The Scattered and the Dead (Book 2)
Page 1
Contents
Title & Copyright
Izzy
Erin
Deirdre
Izzy
Deirdre
Ray
Decker
Erin
Fiona
Decker
Erin
Deirdre
Izzy
Decker
Erin
Deirdre
Erin
Ray
Erin
Decker
Deirdre
Decker
Izzy
Decker
Erin
Deirdre
Erin
Baghead
Deirdre
Erin
Baghead
Izzy
Erin
Decker
Erin
Baghead
Erin
Lorraine
Decker
Erin
Deirdre
Erin
Baghead
Deirdre
Decker
Erin
Lorraine
Baghead
Ray
Erin
Ray
Deirdre
Ray
Izzy
Ray
Erin
Lorraine
Baghead
Teddy
Erin
Teddy
Erin
Deirdre
Erin
Marcus
Decker
Erin
Decker
Baghead
Decker
Erin
Deirdre
Decker
Erin
Baghead
Erin
Izzy
Marcus
Baghead
Teddy
Marcus
Deirdre
Ray
Erin
Fiona
Marcus
Ray
Teddy
Erin
Teddy
Ray
Erin
Ray
Erin
Baghead
Marcus
Lorraine
Erin
Baghead
Teddy
Ray
Erin
Lorraine
Erin
Ray
Erin
Baghead
Erin
Decker
Erin
Baghead
Teddy
Decker
Erin
Decker
Erin
Teddy
Decker
Erin
Decker
Erin
Lorraine
Father
Erin
Baghead
The Scattered and the Dead
THE SCATTERED AND THE DEAD
Book 2
Tim McBain & L.T. Vargus
Copyright © 2016 Tim McBain & L.T. Vargus
Smarmy Press
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Izzy
Presto, Pennsylvania
168 days after
Izzy peeked over the back of the couch, watching Erin stoop to pull on a boot. Not one of the big snow boots, but one of the black stompy ones. The combat boots.
Izzy bounced a few times on the couch cushion, the excitement getting the better of her. Then she stopped, remembering she was supposed to be playing it cool.
“I don’t see why I can’t come with you,” Izzy said, pressing her nose into the upholstery.
Erin continued lacing her boot, pulling the ties into a knot and looping them into a bow in one fluid movement. Izzy didn’t understand how grownups could tie their shoes so fast like that.
“How many times do I have to explain it? Every trip out burns extra calories. The more calories we burn, the more food we need to eat. If only one of us goes, then only one of us needs extra food.”
Erin didn’t come right out and say it, but by “one of us,” Izzy knew she meant herself. Sometimes Erin was fun. When she played with Izzy, she did it for real. Most adults only half-played. She wasn’t sure why. Did you lose the ability to pretend when you got old? Did your imagination go from pliable to hard, like a dried-up wad of Playdoh? Or were they too embarrassed, afraid they’d look or sound silly? Whatever it was, Erin actually got into it, so it felt like playing with another kid.
But other times, like now, she was just like all the other grownups. Assuming Izzy was a dumb baby that couldn’t do things. It wasn’t that hard to go out and find food. Izzy knew that. She buried her face in a couch cushion to smother the sneaky smile spreading across her lips.
When Erin opened the door, Izzy followed her out onto the back porch. The floor boards were cool under her socked feet. It was an unseasonable 40 degrees. Most of the snow had melted with only a few patches in the shadier areas remaining.
“You said that once winter was over, I could come out with you again.”
Erin zipped up her coat, pulling her hair out of the way of the zipper.
“It’s January.”
“Yeah, but look at it,” Izzy gestured at the lack of snow. “It’s Spring.”
Erin shook her head.
“This happens every year. There’s an early thaw, and everyone says, ‘Oh look, Spring came early! Hallelujah!’”
She threw her arms out and spun around like the hills were alive with the sound of music.
“It lasts for a week, maybe two. And then- BAM!” Erin stopped spinning and hammered a fist into the palm of her hand. “We get douched with snow. And usually it’s the biggest snow of the year, too. A full-on blizzard of bullshit.”
Izzy stomped her foot.
“Language.”
“Yeah, well. Mark my words. Winter ain’t over.”
Erin pulled on a pair of gloves.
“I’ll try to make it a quick trip. A few hours.”
Izzy crossed her arms and heaved a sigh, making a show of pouting.
“When I get back, we can play a game.”
Izzy straightened, eyes bulging a little.
“Can we play Mall Mania?”
“Maybe,” Erin said.
Izzy clapped her hands. Maybe meant yes. If she begged enough it did, anyway.
Her toes were starting to feel like ice cubes, so she hopped back inside. She pressed her face against the screen on the door so the weave would leave a criss-cross pattern over her nose.
“Remember to lock the storm door.”
“I know,” Izzy said through the screen.
“And remember that the gun isn’t a toy.”
“I know.”
“But also, if you have to use it, don’t forget about the safety.”
“I know!” Izzy’s voice got a little louder. There was a beat of silence, and Izzy thought Erin was finally done lecturing her.
“And if you go to the bathroom, remember to wash your hands after.”
“I know that, Erin!” Izzy slapped the door with her palm for emphasis. Really, wash her hands? She wasn’t some dumb baby.
Erin turned back toward her then, and Izzy saw the smirk on her face. She’d been teasing. Well, at least with the stuff about washing her hands.
“Just be safe, dorkus. I’ll be back soon.”
“You’re the dorkus!”
/> She watched Erin mount the bike, standing as she pedaled to get some momentum going. And then she was gliding down the driveway, out of sight in seconds.
The drawer squealed as Izzy slid it open, revealing the pistol. She wrapped her fingers around it, the metal chilling her skin. She pulled it from the drawer. It was always heavier than she remembered. Heavier than it looked.
She wanted to shoot it again and to feel the buck and jerk of it as she pulled the trigger. Maybe later, though. She had something better in mind to pass the time.
The gun clanked as she set it on the counter and waited.
Erin
Bridgeville, Pennsylvania
168 days after
Erin coasted through town, past the cars and storefronts, all still. Sometimes it felt like she was in a Norman Rockwell painting, this little slice of small town, Middle America, preserved as if it were a recreation in oils.
Then she’d come upon a crow picking at a corpse, and the illusion died. Those moments were more Heironymous Bosch than Rockwell.
She turned left into a cul-de-sac, guiding her bike around an overturned garbage bin and the trail of trash that had been pulled out by animals. There were several blue bins lined up on the curb, some upright, some not.
A memory came to her then. Her mother, insisting Erin drag their garbage can down to the road before they left for the camp. Erin had argued.
“They haven’t come the last two weeks. It’s just going to sit down there until the Keller’s dog knocks it over and drags shit up and down the street just like last week.”
Her mom stopped stuffing toiletries into the overnight bag and closed her eyes.
“Why does everything have to be a battle with you lately? Take the garbage down to the road like I asked you to. And watch your mouth.”
Erin had rolled her eyes and slammed the door behind her.
Her mother died thinking someone would still come to pick up their trash.
Erin shook the memory from her head as she rolled up a driveway. She needed to focus now. She left the bike propped up by the kickstand and approached the front of the house.
They hadn’t come across another zombie. Not since the first one in the tie-dyed shirt that almost ate her for lunch. But she knew it was only a matter of time.
Was her mother out there somewhere, stumbling around like an extra in a horror movie, snacking on flesh?
Stop thinking shit like that. Focus.
She crept around a juniper bush to peek into a bay window on the front of the house. Everything was still inside.
Erin crouched, picked up a fist-sized rock from the landscaped border, and lobbed it through the glass. She didn’t usually bother trying the doors anymore. It was a waste of time.
After the explosion of the window shattering, the silence felt tense. She waited for something to happen. Another zombie to come running toward the sound. The crack of a gunshot. But there was nothing.
She stood and began to clear the rest of the glass from the window.
Every time she left, she considered that it could be her last. Too many things could go wrong when she was out here by herself. She didn’t like leaving Izzy, but it was more efficient. And one really had to be efficient in the post-apocalypse.
Then there was the fact that she always left the other gun with Izzy when she left. Erin still wasn’t sure if that was incredibly stupid or incredibly smart. She also wasn’t sure which worse-case-scenario scared her more: walking into one of these houses someday and getting chomped to death by the living dead, or returning home to find Izzy had accidentally blown her own face off.
After sweeping away chunks of glass from the window seat with a gloved hand, she lifted herself over the windowsill and crawled inside.
The decor was typical suburbia. A big L-shaped sectional wrapped around one corner, facing the big flat screen TV. Flouncy curtain things in three different fabrics bordered the windows. The mantle over the gas fireplace featured family photos. Group shots where everyone was wearing coordinating blue sweaters.
She crossed through a formal dining room, stopping when she saw the centerpiece on the table. It was a large glass apothecary jar, filled with moss, willow branches, and granny smith apples. The apples had all gone brown and wrinkly. Shriveled. She overturned the jar anyway, hoping for at least one that wasn’t all the way rotten. Two of the least dried-out apples splatted onto the table, already half-turned to mush. Probably from freezing and thawing in the unheated house.
What a waste.
“Who wants applesauce?” Erin asked the empty room.
In the oversized kitchen, she poked through the cabinets and drawers. It smelled like must and mouse shit.
On top of the pile of empty cans, boxes, and bottles in a recycling bin, she noted an empty box of Duncan Hines. She stared at the spongey brown dessert printed on the box, salivary glands working double time. Holy shitballs, what she wouldn’t give for a big fat slice of chocolate cake right now.
Her stomach growled at the thought of food, and a sharp pain shot through her gut. She doubled over, squeezing the edge of the countertop until the cramp passed. She closed her eyes as waves of nausea ran through her. She didn’t worry too much about throwing up. There was nothing to throw up.
She hadn’t told Izzy yet. About the rationing. So far she was only rationing her own food intake. She worried it would stunt Izzy’s growth or something.
She slid a drawer open, revealing a sleeve of Saltine crackers. It took every ounce of her willpower to not rip the plastic open and eat the whole thing.
She pressed her eyelids closed and inhaled. No, she would not be repeating the granola bar incident.
Two. She could have two crackers. The tactile feeling of the plastic crinkling in her hands set her mouth to watering all over again. But her fingers were weak and clumsy, or maybe this was intended to be a childproof package of crackers, because she couldn’t get the wrapper open.
She stabbed the plastic with the point of a steak knife and pulled out two crackers. She bit off a corner and let it melt in her mouth, savoring it. It was stale, but she didn’t care. It was delicious. She ate both saltines slowly, nibbling at them like a squirrel, trying to make them last.
When she was finished, her brain and stomach tried to tag team her.
“Come on, Erin,” her stomach said. “Just one more cracker.”
“We’re still hungry,” said her brain. “Besides, what’s one more cracker? You’ve earned it.”
She sighed and wiped the crumbs from her fingers.
“I said two crackers,” she said to herself out loud.
As she passed a mirror in the foyer, she couldn’t help but catch a glimpse of her reflection: gaunt cheekbones, dark circles under her eyes, brittle hair. She remembered reading an article about the popularity of rail thin super models in the 90s. The article kept referring to it as Heroin Chic. That made her new look Apocalypse Chic then, right?
That reminded her — she hitched her pants up over her hip bones — she also needed a new belt. She’d punched a few new holes in the one she was wearing with a screwdriver so she could cinch it smaller, but now it was starting to fall apart.
She didn’t bother searching bedrooms very thoroughly anymore, unless she needed something specific. Sometimes she tossed the closet for weapons or ammo, but so far had come up empty-handed. How was that possible? She supposed when everything went to shit, one of the things people made sure to take with them were their guns.
She found no belts in the rooms upstairs, so she headed back down to the ground floor, and then into the basement. Basements sometimes had pantries.
Her feet thudded on the wooden steps, the sound echoing in the narrow stairwell.
And there was something of interest in the basement after all. A padlocked door.
That meant one thing. There had to be something good inside. Her money was on guns or food. Maybe both. She had yet to come upon a good Prepper stash that hadn’t already been ransacked.
But today? Today was her lucky day, she decided. She was going to bust this lock off and be rewarded with rows and rows of food lining the walls.
She found a hammer in a toolbox at the other end of the basement. She swung it through the air, getting a feel for the weight in her hand. In front of the door, she lined up the head of the hammer with the lock a few times before she went for it. The hammer crashed into the lock, and it fell away on the first try.
“Boom, motherfucker!” she said, raising a fist over her head. She heard Izzy chastising her about the language in her head, but it was no matter now.
The hammer rattled against the concrete floor as she tossed it aside. Pulling the remainder of the padlock from the latch, she grasped the door handle and pulled.
There was a click when she turned her flashlight on.
Her light shone on two lengths of wood, fashioned into a giant upright X. It had pegs at the top and bottom. And straps. It almost reminded her of something you’d see in a medieval torture scene in a movie.
There were rows of something on the walls, but it wasn’t food. She took two steps inside, squinting and trying to hold her light steady so she could figure out what she was looking at. She blinked a few times. Was that a riding crop? Like for horses?
Next to that was a length of chain with a leather harness at each end. More equestrian gear? Weird. There definitely weren’t horses here. The yard wasn’t big enough. But maybe they kept all their gear here, she supposed.
But then, why the lock?
She recognized one of the items on the wall and plucked it from its peg. She wrapped the belt around her waist, checking the size. It fit. At least this room of horse stuff wasn’t a complete bust, she thought.
She was still puzzling it out when the beam of her flashlight illuminated a collection of colorful bottles. There was some food, after all.
Her fingers encircled a pink bottle, and she brought it closer to her face so she could see the label. She read the words out loud.
“Juicy Lube.”
The flesh between her eyebrows scrunched together, and as the realization dawned on her, her eyes flicked up to a printout taped to the wall. In bold letters, the top line read, “Dungeon Rules.”
“For fuck’s sake,” Erin said, dropping the bottle to the floor. She was in a goddamn sex dungeon.
She hurried out of the house, snapping up the meager supplies she’d pushed into a pile on the kitchen counter — the sleeve of saltines, half a package of chocolate chips, and two shrink-wrapped bags of microwave popcorn. Outside, she passed the mailbox, which had red tulips painted on the side.