by A. M. Geever
“Fucking hell,” Miranda said, shaking out her arm and wiping her face.
Doug walked over and shoved his machete through the zombie’s eye. On the floor under the bricked-in window, Miranda saw a pistol. She stooped to retrieve it and sniffed, careful to keep the barrel pointed at the floor.
“Unfired,” she said, looking at Doug.
She set the pistol down so she could check her arm. The zombie’s teeth had left deep indentations on her leather jacket’s sleeve. She peeled her glove back enough to free the jacket tucked into it, undid the zipper that ran from wrist to elbow, and pushed it up. She twisted her arm, checking her chain mail and the long-sleeved thermal shirt underneath it. No blood on the cloth, and the chain mail was intact.
“Looks okay,” she said. “I’ll have River check me out when we get back.”
River.
Holy shit, I’m pregnant! River’s going to read me the riot act.
Not that it mattered in the long run, and doctors always seemed to be yelling at her for something she did that was hazardous to her health. But how had she forgotten the development in her personal life that had floored her just hours earlier?
“You okay?” Skye asked.
Miranda rounded on her, suddenly furious.
“What the fuck, Skye?” she demanded, pointing at the headless zombie on the floor. “She was at least thirty pounds overweight! That’s more than enough to turn as a dasher. And you didn’t think to tell us the room is a fucking shoebox? We would never have entered that way if we had known!”
“Last time I saw Crystal she wasn’t, I didn’t— I’m sorry,” Skye stammered, unprepared for Miranda’s anger. “I forgot how small—”
“You for— Are you a fucking amateur? What if I hadn’t been wearing chain mail and leather? Maybe you should put layout diagrams on the doors as reminders!”
“C’mon, Miri,” Doug said, his voice placating. “Honest mistake. And we’re fine.” He jerked his head at the door. “Let’s clear the other rooms, Skye.”
Miranda’s mouth hung open as she watched Doug’s retreating form. Honest mistake?
“Who the hell does he think he’s kidding,” she said under her breath, wiping zombie muck from her cheek. “Honest crush on the pretty girl is more like it.”
By the time she joined them in the hallway, they had cleared the other two bedrooms without incident. Miranda turned on her heel and stalked to the main room. They had not stopped before to see how the man in there died. Miranda had a sneaking suspicion it was not because he had become a zombie.
Miranda crouched next to the body of the man by the overturned table. The blood was dried and brown.
“He’s been shot,” Miranda said.
Doug crouched next to Miranda and helped her check the rest of the body. He grunted with effort as he turned the man over. “I don’t see a bite mark anywhere on him.”
“And where is Derek,” Skye said softly. “He was the third person here. He might be able to tell us what happened, but he must have taken off.”
Still annoyed, Miranda stood up.
“It’s obvious what happened here. She got bit and hid it from the others, and she killed the dogs so they wouldn’t give her away because she was that kind of asshole.”
She pointed at the dead man. “I’m guessing he found out, they fought, and she shot him.” Miranda paused. “But her gun wasn’t fired, so your other guy, Derek, must have shot him to protect her, or she used a different gun, and then Derek took off before she turned. And then she shut herself in there and wimped out.”
Skye shook her head. “I can’t believe Crystal did this. I don’t disagree,” she added hastily at Miranda’s frown. “But she knew better.”
“What people know and what they do are two different things,” Doug said. “That door wasn’t locked. If I knew someone was going to turn and was idiot enough to not put them out of their misery, I would at least put a warning on the door.”
Skye’s breath whistled through her teeth. “We need to get to the bottom of what happened here, especially those cut cords, but right now, we need to report the situation to Anna,” she said. She pulled the broken laptop out from under the sound board and stuffed it in her pack. “Maybe they can get something off the drive. Let’s go.”
Skye headed for the door. Miranda grabbed Doug’s arm and pulled him back when he followed.
“You’re making excuses for her fuckup?”
Miranda searched Doug’s face. She wanted to just be angry, but what she felt was betrayed. Doug always had her back, including when he told her that she had made a mistake. He had backed her up physically this time, but not in the way that really counted.
“I didn’t think assigning blame would help, Miri. She knows she screwed up. We all do at some point.”
“If it was anyone else, you would never let this slide. You’d say something.”
Doug’s voice was defensive. “If it was anyone else? What the hell does that mean?”
“It means if she was anyone other than your girlfriend,” Miranda snapped.
Surprise filled Doug’s face, but a pink flush crept up his face. “I don’t know what—”
“Anyone can see you’re infatuated with her! And I could give a shit. Fuck like bunnies for all I care. Just don’t let it affect your judgment.”
“Look,” he began.
“Quit talking,” she said through gritted teeth, brushing past him. “You’ll only dig a deeper hole.”
18
Phineas’ hunched form scuttled across the aluminum ladder over the trench when Miranda and Doug exited the house.
“That’s not a good sign,” Doug said.
Miranda stepped up the pace to a jog. When she first saw Phineas, she had thought for a moment that he was a zombie, one of the rare ones able to climb. Thank God they did not have that to deal with, but something was up. He would not be abandoning his lookout and coming to them otherwise.
They caught up to Skye at the fence.
“They just radioed, Skye,” Phineas said. “The failure spread. All of the stations are down. We have to get back now while we still can. In a few hours, LO will be surrounded.”
“This day just gets better and better,” Skye said.
“Should we go to the Institute instead?” Miranda asked.
Both Skye and Phineas shook their heads.
“It’s farther away,” Skye said. “We’ll head back to LO.”
Miranda looked in the trench while Phineas wriggled under the fence. He had killed ten zombies while they were gone. More were turning the corner on her left, their grasping hands upraised and mouths open. To the right another stumbled into view. Miranda turned to take her turn under the fence, then looked at the zombie again.
“Its hair is clean.”
The zombie’s dark, curly hair was shiny and hardly mussed. The blood from a gash on its forehead was still red. It raised its eyes to hers.
“Help.”
“Someone’s in the trench,” Miranda said, hurrying over and dropping to her knees.
Doug paused beside Miranda long enough to assess the situation, then jumped into the trench. In two steps he reached the short figure, a woman, and boosted her up to the edge of the trench. Miranda and Skye reached into the trench, each catching the groggy, mumbling woman under the arms, and hoisted her up. Miranda reached back to help Doug while Skye dragged the woman out of the way.
Skye knelt beside her, pushing her hair aside. “It’s Courtney,” she said.
Miranda’s brow crinkled. “Courtney? Wasn’t she on guard at the Institute?”
“I haven’t seen her in a while, so maybe,” Skye said. She had already begun to check the young woman for bites. “I don’t see any bites.”
Phineas looked from the other side of the fence. “That’s a hell of a whack on her forehead.”
Skye dragged Courtney, who mumbled unintelligibly, to the opening. “Let’s get her under the fence and back to LO. Maybe she can tell us what h
appened here.”
As Phineas finished pulling the young woman to his side of the fence and Miranda began to wriggle through, he said, “What if she’s bitten, and we just can’t see it?”
“Our motorcycle is more powerful than yours. She can ride between us with one of our helmets. The helmet will protect us.”
“Good idea,” Doug said, fitting the screen into place and flipping the paving stone back over the crawl space. “She doesn’t look sick though. I want to know how she ended up in that trench.”
Miranda and Phineas were on their motorcycle again, the landscape rushing by. Doug and Skye, with the now unconscious Courtney, drove ahead of them. They took a different route back than the one they had taken to the station. Already, there were more zombies. Without the noise of the Stations to stop and distract them, they just kept going. It was not that they were trying to get to LO in particular… Zombies simply wandered until there was a reason to stop or change course. Even with how wildly overgrown everything in the Northwest seemed to be, if it was happening this fast on all sides of the settlement, then LO would be surrounded within a day, tops.
Miranda’s forearm that the dasher had chomped and then used to rattle her around like a chew toy throbbed. It was going to be a hell of a welt, she could tell already.
Doug, Skye, and Courtney turned out of sight a hundred yards ahead of them.
“Almost home,” Phineas yelled.
Miranda’s body swayed with the slight lean of the bike as it entered the turn in the road. Then it slid out from under her.
The ground rushed up. Every part of her body—arms and elbows, knees and hips, shoulders and back—were beaten without mercy as she rolled over the hard-packed earth, rocks, and fallen branches. Despite the muffling effect of her helmet, crashing proved incredibly loud. Finally she stopped, facedown. Her right arm was tucked close to her side, the other flung above her head. She had no idea where her legs were.
For a moment she lay there, catching her breath, tremors roiling her body. Then a twig snapped, followed by a shallow grunt.
Get. Up.
Miranda pushed her hands against the ground, levering up onto her knees. Her arms wobbled like jelly. Every movement, especially breathing, hurt. She looked up, her head throbbing, to see zombies staggering closer. They tripped and fell, lurched and swayed. They weebled and fucking wobbled but did not stay down.
She dragged herself to her feet, wincing at a dull throb across her hip, and felt for her handgun. Gone. Of course. But her machete was still secure in its sheath. She scanned the crash site for Phineas. He lay on the ground on his back a hundred feet away. The motorcycle was fifty feet beyond him where it had knocked down what remained of a side yard fence. The front wheel still spun like The Little Engine That Could.
Miranda grimaced at the protests from every inch of her body. She ignored the pain, stumbling to Phineas. The sharp bite of gasoline filled her nostrils. She looked at the motorcycle more closely and realized the gas tank was punctured and leaking. Shaky fingers took three tries to undo the snap on her helmet. It hit the ground with a dull crack of ceramic. The cold, damp breeze riffled her sweat-soaked scalp, chilling her shaking body. She listened for the sound of an approaching engine but did not hear one. Doug and Skye either did not realize they were no longer following them or could not afford to double back. Either way, it amounted to the same thing. And they didn’t have extra room on their bike with Courtney on it already.
We are so screwed.
Phineas stirred as she approached.
“You gotta get up, kid,” she said, dropping to her knees beside him.
Phineas looked at her, his eyes unfocused. He mumbled, but all she caught was, “We crashed.”
The moans grew louder. Zombies were coming from all sides, the nearest just fifteen feet away. Phineas fumbled with the snap on his helmet, and Miranda pulled it off.
“Can you stand?” she asked. “We gotta move, and I lost my gun.”
“Still have mine,” Phineas said, reaching to touch his leg. His moans of pain as he rolled onto his hands and knees mingled with the encroaching zombies before he retched and threw up. It was only when she leaned to help him to his feet that she noticed the bloodstain on his lower leg. He was wearing a waxed jacket with matching pants. If the blood was coming through, he was bleeding badly.
The closest zombies were on Phineas’ side, just ten feet now. Miranda pulled his arm over her shoulder and dragged him up. Phineas unholstered his handgun with his free hand, lifted it, and fired at the three zombies in their path. He got two, which was pretty impressive, considering.
“There’s a…two-story safe house,” he said, grimacing. “Around the corner.”
Miranda picked up the pace, which admittedly was not saying much. Phineas did his best to keep up, but mostly Miranda dragged him. He kept taking out the zombies in their way, his aim remarkably accurate considering the pain he must be in. If he could keep that up, they just might make it. They turned the corner. The only two-story house was three doors down.
“Thank God,” Miranda gasped.
The scuffle and scrape of dragging feet behind them sounded closer, the moans and grunts louder and growing more feverish. No zombies blocked their path to the third house, but they were stumbling to the road from the overgrown yards.
She dragged Phineas across the driveway of the third house. Almost at the front door, a shadow flickered in the corner of her eye. Before she could turn her head, Phineas lurched into her. The gun boomed in her ear, setting it ringing and stuffing it with cotton at the same time.
“Key’s under the mat,” he gasped.
A bark of laughter came from Miranda. “Of course it is.”
Zombies stumbled over the lawn of the next house, just feet away. Phineas leaned against the door. Miranda flipped the mat up and snatched the key with trembling fingers. It slid into place, the action of the lock flawless. She pushed the door open, sending Phineas sprawling into the foyer. He pulled himself over the threshold by hands and elbows.
A zombie stumbled onto the porch, already stooping for Phineas, desiccated hands reaching, deathly maw stretched wide. Miranda shoved it back. Pain flared, sharp inside her elbow, as something popped. She stumbled through the door, slammed it shut, the snick of the deadbolt the denouement of their flight. She got Phineas up the stairs. He kept passing out and coming to. She didn’t even try to get him on the bed. She knelt next to him, feeling along his shin. Definitely broken—badly.
“We are so screwed,” he panted.
Miranda flinched, not having realized he was conscious.
“I think you have a compound fracture,” Miranda said to him. “I need to cut your pants to see how bad it’s bleeding.”
Phineas nodded.
She opened the window blinds to beat back the gloom. As she knelt beside Phineas, Miranda drew the hunting knife she kept on her belt. She eased the blade into the seam of his waxed pants and cut along it. Phineas started to laugh but stopped with a wince.
“What?” she asked, her brow furrowing in puzzlement.
“I’ve finally got a beautiful woman tearing my clothes off.”
“Don’t get cocky, kid,” Miranda said, but she couldn’t suppress a smile. Cheeky little fucker, she thought. She cut his jeans underneath his outer layers of clothing to the knee to reveal the blood-soaked thermal underwear beneath them.
“Do you have chain mail on?”
Phineas shook his head. “Not with these pants. They’re…”
Miranda saw his eyelids flutter.
“Phineas! Stay with me, okay?”
Head resting on the floor now, he nodded.
She was about to cut the thermal underwear, then hesitated. He was bleeding—she could tell just by looking—but not as badly as she had feared. As soon as she cut his thermals, she exposed him to even more germs. Gingerly, she felt along his shin. She heard his sharp inhale, then a long exhale. When she reached the break, barely skimming the ripped skin and m
uscle and bone that had definitely pushed through them, he pounded the carpeted floor with his fist, whimpering, but did not cry out.
Tough little fucker, too.
“It’s definitely a compound fracture,” she said.
She unzipped her jacket, then pulled off her lightweight wool sweater and the long-sleeved turtleneck underneath it. Her exposed chain mail tunic clicked over the undershirt beneath it as she made a few quick cuts to reduce the turtleneck to long strips. She wrapped them as tightly around the break as she could without disturbing it even more. By the time she was done, Phineas writhed in place, his dark skin dusted with gray and his short-cropped hair sweat soaked.
“What are we going to do?” he gasped.
“We’re gonna elevate your leg.”
She pulled on her sweater and climbed to her feet. Even with the layer of clothing below the chain mail, she could feel the difference without the turtleneck. She limped to the window that faced the street, her hip throbbing. If she didn’t keep moving, it would stiffen up and fuck her.
Zombies were congregating in the street in addition to the ones that banged against the front of the house. More were coming, from every direction that she could see, but there was still wiggle room. Maybe. If she could slip out the back, swing wide and then backtrack. If she left now, she might make it. She might not, either, but fifty-fifty were not the worst odds she had ever faced.
“And then I’m going for help.”
“There are too many,” Phineas said, too weak to make his protest sound like a protest. “You’ll never make it.”
Miranda left the window and pulled a nightstand over to where Phineas lay, then pushed it on its side.
“We have no supplies, and you’re going into shock. And it’s fifty degrees in here, maybe. This is gonna hurt.”
He was three shades grayer and clammy to the touch by the time she had his leg elevated over the nightstand with a pillow beneath it. She pulled all the blankets off the bed and wrapped them around him, tucking them under as far as he could tolerate her jostling him. Then she went to the other bedrooms and grabbed those blankets, too. She stuck a pillow under his head and another blanket around it. He looked about twelve, so bundled up in blankets. She picked up her leather jacket and shrugged back into it, then pulled on her gloves.