11. Chapter 11
Chapter eleven
Shelby
We each stick to our corners after my little tantrum. Thankfully, so far this road is clear.
Since I didn’t have much time to explore the area, I don’t really know where we are or how far we’ve traveled. It doesn’t feel like much but that could be because my body aches like a motherfucker and everywhere we turn, there are more of them.
Cason glares through the windshield in the front and the air in the van practically vibrates with tension. With every street we pass, the odds of running into a new problem increase exponentially.
I’m just starting to relax when we’re well beyond Molalla, until we reach the outskirts of the next town and my muscles stiffen right back up.
Cason slows as we pull down the main street. Ahead is a small-town square and I eye the banner flapping in the wind before Cason rolls to a stop.
Spring Days & Country Nights
The remnants of construction blockades contain the area and beyond, where carnival rides, vacant ticket booths, food vendors and more sit quietly in the sunshine.
From here, I can see the top of the Ferris Wheel and although I’m not surprised, I do shudder to find a few writhing bodies trapped in the cars.
“Where is everyone?” Larry whispers and as though he called them forth from hell, a mob appears from between the booths.
“Oh shit,” Nate says and Cason sighs before putting the vehicle in reverse, only to immediately slam on the brakes.
When I follow his stare over my shoulder, taking in the sheer numbers flowing through a funnel between two police cars parked at the side, I echo the teen's whimpers beside me. It’s the same nightmare as before only in a new town and despair clogs my throat when I lurch forward and slam back again as Cason swerves down a bisecting street.
Trees hang over the block, their pretty green leaves swaying against the ground. It’s so quiet here, I could almost pretend it’s a normal day except for the horde that stalks us from behind and Larry saying, “Left. Go left."
Holding onto the seat before me, I glance back at the two groups merging and shake my head. Just how many people lived in this town?
When Cason floors it, my neck snaps forward and back again. I suppose we’re all too focused on what we were outrunning because the next thing I know, the brutal sound of crunching metal rings in my ears and this time I can’t protect my body as I collide with the window beside me.
The van squeals. I can’t be sure because my eyes are closed but I suspect by the swoop of my stomach, we swerve before sliding to a stop.
Time slows as I touch my forehead. Someone groans toward the front and poor Bean whines. The pulsing pain in my head sends me to my proverbial knees.
After Nora pops up from the floor and glances at me, wide eyed, I’m pretty sure I return her “oh shit” expression before her eyes flicker over my shoulder.
Following her gaze, I spy the mob marching ever onward and grab the first person I can reach, which happens to be the poor fucker who’s now been in two car accidents in the span of a few hours.
When he raises dazed eyes to mine, I say, “We have to get out.”
“Huh?” he mumbles, and I grab his arm. “Let’s go!”
In the seat before us, Nate fumbles with the door while Larry stumbles from the front passenger side. Cason hasn’t moved from where he’s slumped over the wheel.
My heart pumps wildly as I jump from the vehicle and lean against the side. I’m pretty sure I did some damage to my head, but I don’t have time to nurse my wounds.
“There,” Larry says, pointing between two houses and Nate takes off with the teenager behind him. Nora staggers forward two steps while I grab Bean and plop her to the ground before rounding the van and opening the driver’s door.
The occupants of the other car remain trapped inside and a single glance confirms they’re no longer amongst the living. I’m assuming, based on the driver clawing at the window that she was bitten and lost the ability to drive once whatever this is, took over.
“Cason,” I say, touching his arm. He’s still slumped over the wheel and my pulse thumps when he doesn’t even twitch.
Although I say his name twice more, he doesn’t rouse, and I look back at the horde. They’re not moving fast, but there’s little time to think through a plan. Cason has to get out of this van right fucking now or he’s going to die.
I can’t carry him, and I search for our fellow survivors who have followed Nate across the street.
From the tiny yard of a beautiful old home, Larry stares at me wide eyed. Shaking my head, I wrench on Cason’s shoulder and push him back while Bo nudges my side and lets out a pathetic whine.
Blood oozes from a wound on Cason’s temple but to my relief, when I check his pulse, I find a slow steady beat and tap his cheek. When he still doesn’t move, I get rougher, which only serves to move his head around.
“Cason!” I scream, pulling on his arm and he lists to the left.
After shoving my shoulder into his armpit I pull on his dead fucking weight but he's too heavy and a sob pushes at my throat. If he doesn't move right fucking now we're both dead and desperation circles my soul as I slap his cheek and cry, “Wake up!”
Finally, he groans, and I sob my relief before barking, “Move. Now!”
When his eyes slip open, I can tell he’s dazed but he responds to my demand and stumbles from the vehicle just as Larry appears, grabbing him around the waist.
Leading the way, I glance back while he practically carries Cason down the path and into the backyard of the home. Nora looks up from where she was messing with the lock on the sliding glass door, but she can’t get it open, and we don’t want to make sound by breaking the window.
Instead, we follow the path to the next street. It’s quieter here but we need a place to regroup, and God knows what we’ll find within any of these places.
Despair continues to roll through me along with a good dose of nausea but it’s adrenaline that keeps me moving when I should be on my knees.
The disturbing sound of more of them rings out down the street and I pause, scanning the area. It’s all houses but which one is safe?
We’re all battered and bruised, and I don’t think hand to hand combat is a good idea right now. Since they all look the same, I’m about to march up the path to a house on the left when someone calls, “Here.”
To my surprise when I turn, I find a young girl waving from an upstairs window. Down below, another girl gestures from the front door and we hasten that direction when she steps back.
The two-story home sits back from the street with a charming porch swing that we pass as we step inside. Once the girl has closed the door quietly behind us, she eyes us with a critical stare before pointing into the living room.
While Larry rests Cason on the couch, the girl approaches with a frown, asking, “Is he bit?”
“No,” I rasp. “Head wound.”
Lowering the baseball bat clenched in her hand, she moves cautiously to the staircase while I eye her silently. She’s so young but this teenager with her flinty stare has clearly seen things and my chest clenches at the prospect.
Was she forced to kill one of them? Her parents perhaps?
Their absence is glaring considering the family photos set lovingly around the room. This place with its faded leather couch, coffee table covered in well-worn books and crossword puzzles feels homier in the five seconds I’ve been here than my own place.
“Thanks,” Nate says, “that was a close one.”
Her brows flicker but she’s immune to his smarmy smile and I hide my amusement when his grin slowly fades. Smart girl.
Although we need to assess, well basically everything, I’m more worried about Cason’s head injury which is why I sit down beside him and ask, “Are you okay?”
He probably has a concussion which means he needs to be watched. I’m familiar with the situation because I’ve had my fair share, but I sense Cason’s unease and back away when he nods without looking at me.
Is it me? Or is it this fucked up world or maybe it’s something else that’s causing the barrier forming between us.
I don’t know but with each step we take further into the unknown, he continues to pull away and the notion frightens me. I’m very aware of my capabilities, or lack thereof.
If Cason leaves me . . . the group behind, what are our chances of survival?
Ignoring the brutal burn taking up residence in my chest, I turn to the girl and say, “Thank you.”
She grudgingly nods as the other girl, the one from the window upstairs appears, her deep blue eyes roaming over the group before she stops on me and says, “It’s okay, right, Mandy?”
I suspect our rescue rests with the younger girl who eyes her sister with a good dose of hero worship when her counterpart grimaces. They could be twins but for the difference in age and hair color and I hide my smile when the older sister says, “You did good, Zo Zo.”
The resultant grin hurts my heart, and I find myself wishing fiercely that whatever happens, these two make it out alive, a pipe dream if there ever was one. At this point I think we’re all delaying the inevitable.
“Okay,” Larry says, turning to the window. “We don’t have much choice but to lay low until they pass.”
Silently agreeing, I rub my aching brow while Nora makes the introductions, pausing on the teen we met at the gas station, who brushes his shaggy auburn hair off his face, and says, “Lance.”
Once we’re done, the older girl points at her sister, and says, “Zoey. I’m Amanda.”
Quiet up until this point, Cason says with his first real smile when Zoey drops to the floor beside the dogs, “This is Bo and Bean.”
At the mention of her name, Bean wags her tail and seemingly bows by crouching over her front legs, to which Zoey laughs and waves at the canines.
Charmed, I turn away from the scene because once again, my stomach is doing somersaults over a simple fucking smile.
Mentally rolling my eyes, I follow Amanda to the kitchen after she reluctantly agrees and I’m so freaking thirsty, I down three glasses of water before refilling it for Cason. He’s still sitting on the couch, his head in his hands and when I hold the water out to him, he says, “Thanks.”
Unfortunately, we can’t jump in the car and take him to the nearest hospital which means we don’t know the extent of his injuries. Still if his head hurts like mine does, he’s probably miserable which is why I ask, “Do you need a pain killer? I’m sure–”
Once again, his gruff demeanor sends me down a rabbit hole of self-doubt when he interjects to say, “I’m good.”
Instead of wallowing though, I retreat, pausing at the door when he says, gruffly, “Thanks.”
With a small nod, I escape, wondering how the hell I’m going to get past his cool exterior and whether I even want to. I’ve had my fair share of dealing with mercurial men. I don’t need the added complication.