Zombies in Paradise (Love in the Age of Zombies Book 2) (10 page)

Chapter Seven

In the kitchen Kevin pulled out a state map and asked if Doc and Michelle could help plan his route. Doc agreed, but Michelle said she didn’t do maps. The men went upstairs and studied the map on the kitchen counter, the room lit by the skylight. They penciled in a route, taking state roads and avoiding as many populated areas as possible. Kevin dug a highlighter out of the drawer and traced over the path.

“You realize you may not be able to follow this route,” Doc said. “Some of the roads may be jammed with cars and zombies. Some of the smaller communities not on the map may be barricaded or swarming with zombies. Or mercenaries. I wouldn’t be surprised if you had to go off road now and then.”

“If I have to go off road I can. And I’ll take my bike along in case I need to ditch the Jeep.”

“Hmmm. That’s smart. But don’t come back without my Jeep.” They continued poring over the map, and eventually had the route planned. Kevin would drive past Chelsea then head north, passing east of Lansing to avoid Grand Rapids. Then he’d head west on M-57 to M-37 north, and eventually arrive in Manistee. From there he didn’t need a map as he knew the route by heart—US 31 north to M-22, past Onekama and Arcadia into Frankfort. The route had a minimum of small communities and even though this was not a pleasure trip, the last twenty miles would be very scenic.

Kevin asked Doc to explain preeclampsia again, and Doc went over the details, putting it in layman’s terms. But it wasn’t just preeclampsia he was worried about—Michelle was at risk for any number of conditions, including gestational diabetes. Doc had no testing equipment, no way to monitor the fetal heartbeat and few options for treatment. If things started going bad she could go downhill fast.

“So let’s say I get to Frankfort and they do have a working hospital with doctors and equipment. We’ll pack up and head there, right? And hopefully my trip up will help us know what places to avoid.”

“While you’re gone I’ll try to scavenge more gas cans so we can drain the gas from the boat we found. We should be able to make the trip on one tank, but I’d rather take extra and not need it than to run out. I’ll also make sure Michelle’s okay. She and I can spend some time getting acquainted.”

They headed back downstairs and Kevin began to pack. He didn’t need much—a change of clothes, enough food and water for a short trip. He debated whether he should take some booze—not for drinking, but as a kind of currency should he need to barter for something. He decided to take a case of whiskey, though he was loath to remove it from the house.

He packed his revolver and Doc’s shotgun, ammunition, a small hatchet and a can of fix-a-flat. Doc loaned him a hunting knife but kept the rifle. Kevin packed a sleeping bag and a rain coat.

By the time the gear was packed securely and stowed in the Jeep, Michelle was sulky and emotional again. He felt bad, but there wasn’t anything he could say to make her feel better, so he took Doc’s advice and gave her space.

Once he was packed and ready to go, it was already mid-morning. Feeling like a complete heel, he headed back downstairs. Michelle was in the bedroom, sitting on the bed.

“Hon, I’m all packed. It’s time for me to leave,” he said somewhat timidly.

“Okay.”

He gave her a kiss on the lips. She hesitated but then returned his kiss. Barely. He hated leaving like this. But what could he do? With a sigh, Kevin left her sitting on the bed. Doc checked outside and saw the coast was clear, so they walked outside.

“Doc, I  .  .  .  ” he started.

Doc patted him on the back. “I’ll take care of her, Kevin. You just make sure you take care of yourself. No unnecessary risks. Be smart, be aware, and get back here as soon as you can. She’ll be fine, she’s just scared. And you’d better take
damned
good care of my Jeep!”

Kevin nodded and slid into the driver’s seat. He took one more look back at the house to see if Michelle had come upstairs. She hadn’t. He held out his hand and Doc shook it heartily.

“Good luck, Kevin. We’ll be here when you get back.”

Kevin still couldn’t talk and was having difficulty reining in his emotions. He didn’t want to get emotional in front of Doc for God’s sake! They finished shaking hands and Kevin backed the Jeep down the driveway. Looking up and down the road, he saw a couple of zombies, but nothing to worry about. He’d handled a lot worse. He pulled onto the narrow street and headed west. He began driving past the silent houses, feeling empty and alone, just because Michelle didn’t say goodbye.
Geez, I am so whipped!
he thought. Just as Kevin made the first turn at the end of the block, Michelle stepped outside and, unseen by Kevin, waved goodbye.

He headed out of town and began negotiating the back roads of southern Michigan. The Jeep cast a shadow on the road before him. He had the heat on in the cool of the morning, but knew by mid-day he’d shed the jacket.

It could have been a pleasant morning drive. There was no traffic, he could see wildflowers in the fields and could faintly hear song birds. But it was difficult to notice them, much less appreciate them. What once would have been a pleasant drive was instead a tense, full-radar exercise in awareness. Rusting car crashes, fallen trees, even washouts; these kept him on alert. But it was something else that kept him on
high
alert.

Zombies were everywhere. Kevin saw them in the open fields, saw them milling around houses and buildings. He had to swerve around them in the road. In his rear view mirror he could see the ones he passed slowly turn his way and began to shamble after him.

But he was alert for more than just zombies. He’d only seen four survivors besides Doc and Michelle; three attacked him and died for their trouble. The fourth was a man with a dog, holed up in a school a few miles from Kevin’s home. He assumed any survivors had evil intent until proven otherwise.

Kevin focused on the task at hand. He knew the Jeep would attract attention from the living and dead alike. If they could hear him, they’d come looking for him. He followed the route he usually took on his bike, heading north and west. The zombies in the road were a nuisance but not much of a threat, and otherwise the beginning of his trip was uneventful. He skirted Dexter and kept west, taking side roads to avoid Chelsea.
I don’t want to go to Chelsea
, he thought instinctively. He likewise skirted around Stockbridge, heading west just south of White Oak to avoid the interstate as long as possible. Northwest of Eaton Rapids near Charlotte he crossed over I-69. He had carefully planned the route which would take him on an overpass without any entrance or exit ramps. From what Doc had seen, the interstates could be a huge headache—and highly dangerous.

When Kevin got to the overpass, the scene below was horrific. This was not a traffic jam; this was an escape, but an escape with no place to go. Just as Doc had described, all lanes of the highway were blocked. The lanes, shoulders, median, banks, all were packed with metal, cold and silent. Zombies milled around the road, shuffling and shambling into each other.

About a half-mile away was a very dark spot on the highway. Kevin raised his binoculars and took a look. The dark spot was the site of an explosion. The burned-out husks of dozens of cars surrounded a huge, dark pool of burned pavement. Thrown against the bank was what appeared to be the remains of a tanker-truck. Some of the steel had melted. His guess was that a gas tanker had exploded, perhaps when mercenaries tried to hijack the fuel.
Geez, it looks like Mad Max
,
Kevin thought. Whomever was involved couldn’t have survived. That was obvious by the zombies around the crater.

They showed signs of injury—he could see shattered bone, arms burned off, missing legs, rotting flesh  .  .  .  others only showed bite marks. As he was surveying the scene from within the Jeep, one of the zombies close to the overpass noticed him and began that rasping sound. That got the others’ attention and they, too, turned to him. Kevin thanked God this was an inaccessible overpass, as they had no way to get to him. Not that they didn’t try.

A few tried to crawl up the bank of the overpass, but it was steep, they were slow, and halfway up was a substantial fence. This fence was meant to withstand possible car accidents. The zombies came up against it and were stymied. None of them could climb a fence.

Their rasping noises got the attention of zombies stuck in their cars too. When Kevin first arrived on the overpass, there was only a little movement below him. Now the zombies all moved in his direction, and in cars he could see thrashing heads and flailing arms. Kevin began to see movement all along the line. There must have been thousands of them. Many of them were trapped in their vehicles, unable to even accidentally disengage their seatbelts. They thrashed around like rats caught in traps. Eventually, Kevin hoped, they would decay to the point where they were no longer a threat, but how long would that take? It had already been over six months, and still they moved and walked. Whatever the disease was, it somehow preserved them.

He took his foot off the brake and moved on. It was a beautiful day in Michigan. Trees were in full spring attire, the air was fragrant, the fields wore that shade of verdant green you can only truly see after you’ve weathered six months of cold, overcast skies and colorless snow. Once again he could hear songbirds, crows, and oddly enough, a singular dog, barking off in the distance.

As he slowly departed, Kevin could hear the rasping, snarling sounds of dead men clawing at a fence, men who wanted nothing more than to ingest his flesh. Other than that, they wanted nothing, felt nothing, thought nothing. A singular existence. The sound faded as he drove off.

He headed northwest on M-50 and had a few quiet miles before he crossed over I-96 east of Lansing. Once again he’d chosen a route with no entrance or exit ramps. He encountered a similarly grisly scene to what he’d seen on I-69: unmoving dead vehicles surrounded by moving dead bodies. This time he didn’t stop to stare. North of Grand Rapids he pulled onto US Route 131. Kevin passed through a few small communities without incident, then drove into the Manistee National forest.

Chapter Eight

Michelle waved as the Jeep disappeared around the corner. “Goodbye—” she started shouting before Doc shushed her.

“Michelle! Quiet down! Do you want zombies to hear you? We probably need to head indoors anyway. They may have heard the Jeep.” Doc headed back to the house.

She stood there, staring at the spot where the Jeep disappeared from view. “Goodbye, Kevin!
Please
come home safe!” she whispered. With a sigh, she turned and followed Doc downstairs. She tried to put on a brave face as he handed her a cup of coffee.

“So what’s on the agenda today?” he asked.

“We have clothes to wash and I think it’s time to sweep the grow room floor. Otherwise, not much. I’m feeling kind of tired and didn’t sleep well.”

“Tell you what, I’ll take care of the grow room. I’ll sweep and check the pH and see if any lettuce is ready for harvesting. I’m also going to try to reorganize the supply room. Kevin arranged everything alphabetically, but I think we should arrange it by protein level. High protein in one section, medium protein in another section, low protein in the last section. That way we can make sure we don’t run out of protein too soon.”

Michelle didn’t seem to be paying attention, although she nodded her head. “Okay,” she said absently as she took another sip of coffee. She puttered around in the kitchen while he put one of his Miles Davis CDs in the laptop. Mellow trumpet sounds filled the air.

She gathered their laundry and carried it into the bathroom. Under the sink was a bucket with a toilet plunger sticking through a hole in the lid. She took off the lid, added detergent to the bucket, and placed it inside the shower stall under the showerhead. As water sprayed into the bucket, she added a few items of clothing. Once the bucket was about two-thirds full of water, she put the lid back on and began pumping the plunger up and down. It wasn’t easy work. Michelle had rapidly gained a new appreciation for her ancestors who didn’t have the luxury of a washing machine. Washing clothes was hard work, and after an hour of plunging load after load of laundry, she was tired.

The washed clothes were piled on the shower floor. They kept the floor constantly clean, so there was no risk of soiling the newly washed shirts, pants, and undies. Today wasn’t sheet-washing day, thank God. Sheets were even more work.

When she had washed all the clothes, she stood up and stretched her back. The Miles Davis music she’d found soothing earlier had turned improvisational and had gotten on her nerves. She walked out of the bathroom into the grow room. Doc was snipping a few dead leaves off a basil plant.

“Hey, Doc, two questions: one, can we change the music, and two, can you give me a hand?”

“One, yes, and two, yes. Would you like to hear something different?”

“Do you have any Joni Mitchell?” she asked.

“No, I’m afraid not. How about some Frank Sinatra?”

“Sure! I love Sinatra!”

“And how can I give you a hand?”

“The hardest part of doing laundry is wringing out the clothes. I wish Kevin had bought a clothes wringer. Could you help with that?”

“Of course I can! Let me get Sinatra going and I’ll join you!” he went to his box of CDs and sifted through them while Michelle returned to the bathroom. In a few minutes,
In the Wee Small Hours of the Morning
began to play.