Roads Less Traveled (16 page)

I stopped to turn off the lamp in the dining room as I passed, then figured I might as well shut off the one in the living room too. Trudging through the darkness, I slipped into my study and sat behind the desk, hitting the switch for the desk light and sipping at the hot coffee. I stared at the radio over the rim of the cup, steam rising in front of my eyes. Nancy had fiddled with it a few times since she had been here, but none of us had actually taken the time to flip through all the channels. Holding the cup close to my lips and inhaling the warm brew, I slowly scanned through the channels, pausing about thirty seconds on each one before turning the dial to the next. The only thing I heard was either silence, or faint crackling snow. There were thirty channels in all, so once I made my way back around to seven, I gave up.

Halfway through my coffee, I finally decided to power up the computer. It had been eating at me for a couple days now: was the internet still up and running, and if so, what was going on out there? In the back of my mind I desperately wanted news from the outside world. After it booted up and I logged on, I spent the rest of the night glued to the screen. The internet was up alright, and I found video after video from around the world, all showing basically the same thing: death, destruction, chaos, and the total breakdown of society. I even watched some local vids. Well, not
local
local, but recorded in West Virginia nonetheless. The northern and eastern panhandles were lost, the population so great in those areas that nothing living remained. The Charleston area was also toast. Literally. It had burned to the ground.

There were, however, videos showing survivors and where they were, how they were fighting, and ways to contact them if other survivors saw their vids. I wasn’t too interested in teaming up with groups just yet. Last thing we needed was to all get together and start building up the whole sorry mess again. Or, in the least, put ourselves in one spot and make it easier for the deadheads to find us. I didn’t find any videos from my family’s city of residence. There were some spotty news stories, but nothing concrete; mostly rumors. That was something else eating away at me; I knew it would be a mistake trying to find them, but I was pretty sure I would never rest until I knew what had become of Gibson.

I half-listened to the computer as videos continued to stream in. I made another trip to the kitchen and drained the last of the coffee. When I snuck back into the study, I dragged the map off the shelf and once again sat down to examine it. Gibson was where I had worked pre-Z, and where all my family had lived. Hell, everyone I knew lived there, besides my acquaintances in Matias. And that’s another thing I made a note to myself to mention to the others in the morning: I knew everyone in that community, and there were a couple of faces missing the other day when I showed up to get the others. The Hoskins kids weren’t there. Their parents were; I threw lead between their eyes right off the bat. But I didn’t see Tommy or Shannon.

I stuck that post-it next to the other, the one I had made before the gang had arrived reminding myself about Gibson’s inhabitants. I sipped at my coffee and lit a cigarette as I continued to study the map. My eyes moved from one location to the next: my house, Matias, Gibson. Matias was five miles from the foot of the mountain; roughly ten from my garage to the general store. Everyone there was dead, with the exception of the missing Hoskins kids. Gibson was forty-five miles away, and I hadn’t a clue as to the fate of those folks. Other than that, we were isolated. Not another town until you left the Monongahela. Oh sure, there were other communities and towns in the national forest, but none within a fifty mile radius of my home.

The longer I sat in that chair and stared at that map, the more convincing it seemed to find out what was going on out there. Do a little recon, some would say. The Plan said to stay put, stay alive. I lived in a prime location for just those things. I also knew The Plan wouldn’t do a damn thing to ward off the loneliness, boredom, and depression that would come from staying holed up on this mountain with a handful of strangers for the rest of my life. Let alone the inevitable psychotic break that at least one of us would eventually experience. Monitoring the radio, doing the daily household chores, and patrolling would only keep us going for so long. Then what? If the walking dead didn’t wind up killing us, then we would probably end up killing each other. As the sun began peeking through the crack around the plywood, I made my decision. No more hiding: it was time to do a little recon.

Part Two

The Road Home

Chapter Eleven

October 7
^th

Sweat dripped off Mia’s nose and ran into her eyes as she worked. The incessant pounding seemed far away as she focused on the task at hand. She couldn’t believe it had only been a week since everything had gone to hell, but she knew she was out of food and had to do something. As she pushed and pulled, back and forth, on the small handsaw, she thought about the last couple of days. She remembered very clearly the moment she had decided she wanted to live: sitting on the sofa, watching CNN, eating a Snicker’s bar, and listening to the moans. Those goddamn moans. Granted, she was a teacher and had taught herself to be very patient, to turn her ears off to noise. But this was ridiculous. Then she thought to herself,
To hell with this, I wanna live.
And so she set about planning her escape.

From what she had been able to see through her limited view of the outside world, there had been about fifty of the dead things around her house. From her bedroom window she could see that all of her neighbors had been surrounded as well. She figured a distraction would do nicely, buy her some time to get to her truck. After that, she hadn’t been sure. Just get to the truck and get the hell out of here, that’s what had kept her going the last two days. But the night before, when the house was dark and quiet, and the beating on the walls and the moaning all around her had been just about enough to send her off the deep end, a plan had come to her.

So now there she was, in her attic, sweating her ass off, cutting a hole in her roof with a handsaw. She had panicked an hour earlier when she couldn’t find it, going from room to room tearing the place apart looking for anything to cut through with. Just before she finally found the saw in the cabinet under the kitchen sink, she had thought,
I’ll chew through the fucking roof with my bare teeth if I have to
.

Woodchips and sawdust drifted down and stuck to her sweat-covered face. A backpack filled with essentials was at her feet, along with the shotgun, and her truck keys were in her pocket. Three-quarters of a circle was lit up by the sun as she worked the saw even faster, her eyes squinted shut and teeth grinding together as her arms pumped back and forth. Suddenly the saw let loose and the circle gave way, toppling her forward and almost onto her face as plywood and shingles fell on her head.

She stayed quiet, listening to the moans as they filled the attic through the open hole. On her hands and knees she panted, energized and excited when she should have been exhausted. She sat back on her heels and grabbed the backpack, rummaging around until she pulled out a handful of firecrackers and her lighter. Grinning, she shoved them in her jacket pocket and tossed her bag through the hole, then slung the shotgun over her shoulder.

After taking a couple of deep breaths and quickly running the next few steps through her mind, she pulled herself out of the attic. She kneeled down, staying as low to the roof as possible, and checked out the scene below. In her neck of the ‘burbs, the houses weren’t right on top of the next; there was a fairly nice chunk of lawn in between each house. The undead had congregated around the houses and crammed in as closely as they could.
This is good
, she thought,
this is manageable
.

Her truck was parked out front, and she estimated a four to five foot drop from the bottom edge of the roof into the bed. All she had to do was get the zombies away from that side, then jump. She chose not to think about the deadheads around the neighbors’ houses; one thing at a time. She also knew she would rather die trying to live, than die hiding behind boarded up windows. She had scanned over a map the day before, knew that being this close to D.C., any route she took was suicide, and decided to wing it.

She shimmied over to the center of the roof, ducking down along the peak, and dug the firecrackers out of her pocket. She lit a handful and threw them as far as she could into the backyard. As soon as they started going off, she yanked her keys out of her pocket and hit the unlock button. Sliding herself as quickly as she dared over the peak, she watched as the zombies in the front of the house slowly turned their heads towards the sound and started staggering and dragging themselves over in that direction.

“Yes!” she whispered and eased herself lower, her jacket and gun catching on the shingles and scratching against her jeans. She dug her heels in halfway down and pulled out another handful of firecrackers, lit them, and threw them over the right side of the roof.
So far, so good
, she thought as the rest of the zombies moved sluggishly away from her side of the house and her truck. She glanced over at the neighbors’ and saw that those dead bastards were coming to investigate as well, so she shoved the lighter back into her jacket pocket and gripped her keys tightly in her other hand.

She slid the next few feet until her boots were hanging just above the gutter. If she timed it right, she could land in the bed of the pickup, climb over the side, and be in the cab before the deadheads got there. Just as the last firecracker popped, she jumped. Her boots hit and her knees buckled, slamming her down hard on her hands and throwing her onto her side.

“Shit,” she muttered and pushed herself up. She grabbed the side rail and leaped over, her feet swinging wide and landing on the concrete drive. Zombies were slowly heading in her direction from around the corner of her house and from the neighbors’. There were dozens crossing the street, and a few breaking through windows and falling over hedges.

She yanked the door open and struggled out of her backpack, catching the shotgun’s sling as it slid from her shoulder, and tossed them both across the seat. The deadheads were slow, tripping and falling in their haste to reach fresh meat. Mia had to remind herself of this, and exert some self-control, after slamming the door and dropping the keys on the floorboard more than once trying to start the truck.

The first had just stepped onto her driveway as she eased the truck in reverse and began backing up. Her eyes were fixed on the dead in front and around her; so much so that she hadn’t even realized she was backing over the garbage can until the front tire ran over it and the motion rammed her forehead into the steering wheel. That was enough to snap her out of it.

She hit the gas and sent the truck careening onto the street, plowing over and knocking several deadheads out of the way. Jerking the stick into drive and looking down the street, she saw dozens of them wandering around, smoke curling towards the sky in the background. She whined faintly at the sight, the gravity of the bigger picture crushing her like a ton of bricks.
One step at a time,
she thought and sped off just as the old lady from next door started banging on the tailgate.

* * *

Her main goal was to get as far away from the beltway as she could. She had begun by moving along I-66 from Falls Church, Virginia. Her plan was to just keep moving, no matter what - even on foot if she had to. She felt having a one track mind for the next day or so would keep her sane, and hopefully not get her killed. She zigzagged through stalled vehicles and hordes of the undead, scraping and occasionally ramming the truck alongside cars packed too closely together.

The gas gauge was almost on E by the time she escaped the beltway. She couldn’t help but think what it would have been like if she would’ve had to stay on it.
Thank God for small favors
, she thought. The mile or so she did experience was enough to convince her she would have met her death on that stretch of highway: wedged in between vehicles and eventually dying of dehydration, or climbing out and being torn to shreds.

She struggled and fought her way around vehicles for the next hour. It was quickly becoming apparent to Mia that the main highways this close to D.C. were hopeless; the suburban sprawl that had overtaken much of the area made it nearly impossible to maneuver through in an automobile, let alone a pickup truck like hers.

“Why the hell did everyone take off in their cars when it happened?!” she screamed in frustration and beat her fists against the steering wheel. She was stopped in the middle of I-66, staring out over an ocean of vehicles as far as the eye could see.
What I need is a bicycle
, she thought,
and to get off this damn road.

She shut off the ignition and grabbed the shotgun. After loading it, she pulled on the backpack and left the truck behind.
They’re slow, I’m not. They’re stupid, I’m not,
she thought over and over as she left the highway and struck out into the woods. She looked down at the compass in her hand, adjusted her heading, and walked on, stopping every ten feet or so to listen. She continued on this way all through the night; walk, stop, listen, walk. Fear, anxiety, and panic threatened to overtake her many times in the darkness, when she would stop to listen and swore she heard a twig snap somewhere close by.