Zombies in Paradise (Love in the Age of Zombies Book 2) (4 page)

He went to the next house and used his crowbar on the front door. He was pretty good at it now, a lot better than when he started. This time it busted in only two tries. He and Matey stepped inside, stopped and listened. When Matey moved forward, nice and relaxed, Don knew there weren’t any rotting crazies here. And it didn’t smell bad. He walked down the hall into the kitchen.

Sometimes, if there was enough light, he liked to look at what was on the ‘fridge. Sometimes there was a calendar, or a shopping list, sometimes photos of kids. Sometimes notes to each other:
I have eaten the plums
or
Dr. Williams, 9:00 Wednesday.
A few refrigerators didn’t have anything on them. They were boring.

Don always looked in the kitchen for food. He didn’t take everything; he would never eat canned sauerkraut. He would never eat qui-noah, whatever that was. But he’d take almost everything else. Then he’d go in the bathroom and look for toilet paper. He didn’t care about the bottles of pills or the toothpaste or any of the powders and stuff.

He’d go into the bedrooms. If it was a little girl’s room, he would look at the dolls and stuffed animals but usually left them alone. If it was a little boy’s room he’d look at the posters and sports stuff and boring books.

The older kids rooms were usually too messy to even walk in, so he left them alone.

But the most fun was in mom and dad’s room. A lot of times they were boring, with just clothes and shoes and books. But sometimes, especially if Don looked hard enough, he found toys and magazines and movies. He didn’t bother with the movies, but sometimes he took toys and magazines.

In this house he found no toys or kids’ rooms. He didn’t even find any man stuff. But there were flowers everywhere and lots of photos on the wall. Don moved past them toward the front door, carrying the few cans of food he found.

It always felt weird when he walked out of the house carrying stuff. Walking down somebody’s hall lined with photos, walking out of a dark empty house. It felt kind of lonely.

But Matey was always there to cheer him up. Don loved Matey. He was probably the best thing that ever happened to him, besides his secret. Doc and Matey were like brothers or something. They watched out for each other. They took care of each other. He never had any person take care of him or treat him as good as Matey.

The German Shepherd was already outside when she tensed up and growled. She backed into the house. When Don looked out the window he saw two people ride by on their bikes.

“Easy, girl,” Don said. He didn’t want Matey chasing them.

Don didn’t like seeing people. He wondered where they came from. After they disappeared down the street, he walked the way they came. He kept to the houses, not in the street, so nobody would see him. But he didn’t see anybody else, either. He couldn’t tell where they came from. He headed back to school.

The next morning, Michelle and Kevin made love once again. As they were snuggling in the afterglow, they heard Doc whistling in the kitchen, perhaps to let them know he was awake. Kevin knew they’d made some noise, but wasn’t sure exactly how loud they were. Sometimes he lost track of how loud they were getting, but he was pretty sure they’d been quiet.

They dressed and joined Doc in the kitchen, eager for a cup of coffee. Kevin made some steel-cut oats and they leaned against the counters and sink.

“I never liked oatmeal much,” Doc said, “but now I’m glad to have it! I ran out of Cream of Wheat months ago at the cabin.”

“Speaking of your cabin, how about giving us the long version of your trip here? I get the feeling you left out quite a bit,” Kevin said. Doc looked thoughtful as he sipped his coffee.

Chapter Five

Atlanta, Michigan

Doc finished packing the Jeep and went over his list one more time: fishing gear (just in case), sleeping bag, tent, hunting boots, hunting jacket, waders, shotgun, rifle, ammunition, hunting knife, medical bag, food, five-gallon gas cans.

He hoped he wouldn’t need to use much of the supplies but didn’t know how long he’d be staying with Kevin and Michelle, or when he might ever return. He grabbed the pillow from his bed along with a couple favorite blankets just in case he wasn’t coming back, and headed out. He didn’t bother locking the door; he’d seen no survivors in six months, and if anyone did stumble across his cabin, he’d rather they just walk in than break in.

He climbed into the cab, started the engine, and pulled onto the rough two-track towards the main road. It was a good three miles of rough going, but he’d had the foresight to clear the track yesterday. He made bumpy but steady progress.

He used to enjoy being far off the beaten track. Back when the cabin was his getaway, his sanctuary, his escape from civilization, he loved the solitude and silence about as much as he loved the nearby small lake (or large pond) which held enough brook trout to occupy his time. Back then, he seldom heard any evidence of humanity, other than the occasional drone of a prop plane high above and the annual sound of chainsaws in autumn. In winter he sometimes heard snowmobiles, and cursed the fools who went out of their way to make them as loud as possible. But on most days, he was more likely to hear the call of a coyote mingled with the sound of the wind high in the pines.

That was then. He hadn’t heard a snowmobile or a single-engine plane since the Collapse, hadn’t seen so much as a single jet trail. He used to happily choose silence and solitude, but after a few months of forced seclusion, he felt isolated and lonely.

The truth is, he was depressed. So when Michelle told him she was pregnant and had some concerns, he felt once again like he had some clarity, some purpose. He was a doctor; she was his pregnant patient. She had nobody to examine her, diagnose problems and suggest treatment, check her progress, offer guidance. She may be a nurse practitioner, but that didn’t compare to his forty-plus years of treating pregnant women of all shapes, sizes, and ages, from fifteen years old to fifty-three years old. Perhaps a house-call was in order.

He knew Kevin would try to be helpful, but Kevin wasn’t a doctor, and you could never tell when a husband might freak out and panic at the first sign of trouble (read: blood). He also knew Michelle had some risk factors. She was near forty, had a miscarriage in her history, and was overweight. He wanted to make sure she had medical supervision, even if he didn’t have any equipment, testing labs or facilities.

Looking back on it, he wasn’t sure who brought up the idea of his making the trip. It must have been introduced in passing, but the idea grew in him and took hold. Before long it lifted his depression and filled him with anticipation. The anticipation wasn’t all positive, however. He knew he was risking his life. He had no idea what lay beyond the confines of his property, other than what he had heard from Kevin. He knew there were zombies; he knew there were people who would quite willingly murder him just to take his supplies. But otherwise he had no idea what to expect in this remote part of the state and knew things could be utterly chaotic.

Even so, he was excited about the trip. He looked forward to having a face-to-face conversation and sharing a meal with Kevin and Michelle, even if it was a meal of canned goods and dried beans. He also looked forward to having a spot of Kevin’s bourbon, a libation he’d run out of months ago.

He finally reached the fence running parallel to the road, took a quick glance around, then hopped out of the truck and opened the gate blocking the two track. He drove through the gate, then closed and locked it behind him. While he might leave his cabin open, he wasn’t going to invite trespassers by leaving the gate open.

As he closed the gate, he noticed someone had defaced his
NO TRESPASSING
sign. They had crossed out
TRESPASSING
and replacing it with
ZOMBIES
. He could just imagine some kid thinking it was funny early on in the Collapse, but it didn’t seem all that funny now.

He pulled onto M-33 South. The lanes showed no signs of having been used recently. Small branches lay undisturbed among the fallen leaves layering the pavement, the winter snow having packed them down. While it was still easy to tell where the road was, he surmised it was only a matter of time before leaves and branches accumulated, slowly composted into soil, and sprouted small plants and trees. Soon it would be a long stretch of young growth between sides of mature hardwoods; eventually it would be nearly impossible to tell where the road had been.

He was glad he’d been enough of a pack-rat to keep all his maps. Some of his younger hunter friends teased him about it as they keyed their destination into their GPS. But Doc liked the tactile sense he got when running his finger along a proposed route. The map he held was solid and real, it wasn’t nebulous. They also made fun of his CD collection in the Jeep. Some of them didn’t own a single CD; everything was either stored on the cloud or on their device. Holding up a disk, he’d say,
But I own this. It’s solid. It’s real. You only have digital ones and zeros.
And sometimes they’d say,
If you lose that disk, Doc, you’ll have to buy it again. I’ll never lose my songs on the cloud. I can access them anywhere, anytime.
Only it turned out
anytime
didn’t factor in the apocalypse. He still had his CD collection; he doubted iTunes or the cloud was still working.

Life had reverted back to the pre-digital age. Paper maps were the only way to navigate, assuming there was anywhere worth navigating to. Driving down the familiar country roads, he felt both at home and a stranger. The men who owned these fields, some of them good friends, were likely dead or worse. This was not his land anymore. It belonged to the creatures.
Until we no longer have to live in hiding, fighting for survival, we will live in fear of those monsters. Living in fear is not living free.

And he hadn’t even seen one yet.

Just as that thought crossed his mind, he spied a young man leaning against the outside edge of a barbed-wire fence lining the road. He slowed down to see if the guy needed help. As he rolled to a stop, the man turned, revealing a torn and bloody sleeve. His arm had been ripped off just below the shoulder. Bits of flesh and bone, stained with old dried blood, stuck out from under the sleeve. His walk was ungainly and stiff. Doc noticed a huge gaping wound in his side. He could see intestines.

So. That’s what they look like.

He grabbed his Winchester thirty-aught-six from the passenger seat and stepped out of the vehicle. “I’m giving you one chance to convince me you’re not a zombie!” he shouted. The zombie reacted and stepped away from the fence, shambling toward him. Doc let him get within a dozen feet before he did something he’d never purposely done before: he aimed his weapon directly at a human body, the act a violation of some deep moral imperative instilled by countless hours hunting with buddies. Aiming at a human went against all his instincts.

Remembering what Kevin said about shooting them in the head, Doc deliberately aimed for the right leg. The zombie recoiled with the shock of the bullet entering its flesh, but recovered and continued doc’s direction. He aimed again, and this time shot the creature squarely in the heart. And yet it moved on. And it didn’t bleed. He aimed higher and shot.

He watched the head explode with a sickening squelch, then the body crumple. He walked over warily, standing close by and observing. It was a decaying, dead human body.
It figures, the first human being I’ve seen in months and I shot it in the head,
he thought.

He’d seen decaying bodies before. But moments ago this one was still moving, intent on attacking him, biting him, and spreading the fatal disease. This, too, felt wrong.
Dead bodies don’t walk around. It’s impossible
. But he just saw it with his own eyes.
It’s impossible but true!
he thought.

Doc filed away this particular odd conundrum as he drove off. Driving along, several other times he saw zombies, a few times fairly close to the road. He didn’t stop. He would see them and think,
it’s impossible but true.
He saw no other cars. He saw no signs of people.

Entering Montmorency County he had a decision to make: go out of his way to bypass Atlanta; or take a chance, head straight through town to find out what he was up against and get the lay of the land. He decided to head into town. He was not prepared for what he saw.

Atlanta is a small town of fewer than 1,000 residents, the self-proclaimed Elk Capital of Michigan. A half-dozen or so restaurants, a grocery store, two gas stations, a florist and a funeral home made the bulk of the downtown businesses. In truth, Atlanta was a sleepy but great little town to call home.

Or it used to be. Now it was no longer a town. It was an alien landscape. It was in ruins. Half the structures appeared to have burned down; what buildings remained looked like they were nothing but smoldering death traps, capable of collapsing at any moment. Cars littered the streets, some of them burned-out as well. Doc quit counting the zombies he saw when he reached ten. As he drove into the center of town, he had to make an abrupt detour through the back parking lots of some adjoining businesses to avoid a pile-up blocking the road; it was surrounded by a small crowd of zombies. He turned left into an alley and flinched when he hit a zombie as it staggered around the corner of the building.