LEFT ALIVE (Zombie series Box Set): Books 1-6 of the Post-apocalyptic zombie action and adventure series (21 page)

“What happened?” I look at her, nearing the heart of darkness.

“We got to Springfield and we found Bobby,” she says. “He was hanging from a telephone pole. We found Chris and Pat dead in the streets, cut up and missing most of their soft meat. That’s when we realized that people were eating each other. Kelci and I took it slow, hiding in one spot for a day or two, scavenging. It took months to slowly make our way through that town. We barely survived winter. But eventually our luck ran out. Those fuckers found us. Kelci told me to make a run for it while she snuck out a different way, trying to lure them away.” She pauses for a moment and I know what happens next.

I don’t need for her to continue, but she does. “They raped her. Right out in the street. There were others—people doing just like us. They were in the houses nearby, watching as they ripped her apart. They liked her screams. It made them rock hard. When she gave up and stopped fighting, that’s when they started cutting her up. They took off her skin and took the meat underneath. They left her lying in the street. One of them took her face as a trophy.”

“I’m sorry,” I say softly.

“Not as much as they were,” her voice ripples with venom and fire. “I tracked the bastards and followed them. When I found out Johnny was with them, I killed him last. One by one, I picked them off on their raids. I burned them alive whenever I got the chance. They destroyed half of Springfield trying to get me, but eventually they lit out and left a few behind they thought they didn’t need. I made sure Johnny knew exactly who it was that killed all of them. A useless bitch. I cut his face off while he was still alive. But only after he told me where Andrew, Mark, and Stefan were.”

Cold chills race down my back and a shiver covers my body as I listen to her. “I tracked them to Dayton and by then, the mindless ones were coming out in full force, taking to the street and hunting for the living. I fed them to the Zombies one by one. Slowly lowering them from the rooftops so the crazies ate them from the feet up, ripping them apart. Eventually I found a band of survivors in Dayton that weren’t too bad, but it’s the same fucking story everywhere. People still think that we can come back from this shit. They fight for power and authority over burnt out rock. It’s like playing king of the hill in a fucking thunderstorm.”

She looks at me now with a strange look in her cold, dead eyes. It’s a spark. It’s life that she has once more. She looks at me as if I am a remnant from a long dead world, come back to judge the world for all their sins. I don’t like the way she looks at me. I don’t like the way her eyes glitter with wonder as she looks at me. “And then I saw you,” she says calmly. “I’ve seen a lot of strangers passing through Dayton and the surrounding area, but never one who had as much drive as you. I knew right away that there was something going on with you that I wanted to know about. So I followed you, thinking you had a cure for all this nonsense. Everywhere you left a mark, it was cunning and it was deadly. I liked what I saw, but then I found you in that alleyway and I knew I was too late.” She stands from her perch and gets on her feet. “You don’t have to tell me where you’re going or why. I already know. You’re too fucking serious, Charlie. You talk in your sleep. I don’t know who Lexi and Val are, but they can thank me later that you’re still alive.” She walks over to the counter and picks up her bow before slinging her quiver over her head, readying to depart. “How stupid can I fucking be? To think you had some idea or special mission to save the world. I’m getting pretty fucking desperate if you ask me.”

I look at her, not sure if I disagree with her. I want to, but I’m not sure. I’ve seen too much to the contrary.

“The whole damned world has gone to hell and there’s nothing we can do to save it,” she growls.

“Maybe,” I answer softly. “There still might be hope.”

I stare out the window, watching the small town remain frozen and picturesque in a sort of decaying still life. It was called Blanchester. I’m not sure it’s called anything other than that now. In truth, I’m surprised that it hasn’t been burnt to the ground. The man who took my arm was no doubt the sole survivor of this small community and his death left a sort of empty void in the town’s air. I don’t know how long I’ve been out. Lindsay doesn’t give me a straight answer when I ask her. Maybe she doesn’t know. Maybe days are pointless to her, but they mean a hell of a lot to me. Every day that I’m stuck in this damned tattoo parlor, is another day that Lexi and Val are out there with people like the monsters in Lindsay’s past. She was so close to their age that I can’t help but wonder if those are the kinds of men and women around the girls. She never told me what happened to OSU, mostly because I doubt she knows. But the University of Michigan became a slaughterhouse. I could only think of what the Gators did to each other when anarchy enveloped the world.

I stare out the dingy windows at a world that has forgotten everything that is beautiful, and I wonder what there truly is left out there. Surely there are islands and mountaintops somewhere that still have the beauty of emeralds, jades, ermine, and verdant hues of every kind. There has to be sanctuary somewhere. There has to be life. I think that I will find it if I stay true. My cause is just and selfless. There are virtues still alive in this world that need to endure. Humanity has fallen to ashes and cinders, but there are still humans and isn’t that the one true hope that is needed for humanity to survive? There is goodness in the heart of all rough, hard people. I can’t believe that they have all died or turned to monsters such as myself. There has to be others out there.

“I’m going to go have a look,” Lindsay says to me from the far side of the parlor.

More and more, I’m beginning to believe that this place used to be a barber shop or some sort of chain haircut place. It feels like one. I look at Lindsay with her knife strapped to her left ankle and another strapped to her right bicep. I know of three more knives on her. Someone had to have taught her all of this and I wonder who it was. She didn’t just pick it up along the way. For as graphic and detailed as her story was, there is a lot of time missing from it. There are a lot of nameless faces and voices whispering behind her tale that makes me wonder what else she has seen. I could list all the questions that bother me and ask her, but I know she won’t give me a straight reply. She still retains a mask from her old life, a flirtatious, cutesy façade that immediately tells me that I’m getting nowhere.

“I’ll go with you,” I say as I push away from the door frame.

“Like hell you are,” Lindsay smiles as she slings her quiver back over her shoulder.

“I can handle myself,” I tell her. “I didn’t lose my good hand and I can still swing a machete if you get into any kind of trouble.”

“Oh I know you can handle yourself,” she grins. “Most people would have been Zombie chow in a couple of seconds after running into that courtyard, but you—.” She pauses and looks at me with eyes that make me feel uncomfortable. It’s that strange sort of admiration or appreciation that makes me feel naked. “You kept your shit together and hacked your way out. But word to the wise, next time, stick around.”

“You’re not the only one who’s met psychos on the road,” I tell her. “Couldn’t trust you.”

“Can you now?” She raises an eyebrow and smiles.

“I don’t know,” I answer. “But I’m willing to give it a try.”

“Good,” she says, breaking away from my gaze. “But not today.”

I look at her and realize that I’m being a complete idiot. Why am I asking for permission or even asking for her approval to go outside? She’s not my caretaker. She’s not even my ally at this point. Right now, we’re just two people hiding out in a tattoo parlor. I have eaten her food and taken from her as much as I feel comfortable doing at this point. It’s time for me to start gathering my own supplies. It’s time for me to start doing my own work.

Going to the counter, I grab my belt and slip it through the loopholes in my pants, fastening the machetes I had taken to my side. My shirt is battered and torn, but it still works just as well. I pull it on and slowly button my shirt while Lindsay hops onto a counter across the room and watches me with a smile on her face. I know I should probably be grateful for finding a fairly attractive companion, but I’m not digging her. She’s violent, reckless, and above all else, dangerous. I’m beginning to realize that my time with her needs to come to an end soon.

Everything is ridiculously more complicated with one hand. Each button becomes a monumental challenge until I’ve mastered it and I don’t really do that until I’m on the last button. The cloth of my sleeve rubs against my bandaged stump and sends waves of agony and nausea over me that is nearly crippling. Rolling up the sleeve, I hear her giggle at every mistake I make and my growing frustration. I glare across the room at her and make for the door. She hops down from her perch and rushes to stand between me and the door. She’s agile and I nearly step on top of her as she slips between me and the entrance. There’s a rope wrapped around the two handles, keeping the doors firmly shut, but I’m not worried about that yet. First, I need to get her out of my way.

“I don’t need both hands to search for food,” I tell her.

“I know, but what if you have to run? Or fight?” she asks me with a serious look on her face. I don’t like her. I realize that now. Her eyes are too beady and her nose is too large for her face. It’s almost as if God realized that Lindsay was going to be too beautiful and replaced her facial features with old spares from the junk drawer. With enough makeup, she probably would have looked attractive or just enough to be one of the prettier girls in the group, but now, there’s no hope for her. She is the rolling hill of average.

“I can handle myself,” I tell her as calmly as I can.

Suddenly, I’m on my knees and the world around me is swirling, spinning, and I feel like I’m going to vomit. I look at her thigh and wonder what the hell just happened and why is there an overwhelming sensation of hellish pain striking throughout my body like some sort of tormenting blitzkrieg. I look up at her and stare helplessly into her cold, indifferent face.

“Be thankful I just hit you in the ribs,” she says to me. I think I’m going to puke. “I could have fucked up the bars on your stump if I went for that.” I can feel her hand in my hair, on my scalp as she shoves me backwards. The whole world is spinning as I crash to the floor on my back, panting, sucking in as much air as I can get. “I’ll be back in a while. Don’t go outside. You need at least another week to mend before we continue on. So don’t fucking move.”

I watch her go, cursing and spitting as I drool in my agony on the floor, coughing and choking for some sort of control and stability. I do end up vomiting. Thankfully I find a bag into which to relieve myself before it’s too late. Glaring out the windows, I watch her standing nonchalantly on the sidewalk, looking up and down the street as she pulls her hood up over her head. There’s a wind outside and dust is in the air, but I don’t think there will be a storm. If there is, I hope she gets ripped apart out there in it. Good riddance. I throw up again.

Trying to keep sight of her is not an easy task. Once she starts moving, she is a panther on the prowl. The speed and agility with which she moves leaves me stunned and breathless. I only wished that I could move with as much ease and grace as she did. When I move, it’s slow and clumsy. I have no other real choice. I’m a slow and clumsy guy. Granted, I made it this far with my own skills. I’m not as worthless and useless as she might think. Looking out the window, I watch her disappear behind the building across the road. When she’s gone, I slump down to the floor and wonder what to do about the vomit. It’s mostly just liquid and the soup that I ate yesterday.

Lindsay eats more than I do and I have no doubt that she’s used to having a hoard. After all, she has been living in the same places and with survivors much longer than I ever did. For a full year I was by myself, living on my own supplies. I think back over the time I’ve spent on the road and in the wilderness. She hadn’t even made it out of her own state. I had made it out of Michigan and into Ohio and was almost into Kentucky before I lost my hand. I look at my bandaged left arm and pushed myself up. The world is slowly coming to a rest and my knees don’t feel so shaky anymore. Pushing my sleeve up to my armpit, I begin to pick at the gauze and wrap. Layer by layer, I slowly remove the wrap until I see what’s underneath.

I can still feel my arm. I can flex my hand and wiggle my fingers, even though there isn’t flesh and bone there. I can still feel everything. It’s the most horrifying and alien sensation that I have ever felt. When the last wrap falls free and I look at my stump, I begin to shake uncontrollably. She had sawn off my arm with my own hacksaw, the one used to nearly behead Cal. I was surprised to see that everything she did was nearly flawless. There was no discoloration, no swollen infection, and there was definitely no sign of necrotic flesh. In fact, everything looked well, all things considered. The only thing that horrified me was that she had used a flap of skin—God, the thought of that is horrendous—and used metal bars and studs, presumably from the parlor, to adhere the skin to my arm, covering the massive wound. Everything hurt like hell and I am reminded of this as I try to prod what remains of my forearm.

I nearly scream at the ripping pain that ignites through my entire arm, but I swallow it just in case there is something nearby that can hear me. Slowly I lean against a cupboard and stare at what’s left of my left arm. I had maybe two and a half inches left of my forearm, but other than that, it’s gone. No wrist, no palm, no fingers, not a damn thing. I want to cry, but somewhere deep inside of me is a voice telling me to be grateful. I’m still alive. I’m still functioning and I can still make it to Florida, and that’s all that really matters right now.

I don’t cry. I won’t give that bastard in the alley—rotting—the satisfaction. Pulling myself up, I suddenly realize something. “You need at least another week to mend before we continue on,” she had said. Or at least something like that. I don’t remember entirely, but the words burn inside of my mind and I have to stop what I’m doing to think them over.

“She’s coming with me?” I ask the parlor and nothing responds.

I hadn’t realized how truly alone I was before I heard Jason’s fiancée speak. That beautiful woman had been the first reasonable person I had spoken with in ages, before she blew her damned brains out across the dusty remnant of her lawn. She had done something inside of me. Something had clicked that afternoon that injured me to this day. Loneliness prowled at my feet like a ravenous wolf, and I had been desperate for it once. Before she killed herself, Jason’s fiancée had ignited a beacon of longing and desire for companionship that refused to die, and when she killed herself, it had only enraged the fire, rather than smother it. I wish she had killed it with that gunshot. I wish my longing for human interaction had bled out in the wasteland, but it had only grown more compelling. Even when Lindsay had saved me, I had wanted to go back. I had wanted to find her and thank her, to feel the way I used to.

But I had turned my back on that. Over and over again, I reminded myself that I was going to Florida to find my girls. I was going there to find them and to hug them and kiss them and have all the companionship I could ever desire. The world was dying and I was going to go out with the ones I love around me. So I kissed the idea of humanity goodbye and abandoned my savior back in Bellbrook. Good riddance to that life, and I had considered myself an irredeemable monster because the whole world had forced me to be so.

And yet, how wrong I had been. In my dying moments, in the dusty street of a nameless town, Lindsay had found me. She had found me and pulled me down the street to some stupid parlor and saved my life at the expense of her own resources and possibly her own life. How could she have known that the man I had killed was alone? How could she know that the rest of this worthless town was empty? She didn’t. All she had cared about was saving my irrelevant life one more time. I had to question why. I wanted to grab her and sit her down and demand a real answer from her, but I don’t think I need to. I don’t think I need to hear her, because I know the answer.

She is tired of the world of isolation and loneliness. It is better to have someone at your side, fighting at your back, and laughing with you in the darkness than to be wandering the world alone and paranoid. She wants someone there with her, to remind her of the goodness in people, just like I want her there to remind me. I don’t have to like her. I just need her there.

Like most people in this world, I assume that there’s nothing left for Lindsay. She must have written off her parents and siblings and whoever else was in her life when she chased after her treacherous comrades into the wasteland. Why would she not go looking for those she loves, unless she knew they were either dead or far, far away now? She must be alone. She must have been alone in Dayton for months before she found me. I suppose that if I had been in her directionless position that I too would have looked for someone to help, someone who had a purpose other than just surviving. A purpose is enough to keep a man going. Purpose is enough to give a soul drive.

If she wants to go with me, then so be it. I am completely okay with that. I am completely willing to take on a traveling companion. I look out the window and shrug. After all, she does have a great body to look at. At least she’s not some three hundred pound fat guy. I’m shameless. I hope Tiffany can’t hear my thoughts, wherever she is. I feel guilt festering inside my soul, but I know she wouldn’t want me to be alone all this time. She’s going to be pissed if there is a heaven and she knows that I never married again. She had told me specifically to find someone else, not to linger on the dead. Easier said than done. When someone dies in your life, you’re immediately rendered into damaged goods. You don’t recover, you don’t adapt. You cope with the ghosts of the ones you’ve lost.