Ghosts: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse (12 page)

There was a knock on the door and Brook heard Cade announce
himself. So she rose and crossed the container, feeling the plywood cold
against her feet through her well-worn socks. She let him in and took his
carbine and placed it by the door. Retraced her steps and sat on the bunk in
the same warm spot she’d just vacated. She smoothed the sheet next to her and
patted the mattress, beckoning him to sit.

Instead Cade pulled over a folding chair, spun it around and
sat facing her. He had already adopted the familiar premission hard set to his
jaw. His body crackled with an unseen energy and in his dark eyes Brook saw a
steely determination that told her he was already committed. Then, pressing his
chest against the seatback, he relaxed and removed his cap. Over the next
thirty minutes he laid all the cards out on the table. Revealed every little
detail he was privy to.

When he was finished there was a brooding silence. The
shadows in the room seemed to crowd in on them.

Seeing in Brook’s brown eyes the ongoing wrestling match,
Cade moved over and claimed the smooth spot on the bunk. He held her and said,
“It’ll work out. It always does.”

“Why does Nash have such a hold on you?”

“I just put you and me in her shoes. Then I figured Raven
into the equation ...”

Like the drop in barometric pressure ahead of a looming
thunder storm, for three weeks Brook had felt this one building. She knew he’d
be drawn back in to the teams sooner or later. That he’d already accepted
before consulting her hurt a little but came as no surprise. Even the zombie
apocalypse had failed to tame the only child in him. Nor temper the unbridled
patriotism residing in his heart.

She had listened closely, noting the details, especially the
long distance between the compound and his objective. But what troubled Brook
most was the high population center he’d likely be getting to know up close and
personal during the impromptu mission.

But he hadn’t finished with that. There had been good news
and he’d saved it for last. And what he told her stole her breath away. It was
definitely, as he’d put it,
a game changer
that made his departure that
much easier to swallow. It was the kind of news that all of them needed right
now, but she couldn’t share. But when she finally could, the revelation would
serve to trump the low current tingle of despair omnipresent since the dead
inherited the earth.

As if the bombshell he’d just dropped in the tiny room had
all of the importance of picking out new furniture, Cade rose, arched a brow,
and said, “The venison should be done by now.”

“Go by the Kids’ quarters and send Raven back here. I want
to break it to her first. So she can digest it. Maybe she’ll wind down some
between now and lights out.”

“Will do.” Cade hinged at the waist and kissed Brook on the
mouth, gently.

She drew him in and reciprocated. Then her tongue entered
his mouth and she wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed harder. There
was a thinly veiled desperation on her end. Abruptly she leaned back and her
eyes locked with his and she delivered the look he knew all too well. It said:
You
come back to me, Cade Grayson
.

“I will,” he answered intuitively. Drawing away, he added
confidently, “No doubt about it.”

After dragging the back of her hand across her lips, Brook placed
a finger on his lips. She traced a lazy circle on his cheek and holding his
gaze, said, “We
will
resume this later ... right where we left off.”

Cade fetched his carbine from its spot near the door, nodded
and smiled a wicked smile that said:
I’m game
. Without another word he
was out the door.

Before the door latch clicked she was on her back and
staring up at the bottom of the pale yellow mattress and the black springs
cutting crisscross patterns into it.

Bad cop time
, she thought. Going through her mind was
how much to tell Raven.

Glenda peered through the empty door pane. There were no
dead snooping around inside the burned-out convenience store. She ducked under
the push bar and all alone walked the aisles of twisted shelving, being careful
to avoid disturbing the imploded cans littering the floor.

Besides the now windowless and hollow hulks of a half-dozen
reachin coolers, the only other recognizable item in the fifty by fifty square
was the waist-high counter to her left. On that counter was a misshapen block
of plastic that she presumed to be the last worldly remains of the cash
register. A skeletal framework rose above the molten mess; every last pack of
cigarettes once nestled in the warped slots there were gone—previously looted
or burned in the fire. She spun a slow circle. Everything was black. Soot-covered.
She gazed out the southern facing openings that once held massive sheets of
plate glass. Across the road, Van Man, Mombie, her kids, and the other zombies
were hunched over and barely visible, no doubt still plunging their hands and
faces in and out of the big buck’s chest cavity.

Looking up between the sagging roof joists, Glenda sized up
the forming clouds and decided what was left of the roof would provide scant
cover if it rained.

And so, treading lightly, she shuffled to the door leading
to the garage and was happy to find it unlocked. She went up on her toes and
looked into the square of glass embedded in its center and saw nothing but her
own reflection staring back from the mirror-like black portal. So she withdrew
a pair of the knitting needles and, with one clutched firmly in each hand, dipped
her shoulder and nudged the sooty door open.

There was no squeal or squeak of bound hinges as she had
expected. Instead, as if some byproduct from the fire had found its way into
the moving parts, the steel door swung inward quiet as a passing shadow.

Steeling herself for an attack, she peered in. One eye
first. The needle held high and following her gaze.

Like the soot-covered window, it was pitch black inside and
strangely enough the garage’s interior smelled nothing like the rest of the
building. Apparently the combination of the steel door and cement wall between
the convenience store and garage had acted as a kind of fire break.

Standing on the threshold, Glenda looked up and saw dark clouds
moving in fast overhead.
Rain,
she thought. Then she peered back into
the gloom and thought:
Better than a case of pneumonia
.

Suddenly, further validating that decision, she heard a low
moan that snapped the hairs on the back of her neck to attention. It had come
from behind her. Thankfully, from someplace outside of the building. So,
bracing herself with one hand gripping the jamb, she leaned back over the
threshold and craned her head right ever so slowly.

Standing outside, its distended gut pressing against the locked
double doors she’d just ducked through, and clutching the horizontal push rail
two-handed, was what looked like a walking piece of charcoal with curls of
burnt dermis ringing the sunken empty sockets where its eyes used to reside.
The abomination continued with the dry peal and started shaking the loose doors,
the resulting rattle sounding like a passing freight train.

With a cold pang of panic fluttering in her stomach, Glenda
gaped at the thing, wondering how in the hell it was able to make the sound if
its insides looked anything like its outside. Then she noticed movement over the
moaning briquette’s shoulder. A hundred yards away, on the other side of SR-39,
seven heads popped up and, like a troop of demonic prairie dogs, seven blood-streaked
faces swiveled around and stared right at her. Then the seven emaciated forms rose
together, slowly, and began a steady march in her direction.

After watching the animated corpses negotiate the ditch and
step onto the eastbound lane, Glenda imagined—no, prayed for—a kind-eyed cowboy
to come along in an eighteen wheeler and throw their pale forms airborne before
running them over and grinding their cold rancid flesh into a fine paste. Then,
as her split-second fantasy unfolded, she heard an imaginary pneumatic hiss and
a crunching of gears as the phantom rig circled back around to save her.

But that was far from happening. She was still alone and in
real trouble. The nerve-racking noise stopped abruptly as Kingsford let go of
the door, hinged slowly at the waist, and then fell face first onto the carpet
of glass shards littering the store entry no doubt usually graced with some
kind of a Welcome mat.

But you’re not welcome
here
, she thought. And while
the crispy zombie got to its knees, groping the air with stubs for fingers, she
saw that the others were nearing the State Route’s dashed centerline.

Glenda thought:
Lesser of two evils.
Then she acted,
stepping blindly into the gloom. Heart racing, she closed and locked the door
and spun back around with the two knitting needles held in front of her
horizontally. Crouched on the low stair, coiled and full of tension, she
imagined that she looked like a bull anticipating the toreador’s next move.

At first the garage’s interior was as dark as the inside of
a casket, the silence absolute. Glenda remained still, listening, and when
nothing came for her she lowered the needles. A few more seconds passed and her
eyes adjusted and she saw she was in a large rectangular room with a cement
floor and a pair of car lifts located centrally and spaced a few feet apart. On
the wall to her left was a row of work benches, their tops cluttered with tools
and rags and cans containing all kinds of automotive lubricants.

The trio of horizontal windows on the roller door to her
right were papered over. And dollars to doughnuts, if Glenda were a betting
woman her money would be on the paper having been placed there after the
outbreak.

As she scanned the room for a comfortable place to rest and wait
out the zombies, the distinct crackle and pop of glass resonated through the
door at her back.

A few more seconds passed and her vision improved and she
saw the bulky shadow on the far side of the garage for what it was: an old
pick-up truck with wide bulbous fenders and a low box bed jutting out back.

Perfect.

Glenda put the needles away and crossed the garage. She
weaved around an inert tire balance machine and some part-worn tires and then stepped
over the nearest lift’s grounded H-shaped support.

Behind her the door started rattling in its frame. Though
not as loud as the outside door, the result was the same. Her stomach clenched
and the hairs on her arms reached for the sky.

She wiped a porthole in the grimy smoke-clouded side glass
with the sleeve of her equally grimy robe. Peered in and saw there were no keys,
let alone an ignition to stick them in. There was no steering wheel or column.
Nor seat or seat rails. These were all terms she knew second hand from reading
the entries in the joint checkbook as Louie poured dollar after precious dollar
into his precious Healey. And like the British roadster had once been, this
truck was a work in progress.

There was a loud
bang
as something heavy impacted the
rollup door. Glenda started, and when she stepped back from the truck, she
noticed razor-thin slivers of daylight on both sides of the door near where the
rollers rode up in the channels where there had been none before.

Bang. Bang.

In her mind, she pictured her entire entourage—Van Man,
Mombie and her three cubs, plus the deer hunters—slamming against the door, inadvertently
creating soot angels on the horizontal panels.

Then she had a thought. The banging continued and she
hustled around front of the truck. It felt so good to move normally.
Out of
character
. To just be Glenda for a moment. She reached the door and
crouched and found exactly what she was looking for. Threw the flat security bolt
into the notch cut into the right side channel.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Seemingly, all of the monsters were now attacking the door.
And hearing the racket increasing in volume and tempo, there was a possibility even
more had arrived. As she threw the left bolt into place, the panel near her
head buckled inward an inch or so letting in a wide bar of light and then a
beat later four pasty white fingers were probing the entry.

Glenda sat down hard with her back to the east wall and the
tiny breach full of fingers to her immediate left. She pulled out one needle,
straightened her legs, and waited.

***

After three or four minutes, tiny rivulets of coagulated blood
ran down the inside of the door and the slender fingers were shredded and
ringed with lacerations deep to the bone. Suddenly the four digits withdrew and
the light was back, painting the gray floor with a splash of gold.

Five seconds later, eclipsing the sun, a milky eye appeared
at the opening.

Perfect.

Glenda hovered the point of the needle an inch from the
roving eye and, behind a sharp blow, drove its ten-inch shaft deep into the
thing’s brain.

Over the course of three hours she repeated the process six
times until the slivers of light around the door disappeared and she was so
tired she found it impossible to keep her own eyes open. Under the watchful eye
of the dead, she fell asleep sitting upright and still clutching the blood-slickened
needle.

After consuming a meal consisting of nuts and greens
gathered and prepared into a dry salad by Tran and a couple of strips each of perfectly
roasted venison, the Graysons climbed into the Ford F-650, closed the doors,
and under the soft glow of the dome light held a lengthy family meeting.

When all was said and done Raven had taken the news better
than expected, accepting that her dad was going away for a day or two with
aplomb not usually found in most modern day twelve-year-olds.

But these were no longer modern times. In fact, Cade thought
as he hugged and kissed Raven atop her head, if he and others like him didn’t
continue pitching in and doing their part, no matter the risk, he was certain
her future would be filled more with misery befitting the dark ages than the
Jetsons-like conveniences all of them had gotten used to before the fall.

Seeing her dad’s eyes misting, Raven loosened her hold
around Brook’s neck, scooted across the back bench seat and, from behind,
covertly wiped a stray tear from the corner of her father’s eye. “You’ll be OK,
Dad.” She paused for a second, seemingly having forgotten what she was about to
say.

Cade looked at Brook next to him then studied Raven’s face in
the rearview mirror. Saw mostly her mom’s eyes and dark brown hair and defined
features there and noted the innocence still contained in the big browns.

A half beat later Raven said, “Stay frosty, Dad. I’ll take
care of Max and Mom while you’re away.”

Cade shifted his gaze to the center console, took Brook’s
hand in his, and locked eyes with Raven in the mirror. Held them for a beat and
said in a low voice, “I know you will, sweetie.”

There was a long silence and through his side vision Cade
saw a pained half-smile forming on Brook’s face.

Then, as if the light at the end of the tunnel was anything
but the speeding train the grownups saw it as, Raven vaulted forward, balanced
her small frame plank-like on the front seatbacks, and asked if she could stay the
night with the Kids in their quarters.

Remembering Brook’s words verbatim—
we will continue later
where we left off
—Cade squeezed her hand and, using the oldest trick in the
parenting book, passed the buck. “It’s up to your mom,” he said with one brow
cocked.

Before the word
mom
had crossed Cade’s lips, Brook
caused Raven to start by blurting, “Yes, it’s OK by me.”

Smiling, Cade gazed at the gold and red embers in the
distant fire pit and saw the seated bodies around it moving slow and
purposeful, fed and fully sated for the time being. He counted eight and even
from this distance recognized Daymon, who was facing away, by his spiky top dreads.
Shifting his gaze clockwise around the fire, Cade saw Heidi, her equally spiky blonde
hair glowing warmly. Next to Heidi was Lev and Jamie, heads tilted back, mouths
forming silent O's, faces lit up by soft light and laughter. Chief, Tran, and
Jimmy were leaned in close, their features also reflecting the fire’s radiance.
Cade imagined the hushed small talk and occasional outbursts of Jack Daniels-fueled
banter coming from Duncan, who was animated and rocking forward on his camp
chair.
Comfortably numb
is what the man proclaimed himself to be these
days. Cade made a mental note to do a quick recon on the man’s state of
inebriation before turning in for the night. Then he wondered how Charlie
Jenkins’s ghost hunt was coming along. Supposing he’d never find out the answer
to that question, he looked at Brook and Raven and fumbled for his two-way
radio. Looked up at Brook and said, “Checking in with Seth and Phillip. That’s
all.” Worried the party around the fire pit would draw in more dead, he raised
Phillip first.
Pretty quiet at the road
, the older man said. Then he
checked in with Seth and received nearly the same reply. All quiet on the
western front, so to speak. Finally he noted the hour on his Suunto and flicked
off the dome light. He said, “Zero six hundred is going to come awfully early.”
He watched Duncan toss a stick of wood on the embers, then list sideways in the
camp chair and barely catch himself before keeling over fully. Cade thought:
More
so for some of us than others.

Savoring the moment under a brilliant star-filled night sky,
Cade walked slowly, shoulder to shoulder with Brook and Raven, towards the
compound. Halfway across the clearing, near the dirt airstrip, he abruptly peeled
away from them and, wraith-like, stalked the periphery of the fire pit just
outside of the flickering light spill, taking everything in like a snapshot before
finally veering back and reuniting with them at the entrance.

Ignoring a pair of funny looks directed his way, Cade led
Brook and Raven through the door. Once inside, the wood smoke clinging to their
hair and clothes was instantly overpowered by two very familiar odors. First he
picked up the scent of damp earth that reminded him of an unfinished basement.
Then came the underlying industrial smell of painted steel fighting a losing
battle against the tenacious effects of moisture.

At the T he led them left and stopped in front of the Kids’
quarters. Dead center on the door, someone, Taryn he guessed, had taped a sheet
of copy paper with the words
Welcome to the Mickey Mouse Club
scrawled
in red ink. And a tell to her dry sense of humor, like the sign was drawn up by
a first grader, every third or so letter was purposefully turned around.

“We’re here, Annette,” said Cade with a grin.

Raven about-faced and shot her mom a quizzical look. “Who is
Annette?
”

“Annette Funicello. She was a Mouseketeer ...
way
before your time, sweetie.”

“Hell ... way before
our
time, honey,” added Cade.

There was an outburst of laughter from behind the door.

“Playing Ouija,” said Raven. “They’ve been contacting dead
comedians.”

“Are they being
appropriate
?” asked Brook, a serious
look parked on her face.

Letting Brook play Bad Cop, Cade eased back against the wall,
content just watching.

“I haven’t heard of
any
of them.”

Good
, thought Brook, delivering a rapid-fire knock to
the door.

The door cracked open and Sasha filled up the opening. Upon
seeing Raven, she said, “Is it OK?”

Raven nodded.

In a sing-song voice Sasha called over her shoulder,
“Sleepover,” pulled Raven inside and slammed the door, leaving the adults alone
in the hallway.

“M-O-U-S-E,” said Cade, grabbing Brook by the hand. “I’ll be
Cubby. You’re Annette.”

Following Cade through the catacombs, she felt her cheeks
flush as the first stirrings of want started down below.