Cooper wrapped both arms around Ashley, his eyes falling on Skeeter. “I appreciate you helping us out back there, man, but going outside in the dark is an unnecessary risk. What if they get inside and we’re all out there digging a hole? There are women and children in here.”
“I’m buryin’ my wife,” Skeeter said, standing. He was just as tall as Bryce, and a lot more intimidating. “I’m not asking anyone for help.”
“I know you’re not,” Bryce said. “Let’s take a minute and think of a plan so that everyone is safe.”
Skeeter wiped his face again and nodded. The white-haired man went over to the woman’s body and began to quietly pray.
“It should be light before long,” I said. “Let’s put together a plan, and when the sun comes up, we’ll bury Jill.”
Skeeter nodded. “Thank you.”
The youngest and oldest of us were fast asleep while we planned Jill’s funeral. The church’s cemetery wasn’t fifty yards away. Skeeter wanted to bury her there. Already my heart was pounding, thinking about standing in the morning fog, in a cemetery, watching for zombies. It didn’t get any more Hollywood horror story than that.
“I’m going to bury her by her grandpa,” Skeeter said. “He was laid to rest on the north side.”
Bryce nodded. “Okay, so Eric and Gary get on the roof and get them away from the back door. Coop can run out and get them to follow him around until we’re finished.”
“How long do you think that’ll take?” Cooper asked, swallowing hard. “To dig a grave, I mean.”
Bryce shrugged. “As long as it takes. We’ll work fast as we can.”
Ashley sighed. “This isn’t a good idea.”
“I’ll keep an eye out while you’re digging,” I said. “Cooper will run around like lost zombie bait . . .”
“I’ll say a few words,” the reverend said, straightening his tie. He looked more nervous than Ashley. “And then we’re getting the hell back inside.”
“Not before,” Skeeter took in a quick breath, “not before I make sure she doesn’t come back, and we cover her with dirt.”
I nodded. It was a plan. A simple plan. There was no way it was going to work, but at least we had one.
Chapter Thirteen
Scarlet
The background noise of my escape from Anderson was intermittent gunfire as the patrols were likely panicking with the herd of undead roaming the streets. I had retraced my steps back to Tavia’s, planning on persuading Tobin to come with me to the doctor’s ranch.
Just as I crossed the intersection into my grandparents’ front lawn and the streetlight was behind me, I saw a dark form lying on the ground. “Tobin?” I said quietly. I still held out hope that it wasn’t my friend until I saw the cornrows poking out in every direction.
“Tobin?” I said, approaching carefully. He was lying on his side, facing away. I prepared myself to run if he moved toward me. I wasn’t sure what he was.
I glanced at Tavia’s house, noting the spray of bullet holes that had penetrated the siding, the windows, and the storm door. I leaned down, seeing that Tobin’s lifeless body was in the same tattered condition.
I choked back tears and vomit. The same bastards that had gunned down the family on the bridge had done the same to Tobin. I didn’t want to leave him in the yard, but what could I do? Just then a diesel engine gunned several blocks away. “I’m sorry, friend,” I said. Running once again as fast as I could, I raced back the way we came, not knowing which I dreaded more: getting caught, or escaping through the woods alone in the darkness.
Back through town, I had to chance running across the bridge and then down the road. It seemed safer than traveling through the tall grass by the river. The engines of the soldiers’ trucks couldn’t be heard, so I darted back across the highway and through the woods to my vehicle. I slammed the door and locked it, taking one quick glance around before bawling uncontrollably. I hadn’t prepared myself for what it might be like to leave Anderson without my children, or seeing Tobin’s body full of holes, or surviving something that made me feel an unbelievable amount of fear.
The headlights of the Jeep burned through the night as I flew down Highway 11. Less than half an hour after I turned north onto Highway 123, the high-pitched wail of a car alarm could be heard. The noise peaked and fell quickly, like the ray guns in the old science-fiction movies my mother used to watch.
I’m trying to watch a movie, Scarlet. Can’t you find something else to do other than to bug me all day? Can I never have time to myself? Go away! my mother would say.
My desperate, tiny, eight-year-old voice replayed perfectly in my ear. You’ve been working all day.
I’m trying to watch TV!
I’m lonely! I would cry softly. I didn’t want her to hear me. I wanted her to see me.
She would raise the remote in her hand and turn up the volume, a disgusted look on her face. Lost in Space might have been the one piece of happiness she had, between working three part-time jobs and raising me alone. My needing her attention appeared to have ruined her life.
You make me sick, Scarlet. You’re just like your father. One of the most selfish people I’ve ever met, she would say, nearly ruining mine.
The words were an afterthought, an outlet for her residual anger, but they burned through my clothes and charred my skin, leaving a brand so inexorable, it wore me even as I fought to survive the end of the world. Was I selfish for leaving Anderson? Should I have stayed and waited for them? Would that choice sentence me to a life without ever seeing their sweet faces again?
The Jeep’s headlights lit up dozens of shufflers. Like a herd of sheep, they meandered about in the middle of the road. I winced at the sight of children among them. Some with visible bites on their carotids. Some with mouthfuls of their skin and muscle missing; all covered in the blood of their former selves. Jenna’s and Halle’s faces flashed in my mind, and then were projected onto the faces of those children. Tears sizzled down my cheeks.
I slammed on the brake and gripped the steering wheel. If I chose to drive through them and was forced to stop, they could surround the Jeep. On one side was a grassy knoll. A rock with the town’s name, Shallot, carved into the stone sat at the crest of the small, gentle hill. The sun had begun to rise, so I could just barely see the shadows of more shufflers crossing the sign and making their way down to the road toward the noisy car. Noise attracted them.
The left side was field. Acres upon acres of wheat field, still saturated from the downpour that morning. If I wanted to make it to the ranch, I had two choices: drive through the herd, up that knoll and hope if I hit one of those things it didn’t crash through the windshield, or risk getting trapped in the muddy field.
Courage came slowly. Each beat of my heart felt like an explosion as my hand rested against the center of the steering wheel, preparing to press down. I took a breath, and then honked the horn once. Dozens of dead slowly craned their necks in my direction. The explosions in my chest turned into the cadence of a thousand tiny sprinters. Even sitting still, I began to pant with fear.. After a short pause, they began to hobble and limp toward the Jeep. Again, I honked and waited. Despite the shufflers being less than twenty yards away, I pressed the heel of my palm against the center of the steering wheel, holding it there, until every last one of those f**kers were moaning and reaching out for the meal seeming so eager to be had. My fear kept my hand down, waiting, hoping they would move faster so I could drive past them and in the opposite direction of their new path.
When the shufflers were just over an arm length away, I jerked the wheel to the left and headed toward the wheat field.
“Don’t get stuck. Don’t get stuck,” I repeated. My hands jerked the wheel right to make a large circle around the herd, and panicked when the Jeep struggled in the mud. “C’mon!” I yelled, my fingers digging into the padding of the steering wheel.
The Jeep weaved back and forth, fishtailing and threatening to lose control, but the mud tires clawed through the rain-swollen soil, and back onto the road. After turning into the skid more than once, the Jeep straightened out, and I was screaming in victory, barreling toward the white tower.
The sun had just peaked over the horizon when I saw the water tower looming above the trees. With Halle’s sweet singing in my mind, I turned the wheel, never so happy to hit dirt road. By the time I turned left at the cemetery, the night sky had cowered from the clear, bright blue sky. The storm clouds from the day before had moved on. If the world hadn’t gone to shit, it might have been considered a beautiful day. The Jeep took the right at the first mile section hard, but I couldn’t slow down. The closer I came to sanctuary, the more afraid I was. My foot was grinding the gas pedal to the floorboard, but the Jeep’s engine just growled louder instead of going faster. Maybe five minutes had passed since seeing the white tower, but it seemed to be taking an eternity.
Turning into the drive, my foot instinctively pulled away from the accelerator. Dr. Hayes’s truck was in the yard, and a silver Mercedes was parked next to it. He’d made it home.
I didn’t even bother to shut the Jeep door. The second my feet touched the ground, I broke into a sprint, only stopping until my hands hit the door.
“Dr. Hayes? It’s me! Scarlet!” The side of my fist pounded against the wooden frame of the screen door. “Dr. Hayes? It’s Scarlet! I’m not sick . . . please . . . please let me in.”
With every passing second, my relief and excitement turned to disappointment. He was a radiologist, for Christ’s sake, he had more than one beat-up pickup. Dr. Hayes and his girlfriend, Leah, only stayed there on his off week. The radiologists worked two weeks on, one week off, and they all had a farm or ranch they ran away to during those seven precious days. Leah was an attorney and lived two hours north. They usually had me clean the weekend before they met in the middle—the farmhouse. It was her Mercedes in the yard. They’d probably met here and then took the doctor’s car somewhere else. To get his daughters, maybe.
The light on the barn flickered and then turned off. I had nowhere else to go. I had to get inside.
I pulled open the door slowly, wincing at the loud creaking sound it made. The doorknob twisted and with caution, I pushed it open and listened. “Dr. Hayes?” I said softly, half hoping he wouldn’t hear me, and half hoping he would.
The house seemed untouched. When I’d checked every room and decided no one was home, I wandered to the back porch and hoisted myself onto the dryer, wondering what I needed to do to secure the house. Should I board up the windows? It wasn’t my house to alter, but even if Dr. Hayes made it back here with Miranda and Ashley, he might be glad some of the work had been done. My eyes drifted to the floor, and relief and fear hit almost simultaneously. There were muddy footprints in front of the door that led to the side patio. I hopped down off the dryer and looked out the Plexiglas that took up the top half of the door. Something was splattered on the concrete. Something sticky with chunks of something else—definitely vomit. The footprints led inside and to my right, down the stairs, and into the basement.
I’d cleaned the basement many times before. It was used for storage, was carpeted, painted, and not at all scary, but in that moment I was terrified to walk down those stairs.
I stared at the trail of mud and whatever else, and then finally took the first step. It complained under my foot, and I squeezed my eyes tight, hoping nothing jumped out at me as punishment for making a sound. When nothing happened, my eyes popped open, and I immediately searched for a weapon. The closest thing was a hammer sitting in a hand-held, red toolbox lying open on the floor. I quickly picked it up, making sure I had a good grip, and then descended the stairs, preparing myself for whatever might be down there.
If he’s alive, don’t hit him. Don’t just swing. Don’t just react. Those thoughts were on loop, getting louder with every step, which made it difficult to listen for anything that might signal I might actually need to swing in reaction.
The door opened, and I bent forward to look inside, immediately seeing a pair of legs lying flat on the floor. They were Leah’s, and even though I couldn’t see all of her, I could tell she was face down. After a quick glance to both sides, I stepped in, following the trail. Dr. Hayes was sitting back against the wall, a large wound in his neck, and a single gunshot hole in his temple. One of his many handguns was at his side, next to his open, lifeless hand. Leah also had a head wound, similar to Dr. Hayes’s, but her chin and chest were covered in blood, and the missing piece from Dr. Hayes’s neck was peeking from her mouth.
Blood was sprayed in several directions: on the open gun safe in the corner, the wall, and floor. From what I could tell, Dr. Hayes had come to the basement to get a gun for protection, but Leah had apparently caught him in the act, and attacked him. She must have turned quick. He must have been running from her. I imagined that he knew he was infected, so after shooting her, he’d killed himself. It made sense.
Suddenly I felt very alone. It hadn’t crossed my mind that the ranch would be devoid of anybody else. His daughters weren’t here. Leah was dead. Would the rest of his family try to make it to this safe haven? Miranda and Ashley were supposed to visit this weekend. Maybe they were already on their way. If not, maybe they would have the same idea I had and come here anyway with their mother. The ranch was obviously the best place to be, and even though they didn’t visit as often, Dr. Hayes, like every girl’s father, was their protector. It made sense for them to try to make it here. That was my hope, anyway.
Dr. Hayes was just smiling about his daughters visiting the morning before. I couldn’t believe he was sitting in a pool of his own blood just a few feet from me. It was so surreal, I couldn’t find an emotion to attach to the situation. I couldn’t pull my eyes away from the gruesome scene until it finally dawned on me that if the girls did reach the ranch, they could see their father like this.