“Ye…yeah,” she said.
“You a tough little bugger, eh? Growing up in a world like this…” he shook his head as if he was sorry. “Guess it’ll make even the tiny ones dangerous.” He laughed, before tugging her deeper into the kitchen. He patted her down, finding a knife, tossing it away. “You can have that back when I’m done with you.” He told her to take off her backpack and she obeyed. “Now the jacket, but just the jacket.” She gingerly removed her coat, placing it on the metal countertop. “Now, lie down on the floor and don’t move.”
Riley lay down, the hard tiled floor softened by layers of dust. It filled her lungs as it flew through the air, disturbed from its slumber. The man, his smile widening into an evil grin, got down on his knees and lowered himself over her. His breath had the odor of cigar smoke and feces. “This won’t take long darling, but it may hurt a little.” Riley heard him unzip his pants, then he grabbed hers and undid the top button. Fear seized her like a giant boa constrictor. She was paralyzed, her body no longer hers, but someone else’s—a distant piece of flesh that she watched from across the room. The man looked eager. This had been what her father had warned her about—what the evil men will try to do to her. Hurt her in the most vicious of ways. As quickly as she left her body she returned, having seen her chance to get away. The cooking pot the zombie had knocked to the floor lay to her right. She grabbed hold and with all her might, grunting as she did so, she brought the cast-iron pot up and smashed it into the side of the man’s head.
The man’s eyes went wide, then vacant. Blood dripped from the side of his head. He let out a sigh and fell lifelessly on top of her. She had the wind knocked out of her, dropping the pot, and found it difficult with the man’s weight on her to draw breath.
After struggling for some time, she managed to wiggle out from under him. Without hesitation, she grabbed her knife from where the man had tossed it and held it to his neck above the carotid artery. She felt for a pulse. He had none. She’d killed him.
Realizing what had to be done, Riley stabbed both of the man’s eyes, sending the blade deep into the sockets, and grimacing with closed eyes as she did so. Next she placed the tip of the knife on the man’s temple. She wondered if his brain had been destroyed, but couldn’t take the chance. She’d learned her lesson at the cabin.
She picked up the heavy pot; her heart racing a little for what she was about to do. Relaxing her fingers around the knife’s handle, she readied herself. Like a hammer used to drive a nail into wood, she raised the cooking implement up and brought it down fast, closing her eyes each time she struck. The knife went into the man’s skull easier than she’d anticipated. It only took four strikes before the blade became imbedded up to the hilt. The task was done.
The man was a pig, a dreg of the new world. He deserved no better sentence than the one she’d given him. The zombies were only part of the world’s problem. It was men like the one that had attacked her that, like the undead, needed to be eradicated. Riley ground her teeth, cheek muscles flexing with anger. Was anyone in the world trustworthy? Her father had taught her to be vigilant and that meant trusting no one. She’d let her guard down, thinking she was safe because the army had come. Who even knew if they were the official United States Army? Maybe they were a band of rag-tag survivalists. She would never make that mistake again.
She let out a sigh of relief, shaking from the adrenaline. The pot would be staying in the diner; she needed no physical reminders of the grisly deed. The knife had to remain behind too—stuck in the man’s skull and unable to be withdrawn. She had other blades in the cabin, this one held no significance.
She gathered her gun by the door and hid in one of the large cabinets until the army left the area. Tonight, when she was safe, she would cry.
Chapter Three
The Stranger
Riley found herself sitting against a cabinet door, wishing she was back at the cabin. She heard movement to her left. Turning her head, she saw the man she’d killed beginning to stir. Her eyes grew wide at the impossible sight. She’d destroyed the man’s eyes and brain. There was no way he could re-animate.
The dead man pushed himself up off the floor, blood pouring from his mangled eye sockets. He began crawling toward her. She backed away, crabwalk-like.
“No, no. You’re dead. I destroyed your brain,” she said, her voice weary.
“I don’t need a brain to eat you, you tasty little morsel,” the zombie said.
She couldn’t believe it. Not only was the thing undead with a knife sticking out of its head, but it was speaking to her. It crawled quickly—too quickly, and grabbed her ankles. She kicked her legs, but the zombie’s grip was strong like an iron bear trap.
The zombie pulled itself along her legs and onto her abdomen. Before she knew it, her wrists were pinned over her head, the zombie looking down on her, syrupy blood dripping into her mouth.
“Yum, yum,” the undead thing said, a menacing glow emanating from its eyeless orbital sockets. Riley squeezed her eyes closed, her face scrunched up, as the thing lowered its mouth to take a bite.
She sat up quickly, banging her forehead on something solid. “Ouch!” she muttered. Opening her eyes, she saw darkness save a sliver of light from around the cabinet door. She’d been having a nightmare. She must have fallen asleep. Her heart was beating rapidly, her thoughts racing. What an awful dream. She settled herself, taking long breaths, realizing she needed to be alert. How long had she been out?
She adjusted her seated position and decided to sit still for a spell. Was she alone? Had the army men cleared out? Another thought entered her mind—the man she recently killed. Was he still dead? Or up walking around somewhere? No, he had to be dead. She’d killed him properly.
She grew hungry as time crept by, rummaging through her bag to find something to eat. She was sick of beef jerky, but it was plentiful and easy to carry.
For what seemed like hours, she sat listening for any noise—human or zombie. Her mind wandered a few times to thoughts about her father and the times they’d shared together. She missed the cabin; a place she called home now. It was safe, secure and far away from the decaying world. When she made it back, she’d think twice before leaving it again. Roscoe was the only town within a reasonable distance and it had nothing more to offer. She had no reason to return.
Satisfied that no one was coming to look for the army man, Riley opened the cabinet door and crawled out.
The kitchen stunk like death, rotten meat and carnage. She wasn’t surprised, but had deluded herself into thinking maybe the scene wasn’t as horrible as she’d remembered it to be. She was wrong. Zombie pieces were still scattered about like a morbid birthday cake had exploded. And the army man was still dead—gruesomely killed; the vacant look in his eyes as the lights went out caught in Riley’s brain, branded there forever.
She exited the kitchen quickly, hoping never to return physically or mentally to the place, but knew she would be visiting again in her dreams—the dead man’s actions would haunt her. It wasn’t that he didn’t deserve what Riley gave him. He was a defiler of all that was good, but the look in a living person’s eyes as they died was unforgettable and she took no satisfaction in it. Using the rifle, killing from a distance, proved easier on the soul.
The dining area was quiet. She heard no gunshots or men yelling from outside. She crept to the front doors, the all too fresh memory of feeling saved, then in danger, coming to the forefront of her mind. She cracked open the door and peered outside.
The bodies of the executed zombies were strewn about the area, left to rot away like the town. The army had moved through quickly, not even noticing that one of their own had gone missing. They might be back, bring a search party once they realized a man wasn’t accounted for. She had to move.
She crept along the building, keeping a keen ear and eye out for trouble. It seemed as if the wind wanted no part of entering the town too. The air was still, as if frozen in time.
She made it unimpeded to the end of town, leaning against the last building in shadow. She grew nervous, a lump forming in her throat and sweat building on her forehead and dripping down her back. The tree line was at least a hundred yards away, the space wide open making it the perfect place to meet a bullet from a hidden adversary. Rifle at the ready, clip loaded, she stepped from the building and began a crouched walk. Each step brought the imaginary sound of gunfire, a shiver of trepidation hitting her. Better that than a real bullet. She repeated over and over that she was safe now. The army men had left and were long gone and wouldn’t be back for their missing soldier until they arrived at their base which had to be far off.
After what seemed like an eternity of scrambling in open space—an easy target for even the worst of snipers—she entered the woods and walked a few feet in before collapsing to the ground.
Sitting down, the forest giving her an overwhelming sense of security, she realized she had to pee. It was as if her body had shut all superfluous functions down, leaving only the survival mode on. Now that she was safe, back where she was comfortable, they were turning back on.
She dropped her pack, laid the rifle down and relieved herself, some of the pressure from the day’s events seeming to leave her body.
With her pants back on, she felt better, as if a pressure valve had been turned to the off position. Picking up her backpack and rifle, she began the trek back toward the cabin.
She couldn’t wait to get home, wash in the river and get cozy with a book and hot cup of tea.
Hiking along, finding the trail—marked in ways only she knew—she heard the sound of barking dogs. She froze, listening. They were coming up behind her, from where she’d been. Were they wild? Trained trackers? She was armed, feeling a bit less frightened than if she wasn’t, but firing her weapon would alert anyone in the area.
She took off running, knowing it was pointless. She could never outrun a canine. Deciding to take a stand—her best chance to survive—she found a large tree with low branches, slung the rifle over her shoulder and began to climb.
The backpack proved cumbersome, constantly snagging on branches, making her ascent slow.
She hadn’t heard the dogs since first hearing them, wondering if maybe they found a deer or rabbit to occupy their taste for meat, when a stab of pain struck her foot.
She felt her body being pulled down, followed by growling. Her fingers turned white as she held onto the branches. Snapping jaws could be heard below. Looking down, she saw three Doberman pinschers, one hanging onto her left foot. The dog was heavy; her arms were fully extended and shaking from the strain. They had stopped barking while sneaking up on her. They were devious canine devils. Or was it in their training, assassin-like.
Gripping the branch with all of her strength, she managed to pull herself up enough to get her right foot onto a limb, relieving some of the burden from her arms and fingers. The dog was refusing to let go, shaking its head, probably trying to get its prey to fall or at least come away with a morsel.
Adjusting her arms for a better hold, Riley held on and let her right leg fall and began kicking at the dog’s snout. After a couple of hard stomps to the nose, the Doberman yelped and released its grip, falling to the ground. The other dogs barked as if in protest and they began launching themselves into the air at her. She sped up the tree, her left foot paining her, but manageable. When she was about ten feet up the tree, she stopped, knowing the dogs couldn’t get to her. She’d have to shoot them, then quickly climb down and get to the cabin, hoping no one found her.
She slid the rifle off of her shoulder, steadied herself and took aim. The dogs were jumping and darting around in small circles under the tree making it difficult to get a kill shot. Worst case: she’d have to use more than one bullet per dog. With her finger around the trigger, ready to pull and send the canines to the next world, she heard a whistle. Looking outward she saw a man dressed in black fatigues standing off in the distance.
The dogs stopped moving, becoming statuesque, before heading over to the man.
Riley took the man in her sights and fired, but she’d moved too quickly and the bullet missed its target, the dirt exploding by the man’s right foot.
“Hey, don’t shoot,” he said, holding out his arms.
She fired again, hitting the man in the center of his chest and knocking him backward. The dogs turned and ran off into the woods.
She’d hit him, feeling a satisfied twinge in her gut, and used two bullets. The rifle was on her shoulder in seconds as she climbed down the tree. As soon as she hit the ground, she took off running.