Текст книги "Every Wrong Reason"
Автор книги: Rachel Higginson
сообщить о нарушении
Текущая страница: 20 (всего у книги 20 страниц)
She was in so much trouble.
I walked over to the stranger, eying him skeptically. He held out his remaining beach towel to me and after realizing I stood before him in only a soaking wet tank top and bikini briefs, I took it quickly and wrapped it around my body. I shivered violently with my dark blonde hair dripping down my face and back. But I didn’t dare adjust the towel, afraid I’d give him more of a show than he’d paid for.
“Good morning,” he laughed at me.
“Good morning,” I replied slowly, carefully.
Up close, he wasn’t the giant I’d originally thought. Now that we were both ground level, I could see that while he was tall, at least six inches taller than me, he wasn’t freakishly tall, which relieved some of my concerns. He still wore his pajamas: blue cotton pants and a white t-shirt that had been stretched out from sleep. His almost black hair appeared still mussed and disheveled, but swept over to the side in what could be a trendy style if he brushed it. He seemed to be a few years older than me, if I had to guess thirty-five or thirty-six, and he had dark, intelligent eyes that crinkled in the corners with amusement. He was tanned, and muscular, and imposing. And I hated that he was laughing at me.
“Sorry about the gate,” he shrugged. “I didn’t realize there were kids around.”
“You moved into a neighborhood,” I pointed out dryly. “There’re bound to be kids around.”
His eyes narrowed at the insult, but he swallowed his Pop-Tart and agreed, “Fair enough. I’ll keep it locked from now on.”
I wasn’t finished with berating him though. His pool caused all kinds of problems for me this morning and since I could only take out so much anger on my six-year-old, I had to vent the rest somewhere. “Who fills their pool the first week of September anyway? You’ve been to New England in the winter, haven’t you?”
He cleared his throat and the last laugh lines around his eyes disappeared. “My real estate agent,” he explained. “It was kind of like a ‘thank you’ present for buying the house. He thought he was doing something nice for me.”
I snorted at that, thinking how my little girl could have… No, I couldn’t go there; I was not emotionally capable of thinking that thought through.
“I really am sorry,” he offered genuinely, his dark eyes flashing with true emotion. “I got in late last night, and passed out on the couch. I didn’t even know the pool was full or the gate was open until I heard you screaming out here.”
Guilt settled in my stomach like acid, and I regretted my harsh tone with him. This wasn’t his fault. I just wanted to blame someone besides myself.
“Look, I’m sorry I was snappish about the pool. I just… I was just worried about Abby. I took it out on you,” I relented, but wouldn’t look him in the eye. I’d always been terrible at apologies. When Grady and I would fight, I could never bring myself to tell him I felt sorry. Eventually, he’d just look at me and say, “I forgive you, Lizzy. Now come here and make it up to me.” With anyone else my pride would have refused to let me give in, but with Grady, the way he smoothed over my stubbornness and let me get away with keeping my dignity worked every single time.
“It’s alright, I can understand that,” my new neighbor agreed.
We stood there awkwardly for a few more moments, before I swooped down to pick up my plaid pants and discarded robe. “Alright, well I need to go get the kids ready for school. Thanks for convincing her to get out. Who knows how long we would have been stuck there playing Finding Nemo.”
He chuckled but his eyes were confused. “Is that like Marco Polo?”
I shot him a questioning glance, wondering if he was serious or not. “No kids?” I asked.
He laughed again. “Nope, life-long bachelor.” He waved the box of Pop-Tarts and realization dawned on me. He hadn’t really seemed like a father before now, but in my world– my four kids, soccer mom, neighborhood watch secretary, active member of the PTO world– it was almost unfathomable to me that someone his age could not have kids.
I cleared my throat, “It’s uh, a little kid movie. Disney,” I explained and understanding lit his expression. “Um, thanks again.” I turned to Abby who was finishing up her breakfast, “Let’s go, Abs, you’re making us late for school.”
“I’m Ben by the way,” he called out to my back. “Ben Tyler.”
I snorted to myself at the two first names; it somehow seemed appropriate for the handsome life-long bachelor, but ridiculous all the same.
“Liz Carlson,” I called over my shoulder. “Welcome to the neighborhood.”
“Uh, the towels?” he shouted after me when we’d reached the gate.
I turned around with a dropped mouth, thinking a hundred different vile things about my new neighbor. “Can’t we… I…” I glanced down helplessly at my bare legs poking out of the bottom of the towel he’d just lent me.
“Liz,” he laughed familiarly, and I tried not to resent him. “I’m just teasing. Bring them back whenever.”
I growled something unintelligible that I hope sounded like “thank you” and spun on my heel, shooing Abby onto the lawn between our houses.
“Nice to meet you, neighbor,” he called out over the fence.
“You too,” I mumbled, not even turning my head to look back at him.
Obviously he was single and unattached. He was way too smug for his own good. I just hoped he would keep his gate locked and loud parties few and far between. He seemed like the type to throw frat party-like keggers and hire strippers for the weekend. I had a family to raise, a family that was quickly falling apart while I floundered to hold us together with tired arms and a broken spirit. I didn’t need a nosy neighbor handing out Pop-Tarts and sarcasm interfering with my life.
Please enjoy an excerpt from Rachel’s zombie novella series, Love and Decay!
Chapter One
647 days after initial infection
Oh, god.
The smell was the worst. The absolute worst.
It wasn’t enough that I had to pick my way through dismembered and half-eaten bodies, or that at any moment one of them could spring up from the ground and make an afternoon snack out of me.
It wasn’t enough that I hadn’t had a shower in over a year and a half, hadn’t worn eye liner in even longer than that and my hair was somehow simultaneously disgustingly greasy while frizzing into a perpetual fluff ball.
Oh no, that would never be enough. My ugly tan work boots were a size and a half too small, I ripped my too big Grateful Dead t-shirt off a very, very dead man, and my jeans…. or what was left of my jeans was the last of my stash from my once excessive closet.
After all of that– and I mean, the shower alone should have been enough suffering for any living being to suffer through– it was the smell that got to me.
Putrid, rotting flesh from both the dead that littered the ground around me and the remnants of stench that lingered in the air when the Feeders were finished was what triggered my gag reflex and watered my eyes. There weren’t enough words in the English dictionary to describe my revulsion, or the way my empty stomach flipped with every breath.
I probably would have puked if I had eaten anything in the last two days.
The best thing about the Zombie Apocalypse? I was no longer addicted to sugar and caffeinated beverages.
I wiped my forearm across my sweaty forehead and re-aimed my handgun in the general area in front of me. This is the point of the story where I’m supposed to tell you what kind of gun I’m carrying, but let’s be real…. Before the end of the world I was a cheerleader at a small town school, where I was the debate team captain and student council secretary. I lived for throwing parties when my parents went out of town, making out with my football captain boyfriend and doing the occasional trip to the homeless shelter where I would put in my monthly two hours of good deeds.
I’d never even held a gun– scratch that– I’d never even been in the same room as a gun until the world went to shit. Who knew the cure for herpes would turn all those sexual deviants into people-eating, brain-dead, infection-giving assholes?
Not me.
The whole phenomenon gave a girl a serious complex about safe sex.
Not that I was having sex. Or would be any time soon.
I hadn’t even seen an eligible bachelor in a good six months and it wasn’t like I had exactly been interested when we passed each other with guns raised and a suspicious glint in our eyes. Although there was a sort of mutual give and take between us that could have been considered an instant connection, possibly love at first sight. I let him loot the dead gentleman that had his head literally severed from his body by Feeders, and he let me raid the vending machine offering one bag of Funions that had been smashed into pathetic crumbs.
But then we both went our separate ways and I will never know if he got eaten, turned or found the promised land of Zombie-free showers and espresso machines.
Plus, I was still pining over poor, deceased, Quarterback-Chris.
Just kidding! Quarterback-Chris had apparently been less than faithful to me during our two year relationship and after things with the government, army and general world went to hell, Quarterback-Chris tried to eat me!
So I did what any loving, devoted girlfriend that just found out she had been serially cheated on by her now zombie boyfriend would do. I plunged a butcher knife into his eye socket and when that didn’t effectively do the job, I drove over him with my mom’s Escalade until his head detached from his body.
God, I was glad I held onto my v-card.
Could you imagine me as a zombie?
Ugh, it made me shudder just thinking about it.
A rustling to my left had my gun up, pointed and steady at whatever was stupid enough to make noise in a regular Feeder playground. I only had three bullets left, so this kill would have to be spot on.
That was the thing about living in a world in which it was a very likely possibility that you could end up as someone else’s meal before lunchtime, you’ve got to be very good at shooting. Very quickly.
So even though the most I knew about my gun was that it was a Beretta from the label on the handle, and the exact kind of bullets it took, .40 S&W– because those were an absolute necessity and I was always on the lookout– I knew exactly how to use it. I knew exactly how to get my bullet from my gun to the perfect dead zone right between the eyes.
In fact, it was kind of freaky how good I was at killing things.
Well, killing already dead things.
It was like I was born for the Apocalypse. No, I couldn’t find a hot shower, figure out how to make food last longer than twenty-four hours and effectively loot a Walgreens that still had hair products available. But I could stay alive.
I had an innate ability to stay alive.
And in this day and age, ninety-two weeks after the first recovering STD victim bit his doctor and the world fell apart, staying alive was very important.
Back to the rustling….
I slowed my breathing, stopped moving completely and waited for the sound to come to me.
One of the first things I learned about survival was that there was absolutely no need to go hunting down trouble. In the world I lived in, trouble would find you soon enough. It was better to cover your back, stay calm and have a loaded weapon ready and waiting.
“Reagan, check this out!” Haley squealed in a loud whisper.
“Holy hell, Hales!” I whisper-shouted back, “I almost shot you in the f-ing head!”
She made a resigned grunting noise and I heard her mumble, “Too bad, I bet they have showers in heaven.”
“We are so not convinced you’re going to heaven,” I whispered back while stepping over a particularly decayed body.
Did I say the smell was the worst? I meant maggots.
The maggots were definitely the worst.
“It wouldn’t matter,” she countered with that distraught, depressed tone even the best of us were known to fall into. “This might as well be hell.”
We were still whispering, there was no other option, since Feeders were drawn by sound. And sight, and smell, and light and movement…. But since we were rummaging around a dilapidated department store somewhere in what used to be southern Missouri, we had a little bit of cover.
The floor was covered with dirt and grime; metal racks that had been looted a long time ago were scattered and broken across the floor and we’ve already discussed the body count problem. We were using what was left of the evening light streaming through the broken window fronts to see and from the sounds of things we were alone, at least on the first floor.
One of the best things about Feeders was their incapability for stealth. They were heavy mouth breathers and tended to stumble over anything in their way. It was like they had their own warning bells.
Well, if you stayed alert, kept yourself surrounded by noisy debris and never fell asleep, you could sense their presence.
“What is it?” I asked; at the exact same moment my stomach growled.
Haley shot me a sympathetic look and shook her head, sending her dark blonde hair bouncing around her shoulders. “Not that.”
I sighed, but continued to follow her down a dark hallway. Track lighting hung at awkward angles, the glass long shattered, the bulbs broken since the beginning. The once white walls were smeared with streaks of what I had to assume was blood and dirt. But the stench was less overwhelming here, the air easier to breath.
“I hit the jackpot,” Haley said excitedly in almost a full-volume voice. We rarely spoke above a whisper so I was taken aback at first. I had almost forgotten what her real voice sounded like.
“In?”
“Jeans!” She turned back to look at me over her shoulder, giving me a goofy smile and waggling her eyebrows.
Now this was a jackpot.
We exited the hallway straight into the Junior’s section. The racks were less knocked-over in this part of the store and still stocked with clothes. Racks and racks of fall fashions from almost two years ago filled the floor. A discount shoe rack with boxes of clearance items sat in one corner and in the middle of the department was a makeup counter.
An f-ing makeup counter.
Eyeliner!!!
At this point, you might be wondering who I could possibly want to look good for. And that is a valid question. But it wasn’t like that.
In the last two years, I had been forced to live as a homeless, basically-starving person, with shredded, usually-covered-in-blood clothes, no shampoo, let alone conditioner and perpetually covered in dirt. I was tired of looking ugly.
Tired of it!
I just wanted a little bit of makeup, just something to make me feel like the world hadn’t completely blown apart in the prime of my life and left me a wandering vagabond.
I had given up on finishing my education. I had given up on feeling guilty for killing what used to be human beings. I had given up on being happy again, living in a house, having a hot shower and whatever dream I had imagined myself living out. I had even given up on finding love.
Hell, I had given up on finding sex.
I just wanted to look anything but tired, weary and worn out.
Was that so much to ask?
“Welcome to the promised land, my friend,” Haley whispered proudly before turning to a rack of longs-sleeve tee’s.
I had a theory about why this section of the department store was untouched and it went something like this. In the beginning of the end, families protected their young. If you were a teenager, you were home, holding down the fort. Especially if you were a girl. The whole raping and pillaging thing didn’t apply to most kids that still had parents around. And if you were young and stupid enough to try to make it in a world where sane people spent their time looting, overthrowing local government and shooting at any and every potential threat, chances were your inexperience and still rose-colored-glasses-of-the-world made sure you ended up dead.
How Haley and I survived living on the street and dodging not only the Feeders, but the crazed militia, and all the old man creepers that thought we would make fantastic sister wives was a straight up miracle. We got lucky in the beginning by sheer location. Small town, middle-of-nowhere Iowa finally paid off.
Well, except for the whole Quarterback-Chris thing.
But it wasn’t like we didn’t get Feeders in Atlantic, Iowa. Of course we did. Herpes was a worldwide disease. Everybody got Feeders, even remote islands in the middle of Oceans. If there were people there, then there were people having sex. And that meant STDs. Why? Because men would always be sluts. Always.
Was I a little bitter about Quarterback-Chris? Hell, yes.
Did I not mention he tried to eat me?
My parents were killed by Feeders. Haley’s dad was killed by a Feeder. I was almost killed by a Feeder.
They were everywhere.
What we did have was an absence of a lot of people and an abundance of guns. Thank you, farmer Fred, for your once unnecessary stash of ex-military contraband.
I hopped over the counter, sliding my butt across the filthy glass. My already-grimy jeans smeared a dust-coated path the size of my hips. I landed on the pads of my feet and my toes were smashed even worse in my small hiking boots, but it was a soundless landing I was kind of proud of.
I had the reflexes of a cat, thanks to living every minute of my life expecting an attack. If the world ever got its f-ing act together and cleaned up this mess, I imagined they would make a movie of my life about the whole Zombie thing. I’d obviously be played by that hot brunette from the Vampire Diaries in which I would run around in a sexy Cat Woman suit, totally playing the super hero.
I opened the cabinets behind the makeup counter and slipped my backpack off my shoulder. Inside my hiking pack everything was orderly and neatly packed for maximum space and easy access. But I didn’t have time for that now. I would reorganize everything later.
I started swiping handfuls of products into my bag, not caring about color or usefulness. This was what Haley and I called the Grab and Go– get as many supplies as we could now, as fast as we could, then leave the scene before either Feeders or protective townsfolk happened upon us. We could sort it out later. Without even having to discuss it with Haley, I knew she was picking out shirts and jeans for me and she knew I would cover her with whatever I could find.
After makeup, I hit up the clearance shoes, except there wasn’t anything hiking, nature resilient or weather-proofed. Haley’s shoes were in good condition actually, so I didn’t bother debating over her. She was tiny by nature, not just because we only ate every three days and probably had scurvy since we were lacking serious vitamin C. She barely cleared 5’3, and her feet were average size enough that she could double up on socks and fit almost any pair we found.
I had clown feet even for my 5’8 frame and most the time found myself searching the small-feeted men. There were plenty of feet to choose from, but we didn’t run across the right kind of shoe very often.
Like right now. There were a pair of tennis shoes that I could upgrade to, and they were my size. Or should I stick with the weather-proofed boots that would protect my feet from the elements?
The other part of the debate– tennis shoes were much lighter than these things, easier to walk across country in and much, much nicer to run in.
Still, I had to protect my feet. And I definitely didn’t want trench foot. Not that I knew what trench foot was…. but I knew it was a big deal for everyone on Band of Brothers– my go to reference for everything survival.
“Get the shoes that fit,” Haley said from across the room while digging through every style of jeans.
“You’re right,” I agreed. A shoe that fit had to be infinitely better than what I was wearing now. I toed off my boots and ripped off my socks. There was a whole rack of socks near the checkout counter, so I grabbed handfuls of them and stuffed them in the bag, saving a crazy-patterned neon pair for now.
“Sweatpants?” Haley asked from a new rack.
Moving quickly was essential to our survival, and we had honed this skill in order to stay alive. “Absolutely,” I agreed. Jeans were practical and resilient, but there was nothing better than a pair of yoga pants when running for your life.
As I moved on to underwear-which might as well have been gold at this point– the light grew dimmer in this department. We were already squinting and stumbling around in the dark, and I knew we had been here too long. I had a flashlight that hadn’t run out of battery yet, but I really didn’t want to use it if it meant drawing the attention of wandering Feeders.
“Haley, we need to go,” I whispered harshly.
I heard her zip up her pack and shoulder it, but I could barely make out her form anymore. We’d learned to act as soon as a command was given between us. There was no time to hesitate anymore, so by the time I’d slipped my heavy backpack on again, she was already moving toward the exit.
One of the weirdest parts of the Apocalypse was the quiet. I couldn’t get used to it. Back in my old life, before the infection, there seemed to always be noise around. Cars on the highway, music from my iPod, airplanes overhead, my parents talking at me; there was always something in my ear. Now, there was nothing, no background elevator jazz to soothe us while we shopped, no other shoppers bustling around and bumping into us. The only sound to break up the silence was our careful footsteps and the heavy mouth-breathing from a Feeder in the next room.
Oh shit!
I grabbed the handle on Haley’s backpack and tugged her backward. Her head whipped around and she opened her mouth to probably ask what the hell, but I held my finger to my lips and motioned with my head toward the way we just came from. It took her a second, but as soon as she heard the panting and wheezing in the next room she was instantly game for my plan of retracing our steps.
There was plenty of food for the bastard in the room he was in now, but I knew he would be able to sniff out our live, fresh flesh in the next two minutes and that was like the difference between prime rib and an old, moldy hot dog.
Best case scenario, he was going to lick the hot dog first, and come back for it later, after he ate his prime rib.
Which was me.
I stepped carefully until we were back in the Junior’s Department, always keeping my gun trained on the direction of the Feeder. Haley stood a little bit behind me, her gun aimed to the left where this area opened up to the children’s section.
“Son of a bitch,” she breathed on a strangled whisper.
A quick glance toward the direction of her pointed gun, showed the glowing red eyes of two different Feeders. That was the signature of the last stage of their digression into Zombie-hood: first came the cravings for flesh, then the heart stopping in a semi-death, the disgusting process in which their brain still worked, but their bodies started to decay and then the tell-tale red eyes, showing basically that all humanity was lost. By then, they were stronger, didn’t feel pain and only craved brains.
Basically, this sucked.
They could smell us, but couldn’t see us yet, and so they were still trying to pinpoint us before they attacked. Unfortunately, we could also smell them. What really sucked was that there were at least three of them, these two and the one munching away on all that delicious dead flesh.
They weren’t exactly pack animals, and usually they traveled– wandered aimlessly– alone; but if they ever found themselves together it was like they shared a hive brain or something. They acted as a team, without speaking or seemingly communicating, and once their eyes were red they were a hundred times harder to take down.
Our backs were against the wall, literally, and I wasn’t exactly sure how we were going to get out of this one.
I glanced over my shoulder again and noticed for the first time an exit toward the corner of the room. A discounted clothing rack had been pushed up against it, and it was barely visible in the almost completely-dark room, but a reflected Exit sign was still pasted on the top.
As quietly as I could, I whispered, “Behind us, Hale. An exit. Lead or Cover?”
Haley let my noise settle before she answered. The Feeders had already started moving toward us. Despite every Zombie movie I had ever seen, the real life versions were not exactly the dumb and easy to kill version of walking corpses. They were hunters, fast and intuitive. While humanity still had the advantage of a rationalizing, fully functioning, not-addicted-to-living-flesh advantage, they weren’t exactly a helpless opponent.
“Cover,” Haley finally whispered back.
And with her blessing I turned on my heel and sprinted for the door. I could feel her behind me, but out of experience, I knew she was keeping her gun trained on the Zombies that were now chasing us down to make snacks out of our innards. I gave up on being quiet and threw anything that stood in my way.
The trip across the room took maybe five seconds, but it felt like the longest run of my life. I could already hear the Zombie from the other room tearing his way to join his friends. My heart was hammering in my chest, my vision focused only on the exit and my ears trained to listen for any surprises.
As soon as they were in my reach, I grabbed onto the tightly-packed, discounted clothes and went to toss the rack, but it only swayed. Something was holding it to the ground.
Pure panic prickled my blood and my eyes watered immediately from the stress of the situation. I heard Haley’s gun go off behind me, but because the mouth-breathing was so loud I knew she had missed.
That meant she had four bullets left in her magazine.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
I pulled again on the rack of clothes and this time it moved an inch. I realized then that it was tethered by something on the ground. While Haley shot off another bullet, I dropped to my hands and knees and felt blindly for whatever was holding onto the base of the rack. Once I found the thick rope that was tied to the base, I whipped out my pocket knife I kept in the pocket of my pants and began cutting at the rope frantically.
Another shot from behind me and one of the Feeders dropped to the ground. Good shot, Hales. There were still at least two more Feeders left, and I could hear more commotion from the front entrance. All these shots were probably drawing everything out there in here.
I finally got through the rope, but as soon as the slack was gone, something huge and clanging crashed to the ground just on the other side of the door. It sounded like pots or pans and a whole bunch of breaking glass.
Shit!!!
I didn’t have time to process that right now, so I stood up, effectively shoved the rack out of the way and went for the door handle. Another gun shot behind me and another Feeder dropped to the ground.
I lunged for the door handle, and turned it desperately. And nothing.
It was locked.
“No!” I screamed, not caring about the noise level at this point.
Haley’s last bullet exited her gun and the last Feeder felt the hit and fell to the ground directly behind me. These guys were dead, but there were who knew how many now headed toward us. Haley was out of bullets, and I had three left.
And our only exit was locked.
“What are you waiting for, Reagan. Let’s get the hell out of here!” Haley’s back was still to me as she faced her now empty gun at the hallway, just waiting for the rest of the Feeders to follow the sounds and find us.
“It’s locked! Damn it!”
Completely panicked, I yanked on the handled and kicked it with my new shoe. Nothing happened. The door stayed firmly locked, stubbornly unmoving. This was definitely worst case scenario.
And not ten minutes ago I had been really excited about all that eye liner and a new pair of jeans.
This was so not how I was going out. I’d survived Quarterback-Chris, the death of my parents and almost two freaking years of living as the most depressing version of Mila Jovovich in Resident Evil ever.
“Open, damn it!” I screamed at the door, giving it another kick with my foot.
Only this time, my foot didn’t connect with anything. The door wrenched open and my body flew, following my foot, through the empty space I wasn’t expecting. I fell straight to my hands and knees in a huge pile of glass shards and broken ceramic. I felt the thick chunks of debris dig and slice through my skin immediately. My jeans would be completely irreparable after this and, with my luck, as soon as I was able to stop bleeding; I was for sure going to get gangrene.
What the hell?
“What the hell, Reagan?” Haley practically screamed at me as soon as she was through the doorway. She slammed the door behind her and braced her body against it; meanwhile, I was still doggy style in a pile of glass I was too afraid to stand up from.
The damage was going to be annoyingly excessive.
Before I could answer her though, I heard the signature click of a bullet being loaded into the chamber. More dread slithered through my body; other humans were just as deadly and dangerous as Zombies these days. And apparently we were trespassing.
“Don’t move,” a deep, masculine voice ordered in a quiet, steely tone.
“Out of the frying pan,” Haley mumbled resignedly.
“And into the fire,” I finished for her.
I would never complain about eyeliner again.
