by Adair, Bobby
We had no good choices when deciding who to send to the front door to knock.
In the end, I went. Though we only had one gun with us, Murphy and Dalhover could both shoot. More precisely, they could hit what they shot at. What was I going to do if the chosen door knocker got into trouble on the porch, throw my machete across the yard and frighten someone when it clinked against a brick wall?
So I left Dalhover and Murphy in the bushes and crossed the yard. After stepping up onto the patio, I knocked and stepped back from the door and just a little to the side. It didn’t make sense that someone would unload a shotgun through the door to kill me for knocking, but I did look like a virus-laden monster, and I did have an overactive imagination.
I took another step back from the door and another to my left. No point in making it easy when the shooting started.
Hearing nothing but crickets, I looked over my shoulder and spotted Dalhover where he’d concealed himself behind some cacti and big landscaping stones. I shrugged.
He pointed at the door again. So I knocked again, already doubting anyone was inside.
Crickets kept chirping.
I stepped up to the door and pounded loudly three times, stepped to the side, out of prime shotgun range, and waited.
I was not rewarded with an answer. I looked around, back at the tree line, up the driveway, and at the corners of the house. Habit. I tried the doorknob. It was locked. Oh well. “Hey, if there’s anyone in there, let me know, okay?”
Murphy chuckled.
I pointed my middle finger at him and continued calling at the closed door, “I’m planning to come in upstairs and climb in through a window. If you want me to go away, now would be a good time to tell me.”
No response.
I turned my back to the door so that Murphy and Dalhover had a clear view of me. I pointed up.
We’d agreed beforehand that if no one answered, we weren’t going to bust down the door. The house, while being no real protection from the naked horde, looked secure enough to protect us from the disorganized infected that were always about.
Dalhover pointed to his left and moved back into the woods. Murphy followed. I sat down on a wicker chair at the corner of the wide porch and watched. Well, I couldn’t see them in the darkness once they got back in the trees, but I heard them moving. When they were in position where they had a view of the side and back of the house, it would be my turn to get to work.
As they crept through the woods, much more audibly than I’m sure they thought, I listened for any sounds from inside the house. Still nothing. If there were people inside, what could they be thinking? I shook my head for no reason other than to participate in the dialogue in my imagination. There wasn’t any reason for the residents not to say something. They were either long gone or dead.
The sounds from the woods stopped. Murphy and Dalhover were in position. Dalhover would have the rear and one side of the house covered. If anyone showed themselves with obvious ill intent, Dalhover wasn’t likely to miss. He’d put a bullet where it needed to go.
I walked around to the side of the house to a spot near the corner, where the patio roof attached to the house. A thick steel gas pipe ran up the wall, probably to provide gas for an upstairs laundry room. At least, that was my guess. Building codes back when the house was built required a pipe of monkey bar thickness on mounts that kept the pipe physically separated from the house by—as luck would have it—just enough space for me to wrap my fingers all the way around. How I learned that I could use a gas line to scale an exterior wall to gain access to upstairs windows and roofs is one of those details easily explained by my delinquent youth.
Once I laid a hand on the pipe, it took all of ten seconds to climb onto the patio roof that spanned the back of the house. Six windows were open across the back upper floor, letting a cool breeze blow in off the lake. I chose the closest to the corner of the house for letting myself in. I drew my machete and used the tip to pry up the edge of the screen. It popped right off. I set it to the side for reattachment later. Not many luxuries were left in the world, but screened windows allowed for mosquito-free sleeping. That was an underappreciated luxury in the recently passed land of air conditioned rooms and permanently closed windows.
Curtains billowed into the room, obscuring the deep shadows within. I poked my head inside. Just to the right of the window stood a tall chest of drawers. With a headboard against the wall to the right, a twin-sized bed stuck out into the room, unmade. Across the room, sliding closet doors were closed. A door in the far left corner exited, presumably to a hall.
I sniffed the air. No death. That was a relief.
Feeling pretty safe, I leaned back out, turned around, and stuck a leg inside. Bending over, I stepped inside and stood up.
Looking at the bedroom door as my eyes adjusted to the darker room, I nearly pissed myself when something metallic pressed against the back of my neck as a voice softly said, “Don’t move.”
Chapter 28
Then I got mad. “God dammit. I fucking knocked. Why’d you let me come in if you were going to put a gun to my neck when I got inside?”
He said, “Don’t alert your friends, or I’ll shoot.”
“What, so you can shoot them too? Well, fuck you. I don’t like this world anymore, anyway. I need a rest.” Then, without turning, I hollered, “Don’t come in. Fucktard has a gun on me.”
The man behind me cursed, hit me on the head, and pushed me forward.
I guess he’d planned to knock me out, but all he did was make me angrier as I stumbled forward. “Damn, dude.”
I pulled my machete out as I caught my balance and spun to face my assailant. The quick move surprised the guy, who’d apparently been hiding on the other side of the dresser. At least, it surprised him so much that he didn’t shoot. I swung the blade down hard at his wrists with the full intention of cutting off a hand just as I’d done to Bird Man, or whatever the fuck his real name was.
But, as the blade was coming down, I saw the stark white face of the man who held the gun and I stopped just as the blade touched his forearm. I stepped to the side and pushed down, letting the machete’s edge convince the man that lowering his weapon was a good idea. “Drop it.”
“No.”
I shook my head. “Really? If I was going to hurt you, don’t you think I would have just chopped your fucking hand off?” Yeah, I know, idiotic logic to use on a man I was currently threatening, but neither of us stopped to question whether I was making sense. “Now drop the gun.”
It fell to the carpet.
“Step back into the corner, Dipshit.”
Before stepping, the man glanced at the bedroom door, which was behind me by then.
Crap.
I quickly raised the blade and pressed it to his throat.
A woman’s voice from behind me said, “If you think that’s going to keep me from shooting you, you’re an idiot. I don’t even like him.”
“Whatever,” I answered, more confidently than I had any reason to be. “If you were going to shoot me, you would have already done it.”
“Lower the machete,” she ordered.
I leaned forward, putting my weight on the blade that was pressed against Dipshit’s throat. “You’re not shooting me already, so I’m guessing that’s because you think Dipshit here will get cut. So I think I’ll just leave it here. Come around here where I can see you.”
“You may think that you’re in charge, with your stupid little sword—”
“Ask Dipshit if he thinks my stupid little machete is sharp enough to cut his throat out.”
Dipshit said, “It is.”
Feet moved on the carpet.
With her weapon aimed at me—no surprise—a woman moved over to the other side of the bed where I could see her. She said, “Okay, asshole, what’s your plan? Because if you think there is any circumstance under which I’m giving up this gun, or even lowering it, I’ve got news for you. You’re the dipshit, because you don’
t know anything.”
“Let’s see,” I said. “I know you don’t want Dipshit to die. You don’t even want to take the chance. So he’s your brother or your boyfriend or some shit. Good for me, I think. There’s also a pretty good chance that if you shoot that gun at me, you’ll miss.”
“I’m ten feet away from you, asshole. Why don’t you lower your machete and take that bet?”
I cut my eyes quickly in her direction. “You’re just as infected as me, but a Slow Burn, since we’re talking.”
“A Slow Burn?” she asked.
“You know. Infected people like us, who didn’t turn.”
“I’m already bored,” she said, pulling a face.
I said, “You’re kind of a smartass bitch, aren’t you?”
“Hey,” said Dipshit, offended.
“Be cool, Dipshit,” I told him, pressing the blade just a tad. Why? Why not? He at least needed to be totally convinced that I had him under my power.
“Steve, stay calm,” the girl said. “Don’t worry about him.”
Without turning his head, Steve looked at the girl. “You don’t have a giant sword at your throat.”
“Machete, Dipshit.” Sometimes being an ass just comes naturally to me.
“Jesus, Asshole, does it matter?” The girl’s voice was louder, her words more angry. The stress of the situation was getting the best of her.
“Look,” I said, “Let’s all take a deep breath, okay? I don’t want to cut Dipshit’s throat, or I would have done it already.” I glanced at the girl, “You don’t want to shoot me, or you would have done that already. Maybe none of us has bad intentions. Is it possible that we’re all good folks who’ve stumbled into a bad situation?”
The girl said, “You broke into our house, Asshole.”
“Jesus. Really? I knocked on the door like ten fucking times.”
“Three.”
“Whatever. Does it matter?”
The girl glared at me.
“When you and Dipshit raided the other houses around here,” I asked, “did you knock or just break in?”
“Stop calling him Dipshit, Asshole.”
“Tell you what, I’ll stop calling Steve Dipshit if you’ll stop calling me Asshole.”
“Why don’t you just leave?” she asked.
“I’m not totally against doing that,” I said. “But while you have that gun pointed at me, I’m not going to lower my machete.”
“So if I lower the gun, you’ll lower the machete?” she asked.
“I’d prefer that you put it down,” I said.
“I told you there’s no way that’s going to happen.”
“And how do I know you won’t just raise it and shoot at me once I lower the machete?” I asked.
“That’s a chance you’ll just have to take. Like you said, I probably can’t hit you anyway. Be a man, Asshole. Take a chance. You’ve got balls, right?”
I figured I take another tack and try to defuse the situation. “My name is Zed.”
“Did you make that up to sound like a badass?”
“Really? You’re going to make fun of my name? Are we back in third grade again?”
Dipshit—I mean, Steve—said, “Angie, lower the gun, please. Zed, she won’t shoot you.”
“How do I know that?” I asked.
Steve said, “She’s not like that.”
“Yes, I am.” The girl raised her voice to make the point.
“I think you’re not going to shoot, because you’re as likely to hit Steve as me if you shoot that thing.” I took a deep breath and then took a chance. “I’m going to lower the machete. I don’t want to hurt Steve or you either, Angie. I was just looking for some dinner.”
“What about your friends outside?” she asked.
“What? I can’t have friends to cover my ass? You have Steve, right?” I lowered the machete and let it hang straight down. “Thanks for not shooting me. Would you lower the gun please?”
Angie looked at Steve. Steve nodded. Angie glanced at the window, looked at me, and then looked back at Steve. “Don’t try anything.” She lowered her weapon, but kept both hands on it.
Not even aware that I’d been wound tight with the tension of the situation, I felt myself relax a bit. “Thank you.”
Steve said, “If you want some food, we can give you some before you go.”
“We can’t just give food to anybody who breaks in,” Angie argued.
“We have enough for a while,” said Steve.
“So you guys probably already raided most of the houses around here?” I asked.
“Yes,” Steve answered.
“Don’t tell him that,” Angie said, not at all pleased that Steve was divulging secrets.
“Listen, I’ll be happy to have whatever you can spare. The only thing I’ve found in the last twenty-four hours is warm beer. It’s better than nothing, but me and my friends could use a little solid food. But before we go too far with this, I need to lean out the window and wave to my friends to let them know I’m okay, or they’ll worry. Cool?”
Angie stepped to her side to get a better view through the window on the side of the room. “Just so you know, if you signal them to come in here, you’ll be the first one shot.”
“You’ll be dead before you raise that gun.” Dalhover’s voice startled all of us. With the barrel of his rifle aimed at Angie’s head, he stepped out of the hall and into the room. “Drop it.”
Angie face showed so much anger I thought she might try to raise the gun and shoot at Dalhover.
“Don’t,” I said, as calmly as I could.
“Please,” said Steve, “drop the gun, Angie. We weren’t going to hurt him.” Steve looked at me with promises of revenge in his eyes.
“Be cool, Steve,” I said. “Nobody’s going to get hurt.” I nodded toward Dalhover. “He’s just protecting me.”
Dalhover, in a voice that made it clear that compromise wasn’t on the table, said, “Lay the weapon on the bed. Do it slow. Do it now.”
Angie did as instructed.
“Murphy,” Dalhover called.
Murphy leaned in through the window that I’d climbed in.
Dalhover said, “Get their weapons.” To Angie he said, “Back up against that wall. You, too, Steve, step back to the wall.”
Murphy climbed in the window, moved around me, and gathered up both of the weapons.
I said, “You guys are like ninjas.”
Dalhover glanced at Murphy. “Cover them.”
From his position standing at the foot of the bed, Murphy raised a pistol and pointed it at both Angie and Steve. I stepped around behind him.
Dalhover turned around, sidled up behind the doorjamb, and pointed his weapon down the hall. “How many more are in the house?”
“Three,” Steve answered without hesitation.
Angie glared at Steve. Clearly she didn’t want us to know that. She looked at Dalhover, “They’ll come up here and kill you. You better leave.”
“Uh-huh.” Murphy’s tone made it clear that he didn’t believe her.
“Let’s all be calm, okay?” Steve asked. “You don’t need to worry about the other three.”
Angie hissed, “Steve.”
Steve shook his head. “They’re different. They’re harmless. Please, don’t hurt them.”
“Harmless?” I asked. “Are they kids or something?”
“No.” Steve shook his head and looked at the floor. “The virus, it changed them.”
I looked at Murphy. “Like Russell, you think?”
“Or Nico.” Murphy frowned and glanced toward the door.
Dalhover said to Murphy, “Give Zane a gun. Zane, you keep an eye on them. Murphy, you come with me.”
“You got it, Top.” Murphy handed one of the weapons to me and turned to follow Dalhover who was already moving up the hall.
Holding the pistol in the general direction of the wall where Angie and Steve were leaning, I said, “Why don’t you two at least sit on the
bed and get comfortable?”
Defeated or pragmatic—I couldn’t tell which—Steve sat on the bed and leaned against the headboard.
Angie was defiant. “I don’t think you can hit me if you shoot at me.”
Steve said, “Angie, just because you can’t shoot doesn’t mean he can’t. Just sit down and be quiet.”
Angie took a half step at me.
I said, “Nope. I can’t shoot for shit anymore. But you know that, don’t you, Angie? Or at least you’re guessing it because you can’t shoot. So if you want to run over here and do something stupid, go ahead. I’ll probably miss you.” I raised my machete. “But that’s why I carry this.”
Angie’s face turned to fright before she masked it again in defiance.
“Don’t hurt us,” Steve implored.
Angie sat on the bed.
“Like I said, nobody wants to hurt anybody. I was just looking for some food.”
“Then let us go,” Angie told me.
“When Dalhover finishes downstairs, okay? I’m sure he just wants to make sure that nobody is going to shoot at us when we’re leaving.”
“I’m sure.” It was sarcasm. Angie just wasn’t the trusting type.
“Yeah, whatever.” I looked at Steve. Angie could be ignored now that she had no pistol in her hand. “You guys are both infected, but like me.”
“I guess,” Steve answered.
“Was Angie always a bad shot or is that recent?” I asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Has her marksmanship declined lately?”
“I think it’s been getting worse all along,” he said.
“Don’t tell him that,” Angie told Steve.
Steve rolled his eyes. “And she’s got a shorter temper.”
“I hear ya,” I said. “I can’t shoot worth a shit anymore either. I’m starting to think the virus is deteriorating my eye-hand coordination.”
Steve nodded.
Angie looked away.