by Tara Brown
“He’s going to die in like an hour. We’ll leave once he’s gone?” Owen whispered into my ear almost silently.
I nodded along, watching the man as he stared longingly. “This is going to sound crazy, but where do you want us to bury you?” I asked, not really sure how to have the conversation but it was necessary.
“We’ll go there, right before eight, if it’s all the same to you guys. So you don't have to move me.” Lance offered a smile but his eyes were hollow. He was one of the walking dead now. “I buried my wife there.”
“Okay,” Owen agreed.
West came in eating from a box of crackers. He was dropping crumbs everywhere. He followed my gaze to the floor and blushed. “Sorry, Zo.” He stepped back as I got up and grabbed the broom. I’d done my walk-through of the house, tidying to make sure it looked the way it needed to. The way it should.
Just in case.
“I can’t believe this is the end,” Lance said as if talking to himself, but he wasn't. “You kids have three weeks left, how much time I had when I met you.”
“And not one of us has done anything monumental with our time.” Owen sounded a bit down.
“Forget monumental. It’s all about survival now. Promise me the moment I’m gone, you’ll leave. That prison isn’t going to hold after tonight. The guards like me who stayed and helped and worked, we did it to keep our families safe. The young guards, they don't care. They never stuck around.” He furrowed his brow and turned to face us as I put the broom away. “Also, I wanted you to think about some things. Some bad things.”
“Like the babies being last?” Owen asked, obviously still bothered by it. Who wasn’t?
“As of tonight, a large number of parents will be dying. And next week the last of them will go. And there won’t be a real adult left. Kids in their twenties are still just that, kids. And the world filled with children might sound like a Peter Pan fairytale, but it’s not.” He swallowed hard, maybe filtering the words he wanted to say and shouldn't say. “There are people in that prison who are evil. The purest form of it. I don't think I need to explain any further on that.” His eyes burned with sincerity as he stared between Owen and Westley.
“No,” Owen confirmed.
“Right, so you get on the road and you trust no one. No one.” His gaze darted to me and back to Owen. “She’s going to be an issue. She looks small and defenseless.”
“Yeah well, looks can be deceiving,” Owen said with a chuckle, “Hey, Zo?” then turned back and faced me.
“No.” What did he mean?
“She can turn her humanity off faster than any single person I’ve ever met. If any one of us is able to pull a trigger, it’s her.” Owen didn't turn back around.
I wasn't sure how to take what he meant. Switch my humanity off? Was he making a Vampire Diaries joke in the middle of the scary prison guard rape talk?
“Then maybe you need to teach her how to shoot a gun. Because pulling the trigger is everything now.”
“I will.” Owen nodded.
West leaned into me, almost encasing me. The warmth of him and the smell had started to become a thing in my nose. A smell like coming here, home. “I can shoot, real well.” He didn't have even a touch of humor in his tone. “She’ll be fine.” West didn't make threats so I wasn't sure how to take what he said. Or how to interpret the tone he used.
The entire conversation was confusing.
I got that Lance was basically saying what Mrs. Henry said, but with a more terrifying undertone I didn't want to think about. But why had Owen basically called me a psychopath? And when did West start sounding like some kind of assassin-style bodyguard?
“I just really want you kids to stay safe. You’re some of the few people who’ve been nice to me since she left. I went and saw that minister you told me about.” Lance stood on that note and walked to the door. “He was really nice. Got me through the last couple of weeks. He kept me busy helping out. Anyway, we should get this over with. I haven’t dug the hole yet.”
My heart stopped for a brief second as I contemplated what he’d just said. We’d moved too quickly from the minister to the hole.
“I’ll grab shovels.” Owen hurried into the backyard as Lance strolled out to the RV as though this was nothing, and he wasn't taking his final footsteps.
“He really is depressing,” Westley whispered.
“Yeah, but I bet his wife committing suicide combined with working in a prison didn't help.”
“I bet not,” he agreed and closed the door behind me as we walked outside into the dark. “Zo”—he paused and turned, making me stop and stare—“I’ll keep you safe. Always.” Westley stared back, making sure the words sunk in.
“Okay. Thanks,” I said, not loving being the feeble one. That was going to have to change.
Night was different now. No streetlights or passing cars or lights from other houses. The moon was it and sometimes even she didn't poke her face out.
Westley started the RV and gave Lance a look. “Where to?”
“You know that cemetery in the hills, the Old Ebenezer Church one?”
I shook my head as Westley and Owen both nodded.
“I buried her there. She was a member of the church. I wasn't but most of them are gone now. Who’s gonna know?”
“God, but he definitely owes ya one. He owes us all,” Owen said bitterly.
The drive was silent. Lance stared out the window of the passenger seat in what I assumed was quiet contemplation. My stomach was in knots. We were driving to a creepy graveyard to dig a hole next to his dead wife, then he would die, and we’d push him in and cover him with dirt.
There weren’t words or feelings for this moment, beyond “too much.”
And as I expected, the graveyard was creepy. Made creepier by the dark and the silence and the plan.
“Wait here,” Owen said to me as West climbed out.
I almost argued, I even opened my mouth to, but decided against it. I didn't want to watch him die. And I sure as hell didn't want to bury him. Covering a person I’d spoken to with dirt, leaving them behind, was some version of hell to me, and Owen knew it, humanity switch or not.
“It was real nice meeting you, Zoe. Don't switch off your humanity, kid. I’m sure it’s easier, but it’s not better. Life is all about getting the sour and sweet and making the most out of both. And even though the next few weeks are gonna be some scary times, you let yourself feel everything. That’s how we know we’re alive still. And don’t forget, a wise girl once told me that three weeks was better than no weeks.” He put a hand on mine and squeezed before he climbed out and left me there alone to ponder the greatness of his words. And mine.
13
Retreat
Celeste
“Can we stop soon?” Roz asked, rubbing her stomach like it hadn’t quite recovered from the maggot, or maybe wouldn't recover. She leaned into the seat, gazing back at Milo like they were old friends, clearly not on high alert with him.
I wasn’t either though. He was harmless. Sweet even. Not a great addition to a team trying to survive. But we weren’t accustomed to the trust-no-one lifestyle either. In fact, we weren’t great at it at all. Hence the bruise on my back and the smell of gunpowder on Roz’s hands.
At least she had mastered shooting at bad people. And I was getting comfortable-ish with carrying a gun. That came quicker than I wanted to process, considering how I grew up, taught to value human life over everything. And I still valued it, except when it wanted to take mine or make me do something I didn’t want to do. Then all bets were off. This was the apocalypse.
“Where are we, anyway?” Milo asked.
“Marion.” The headlights had hit a town sign a mile back right after the turn to what had appeared to be a huge hospital. “I don't know where this is though.” I wished we had a map, but then I would’ve also had to wish we knew how to read a map. God bless the digital era.
“It’s a ghost town,” Milo muttered, petting Stan’s
head. “Hey, they have a Walmart. We could grab food.”
“Not yet. I think we need to see what we have going on in a town before we take anything.”
“That’s fair. Oh man, I have never craved a Big Mac so bad before.” Milo turned to the empty McDonald’s with a car parked in the building, half of it hanging from a smashed window.
“I know. I haven’t eaten it in ages, but I could go for a burger so bad. And fries. And a shake.”
“Or just hot food,” Milo added scanning the barren streets as the headlights hit them.
“Or a hot shower. Dude, is it me or does this place seem cleaner than the other towns?” Roz said softly. “They don't have as many bodies or parked cars with dead people.”
“It’s weird.” I wondered if maybe it was sort of like those towns where the people took care of each other and cleaned up. Even teenagers. Which meant they wanted to keep it clean and safe and stranger-free. And we were just the sort of strangers they would want to drive out.
Stranger danger had been taken to a whole new level.
We passed something, a turn with a beaten-up sign but the gist of it was clear. Marion was not a town to stay in. “Shit.” I pointed at the barbed-wire fencing along the side of a hill with guard lookout towers glistening in the moonlight.
“Oh shit. Did that sign say mental institute and prison?” Milo’s voice cracked again.
“It did.” My stomach sunk. “We need to find a map, a car with gas, some food, and get the hell out of here.”
“How much gas do we have?” Roz leaned over, wrinkling her nose. “Damn. Okay, maybe drive up into one of the neighborhoods, and we can figure it out somewhere quiet. Park the SUV like it belongs at someone’s house, and we’ll crawl through some yards away from it. Just in case.”
“Okay.” She was smart when it came to being sneaky.
I hung a left and a right and another left, driving slowly into a rural neighborhood. When it appeared quiet but less tidied up, I parked in an empty driveway and climbed out. We didn’t bother waiting to listen, better to get away from the SUV as Roz had said. Just in case.
Milo wasn’t the emotional wreck he’d been earlier. He seemed to have leveled out and stayed silent as we all hurried around the side of the house to the treed area in the backyard. Stan was a boss, walking ahead and listening intently as our eyes adjusted to the moonlight.
The leaves crunched; the trees were bare now. November wasn’t entirely cold here, but it was chillier than I’d expected.
We crept into the barren forest, down a small bank and up another. Stan kept ahead of us, sniffing and cautious. I didn’t listen as much as I watched him. My dog back home would have been great in a moment like this. He was like Stan, not as white or fluffy though.
We hurried to a small ravine and climbed the banks to a bunch of backyards, all of them open with no fences.
“A tree house.” Roz beamed but spoke softly, “I love tree houses. I had one once at this place I stayed at for a year. I liked that family.” Milo gave me a stare as if asking if he wanted to know. I carefully shook my head so she didn’t see.
The dark silence of the woods made me uncomfortable. It was too quiet. But Stan seemed okay so I didn’t worry. He almost smiled as he ran up to the back door of the small house with the tree house, a dog version of Roz who was already up in the tree house. Milo followed her and I followed Stan. My money was on the dog.
I grabbed the handle of the porch door, preparing for the screech it would make when I opened it. It wasn’t as bad as I had expected, but it was still noise. I hated noise now.
Holding the porch door open, I gripped the handle of the small brown back door, taking a deep breath and glimpsing back at Stan who gave me the hurry-up stare. I turned the knob and pushed it open, listening. Stan waited for me, making me worry about what was inside.
“Ready?” I whispered to him. He panted his response, maybe saying yes. Or maybe he was just being a dog. I wasn’t sure or confident, but I stepped inside, turning on my cell phone and using the flashlight. I held the porch door so he could come in with me. I wasn’t going alone.
The house smelled like a home, like when you went on vacation and came home and the house missed you. There was a lingering scent of life and love and living but it needed a refresh.
I tiptoed into the living room, finding a TV and some small sofas, similar to those you’d have in an apartment. It screamed single mom. My friends with single moms had this exact furniture.
I’d grown up the opposite of this, a large family with a beautiful home. We had original artwork and pieces of furniture that came with a story, not a discount. I’d never imagined this as my future, breaking into strangers’ low-income houses in hopes of stealing from them so I could survive.
It was irony at its finest.
In the other room was a small kitchen with four crappy chairs and an ugly brown kitchen table, but it was clean. Like someone had cared to clean before they left. The pantry was stocked, which was better than anywhere else we’d been, but it appeared as though someone had gone through it in a hurry. They’d taken things they wanted, not needed. So the rows of plain saltine crackers and canned food were still full, but the Goldfish and Oreos were nothing but empty boxes.
They’d left before they had to, they didn’t flee. Meaning this house might still have some luxuries. Beyond food.
I turned around, seeing a hallway. There was a small office, a laundry room that smelled like old mildew, and a set of stairs. The second floor had two tiny bedrooms and a cool attic with a ham radio. I wished there was power so I could listen to it. Stan looked like maybe he agreed.
He cleared the rooms with me, sniffing and crouching. Maybe he was a police dog in his past life. Maybe not a real one but he played one on TV.
He was too fluffy to be a real police dog, and I didn’t think it was all fur. Some of it was plain old love and comfort. He had to be over a hundred and sixty pounds, meaning he outweighed me, and probably Milo by at least twenty.
We strolled back into the smaller of the rooms that clearly belonged to someone who loved to read. She had shelves of books and posters with quotes and a few photos. She was likely a little younger than me, maybe eighteen. She was pretty but in that Bella Swan way, sort of unassuming until you put on makeup, and then she would be every guy’s dream girl. Except she didn’t have any makeup apart from an old lip gloss and a mascara that would either cure or cause some kind of zesty infection. Her room was tidy and everything appeared to be in its place.
Except a small book sitting on her neatly made bed, a journal perhaps. I lifted it, noting the weight of the small book, as though it was heavier being filled with secrets or stories or private thoughts. My stomach twinged as I opened to the first page and read the handwritten lines aloud, “Today is ten days since D-Day. Since the first wave of people died. It’s been three days since I found out the world was ending when everyone in their nineties died. And now, I am starting to realize I won’t ever grow up.”
I sat on the bed, Stan jumped up with me, and I continued into the story.
“My name is Zoey and I guess I’m dead. I even know the day I die.”
14
Introductions
Zoey
Neither Owen nor West spoke as we drove back to my place to do one more walk-through of the house and make sure we hadn’t forgotten anything.
Though we weren’t going back for the note this time. Owen had put it in his back pocket for safekeeping and a guarantee I would read it before I died. Even if it meant he had to hold my eyes open.
As we rounded the corner to my place, something caught my eye. There appeared to be a light in my bedroom and then it was gone.
I thought for a second I’d hallucinated, but we pulled up and as I climbed out, a dog barked. It was definitely inside the house.
I paused and turned to the guys, checking to ensure they’d heard it too.
“That was a dog, right?” Owen asked as West pulled a g
un from the back of his pants.
“Yup.” I scanned the dark yard and tried to listen.
The dog, a huge white fluffy polar-bear-looking thing ran at me in the front room window and barked like it might come through the glass and kill me.
“Holy shit, that’s a huge dog.” West took a step back as its spit and froth got on the glass. “How the hell did he get in there?”
“Did we leave the back door open?” Owen asked at the same moment someone cut into our quiet conversation.
“Hello! Sorry, excuse me,” a guy’s voice shouted. “Please don't shoot my dog. We thought your house was empty. I’m so sorry. We mean you no harm.” A guy, maybe a little older than us, hurried across my lawn with his pale white hands high in the air. “I’m so sorry. We don't want any trouble. We’re not thieves, just lost young people trying to head west. We’ll be on our way. It’s just—my dog’s in your house. Stan.” His words faded to a whisper as he stared at the massive guys next to me, West with his gun out. “His name’s Stan. He’s friendly,” he said as the dog lost his mind against the glass.
“Stan?” Owen smiled, sounding okay. Not scared, even though a dark-haired girl walked behind the pale guy and she had a gun too. And she didn't look at all cute and sweet the way the guy did. She didn’t have that “Home and Garden TV” demeanor to her. At all. West had his gun pointed at her.
“The dog’s name is Stan? Is he a divorcé and an accountant?” Owen joked.
“My boyf—friend, Hunter—” He paused, struggling with the words and obviously the gun in West’s hands. “Hunter loved Stanley Tucci. I mean who doesn't—”
“I know I do,” Owen admitted too easily, earning a scowl from Westley. “If your friend lowers her gun, mine will too, and we can pretend this happened a lot nicer.”
“Right, oh my God. Sorry. She’s gun-happy.” The guy with the dog named Stan turned and growled in the least alarming way I’d ever heard, “Rozzy, don't be rude. This is their house. Obviously. We’re the ones trespassing.”