Zombies in Paradise (Love in the Age of Zombies Book 2) (14 page)

He spread a thick layer of blankets on the floor, found a couple of pillows, then quietly retrieved his cooler and pack from the Jeep, softly closing the hatch before heading back to the washhouse. He ate quite a few crackers and peanut butter along with some jerky and dried apricots and washed it down with a bottle of water. He felt oddly comfortable and content, perhaps emotions lingering from his former vacations there. For a few minutes he indulged himself remembering the meals he’d eaten at the inn. He lay back, reminiscing, and soon fell asleep.

It was nearly dark outside when he awoke. Looking out the window, he could see a few stars shining; apparently the sky was had cleared some. Now that it was dark, he felt ill at ease. He had no idea whether the area was heavily infested with zombies, lightly infested, or if there were zombies at all. He’d seen the group down by the barricaded bridge, but that was three miles or more from Lake Menekaunee. He didn’t think any of the zombies could have followed him this far.

He couldn’t help but wonder what non-perishables were stored in the inn’s cellar pantry. He decided to check it out in the morning when he could see what he was doing. He had a flashlight, of course, but was wary of using it just as he was wary of driving with his lights on. A flashlight amidst the darkness was a sure way to attract attention. The canopy of trees above the washhouse prevented him from seeing many stars, but to the south the skies were clear. He could see a small patch of night sky beyond the large maple growing near the tennis courts.

He rustled around in his pack for his journal and wrote in the dying light:

May 20
th

I’m in the Lake Menekaunee washhouse. The sun set some time ago and I can barely see. This is my second day on the road; yesterday I drove about halfway here and, after escaping from some bad guys, I slept by a lake. I found a nice Petoskey stone in the shallows. I thought about Michelle a lot.

This afternoon I bypassed Arcadia but walked up the scenic overlook. I saw zombies on the beach. It was a horrible experience.

The last time I was alone was right after the Collapse, before Michelle moved in. Being alone has turned into loneliness. Especially here.

It’s so strange to be here like this. Usually I’ve been with friends and surrounded by families who’ve vacationed here for generations. When I used to walk down the sidewalk at night, I might hear a guitar being strummed from a cottage porch, or hear kids playing freeze tag or even telling ghost stories on the veranda. One time I saw a canoe or rowboat in the lake, about fifty feet offshore, candles lit on both the bow and stern. It was too dark to see anyone but I heard low voices. Somebody was having a romantic interlude. Earlier in the day I might hear the kitchen staff chat as they prepared dinner. Tennis, volleyball, shuffleboard games  .  .  .  usually this place feels serene and peaceful, but alive with activity, even late at night.

Now the resort feels like a zombie. It feels dead but undead. It’s dark, silent, and still. I haven’t seen any sign of humans, living or dead, and yet my imagination fills every cottage with zombies who are trapped, or survivors who are afraid of me. Were I a braver man, I’d go exploring, but to be honest I have a case of the willies. Seeing the dead person in the car in front of the inn didn’t help.

I suspect most of the countryside is like this now. Empty and deserted. Zombies appear to migrate to populated areas. From what I’ve seen, survivors are few. I wouldn’t be surprised if most of the survivors are cruel and heartless; that’s how they survived. Might makes right. Hopefully that won’t be true in Frankfort.

I shouldn’t have come here. I should have left my pleasant memories intact. I don’t like going to the viewing of a deceased friend; I prefer to remember them the way they were. Lake Menekaunee is now a deceased friend. Within a few years the buildings will start to decay and nature will overtake the gravel drive. Years from now nothing will be left but the lake and maybe the concrete foundations and sidewalk. Maybe at some point an alien, or a resurrected civilization, will find our computer hard drives and jump drives and will download my photos. Otherwise, all traces of the life I lived here will be gone for good. As if I never lived.

Chapter Twelve

Back in Ann Arbor, was getting restless. Checking the grow room didn’t occupy much time, and he could only sit around reading and listening to music for so long before he started getting antsy. In the old days he would already have a garden planted.

He and Michelle talked it over, and the next day Doc surveyed the backyards of many houses in the neighborhood, looking for signs of a garden. About a half-block away he found what he was looking for: behind a house was a plot of land with a few standing tomato cages where a garden used to be
.
There was a garden shed with everything Doc was looking for—spades, shovels, rakes, stakes, twine, good quality garden hoses, and some useless string-trimmers and a rototiller. Even if he had gas for the tiller, he knew the noise would draw zombies and enemies alike.

Doc was particularly happy to come across a box of seeds: heirloom corn, tomato, squash, zucchini, peppers, and a few herbs. Most were out of date and perhaps were no longer viable, but with any luck, some seeds would germinate. Doc loaded the wheelbarrow with supplies and headed back home, dropping the tools into Michelle’s backyard, then making several more trips to get everything else he needed.

Michelle’s backyard was level, had a southwest exposure, and had only one tree, a young maple toward the back that wouldn’t shade his garden. There was the fence between Michelle’s house and Kevin’s house, and on the other side was a bush-lined chain link fence between her house and the Ericksons’ house. There was also a clothesline that Michelle had looked forward to using but never had. Otherwise the yard was empty and open.

He began to dig the dirt, loosening the sandy soil and turning it over. It wasn’t easy work, but was a good way to get his mind off Kevin and other intrusive thoughts. He began to whistle as he worked, a melody he remembered from his younger days called
Shenandoah
. He took stakes and twine and sectioned off the area to create four beds, then subdivided these into square-foot sections. He’d done square-foot gardening before and had been pleased with the results.

As he was midway through adding the twine to his second bed, he was startled to hear the sound of a dog barking nearby—very nearby. He glanced over to the Ericksons’ house and saw a German shepherd racing furiously toward the chain link fence separating the yards. Doc recalled what Kevin had said about the man and his dog, so he stood up straight and looked around. He saw no one. He began to walk slowly toward the dog, who continued to bark angrily through the fence. When Doc was about twenty feet away, the dog turned and ran as if he’d been called, although Doc hadn’t heard or seen anyone.

Puzzled, Doc went through the gate between Kevin and Michelle’s house and hurried to the front, just in time to see the dog follow a man between two houses farther up the block. The man moved with stealth, as if he didn’t want to be seen. Doc went downstairs, where Michelle was slicing cherry tomatoes and adding them to a pot on the stove, probably making pasta sauce.

“Hey, Doc,” Michelle said. “What’s up? You have a funny look on your face.”

“Remember when Kevin talked about the guy he saw? The guy with the dog in the next subdivision? I just saw him!”

“Really?! Was he friendly?”

“No, he wasn’t. I almost didn’t see him. His dog must have heard me whistling as I dug the garden, because he was barking and snarling at me from your neighbors’ house. Then the dog ran away. I went to the front yard and saw the man and dog disappear between two houses. I don’t think he wanted to be seen. I’m not sure what to make of it.”

“Hmm  .  .  .  “ Michelle responded, still slicing cherry tomatoes. “I guess if he wanted to attack you he could have, what with his dog and all. But if he isn’t a threat, why didn’t he speak to you?”

“That’s what I don’t get. Either he’s a friend or an enemy, right? There doesn’t seem to be much middle ground. I suppose I could head over to the school and confront him, but I don’t like the idea of tangling with a German shepherd. I guess I’ll just let it go. Maybe he’s an isolationist. I’ll play it cool but keep my eyes open, perhaps he’ll come around again. From now on, I’ll carry my revolver with me!”

“Having him out there and acting weird kind of freaks me out,” Michelle said, “I hope we don’t have any trouble with him. So far our experience with survivors has been none too pleasant. How much longer are you going to work in the yard?”

“I think I’m done for the day. Since I saw the guy disappear, I’m pretty sure he didn’t see me come inside our house. He probably thinks I live next door and I see no reason to convince him otherwise. I’ll stay indoors and be careful to make very little sound,” Doc said, reaching over to tear some basil leaves. “Making pasta sauce? When’s dinner?”

“It should be ready in about a half-hour. I need to add some spices to the sauce and let it cook for a while. Too bad Kevin didn’t think to get some parmesan cheese. I love parmesan cheese on pasta!”

They made small talk for a few more minutes. Doc told her how he’d found the box of seeds, and they both dreamed of having fresh herbs and vegetables again. The appeal of the hydroponic lettuce, peppers, kale, and cherry tomatoes had worn thin. No matter how you slice it, a cherry tomato can’t take the place of a juicy
Big Boy
tomato.

While the sauce slowly simmered, Doc went upstairs and peered out the windows. Nothing looked amiss. If the man was out there watching, he was well hidden.

Two hundred miles away, Kevin had arrived at Lake Menekaunee and was sitting on the floor of the washhouse.

Chapter Thirteen

Kevin put the journal down, depressed. His past here had been filled with friends, laughter, and hedonism. It was a vacation resort, after all, and the memories he’d made came back clearly. He recalled nights spent drinking and dancing at the Big Apple or playing pool at Dinghy’s, or listening to music at the Cabbage Shed. Occasionally a carload drove to the Cherry Bowl near Beulah to watch a movie double-feature under the stars, munching popcorn with real butter. In the past few years he’d been a frequent visitor to Stormcloud. He nearly laughed thinking about the late night twenty years ago when a bunch of them, energized by alcohol, had come back to the resort quite late. Some of them gathered on the veranda for a nightcap or last cigarette; several, including Kevin, decided to skinny-dip. They quickly ditched their clothes, ran down the stairs, and dove into the dark lake water. While they were swimming to the raft, a prankster stole their clothes, and piled them on the veranda. Kevin, like the rest, had to dash the length of the dock naked while flashlights played upon his torso. As he scrambled up the steps to put on his clothes, he laughed at himself along with the onlookers. That was when he was single. Before he met Tammy. Before she started coming here. Before she died.

He felt like he needed to do something. Sitting here in the dark, getting more depressed by the minute, was not what he needed. Despite his reservations about going outside in the dark, he decided to check out the lake. He hadn’t seen or heard or anything to cause alarm (other than the dead body in the car), and was feeling antsy in the small washhouse. He quietly unlocked the door and stepped out into the night air. There was no sound in the whisper of the breeze except the faint sound of Lake Michigan’s surf. He headed down the sidewalk past the inn toward the veranda on the clear but moonless night. He had to move quietly and slowly to avoid running into unseen obstacles. His heart jumped a few times when he stepped on a stick and the
snap!
echoed off the buildings.

Where a fountain used to splash, now there was only a pile of dry leaf-strewn rocks. He stopped on the gravel driveway and looked over the darkened lake. No matter what time of year he had been here, there were always lights shining from the homes across the lake, then a dark strip of tree line against the horizon. The lights of Frankfort usually filled the sky with a soft glow. The beam from the lighthouse flashed by every thirty seconds.

But there were no lights tonight. The stars shone brightly, more brightly than he had ever seen. Without light pollution, the stars were so brilliant he could see trees silhouetted against the night sky. The slight breeze was chilly. Turning around to face the inn, he was again struck by the complete darkness. He couldn’t see the inn, but could feel its presence. He always thought of it as a welcoming friend. Now it was nothing more than a dark form against the night sky. No longer was it a source of comfort, of camaraderie, of meals with friends. Instead, it felt more like a coffin, a tomb. It felt threatening, especially with the dead person in the car nearby. He wondered if anyone stood behind the glass, watching him. Perhaps a survivor. Or more likely a zombie had sensed his presence.

He walked onto the veranda. Constructed of poured concrete about fifty feet wide and thirty feet deep, a railing lined the lake side, interrupted by stairs descending to the beach and dock. He carefully walked down the steps, feeling his way while constantly holding on to the bannister. He felt for the dock and stopped a moment, listening carefully for any sounds. Hearing nothing out of the ordinary, he walked down the dock. Barely able to see, he used the quiet sound of the water riffling against the pylons to guide him. He stopped when his instincts told him he was fairly close to the end of the dock. He could very faintly make out a white shape on the water; the raft. The raft where he’d lain on his back getting sun with friends, laughing and talking, the raft where he’d watched the stars at night, the raft where he’d had sex one drunken night with a housekeeper from the inn. He liked the raft and the memories it held.