Slow Burn Box Set: The Complete Post Apocalyptic Series (Books 1-9)

by Bobby Adair

  Nico shook his head as he accepted. “I loved my daughter, Zed. You don’t have kids, I assume. So you’ll never know how much a parent loves their kids.”

  “I’ll have to take your word on that, Nico.” I turned to start paddling again.

  We paddled together for a little while upstream with no words passing between us.

  Nico deduced, “Your parents must have been real shits.”

  I shrugged without looking back. “It’s not important, Nico. They’re gone.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive.”

  “Did you ever reconcile everything with them before they went?”

  “I told you, Nico. It doesn’t matter.”

  “It makes it easier to move on when you close the books so to speak.”

  “They’re dead, Nico. Just like everybody else.”

  “How do you feel about that?”

  “Are you sure you’re not a psychologist?”

  “I told you, my daughter Stacy, she was hard to talk to too. I’m used to dredging answers out.”

  “I’m truly sorry about Stacy, Nico. I’m sorry I said what I said.”

  “It’s okay. You didn’t know.”

  It was getting late in the afternoon. There were shadows cast over the water by the trees near the shore and it was tempting to paddle closer to the bank and take advantage of the shade. But so many dangers could be hiding among the trees and bushes there.

  We continued up river and the conversation hit another lull. I was as comfortable as I could be with that. I was guessing that Nico was feeling a little burned by what I’d implied and was afraid to pursue another topic. But he finally asked, “What are your friends like?”

  “They’re good people.”

  “Did you know any of them before the virus hit?”

  “Nope.”

  “You met them all afterwards?”

  “Yes.”

  “If you don’t mind my speculating, I’m under the impression that you’re pretty attached to them.”

  I shrugged.

  “Does that mean no?”

  “No.”

  “So you are.”

  “Yes.”

  “Given what I think I know about you—you know, considering your childhood and all—you don’t seem like the type to bond easily with other people.”

  “Are you calling me a sociopath, Nico?” I turned back to him and gave him a wan smile, to let him know that I was kidding.

  “You know what I mean.”

  “I don’t know about that, Nico. Why is it important?”

  “Just talking.”

  I paddled a few more stroked.

  “Would you say that you’re attached to them?”

  “Sure, Nico. I’d say that.”

  “Would you say that, or would it be true?”

  “I’m sure Stacy loved it when you cross-examined her.” The sarcasm came easy to me.

  “As much as you do.”

  “I’m attached to them, Nico.”

  “More than other people you’ve known?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t really thought about it.”

  “I think you have.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “You got a degree in philosophy for a reason, I think. You probably like to think about the reasons behind things. I’m guessing this is one of those things you’ve thought about.”

  “I’ve been kind of busy lately, Nico.”

  “You had plenty of time when we were on the chain gang.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. So did you think about it?”

  “Fine. It’s true. I’m probably more attached to these people than most other people I’ve known.”

  “Why?”

  “A. It doesn’t matter. B. I don’t know. C. If all your theories about me are true, then I’m probably too socially handicapped to know. D. I think that’s the boathouse down there on the right. Do you see it?”

  “It looks like the door is open.”

  Chapter 18

  “How the fuck did they get in there?” My anger carried my voice across the water and caught the full, screaming attention of every naked White in Sarah Mansfield’s boathouse.

  Nico said nothing. The question was clearly rhetorical.

  My knuckles bleached stark white as I clenched my hands on my paddle. The boathouse door was open. The ski boat was gone. The jet skis were still inside. Life jackets were scattered; a few floated in the water. Everything that had been so organized inside was strewn where it shouldn’t have been. The infected had apparently scoured every inch of the boathouse in search of something to eat.

  A dangerous calm came over me. Everyone I had any attachment to had been in that house up on the cliff. Mass murder was back in my black thoughts. The darkness was blazing fire, but I didn’t care that it was. I needed answers to suddenly open questions, and I felt a strong need to exterminate some Whites.

  I looked at Nico, banal, blabbering Nico, and I was leashed to him. But through my mannequin’s calm, he couldn’t tell that I felt like a rabid dog. I drew a deep breath. “Nico, we need to get these chains off.”

  “But…” Nico looked back at me. I don’t know what he saw at that moment, but he got enough information from it to make him nod in agreement instead.

  I pointed to some houses on the north shore, right on the edge of the water a few hundred yards upstream.

  Nico looked at the houses and looked back at me, worried. Rightfully so, they were crawling with naked Whites, the same ones that were in Sarah Mansfield’s boathouse, the same ones that overran Dr. Evans’ farm. Or so I deduced. That meant there were tens of thousands of them up on the mountain.

  “Let’s try a house on the other side of the river,” Nico pleaded.

  I looked at the forested bank across the water. The nearest house on that side was back downriver and maybe a quarter mile away. I looked back to the row of upstream waterfront mansions with hundreds of Whites rampaging over the property.

  Safety first!

  I reluctantly nodded.

  “Good,” Nico smiled feebly. He cast another fearful glance at the overrun mansions. “Good.”

  We paddled the canoe over to the far bank and sped up as we turned into the current. Before long, we neared the first of the waterfront houses.

  I pulled my paddle into the canoe and Nico did the same. As we drifted, I surveyed the lawn and scrutinized the windows, looking for anything with arms or legs that might be a danger to us.

  Nico turned back to look at me, “It’s as good as any, I suppose.” Translation: he didn’t see any Whites either.

  I shrugged and we angled the canoe toward the bank. There was no boathouse, no dock, just green grass sloping down to a ragged bank that stood a meager twelve inches above the surface of the river.

  Gravel ground under the keel as the bow neared the bank beneath an overhanging tree. Nico reached out and looped the bow rope round the tree trunk and put a single, loose knot in it. I used my paddle to pull the rear of the canoe around parallel with the bank. I had to step into the shallow water to get out of the canoe, and then step up to the bank, onto the sloping grass, slippery with river water running off of my boots.

  Nevertheless, Nico and I found ourselves tethered by our chain, standing side by side, looking across a lawn at the back of a 1950s-style house, sharing the same hopes and the same fears.

  I took the length of chain to my left, a length that had two unoccupied loops, and drew it back through my hand until I had a couple of dangling feet of iron weight left, enough for a passable weapon. Nico saw what I was doing and copied with a length of chain on his right side. There was nothing that could be done with the length between us.

  “Through the back door and then we find the garage?” I asked, guessing that Nico would agree to whatever I suggested.

  I guessed right.

  He followed me across the grass until we stepped up onto a wooden deck covered with a maze of disorgani
zed patio furniture. I didn’t see any blood, no torn clothing, and no human remains. There had been no attack by the infected here. Perhaps the owners were just sloppy people.

  From my position on the raised deck, I was able to peer over a hedge into the next yard. Nothing there, either. Nico looked, then seemed to relax a bit before marching off toward the back door. I gently tugged the chain on his neck to slow him down. I raised a palm, imploring patience. Just because we didn’t see the danger didn’t mean it wasn’t there.

  Nico caught my meaning and his show of bravery came to an end. He let me lead.

  The back door proved to be locked. That presented a dilemma. Go around front and expose ourselves to visibility from the street, only to come to a sturdier, probably locked door, or bust this flimsy looking one down? The noise would draw the attention of any Whites that were lingering silently nearby. I looked at Nico, “I think…”

  “Bust it down,” he interrupted me.

  That was decisive. I gave Nico a nod and stepped back to give the door a good hard look. Old. It looked old and flimsy, like an interior door repurposed to the wrong task. I gave Nico a here-goes look, aimed my shoulder at the middle of the door, and sprinted forward with all the momentum I could gather in three steps.

  After so many years in the humidity by the river, the door had to have been partially rotted inside, because when my shoulder hit it, it splintered through the center and broke. With one of my feet caught on the lower edge of the door, I fell. I covered my eyes with my hands to protect them from shivered wood.

  When the sound of the crash faded and I pulled my hands away from my face, I was on the floor, covered in pieces of wood, large and small, and—

  Oops.

  The business end of a rifle barrel was just inches from my face. Up at the other end of that rifle was an old man with a round, wrinkled face behind black plastic-rimmed glasses that tried to sit on a nose so flat and small that they rested more on his cheeks.

  “Don’t shoot?” It came out sounding like something between a question and a plea, as I tried frantically to imagine any words more convincing to say that might save my life.

  The bullet didn’t materialize, though. The old man’s expression was slowing changing from determination to confusion.

  “I’m…not like them,” I added, hoping that would help my case.

  He drew a deep breath and backed up a few steps. He clearly hadn’t expected to see a talking White. “Who are you?”

  From outside, Nico whispered in, “Zed! Zed! Are you okay?”

  “I’m Zed,” I answered. “Sorry about the door.”

  “Zed?” The old man asked.

  “That’s my name.” I nodded, then called softly out the door, “Nico, be cool for a sec’. There’s somebody in here.”

  Ignoring my request, Nico stuck his head in through the hole in the door and spotted the gun. “Oh.”

  The old man seemed stuck with his indecision, not moving, not speaking, probably trying to figure out what to do with us, trying to figure out whether I was about to attack him or not.

  “I’m not a danger to you,” I tried to sooth his fears. “We’re just as normal as you.”

  “Ya just broke my door down.” He was peeved.

  “Yeah, but…” I started to answer, “but we didn’t think anybody…”

  “Anybody, what?” He asked with an edge to his tone.

  “I didn’t think anybody would be alive in here.”

  “And why would you think that?” His voice was notching up with anger.

  “Well, none of the houses we checked…”

  “Y’er looters!” he concluded.

  “No, no,” I argued. “Because of everything that’s going on.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “C’mon,” I responded, disbelief dripping from my voice. I motioned around at the world outside the house’s walls. “How could you not know about the virus?”

  “I know ‘bout the virus,” he answered.

  “Then you know,” I concluded.

  “TV and radio have been off the air for a while now.”

  “But you know…” I was at a loss for a new argument so I stuck with the one that didn’t seem to be working. “You know that pretty much everybody is either dead or one of them, right?”

  “When you say one of them, you mean, like you, don’t you? Albinos.”

  “No, no.” I raised my hands, palms open. “We’re not like them. I got sick, but I got better. I’m normal now. Well except for my color.”

  The gun didn’t point away.

  I asked, “When was the last time you talked to anybody? Family? Neighbors?”

  The old man took a moment before he answered, reluctant to get drawn further into a conversation. “I haven’t talked to my son since I heard the news out’a Dallas. That’s where he lives, with my grandkids. I haven’t talked to a neighbor since the last one turned last week.”

  “How do you know he was the last one to turn?”

  “She,” he corrected.

  “How do you know she was the last one to turn?”

  “’Cause I seen ‘em all.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I seen ‘em all out on the road, one or two at a time. First, I wouldn’t see ‘em for a day or two, then they’d turn up out in the road, walkin’ down the street or tearin’ stuff up. Tryin’ to break inta houses, ‘n I seen ‘em kill some folks out front.”

  “Look,” I said, “I’m really sorry about your door. But it kind of just fell apart when I hit it.”

  Angry again. “Are you tryin’ to tell me that was an accident?”

  “No, no. I’m just saying that it broke a lot easier than I thought.”

  “Yeah, me too,” the old man agreed.

  “Hey,” I ventured a change of subject, “do you have a hacksaw or something?”

  “Nope.” The old man’s eyes followed the chain from my neck up to Nico’s neck. “Fer them chains, I reckon?”

  “Yes,” I confirmed.

  “I got some bolt cutters that’ll cut right through them locks.”

  “You’re a life saver.” I breathed a sigh of relief. “Can I get up off of the floor?”

  The old man lowered the rifle. “Mabye. How’d you get them chains?”

  “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” I answered.

  “You in some kinda trouble?”

  I laughed out loud at that.

  Chapter 19

  The garage smelled of machine oil, sawdust, and gasoline. It was clear that the old man used it for a workshop. What he worked on wasn’t at all clear.

  “I’m Nico Wright.” Nico extended his hand toward the old man as he stood in the center of his garage, looking at several toolboxes stacked on shelves against the wall.

  “Mr. Mays,” the old man answered, but didn’t offer to shake Nico’s hand. “Don’t wanna ketch it. Hope ya understand.”

  “Sure, ah, Mr. Mays.” Nico dropped his hand.

  “Not sure where I left them bolt cutters. Don’t use ‘em much.”

  “Thanks for helping us out,” I told Mr. Mays.

  “Yeah.” Mr. Mays didn’t look at me. “Don’t know what I’m gonna do about that door now. This house ain’t safe with no door.”

  “You’re welcome to come with us,” I offered. In for a penny, in for a pound.

  “Where to?” Mr. Mays looked at me and grinned, exposing his old, yellowed teeth. “I’m guessin’ if you boys had a place to stay you wouldn’a been breakin’ into mine.”

  “Well…” I didn’t really have a response that. Nevertheless, I pushed on. “My friends and I were staying up on the hill across the river…”

  “Up ‘er with all of them nekkid ones?”

  “They weren’t always there,” I found myself getting defensive for Sarah’s neighborhood. “I need to get back to them.”

  “Think I’ll just stay here,” Mr. Mays told me. “I don’t know how you boys was raised, but it seems like you
owe me a door before ya go.”

  Nico chimed in, “I have an idea, Mr. Mays. After you cut these chains off, I could stay here and help you find a door. Zed can get back to his people.”

  “His people?” Mr. Mays asked. “They ain’t yer people, too?”

  While Mr. Mays went to work shuffling through the junk on the shelves, Nico and I related the story about how we came to be chained to one another. Of course, Mr. Mays didn’t believe us. Nevertheless, he did eventually find the bolt cutters, and he freed us. Afterwards, he apologized to both of us for being unable to offer us the hospitality of a meal. He’d run out of food in the house a week or so prior but had been tying fishing lines each morning to tree branches that overhung the river. He’d been having decent luck with that but hadn’t caught anything that day.

  It was after seven o’clock and the sun was low in the western sky, taking the sharp edge off of the heat. The mosquitoes were starting to swarm, and I gave Mr. Mays and Nico a wave as I pushed the canoe out into the river, wondering what the chances were that I’d ever see them again.

  Chapter 20

  It was Steph I thought about as the canoe glided over the glassy surface of the river. I remembered what she looked like on that first afternoon in Sarah Mansfield’s house when we were alone together in the living room. I watched her walk across the floor toward the kitchen in a pair of salvaged blue jeans that looked like they had been tailored for her, effortlessly looking like the last beautiful thing left in the world.

  Or maybe it was a mundane memory, enhanced by the hydrocodone that she’d stuffed into my mouth.

  Stop being a dick about everything, Zed. Let it be real. Let it feel good.

  Did she escape when the naked Whites overran Sarah Mansfield’s house? Or did Freitag fuck her like she fucked me? What of the others? Was Murphy’s body, or the remains of it, up there in that theater recliner, rotting away? Oddly, my anger didn’t boil. I wasn’t depressed over the possible death of my friends. Maybe I was past that. Maybe I was letting a cold malevolence toward Freitag grow in my soul, pushing everything else out.

  As the water’s surface turned golden under a sun that was nearing the horizon, my canoe floated in front of Sarah Mansfield’s open boathouse. Seven or eight naked Whites were inside howling and slavering at the sight of me—I guess the canoe made me look like a normal human, a tasty morsel—but not daring to enter the water and come for a bite.