Alive Again | Book 1

by Piperbrook, T. W.

  It’s time to give Cody the bad news about our vehicle. “By the way, the bus is stuck,” I tell him. “I tried driving through the field to get you.”

  Cody furrows his brow, scanning out the barn doors for the stalled vehicle, but we can’t see it from here. He takes a cautious step. Neither of us needs to warn the other to be careful as we head past the tractor, back into the warm sunlight. Thankfully, the field is empty, and so is the bus, parked a hundred feet away. Still, we approach slowly.

  The engine purrs quietly, still burning fuel. In my haste to get to Cody, I left the vehicle running. I survey the two stricken I hit with the front end. The first is no longer moving, dead from being hit by a bus. The second lay on the ground, dead from me. Cody studies them only long enough to ensure they’re no longer a threat, before kneeling next to the lopsided bus, inspecting the front driver’s side tire. It’s sunken into a furrow of dirt.

  “It looks like the wheel’s intact,” he says, running his hands over the rubber. “Let’s see if we can get this thing unstuck.”

  I climb up the steps and into the driver’s seat. On Cody’s instruction, I hit the gas and turn the wheel, trying to wrench it loose, but after a little while, it becomes apparent that we aren’t going anywhere. I leave the driver’s seat, looking down the stairs at Cody, who’s come back over to talk. His gaze moves from the bus to the tattered barn behind us. He raises an index finger and I see a tiny lightbulb pop on above his head. Without a word he takes off, hopping over the grass I trampled earlier.

  “Huh?” I get out of the bus and catch up to him.

  “I remember getting stuck in the mud one time with my Civic,” he says, slightly out of breath. “One of my buddies used a board to get some traction.” His eyes settle on the sides of the barn. “Just look at all those boards hanging loose.”

  I nod, following his gaze as he continues toward the broad side of the barn. We inspect the weatherbeaten slats and find a suitable one. A large crack runs the whole width of it, so it looks like we can break off a manageable-sized piece.

  Cody holds out his hand. “Crowbar.”

  “I’ve got it.” I surprise him by wedging the crowbar in and yanking with gusto.

  “Wow, Hannah!”

  “I’d stand clear, in case.” I smile grimly. “Wouldn’t want this thing to fly out and hit you in the face. Death by board.”

  “Better than being bored to death.” Cody steps back.

  While I work on the barn, Cody wanders to the rear of the building, keeping watch. With effort, a little muscle, and a crack, I’ve harvested one grade A board.

  “Got it!” I call to Cody, holding up the result of my efforts, but he’s already focused on something else.

  “Hannah! Come here!”

  Abandoning my prize, I rush to where he’s standing and pointing. Behind the barn sits a raised fuel tank. Red, peeling paint adorns the rounded exterior. The tank sits on a metal stand, choked with weeds and vines; a pump hangs off the side.

  “Jackpot!” Cody says excitedly, hurrying toward a row of rusted gas cans sitting nearby. He grabs two and carries them toward the pump.

  “Won’t we need power?” I frown.

  Cody shrugs and looks around. “It doesn’t look like it’s connected to anything.” He takes off the pump and aims the nozzle. “Guess we’ll find out soon enough.”

  He hits the lever. To our great surprise, liquid flows steadily from the end.

  Maybe it’s fed by gravity; I’m not sure, but the gas keeps coming, and Cody’s already switching cans. Thanking whoever owned it, I grab a couple more. The fuel is what we came for.

  The crunch of a footstep interrupts me.

  I turn to see a gaunt woman, leaning around the corner of the barn and jabbing a gun in our direction. “Don’t move,” she says through gritted teeth.

  20

  Run

  Staring down the barrel of a long, threatening gun, Cody and I freeze with our hands up; the woman got the drop on us. We study the person holding us at gunpoint. A loose ponytail falls past her skinny shoulders and over her flower-printed blouse. Cuffed, dirty jeans hang over her well-worn, low-heeled boots. She shakes the weapon, making it clear she has no qualms about using it.

  She nods to Cody. “You. Put that pump back where it belongs.”

  Cody opens his mouth to explain, but she waves her gun, cutting him off. “Now!”

  Slowly, Cody replaces the gas pump in its cradle.

  “Now throw your weapons to the ground.”

  I hesitate, running our odds of survival. Cody’s gun is in his waistband; even if he could get to it in time, he’d never defend us before we suffered a deadly blast. Of course, my crowbar is no good as a long-range weapon, and running isn’t an option, either. We wouldn’t make it more than a few steps before she shot us. I glance at Cody, but he’s obviously come to the same conclusion. Hating our predicament, I drop the crowbar; slowly, Cody removes his gun, tossing it a few feet away.

  “The knives, too,” the woman commands.

  We remove our sheathed blades, relinquishing them.

  “Now step away from the tank,” the woman orders, motioning us away from the barn, farther into the open.

  Complying, we sidestep into the tall grass. In the distance, I spot a rusted tractor attachment, buried in weeds, but the rest of the field offers no salvation. Hoping our obedience will keep us alive, we keep our hands raised and do as we’re told.

  “We were just getting some gas for our bus,” Cody explains. “We’re almost empty.”

  “Anyone with two eyes could see what happened here,” the woman says, pulling a face. “You made enough noise to wake the dead.”

  Sheepish, Cody stays silent.

  “You aren’t the first thieves to come by here,” she says. “But you might be the dumbest.” She swivels the gun from one to the other of us, daring us to mouth off. “Everyone knows better than to start a shootout with the Wanderers. Did you want the whole world to hear?”

  She treads over to our abandoned weapons, scooping them up, holding them in one hand, while wielding her gun—a shotgun, as I realize now—in the other.

  Gently, I say, “We didn’t mean to trespass.”

  “The hell you didn’t,” the woman spits. “If you weren’t just kids, I would’ve shot you. I still might.”

  “The infected were hiding in the orchard,” Cody says, turning his head ever-so-slightly over his shoulder. “We didn’t see them when we pulled in.”

  “That’s where they’ve been for days,” the woman says. “Only a fool’d bother them.”

  I’m about to apologize again when more noise echoes through the trees behind us. I turn slowly; sure enough, more silhouettes move toward the back of the orchard.

  “Just like I said, you idiots have gone and brought more.” The woman clenches her gun tightly, watching the approaching group. Baring her teeth, she aims her shotgun at me. I steady myself on the grass, prepared for the final blast that will lead to the end of my life—a life I never asked for, and certainly wouldn’t have chosen.

  Abruptly, she lowers the gun and hisses, “Follow me.”

  Without another word, the woman scurries along the side of the barn and out of sight. Groans and fast footfalls fill the orchard now; we’ve been seen. It won’t take more than a minute for the stricken to reach us.

  Making the only decision we can, I say, “Come on, Cody! Let’s go!”

  Cody and I make haste toward the side of the barn and what feels like the lesser evil. Rounding the corner, we find the woman at the far end, giving us an irritated wave. And then she’s gone again, somewhere around front. Reaching the edge, we find her racing past the bus, moving at a half-crouch through the grass. We follow her, hunching down, whipping through the unmown landscape. Weeds and grass smack our faces and arms. Brambles snag our legs. Some of the stalks are high enough that they bend over, as if they might break off and prune themselves. Cutting a swift path, we head for the distant farmhouse
I’d seen earlier. I have no idea if it belongs to this woman, and I don’t care: it’s better than being eaten. Emerging from the field, we plow over a cracked driveway, skirting around the old truck parked there. The vehicle is less run-down than I’d previously thought; maybe it’s even drivable. The woman beelines for the house.

  I turn my attention toward the dwelling. Fuzzy green moss coats the roof; the windows are covered by old boards, just like we found at the barn. Bird droppings, mold, and sap mar the white vinyl. Passing the cracked blue steps at the front, the woman leads us to the far side of the house, toward a side entrance. Gasping for breath, she juggles her shotgun with the weapons she’s confiscated, fumbling for some keys.

  With effort, she unlocks the door, turns toward us, and says, “Go first.”

  We hesitate for a moment before obeying. We stumble into the house in a heaving mess; the woman spins and locks the entrance behind us. Winded from our mad dash, the woman wipes some sweat from her forehead.

  “Make yourselves useful and barricade the door.” She waves at a heavy bureau near the entrance.

  Cody and I spring to action, sliding the bulky piece of furniture in place. Once the door is secure, we take a step back, huffing for breath. The woman keeps her distance, her gun still aimed at us. I glance around the room, noticing for the first time the dusty dining room table, covered with old, yellowed mail, and the chairs piled high with junk. With all the windows boarded up, there’s precious little light inside. It doesn’t take us long to hear the wails of the stricken outside, stampeding around. A metallic bang echoes in the distance. More clatters follow. Are they trying to get in the bus? Do they think we’re there? For a while, we stay quiet and still, listening to the rampaging sounds outside. The noises fade.

  And then they grow louder.

  They’re here.

  My stomach tightens into a firm knot; a terrified flutter runs its course through my arms and legs. Thuds hit the front wall of the house and rattle the boards. Letting one hand off the gun, the woman presses a bony finger to her lips, but there’s no need; Cody and I are paralyzed.

  The thuds continue around the perimeter of the dwelling. Soon they’re at the door. Crazed shrieks echo from just outside. They know we’re here. The door and bureau shudder. Face pale, the woman waves us toward her, switching her aim to what suddenly looks like a very flimsy door. Dirty feet and hands kick and punch. Yowls fill the air. The noises continue for what feels like an unbearable amount of time.

  Eventually, the monsters retreat.

  A few more thumps sound from the back of the house, and then the commotion is elsewhere. The woman closes her eyes and opens them. She lowers her gun.

  “They’ll linger for a while, no thanks to you two,” she whispers, reckoning we’re safe.

  Turning, she motions us through an arched doorway into a squalid living room, where a couch, a loveseat, and a dust-covered television are pushed away from the windows. With a shiver, I realize that the TV probably hasn’t been turned on in a year. She takes a seat on the couch, keeping her gun on her lap, making no effort to return our confiscated belongings.

  “Sit there on the loveseat,” she orders.

  We do as we’re told. My eyes flit to a thick sheet of plywood covering the front wall, next to the windows. It takes me a moment to realize it’s a boarded-up door, sealed off, like the rest of this gloomy house.

  The woman gives us a hard stare, keeping the gun more or less trained on us. “Might as well get comfortable. You ain’t going anywhere.”

  21

  Stowaways

  Perched on the edge of the loveseat, Cody and I watch the woman anxiously, our eyes roaming from her to the shotgun. A few strands of gray hair stick out among the black in her ponytail. She’s maybe in her forties? Laugh lines crease the corner of her eyes and mouth. Of course, she’s not laughing now; she’s irritated. Are we her prisoners or her guests? I honestly can’t tell.

  “Are you two alone?”

  Cody and I exchange a glance. “Yes,” I answer, trying to control the shake in my voice.

  “How did you find this place?” the woman stares at us determinedly.

  I lower my eyes. “We saw a sign on the way here,” I say honestly. “We followed it. We thought we might find gas, like my friend said.”

  The woman sighs and adjusts her shotgun. “I thought all those signs were gone.”

  I think of the worn-out markers we saw on the trees. Obviously, there were more.

  “We didn’t know anyone lived here,” I explain, nodding at the living room in general; I don’t want to cause offense, but I’m wondering if she’s just squatting here.

  The woman’s eyes grow faraway for a moment, before answering my unspoken question. “Trevor and I ran this orchard for twenty-five years. Right around now, we’d be getting our crops ready for July, when the customers would start flowing in. It was one of our favorite times of year. That’s all gone now.” Sadness creeps into her stern expression.

  “I’m sorry,” I say automatically.

  She looks up at me, but she doesn’t acknowledge my condolences. “Trevor used to map everything out on paper—a diagram of our crops, the yield we’d get, the sales we’d need to keep the place paid for. Now, none of that matters.” A bitter laugh followed by a small cough escapes the woman’s mouth. “Trevor is gone, along with our good life.”

  A faraway yowl echoes from another part of the property. We tense and swivel, but the noise doesn’t get any closer.

  Composing herself, the woman holds the shotgun tighter. “What’s your name?”

  “I’m Hannah.”

  “Cody.” He lifts his head only slightly.

  The woman’s severe expression takes back over when she sees the blood on his jeans. “Are you bit?”

  “No,” Cody says quickly. “I got injured in the struggle. That’s all.”

  Unsatisfied, the woman says, “Prove it.”

  Cody reaches down, baring more of his bloodied knee. He spits on his hand and wipes vigorously, revealing a pretty good scrape, but nothing more. The woman nods.

  “How about you?” She turns toward me.

  “I’m fine,” I tell her. “I wasn’t bitten.” I instinctively look down. My clothes are wrinkled, and the collar of my shirt is stretched, but other than that—and some fresh blood spatter—I see no new wounds.

  The woman looks over the exposed scars, scratches, and bruises on my arms. Her attention lands on my tattered shoes. “I’m June,” she says curtly.

  I force a smile, keeping my eyes averted. “Nice to meet you.”

  She wipes some sweat from her forehead. “I’ve been watching those Wanderers for days. They like it here, unfortunately for me.” She pats the gun in her lap. “If I wasn’t afraid to attract more, I would’ve shot them already. Of course, that’d be a waste of rounds, as you just realized. For every one you kill, three more come.”

  I stay focused on my shoes.

  “My hope is that they’ll get bored and leave. If they don’t…” Her voice trails off; frustration flickers through her eyes. She wipes some perspiration from her upper lip, before settling deeper into her seat.

  My eyes flick around the room. There’s a tall grandfather clock in one corner, the pendulum heavy and still. The clock’s hands are stuck at twelve. On the walls are two mismatched paintings: a ship crashing over a stormy sea and a watercolor painting of some antique farm equipment. Black and white pictures of old relatives in thin metal frames hang at uneven heights in the empty spaces.

  “Trevor’s family has owned this orchard for three generations,” June says wistfully, sounding as if she’s talking to herself as much as anyone else. “His great-grandfather built that barn you were in. And that fuel pump you tried robbing? Trevor’s father bought that. Our family took care of nearly everything around here, back when it mattered.”

  Cody and I nod uneasily, wondering what this woman wants with us.

  June taps the floor softly with her f
oot. I furrow my brow, until I realize she’s hiding some pain. Tears pool at the corners of her eyes.

  “Trevor was bitten six months ago,” she finally reveals. “Some pillagers came. They were trying to make away with our apples. Trevor went out there to stop them, but they shot him. That’s when the Wanderers showed up.” June shakes her head. “My husband was too wounded to fend them off. By the time I got out there, it was too late; they’d taken a chunk out of him. We kept him here for a few days, until it was clear he was going to turn. I had to make a choice…” June blinks away tears.

  This time it’s Cody’s turn to say, “I’m sorry.”

  “For what? You didn’t do it.” June shrugs, distraught. She clears her throat. “He’s buried out back now, in a spot where no one will bother him. Free from pain. Free from…” June waves her hand around the room. “All of this.”

  “Mommy? Can I come out now?”

  All three of us startle and sit up.

  Out of nowhere, a small, dirt-stained face peers around a hallway into the living room.

  “It’s all right, Levi,” June says, waving him over. “You did good. You can come out now.”

  After a tentative pause, the boy pads across the room, his baggy coveralls hanging over a white t-shirt. He clings to his mother, appraising us. His eyes are big and round and wander between us. “Mommy? Are these the people from the bus?”

  “Yes, honey.”

  “Are they as bad as the ones who stole from us? The ones who hurt Daddy?”

  “We didn’t mean to steal from you,” Cody says quickly, holding up his hands. “If we’d known someone still lived here, we would’ve…”

  Clutching her son tightly, June waves her gun and interrupts him. “You don’t need to explain yourselves. I know exactly who—what—you are.”