I didn’t have anything against him. Despite his bleeding heart, he was a valuable companion to have around.
I secured the watch around my left wrist and clicked all the side buttons until one lit up. It was 5:30 at night. I stood slowly, making sure my legs didn’t cramp, and wandered downstairs to the fire. I’d had it going for so long the house wasn’t subzero any longer. Not well heated by any means, but enough that it was tolerable.
Tomorrow morning I needed to continue on. I didn’t know where I was or what direction I should go, but I knew which lead me back to crazies, and that gave me a direction to avoid at least.
I had to start from scratch with my supplies. I used my flashlight because I found extra batteries for it in the kitchen.
Patty Boy’s mistress was a hiker. There wasn’t much in the master bedroom closet, but the guest closet was packed with hiking clothes and all types of gear. I wasn’t sure if it was the sign of a spoiled girlfriend, or if she genuinely had that many interests.
There was a full sized, pink, day hiking pack, along with the compact accessories that went with it. Tent, cooking supplies, and a Camelbak. There was even one of those lightweight but extremely warm sleeping bags. Also in pink. The girl had a color theme, that’s for sure. Why couldn’t Patty have any of that gear? I looked around, hoping I might find something of his, but nothing came up.
Then again, it was the end of the world. Why should I care about someone seeing me with girly hiking gear? Actually, I’d need to ditch it before I saw Blaze. That was the kind of thing she’d never let me live down.
So I wouldn’t waste my batteries, I gathered most of my supplies downstairs, using the fire to light my way. I took anything of use in the closet, kitchen, and bathrooms. When I was done, mounds of junk waited to be sorted.
I organized the contents of my pink pack as efficiently as I could, stopping once my fire had turned to embers. Then I returned upstairs for one last peaceful sleep before my journey resumed.
Chapter 20
Hours passed before I began to find other cabins and abandoned cars off the road. I searched them all, but you’d be surprised how few people carry any type of map. Then again, why would they? GPS, cell phone, Internet…I doubt pre-apocalypse anyone knew
how
to use a map. It took half a day just to find one. Once I passed a city limit sign and matched it up with the map, I knew where I was. More importantly, where I needed to go. Another half day got me back onto I-90, but by that time it was dark out and I needed to find a place to stay.
Not one, but multiple houses I tried were inhabited, both by the undead and living. The zombies I encountered were emaciated, with hollow cheeks and taut skin, and wore multiple layers of clothing. It made me think they died recently from starvation or cold.
Then there were the
living
. In the moderately sized towns I’d been in before, most houses were either abandoned, had suicide victims in them, or undead that were easily dispatched. But these Northern towns? A much different scenario. Their inhabitants must’ve heard my snowmobile from a mile away. I’d park the thing in a discreet location some distance from my hideout, walk towards the home, and circle the perimeter. More than a few times I heard voices inside.
“
We’re still in here. Go away.”
“
Find somewhere else.”
“
Get away, now.”
I didn’t want to pick a fight. Instead of begging for help or trying to reason, I turned around and left. Just knowing someone sentient was around made me paranoid. Instead of finding a house elsewhere in the vicinity, I opted to drive at least a mile. Every house I picked had someone in it. I wondered if there was some kind of community in the area. It would explain why they’d survived so long.
530 turned into Pioneer Highway, which eventually lead into a town called Conway. There the snowmobile puttered and slowed down. I searched each house and building and found one red can of gas. The snowmobile sounded awful when I started it up again, but it ran another blissful hour until it stopped for good and I went on foot.
But I didn’t have far to go. According to my map, I only needed to walk a couple miles. I ate the remaining food from my pack and trekked across Bayview-Edison Road, which eventually turned into Samish Island Road. The snow thinned out, since I was closer to the water.
Reality hit me; I was almost there. With a spring in my step, I walked across the small strip of land connecting Samish to the mainland.
Gray, chaotic water moved on either side of me. A wind coming off Puget Sound whipped up small white caps, while snow swirled above the surface. Large, expensive houses flanked the single road that lead onto the island. The sky was almost black with an impending storm. I turned away and looked towards the houses.
One more night. Tomorrow I’d find Blaze.
PART TWO
Chapter 21
The residents of Samish Island walked out of their houses and disappeared.
That’s what it looked like. Nothing else could explain what I found there. The first two houses were dusty, abandoned, and untouched. When I broke through the back door of a third, it seemed even more suspect. A note on the granite kitchen counter read:
Grant, I took the kids to Fort Christian. You know how He is. He told us you knew. Went on the Bank’s boat, left the dingy. Love June.
The note gave me the creeps for some reason. I set it down and roamed the house, but found nothing. I needed keys. There had to be a dock, and thus there had to be some spare keys laying around, yet the drawers and key hooks were empty. I walked out of the house with the note, and icy slush pelted against my face, making my nose even more numb, stinging my dry, cracked lips.
The storm had crept even farther over the town. It’s never a good idea to roam around when visibility and sound were poor, but I wanted to cover as much ground as possible. Besides, if the rest of the island was as dismal and deserted as what I’d already seen…
Well, I’d be in good shape.
There weren’t any car accidents or signs of destruction
anywhere
. Something about the gore-less, ghost town frightened me more than the horrors I’d seen in Startup or the streets of Seattle. At least I knew what to expect in those places; here I knew nothing.
My light bobbed up and down, shining through windows and onto porches. How could
any
town be exempt from even one rotting corpse?
Another looming house, more mysteries inside. There was no story of what happened, no clues that would help me. Outside the world sat in twilight. The only sounds were crashing waves and rain pitter-pattering. That note mentioned they—whoever they were—left. But that wasn’t enough to put a story together.
The next house I went to had a wooden plaque over its double doors that read, “The Bank’s Residence.” I jiggled the door handle. Locked.
What would it take for me to catch a break?
Behind me came a series of crunches. I spun, dropping the flashlight, and pulled my rifle forward.
An old woman stood at the bottom of the porch steps, a plastic bag sunk in the snow beside her. She had a shotgun aimed right at me.
We looked at each other curiously, neither pulling the trigger. Finally, she laughed.
“Haven’t seen anyone since, well…” She laughed again. “I guess since the grass was green and the birds still chirped.”
She didn’t lower her gun. This old lady was a survivor. Any genuine spark of liveliness was long gone. Her mannerisms seemed more out of habit than anything else. Motions that your body remembered so well you didn’t need to think to perform them.
“You’re lucky,” I said. “I wish I hadn’t seen anyone in that long.”
“Well, are you going to shoot me or what? I don’t want to stand here forever.”
The storm finally arrived. Fat drops of rain fell against the snow, making a soft
whip
noise. A crack of thunder made me jump.
I wasn’t going to stand here and fight an old lady. I slung the rifle back over my shoulder. She lowered her shotgun.
“I guess not. Too tired,” I answered.
She bent down and retrieved the plastic bag, which I noticed bulged with cans. “One less thing to worry about, right?”
I stepped aside as she walked past. “What do you mean?”
“It seems like all I do anymore is try to evade or kill the dead. Not having to deal with a scrawny, redheaded punk is one less thing I have to do today.”
After she set her shotgun against the front door, she pulled a set of keys from her heavy coat. There were only a few keys on the chain, and among them was a bright orange plastic bulb with a number on it. If I had to guess, it was the key to a boat. It had to be. People often attached floatation key chains to them.
“What does having red hair have to do with being a scrawny punk?” I shot back. I’d been defensive my whole life about my gold and red locks.
She laughed and shrugged, picked up her gun and walked into the house
I remained outside looking in.
“Doesn’t have anything to do with it, I suppose. Just a stereotype, right? Anyway, you are scrawny and probably hungry. I haven’t had good company in a while. Why don’t you come in?”
No one was goodhearted anymore. I didn’t believe anyone ever truly had been. In real life, people had an objective behind their kindness. It all came back to what they wanted out of you. This lady seemed nice, but for all I knew she kept her zombie grandkids upstairs, and her dead husband downstairs to cannibalize. That’d happened to me before. Why wouldn’t it happen again?
But then there was the matter of that key. I was sure it was a boat key. The question was how I was going to get my hands on it.
That was me—always wanting something for myself. The difference was I couldn’t often mask my true intentions with kindness.
But I wasn’t going to kill her in cold blood for the key. I had a soft spot for elderly folks. Besides, I didn’t usually kill someone for a reason
that
mundane.
She motioned me inside. “Come on. It’s not as cold in here.”
I’d never been one to revel in the size or beauty of a house, but I had to admit this one was in the top five houses I’d seen, along with Patty’s house. Every type of excessive interior design seemed to be in effect: marble, real hard wood, wainscoting, crystal chandeliers, plush carpet. The house had it all. It never got dark as I followed her deeper into the house. Multiple skylights let what was left of the sun through.
“Was this your house from before?”
“Yes,” she replied as our heels clicked on the marble floors of the kitchen. The bag of cans and her shotgun clanked on the counter as she set them down. “Doctors make a lot of money. What else would I spend it on? Two bratty trust fund kids or my spoiled rotten grandkids? I don’t think so.”
“You’ve got a lot of anger, Mrs. Banks,” I said before I could stop myself.
“How did you know my name?”
“There’s a sign outside.”
She clenched her jaw and peered at the floor. “My husband made that.”
Dead husband, definitely. Whether her husband died pre or post-apocalypse, it didn’t matter. She still let it get to her. Her whole family was probably dead, or at least missing.
She exhaled deeply and slapped her hand against the black granite counter. as though dismissing her anger. “So, how about we get you something to eat and I’ll take a look at your leg?”
“How did
you
know about my leg?”
My hand went to the aching wound. I’d picked up new clothes along my journey to Samish, so it wasn’t a blood stain or rip that gave it away.
“Just because I’m retired doesn’t mean I’m blind. You limp, and I can tell it’s new.”
Instead of fighting her, I nodded.
“Come with me downstairs. You can pick something out from my stockpile.”
“Stockpile?”
“What do you think I do all day? Sit on my ass hoping for the sun to rise and everyone to hold hands?”
* * *
A stockpile was an apt term for the horde of goods in her basement. Neat rows of shelves flanked both sides of the rectangular space, looking much like a grocery store. Every type of nonperishable food I could imagine was there. One tower was devoted to soda. When I saw the Mountain Dew, the memory of guzzling so much of it back in Everett made me feel a bit sick.
There weren’t any windows or lights downstairs, but Dr. Banks had a hanging lantern on the top of each set of shelves, illuminating every nook and cranny. As I inspected the goods, I noticed a circle sticker with a date written on each one.
“Expiration dates?” I asked.
She picked up a jar of spaghetti sauce. “Yes. It would be disappointing if I died from botulism instead of being eaten alive.”
“Very funny. I love your sense of humor,” I said, matching her sarcasm but meaning my words.
“Early on, I didn’t go out much, but once everyone left to Fort Christian I started my raids. At first, every day, but then I had to fan out to houses on the outskirts.” She set the jar down, looking at nothing specific for a moment. “Pick something out. I’ve got a miniature propane grill that’ll heat it up. Tell me what happened to your leg, and I’ll get the right fixins’ for it.”
I explained how I got my wound, but didn’t touch on
why
I got it. Why dredge up things I decided to leave behind? Besides, it would behoove me to let her think I was a normal guy instead of a total jerk.
Dr. Banks did just as promised, though she didn’t cook my two cans of chicken noodle soup for me. “I’m nobody’s bitch. You make your own soup,” she snapped when I handed her my choice. She led me upstairs and through a hallway, into a perfectly designed master bedroom. By then, only the sun set and the harsh light of one of her electric lanterns lit the area.
The room was immaculate except for one thing: part of the wall was open, creating a narrow entrance into a room I couldn’t see into. Dr. Banks went straight for it, but I hesitated. No one in their right mind would follow
anyone
into a dark passageway.