The jeep bounced along, running over corpses and swerving around the many smaller wrecks littering the highway. The other two vehicles, an armored personnel carrier and an ancient Dodge van, did the same. The environment seemed strange, even for a world where the undead roamed. The bare ground on either side of the road was a glimmering shade of brown. Water congregated in deep pools on the sides of the highway. Everything—from the interior of the few cars they stopped to investigate to the mall parking lots—was soaked.
The stores. That was the other strange thing. He thought about their treks to the different townships on their way to Richmond and how barren everything seemed. Shops had been ransacked, leaving virtually nothing of use behind. Yet once they crossed the Virginia border, everything changed. While they were in a state of disrepair, with leaking roofs and crumbling siding, most shops and businesses still contained valuables. Sure, there were signs of looting—smashed front windows, cans and debris scattered across the floor, messages scrawled on the walls—but the sheer volume of what remained was astounding. Even the gun sellers—always the first to empty out—were filled to the brim with weapons. It baffled him.
“Why’s all this shit still here?” Cody asked Herb Crane, who rode with him in the jeep. “And why’s everything all wet?”
“No clue, Jacks,” the older man replied. Crane had been with him for a long time, from the Army all the way up to the People’s Militia, and was one of the few people allowed to call him that name.
“It’s weird,” said Cody.
Herb nodded. “Sure is. But I guess it’s not that weird. Hell, it was raining like the dickens down in Macon all winter. You remember?”
“Of course. What’s that got to do with anything?”
“Well, what woulda happened if that was snow instead? I mean, whaddaya think we got, forty inches or so?”
“Sounds right. Maybe more.”
“Think about it. Oh wait, that’s right, you grew up in Florida. You probably never been up north, eh?”
“Nope. Florida, Texas, Afghanistan, Kentucky, Georgia. Shit, I never even seen snow before.”
“Think of it this way, Jacks. Remember the sandstorms that used to hit us out in the Afghan desert? Remember how the sand piled up and we had to camp, then dig our vehicles out when it ended?”
“Yeah.”
“Imagine that same experience, only it’s fucking cold and the shit keeps falling, and falling, and falling. I reckon folks wouldn’t be moving around much.”
Cody shrugged. “Guess not.”
Herb winked. “Think we just answered the question then, eh?”
“Guess so. Hey Herb?”
“Yeah?”
“Quit being a dumbass and get my things. I think I see a town up ahead.”
That town, just like most others, was a waste of time. The group of eight had already gathered more weapons and provisions than they could fit into their vehicles, so the ample inventory did them no good. What they needed, of course, were people…and just like everywhere else on their journey, those seemed to be in sparse supply.
West Virginia ended and they kept following I-79 north into Pennsylvania. The ho-dunk little towns they ran across there were a little more helpful than those they’d come to previously, but not by much. There was one building, a rundown motel just off the highway, which showed signs of life. The folks in there had bolstered the place with rotting boards and beams from dismantled beds and chairs. A lot of them were sick and dying. They eyed the new arrivals with suspicion and weren’t very cooperative. Only when Cody gunned down the old woman everyone in the place labeled as the one in charge did he make any headway. After a few more snaps with his Polaroid, they rounded up three teenage boys, the oldest being eighteen, and loaded them in the APC, leaving the rest to rot.
From there it was a steady drive north. Until that point, remembering the hazards they’d faced in Richmond, they avoided the urban areas. But now, as Cody looked around and saw just a few staggering zombies while the rest lay prone and unmoving, he decided it was worth the risk and turned to the west, heading for Pittsburgh. It wasn’t like suburbia had been a bounty of riches.
That risk paid off.
Cody stood on a bridge overlooking the Monongahela River with his hands on his hips and stared at the expansive, wrecked city. Herb strolled up beside him.
“Whaddayou see, Jacks?”
Cody pointed his finger off in the distance. “Look over there,” he said.
Herb squinted. “Is something flashing?”
“Sure is,” Cody replied with a grin. He felt the blood pump through his body as excitement took over.
“What’s it mean?”
Cody cuffed his old friend on the back of the head. “Think about it, you stupid fuck. It’s a goddamn signal! It’s a fucking distress call. And who would leave a distress call?”
“Um…people?”
“Exactly. It’s not like the dead fuckers exactly want our help.”
With that, Cody hopped back into the jeep, gunned the engine, and sped down the bridge. The flickering light kept going the whole time, consistent as clockwork.
* * *
When Marcy Caron was fourteen years old, her friend Lindsey Cooper’s father was in a horrible car accident. He’d been flown by helicopter to the nearest hospital, where it took two weeks of surgery—and more than a few days of panic by Lindsey and her mother—to repair his fractured cranium, broken arm, pelvis, and leg, and numerous internal injuries. The doctors weren’t sure, even after the procedures were finished, whether he’d ever live a normal life again.
Marcy consoled her friend, who was kept out of school for the duration of her father’s hospital stay, the only way she knew how. She spent virtually every night at the Cooper house, dining with them and keeping Lindsey informed of all the “important” school-based developments; who Johnny Marsh was dating, whether Paige Roberts had given Todd Klute a blow job, expressing concern over the fact that April Gagnon had begun cutting herself again. Lindsey listened to her rattle on and on, hanging on every word as if this giant soap opera was necessary for her continued existence. She didn’t talk much about her father, the accident, or her concerns about how much different he might be once he came home. It seemed that she had simply accepted the fate handed down to her, deciding life must go on. She even said as much on one occasion.
And yet Lindsey was always heading to the hospital to visit her dad, and whenever that happened she revealed her true mind-set—the sadness, the despair, the fear of the future. Marcy felt sorry for her, but relieved at the same time—relieved because it wasn’t her father in that bed, it wasn’t her father that might come back a different person.
In time, the superficial wounds Lindsey’s father had suffered healed, and he was sent home. Marcy joined Lindsey in celebrating the news. Both girls were confident that life would go back to normal, that everything would be good again.
It wasn’t.
Mr. Cooper’s road to recovery was marked by wounds that no instrument would ever be able to find. His brain carried with it the memory of the accident, of the death of the other driver and her child. Though it had been her that hit him, he was still thrown into a deep depression. He shut himself off from Lindsey, from his wife, from everyone. Lindsey told Marcy that the psychiatrist said these things just took time, and everything would be okay in the end.
Once more, it wasn’t.
One the two-year anniversary of his accident, Lenny Cooper killed himself, swallowing every bottle of prescription medicine in the house. Lindsey was obviously devastated, which caused a rift to form between her and Marcy. She didn’t laugh with as much bluster afterward, didn’t take the time to pen the flowery poetry she so loved, lost interest in gossip and boys. In many ways she became like her father—passive, melancholy, and detached.
Marcy distanced herself after that. She didn’t understand Lindsey’s pain, but most of all she didn’t understand how Mr. Cooper could kill himself after he’d strug
gled so hard to reclaim his life.
Not, that is, until she experienced the same thing.
She lay in bed, a good three months after winning her battle with Percy, the beast that haunted her unconscious mind, and wanted it all to end. The creatures that used to moan outside, the lack of electricity and entertainment, the constant well-wishers she knew were frightened of her, the crap food she ate on a daily basis—everything. She turned to the window, saw a ray of sunshine flash between a gap in the curtains, and wondered why the sight of dust dancing in the light didn’t bring her joy as it always had. She closed her eyes, hoping to wish it all away, and then the voices came. They arrived hard and fast, a hundred different minds casting a hundred different patterns of thought her way, filling her head like a water balloon before it burst. It was very similar to what she experienced as a child whenever she was stricken with a high fever, only now they assaulted her every day. It had been this way since the morning after she woke up from her long coma, and all she could think about was jamming a knife into her wrists and letting the pain bleed out. Marcy quickly opened her eyes and the voices faded, at least a little. She felt on the verge of tears, tired, malnourished, and in desperate need of sleep she could never get, for she always woke up screaming.
She was in hell.
The voices were the biggest thing standing between her and a full recovery. She worked hard, teaching her limbs to move again the way they once did. Therapy was painful work, constantly grinding her sore, underused muscles to the point of agony. There were times she felt like simply lying there, but then Billy would show up, the gruff teacher who’d helped her save herself, and fill her with hope. He stayed with her during her long, sleepless nights, comforting her, trying to help her deal with the ache of both body and mind, even though the voices did everything they could to drive her insane.
That was the worst part of it all—the fact that she had no clue where these invading snippets of thought came from in the first place. At first she thought she might be schizophrenic, just as her parents had assumed when she first told them about Percy. But then one day, as Billy and Leon, the kind man who’d brought her to the hotel after she’d been bitten and lay dying on the street, sat by her bedside, she heard the two of them through the clatter, loud and clear. She saw in her mind’s eye Billy’s fatherly love for her, his regret over his past, and Leon’s constant—albeit hidden—adoration. It came through in their eyes as they spoke, though she couldn’t hear the words coming from their mouths because the ones in her brain swallowed all else.
She tried to talk about it, to rationalize her condition in a logical way, but it didn’t seem possible. There was too much that seemed imaginary, too much emotion involved—and just a fraction of it her own. Even the act of standing up now brought with it an extreme sense of nausea and vertigo. So she sat in her room alone for hours, straining to keep her eyes open so the voices didn’t attack her full-force, knowing in the back of her mind that Billy and Leon would soon grow tired of her ordeal and turn away from her, just as she’d done to Lindsey Cooper so long ago.
Someone knocked on her door. “Come in,” she groaned, and the door swung open. In strode Billy and Christopher, the teenager who’d arrived with the professor all the way from Greensburg. Billy carried with him a glass of water and a can of noodle soup. Christopher carried with him a spoon and a smile.
“How are we doing today?” asked Billy.
Marcy pushed herself into sitting position. “Fine.”
“You do not sound fine.”
“Well, it’s been a long day.”
Christopher’s smile faltered. “It’s noon.”
“Oh,” said Marcy with a groan. “Sorry. It’s hard to tell time when you don’t sleep.”
Billy sat down on the edge of her bed and put a hand on her knee. “You do not look good,” he said. “Is there anything I can do?”
Marcy leaned her head against the wall, closed her eyes for a moment, felt the rush of invading thought. Her eyes snapped open and she said, “Can you help me to the balcony?”
“Are you certain you wish to do that?”
She nodded.
“Very well.”
She slipped one arm into the crook of Billy’s elbow, the other around Christopher’s shoulders, and allowed them to guide her. Gradually she rose from the bed, fighting the onset of vertigo. When the world started spinning she paused, and Billy and Christopher, accustomed as they were to her state of being, gave her the time to steady herself.
“It’s okay,” she said after a pause that seemed much too long. She stretched her eyes open as far as she could and watched as the quivering landscape settled down and become placid once more. She then nodded, and her two helpers stayed by her side, hands on her back, as she shuffled across the carpet. Billy pushed aside the curtain, allowing bright sunshine to stream into the room. Marcy squinted as he pulled open the sliding glass door.
The air outside was hotter than it should have been, but the wind brought with it a cool, crisp flavor that told her lungs yes, indeed, it was still spring. Billy and Christopher released her arms, allowing her to step forward. She put her hands on the railing, stared up at the sun, and breathed deep. Just being out of the cramped confines of her room did wonders. Her head started to clear, and before long she could hear only herself in there, her own voice telling her to walk strong, buckle down, persevere. She grinned and listened to the wind as it buffeted the side of the building, then leaned over the railing.
Things on the ground looked much different than they had only a month before. There were no walking dead or decomposing bodies down there, baking under the sun’s heat. She spotted folks from the hotel strolling along the street, rifles, shovels, crowbars, and whatever other weapons they could get a hold of slung over their shoulders. She heard the faint sounds of laughter, laughter that stopped when a stumbling corpse appeared from around the corner, moving like it had expended almost all of its energy. Then it was all business. One of the people—a woman with auburn hair—rushed forward and buried the business end of her axe into the thing’s head. It collapsed right there, and the rest of the people gathered around it, waited for it to stop gyrating, and then someone whistled. More folks appeared from inside, carrying towels and long poles. They wrapped the dead thing up, tied the wrapping to the poles, and then carried it away, heading for the rear of the hotel, where they would burn the remains.
Marcy sighed. Though this sort of scene had lessened greatly over the last few weeks, it still made her nauseous. In a few minutes the smoke would emerge, permeating the air with the scent of burning flesh. And when the distant pop of gunfire in the distance sounded—a less-than-savory recent development—she decided enough was enough.
“Okay,” she said. “I’m ready. We can go in now.”
Billy and Christopher helped her get back into bed. They’d spoken nary a word since they arrived, but that was par for the course. They never said much unless she wanted them to, which often she didn’t. She already heard enough voices; there was no need to fill her personal space with any more. They understood that. They respected that. And when Marcy saw the smile Billy gave her when she slid back under the covers and started sipping her soup, she regretted ever thinking the man would turn his back on her. The man was a saint, his past as a murderer be damned.
Billy kissed her on the forehead, eliciting a giggle from Christopher, which Marcy answered with a feigned scowl. She leaned her head into the professor as he placed his palm on her cheek. She loved the feel of his hands—calloused and warm, like her father’s.
“We will go now,” he said. “But there is someone outside who wanted to see you. Is it all right if he comes in?”
She groaned. “It’s not Doc Terry, is it?” she whined. “I don’t wanna answer any stupid questions right now.”
Billy shook his head and winked. “No, it is not Doctor Terry.”
“Oh,” replied Marcy. She felt her neck flush. “Sure, send him in.”
Billy and Christopher left the room. She heard the voice of the man she’d hoped for out in the hallway, telling Billy that Forrest had stopped by, wanting to see him on the roof for a moment. This familiar, soothing voice was low and sensual, even when speaking of the most mundane things. It was Leon. Her spirits lifted, and the invaders in her head retreated even more, which seemed to happen every time he came around.
A few minutes later, the door to her room opened just a tad. She glanced over and saw large brown fingers wrap around the edge and a pair of twinkling eyes peer her way. Marcy laughed—it felt good to do so—and waved her hand. She winced from the effort. Her muscles were still weak.
Leon stepped into the room. He was a large man, broad across the shoulders and chest, with thick thighs. He had an athletic build and strong-looking arms. He might have been intimidating if not for his face, what with his kind smile, dimpled cheeks, and wide, caring eyes. His mahogany skin shimmered as beams of daylight struck him. He’d been studying medicine when the world ended, and Marcy imagined him as a doctor in a civilization that hadn’t collapsed, causing the hearts of all his female patients to swoon. He moved to the bed and sat down beside her. His hand rested on her lower thigh.
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