Red Plague Boxed Set Page 9

  “It took a while.” He broke a branch off a nearby tree. “But I knew I’d eat if I set snares. Here.” He handed me the gnarled branch. “You have to saw it in half.”

  I pressed hard, and the saw chewed into the fresh wood. It didn’t match his at all.

  “Make the notches like this.” He guided my strokes with his long, rough fingers, demonstrating how to dig the saw’s teeth into the hard wood and create linking indentations on each half of the branch. When he released me I nervously wiped both palms down my thighs.

  My first attempt at an animal trap was way amateur, but he didn’t laugh. Instead, he fixed the notches with a couple slashes of his pocketknife so they interlocked. Then he tied the wire, buried one end of the stick, and planted the snare in the dark, sandy soil a few feet from his.

  It wouldn’t be pretty, but I’d be able to set one by myself if I had to.

  “We’ll check for animals in the morning. I usually have something for dinner every day.”

  “Your dad taught you how to hunt?” It astounded me that people still knew how to do things like that. My family—for generations—and I had been thoroughly citified. Before tonight, I couldn’t have trapped an animal if I had a month and an arsenal.

  “He was real outdoorsy,” Pollard said. He shouldered his bag and then slipped an arm around my waist to help ease the pain in my right leg. “Your dad wasn’t?”

  I couldn’t control a snort of laughter. He talked for hours about Tolkien’s style and themes and sources, but he didn’t know a snare from a jump rope. In fact, he was more likely to get caught in a snare than to build one.

  “Not at all,” I assured. “He was a PhD. A nerd.”

  “My dad was a survivalist nut. He was always afraid of the government collapsing so he learned to live off the land.” Pollard gazed into the distance at his truck stop citadel. “I guess, in a way, he was right.”

  “Well,” I said, “it’s a good thing he showed you as much as he did, huh?”

  “Yeah.” He didn’t sound too grateful. “Lucky.”

  As we passed the gas pumps in the lavender dusk my gaze shifted automatically to the last spot I’d seen Ben. He hadn’t moved. Astonishing. What had interested him so strongly he couldn’t walk away from it? There was nothing here for him besides living flesh, which he could get in a hundred other places around town. So, why was he here?

  Something on the pavement, a squiggle of color that didn’t belong, caught my eye. Curious, I got close enough to see what appeared to be writing. Another SOS maybe.

  I deciphered my name and my chest constricted as I quickened my pace to read the entire message.

  Mason,

  I can’t forgive you, but I still love you.

  Maya

  “That wasn’t here yesterday,” Pollard said, trailing me. “What is it?”

  I couldn’t say it aloud. It was too painful.

  I remembered the exact moment I’d scribbled the note on the back of one of my school photos from the beginning of the year and mailed it to my brother in juvenile detention in a care package at Christmastime.

  “I don’t understand,” I mumbled, scanning the surrounding area.

  Ben loomed near the diesel gas pumps, fifty yards away, but even at that distance I detected the faint mist of white paint on his navy shirt.

  “Did you do this?” Pollard pressed, suspicion darkening his blue eyes.

  “No.” I gestured at Ben. “He did.”

  Pollard’s frown deepened. “I don’t understand what’s going on.”

  I don’t either. “I wrote this in a note to my brother.” I thought back to the most painful time in my life. “Over Christmas. Almost six months ago.” Because right after his incarceration I was in too much pain to write, but after months and months of grieving both Mom’s death and his arrest I sent him the message.

  “Then how did it get here?”

  “Ben must have my picture.” My skin tingled unpleasantly. “There’s no other explanation.”

  Pollard crouched and tested the paint. “He’s trying to communicate with you.”

  But how had he found my picture?

  Pollard added, “He’s not like the others, is he?”

  “No.” I stared across the lot at Ben and then instinctively took a step in his direction.

  Pollard grabbed hold of my upper arm. “You’re still not getting any closer. He’s infected. He’s dangerous.”

  “But—“

  “He can’t answer your questions anyway.” He dragged me away, off balance, but I didn’t struggle because my thoughts were muddier than any riverbank. If I sent my picture to Mason, how had it ended up in a zombie’s possession?

  I didn’t know the answer, yet, but I was afraid when I learned the truth it wouldn’t be pleasant.

  Knock-knock-knockety-knock. After a moment, Russell unlocked the front door and let us in.

  “Let’s finish making dinner,” Pollard said, dumping his bag on the floor amid the mess in the dining room.

  I checked on Hunny, who was playing cards with Simone, and then followed him into the kitchen, but my concentration was shattered. I hoped he didn’t need too much help in prepping the meal because I’d be useless.

  Why didn’t Mason have my picture? How had Ben found it?

  I dragged my feet into the kitchen. The six squirrel corpses were right where we’d left them. I pointed at the row of dead vermin as an idea occurred to me. “Can I have one?”

  “I’ll cook them up. They’ll be ready to eat in a while.”

  “Can I have one now?”

  “They’re raw.”

  “I know. Can I?”

  He nodded, but added, “You’ll get sick.”

  He assumed it was for me, and that was fine. He wouldn’t approve of my idea anyway. So let him think I liked raw flesh.

  “Thank you.” Slightly grossed out at the dead thing, I snatched a squirrel, wrapped it in the cleanest, thickest T-shirt from the floor to prevent any seepage, and zipped it into the front of my backpack. For later. When I had privacy.

  After dousing myself with hand sanitizer, I lingered in the dining room and studied their living quarters more closely, finding old magazines and a warped crossword puzzle book amid trash and clothes left where they fell. These people weren’t neat freaks, that was for sure.

  My dad would’ve hated their situation. I hated it. So, I set my backpack aside and sorted laundry into really dirty and only a little dirty piles. If Pollard was right about the stream in the forest then he could wash everyone’s clothes and linens in the morning.

  Pollard emerged from the kitchen. “Hey, don’t do that.” He pulled the clothes out of my arms and dumped them back on the floor. “You don’t have to. You’re our guest.”

  I didn’t say that a proper host would offer their guest clean accommodations because that would’ve been rude. But I definitely thought it.

  Hunny wandered over and jammed another mini chocolate donut in her already stuffed mouth. “What’s for dinner?” she asked around a mouthful of pastry.

  “Wild game.” Pollard gave her a long look. “But first we’re going to hold a memorial for our friend. You two can join us if you want.”

  Their friend was a stranger, but out of respect, I’d go along with them. “Yeah. Of course.” I hadn’t organized memorial services for anyone since the red plague. My mother had had a funeral two years ago, but that was different. I didn’t know what people did when their friends and family died from zombie attacks. Or whether it helped ease the agony of losing them in the first place.

  I wasn’t sure Mom’s funeral had helped me get over losing her. Yeah, I signed a card and added it to a bouquet of roses. I’d placed one of the white, colorless buds on top of her shiny coffin. I’d watched her sink into the earth. But she remained gone, and I missed her with a physical ache that never went away. Not completely.

  Her funeral hadn’t made her sudden death any easier to understand. I still didn’t grasp that she co
uld have been alive when I left for school one morning and dead before the last bell rang.

  Or that Mason had been responsible.

  Pollard passed into the kitchen, leaving Hunny and I alone in the dining room. But Hunny refused to be separated from her new protector, and she sprinted after him a moment later.

  Maybe I should have held a memorial for my dad. Or Mason. But deep inside I wasn’t ready to admit they were really and truly gone. It didn’t matter that I hadn’t seen or heard from them in two long weeks. They both could be out there somewhere barely hanging onto life the same way I was. If either of them had survived they must think I was dead, too. Unless I found them I wouldn’t know for sure.

  Pollard crowded the kitchen’s rear doorway, waiting for me. Avoiding eye contact with Russell and Simone, I stepped into the warm, early evening air. Against the wall were a candle and a bunch of wildflowers, mostly weeds. Further down were another candle and a bunch of dry and crispy dandelions.

  They’d done this before.

  For Mom’s funeral I’d worn an itchy black dress and pulled my hair into a neat and respectful bun at the back of my head. My dad hadn’t let me wear jewelry. Too showy. And basic black flats were more appropriate, he’d said, than high heels. I’d agreed to whatever he said, too numb to protest.

  “We’ll miss you, Shelly,” Pollard whispered, crouching to light the wick.

  There had been candles in the chapel during my mom’s funeral service. Lots and lots of golden candles. The back of my throat tickled, and I blinked rapidly. I wasn’t sure what they represented, but whenever I thought of funerals I thought of those candles.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t protect you better,” Russell said to the flickering orange flame. “I’m a crappy brother.” His voice wobbled and he sniffed back tears. “But you were a good sister. A good little girl.”

  “Yes, she was,” Simone agreed, looping an arm around Russell’s shoulders.

  The younger man embraced her hard.

  “She’s at peace now,” Simone soothed.

  Peace. They’d said that about my mom too. I swallowed thickly. Friends went out of their way to say things like, She’s with God, or She’s with those who have gone before. Or, my favorite, She’s living with the angels now. Fricking angels. Who cared about that? I wanted my mom here. The angels could fend for themselves.

  A fat, salty tear spilled over my cheek.

  Hunny grasped my hand firmly in hers, which only made the tears flow faster. Mason had been in lockup for Mom’s funeral, but my dad had been there to comfort me. Actually, we’d comforted each other. Holding his hand had been like grasping a life preserver after falling into the sea. At one point during the service his hand had been the only thing keeping me from sinking into the abyss and floating away.

  “Russell,” Pollard said gently. “Do you want me to blow out the candle?”

  “No.” He sniffed again and broke free from Simone. “I’ll do it.” He dropped to his knees, sucked in a deep breath, and then blew out the candle.

  Chapter Ten

  After the memorial service for the girl I never even knew, I couldn’t sit still. My fingers itching to do something, I organized the restaurant’s dining room, which doubled as the group’s bedroom and living quarters.

  Hunny returned to the convenience store and gorged on more cookies and flavored water while Simone took Russell up to the roof for some privacy. Pollard busied himself cooking in the kitchen.

  Whether Pollard appreciated my organizational efforts or not didn’t bother me. I couldn’t stay in a place, even for one night, that wasn’t clean. My dad had drilled the merits of cleanliness into my head long before the spread of 212R.

  I didn’t waste any more time sorting laundry, but decided it was all dirty and piled it behind the hostess station. Either someone would wash it when I was gone, or not, but it was out of the way for the night. Then, after exploring the shadowy janitor’s closet, I borrowed a broom and dustpan and swept the entire dining room. Nothing remained on the floor but microscopic dust particles, and I felt much safer.

  I’d sprayed cleanser on the tabletops and was ready to wipe them down when Pollard emerged from the kitchen carrying a steaming pan of food.

  He groaned when he realized what I’d done to his fortress. “You just can’t help yourself, can you?”

  That sounded like an insult. I rubbed hard at the plastic tabletop. “Cleanliness cuts down on disease. Everyone knows that.” I shuffled on to the next table.

  Pollard set dinner on the surface I’d just vacated. “Well, it looks better. I guess. But where are all our clothes?”

  “Behind the counter.” I moved on to the next table, and then the final one. “If you’re serious about rebuilding civilization you need to think about keeping things organized.” I glanced up. “Or are you more interested in a Neanderthal kind of world?”

  “Very funny.” But he wasn’t mad. In fact, he closed the distance between us to poke me playfully under the ribs.

  I giggled. Couldn’t help it.

  Simone stuttered to a stop under the archway between the convenience store and the dining room. “Holy cow, girl. You work fast.” She grinned. “I can finally see the floor.”

  She turned on three battery-powered camping lanterns and the feeble light chased away the shadows.

  “Hey,” Russell complained. “Where’s my stuff? You didn’t throw away my board shorts, did you?”

  “It’s all behind the counter. Maybe you could wash the clothes in the morning,” I proposed. “They stink.”

  “Gee, thanks,” he said, laying on the sarcasm.

  Once Russell confirmed his clothes hadn’t been trashed, we all found a seat at a super-sized booth and helped ourselves to disposable plates.

  Dinner wasn’t simply wild game. No, Pollard had rolled little chunks of meat in a crushed cereal coating and fried them in a skillet over the fire. I didn’t even care that I was eating squirrel. It was so delicious I wished I could eat more, however Pollard had seconds and then Hunny gobbled down the last pieces before anyone else could call them. But there were baked beans and canned spinach too, and I was full by the time I pushed back on my plate.

  “So, Maya,” Pollard said, wiping his fingers on a paper napkin. “You’ll stay and help us?”

  I inspected the faded, well-worn tabletop, tracing the geometric design in the plastic. Maybe, after I finished with my mission, but the cure had to come first. Even if this place was growing on me I couldn’t let Pollard and his micro-community distract me from my plan. If I didn’t find the cure and disseminate it, there wouldn’t be a world to build.

  “I can’t.” Not yet.

  “I don’t understand.”

  He didn’t need to. My dad’s elixir had nothing to do with the pretty-eyed college kid with bad aim.

  “In the morning I’m leaving for my dad’s lab in Raleigh.”

  There was a beat of silence as everyone stared at me with varying degrees of disbelief.

  “Are you nuts?” Simone chided. “Have you been into the big cities? They’re war zones. Packs of zombies. Cars and junk everywhere. Dead bodies in the streets. You can barely walk. I know. That’s where I came from.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” I said. “I’m going.”

  “Why?” Pollard asked. “What’s so important at this lab? A cure for the zombies?” He smirked, and Russell snickered.

  My face overheated. “Yes,” I said. “The last time I saw my dad he told me a cure exists. In his lab. He was waiting for approval to do human testing and then mass produce an antiserum, but then,” I peered down at my plate, “things got really bad.”

  “There’s a cure for 212R?” Simone asked, her irritation spiraling into disbelief.

  “Things could go back to the way they were.” Pollard glanced at me, and I recognized genuine hope in his eyes. He believed me. And he looked dangerously close to joining my mission.

  I needed to nip that in the bud, quick. I was faster on my
own, or I would be when my knee healed. A group would slow me down, need more provisions, and draw unwanted attention.

  “I don’t need you to go with me. I can do it on my own.”

  “You could.” Pollard stood up. “Or we could stick together and be safe. Simone, how far away is Raleigh? On foot?”

  Before she answered, Russell spoke up in a monotone. “I’m not going.”

  “Yes, you are,” Pollard used his five-star-general tone again. “We all are.”

  “No,” I said, my voice rising. “I’m going by myself.”

  Ignoring me, Russell jabbed a finger at Pollard. “I’m not going!”

  “I’m not either,” Hunny piped up. “I’m staying with you.” She grasped Pollard’s hand in both of hers and rested her head against his arm.

  Hold on just a second. This was my idea. Mine, not theirs. I didn’t need any interference. “Excuse me.”

  As if I hadn’t spoken, Pollard focused on his friend. “You’re upset about Shelly. I am too. But if we find this cure we can fix everything.” His eyes brightened with a kind of zeal, and I regretted mentioning the cure at all.

  Pollard wanted the old world back so badly he’d latched on to my plan with both hands. But he didn’t know that the lab could’ve been destroyed weeks ago or overrun with Reds. The cure could have been moved. Even if it was there and viable, I still had to find specialists and equipment to analyze and reproduce it. Getting to my dad’s lab wasn’t even half the problem.

  I took a breath to interject, but Russell spoke over me. “I’m waiting right here for the evacuation. End of discussion.”

  I forgot what I was going to say at the word evacuation. “Wait,” I said. “What evacuation?”

  In the early days I’d dreamed of Humvees rolling down my cul-de-sac and taking us survivors somewhere safe—a fantasyland with electricity and running water. My dad would be there. Maybe even Mason, if he’d fought his way out of juvenile detention, though that was a long shot.

  But no one came to save me.

  Russell pinned a pair of sad, shiny eyes on me. “The military is going to evacuate us. They dropped flyers.” He rummaged around in a sack and came up with a piece of neon orange copy paper. “Here.”