K. T. Swartz Read online

  “Shit, who are these people? Trapeze artists?” he muttered.

  “Smart people,” Michael replied. “Come on.” He went first. The rope swayed with his weight, but held. He slid his foot forward, his hands on the wobbling nylon railing. It sagged toward the middle just a bit, but then pulled taut. The evergreen tree beside him dusted him with snow. He didn’t look down, only at his slowly approaching destination. For such a tenuous thing, the bridge held. Though the rope under his foot swung side-to-side, it never once tipped him over. Only when he grabbed the second house’s chimney did he look down. And back up.

  “Man, there is no way we’re getting everyone across this,” Tommy said. He grabbed the ropes, his knuckles white. Eyes on the ground, he slid forward, feet spread apart. Michael waddled across the roof; he couldn't help but look where someone had slipped about a foot toward the edge. His steps kicked snow loose. Tiny avalanches plopped to the ground, left long streaks of shingles exposed. His breath hissed through his teeth as the roof finally flattened. He looked back at Tommy, who took his hand off the rope, only to grab it when it swayed.

  “You go on. This might take awhile,” the man muttered.

  Michael stepped onto the second rope bridge. His eyes went straight to the ground, to the prickly holly bushes growing wild now that no one was there to prune them. His boot looked so much bigger than the rope, and the rope so much smaller. He inched forward, and the bridge swayed gently, as if he was on a rocking chair, not hanging thirty feet above the ground. His palms grew warm from sliding over the rope, his grip so tight that the nylon bit into his gloves.

  The rope sagged a little more. Sure he could go back to solid ground. The option was there, but the lure of survivors was so much more. For the first time in years he’d seen evidence of people actually surviving, where so many had gone mad. They weren’t just running or hiding. They fought back. If one grocery store was clean, how many others were too?

  This group had to have more resources than what he’d seen. Maybe they’d share. Maybe they’d offer beds. His son and wife would finally have a safe place to rest, where he wouldn’t have to worry every time he left them. Danville offered so much hope, more than Canada, because it was real. It was here, and he was standing on it. He slid off the rope bridge and onto the B&B’s garage. The window where the bridge was secured was so close. He didn’t want to scare the occupants, nor did he want to be shot mistakenly. Should he knock?

  He knocked. “Hello,” he called. “My name is Michael Torvo. Is anyone here?”

  Behind him, Tommy snorted. He knocked again, louder this time, and the window shuddered. “Hello, I have women and children out here. They need rest. Can we come in?”

  No one responded.

  “They ain’t here, man. Just open the window,” Tommy said, his feet shuffling across the roof. Michael opened it with one hand. It slid upward easily. He stuck his head in, pushed past the curtains. Found himself in a bedroom decorated in a rich array of greens, purples, and sandy browns. The bed was carefully made, the pillows stacked in the middle. Tommy followed him in.

  “Damn,” the man commented. “If the rest of the rooms are like this, we’ll be set for life.”

  So, he wasn’t the only one thinking about staying. “Come on. Let’s get everybody up here. We’ll search the other rooms, see if we can find the unused ones.”

  Tommy nudged him. “I call dibs on the master suite.”

  Michael smiled.

  He helped his wife through the window. The room was crowded with people in small groups clumped together. No one opened the door, instead poked through the occupants’ possessions and oddities on the mural over the fireplace. Books lined every available flat surface. Cherise opened the closet. She turned, holding a shirt in her hands. “Damn, look how small it is. Babe, we’re in a woman’s room.” She kicked a shoe out for them to see. “Look how small her feet are.”

  “I wish mine were that small,” Arti said, rolling her eyes.

  “But I like your massive clod-hoppers,” Liz teased.

  “Hey!”

  “She’s not alone,” Tony said, lifting a tiny box off the mantle. “Look. Wedding rings,” he added, opening the ring box.

  “Maybe we shouldn’t be pawing through her things,” Marleen said. “There has to be somewhere else we can wait.”

  “Check the other rooms. Let’s get a head count of how many’s here,” Michael suggested. Curiosity renewed their courage, and they filed out of the room. Marleen caught his arm when he followed. She bit her lip, her eyes roaming the now empty room. He touched her shoulder when she didn’t say anything. “What?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t see anything here belonging to a man.”

  “A lot of people have lost loved ones,” he said. “She probably did too. She’s lucky to have found other survivors.”

  Frustration pinched Marleen’s eyebrows together. “Michael, I’m saying this place feels empty, and not because it’s been empty. I mean, it feels sad.”

  Arti poked her head through the door. “Hey, guys, you won’t believe this, but none of the other rooms look like they got people in them.”

  Marleen looked at him. “I think she’s the only one here, Michael.”

  Refuge:

  The view from the porch roof showed the neighboring homes and streets in three directions. Old houses lined each side, with cars and trucks abandoned to the elements. Some were shoved aside, others left where they had stopped. Michael brushed snow off the shingles so he and his son could sit down. Max’s eyes kept flicking to the hunting rifle in his hands.

  “You’re going to get your chance, Max, just hold on,” Michael said, smiling.

  “Can I really shoot it?” Max asked.

  “That’s why we’re out here. Your mom and I talked about it, and we think it’s time you learned to defend yourself,” he replied and rested the butt of the rifle on the shingles. “The first thing I’m going to show you is maintenance, because keeping your weapon clean is more important than firing it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because if dirt, mud, or ice gunks up the moving parts inside your gun, it could misfire and seriously hurt you or someone around you,” he said. “I’m going to show you how to take the gun apart and put it back together after you’ve cleaned it. Once you’re familiar with that, I’ll teach you how to shoot it.”

  The window beside them opened; Tommy stuck his head out. “Hey, Marleen said you were out here teaching your kid to shoot. You mind if my boys listen in?”

  “Sure,” Michael said. Tommy, Ehvon, and Blane joined them on the roof. Snow slid off the shingles, to plop onto the ground.

  “I don’t see anything to shoot,” Ehvon said.

  “We’re learning gun maintenance first,” Michael replied.

  They groaned. Tommy slapped them both on the back of their heads. “Listen to the man. He knows what he’s talking about.”

  “Ow,” they protested.

  “All right, everybody, pay attention,” Michael said. Once their eyes turned his way, he demonstrated how to clean the weapon; his son carefully followed his instructions; Ehvon and Blane did the same, cleaning Tommy’s weapons, walking him through the steps on how to load them.

  Tommy whistled softly, nodded up the street. “Look what we got coming.”

  Michael followed his gaze to the two zombies still several houses away. “I wondered when they were going to show,” he commented. “That explosion a couple hours ago should have them swarming soon.”

  “Can we shoot them now?” Blane asked.

  “Let them get closer,” Michael said. “You’re unfamiliar with a gun, so a closer target will be easier to hit.”

  “Bet I can hit one with a snowball,” Ehvon said, scooping up two handfuls of snow. He patted them together into a tightly packed ball. He stood.

  “Easy, son, don’t fall,” Tommy snapped, grabbing the back of his coat.

  “Look, dad, there’s another one,” Max said and pointed to th
eir right, closer into town. This one was a bit farther away; a short, bulky thing, it shuffled through the snow.

  “There’s one over there,” Blane said, nodding to their left, past the brick house where the mine had gone off.

  “How many do you think were in earshot?” Tommy asked.

  Michael shrugged. ‘There’s no telling. This place looks safe enough to hold them off.” He pulled out his berretta. “All right, everybody. Pick a target.”

  Ehvon let fly his snowball. It smacked one of the zombie pair on the shoulder. The zombie’s groan floated toward them.

  “Hah, beat that,” Ehvon boasted, kneeling to make another snowball.

  “Watch me,” Blane retorted, scooping handfuls of snow together.

  “Boys, you better–” Tommy started. Blane let fly his large snowball. The arc was beautiful, flying skyward and then descending like a missile to smash the second zombie on the forehead.

  “That’s a hell of an arm you’ve got,” Michael said.

  Blane shrugged. “I used to play baseball.”

  Max pulled on Michael’s coat. The long hunting rifle looked too big for the boy’s hands. “Like this, Dad?”

  Michael smiled, adjusted his son’s arms, put the butt of the gun against his shoulder. “Does it feel comfortable there?”

  Max nodded.

  “All right, we’re going to line up your shot. Don’t pull the trigger yet,” he said. He glanced at Tommy, who was doing the same thing with his sons, using his own guns.

  “Brace yourself for the shot,” Tommy said. “If you’re not ready for the recoil, it’ll knock off your aim.” He adjusted Ehvon’s grip.

  Ehvon jerked the gun out of reach. “I got it, Dad. Jeez.”

  Tommy grabbed the Glock. “With that attitude, you ain’t learning how to use this thing–”

  Blane’s Sig went off, a crack that made them all jump. Blane yelped with the recoil. The Sig slid across the roof, heading for the edge. Blane dove for it. Tommy lunged for his son. His nails scraped his coat, couldn’t get a handful in time to stop the boy from sliding over the edge in an avalanche of snow. Blane hit the sidewalk with a heavy thud.

  “Blane,” Tommy shouted, crawling for the edge.

  Michael grabbed him. “Inside. Grab some rope. You could set off any one of those mines if you jump down.”

  “But my son–”

  Michael held his gun up. “We’ll handle the threat. Just get the rope.”

  “Hey, dad, that zombie’s got a bow and arrow like an Indian,” Max said, pointing.

  That sentence struck Michael as so odd he had to look, just in time to see the short, bulky zombie draw an arrow back to its ear. For only a breath did it hold that pose before the arrow zipped through the air. One of the pair of zombies stumbled into its friend; an arrow protruding from its shoulder. A second arrow slammed into its skull. Dropped it to the ground and dragged its friend down with it.

  The short, bulky zombie sprinted through the snow. Fingers digging into the dirt, the second zombie pulled itself from under its dead friend. The thrashing attracted the fourth zombie’s attention, and it altered course, heading in the downed zombies’ direction.

  Michael stared as the running zombie pulled a baseball bat from its pack. He flinched when the bat cracked; the downed zombie’s skull exploded. Even from this distance, he watched bone shards and blood splatter the white snow. The zombie went prostrate.

  Tommy stared, then ducked in the window. Michael looked back at the zombie with a baseball bat. So did Ehvon and Max.

  “Whoa,” Ehvon whispered. They all flinched as the armed zombie ran for the last one, drawing the bat back, preparing for a homerun. Michael covered his son’s eyes, but couldn’t drown out the sound of the bat caving in its skull. The rotted head swung off unsteady shoulders but caught on the spinal column. It drooped, staring back the way it had come. The bat came down again on the twisted skull. And the headless zombie fell.

  First, the bat lowered. Then, the remaining zombie pulled back its hood; a young woman looked around the streets for more. When nothing moved, she darted for The Black Swan. Tommy clawed his way through the window, threw a long coil of rope down the porch. The woman jumped the first three feet of the yard and ran in a straight line, her steps thumping as if on stone. This close, Michael saw thin twigs of black hair peeking out from under the cap she wore. Her leather coat had a high collar, coming up to her ears and was tied tight against weather. She carried a marine issued backpack, with her bow and quiver sticking out the top, where the bat was. Under so many layers her size was difficult to determine.

  She met Tommy on the ground. Her unfamiliar voice floated up to the roof. Gentle, light, but not an inch of it soft. There was iron in her core and it reflected – hot and unyielding – in her short sentences. Blane’s feeble voice interrupted. Michael leaned as far over the edge as he dared. The woman looked up. Dark eyes met his, and fire burned in them. Her jaw set, she looked down at Blane. Michael called down, “What do you need me to do?”

  “Pull when I tell you,” Tommy shouted back. Michael picked up the rope, felt it jerk and bounce in his hands. Then, “All right, start pulling him up.”

  Hand over hand, Michael pulled, until Blane’s fingers appeared over the edge. Michael tugged gently as the boy clawed at the wet shingles. “Ehvon, help your brother.”

  Ehvon did, without a word; he grabbed his brother’s arms to pull him up. Max followed. “No, Max,” Michael snapped. “Stay here with me.”

  “But I wanna help,” his son protested.

  “Keep an eye out for zombies. If you see anything that’s dead and moving, shoot it,” he said. Max gripped the hunting rifle tight; nodded. Ehvon pulled Blane onto the roof.

  From below, Tommy yelled, “Get Liz to look at him. We’re going around the side.”

  Michael picked Blane up. “Go get Liz,” he told Ehvon, who jumped through the window. “Max, get inside.”

  “But there’s a zombie coming,” Max said, pointing.

  “We’ll get him later. Come on,” he retorted, only to stare when an arrow sprouted from the zombie’s head. Michael pulled his attention back, climbed through the window. He laid Blane on the bed. Blane stared at him though distant eyes. Liz and Ehvon appeared in the doorway; everyone else trailed in behind them.

  “Out, out,” Liz shouted. Downstairs a door closed. “Marleen, you’re with me,” the woman added. Michael slipped through the crowd; had to squeeze his way past everybody, to the ripped out staircase and rope ladder hanging in its place. He climbed down it. Heard the floorboards creek behind him. Tommy and the woman were waiting for him. She’d traded her backpack, her carpenter’s belt, and leather coat for a hoodie, a jacket, and a different pair of jeans, but the smell of death still followed her. She didn’t say anything, studied him just as much as he did her.

  She couldn’t have been more than 5’5”, and the clothes she wore only made her seem so much smaller in the way she hunched her shoulders, kept her hands in her pockets. He couldn’t believe she was the only one here, the only one to have so heavily fortified this building. Her defenses were as thorough as a battle-hardened general’s, her methods of disposal violent, bloody. And unforgiving. But if he put the clues together, it made sense. Alone, possibly trapped in this city, she’d done what was needed to survive. If he were in her shoes, would he have turned out any differently?

  Tommy jerked a thumb at her. “Did you know she had a door in the garage? Can’t see it from the outside. Didn’t have to climb those damn ladders this time.”

  One more surprise to attribute to this strange woman. She held out her hand. “I’m May.”

  “Michael,” he said, surprised by the firmness of her grip. “Um, sorry for the intrusion.” A corner of her lips twitched downward. Dislike of others in her space. She’d probably been alone for a long time. Their sudden invasion only deepened that dislike, and there wasn’t much he could say to ease it. “We were passing through and saw what you did at Ro
ger’s. We were hoping to find survivors.”

  “I’m the only one,” she said.

  “Tommy,” Cherise shouted from downstairs. “Where you at?”

  “Down here,” Tommy yelled back. “How’s Blane?”

  “Liz says he’s got a concussion, but other than some cuts and bruises, he’s fine. Probably shouldn’t be moved for a little while,” she said as she descended the ladder. The woman blinked when she spotted May. “Who’s that?”

  “Babe, this is May. She saved Blane,” Tommy said.

  “You the one that lives here by herself?” Cherise asked. May nodded. Cherise shook her head. “Girl, you must be crazy to wanna stay here alone.”

  Michael stepped between the two when May’s eyes narrowed. “Why don’t we call everybody down here?”

  Tommy jerked his head to the staircase. Cherise lifted an eyebrow at him but disappeared up the rope ladder. Michael turned to Tommy. “Would you give us a minute?”

  The large man shrugged and disappeared into the sitting room. A fire crackled in the fireplace. May’s eyes followed the man when he left; they lingered on the fire. Michael nodded toward the back door. “Can we talk outside?”

  “Do you have another coat?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “Then, no. It’s not safe,” she said. “But we can go in the garage if you want.”

  “Sure,” he said and followed her down the hall. She led him through the dining room and into a hall that stank of zombie. He grabbed her, his hand on his gun.

  She brushed him off. “It’s just my suit.”

  He looked where she nodded. Hanging on several hooks in the mudroom was a black, greasy leather coat. The stench that rolled off it made his eyes water. Jeans hung beside it, with the same colors. And her boots were splotched in a bizarre pattern of black and brown. Her pack leaned against the wall, its weapons still poking out the top. Her carpenter’s belt hung on the wall as well.