Back | Next
Contents

CHAPTER FIFTEEN


“The cars’ll run as long as we got gas . . . the problem we’re running into right now is that the cities are packed with broken-down cars. No easy way to move ’em. Even with fuel additives the gas in ground storage tanks will be contaminated with water in ten months at the latest. Then what? Then all we have are fancy roadblocks. Granted, it helps keep the zombies in the cities, but then what?”

From: Collected Radio Transmissions of the Fall,

University of the South Press, 2053



A strange yet familiar sound woke me just after dawn.

The air around me in the ranger station was chilly. Sometime during the early morning hours, the woodstove ran out of fuel and was only providing faint, residual heat. I pulled the sleeping bag up and wondered why I was even awake. I was not an early morning girl if I could help it. In the distance, I heard what sounded like a car engine. Muttering under my breath, I rolled over and began drifting off to sleep.

Then it hit me and I sat up in the sleeping bag, confused. The noise was jarring for a moment because I felt as if I’d just woke up pre-Fall in preparation for a normal day at St. Dominic’s. A full minute passed by before my half-asleep brain remembered that the end of the world had pretty much gone down and I was in a ranger station with a bunch of young kids . . . and there should have been no way for me to hear any sort of engine running.

I was on my feet and pulling my boots on before my conscious brain had time to even realize what I was going to check. None of the other girls were awake or stirring. Pausing, I waited. Had I imagined the sound? A second later it returned—the telltale growl of a motorcycle engine of some kind. Close, but not too close. Baby was propped against a nearby wall. I grabbed it and slung it across my back after making sure I didn’t have a round in the chamber. I’d checked it the night before but Sister Ann was adamant about double-checking things like that.

Lowering the ladder quickly, I clambered down and hurried to the barricaded door. Leaning against it, I listened for any sound outside. Nothing but the continued faint noise of a high-pitched engine. The engine sounded almost exactly like the four-wheeler.

For a moment I almost panicked. Had someone stolen the four-wheeler I’d used to bring the stuff down to the station? I lifted the barricade and popped the door open. Not sure what to expect, I slowly peeked outside.

The four-wheeler was still there, untouched. The motorcycle engine was louder, but in the distance. With the valley around the southern side of the school and Dunlap Creek below, it was difficult to make out precisely what direction it was coming from.

“Wazzat?” a voice asked sleepily from inside. I looked back and spotted Charise standing at the edge of the loft. She was rubbing her eyes.

“Some kind of engine,” I told her. “Wake up the others.”

“We’re up,” one of the twins replied loudly. “Is that a car engine?”

“Sounds more like the quad,” the other answered.

“Finlay, Fiona. I need you two to pack everything up. Leave it up on the loft and out of sight,” I instructed as the engine revved in the distance. It was a little louder now. There was only one person who might have access to a dirt bike around here, and the idea of King Dale’s men being on our side of the river was terrifying. “Once everything is put away, all five of you need to head straight up to campus and get in the bunker. Ulla, get up on the rooftop of the cafeteria once you’re back. Take Mr. Kessenger with you. If anyone but me comes up the mountain, give them a few warning shots. I need the rest of you to tell Sister Ann that I’m going to check it out. I have a radio, channel five.”

“Whoa.” Finlay appeared at the edge of the loft next to Charise, Fiona right behind. “This is serious.”

“Finlay, what channel will I be on?”

“Uh . . . five.”

“Fiona?”

“You said channel five.”

“Good. Hurry,” I told them. The trio disappeared quickly and the sounds of the girls quickly cleaning up could be heard. Turning, I looked back out the door.

It was just above freezing outside. There was a little bit of fog clinging to the ground near the creek, but nothing up here. Glancing up the hill, I could faintly make out a thin trail of smoke coming up from the same area the cafeteria was at. Somebody was already awake up there, which meant Sister Ann probably already knew about the engine noise. More than likely she was anticipating me going to check it out. Still, assuming anything was a bad idea.

“We’re set,” Fiona announced. Turning, I spotted all five girls carrying nothing but their coats. Finlay handed me mine. It took me a moment to unsling Baby, then maneuver the heavy hunting jacket around and on. The extra padding the heavy coat offered was a nice change of pace from the normal pain the AR’s sling caused on my shoulder.

“No delays, right?” They all nodded simultaneously. Even Rosalind, though younger than the rest by a bunch, understood just how serious this was. None of them looked afraid, though. Nervous, yes. But not scared. This was good. “What channel?”

“Five,” Finlay, Fiona, and Charise responded all together. I nodded.

“Good. Go.”

The five headed off up the hill. I watched them for a minute to make sure they weren’t stopping before I walked over to the four-wheeler. Checking the girls’ progress again, they were halfway up the trail and nearly to the chapel. There were no signs of a shambler anywhere. It was probably too cold for them. One could hope.

Quickly priming the engine, the four-wheeler started up fairly quickly. The tank had been filled up the day before, and nobody had ridden it except me, so I wasn’t worried about running out of gas. Carefully shifting into gear, I rolled down toward Dunlap Creek to search for whatever—or more accurately, whoever—was riding around campus.


Two hours later and . . . nothing.

I’d slowly circled the very edges of campus twice, keeping an eye out for anyone riding around on a dirt bike. Once in a while I’d even turn off the four-wheeler’s engine and wait to see if I could spot them. Whoever was around, they were doing a very good job staying out of my sight. Once or twice I heard the bike engine not too far away. Every time I headed toward it, though, it would vanish. It felt as if someone was taunting me.

Worst part about it, though, is I could see the dirt bike tracks in a few muddy places. They weren’t regular, but in obvious places where somebody was sticking to the outskirts of campus and not coming up the mountain. This was both irritating and nerve-racking. They had to know what they were doing. My problem? Figuring out if this was someone scouting us out, an impending attack, or something else entirely.

Frowning, I pulled out the small radio and switched over to channel five. “Base, this is Mads.”

“Go ahead.” Sister Ann’s voice was clearly recognizable, even over the radio.

“Tracks spotted but that’s all. Someone’s messing with us, ma’am.” I clicked off the radio and looked around. I could hear the engine again but this time it was farther off in the distance. “Not sure what’s going on.”

“Check the river.”

Of course. If King Dale—or anyone else, really—was going to come at us, they’d need to cross the river first. Which meant that there was somewhere along the banks of the Jackson River that they’d gained access. I didn’t know dirt bikes very well, but it was hard to imagine one crossing the river easily. Unless, of course, someone managed to make a tiny bridge.

But where would they do that? I racked my brain trying to think of a good location. The main road down by the ruined hotel was out. Plus, there might still be shamblers running around down there. No, he probably wouldn’t try that again.

There was a place up by the Falling Springs waterfall they could cross, but it was so far out of the way I doubted they’d explored that far to find out. Plus, they’d have to go all the way back up. Mile Marker 10 and the back road was also a possibility, but again, that would waste a lot of gas. Grinding my teeth in frustration, I restarted the engine and turned the four-wheeler around. I was missing something obvious.

Following the path alongside the river, I came to the junction where the old paper mill sat on the other side of the water. Before the Gathright Dam had failed and sent pretty much all of Lake Moomaw down to flood Covington—and the paper mill with it—there’d been a series of small ponds next to the mill. When the dam had let loose, though, they’d been completely filled with debris.

Or had been. Looking across the river, I could see someone had cleared away the debris and piled it next to one of the small storage sheds that had only been partially demolished. There hadn’t been a lot of rain since the storms back in November, so I doubted it was there due to natural causes. Sister Ann had said in the past that beavers were pretty common around these parts, though I’d never seen anything that looked like the beaver dams in books.

Plus, I seriously doubted beavers were that organized.

“Weird,” I muttered and shut down the engine. The water rushing along made enough noise that, since the engine was off, I couldn’t really hear anything else. Down near the river the air was cooler. Not by much, but enough to be noticeable. There were also faint traces of ice along the riverbed—and dirt bike tracks here as well.

My eyes followed the tracks, which disappeared from sight near some rocks about forty feet ahead. My gaze drifted back across the river to where the debris-filled ponds had been. In the back of my head I could still feel that instinctual warning buzz but for the life of me, I couldn’t see what the big deal was. Other than cleaning out the ponds and stacking the debris neatly against one of the destroyed buildings near the edge of the river, everything looked fine.

Muttering under my breath, I hopped off the four-wheeler and slowly made my way over to the pile of rocks where the tracks ended. It was clear that someone had ridden a dirt bike here recently. Had they ridden through the river somehow? Looking around, I spotted a tree branch that’d broken off from a nearby elm and grabbed it. It was long and skinny, probably about six feet total. Balancing carefully on the rocks, I poked it into the river.

The water came more than halfway up over the stick. Was that too high for a dirt bike to cross? Considering how close to the shore I was, the probability of it being even deeper toward the middle was pretty good. There was no way anyone could even wade across it. Swim, maybe. If they were willing to risk the currents.

Turning, I saw what looked like a softball lying on the ground beneath a tree. It was bright yellow, like the kind high school softball teams used to play with. I’d never seen it before, and I’d come down here a few times—though not since before Christmas. Had it been washed downstream sometime? It was possible. Walking over, I knelt down and picked it up. It was definitely a softball, all right. Someone had drilled or cut a hole straight through it and tied a smaller piece of rope through the opening.

“What the . . . ?”

I jerked my hand back as I spotted what appeared to be a snake coiled up beneath some leaves next to the tree where the softball had been. Scrambling back, it took me a moment to realize it hadn’t moved at all when I’d come close to it. Around here, copperheads and rattlesnakes were usually hibernating this time of the year. It was strange to see one out in the open on a cold day like this. Cautiously, I moved back toward it. Still nothing.

Using my stick, I prodded it. It refused to move. Either it was dead, or what I was looking at was not a snake. Kneeling in the leaves, I leaned in for a closer look.

It was not a snake. Instead, what I was looking at was nothing more than coiled rope. It was in good shape, so it obviously hadn’t been lying here long, and someone had deliberately covered it with leaves so nobody would spot it. If not for the softball I doubted I would have seen the rope at all.

I looked at the softball, then back at the rope. Suddenly everything clicked into place and I knew what the softball was for.

Throwing rope is hard. I’d done it once when my family had gone to the Los Angeles County Fair and there’d been a rodeo exhibition. The cowboys had asked for volunteers to try and lasso one of those fake metal bulls. I tried my best but the weighted rope wasn’t easy to throw more than a few feet. The cowboys explained that even they could maybe throw it up to fifteen, twenty feet accurately.

But tie a softball on the rope and you sure could swing it pretty far. Probably even across this narrower part of the river. I looked back at the neatly stacked debris and noticed, for the first time, the long planks partially buried beneath the mess.

Had they built a bridge somehow? It was hard to make out details. Still, if they had a bridge, what did they need the rope and softball for? None of it was making any sense. Grumbling under my breath, I started walking around the river bank, trying to get a better look at the strange planks. They were darker than the average wood, and looked like they’d been dragged through a lot of mud and muck.

“Oh no . . .” Those weren’t wooden planks. They were railroad ties. Specifically, railroad ties that were on the backside of the school—and that helped me get to the back entrance without being seen.

I sprinted back to the four-wheeler and turned it on. Making the tight turn on the path, I rode it as fast as I dared back up to campus, hoping against hope that my suspicions were wrong.


They weren’t.

Standing at the bottom of the hill and looking up at the path I used to take on a daily basis, the acid in my stomach churned madly. I wanted to puke. While we’d been out camping, King Dale’s men had ripped up all the railroad ties that helped create the path up to the back entrance of campus. Somehow they’d found it and made short work of the construction. With the railroad ties no longer supporting the steps for the steep climb up the hill, it was impossible to come this way. There was now only one way up to campus—the main road.

How? How had he known how to destroy the back entrance to pin us up here on the mountain? How had he known where it was at in the first place? I’d done everything possible to keep it hidden. So had the others. In fact, there wasn’t anyone not on campus who even knew about it. And the only person who wasn’t on campus who knew about it—

And then I had my answer. There was a person who knew about the back entrance and wasn’t on campus. It was obvious in hindsight, so painfully obvious that even I should have seen it. In charge of campus security? Ha! I was the sorriest excuse, not even good enough to be a mall cop. King Dale had known about it because of me. I pretty much told him. Inadvertently, but it was my sharing that had led them here.

He wouldn’t be making any attempts at the school now. There was no need. He’d already secured all the food in town and destroyed the best way off the mountain. We were now relegated to using the main road, where we could be easily seen—and reported on. And only one person had both the access and the knowledge of everything because we’d have to drive by the very house that I’d helped him find.

“Colton . . .” I hissed, anger bubbling up from the core of my being. Normally I would bottle that rage, keeping a lid on it and blowing off steam later. Not now. There was a time and place for self-control, and this was not it. “You rat motherfucker.”

The ride to his house was a blur. I vaguely remember branches from trees whipping across my jacket, and almost flipping the four-wheeler at one point when I hit a sharp rock at the school entrance. Mostly I was focused on the absolute and utter betrayal of a boy I’d thought was my friend . . . and one I’d just started developing some conflicting feelings for.

How had I missed the signs? Maybe I hadn’t wanted to see them at all.

Colton was sitting on the front porch when I slid to a halt in the gravel driveway. While his face was calm his body language screamed “terrified” to me. Good. He should be afraid. Lifting his head, he watched me closely as I hopped off the four-wheeler and stormed over to the porch. Pulling himself to his feet, he stuck out both hands toward me.

“I wanted to explain—”

“No.” My voice was colder than the weather around us. There was nothing I wanted to do more than punch a hole through his smug little face. Of course, he had height and weight on me, but the desire was still there. “You don’t get to explain.”

“But—”

“No!” This time I practically screamed it. I’d been betrayed in the past before, but not like this. Never like this. “Was everything a lie?”

He reached out to me, stepping close. I stepped back. He moved another foot closer. “I just—”

I pushed him away, hard. There was no need to give him any chance to “explain.” “How? How could you?”

“I did what I thought was right,” he argued, shoving lanky brown hair up and out of his eyes. He was afraid, but also growing angry. The fear I understood. He should be. I had the gun. None of King Dale’s other lackeys were anywhere nearby to save him from me. Angry, though? The only person he had a right to be angry at was himself. “He’s trying to bring stability to the area. Too much lawlessness leads to anarchy! He told me himself! He has a plan!”

“You’ve been spying for him. On us. On me. How long?”

“I . . .”

“How long?”

“Since we met. You caught me scouting out that back way up and I had to make up something so you wouldn’t shoot me.”

That was a punch in the gut. I’d done everything I could to keep him alive, keep him safe. Fed him, clothed him, even helped find him a home. I’d trusted him and, in return, he’d sold me out. Sold out the school, the girls I was supposed to keep safe, all the refugees who’d showed up since. Everyone. He lied to me from day one, and for what?

Because Appalachia Rex claimed he had a plan?

Something primal inside me snapped. I don’t remember punching him. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to make my fist hurt. Colton was slightly bigger than me, and I wasn’t known for brawling. But the blow must have caught him off-balance because he tripped and fell to the ground. His eyes flashed angrily and for a moment I thought he was going to pop right back up and start swinging back. Instead, he stayed on the ground. His hand went to his mouth and came away a little bloody. I’d busted his lip open.

Good.

“Go,” I croaked, my voice hoarse. “Leave. Just . . . leave. I’m going to walk away now. When I come back, you need to be somewhere else.”

“Or . . . ?”

“I’m going to put a round into you.”

Without another word, I turned and walked away.


I hadn’t realized far up the road I walked before my brain was beyond the incoherent rage I was feeling and into the rough neighborhood of critical thought once more until I spotted Humpback Bridge. I stopped at the more modern bridge over Dunlap Creek and stared at the old wooden structure as the clear water slowly made its way beneath it. Watching it gave me time to think, to wonder, as I leaned on the metal barrier.

Colton. Of course. I should have figured. The timing had been too perfect. Why hadn’t I seen it?

If I’d have actually looked, I would have. The moment Sister Ann pointed out that King Dale and his men had showed up to Dr. Brittany’s the same time we had should have tipped me off. She’d even suggested that someone was spying on us, and I’d agreed. Only . . . I hadn’t even considered Colton at all.

You should have, that annoying little voice in the back of my head whispered. It wasn’t wrong. The timing was too coincidental for him arriving. So soon after we stole the BearCat from King Dale? I should have suspected something. If I’d been honest with Sister Ann, she might have pointed it out as well.

Especially since he hadn’t wanted to live up on campus in the first place.

Balling my hands tightly into fists, I screamed into the cold morning air and slammed a fist down on the metal barrier. Pain flared up my arm. Not a lot, but enough to let me know it’d been a solid shot. It felt good, purging all that rage and anger out. Still, it wasn’t enough. I’d screwed up, badly. My stupidity could hurt the school, the refugees who are up there. The girls. Sister Ann. Ulla.

Somewhere in the distance, an all-too-familiar cry responded.

For some reason I felt immediately better upon hearing the hunting call of a shambler. More echoed nearby. There were a few, and they were coming in hot. Carefully unslinging Baby from my shoulder, I looked around. The bridge was two lanes wide and over water, so there were only two directions they could hit me from. The keening, haunting cries sounded off again. They were much closer now.

Though I preferred to shoot shamblers from up in a tree, like a deer blind or turkey stand, it looked like today I wasn’t going to benefit from that advantage. Shamblers might be fast when well fed, but they absolutely sucked at figuring out latches on descending ladders. Plus, I’d stupidly left the four-wheeler behind when I’d stormed off from Colton’s place. If it was still there when I got back, I’d be shocked.

Seven of them came loping into view from the west. They were tightly packed together while they jogged. The one in the lead—a very emaciated male from the looks of things—spotted me and howled. Its jogging turned into a full-on sprint. The others took up the lead shambler’s cue and increased their speeds as well. They weren’t Olympic sprinters, but they were running far faster than the usual shambler. This group must have been eating very well.

Unlike the last time I ran into a shambler while out, there was no hesitation now. Anger had replaced hesitation. I aimed at the center mass of the lead shambler and gently stroked the trigger twice. Without hearing protection, the two shots were loud and hurt my ears. Still, the ringing in my ears didn’t affect my shooting at all. Both rounds went straight into the chest of the shambler and it tumbled to the ground in a bloody heap.

The others apparently didn’t notice. They were clustered enough together that it would be hard to miss from this range. I began squeezing the trigger as fast as I could and still remain accurate. While much better than when I’d first started shooting lessons with Sister Ann, it was still a far cry from what she’d stated was basic qualifications for a marine.

Still, I did my best to keep the shots as close together on the shamblers as I could. Two shots each, then slightly pivot, and two more. One by one they fell while continuing their manic dash toward me. Forty yards. Two more shots.

Thirty. Two more shots, another shambler.

Twenty. Four shots in rapid succession, with only three hitting. I started walking backward to give myself more space.

Ten yards. One shambler left. A girl from the looks of things, possibly around my age. I didn’t recognize her, but being out in the sun and exposed to the freezing elements did not do anything for skin care. Her shrill hunting scream almost drowned out the ringing the gunfire caused in my ears.

Two more shots just as she got within five yards. She was down, but not out just yet. For a moment I was tempted to just leave her there to bleed out, but then I remembered that while I had no compunction about killing a shambler, they’d been human once, too. Maybe that was why Sister Ann couldn’t shoot them?

Not that it mattered. I was in charge of security—for good or ill, the jury was still out—and it was my job to make sure that the shamblers died. I aimed the green dot at the back of her head and delivered the plaga mortifera—the final blow—to the shambler.

None of the other shamblers were moving. Keeping a good grip on Baby with my right hand, I tried digging in my ear with the other hand to see if I could lessen the high-pitched ringing sound. Not that it helped, but at least it made me feel like I was doing something positive.

The adrenaline surge wore off quickly. I’d had a rough day, so it wasn’t entirely unexpected. The shakes started soon after. I changed out the mostly empty magazine for a fresh one, stuffing the old one in my jacket pocket next to the other spare. Sore, exhausted, and still feeling utterly miserable, I headed back to Colton’s house, praying the entire time that he wouldn’t be there when I returned.


Thankfully, Colton was gone . . . just like I’d strongly suggested. I was glad. It still hurt, though. Nothing was going to make it better anytime soon, either. Though him leaving behind Mr. Stitmer’s four-wheeler had been nice.

“Stupid boy,” I said, and wiped my nose on the sleeve of the hoodie. The cold wind was biting but it was better than the nothingness in my mind. Leaning back against the vehicle, I slid slowly to the ground. As angry as I was at Colton, I was madder at myself. “Stupid Maddie.”

It was so obvious in hindsight. I should have seen it. The boy had been unprepared to live up here in the mountains. How had he lived alone for so long? He hadn’t. He’d had a lot of help and had gotten lucky with me finding him, and not one of the others. Was everything else about him a lie? I didn’t know. Colton had fed me line after line, and I’d bought them all. Of course he hadn’t want to come up to the campus. The more people he interacted with, the likelier he was to be recognized, or have holes poked in his story. Was any of what he said true? Had he really killed his mother after she turned? Was his name even Colton?

Stupid, Maddie. Real stupid. You’d think you would have learned after the last boy who showed interest.

A rustling sound near the side of the house made me look around. Everything was blurry. There was a large black blob standing in front of me, not too far away. Stupid tears. They were going to get me eaten by either a shambler or a large bear. Not that it mattered. I deserved it. I’d murdered a human being, and betrayed everyone I was supposed to protect, and failed at the one job I had.

Angrily, I wiped them away as I heard a whining sound. It wasn’t the keening howl of a shambler, or the strange grunting sound that Sir Chonk had made when he’d killed that shambler months ago. The shape moved closer. A tail wagged. No, definitely not a shambler or a bear. It was one of Dr. Brittany’s Great Danes.

How had it gotten down here? It took me a second to realize that it must have heard the gunshots and trotted down to investigate. The dog whined again and lowered its head until it rested against mine. It was Xander, the larger of the two. He normally wasn’t as friendly as Willow. At least, not with me. Today, though, it was as if he could feel I needed someone. Even if he couldn’t talk back. Dogs are great that way.

I was going to have to tell Sister Ann about Colton. The entire truth of it, including how I’d taken from our supplies and given to him so he would be able to stay alive. There was no telling how Sister Ann was going to react. On one hand, I could see her being upset at me because I’d taken the supplies without telling her. I’d also compromised our security situation here. King Dale had crossed the river undetected and destroyed the back path, all without any of us—more importantly, me—noticing.

The risk of helping Colton had always been there. It was stupid of me to be so trusting. On the other hand, Sister Ann wanted to rebuild society. Not to just live, but to thrive. Time and time again she’d harped on this. She might have been happy with Colton hiding out up here, but the odds of her holding it against me were slim. Trust would be needed to rebuild the world. High-trust societies always did better than low-trust ones. Of course, given who he was working with, and how distrustful they were . . . 

No, I decided as Xander lay on the ground next to me. She would have insisted we forgive him and take him in. Sister Ann was a much better person than any of us. Better than me, that’s for sure. She wouldn’t have hesitated to shoot a shambler when she’d been a marine, though now she couldn’t due to her vows. Or something. I never really did ask why she couldn’t shoot a shambler. It wasn’t like they were human anymore.

The Great Dane shoved his face into my stomach and whined. Looking down, I stared into those big brown eyes. It was hard to stay sad when a dog was trying to make you feel better. Just one of those things. I scratched his ears and smiled at him. Sure, the massive dogs ate a lot of food, but they also were good therapists. They listened and didn’t judge at all. Both of them also liked snuggles when it got cold in the bunker, and brought calm to a lot of the younger girls who still had nightmares. Plus, they usually heard or smelled a shambler coming long before we saw them. Having Dr. Brittany on campus was nice, but the dogs were better. I chuckled softly and continued the pettings. Xander flopped down on his side and begged for belly rubs. I acquiesced.

For the first time in what felt like forever, there was hope in my heart.

Admittedly it was only a little, but it was definitely there.

Boys were stupid anyway. Colton more than most. Sighing, I climbed to my feet. Xander followed me up in an instant. His tail was wagging. It was time to face the music.

I was so screwed.


Back | Next
Framed