There were no zombies.
I took eight deep breaths, counting to four on each inhale and again on the exhale. My heart slowed. I dabbed at my lip and winced. My fingers came away wet with blood. I’d bitten it, and it was puffy and tender.
It was still early, but the room was bathed in a warm yellow glow. My arms and legs ached dully after my exertions the day before. Despite that, there was no chance I’d get back to sleep. My mind was already whirring. A dozen questions competed for my attention. Did anyone else know about the camp? Could I make my home here? Where was the last inhabitant? Were they trapped somewhere in the camp, a zombie?
I gave up trying to sleep, dressed, and went downstairs. After a meal of a discount-brand breakfast bar and the last of the aging fruit, I decided to start the day by assessing what supplies I had.
If I wanted to make the lodge my base of operations, my sanctuary within a sanctuary, then I needed everything close at hand. I emptied the kitchen cupboards and placed the contents on the table in the center of the room. Then I went through the rest of the lodge and all four cabins, loading up with anything remotely useful and transporting it back to the kitchen. I tidied up my room as well, dumping all of the clothes into the pink suitcase and cramming it shut.
When I’d collected everything, I admired my haul. There was a lot less food than I’d hoped. Most of it had been in the kitchen, although there were half a dozen cans of energy drink and several boxes of protein bars stashed in the graffiti cabin.
There were two camping stoves and four spare propane bottles, so at least I’d be able to eat some hot food. If I was careful, there were maybe a couple of months of soups, chili, instant noodles, canned vegetables, and crackers, along with some cartons of fruit juice.
I was vaguely disappointed that I didn’t find any alcohol, but after the scene outside the workshop, I wasn’t really surprised. If there’s ever a time for Dutch courage, it’s when you’re about to kill and cremate your once-human, now-zombified friends.
The cabins had yielded plenty of clothes, including a lot that would fit me well enough. I’d loaded up the biggest of the seven suitcases with anything I’d feel comfortable wearing and put it in my room.
Beyond the food and clothes, I’d gathered a generous collection of medical supplies including a small first aid kit in a green plastic case, painkillers, bandages, disinfectant, and various lotions for bites and sunburn. I’d found a bottle of antibiotics in the psychedelic cabin, but there were only a few tablets left. I combined them with the few I already had. I’d also discovered some climbing rope beneath one of the beds. The ends were frayed, but otherwise, it seemed in good condition.
Weapons were few and far between. Other than the rifle Suter had used to blow his brains out, there were no guns and only a couple of hunting knives. I found a box of bullets for the rifle high up on a shelf in the kitchen. There were about thirty rounds, .270s according to the box. I’d never fired a gun and didn’t like the idea of advertising my presence by practicing, but it would come in useful in an emergency or to discourage the living from causing trouble.
The knives were in better condition than mine, but they were smaller and probably less effective, so I put them to one side. I’d have to check the workshop for a sharpening stone next time I was out there.
There were a dozen or so books, mostly trashy popular fiction. But there were some on local flora and fauna, an English-French dictionary, and a battered paperback of Stephen King’s The Stand. I put that one aside and stacked the rest on the table in the lounge.
I’d found a photo album, too, containing twenty years of captured Camp Redfern memories. I flicked through it, but there was nothing other than the usual banal campsite scenes.
The rest of the scavenged items were largely useless—keys, tourist mementos, things like that. But there was a hand-drawn map of the surrounding area. I found it sandwiched between two hardcover books on trees. It was almost three feet square and had obviously been created over the years by successive visitors to the camp. An intricate banner ran along the top, proclaiming it to be “A Visitors Guide to Camp Redfern and the Surrounding Environs.”
It covered an extensive area, at least sixteen square miles according to the measurements written along its sides. The camp was at the center, and the map had expanded from there over time as numerous artists added landmarks, natural features, and the sites of events that were significant in the camp’s history. There were a few places I recognized—the river, the road where I’d found the broken-down truck, a logging trail, and the workshop. The distances to each landmark were labeled, and the numbers seemed fairly accurate, at least for the locations I knew.
The map also showed a ranger station twenty or so miles upriver. I wondered if that was where the military had made their base. If it was, having them that close was a mark against the camp. There was also a lake someone had christened Camel, presumably because of its twin-humped shape, a ridge that had been the site of the Great Water Fight of 2010, and most interestingly, a cluster of buildings marked Sally’s Home Comforts. Someone had recently drawn a crude knife, fork, and bottle next to the buildings in case there was any question what home comforts Sally might be willing to provide.
I carefully folded the map up and put it in the dining room with the books. It was really quite impressive, a work of art in some ways. It would also be very useful if I was going to live in the camp for any length of time.
Once I’d sorted through everything and filled the kitchen cupboards with the food and medical supplies, it was lunchtime. I opted for a protein bar and some of the dried fruit. The bar was powdery and had an antiseptic taste. I wished I’d taken the time to warm up some soup.
My thoughts turned to the workshop. In my head, it was perfect for my purposes. Near enough to the camp that I could move between the two quickly, but not so close that you’d see it from the lodge. The two benches were solid and stable. Once I’d made a few modifications, it would be an ideal place for me to work. And the tools? They’d open up new possibilities, vistas I’d never dreamed of in my closeted existence in the city. I could sense the shadow’s excitement.
It was perfect. Too perfect.
My subconscious gnawed at me. There had to be something wrong with it. The location was more exposed than I’d imagined, or the cabin had been less secure. I hadn’t noticed a road that ran nearby, or that it was on a direct path to the ranger station. Maybe someone was even living there and I’d been too blind to notice the signs. My fears wore me down, made me tired and irritable. I needed to go back to the workshop and check, to prepare things. Then I could relax and make my plans.
I dug through my backpack, removing the random assortment of tape, tools, and books that had gotten me through the weeks since I’d left the city. I filled up a couple of water bottles and added them to the pack, begrudgingly including some jerky.
After some internal debate, I decided to leave the rifle behind. Not that I was afraid of killing, of course. But a rifle was too distant, too impersonal for my liking, and my lack of skill would provide ample opportunity for attackers to disarm me before I got a shot off. I decided to stick with the machete.
Finally, I picked up the battered rectangular leather case that held my most prized possessions. An oval metal plate was mounted on the lid, and I stroked it, idly. In some ways, I was loath to take it with me.
I had visions of my pack tearing on a stray branch and the case falling out without my realizing or any number of other nightmarish scenarios. But leaving it behind was worse. What if someone came to the camp? I still hadn’t accounted for all the inhabitants, and there was no telling who else was wandering the forest. And that was ignoring the ever-present threat of the military or other survivors. An inquisitive pilot might notice signs of my presence and come to investigate.
No, I’d take the case with me.
I slipped it into the backpack, pushing it right down to the bottom so that I wasn’t likely to pull it out accidenta
lly. I put away the rest of the supplies, checked the case was still safe inside the backpack, then headed out.
The journey to the workshop was uneventful, but it took longer than I remembered. The trail seemed to stretch out endlessly in front of me. Several times I became concerned that I’d strayed off the path and missed the workshop, dooming me to hours of fruitless wandering until I passed out from hunger or was found by the dozens of zombies that must surely be nearby. My concerns eased when I reached the ditch I’d fallen in and saw the body still lying there, the hole where my knife had penetrated its skull clearly visible.
I grew more and more nervous as I approached the workshop. All manner of disastrous scenarios played out in my head—everything from a swarm of zombies surrounding the cabin to it having been burned down by a roving post-apocalyptic gang. No matter what I said to myself, I couldn’t shake the feeling that my plan was going to unravel around me before it even started.
In the end, I needn’t have worried. The workshop was largely how I remembered it. It was perhaps a little smaller, and not every tool I thought I’d seen was actually there, but there were no signs of visitors beyond the trail of dusty footprints I’d left behind myself.
I set my pack on the floor, pulled out a bottle of water, and took a few sips as I walked around the workshop, mentally noting the various tools on the walls. It was doubtful that I’d use most of them. They were too crude and imprecise for my purposes, but I’d need some basics to make my improvements to the workbenches.
Searching through the drawers, I found some U-shaped brackets. I removed six, picked out some screws that would fit them, along with a box of heavy-duty bolts, a hand-operated drill, and a screwdriver. I placed everything on the larger of the two workbenches and then dug around in the plastic boxes and found three lengths of chain.
An hour later, I’d fitted the chains to the table. One end of each of them was securely bolted to the side of the workbench. The other end was loose but could be fastened to the opposite side of the bench by running it through the brackets and pulling it tight. I’d use three more bolts to lock the chains in position.
I pulled on each chain in turn, getting my full weight behind them in an effort to dislodge them. They seemed solid enough. I tried to move the workbenches again, but they didn’t budge.
After another walk around the workshop, I was convinced everything seemed secure. I wasn’t completely happy with the number of tools—and therefore the number of makeshift weapons—but I doubted my subjects were going to be in any shape to use them. I did clear a space around both of the workbenches, making sure anything that could be used as a weapon was out of reach.
Finally, I pulled the leather case out of my backpack. I tapped my fingers against the lid as I debated what to do with it. If I left it in the workshop, it would be close at hand, and probably safer than at the camp, but there were fewer places to hide it. If someone did find the workshop and chose to search it, they were bound to find the case.
I bounced back and forth for several minutes. In the end, I found the deepest, fullest drawer and put the case at the back of it. I pushed the drawer’s contents around and added piles of loose screws and bits of wire until it was packed full of junk. Nerves twisted my stomach as I closed the drawer again.
It took four circuits of the room before I was satisfied I had a clear picture of the workshop and that my subconscious wouldn’t be able to taunt me with misremembered details.
I tightened the bolts holding the chains in place and gave them one last pull, then I went outside. I walked slowly around the cabin, trying to imprint the building and its surroundings on my memory. A generator sat against one wall. It was similar to the one at the lodge but smaller. If the fuel gauge was accurate, there was about a third of a tank of gas left.
The workshop doors weren’t fitted with locks, and I added a padlock to the list of supplies I needed. I picked up a couple of thin twigs and propped them against each door. At least then I’d have some indication as to whether I’d had visitors while I was away.
As sure as I could be that the workshop was secure, I headed back to the lodge. It was early, but I needed to get some rest. My arms and legs ached, and I had a big day coming up.
Chapter 11
Hunting Trip
I set out early the next morning, heading west along the wider road out of the camp. I had my backpack with me, stocked with enough food and water for a full day’s hiking, although I hoped I wouldn’t need it all. I took the climbing rope with me as well. The end was tied into a lasso big enough to fit around a human. I also had the machete, just in case things didn’t go according to plan.
The track wound through the forest, rising and falling for a mile or so before joining a bigger logging road. I went south toward more populated areas, figuring that gave me a better chance of finding what I was looking for—a zombie.
The forest was warm and muggy, and the sky was filled with low clouds that promised rain. I was wearing two coats—a thick leather jacket belonging to either Arlo Chan or his roommate and my own hunting jacket over the top. They were heavy and far too hot in the oppressive atmosphere, but I figured they’d give me at least some degree of protection from teeth.
I trudged along, slowly cooking in my own sweat. Another trail joined the logging road. The trail was wide enough for a single vehicle, and by the look of the ruts in the ground it was well used. On a whim, I turned onto it, still heading south.
Within a few minutes, I spotted a logging camp up ahead. I slowed and moved to the edge of the trail. The camp was small with just a single tent, a generator, and a couple of sawhorses. I ducked into the trees. I’d found a zombie.
The man was shirtless. In life, he would have been solidly built—muscular and strong. In death, the muscles beneath the zombie’s skin had begun to decay, giving it an oddly soft shape. A split cut across its back. The gash’s edges were green and weeping. It was standing in the middle of the camp, barely moving.
I unhooked the rope from my belt and crouched in the trees for a while, watching the zombie. If it sensed me, it didn’t respond. As the seconds passed, the shadow rose within me, and my excitement rose with it. A smile formed on my lips, almost involuntarily. The shadow quickly grew more confident as it realized I was letting it out to play. I could feel the rope in my hands, warm and eager to be put to good use. I had to force myself not to move too hastily, not to get overexcited.
Eventually, the shadow’s insistent whispers became too much to ignore. Without taking my eyes off the zombie, I slipped my backpack off and quietly placed it on the ground. When the zombie didn’t respond, I coiled up the rope and walked slowly out of the trees. A quiet calm descended over me.
I got as close as I dared before stopping and uncoiling the rope. There was a moment of doubt, a brief flash of concern as I realized I should have practiced with the lasso. Now that I was actually here, it seemed foolish to think I could just go and rope myself a zombie like some post-apocalyptic Clint Eastwood.
I let the concerns drift over me. I wasn’t on a horse; my target wasn’t a galloping stallion. The loop I’d made for the lasso was big, and the zombie wasn’t even moving. This was more like tossing a hoop over a bottle at a funfair but without the game being fixed. I was only about ten feet away from the zombie, and it was still in a near-catatonic state. At this rate, I could just walk up to it and drop the rope over its head.
The wind rustled through the trees, and I glanced up at the sky. The clouds were still thick, gray, and threatening rain. I needed to hurry up.
I shook the lasso four times to work out the kinks then took the end of the rope in my left hand, the loop in my right. I had no intention of whirling it around my head or trying any other theatrics. Instead, I just flicked the rope forward and released the loop. It sailed through the air and flopped over the zombie’s head. One side of the lasso caught on the thing’s shoulder for a moment, but then it came loose. It fell to the zombie’s waist, trapping its arms. I
pulled, and it felt as though I’d wrapped the rope around a tree and was now trying to drag it away. I tugged again, tightening the rope as far as it would go.
Finally, the zombie moved.
Its head whipped around. Its black, soulless eyes fixed on me. I tightened my grip on the rope. The zombie’s mouth opened, revealing bloodstained teeth. It let out a loud, gravelly roar and then sprinted toward me.
I let go of the rope, turned, and ran.
I’d barely taken four steps when another zombie loomed up out of the forest to my right. This one was wearing a shirt, but if anything the clothing just made it look bigger and more dangerous. Its right hand was mangled, a crushed and bloodied stump. The creature moaned as it broke through the bushes.
I dodged left. My feet skidded on the soft earth. I stumbled forward. My hands hit the ground, and I barely managed to keep myself upright as my momentum tried to send me sprawling.
Something moaned behind me. The sound was so close I could almost feel the zombie’s rancid breath on my neck. Adrenaline surged through me.
As I reached the edge of the camp, a third zombie appeared out of the undergrowth. This one was a woman. It was much shorter than me, close to five feet tall, and with a thin, wiry physique. Whereas the two men had been largely intact, the woman’s throat had been partially torn out, and there were long slashes down its face. There were shotgun wounds in its left shoulder and chest, and a knife protruded from its right thigh.
It staggered across the trail, the injuries making its movements uneven. Instinctively, I slowed to avoid running into it. Something big and heavy hit me from behind. For an instant, I thought I’d been run over by a truck or maybe a low-flying aircraft. I was flung forward, toward the woman.
I tried to tuck and roll, but my legs got tangled up in each other. I went sprawling across the ground. The impact sent a jarring pain up my arm and into my shoulder. I rolled in what I hoped was the opposite direction to the zombies and then flipped onto my back.
Serial Killer Z: Volume One Page 13