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CHAPTER TEN


While the infected packs have been documented roaming and hunting together, when there is a decided lack of available food supplies they have been known to turn on one another. In an infected hunter pack, when food is scarce, it is truly the strongest and most aggressive that will survive.”

Lecture part of “Grad 725—Research Methods for the Infected” by Dr. Tedd Roberts, University of the South 2047



It was almost noon by the time I was back on the path toward the Boyd farm. The delay in dealing with Colton wasn’t too long but my legs were already burning as I trudged along the railroad tracks past the Moose Lodge and farther up into the mountains. Even with the amount of cardio I do on a daily basis thanks to my patrols, hiking up and down the mountain had taken a lot out of me.

Eventually the tracks would take me to Humpback Bridge, where I’d then angle off and head on down to Temple’s farm. Just a little farther, according to his directions, and I’d reach his neighbor’s.

Part of me just wanted to call it a day right then and there. If I’d taken the main road, it would have been easier, sure. But it also would have meant more potential shamblers. Not that I was too concerned about them, but I was also aware of our ammo supply potentially running low in the future. We were safe for now, but what happened if someone got a little more aggressive? Someone like King Dale, for instance. Sister Ann wanted me to conserve as much ammo as possible, just in case.

Which meant I couldn’t go traipsing down some random paved road like an idiot looking to shoot some shamblers.

Unfortunately.

Humpback Bridge is an old, covered bridge that, pre-Fall, had been a local tourist attraction. They sometimes had car shows there to raise money for local charities as well. There was an ancient, weathered plaque next to the bridge talking about all the interesting local historical stuff about it that bored me to tears. Pretty sure Emily or the twins would have found it fascinating. Or possibly Sister Ann, though I was sure she’d been up here multiple times in the past. It was off the only road that passed by the school, after all.

My thoughts drifted to Colton briefly. He would have had to come this way if he’d walked from Callaghan. Safely, too, which told me there weren’t many shamblers around here. Or he was a very lucky guy. Considering he’d managed to get up the mountain without getting shot or eaten, someone was definitely looking out for him.

I spotted Temple’s house first. It was in rough shape, with the windows busted out on the entire first floor and the front door smashed in. Since I knew Temple had already cleared out the easy access stuff, I didn’t bother checking his place for anything. There was no need. Other than perhaps some extra women’s clothing from his now-turned daughter-in-law, there was nothing of value left in there. It was just a house now, according to Temple—not even a home.

The Boyd farm was actually hidden from the road beyond Temple’s, nestled in a wooded area. It wasn’t much of a farm, if anyone had bothered to ask me. There was a small white shed that looked half-destroyed due to time and kudzu.

Kudzu was something I’d never dealt with before coming to St. Dominic’s. Not directly. I’d heard of it but out on the West Coast, everything “not native” was either amazing and great or invasive and horrible. It was irritating because what a plant or animal was labeled depended on what day of the week it was.

Except for fruit flies. Those were always bad.

“Flamethrowers,” I muttered as I eyed a nearby stand of trees that were being devoured by a clump of kudzu. Flamethrowers would take care of the kudzu problem. Probably not permanently, though. The plant was seriously difficult to get rid of.

I eyeballed the house from the dirt driveway, looking for any signs of shamblers. Just as Temple had told us, he’d shuttered the first-floor storm windows, and they looked like they were still intact. The porch, while shadowed, appeared empty. The front door was closed and, I presumed, secured. My hand drifted down to my pocket. Temple had given me the key so I wouldn’t have to break in and risk exposing the inside to the elements. Or any shamblers that might happen on it.

The porch was old but in relatively decent shape, only creaking slightly as I walked up to the front door. Testing the door handle, it didn’t budge. Still locked. Another good sign. Shifting Baby’s sling, I dug the key out of my pocket and unlocked the door. It opened easily and quietly.

It was dark inside. There was an old musty smell, and an underlying scent of something vaguely familiar. It wasn’t the nasty smell I’d come to associate with body decomposition, which was another positive sign. Still, whatever the other stench was, it made me uncomfortable. I stepped inside and left the door open. It was the only source of light in the entryway and I didn’t want any surprises.

Temple had said he thought the canning supplies were in the kitchen but he hadn’t been absolutely certain. If they weren’t, then they were in the basement—somewhere I did not particularly want to go. I hated basements. We didn’t really have them out in California. Basements and root cellars seemed to be a Southern thing. Plus, dark places where there would be little to no light? No, thank you.

Instead, I decided to check upstairs first. The stairs were shallow and narrow, but I managed to avoid knocking down pictures hung on the wall. At the top I looked both ways. There was a narrow bridge connecting two landings that seemed to run the entire length of the living room below. It was open on both sides, too, which allowed for a very surreal view down below. If I were afraid of heights, it might have gotten to me.

I checked the left rooms first. Both were closed but I entered them cautiously anyway. Temple had locked up the windows and I hadn’t seen any broken, but none of us girls had survived this long by taking stupid risks. Every risk we took, according to Sister Ann, was a calculated one. Still risky, true. But not stupid.

The first room had nothing of value that I could see. It had a set of twin beds that looked like they were in reasonable shape. They both had plastic mattress protectors covering them, and neither had sheets or blankets. Clearly they were there simply in case relatives came to visit and not for anyone actually living there.

The other room had a sewing machine and plastic crates filled with scrap fabric. There were also bundles of fabric wrapped around long wooden sticks as well. If I had any interest in sewing, this might have been a great find. Since we didn’t have power and the sewing machine needed it, it was a wash for now. Later, perhaps, if and when more survivors showed up, I could come back and grab more stuff.

Closing both doors, I made my way across the narrow bridge to the other side of the second floor. Though the downstairs window shutters kept it dark, there were two skylights above the bridge that let in some natural lighting. It was enough for me to see the living room below. It was a little messy, though the bridge did create an odd shadow running all the way toward where I surmised the kitchen to be. Two saloon-style swinging doors prohibited me from seeing farther. I shrugged. The kitchen would still be there after I finished checking the upstairs rooms.

Both doors on this end were open. Left or right? After a moment of debate, I chose right.

It was a bad call. There were floor-to-ceiling bookshelves along every wall in the room, with only one small window. That wasn’t why I regretted my decision, though. No, on each bookshelf were numerous dolls: porcelain, rag doll, old ones, new ones, and the creepy “I’m straight out of a horror movie and I’m going to stab you in the heart” types. I’d never hated dolls growing up, or anything like that. Suddenly, though, I found myself really, really hating them and wanted nothing more than to get the hell out of there, fast.

Turning, I bumped into one of the shelves. A large vase, set precariously on the edge, was knocked off the ledge. Reaching out with my free hand to catch it, I fumbled it and just missed catching it. The vase fell to the floor, seemingly in slow motion. It shattered on impact, the noise seemingly louder than any gunshot in the small space. I stared at the damage for a moment before I swore. “Damn it!”

A low, keening moan erupted from across the narrow hallway in the other room. It quickly rose into a howl that nearly made me pee my pants. Turning, I barely managed to back away from the doorway as a filth-covered shambler stumbled into the room. Thin as a rail and tall, the creature had clearly seen better days. It fell to the floor, slipping on the shards of the broken vase. Its howls echoed in my ears as the shambler struggled to reach me.

Breathing heavily, I brought Baby up but jerked the trigger early. A round passed through the floor next to the shambler’s arm. Swearing enough to give me demerits for a month, I moved to keep the distance between us and fired four more shots. The first struck the shoulder, but the next three went into the shambler’s head. The howls abruptly ceased.

Panting heavily and my ears ringing, I almost didn’t hear the responding howls coming from downstairs.

The action sounded like it was all downstairs. For now, at least. If there were many more, it wouldn’t stay that way. I could hear footsteps and howls below me. There were definitely more. How did I miss them? Thinking back, the answer came to me fairly quickly—I hadn’t checked the kitchen yet. Or the downstairs, really.

Which actually might have saved my life.

The shamblers below were clearly hunting, but they were staying downstairs for the time being. Shamblers were dangerous, but also dumb. No cunning ambushes and many lost track of their prey during a hunt. This gave me a little bit of time. I risked stepping into the hallway and looking back across the bridge toward the stairs. They hadn’t even started to the stairwell yet, but they would soon enough. I needed to get the hell out of there.

How, though?

From what I could see at the base of the stairwell, the path to the front door was clear. However, with an unknown amount of shamblers running around downstairs, I’d be in a footrace once outside. There were too many variables outdoors, things out of my control that would let them get me. The little bridge connecting the two halves of the second floor was a nice chokepoint and, from what I could see, was the only path to these two rooms on this side. I could make a stand here and hope for the best. Or I could go super aggressive.

I didn’t have enough ammo for that option. Staying sneaky had to be the plan. Let them come to me.

The howling grew louder over the near-steady ringing in my ears. Risking another glance over the railing, I counted at least seven shamblers moving around in the living room area. They were clearly searching for me but from the looks of things, none had thought to look up just yet. I had time. Not much, but a little. It was better than none at all.

My hand was slick on the grip. Despite the cool temperature inside the house, I was sweating like crazy. The burning in my legs from the long hike was growing worse and my right calf felt like it was going to cramp up any second. The howls downstairs grew louder. They were getting frustrated. They’d come upstairs soon. Every single howl made my belly flip nervously.

I’d dealt with shamblers in the past, true. I’d killed a lot of them. But never while I was trapped in a house. Every time I’d gone shambler hunting they’d come into my zone, and I shot them on my terms. It wasn’t a game of survival. This? Situations like this were what I’d worked so hard to avoid over the past nine months. Here I was not in my element, but in theirs.

It was a place I did not want to be.

A shambler—female from the looks of it—found the base of the stairs and started sniffing the air like a wild animal. She growled ferally and began to slowly ascend. Shakily, I exhaled and waited. I wanted her to get closer to the middle of the stairs before I did anything. Too high up and the others might climb over her. Too low, and they’d pull her out of the way. I needed my shambler roadblock at just the right—

I stroked the trigger twice. Both shots punched through the ribs of the skinny shambler. It howled in pain and slid down two steps. Not too far, though. Enough to make it difficult for any shambler to come up after.

The gunshots attracted more attention. The others came running for the stairs, their growls and howls setting my teeth on edge. A short fight broke out between two male shamblers, both of whom apparently really wanted to go first. The larger of the two shoved the smaller out of the way and started climbing the stairs.

Fortunately, my makeshift roadblock slowed him down. Taking careful aim, I put two shots into his side. Blood splashed on the pink-striped wallpaper behind him. Falling, the shambler began to howl in pain and anger. The stairs were becoming slick with blood. The other shambler tried to move past but the injured one grabbed its ankle. The larger one must have really wanted to go first. I rewarded him by putting another round through his head.

Lining up my shot on the smaller shambler, I squeezed the trigger two more times. The first shot went right into its chest but on the second, nothing happened. I fired again and nothing.

“Shit!” I screeched and ripped the magazine out, just as Sister Ann had taught me. Slapping the magazine against the wooden railing of the bridge, a stray round went flying from the magazine. The charge handle was next. I worked it quickly three times, just to make sure. The dim lighting made it difficult to see if the chamber was cleared, but I didn’t notice any obstructions. I double-checked the magazine quickly and the next two rounds looked fine. I was almost tempted to toss it aside and grab one of my spares, but I still had over half the mag left and figured it would be enough.

Working quickly, I fed the magazine back into Baby and jerked back the charging handle one more time. The shambler I’d shot once was almost to the top of the stairs now. It was clearly having issues with the slick wooden staircase and my makeshift barricades. Who knew dead shamblers made terrific obstructions?

I’d never had a jam before, so I was keenly aware of lots of things that could go wrong on my next shot. Praying, I lined it up with the smaller male shambler’s head and pulled the trigger.

It broke cleanly and the shambler dropped. Three down, four to go. Grinning, I strode out onto the bridge. My confidence was back with a vengeance. There was a new sheriff in Shambler Town. “Come and get some!”

They came. Or rather, tried. None of them made it up the stairs. Baby and I made certain of that. It took almost an entire magazine but eventually they all died. By that time, though, it felt like I’d been shooting for hours. I wanted to get the hell out of there. The canning supplies, if they were even really there, could wait.

Exhausted, I carefully navigated down the stairs and stumbled out into the front yard. I was alive and unharmed. Somehow.

“Sister Ann is going to kill me,” I whispered as I checked my arms for any signs of scratches or cuts. I didn’t see any. Looking back at the house, I glowered at it. If it wasn’t for the canning materials somewhere inside—and a decided lack of matches and an accelerant—I’d burn the damn place to the ground.

Clearly I’d been spending too much of my free time around the twins.

There was no reason to tell Sister Ann what had gone down. It would save me from a very stern lecture about securing each and every room before turning my back on it. It was one of the first lessons she’d put me through when I told her I wanted to go out and kill shamblers. Check, then recheck. In my haste, I’d forgotten.

“Stupid, Maddie. Real stupid.”

The aftereffects of the firefight began to take hold. My hands were shaking. After a few failed tries I managed to fish out the GPS and check the time. Blinking, I double-checked the numbers, thinking they were wrong. They weren’t. I’d only been inside for twenty minutes, but it’d felt like five hours. There wasn’t much else for me to do. Not now, at least. Eventually I’d need to bring someone up here to help find the canning supplies, and clear out the bodies. Definitely bringing the four-wheeler as well.

The adrenaline began to bleed off me. My hands were cramping thanks to how tight I was gripping Baby. I tried flexing my fingers but that only lessened the sensation. Shivering, I finally noticed something I should have when I’d first arrived. There was a side entryway on the right side of the house. I’d missed it before because I’d come in from the opposite angle. Now, though, it was easily seen. The screen door had been torn off its hinges. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that was how the shamblers had gotten into the house. Temple might have done a fantastic job with the storm shutters but apparently he forgot to check the side door.

I couldn’t blame him. Not really. This was on me. The amount of times Sister Ann had told me to triple-check my surroundings was staggering, and yet here I was, covered in sweat and reeking of gun smoke, alive only because these particular shamblers had been really damn stupid.

There was no point in hiding any of this from her. Sister Ann would know just by the stench of gunpowder that clung to my clothes. She was practically psychic when it came to ferreting out information like this from the other girls. I was even easier to read. We all were an open book, she the librarian. It just wasn’t fair.

As I started back toward campus, one thought resonated more than the rest: this lecture from Sister Ann was going to be a long one.


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