Chapter 8
EIGHT
JULIEN
I splash cold water into my face, trying to fight the exhaustion. After Cameron persisted, I should get some sleep, I managed a whole three hours before my brain decided it was enough, while my body punished me for it.
I wish I could tell it to make up its mind.
The bathroom door squeaks open, making me reach for the machete propped against the sink.
“Hey, don’t stab me.” Cameron raises his hands in mock surrender. “Just your brother, not a brain-eater.”
I grunt and splash another handful of water on my face. “What do you want?”
“Good news, actually.” He leans against the doorframe, shadows under his eyes matching mine. “Those fuckers at the gate? Almost all gone.”
I straighten up and turn off the faucet.
We spent the whole day yesterday searching bodies and purses for keys. It was the only thing we could do while waiting for the hoard to move on. Around 6 in the morning, they did. A distant car alarm went off, and they’ve been shambling away in groups of three and four.
I grab a towel, rough against my skin as I dry my face. “How many left?”
“Maybe five? Six? Just stragglers at this point.”
This is the first break we’ve caught since the world went to shit. I don’t trust it.
“This could be our chance. Get everyone into cars, make a run for it while the path’s mostly clear.”
“First, we check the cars. Then we prep everything so we can move tomorrow.”
“I’ll grab the keys we collected.” He starts to turn and stops. “Should we tell the others?”
The group has been quiet since yesterday, everybody too scared that those zombies will find their way in.
“No,” I say. “If we find something workable, we’ll come back and let everyone know. Otherwise, just wasting time.”
Cameron rushes off like an excited puppy. Nine years younger but still acts like he’s nine years old sometimes. Maybe it’s because of the prospect of getting Sienna somewhere safer.
I wipe my face, drag a hand through my hair, and grab the machete. The weight feels good in my hand, like the weapon becomes an extension of my arm when everything else feels like it’s spinning out of control.
I make my way to the main entrance.
The corridors are clear, though it still smells like death. That sweet-rot stench that clings to everything. Gets in your clothes, your hair, under your fingernails. The kind of smell that becomes part of you if you let it.
Just as I reach the door, Cameron practically skips back to me, jingling a set of keys like we’re going on a fucking road trip instead of escaping a zombie horde.
He holds them up triumphantly. “Let’s test them out.”
I grunt, inching the church door open to scan the parking lot and grounds.
It’s a graveyard of abandoned vehicles, maybe twelve in all.
Most are parked near the front entrance, some are left in the middle of the walkway, wanting to escape but apparently didn’t make it.
Dark stains mark the asphalt where people fell.
Or turned.
Four zombies mill about—two by the far fence, one dragging its mangled leg on the other side, another face-down in the flower beds.
“We kill them first.” I step out, machete ready.
The morning air hits my face, fresher than the death-soaked church, but tainted with the same underlying rot. Almost peaceful if you ignore the walking corpses. Cameron follows, his breathing too loud in the stillness.
“Sienna’s going to kill me for not telling her we were doing this,” he mutters.
“Better her than them.” I nod toward the shambling figures. “Besides, you’d just distract each other.”
He smirks. “Jealous?”
“Of what? Your inability to focus when she’s around?”
“Of having someone.”
“Focus on the task.”
We weave between trees and other cars, ducking low. The closest zombie turns, nose raised like it caught our scent, then shuffles in our direction.
Its jaw hangs by strips of flesh, eyes milky but somehow still hungry.
I raise my machete and close the distance in three quick steps. The blade slices through rotted flesh and bone. No sound but the wet thud of its body hitting asphalt follows.
We split up, each targeting one of the remaining zombies. The one dragging its leg doesn’t even turn as I approach from behind, driving my blade through its skull. Dark fluid splatters my boots, adding to the collection of stains.
Cameron dispatches his target with less grace but equal effectiveness, jamming his poker through the thing’s eye socket. His face is tight, jaw clenched against what I know is disgust. He was never meant for this kind of work.
“You good?” I ask.
He nods once, wiping sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. “One more.”
The last one creeps among the flower beds, face down, making wet, gurgling sounds as it tries to right itself. Pathetic. I end it quickly.
“Clear,” I say, scanning the lot once more. “Let’s check the vehicles.”
Cameron searches through the purse. “I think this one was for the pick up.”
He tosses me the key, and I catch it one-handed as we approach a dusty black pickup truck parked near the gate. Solid choice if it runs.
“Think it’ll work?” Cameron peers through the windows for any surprises.
“No reason not to.” I slide the key into the door. “The only thing that could be a problem is the tank.”
I do a quick check of the inside myself before opening the door. It’s empty except for fast food wrappers and a child’s stuffed elephant in the back seat. My stomach tightens at the sight.
I climb into the driver’s seat and turn the ignition. The engine growls to life, gas gauge showing three-quarters full.
Cameron leans over to see the dashboard. “Jackpot.”
“Don’t celebrate yet.” I kill the engine and pocket the key. “We still need another vehicle. Two, just to be sure. Let’s split the remaining ones. Check for fuel levels and capacity.”
He nods, and we divide the remaining keys among us, working methodically down the rows.
I try every car I walk by, but most are locked. When I press one of the keys, a sedan’s lights blink in response.
“Julien!” Cameron calls from the other side.
I whirl to find him backing away from a minivan, an older female zombie in a floral dress. Her jaw hangs at an unnatural angle, clicking like castanets with each struggle against the seatbelt pinning her to the seat.
I sprint forward as Cameron trips and goes down hard on the asphalt. “Stay down!”
The thing’s milky eyes find mine, hands clawing at the seatbelt. It’s barely contained by the restraint—another few seconds and it would be free, tearing into my brother’s flesh.
Not happening.
I drive the machete into its eye socket. The blade connects with a wet crunch, sinking deep. The thing convulses once, twice, then goes still, dark fluid leaking out where I hit it.
“Fuck.” I wrench the machete free, my heart hammering against my ribs.
Too close. Way too close.
I turn to Cameron, still sprawled on the asphalt. “What happened?”
He doesn’t answer, just stares past me at the now-motionless corpse, his face sheet-white and his eyes glassy.
“Cam?” I crouch beside him, scanning for injuries. “You hit your head?”
“I knew her.” His voice cracks on the last word. “Mrs. Wilson. She used to babysit me when I was a kid. I—I didn’t know she was coming.”
Shit. I glance back at the woman—what used to be a woman. Nothing in that vacant face suggests someone who once cared for my little brother.
“Had this weird collection of porcelain cats,” he says, voice distant. “Used to let me play games after you went to military school.” His eyes find mine, searching. “Remember? You met her at my high school graduation.”
I don’t. There were so many faces that day, all blending together while I counted minutes until I could escape back to base.
“Yeah,” I say. “The cat lady.”
I offer my hand, helping him to his feet. He staggers, leaning into me more than his fall warrants.
“She made those peanut butter cookies you liked,” he says. “With the chocolate dips in the middle.”
I grip his shoulder, steadying him. “I remember.”
His eyes dart back to the minivan. “Think she was trying to escape with her grandkids?” His voice catches. “Think they’re—”
“Don’t go there.” I squeeze tighter. “Focus on what’s in front of us.”
He nods, but his eyes remain haunted.
The remaining cars yield an SUV and another minivan—both usable. We shove the blocking vehicles to the side and head back inside.
“That’s it,” I say. “Three vehicles with fuel. The SUV can take five, the van another five, and the pickup as well. Should be enough.”
“When do we leave?” Cameron asks as we make our way back to the church.
“Dawn tomorrow. Better visibility, full day ahead of us.”
“Straight to the cottage?”
I doubt we will be able to make it the whole way without incidents. It’s a 5-hour car drive on a good day. “No. Any suggestions on where we could make a stop?”
Cameron’s eyebrows shoot up. “You’re asking me?”
“Why not?” I keep walking, machete still gripped tight.
“Because…” He hurries to catch up, nearly tripping over his own feet. “You never ask for my input on tactical shit.”
“You’d rather I make all the decisions while you stand around looking pretty?”
He snorts, running his hand through his hair—Mom’s nervous gesture he inherited. “Okay. Let me think.”
We pass through the church entrance, locking up. Cameron’s quiet, actually thinking instead of blurting out the first idea that pops into his head. Progress.
“What about Pine Lake Lodge?” he asks. “Remember when Dad used to take us there on those fishing trips not far from here? It’s only a few miles off our route, and it’s tucked away enough that not many people know about it.
Plus, it has those cabins spread out on the property.
We could rest, regroup… might even still have supplies in the pantry.
The owners always kept it well-stocked.”
That’s… perfect. There’s Woodsman’s Supply nearby. Hunting gear, camping equipment, maybe even more weapons.
“That’s our next destination.” I pat his back. “What do you think, how long will it take? 4 hours with incidents?” We’re lucky if we don’t have to walk and spend a whole day getting there.
Cameron runs his palm over the stubble on his chin, calculating. “Normally about two hours, but with roads potentially blocked and… you know…” He gestures vaguely toward the dead we just dispatched.
“We use the sideroads. It’ll take longer, but it’s safer. We’ll need to decide who rides with whom.”
“I’ll take Sienna, obviously.” He pauses, eyes flickering to me. “And…”
“Rosa,” I say. “She’s a priority. We all take one car together.”
He shifts his weight. “What about the rest? Dakota?”
“What about her?”
“Just wondering. I think she’s scared of you.”
I tighten my grip on the machete. “Fuck off.”
“Just saying, bro. You might hate her father, but you don’t—”
“Enough.” I open the door to our little camp.
Amelia sits propped against pillows, color slightly better than yesterday. Rosa shuffles cards with Sienna opposite her. The reverend prays in his corner. Nicklas paces by the far wall while his wife sits on the couch, reading.
“Where’s Dakota?” I ask
Sienna frowns. “What do you mean? She was just—”
They all look to the spot beside Amelia.
“She went to get more water,” Carmen says. “About ten minutes ago?”
“The bathroom,” Nicklas says. “Or the kitchen.”
“Not the kitchen,” Sienna says. “I was just there.”
“Amelia?” I turn to her sister. “Where did she go?”
“I—” Amelia’s face pales. “I think she said she needed to check something.”
For fuck’s sake, how can nobody know where she is?