Zomb-Pocalypse (14 page)

He shuts his mouth again, as though I actually have the power to command him to do anything.

“He’s got to be okay,” I reiterate, not sure if I’m trying to convince Silas or myself.

“Okay,” Silas agrees, surprising me. “He’s okay, but he’s holed up for the night by now, and you need to stay here and wait till morning.” Silas taps his head, “You have to be smart with these buggers. You can’t just go running around willy-nilly.”

He’s saying everything that I don’t want to hear, but I know that he’s also telling me the truth.

“Okay,” I tell him, licking my dry lips. My mind is already thinking ahead to tomorrow, when I can start my search for Ryan.

Silas looks at me, and nods approvingly, as he hands me a couple pills and a bottle of water that he’s pilfered from my backpack. I’m not sure that I completely trust him, but he’s gotten me this far. So, I swallow them without questioning him.

My trust takes a bit of a hit when I see him helping himself to a couple of the pills too, but there isn’t much I can do about it.

“What did you just give me?” I ask, my words starting to slur.

Silas looks at me like he’s debating keeping it a secret. “Anti-biotics, and an Oxycodone.” My heart stutters at his use of the taboo word.

“Isn’t that a street drug?” I ask. I know I should be panicking, but it doesn’t come.

“It’s also a pretty potent pain killer, and I only gave you the lowest dose. Settle down, and go to sleep. You’ll feel worse in the morning, but then you’ll start healing.”

“That was not very reassuring,” I tell him before I sink into unconsciousness and everything bad melts away.

Chapter Twelve

I wake up with what I imagine, in my limited experience, to be a hangover. My head is foggy, and my skull aches—though that could be from hitting the cement yesterday. My entire body hurts, and the pain in my arm is beyond imaginable. I can only be thankful that it isn’t my dominant hand that was hurt. I can’t afford the luxury of staying here to recover, not that I think Silas would want me to anyway.

I sit up, toss the blanket that Silas must have draped over me when I passed out last night, and instantly feel the cold chill that permeates the air. I don’t have my hoodie to keep me warm anymore, and I’m regretting letting Silas shred it.

“Cold?” Silas’ voice cuts through the semi-lit room and startles me. I glance around blearily and see that he’s propped up in a chair in the corner, holding a large shot gun across his lap.

I stare at the gun for a minute while trying to determine if he’s a threat. He’s hard to read, but I don’t think he spent over an hour sewing me up last night just to kill me today.

“Yeah, I’m cold,” I finally admit.

Silas sets his gun in the corner of the room and disappears for a minute, returning with a large, black hoodie that says “FBI” and “Federal Boobie Inspector” across the front.

“It’s your color,” he remarks as he casually tosses it to me. Of course, I miss the catch because of my messed up arm. I know it’s the apocalypse and I can’t afford to be picky, but I still resist the urge to scoff at this shirt.

“Thanks,” I tell him as I carefully thread my arm through the sleeve and zip it up. It’s like being wrapped up in a warm hug, and suddenly that’s all that’s important to me. Though I’d better not get bit in this shirt, I don’t like the idea of roaming the earth for all of eternity wearing a Boobie Inspector hoodie.

“You hungry?” Silas asks me.

“No thanks, I need to get going,” I tell him, trying to give him a polite brush off. I am hungry, but I need to start my search for Ryan.

“You’re hungry, sit down for a minute to eat, and I’ll go with you to find your friend.” His offer blindsides me.

“You don’t have to do that,” I say, even though I really want his help now that he’s offered.

“I know,” he grunts, digging around in the cabinet for a couple cans of fruit. He pops the lids off like a pro, using a small knife that he pulls from his pocket, and hands me one. “I was going out anyway,” he tells me for good measure.

“Thanks,” I say, accepting both his help and the can of mixed fruit at the same time. He doesn’t offer me a spoon, so I put the can to my lips and hungrily gulp down the fruit chunks.

When I’ve finished, Silas holds out another handful of pills for me to swallow. I stare at them suspiciously before shaking my head.

“No thanks.”

Silas lets out one of his signature sighs that I have come to recognize as him being annoyed with me.

“It’s just a couple harmless Advil, and antibiotics,” he tells me, refusing to put his hand down.

“Nothing else?” I can’t help double checking.

“We need to be alert today,” he says, like that proves beyond a shadow of a doubt that he isn’t drugging me.

My arm is hurting, and I don’t want to develop a nasty infection. So, I do take the pills, vowing to leave him immediately if he’s lying.

I don’t get the spins this time, so I’m satisfied that he’s telling the truth. I grab my backpack and secure it around my shoulders before looking over at him expectantly.

He’s staring at me like I’ve grown a second head. “What?” I ask, fighting the urge to take an exploratory wipe at my nose.

“Where is your weapon?” He speaks slowly, like he thinks I won’t understand him if he doesn’t.

“I had a fire poker, but I lost it yesterday,” I level with him.

He looks completely stunned. “How are you even still alive?” he asks. His face is deadpan, and I know he isn’t joking.

“I never learned how to shoot, okay? So it seemed safer if I wasn’t armed,” I admit, not liking the judgement in his gaze. This had, after all, been a decision made by every person in our group, not just me.

Silas shakes his head like I’m speaking a foreign language. “You are never safer without a gun.” He practically spits the words at me, as if saying them is blasphemy.

Silas goes into the kitchen, and I can see him shoving some extra bullets into his bug out bag.

“Let’s go,” he says. He whistles shrilly at me when I head towards the door. “This way,” he points to the window and the fire escape.

Now it’s my turn to sigh. I’m not looking forward to another harrowing climb on that ladder.

When we reach the fire escape, he surprises me by climbing up, rather than down. I think about asking him what he’s doing, but I go against my nature and keep quiet. As strange as he is, he hasn’t steered me wrong yet.

The fire escape leads all the way up to the roof, and Silas turns around to help me over the top. I stare around, wishing I had asked why before I got all the way up here.

It’s nothing special, just an ordinary roof. I can’t help but wonder if Silas is messing with me. There is a huge pile of empty beer cans laying around. I stare at them, wondering if Silas drank them all himself. I don’t ask, though, because I’m not sure I really want to know. 

“If you’re going to roll with me, you need to know how to shoot,” he surprises me by saying.

I let out a laugh, not at the idea of learning how to shoot—I have been hoping someone would teach me since this whole mess started—but at the idea that Silas thinks he can teach me in the ten minutes I am going to allow him to waste before I start my search for Ryan.

He pulls a wicked-looking gun from his bag and hands it to me. “First rule of gun safety, never aim at anything you don’t intend to shoot.”

I take the gun; it feels heavy and foreign in my hand. “Why does it look weird?” I ask, staring at the end. It isn’t your typical snub-nosed pistol. This one is long and skinny at the end.

“That’s a silencer. A must have in a zombie world,” Silas tells me proudly, and I feel a burst of excitement. There were so many times Ryan and Megan could have used a gun, but they were too afraid that it would bring more zombies. It had even been a major problem yesterday in the store.

“Alright. Let’s do this thing,” I say with a cocky look towards Silas.

Silas’ face splits into a grin. He comes up behind me and stands so close that my backpack is pressed into his front. I find it a little creepy and go to move away, but he wraps his arm around my waist. My pulse skyrockets. Have I read him wrong? Is he a creep after all?

“Settle down,” he murmurs in my ear. His free hand nudges my arms into position and, with shaky hands, I lift them up. A stab of pain slices down my stitches, and I let out a small whimper as I shift the weight of the gun to my stronger hand.

“No, you have to use both hands, especially at first, or the gun could recoil and hit you right in the forehead.” His words don’t inspire a lot of confidence. He points to a couple of beer cans that are set up on a massive air conditioner unit.

“Aim,” he says, his breath tickling my ear. I aim with shaking hands. “Keep those hands steady,” he barks at me sternly, and I mentally scold myself.

“Inhale while you aim, and exhale when you pull the trigger.”

I stare down the barrel of the gun and get a bead on the first can. I’m so nervous that I feel like I could jump out of my skin.

Silas puts his arms on either side of mine to steady me. “Do it,” he urges.

I say a quick prayer and pull the trigger. Nothing happens. “It’s not working,” I say in surprise, turning to look at Silas.

“Why not?” he asks me.

I shake my head, “I have no idea.” 

Silas looks pained. “You didn’t turn the safety off.” He points and then shows me how to flip it.

“Why didn’t you tell me that?” I ask, feeling annoyed that Silas is trying to teach me some kind of life lesson and is wasting time in the process.

“Because I wanted you to know what it’s like when you try and shoot at a zombie and that happens,” he retorts, and the anger goes right out of me.

That’s actually a good lesson.

“Let’s try this again,” he says, standing behind me and helping me line up the pistol. 

I pull the trigger once more, and this time it works. The recoil is more than I expected, and I drop the gun in surprise, causing it to fire again. The stray bullet lodges in the brick wall.

“Jesus Christ woman!” Silas shouts at me, forgetting in his anger that the town is filled with hungry zombies.

I blush bright red and bend to pick the gun up again, but Silas pushes me out of the way and gets to it first.

“We need more rules. Never, ever, ever drop your pistol, especially if it’s loaded. That’s a damn good way to shoot your own foot off, or some other important body part.”

My heart is thumping loudly as I realize what I could have done. I can tell that he’s really angry because he’s breathing like he just ran a marathon. “I’m sorry,” I say, and I know it’s not enough. It’s a pathetic excuse. Silas slides the magazine out of the gun and hands it to me.

“These are your cartridges, they go into your magazine.” He demonstrates and then slides them out again for me to try.

The pieces fit together without too much fuss and, oddly, I’m proud of myself.

“This is the safety,” he reminds me again, pointing to the small button on the side of the gun.

“Try again,” he demands.

I want to refuse, but I know a guy like Silas isn’t going to cajole me into it. He’s going to tell me what’s what, and I don’t think I would like the consequences.

I make sure the safety is off and then aim once again. This time Silas doesn’t help me. I breathe, aim, and squeeze the trigger on an exhale. The gun recoils and the strain on my arm makes me grunt, but I hold on to it this time. The bullet lodges loudly into the metal AC unit, and I turn to Silas with a horrified expression on my face.

“I’m so sorry,” I exclaim, covering my mouth with my good hand.

Silas looks confused, “Sorry for what?” He seems genuinely perplexed.

“For shooting the AC,” I clarify, and Silas lets out a bark of laughter.

“Do you think the electricity is going to come on and I’m going to be mad my apartment doesn’t have AC?” he asks.

I shake my head. I have no idea.

“The electricity ain’t coming back on, this is the apocalypse,” he holds up his finger and ticks off his first point, “This isn’t my apartment anyways. So even if it did come on by some miracle, I still wouldn’t care.” Another finger goes up with his point, and I’m tempted to raise a choice finger of my own—right in his smug face! “Third, it’s winter. We don’t need no damn AC.”

I don’t wait to hear if he has another annoying point. Instead, I raise the gun, feeling a little more comfortable every time I use it. I squeeze off three more rounds, and this time I hear the unmistakable ting that proves I actually managed to hit a beer can. It feels good, and a huge grin spreads over my face.

Silas gives me a thumbs up and digs in his backpack. “This is for you, you’re a true zombie killer now,” he says with a grin, and I’m not sure if he’s joking or serious.

He pulls a smooth leather holster from the bag and helps me strap it on.

“Keep it loaded, and make sure your gun has the safety on when you holster it,” he warns. I slide the safety on while he’s watching before putting the gun into its holder.

“Are we ready to go now?” I ask, determined to leave even if he isn’t.

Silas walks over and retrieves his backpack. After shouldering it, he gives me the nod. “Back down the ladder,” he confirms, and I bite back a groan.

I can see a couple of zombies in the alley this time, probably drawn by the sound I made when I hit that AC unit, or by Silas yelling at me for almost shooting us. Silas stops when we are five feet above them and fires off four rapid bullets.

Four bullets, and four zombies go down with head shots. “All clear,” Silas says as he jumps down the last couple feet. I follow him a bit more carefully and feel the slightest tug of annoyance when he doesn’t turn around to help me down.

My feet hit the concrete, and I have to side step the corpses.

 “So, where was the last place you saw this guy?” Silas asks, and I point to the back of the pharmacy.

“In the pharmacy. He was surrounded, and we got separated.”

Silas looks grim at my description of the events. “Are you sure you want to see what might be in there?” he asks.

I don’t even hesitate before I nod, yes.

“Let’s go then,” Silas says, motioning for me to follow as he scurries up the alley, keeping to the shadows and darting around the dumpsters.

I have to run to keep up with him. Unlike Ryan, he doesn’t look back to make sure I can keep up with his gruelling pace. By the time we get to the end of the alley and he pauses to peek cautiously around the corner, I’m already sweating. It’s not that I’m in bad shape, I was a cheerleader after all, but the massive surge of adrenaline and fear isn’t helping.

Silas does some sort of military-looking hand signal and then takes off again. I have no idea what it means, so I follow him blindly. I go running around the corner and bump into his back because he’s stopped and is looking around up the street.