“True,” Dakota said.
“That’s some tough shit,” Jamie concluded.
“Anyway,” Ian said, pushing himself to his feet. “Erik was saying something about helping him out with the stuff in his place, something about me and Steve rooming up there to give you and Dakota some space.”
“We don’t mind you being here.”
“We don’t,” Dakota said.
“I know,” Erik said, “but I gotta do it eventually. Better start before the blizzards get too bad.”
“Guess we’re off then,” Ian said, starting for the door.
“Ian?” Desmond said, standing.
“Yeah, kid?”
“Thanks. I mean, for talking about that. It means a lot that you trusted us.”
“Don’t mention it, kid. Anytime, anywhere, just hit me up.”
Ian and Erik left without another word.
“You think Desmond’s ok?” Dakota asked.
“Why do you ask?” Jamie said.
“I’m not sure.”
They stood on the balcony that extended from the master bedroom. Poised at the tail of the house like perfectly arched brows on the surface of a porcelain face, it allowed a near-excellent view of the neighboring farm and the expanse of nothing that lay beyond it. As the snow fell—cascading first from the heavens, then flipping through the air like Christmas fairies gone amok—Dakota tried not to shiver in the breeze that drifted toward him. It wasn’t cold, not by a longshot. He shouldn’t be shivering on a day like this.
It’s just a breeze.
Was it, though? A gust of air didn’t summon the image of a young man tormented by his life, by the parents that existed for the sole purpose of taking care of him, nor did a flake of snow speak of tears shed from sitting in a room all alone, crying because they wished they had someone to talk to. The wind was nothing—not a memory, an emotion, or anything similar to false hope in a hopeless situation.
The wind is nothing.
“Nothing,” he whispered.
“You say something?” Jamie asked.
“Huh?”
“You’re mumbling.”
Dakota shook his head to free the flakes that had accumulated on his eyelashes. He grimaced as the frosty imps bit his cheeks with their soft and fleshy teeth.
“You only mumble when something’s on your mind.”
“I know.”
“There’s not much we can do for Desmond if he’s thinking about his past. We’re not doctors.”
“We don’t have to be doctors to help someone.”
“I shouldn’t have said that,” Jamie said, leaning forward. He reached up to run a finger through the hairs on his chin and stopped in midstride. Frowning, his hand slipped from the air and fell to the railing before him, where his fingers spread and began to make their own little angels in the snow below them.
Now he’s starting.
Dakota slipped a hand in the older man’s pocket.
“It was a stupid thing to say,” Jamie said.
“No it wasn’t. Is there something you want to tell me, J?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“They used to give us downers if something was bothering us.”
“Who did?”
“The army.”
“Is that legal?”
“I don’t know, but that’s what our commanding officer did.”
“I thought Armstrong was your commanding officer?”
“Armstrong wasn’t our CO. He was someone we tagged along with after New York… well, during it, I should say. Me and Erik ran into him when we were running from the hospital.”
“The one where they were keeping people with bites?”
“That’s the one.”
“Did you ever take any?”
“No. Tried to, sometimes, but couldn’t do it. Seeing how bad they fucked Erik up as a kid turned me off to them. That’s the whole reason I don’t even take Tylenol.”
“I just thought you were stubborn.”
“Well, I am,” Jamie chuckled, “but that’s not why I don’t take Tylenol.”
Laughing, Dakota leaned against Jamie’s side and looked out at the field. A flicker of movement silenced him. “Did you see that?” he asked.
“What?” Jamie said.
A gun went off.
She raised her club and hit it in the head. First once, then twice, then a third time, she beat its skull to a pulp, then lashed out with her foot. Its ankle broke upon impact, brittle with age and decay, before it fell, twitching, fingers flailing like a dying dove’s wings.
Raising her head, the woman allowed herself one throaty laugh before she raised the bat over her head and brought it down one last time.
Old, rustic, and used far more than it should have been, her faithful weapon’s last killing hit snapped it in half.
“Fuck,” she breathed. She cast the weapon aside, looked down at the empty pistol in her hand, then cursed herself for using a bullet in such an open area. She should know better. Using a gun was the last resort, but it had snuck up on her, had walked from the alley and touched her back before she even heard it.
It’s dead, she thought, trembling. It’s fucking dead.
Reeling back, she hocked a glob of spit in her mouth and shot it directly into the zombie’s face.
Somewhere nearby, a door opened, then closed.
Someone’s alive?
No, it couldn’t be! No one could be alive, not here of all places. It was too quiet, too lonely. No one could possibly be left.
“You heard that?” a man said. “Didn’t you?”
“I heard it,” another man replied.
No. It can’t be! No one’s alive! I’ve walked across this whole country and not a single person has ever revealed themselves.
“You think we should go look?” the man with the deeper voice asked.
“You’re sure it was a gunshot?”
“It had to have been. Nothing around here makes that kind of noise.”
Rose screamed.
The noise in his ears was like nails clattering across a hardwood floor. Shrill, harsh, brutal in its rawest of forms and tormented beyond belief, the scream tore through Dakota’s head and triggered a wave of panic that not even the strongest of prescription drugs could have quelled. At first he thought he was hearing things, then Jamie pulled the pistol from his belt and trained it on the field below them.
“That wasn’t it,” Dakota said.
“What?”
“In the field. Whatever’s there isn’t it.”
“Then where?”
“Beyond us. Out front.”
“In the street?”
A hail of footfalls echoed up the stairs, through the open door and out onto the balcony. “Someone’s out front!” Erik called, bursting into the room.
“What?” Jamie asked.
“A woman. She shot the gun.”
“What?”
“There’s someone out front!” Desmond cried. “Hurry! Hurry!”
They ran.
Rattlesnakes might have made similar noises had they been alive. Dry, snarling, like cats with parched throats, the faint hiss that emanated from the corpse’s throat pulled Rose’s head out of the gutter completely free of any shit it had previously been covered in. Her first thought drove her to the bat in the road—splintered, but still useable—but the voices started yelling and the corpse turned its head toward the noise.
Taking her chance, Rose lunged forward with her palm flat-out and struck the corpse in the chest. It stumbled back and fell to the ground, completely helpless as she screamed and jumped onto its chest. With her thick boots and its emaciated frame, what was left of its torso caved in with little resistance. Even the bones snapped like twigs as she brought her foot down and crushed its face in.