lot of them. More than I’ve seen rounded up in one spot lately. They’re disappearing slowly, either being picked off by aggressive animals or by us, the remaining vigilante humans living in the wild. The people in the Colonies should be thanking us, maybe throwing a little of that homemade bread our way now and then for the service we’re performing. One day the outside world will once again be zombie free and they’ll have us to thank for it. The ones who refused to hide behind their walls and tend their fields. The ones still fighting the good fight. People like Ryan and I.

  “How do you wanna do this?” he asks. “Kill who we can through the gate? Open it up and try to shove them back into the street? Let them start coming up the stairs and pick ‘em off one, maybe two at a time?”

  “If we had a gun, I’d say kill ‘em through the gate.”

  “But we don’t.”

  I shake my head sharply. “Nope, we don’t. So that’s out. I don’t like the idea of getting out in the open with them where they can surround us.”

  “Right, going into the street is sketchy. We’d also have to push them back which means close contact in close quarters.” He looks at me with a grimace. “I sort of hate that.”

  “Me too,” I agree heartily. “But opening the gate and le
tting them come at us means close quarters too and we both have melee weapons. Can’t really get a good swing in this stairwell. Especially not side by side. We might accidentally hit each other.”

  He smirks. “Tell me how much that idea bothers you.”

  “At the moment, you’re more inconvenient to me unconscious or dead than alive.”

  “I’m glad you’re warming up to me.”

  I snort derisively.

  “So…” he says slowly. “What do you want to do?”

  I sigh as I rub my hand over my eyes, feeling tired. “Go back upstairs, eat dinner and watch another movie.”

  Beside me I feel his chuckle as much as I hear it. We’re pressed in tight together standing in front of this door with sixteen pair, wait, no an odd fifteen (someone’s missing one) opaque eyes staring at us.

  “What are we having for dinner?” Ryan asks.

  “Homemade waffles, hot off the skillet.”

  “With fresh strawberries?”

  “And whipped cream.”

  “Scrambled eggs.”

  “And bacon.”

  “Lots of bacon,” he says emphatically.

  My mouth is watering. I regret playing this game. My cold carrots and potatoes are going to taste especially bland now.

  “Let’s get this over with.” I glance at him questioningly. “Shove them back? Get the range to beat their heads in?”

  He nods once. “Sounds good. On my count?”

  “Go.”

  “Three… two… one!”

  I unlatch the gate and we kick it out toward them. It connects with the two that were pressed against it and shoves them back into the throng. They all jostle loosely, one falling down completely. I’d rather he’d stayed vertical because now we’ve got a potential ankle biter to worry about.

  “Crawler on my side!” I shout to Ryan in warning. “Watch the floor.”

  “Got it! I’ll cover you while you take him out.”

  As we push the horde back, avoiding snapping jaws and clawing fingers as best we can, I keep an eye on the floor. The group tramples over their fallen buddy, reluctantly giving up ground to us as we push them back with weapons held out against their chests. I have to let my mind go blank as we get this close to them, as we intentionally touch them. I can feel the texture of their skin beneath the remnants of their clothes. It’s waxy and disturbing in its cold malleability. I worry my fingers or knuckles are going to sink into their flesh, tearing through the skin and driving right down to the bone. And they wouldn’t even flinch.

  They’re hideous and strong, stronger than you would believe, but they’re also clumsy as hell. They push back against us hard but all it takes is a swift kick to the knee and they stumble, making it easier to push them. You just have to be careful not to get overzealous or you end up with more crawlers.

  I have nightmares about crawlers.

  When this one’s head is in sight and the horde is almost out the second doorway and into the street, I step quickly to the side, leaving Ryan exposed on his left. I don’t like doing it, to him or myself, but this guy on the floor has got to go. I lift the ASP and line up the shot like a golfer. When I swing the steel ball at the end toward his temple I know it’ll do its job. People I can’t count on but steel is a faithful friend. The resounding crack! that echoes through the entryway and reverberates all the way up my arms tells me this Risen is no more.

  I quickly fall in line beside Ryan again to help him push the remainders outside. Once we’re clear of the doorway we spread out slightly to give each other room but we keep our backs to the wall. You learn that real quick, alone or with an army. Keep your back defended.

  The dead heavily favor Ryan, probably drawn in by his injured hand and the blood readily available at the surface of his skin. Five of them move to surround him while only two stick with me.

  “Hell,” I mutter, not liking his odds.

  It shouldn’t bother me, but it does. I shouldn’t care if he makes it or not, but I do.

  For the second time today I play the reluctant hero.

  I step away from the wall and take a huge swing at the zombie closest to me. He goes down quickly, the side of his face soundly bashed in and turned quickly to gray mush. I ignore the other one who’s on me and I hurry to Ryan. My back is exposed making me feel naked in the cold night air, rain falling over me, matting my hair to my face. I take a quick, hard swing at the kneecap on one of Ryan’s zombies. It drops to the ground, unable to hold its weight on the badly broken leg. They don’t feel pain but a broken leg is still a problem for them. It’s like chopping off a hand. Whether they feel it or not, that limb is now useless.

  I do the same to another zombie, a young boy, only this time I take out his leg at the shin. The bone pops out through his skin, spraying his black tar blood over the sidewalk. He topples over. I want to say it bothers me brutalizing a child but it doesn’t. Live in this world long enough and the dead are just that – dead. It doesn’t walk like a child or talk like a child so it’s pretty easy to accept that it’s no longer a child. Moral qualms put to rest. If you’re uncomfortable with that, go join the Colonies.

  “Joss, your six!” Ryan calls out as he stabs the sharp end of the iron straight into a Risen’s eye. It slides in smoothly and the zombie crumples, slipping slowly off the steel.

  “I know,” I growl.

  I’m aware of it, have been the whole time. It’s about three paces behind me and closing. I spin quickly, bringing up the ASP and making contact on its face. I make sure to close my eyes and mouth when I hit it because sometimes you get exploders. Like a rotten pumpkin that blows up when you toss it against the pavement or kick it in. Dead and dusty as it may look, sometimes it retains some of its juices. This one sure does. I feel the spray hit me in the face and I immediately use the inside of my coat to wipe it clear. I’m not worried about infection, not really. Mostly it’s just gross.

  When I turn around, Ryan has taken out the crawlers I created and is working on the last of the standing. He rears back then slams the sharp end of the tire iron into the Risen’s mouth. It crunches when it hits bone in the back of the skull. Ryan immediately jerks down hard on his end, letting out an angry shout. It pries the zombies jaw off the hinges and I’m pretty sure it snaps the spinal cord. Either way, the dead get deader.

  “You okay?” Ryan asks, breathing heavy.

  His hair is soaked by the rain like mine and he runs his hand through it, spiking it up off his forehead. His eyes are big and excited from the adrenaline of the kill. I imagine that despite my bad attitude I probably look about the same. You never learn to like it, this life, but eventually you do learn to enjoy the highs. Being outnumbered by Risen and coming out unscathed, that’s a high. A big one.

  “Yeah, I’m great,” I say, almost meaning it.

  He glances around at our handiwork. “Let’s pull them into the building, stow them in an empty room.”

  “Why bother?”

  “Because that way no one will see them, not unless they’re already in the building. The rain will wash away most of this.” He gestures to the pooling black mess pouring out of the zombies onto the pavement.

  “I’m leaving anyway.”

  “But this could buy you some time. You don’t have to leave so soon.”

  “I have to leave when you leave.”

  He shakes his head as he runs his hand over his hair again, clearly frustrated. “Let’s just do this, let’s take care of this problem and we can sort any others out later.”

  “Fine, okay,” I agree, stowing my ASP and pushing my wet mass of hair out of my face. “Let’s pull them inside and get out of this rain. As much as I want a shower, I’m getting cold.”

  Chapter Four

  “You’re not in a gang but you’re trading with someone,” Ryan comments, munching on a carrot.

  We’re working through a bag of vegetables I’ve pulled out that I got from Crazy Crenshaw in exchange for meat. He’s not a hunter, not even close. He’s
a gardener. Of all kinds of things. All kinds of plants, if you get my meaning. He’s always trying to trade me certain herbs for the meat I bring him but I stick to veggies. Ryan was surprised at how large the vegetables are. Apparently Lost Boys are poor gardeners as well and I wonder if it’s not a skill possessed solely by the older generation.

  “Why do you say that?” I ask, averting his eyes.

  I don’t want to talk about Crenshaw. He trades with Lost Boys but I don’t know which ones exactly. I’m not about to go talking about him to someone he might want to avoid.

  He waves his carrot at me, getting my attention. “No way you grew this somewhere in here. Not unless you have a garden on the roof?”

  I shake my head. “There’s nothing on this roof.”

  “I didn’t think so.”

  “So what are you getting at?”

  He takes a bite of the carrot. “Nothing. Just making an observation.”

  “It feels more like an invasion.”

  “Or a conversation,” he says with a grin.

  I roll my eyes and take a sip of water from my canister, washing down the dry, cold broccoli I’ve been working on. And it is work. Unfulfilling yet nourishing work.

  “Does your gang trade in the markets?” I ask, changing the subject while offering him the canister.

  He takes a sip from it as well, his mouth on the cool metal almost exactly where mine was. I blush yet again. I’m setting a record or making up for lost time. It’s embarrassing either way. I don’t like things I can’t control.

  “You’ve been to the markets?” he asks, sounding surprised.

  I shake my head firmly, chuckling slightly at the idea of me showing up there. “No, never. But I’ve seen them happening. They’re hard to miss.”

  “Seeing all of us rounded up like that, it must be your worst nightmare.”

  “Crawlers.”

  “What about crawlers?”

  “Crawlers are my worst nightmare.”

  He nods his head. “That’s a legitimate fear.”

  “What’s yours?”

  “What’s my worst fear?”

  “Yeah. You know mine. Now you owe me yours.”

  He laughs as he leans back on his palms, looking relaxed. “No way.”