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

by Bobby Adair

  “More bad luck,” I said. “And what did we do? We got into the trees and would have gotten away from those guys, too, if not for that other mob that was out searching for us. And at each turn of bad luck, we didn't depend on good luck to get away. We evaluated the situation for what it was, and we used our brains and brawn to take what was there and turn it to our advantage. The fact that none of the things we tried this morning worked out proves that it wasn’t luck that saved us. We only needed to stay ahead of the Whites long enough for one of our plans to work out. One eventually did: the cows.”

  “And if the cows weren’t there?” Murphy asked. “If we didn’t have the good luck of the cows being there, then what?”

  “Something else.”

  “Yeah, whatever.”

  We came out of the trees and into another field, not large compared to the one we’d spent a good part of the day running through, maybe the size of a football field. One side was bordered, of course, by the forest, and two other sides by a dirt path and a narrow asphalt road. Across the field from us stood a collection of houses; several dozen spread over ten or twenty acres. Standing a hundred feet tall above the village were five Siamese twins—concrete grain silos connected across their tops by a rusty, metal-framed catwalk and some weird-shaped roofs that didn’t make any sense to me.

  Murphy stared at the silos, fascinated by something up there.

  I was already past my interest in the aging grain silos and studied the field as we shuffled between the short, green plants—plants that hadn't been trampled by white feet and hadn't been grazed to nubs by herds of passing cattle and feral pigs.

  I stopped walking. “Murphy.”

  He kept going. “What?”

  We were maybe halfway across the width of the field. “Murphy, stop for a second.”

  He looked around at the tree line and the houses and turned to face me nervously. We were exposed in the open, and he wanted to make sure I understood that.

  I pointed at the ground. “These plants. They’re small.”

  “Duh. It’s almost winter.”

  “No.” I shook my finger at the green sprouts. “This looks like a vegetable garden. These were all planted recently, like in the last month or so.”

  Murphy’s rifle flew to his shoulder in an instant. He scanned back and forth across the houses in front of us.

  Chapter 32

  We walked slowly forward, the barrel of Murphy’s rifle pausing on anything that moved—leaves floating down from an autumn tree, a sheet flapping on a clothesline, a window screen slapping when the wind gusted.

  In a cautious voice, he said, “This place already gives me the creeps.”

  I looked for more signs someone might be nearby. I saw no footprints, not even in the tilled furrows beneath our feet. I realized those would have been washed out in the heavy rain, but the plants were here, and no weeds were among them. They'd been tended.

  I looked hard at the windows of each house, the broken ones and the closed ones. I saw nothing but faded curtains and shadows.

  We stopped when we reached a clapboard back wall of an old house with peeling paint. Even from outside, it smelled faintly of mildew and rancid bacon fat.

  Murphy peeked through a curtained window, held his head up for a moment and put his back to the wall.

  I raised my eyebrows in a silent question.

  Murphy shook his head. He’d seen no one inside.

  I pointed to the smallish porch under an awning on the back of the house to let Murphy know what I intended. I took off, skipped the porch steps, and bounded up to put my back to a wall beside a windowed back door. I looked in, but saw only a kitchen. Dirty dishes filled the sink. The cupboard doors hung open on their hinges. Nothing moved.

  Murphy had followed me over and took up a spot by the wall next to the porch. With urgency on his face, he pointed at something over my shoulder.

  I crouched and spun, ready to hack. Nothing.

  I looked at him and mouthed a silent “What?”

  He waggled his finger at the wall again.

  Frustrated, I looked back at the wall and this time whispered, “What?”

  Murphy pointed again. “The thermometer.”

  I huffed and looked at a big round thermometer with a dial on its face.

  “Thirty-nine, man. We need to get you in some clothes.”

  “Yes, Mom.”

  I turned back to the door and tried the knob. It turned on gravelly innards that clicked satisfactorily, quietly. I tugged the door open. One of the hinges squeaked. Not loud. Just irritating. I stepped through.

  Murphy reached from his spot on the ground and took hold of the door. He shook his head, pointed at me, patted his rifle, and patted his chest.

  I shook my head and raised my machete as I stepped onto the worn, green linoleum inside. Boards creaked. Another step and I was fully inside, out of the wind. The sound of rustling tree branches and shrubs—loud background noise a moment before—became dull outside noises.

  Something thumped on wood inside the house. I jumped in fright, but nothing moved that I could see.

  Another thump.

  And while I stared at the part of the house’s interior I could see, it pounded again.

  It sounded like a baseball bat beating a wall. It reminded me of the sound of that monstrous White’s fist on the door in the basement that first night when we broke into Sarah Mansfield’s mansion. That thought slapped me with a repressed fear and a feeling of terrible inadequacy. That monster of a man would have killed me if Sergeant Dalhover hadn’t had the composure to put some bullets into him.

  Bam.

  I figured a White must be trapped somewhere in the house.

  I leaned out of the door and waved Murphy inside.

  A moment later, we were both standing in the narrow space between the messy counters in the kitchen, with a view through a doorway into the dining room. I wanted to see around the corner into the living room but all I saw were piles of folded clothes stacked high on the dining room table.

  Bam.

  I turned to Murphy and whispered. “What do you make of that noise?”

  “White.”

  What else?

  He tried to push past me to take the lead. I blocked him and all but bounded into the dining room, raising my machete as I did, ready to hack down whatever might attack me.

  Nothing did.

  Murphy came up behind me.

  Stacked in the dining room chairs against the walls, clothing piles towered. Various garments, all sorted by type, were piled on a sagging, flowery couch and the puffy chairs beside it. They were heaped on an old cabinet-style television and draped on hangers from the moldings above the doorways.

  Bam.

  I craned my neck to see if I could determine the source of the sound, which came from down the hall. Probably one of the bedrooms—both doors down there were open.

  What the fuck?

  Turning to Murphy, I said, “The bedroom doors are open.”

  Murphy stepped into the living room and peered down the hall. “Yup.”

  “But the noise is coming from down there.”

  He nodded.

  Gripping my machete, I crossed the living room, seeing where the ceiling had flowered in patches of greenish black. That explained the mildew smell, though the house had plenty of other stale odors to compete.

  A peek into the first room revealed nothing but an open closet packed full of clothing, and a bed piled up to chest level with neatly folded shirts.

  “Hoarder,” Murphy whispered.

  Bam.

  The sound was louder. It came from the room down the hall.

  Murphy nodded toward it. I once again brandished my machete. Maybe I had something to prove to myself. It didn’t make sense, but in a mind that’s been fucked with for so long by so many things, I figured it was par for the course.

  On silent feet, I exited the bedroom and tiptoed up the hall toward the only other door.

  Cha
pter 33

  Just outside the room, I stopped.

  Bam.

  Without a doubt, something inside was making the sound. I put a palm on Murphy’s chest and pushed him back a few steps. With the blunt edge of my machete, I tapped the door jamb. Better to let the White come out into the hall and die in surprise than for me to risk being ambushed by unexpected circumstances inside the room.

  Bam.

  No change. Just a randomly-timed noise.

  “Hey, dipshit.” I gripped my machete handle and readied it to swing.

  Nothing happened.

  I listened for footsteps. I heard no grunt from a startled White. Only the wind gusting through the branches in the trees outside.

  “C’mon, you silly monster,” I called. “Come play with us.”

  Bam.

  I braced myself, but nothing followed the noise.

  Bam.

  I glanced over my shoulder to let Murphy know what was coming next.

  I stepped quietly into the doorway. A bed. A dresser. Every horizontal surface stacked with folded clothes, and hanging clothes in an open closet, but no sign of anything moving in the room.

  A shadow moved outside the curtains. I gasped and jumped back.

  Bam.

  The shadow moved again.

  Nothing came at me.

  “It’s outside,” I announced, turning to run up the hall.

  Murphy stopped me and put a finger to his lips. He whispered, “How many?”

  Shaking my head, I said, “I don’t know.”

  He raised his eyebrows questioningly.

  “I saw something through the curtains.”

  “Beating up the house?” Murphy asked.

  “What do you mean, beating up the house?”

  “That sound,” said Murphy. “That White is hitting the house with something. Why?”

  “Man, you know what they’re like. They don’t need reasons for stupid shit.”

  Murphy conceded the point by cocking his head. He nudged me to move aside. "I'll peek out the window and see what's what before we go out front."

  Shaking my head, I hurried into the room. I whispered, “I’ve got it.” Okay, so I was being a little pissy.

  After a quick glance into the blind spot on the other side of the dresser, inside the closet, and to the floor on the other side of the bed, I put myself beside the window.

  Bam.

  The sound outside was loud enough to startle, powerful enough to send a vibration through the house’s old boards.

  I pushed the curtain to the side just wide enough that I could get a clear view out with one eye.

  No Whites. Only some half-dead shrubs and a tree planted too close to the house.

  What the hell?

  The wind gusted again, and the tree branches swayed. I involuntarily ducked as a branch as thick as my arm swayed past and smacked the eaves.

  Fuck!” I yelled as I jumped back, startled. Then I laughed.

  “What?” Murphy asked from the doorway, concern on his face.

  “It’s a tree branch.”

  Murphy laughed too.

  Chapter 34

  “It’s like a used clothing store,” I said, as I sorted through a stack of jeans, looking for the right size.

  Murphy had already selected a t-shirt, sweatshirt, and jacket for me. He laid them on the arm of a couch beside the piles of blue jeans I was looking through. He groused, “This is some weird shit.”

  Nodding, I said, “You know how some Whites get obsessed with weird habits. At least this one works for us. You need anything?”

  He pointed to a jacket lying over the back of a chair. “Got me one already.”

  “Did you see any food?”

  “Not a scrap.”

  Wondering how far our luck could run on this one, I suggested, “Maybe the food is in a different house.

  Murphy walked over to the back wall as I slipped on a pair of jeans. I sat down to put a clean pair of socks on my feet before putting my boots back on. He looked out a window at the field of tiny, new plants. “Maybe this isn’t the work of Whites.”

  “Because of the vegetable garden out back?”

  “Yeah,” said Murphy.

  “You think maybe regular people did this? Normals?”

  Murphy shrugged. “Could still be around here in one of these houses.”

  I pulled the T-shirt over my head. “Maybe they aren’t hostile.”

  “Maybe they’re sneaking around outside to ambush us when we come out of the house.”

  I walked over to get a look out a window on the front of the house.

  “Finish getting dressed,” said Murphy. “We need to decide whether we’re going out the way we came or whether we’re going to check out what’s in town.”

  “I don’t want to restart our conversation on luck,” I said, “but I don’t want to press mine anymore today.” I stuffed my arms into the sweatshirt’s sleeves. Looking out, I said, “Something’s off about this place.”

  Murphy crossed the room, flipping a few sweaters off the top of a pile on the television. “This place creeps me out.”

  “Back to the woods then?” I asked. “Maybe head down the road a bit and see if we can find a place to hole up before dark.”

  Murphy pushed a curtain to the side to look across the green field. “That sounds like a—”

  “What?”

  Murphy scooted out of the window as he peeked around the edge, waving a hand to hush me down.

  Shit.

  I hurried as fast as I could to finish dressing and get my machete back in my hand. Once I was ready, I jogged across the room and took a spot on the other side of the window.

  “Watch the line of trees,” Murphy whispered.

  It took thirty or forty seconds to see, but a line of naked Whites jogged out of the trees, following one after the other. Twelve—no, thirteen. They cut a goodly-sized arc through the vegetable field, stomping on the new crop like so much grass. They curved back into the trees.

  “What do you make of that?” I asked.

  “That’s all they’re doing,” said Murphy. “Running in and out of the forest in that stupid curvy path they follow when they’re going nowhere in particular.”

  “That might be the key,” I said. “When they're going nowhere in particular, they do that. When they're chasing, well, we got a pretty good idea of what that looks like."

  “Yup.”

  "Have you seen any more?" I asked.

  “None yet.” Murphy rubbed a hand over his face, clearly thinking about how this new development affected our options.

  “But you think there are more in the trees.”

  He looked at me, angrily surprised. “Don’t you?”

  “Just thinking out loud, I guess.” I shrugged. It was a stupid question. We both believed more Whites were in the woods. Whether they were the ones looking for us or just more stragglers from the naked horde didn’t matter. Naked Whites were fucking dangerous. And like roaches. For every one you saw, a hundred more lurked out of sight. “We should get out of here.”

  Murphy turned and headed for the front door.

  I followed. The decision was made. We were going to take our chances with the invisible townsfolk. Perhaps being chased by naked Whites for a good part of the day and thinking we were going to end up as food diminished our fear that we might be ambushed by farmers with guns when we went out the front door.

  However, we had a short menu of choices, and they all sucked.

  Murphy put a hand on the worn brass knob and paused, giving me a look that asked whether I was ready.

  I raised a finger to indicate that he should wait for a moment. I peeked out a front window, a necessary step Murphy forgot in his moment of decisiveness. That’s why we were a good pair. We caught one another’s mistakes.

  “Clear as far as I can see,” I said.

  With a nod at me, Murphy swung the door open. He put the rifle to his shoulder, stepped out, and panned his aim across the o
ther houses, pausing at items of interest. I stepped onto the porch beside him, machete in one hand, knife in the other, ready to do some killing.

  The wind blew a tumble of big, crispy leaves across the yard and street. The branch beat on the eaves of the house. Trees rustled in the gust. Nothing alive moved anywhere.

  “Follow me." Murphy leapt off the squat porch and hurried toward the street.

  On his heels, I followed him to a house across the street not very different from the one we’d just left. It, too, was tidy enough. The doors were closed. Most of the windows were intact, with curtains opened wide. I couldn’t help but peep inside.

  It didn’t appear to have been ransacked. Well, not much. All the cupboards and closets were open. In the rooms where the windows weren’t broken were stacks and stacks of dishes, pots, pans, and piles of utensils—all sorted. Forks in one, spoons in another. One for spatulas, one for knives.

  “This place is fuckin’ weird,” Murphy whispered.

  “No shit.”

  We snuck around a garage with no door. I stopped Murphy and motioned toward a dusty car sitting inside. “I’m going to check it.” Driving a car, especially in the daylight hours with so many Whites around, was a damn risky proposition. But Whites were in the woods close by and we were stuck in creepy town with a hearty desire to get the fuck out—quickly.

  “Don’t lollygag,” Murphy told me. “If the keys aren’t in it, let’s just go.” He tucked himself between a big bush and the garage wall and scanned for movement.

  I hurried back around to the front of the garage and slipped inside. Out of the wind, it was suddenly quiet again. I avoided touching the car as I passed it. I didn’t want to knock away any of the accumulated dust, which would be evidence of my passing. After seeing Whites looking for our tracks in the field earlier, I didn’t want to leave any sign.

  The car’s front door was unlocked. I swung it open and squeezed inside, feeling the awkward bulk of my clothing and thinking how quickly I’d gotten used to running around naked. Once in the driver’s seat, I saw the keys were not in the ignition. Having seeing way too many movies, I, of course, checked the visor. No keys. "Damn, doesn't anybody understand the rules?" I chuckled at my stupid little joke while I wished more people would have watched the same movies I’d seen. I checked under the floor mat, under the seat, and in the glove box. No keys.