The Survivalist - 02 (10 page)

“It was in his pocket.”

“So, what’s it say?”

“I wasn’t sure if I should read it.”

“He wouldn’t have put it in his pocket if he didn’t want it read. Go ahead.”

She carefully unfolded the paper and began to read aloud in a slow narrator’s voice.

If you’re reading this note, it means that I’m dead. I’ve never had much luck in this world, so my end probably wasn’t quick or painless. I have no right, but I’m going to ask a favor of you. In my left boot, you’ll find a photo of my daughter, Isa. Our address is written on the back. I was away on business when the virus hit, and I’ve been trying to get home ever since. I wonder if you’d be so kind as to deliver a message for me. Tell my baby girl that daddy did everything he could to make it home and that I’ll watch over her from heaven. Please tell her what I couldn’t, so that I can rest in peace.

Forever grateful, Booker Hill

Tears trickled down Samantha’s face as she choked out the last few words.

“That’s . . . that’s awful,” she said, refolding the paper.

Tanner looked over at what remained of the man. Booker was right about one thing. His end hadn’t been quick or painless.

“There are lots of sad stories out there,” he said. “Don’t forget that’s what led us to where we are right now.”

“I know,” she said, wiping away the tears. She looked back over at the dead man.

“Let me guess. You want to get the photo from his boot.” It was a statement, not a question.

“We’re his last chance.”

He sighed. “So get it.”

Samantha tiptoed back over to the man’s body and untied the left boot. When she gave it a tug, it didn’t budge.

“It’s stuck.”

“That’s probably because he’s started to swell.”

“Aren’t you going to help me?”

“Nope.”

She pulled on it again, leaning back with everything she had. The boot started to slide off.

“I’m getting it,” she said with a tone of excitement.

“Goodie.”

The boot finally came off, and, like the man had promised, there was a small color photo inside. It showed a smiling little girl blowing out five candles on a birthday cake. Samantha flipped the picture over. On the back side, an address was written in blue ink.

“She lives in Salamanca, New York.”

He shook his head in disbelief.

“What? You know where that is?”

“You could say that.”

She raised her eyebrows waiting for more.

“My ex-wife lives on a farm less than ten miles from there.”

“Hmm,” she said, leaving the rest of her sentence unspoken.

“Life’s full of coincidences.”

“Yeah, but ten miles?”

“Just put it in your pocket, Saint Jude.”

“Who?”

“Patron saint of lost causes.”

Samantha looked at the photo one last time and then slid it and the note into her back pocket. She walked back to Tanner and sat down next to him.

“My mom says that we should listen to the little voice in our head.”

“I suppose.”

“What’s yours saying right now?”

He thought about it a moment.

“It’s saying that I should get you home before we’re both killed like that poor fool.”

“Right,” she said, hardly hearing him. “Do you want to know what mine’s saying?”

“No.”

“It’s saying that we’re going to be together for a while longer.”

“Fine, but we’re not going to New York.”

“Okay.”

“I mean it.”

“Okay.” A shadow of something in the street passed in front of the doorway. “Someone’s out there,” she said, nudging him.

“Just people looking for supplies. No different than us.”

“Then why are they out at night?”

“I don’t know. Afraid of a sunburn?”

She didn’t laugh.

“I wish you had your shotgun,” she said, sliding a little closer. She pointed to the 12-gauge. “That’s a good gun.”

“What are you complaining about? This is a fine rifle.” Tanner held up the Savage. “It could probably hit a fly at fifty yards.”

“I’m not worried about flies.” She paused. “Not unless they’re gigantic flies looking to vomit on our heads.”

“What?”

“Flies throw up on what they want to eat. It helps to turn their food into liquid so they can slurp it up through their snouts.”

“I swear you make up half of what you say just to freak me out.”

“It’s true,” she said. “I learned it in science class. You know, you should have gone to school. You learn a lot there.”

“Hey,” he said, bumping her lightly with his shoulder. “What if I told you I used to be a college professor?”

She looked up at him, searching his face for clues. His grin was all she needed.

“Where’d you teach?” she asked. “At the College of Convicted Felons?”

They both laughed, putting aside for the moment their worries about virus-infected monsters, murderous agents, and giant head-slurping flies to simply enjoy one another’s company.

Tanner and Samantha sat in the store until it was so dark that they could barely see one another’s face. When he was confident they wouldn’t easily be spotted on the street, Tanner stepped up to the broken doors and peered out. A thick fog had rolled in, and only the shine of a full moon offered any illumination. Samantha had been right. There were a few shadowed forms moving along the streets, but no one seemed to notice them standing in the doorway. He motioned for her to follow him.

As they stepped out of the store, Tanner suddenly realized that finding their way back to the Jeep was going to be more difficult than he had first thought. They had run only a few blocks, but that was in the daytime. Now, with darkness and fog shrouding everything, the small street looked more like the road to Mordor. Streetlamps stood like towering tree Ents, and hunched scavengers sneaked around like Nazgul in search of their beloved ring.

“We came from that way, right?”

“I think so.” She paused, looking around. “Maybe it was that way.”

“Come on,” he said. “I’m pretty sure this is right.”

No sooner had they stepped from the curb than he bumped into a Honda Accord that had a wheel missing and one corner propped up on a jack. The horn suddenly started honking, and its lights began to flash weakly. Samantha nearly jumped into his arms, and the people who were scavenging up the street spun to face them. The strangers weren’t close enough for Tanner to decide if they were ordinary people or insane victims of the virus, but, either way, he instinctively knew there was going to be trouble.

“Keep moving,” he said, pulling her by the arm.

One of the scavengers shouted something unintelligible, and several others took it as their cue to investigate the noisemakers. Rather than run upright, they bent their heads forward and shuffled clumsily, as if it pained them to bend their limbs too far.

Tanner had seen that kind of stiffness before when he was fighting a group of the infected. The virus apparently caused severe arthritis, along with a host of other physiological and psychological changes. Their clumsy movements and hideous appearance were partly to blame for Samantha’s labeling them zombies. And, while Tanner was quick to point out that they were just people who had been altered by the virus, he accepted that such semantics made little difference when they were gnawing on his neck.

With the infected approaching from both sides, Tanner and Samantha did the only thing they could. They ran. They made it as far as the alley before being caught by the first one. Tanner heard him approaching from behind, panting with excitement. Without looking, he kicked backward like a mule. His heel caught the man in the gut, doubling him over. Without looking back, they raced ahead.

Turning up the alley, Tanner and Samantha were both relieved to see the faint reflection of moonlight coming off the tail lights of the Jeep. It was only about fifty yards ahead. Unfortunately, they also heard several more of the infected closing in from behind. Tanner knew they would never make it to the Jeep in time to escape.

“Run and hide,” he said, dropping his pack to the ground.

“Where?”

“Underneath the Jeep. Go, Sam!” He shoved the empty shotgun in her hands and pushed her ahead.

She broke into a run, quickly disappearing in the dark soup surrounding them.

Tanner turned in time to see three figures round the corner to the alley, two men and a woman. He immediately brought the rifle up and shot the largest man in the eye. The tiny lead slug sliced through his brain until it lodged in the back of his skull. Momentum caused him to fall forward, and the other two stumbled over him, giving Tanner time for another shot.

The second bullet hit the smaller man in the neck, but he didn’t even slow down. Tanner made no attempt at a third shot as they were now within melee range. Instead, he whipped the butt of the rifle sideways, the heavy stock crunching the man’s cheekbone like a fossilized eggshell. Fragments of bone and teeth collapsed inward, as the momentum of the blow sent him spinning into the ground. He made no attempt to get back up.

The woman swung a small axe handle, catching Tanner on the side of the head and ripping open the wound that Samantha had doctored earlier. Once again, a steady flow of warm blood began trickling down his face.

Tanner stabbed forward with the muzzle of the rifle, catching her in the solar plexus. As she doubled over, he squeezed the trigger and popped a .22 round into her gut. She screamed and lurched for him. With the rifle still flush against her, he squeezed the trigger twice more. With the third round, she finally fell to the ground, moaning loudly. He quickly stepped forward and kicked her in the head until she quieted.

Pausing to catch his breath while staring down at the three bodies, Tanner was reminded of the second of the Four Noble Truths of Buddhism.
Suffering is caused by desire and ignorance
. In this case, he thought, their suffering was due to an uncontrolled desire to inflict harm on a man twice their size and meaner than a honey badger.

He squatted down next to the woman. Dried blisters covered her face and hands. Her eyes shone in the night, a web of black ink streaking down her face like mascara at a pool party. Tanner wondered if the change to their eyes was the reason the infected seemed to prefer the dark. Certainly, every time—

Something smashed into him from behind, knocking the rifle from his hands and sending it skittering away in the dark. He stumbled forward, barely managing to keep from falling. Blindly spinning around and pivoting off his back foot, he shot an elbow up at the attacker’s jaw. The man’s teeth smashed together, and his head whipped back. Stumbling back, his attacker began to wobble from side to side as he struggled to stay conscious. Tanner immediately swept his legs out and followed him to the ground with a series of brutal punches to the face.

Before Tanner could stand back up, another of the infected jumped on his back, pulling a blistered forearm across his throat. He twisted his hips and flipped the man over his shoulder, slamming him into the pavement. As Tanner stepped in to finish him, four more of the infected swarmed around the corner. He glanced back to see if Samantha was within sight. She wasn’t.

Facing a seemingly endless stream of berserkers, Tanner decided to lead them away. He screamed and charged directly into the oncoming group, barreling through them like a linebacker going for the quarterback. Hoping to draw their full attention, he paused long enough to add insult to injury by shouting a colorful expletive about their mothers having fornicated with a wheel of cheddar cheese. They screamed and tore out after him.

The chase was on.

Samantha lay flat on her back, staring up at the grimy undercarriage of a 2008 four-door Jeep Wrangler. She had no trouble fitting underneath, because, as she often told people, she was small for her age. The night was black and the fog thick, and she couldn’t see much of anything, except for the engine block above her. She lay there, breathing heavily, as she listened to Tanner fight the zombies. Footsteps. The pop of a gunshot. Then a second. More scuffling. Three more gunshots in quick succession. The sound of a foot stomping something solid and wet. Then nothing. She wondered if it was over. Before she could make up her mind, there were sounds of more fighting. Then Tanner screamed something about cheese and there were sounds of footsteps racing away. Then nothing.