Slow Burn: Dead Fire, Book 4 (12 page)

Nico looked like I’d punched him in the gut.

“It’s not you Nico, really. I’m...I don’t know. I trusted some people and my buddy Murphy got shot. My buddy Jerome got shot for pretty much the same reason—trusting the wrong people.”

“Zed, I’m not going to shoot you or anybody else.” Nico slipped down into an uncomfortable introspective slope. “I think I’m a coward.”

“C’mon, let’s get going. It’s a ways upriver. It’ll take us the rest of the afternoon to paddle up there.”

“So, what’s your deal man?”

In the front of the canoe, I was struggling to paddle up river on a stomach that had been empty for nearly a week, and it was hard. Any degree of exertion rushed my breathing and elevated my heart rate. In that state, it was easy to pass on the minimal effort it took to listen to Nico tell me about whatever he was telling me.

“So, what’s your deal man? Zed! Zed! Are you awake up there man?”

Pulling my paddle up across my lap to rest for a minute, I looked back at Nico. “What?”

“Man, you must be totally zoned out because I asked you like three times.”

“Asked me what?”

“I know you’re ignoring me but you could at least pretend to listen.”

“I thought I was.”

“You must be in worse shape than me. We need some food.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

“We should slow the pace a bit. I’m really tired.”

I gave Nico a nod. “We can go easy for a while.”

“So what’s your deal man? I’ve practically told you my whole life story and I don’t know anything about you.”

I shrugged.

“What did you do before the virus hit.”

I hated that question but there was no point in hiding the answer. “I worked at Starbucks.”

That gave Nico a pause. “Did you ever think about going to college or something? I’ll bet you could get into the community college. That’s always a good place to start. I mean, if school isn’t your thing or whatever. It’s kind of a half-way-house to a real college. You know what I mean?”

“I have a degree, Nico.”

“Oh.” Nico was at a loss for words for a moment. But just for a moment. “The economy does kind of suck. A lot of people can’t find good jobs right now. What’s your degree in?”

“Philosophy.”

“Yeah, that might make it harder but you can work pretty much anywhere with that kind of degree. You know, and entry level gig. You seem like a smart guy. How long have you been at Starbucks?”

I shrugged out of habit and put my paddle back in the water for an easy stroke. “A couple of years I guess.”

“You’ve been looking for a job for a couple of years? Man, it must be worse out there than I thought.”

“Nico, I work at Starbucks because I want to.”

Nico was perplexed. “Are you a manager or something?”

I shook my head.

“What then? I’m curious.”

“Barista.”

“I don’t understand.”

“What’s to understand?”

“You seem like a bright guy. You’re educated. Why work at Starbucks?”

I thought about evading the question as I had so many thousands of times in the past. But really, what was the point anymore. “One job is as pointless as the next, Nico.”

“That sounds like some a philosopher’s answer.”

“Maybe.”

“Don’t you ever want to get married? Have some kids? Buy a house?”

“I’m not sure those questions are valid anymore, Nico.”

“You know what I mean. Didn’t you ever want those things?”

“Not really.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“Yes you do?”

“What do you mean, yes you do?”

“Exactly that?”

“What are you, some kind of psychologist or something? I thought you were a financial planner.”

“You remind me of my daughter.”

“What the fuck are you even talking about?”

“You’re like my daughter, Zed.”

I turned back to look at him with an unasked question hanging in the air.

“She’s distant and tightlipped too.”

If his daughter was anything like me, I deduced that it was probably for many of the same reasons and replied with a tone dripping in accusations. “Yeah, why do you think that is, Nico?”

“What?” Nico was taken aback. “What are you saying, Zed?”

I shrugged and went back to paddling. “Nothing.”

Nico pulled is paddle out of the water and got his dander up. “No! What are you saying, Zed?”

I paddled a few more strokes. What the Hell? None if mattered anymore anyway. I let all of the accusations linger in my voice. “You tell me, Nico. Why does a little girl, what’d you say, five years old? Why does a little girl get tight lipped and withdrawn, Nico? Why would she do that?”

Nico became dead serious. “What are you asking me, Zed? Why don’t you quite pussyfooting around and just tell me what you want to say?”

“Okay. You say your daughter is just like me? Quiet. Distant. That’s not normal, Nico. That’s how damaged kids are, Nico.”

“Damaged?”

“Abused, Nico. Was she abused?”

“What?” Nico was shocked. “What are you saying? You were an abused child?”

I turned back forward and paddled some more, shaking my head. “So you’re not going to answer the question. Whatever man. You pushed it. You want to hide from it. What the hell do I care? None if it matters anymore.”

Bam!

I jerked around to look at Nico.

He’d slammed his paddled down across the gunwales. His face was red. His eyes were full of tears. His hands were shaking. His voice cracked when he spoke. “You listen to me you little bastard. I love my daughter. She may be gone, but she’ll always matter. You hear me! And just so you know, I would never, ever, ever, raise a hand to her. That’s just the way she was. Some people are just hardwired to be that way. They just don’t relate to people as well as others. That’s it, Zed. It’s not any more complicated than that. And I sure as hell didn’t abuse my own damn daughter so fuck you, Zed Zane. Fuck you!”

It was my turn to be taken aback.

I believed him.

And then I felt like a turd for making the accusation.

We floated silently on the river for a long time after that. Lost in our own thoughts, fearful of saying anymore until tempers settled. It was me who finally mustered the courage to speak. “I’m sorry, Nico. That was dickish of me. I…”

Nico shook his head as he accepted. “I loved my daughter, Zed. You don’t have kids, I assume. So you’ll never know how much a parent loves their kids.”

“I’ll have to take your word on that, Nico.” I turned to start paddling again.

We paddled together for a little while upstream with no words passing between us.

Nico deduced, “Your parents must have been real shits.”

I shrugged without looking back. “It’s not important, Nico. They’re gone.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

“Did you ever reconcile everything with them before they went?”

“I told you, Nico. It doesn’t matter.”

“It makes it easier to move on when you close the books so to speak.”

“They’re dead, Nico. Just like everybody else.”

“How do you feel about that?”

“Are you sure you’re not a psychologist?”

“I told you, my daughter Stacy, she was hard to talk to too. I’m used to dredging answers out.”

“I’m truly sorry about Stacy, Nico. I’m sorry I said what I said.”

“It’s okay. You didn’t know.”

It was getting late in the afternoon. There were shadows cast over the water by the trees near the shore and it was tempting to paddle closer to the bank and take advantage of the shade. But so many dangers could be hiding among the trees and bushes there.

We continued up river and the conversation hit another lull. I was as comfortable as I could be with that. I was guessing that Nico was feeling a little burned by what I’d implied and was afraid to pursue another topic. But he finally asked, “What are your friends like?”

“They’re good people.”

“Did you know any of them before the virus hit?”

“Nope.”

“You met them all afterwards?”

“Yes.”

“If you don’t mind my speculating, I’m under the impression that you’re pretty attached to them.”

I shrugged.

“Does that mean no?”

“No.”

“So you are.”

“Yes.”

“Given what I think I know about you—you know, considering your childhood and all—you don’t seem like the type to bond easily with other people.”

“Are you calling me a sociopath, Nico?” I turned back to him and gave him a wan smile, to let him know that I was kidding.

“You know what I mean.”

“I don’t know about that, Nico. Why is it important?”

“Just talking.”

I paddled a few more stroked.

“Would you say that you’re attached to them?”

“Sure, Nico. I’d say that.”

“Would you say that, or would it be true?”

“I’m sure Stacy loved it when you cross-examined her.” The sarcasm came easy to me.

“As much as you do.”

“I’m attached to them, Nico.”

“More than other people you’ve known?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t really thought about it.”

“I think you have.”

“Why do you say that?”

“You got a degree in philosophy for a reason, I think. You probably like to think about the reasons behind things. I’m guessing this is one of those things you’ve thought about.”

“I’ve been kind of busy lately, Nico.”

“You had plenty of time when we were on the chain gang.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. So did you think about it?”

“Fine. It’s true. I’m probably more attached to these people than most other people I’ve known.”

“Why?”

“A. It doesn’t matter. B. I don’t know. C. If all your theories about me are true, then I’m probably too socially handicapped to know. D. I think that’s the boathouse down there on the right. Do you see it?”

“It looks like the door is open.”

“How the fuck did they get in there?” My anger carried my voice across the water and caught the full, screaming attention of every naked White in Sarah Mansfield’s boathouse.

Nico said nothing. The question was clearly rhetorical.

My knuckles bleached stark white as I clenched my hands on my paddle. The boathouse door was open. The ski boat was gone. The jet skis were still inside. Life jackets were scattered; a few floated in the water. Everything that had been so organized inside was strewn where it shouldn’t have been. The infected had apparently scoured every inch of the boathouse in search of something to eat.

A dangerous calm came over me. Everyone I had any attachment to had been in that house up on the cliff. Mass murder was back in my black thoughts. The darkness was blazing fire, but I didn’t care that it was. I needed answers to suddenly open questions, and I felt a strong need to exterminate some Whites.

I looked at Nico, banal, blabbering Nico, and I was leashed to him. But through my mannequin’s calm, he couldn’t tell that I felt like a rabid dog. I drew a deep breath. “Nico, we need to get these chains off.”

“But…” Nico looked back at me. I don’t know what he saw at that moment, but he got enough information from it to make him nod in agreement instead.

I pointed to some houses on the north shore, right on the edge of the water a few hundred yards upstream.

Nico looked at the houses and looked back at me, worried. Rightfully so, they were crawling with naked Whites, the same ones that were in Sarah Mansfield’s boathouse, the same ones that overran Dr. Evans’ farm. Or so I deduced. That meant there were tens of thousands of them up on the mountain.

“Let’s try a house on the other side of the river,” Nico pleaded.

I looked at the forested bank across the water. The nearest house on that side was back downriver and maybe a quarter mile away. I looked back to the row of upstream waterfront mansions with hundreds of Whites rampaging over the property.

Safety first!

I reluctantly nodded.

“Good,” Nico smiled feebly. He cast another fearful glance at the overrun mansions. “Good.”

We paddled the canoe over to the far bank and sped up as we turned into the current. Before long, we neared the first of the waterfront houses.

I pulled my paddle into the canoe and Nico did the same. As we drifted, I surveyed the lawn and scrutinized the windows, looking for anything with arms or legs that might be a danger to us.

Nico turned back to look at me, “It’s as good as any, I suppose.” Translation: he didn’t see any Whites either.

I shrugged and we angled the canoe toward the bank. There was no boathouse, no dock, just green grass sloping down to a ragged bank that stood a meager twelve inches above the surface of the river.

Gravel ground under the keel as the bow neared the bank beneath an overhanging tree. Nico reached out and looped the bow rope round the tree trunk and put a single, loose knot in it. I used my paddle to pull the rear of the canoe around parallel with the bank. I had to step into the shallow water to get out of the canoe, and then step up to the bank, onto the sloping grass, slippery with river water running off of my boots.

Nevertheless, Nico and I found ourselves tethered by our chain, standing side by side, looking across a lawn at the back of a 1950s-style house, sharing the same hopes and the same fears.

I took the length of chain to my left, a length that had two unoccupied loops, and drew it back through my hand until I had a couple of dangling feet of iron weight left, enough for a passable weapon. Nico saw what I was doing and copied with a length of chain on his right side. There was nothing that could be done with the length between us.

“Through the back door and then we find the garage?” I asked, guessing that Nico would agree to whatever I suggested.

I guessed right.

He followed me across the grass until we stepped up onto a wooden deck covered with a maze of disorganized patio furniture. I didn’t see any blood, no torn clothing, and no human remains. There had been no attack by the infected here. Perhaps the owners were just sloppy people.

From my position on the raised deck, I was able to peer over a hedge into the next yard. Nothing there, either. Nico looked, then seemed to relax a bit before marching off toward the back door. I gently tugged the chain on his neck to slow him down. I raised a palm, imploring patience. Just because we didn’t see the danger didn’t mean it wasn’t there.

Nico caught my meaning and his show of bravery came to an end. He let me lead.

The back door proved to be locked. That presented a dilemma. Go around front and expose ourselves to visibility from the street, only to come to a sturdier, probably locked door, or bust this flimsy looking one down? The noise would draw the attention of any Whites that were lingering silently nearby. I looked at Nico, “I think…”

“Bust it down,” he interrupted me.

That was decisive. I gave Nico a nod and stepped back to give the door a good hard look. Old. It looked old and flimsy, like an interior door repurposed to the wrong task. I gave Nico a here-goes look, aimed my shoulder at the middle of the door, and sprinted forward with all the momentum I could gather in three steps.

After so many years in the humidity by the river, the door had to have been partially rotted inside, because when my shoulder hit it, it splintered through the center and broke. With one of my feet caught on the lower edge of the door, I fell. I covered my eyes with my hands to protect them from shivered wood.

When the sound of the crash faded and I pulled my hands away from my face, I was on the floor, covered in pieces of wood, large and small, and—

Oops.

The business end of a rifle barrel was just inches from my face. Up at the other end of that rifle was an old man with a round, wrinkled face behind black plastic-rimmed glasses that tried to sit on a nose so flat and small that they rested more on his cheeks.

“Don’t shoot?” It came out sounding like something between a question and a plea, as I tried frantically to imagine any words more convincing to say that might save my life.

The bullet didn’t materialize, though. The old man’s expression was slowing changing from determination to confusion.

“I’m…not like them,” I added, hoping that would help my case.

He drew a deep breath and backed up a few steps. He clearly hadn’t expected to see a talking White. “Who are you?”

From outside, Nico whispered in, “Zed! Zed! Are you okay?”

“I’m Zed,” I answered. “Sorry about the door.”

“Zed?” The old man asked.

“That’s my name.” I nodded, then called softly out the door, “Nico, be cool for a sec’. There’s somebody in here.”

Ignoring my request, Nico stuck his head in through the hole in the door and spotted the gun. “Oh.”

The old man seemed stuck with his indecision, not moving, not speaking, probably trying to figure out what to do with us, trying to figure out whether I was about to attack him or not.

“I’m not a danger to you,” I tried to sooth his fears. “We’re just as normal as you.”

“Ya just broke my door down.” He was peeved.

“Yeah, but…” I started to answer, “but we didn’t think anybody…”

“Anybody,
what?” He asked with an edge to his tone.

“I didn’t think anybody would be alive in here.”

“And why would you think that?” His voice was notching up with anger.

“Well, none of the houses we checked…”

“Y’er looters!” he concluded.

“No, no,” I argued. “Because of everything that’s going on.”

“And what’s that?”

“C’mon,” I responded, disbelief dripping from my voice. I motioned around at the world outside the house’s walls. “How could you not know about the virus?”

“I know ‘bout the virus,” he answered.

“Then you know,” I concluded.

“TV and radio have been off the air for a while now.”

“But you know…” I was at a loss for a new argument so I stuck with the one that didn’t seem to be working. “You know that pretty much everybody is either dead or one of them, right?”

“When you say one of them, you mean, like you, don’t you? Albinos.”

“No, no.” I raised my hands, palms open. “We’re not like them. I got sick, but I got better. I’m normal now. Well except for my color.”

The gun didn’t point away.

I asked, “When was the last time you talked to anybody? Family? Neighbors?”

The old man took a moment before he answered, reluctant to get drawn further into a conversation. “I haven’t talked to my son since I heard the news out’a Dallas. That’s where he lives, with my grandkids. I haven’t talked to a neighbor since the last one turned last week.”

“How do you know he was the last one to turn?”

“She,” he corrected.

“How do you know she was the last one to turn?”

“’Cause I seen ‘em all.”

“What do you mean?”

“I seen ‘em all out on the road, one or two at a time. First, I wouldn’t see ‘em for a day or two, then they’d turn up out in the road, walkin’ down the street or tearin’ stuff up. Tryin’ to break inta houses, ‘n I seen ‘em kill some folks out front.”

“Look,” I said, “I’m really sorry about your door. But it kind of just fell apart when I hit it.”

Angry again. “Are you tryin’ to tell me that was an accident?”

“No, no. I’m just saying that it broke a lot easier than I thought.”

“Yeah, me too,” the old man agreed.

“Hey,” I ventured a change of subject, “do you have a hacksaw or something?”

“Nope.” The old man’s eyes followed the chain from my neck up to Nico’s neck. “Fer them chains, I reckon?”

“Yes,” I confirmed.

“I got some bolt cutters that’ll cut right through them locks.”

“You’re a life saver.” I breathed a sigh of relief. “Can I get up off of the floor?”

The old man lowered the rifle. “Mabye. How’d you get them chains?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” I answered.

“You in some kinda trouble?”

I laughed out loud at that.