Last night, they reached out to Ray as if pleading. Their eyes followed him as he retreated into the house, shaking with the disbelieving laughter of a maniac. They moaned softly, a sound like humming, as he entered a coat closet and curled into a fetal ball in the dark and the dust.
The tiny space was hot but at least it was quiet. He started awake repeatedly until exhaustion overcame him. He dreamed of standing with Todd on the bridge, screaming his head off; he woke with a sore jaw from hours of grinding his teeth, and the hopper sting in his side, shrunk to the size of an egg, throbbing gently as if keeping time with a favorite song.
Now Ray inches away from the farmhouse, at the mercy of thousands of Infected. He glances over his shoulder to confirm the open back door is directly behind him, in easy reach, in case he needs to make a run for it. Last night, a miracle: The Infected did not take him. Today, they appear to be ignoring him. But this does not make them predictable. At any moment, they might turn on him, snarling, and decide to have Ray on a stick for breakfast.
He gags, slammed by a solid wall of stink. Oblivious to discomfort, the Infected eliminate their waste in the clothes they were wearing the day they were converted. Their bodies emit a sour stench that makes him think of rotting food and warm, old milk turned into thick cottage cheese chunks by runaway bacteria. One of the Infected passes close by, studying him vaguely before continuing on her way, taking little excited bites at the air.
He can hear them breathe. The wheeze of air entering thousands of lungs. Some of them cry out with the sadness of slaves. Others shriek before lapsing into silence. The spaces in between are eerily quiet. Just the insects and the birds.
Feeling bolder, he walks along the edge of the crowd for over an hour, studying their faces one at a time. The Infected continue to ignore him. Some stare at their feet; others blink at the sun. They don’t look very scary. They look like sick people. Like very sad, very sick people. Like him, they came from Camp Defiance; he recognizes a man who sold mead in one of the trading booths. He wonders how they ended up here.
What is so special about this house? And what is so special about me that the Infected don’t want me for one of their own?
♦
Survival trumps any interest Ray has in solving the mystery. He made it this far, and he’s not about to quit as long as his luck is holding up. He retreats back into the house to do some exploring. As soon as it gets dark, he hopes to sneak through the crowd and strike a path toward Mason, where he knows Camp Nightingale was established. He feels an overwhelming urge to be around normal people who will protect him. Before he goes, he needs to gather up supplies.
The house smells dusty and Ray experiences a vague sense of alarm entering the kitchen. It is abandoned, but it is still not his house. He feels like an invader here. A clock ticks on the wall. Through the sheer white curtain covering the kitchen window, he can see the tightly packed Infected roaming about on their mindless errands. The refrigerator is plastered with holiday cards and photos of smiling people he doesn’t know.
First, he needs food and water. He takes a plastic bottle from a cardboard box that had been used as a recycling bin, and puts it under the tap. The faucet spits and shoots enough water to fill most of the bottle before the pipes groan and run dry. He takes a sip and decides to down all of it.
Skipping the refrigerator, he opens one of the cupboards, hoping to find some food.
“Shit!” he screams.
A large, greasy rat tumbles from the cupboard and scurries under the sink.
“Give me a heart attack,” he says, and laughs.
The boxes of food have been torn open, their contents half eaten. The cupboard smells like rat turds. He can hear the little bastards writhing and sneaking inside the other cupboards, and decides not to open them. He’s not hungry enough yet to fight rats for cans.
“No grub for Ray,” he sighs.
He spends the next few hours wandering around the house, picking up items and then putting them back where they belong. Surprisingly little salvage turns up. The only useful item he finds is a replacement for his T-shirt in an upstairs dresser drawer, and a new backpack.
A door bangs open downstairs. He peers over the banister, listening for footsteps. Nothing. He walks down a few steps and listens again, then a few more.
At the bottom, he sees the Infected filling the living room, looking at him.
The moment he appears, they raise their hands in supplication, groaning.
Ray runs through the kitchen door, leaps down the back steps and lands hard on his feet, gasping for air. He does not remember running. He didn’t even think about it. He just moved.
The Infected are not oblivious to him. At least some are interested in him. He wants to know why. Steeling himself, he waves at the nearest Infected tottering past, stumbling over a garden hose.
“Hello?” Ray says.
Several of the Infected stop and stare at him, baring their teeth. He extends his knife with one hand while wrapping the other around his head, covering his eyes. He peers out and realizes they have gone back to ignoring him. For all he knows, snarling is how the crazies express polite interest. He wonders if he should try again.
“I’m Ray Young,” he says. He points to his chest and adds, “My name is Ray.”
Some of the Infected stop and stare at him.
“Ray,” he says. “Young. My name.”
He cringes under their gaze, feeling ridiculous. The Infected study him, their heads bobbing, as if looking for the ideal spot to sink their teeth. Just as quickly, they lose interest and resume their wandering, leaving him feeling even more puzzled. He decides to try an experiment.
He picks the scrawniest man within view and stands in front of him. The man makes a half hearted growl and licks his chops, prompting Ray to take a cautious step backward, his heart skipping a beat. Staring over Ray’s shoulder, the man tries to go around, but Ray holds him in place by his shoulders. The Infected yelps, but does nothing.
“It’s like I ain’t even here,” Ray says, feeling bolder.
The man stares over his shoulder with glazed eyes.
“You’re not so bad now, are you?” Ray says, giving the man a little shove, angry he’d been terrified for nothing. The Infected blinks, disoriented by the sudden attack. Ray laughs harshly and pushes him again. “You’re not scary at all. All bark and no bite!”
The Infected lurches backward, holding its hands up to defend its face. He’s afraid of me, Ray realizes. The thought makes him feel stronger.
“You screwed things up, you know that?” He leans in, pushing the man again. “Totally screwed it up!” Again. “Screwed it up real good, you son of a bitch!”
Why? Why did this happen? Why did you do this?
Driven by sudden rage, Ray believes this man made the world end. Every death, every lost friend, every ounce of misery and fear, was all this man’s doing. Blood pounding in his ears, he shoves the Infected to the ground, kicks him once, and spits on him.
He draws the knife from his belt, but the rage fades, leaving him feeling drained.
“I hate you,” he says, his vision blurring with tears.
All around, the Infected howl and rush at him with hands splayed into claws.
Ray is jostled roughly as the hot, sweaty bodies press in all around, eyes gleaming with hate. His arms forced against his sides, he cannot use the knife to defend himself. An elbow slams into his chest. He can hardly breathe. The Infected snarl through their noses like wild animals. Ray pushes back at them, struggling to stay on his feet.