The Undead Chronicles | Vol. 3 | Dead of Winter, page 8
part #3 of The Undead Chronicles Series
Both of them remained silent a few minutes as Sutton passed a few individual zombies along the highway. He knew they were drawing close to their destination, and soon the isolated highway would become a county road that eventually led to several dirt paths. He felt a little bit surprised to see zombies at all, because cars and residences dotted the area, but he supposed nearly two months into the end of the world they found plenty of time to wander.
“I’ll stick with you through your search,” Driscoll said. “I’d like to see you find your boys before I head out.”
“Don’t feel obligated.”
“Well, it’ll be dark soon. Probably best I stay until morning.”
“Suit yourself.”
When Sutton turned onto the county road, he felt a sense of relief, as though immersing himself in the nature around him put aside the darkness of the apocalypse momentarily. He’d prepared for the end of the world for quite some time, but never anticipated sharing his life with strangers, or having to find shelter every night.
“I miss the little things,” Driscoll admitted. “Hot dogs at a campfire, popcorn, even using a toilet in peace. Now I’ve gotta clear an area before I squat to take a dump.”
Sutton said nothing, focusing on the road, even though the concrete offered a very dull view, devoid of vehicles, zombies, or trash.
“There has to be something more than this,” Driscoll continued. “Maybe the government is working something behind the scenes to restore the planet.”
“I wouldn’t put much faith in them.”
“The gay dude said they turned you all away at the base.”
“They did, without a second thought.”
Sutton recalled how the guards who met them allowed Metzger inside to see his brother, but denied access to the others, despite a child traveling with them. His second experience at the base gave Sutton some insight to future problems. Strength in numbers was always beneficial against the undead, but feeding, clothing, and protecting thousands would eventually lead to shortages. He pictured the fat cats from Washington living it up in their protected bunkers, eating canned food and drinking filtered water for years while ordinary citizens suffered.
When the group finally reached the camp about half an hour later, the sun provided its last rays as dusk approached. Sutton pulled into the campsite with lowered expectations after the initial visit went so poorly. Many of the cabins had burned to the ground, and a large plane stuck out of the lake at a strange angle with its nose buried below the water’s surface. As he pulled to a stop near the entrance, Sutton saw the sign he left for both of his sons that contained a message specifically for them to remain in the area.
To him, the sign appeared undisturbed when he stepped from the box truck. He picked it up, looked at it, and set it on the ground. Saying nothing, he motioned for his fellow travelers to follow him further into the campground.
When they reached the area where his cabin once stood, he saw the remains among the blackened grass where the fire had ravaged virtually everything in the area. He stepped from the truck, staring out at the lake where the plane had finally succumbed to gravity, falling into the water, belly-down. Only a few feet of its white paint remained visible atop the water, like an elongated boat turned upside-down and grounded. Buster walked around, using the charred grass as his personal restroom after a few hours of being trapped inside the box truck.
“This is depressing,” Gracine said when she took his side. “Any sign of your boys?”
“Not yet,” Sutton answered, looking around.
Several zombies floated in the water, breaking the silence as they provided throaty growls. They managed to float without effort, and Sutton wondered what made them so buoyant. Fortunately, they couldn’t muster brainpower enough to remember swimming techniques, so they simply floated in place, occasionally flailing their arms at the people on land. Sighing, Sutton felt overcome by grief because he felt certain something tragic befell both of his sons, leaving him without any family.
Virtually every survivor knew their family was gone, either deceased, or too far away to realistically ever see again. Metzger proved the exception to the rule, and one simple trip to Buffalo might have robbed him of his brother. Sutton hoped his ally began to understand that the military wasn’t the benevolent group they appeared to be. After all, they still answered to men who lived in bunkers like rats.
“What’s this?” Luke asked, walking over to a tree where a plastic bag hung by a tack, swinging in the breeze.
He yanked the bag from the tack, cautiously taking a peek inside before pulling a sheet of paper out and unfolding it. After a few seconds of reading the note, he walked over to Sutton and handed him the paper.
“Definitely for you,” Luke said, providing a warm grin.
Sutton took the note, anxiously reading it for clues, finding that one of his sons had addressed the note to “Dad” and put “C.S.” after that in parenthesis to let him know the note was for him. He read the words carefully, his eyes darting back and forth across the page as his oldest son provided him with an update.
“What does it say?” Gracine asked after a moment.
“My oldest, Sean, says he’s in the next campground over.”
“Does he say anything else?” Luke inquired.
“Not much,” Sutton answered. “He wrote in a code of sorts so only I’d know what he meant.”
“How far is it?” Driscoll asked.
“Less than a mile. We can be there in a few minutes.”
Without another word, everyone climbed into their respective vehicles, and Sutton patiently waited for Buster to finish sniffing the grass and marking it with his urine before he jumped into the box truck. Sutton followed, almost afraid to see what awaited him at the other campground, which contained more privately-owned cabins. All of them varied in size and features, remaining far enough apart that their occupants enjoyed privacy during their visits, but close enough that help wasn’t unreasonably far.
“Does it seem legit?” Driscoll asked him once they reached the dirt road that accessed the next set of cabins.
“It does,” Sutton answered. “I just hope he’s still there.”
When he located the grounds, Sutton drove through an open iron gate with rock walls on either side. Strangely, a jack-o-lantern was perched atop the rocks on the right side, it’s face illuminated from within by a candle.
“That’s not creepy or anything,” Driscoll muttered. “Would your kid do that?”
“Not likely,” Sutton answered, concerned that his son wasn’t the only person residing on the grounds.
Now growing dark outside, Sutton passed a few cabins, spying no activity in either. He stopped at the third cabin, which he recalled being rather central to all of the others, despite being over a hundred yards away from them. Parking the box truck, Sutton stepped out, scouring the area for any movement. He knew if his son spotted him, he’d cautiously approach the group only after making certain no traps awaited him. Sutton raised his boys to exercise caution, teaching them how to shoot, and how to survive if and when the world turned bad.
“We’re stopping?” Gracine questioned when she emerged from the car.
“For now,” Sutton answered. “No sense in driving around all night. We’ll build a fire and let Sean know we’re here.”
“You did see that freaky pumpkin at the gate?” Luke asked, openly concerned.
“It means we’re probably not alone,” Sutton answered. “We stick together at all times. We don’t want a repeat of what happened to Juan.”
Using flashlights, the group explored the cabin, finding food and supplies inside. They built a fire within the brick pit outside, able to cook while receiving warmth on a rather brisk evening. Several large logs surrounded the firepit, but they also found webbed folding chairs that Sutton preferred after hours on a stiff seat inside the box truck.
Two beds and two cots awaited everyone inside, but Sutton wouldn’t be able to sleep until he received some answers. He stayed by the fire for over an hour, attempting to appear casual while he scoured the grounds, hopeful his son would emerge any moment to greet him. Ordinarily, he might worry about the undead wandering through the woods, but they seemed thin in this particular area, and he kept firearms close by. Buster’s senses detected unfriendly people, and the undead, and he, in turn, let his owner know of any impending danger.
One by one, the others turned in, leaving him alone with his thoughts, which he admitted weren’t good company. He heard animal sounds throughout the evening, both on the ground, and even several different birds in nearby trees. Sutton began to wonder if wildlife would continue to act normally if danger lurked nearby. A branch snapping behind his chair startled him, but when Sutton whirled around, he found Gracine trying to quietly approach from the cabin.
“I thought you might be sleeping,” she said just above a whisper.
“Were you going to sneak up and tackle me if I was?”
“Nah,” she answered with a smile, assuming the folding chair next to his.
Both sat a moment, listening to the crackle of the fire as embers floated and danced in the air above the flames.
“You’re worried, aren’t you?” she finally asked.
“A little. Sean’s note said he hadn’t found my youngest. I wonder if he got antsy and went out to search.”
“If he’s practical, like his old man, he’s waiting patiently around here until the coast is clear.”
Sutton said nothing, fiddling with a stick by tracing the dirt with it. Buster walked over to him, seeking attention, so Sutton scratched his head a few seconds.
“He minds well,” Gracine said. “I’ve never seen a more loyal dog.”
“You obviously haven’t seen his less perfect moments,” Sutton said as he tapped Buster’s side, sending him over to Gracine for additional affection. “He’s usually pretty good though.”
“What do you make of that creepy-ass pumpkin at the entrance?” Gracine asked as she patted Buster’s back and scratched his neck.
“Obviously someone’s been here.”
“I’m saying someone’s still here. Candles only burn so long.”
“Not much we can do about it tonight,” Sutton decided. “We’ll stay in the cabin, keep ourselves safe, and do some exploring in the morning.”
“Might want to bring in some of your guns, too.”
Sutton lifted the right side of his shirt, revealing a sidearm tucked away. He also planned on bringing in his sniper rifle with the thermal vision scope and a fully automatic AK-47 he’d found during his travels.
“My hero,” Gracine said, sarcastically looking thankfully to the heavens.
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For your discretion about how we originally met.”
“Those soldiers were up to no good,” Gracine said. “Lord knows what they were going to do to me, but they had you by the balls when they threatened your dog.”
Sutton recalled the day in question, feeling vulnerable all over again because five soldiers held Gracine at bay, possibly about to rape her, possibly just wanting to toy with her before they moved on or shot her. As a weary traveler, he simply wanted to get past them and go about his business, but as fate would have it, one of the soldiers spotted him. Likely a group of wayward National Guardsmen, they didn’t seem to have any scruples about what it took to remain alive and fed. Sutton raised a rifle at them when they approached, leaving Gracine kneeling on the ground behind them with her belongings.
All five of the men appeared ragtag in nature, only two of them wearing helmets, and none of them wearing body armor in the warm weather. Their uniforms appeared dirty and in some cases, torn from their travels.
Buster, sensing his master’s tension, growled at the men, showing his teeth. This served only to have one of them take aim at the canine. Why they didn’t fire, Sutton never knew, but he immediately moved in front of his dog and pled for Buster’s life after laying down his rifle.
“Let’s waste the whole lot of them and take what they got,” one of the men suggested.
“We don’t have to kill them,” another suggested. “They ain’t got much anyway.”
Sutton possessed his box truck at the time, but he kept it hidden, usually driving a different vehicle locally, or walking sometimes with his dog.
“But now they’ve seen us,” the first soldier said.
“What are they going to do? Call the cops?”
Buster started to take a step forward, but Sutton placed a hand against his snout, keeping his pet behind him.
“We need to kill the dog,” another said. “He’s probably been trained for those underground fighting rings. I don’t want him attacking us down the road.”
“Please,” Sutton said, feeling his eyes well up from emotion. “Come on.”
“What’s the dog worth to you?” the first soldier asked. “We need supplies. Hook us up and we might let him live.”
Sutton couldn’t lie, because Buster’s life depended on him complying with the soldiers. He felt a tear dribble down his right cheek because he couldn’t lose his last companion in addition to everything else.
“I’ve got a truck. It’s full of supplies. Food, toilet paper, bedding, the works.”
Every one of the soldiers looked at him skeptically, because no one in the apocalypse traveled so well-prepared.
“What kind of truck?” one of the soldiers asked, his expression perplexed.
Sutton never got to answer, because a bloody hole appeared along the left shoulder of the man when a bullet pierced his flesh from behind. Knowing immediately that their potential victim decided not to wait and see what fate awaited her, Sutton reached for his sidearm as the soldiers all turned to confront Gracine. He fired two shots, striking two men along their upper backs, downing them immediately. The two uninjured men took shots at Gracine, missing their mark, and as one turned to confront Sutton, he was shot along the left side of his neck. Blood spurted from the wound immediately, and even as the man went to clasp it with his free hand, his legs betrayed him, allowing him to topple like a detonated building to the ground.
Not backing down for one second, Gracine marched forward, firing a shot at the soldier that missed completely. He went to fire at her, and in desperation she squeezed the trigger again, striking the man in his forearm that clasped the firearm. He yelped in pain, dropping the gun as she got close enough to swing her own sidearm against his temple, dropping him in a heap.
Their initial encounter never left Sutton’s mind, and as he sat beside her in the present, he felt thankful to have Gracine and most of their group nearby. He never expected forgiveness from Jillian, and wasn’t optimistic about seeing her or Metzger again in his lifetime. Even so, he planned on finding a vehicle charger that worked with the satellite phone Metzger gave him, just in case he received a call.
“For the record, I’m glad we didn’t lose you,” Gracine said, the glow from the fire reflecting in her face as she turned to speak to him.
“If Jillian hadn’t run off with Dan, me and Buster would’ve hit the road.”
“She’s going to forgive you,” Gracine said with a soft, knowing grin.
“I don’t know. I could’ve done a lot of things differently that day.”
“Those creeps were heading that way whether you were with them or not. Because of you, the rest of us didn’t get shot.”
Sutton supposed she had a point, but he still hated that Jillian saw her father so briefly before his death.
“Well, I’m turning in,” Gracine said, raising her hands over her head while she yawned a few seconds.
Standing, she placed a hand on his shoulder and leaned down to kiss him on the cheek, which Sutton didn’t refuse. After she walked into the cabin, Sutton stared at the fire momentarily before looking out to the trees, admiring the stars between their branches and leaves. The setting might have made for a beautiful painting, or even a nighttime photograph if properly shot. He preferred the rural setting to all of the dangers that lurked inside the cities and towns. Still concerned about his sons, he turned to Buster.
“You about ready to crash, boy?”
Buster turned his head sideways in response.
“Me, too.”
Sutton kicked dirt on the fire to extinguish it, not wanting stragglers or the dead to find their position. While the campground area appeared reasonably clear of the undead, he knew at least one living person remained in the area, and it concerned him not knowing the person’s identity. He looked around, seeing and hearing nothing, wishing his son would emerge from the woods and end his anxiety. Instead, he turned to walk inside with Buster and see what answers daylight brought him.
***
After a night of tossing and turning before finally drifting off to sleep, Sutton heard birds chirping outside, along with other woodland noises the next morning. Throwing aside the blanket, he swung his legs out from the wood-frame bed, ready to step outside for some answers. Buster remained lying beside his bed, showing no inclination to eat, or run outside during the early morning hour, so Sutton tiptoed around him before putting on the hiking shoes he found at a house the previous week.
Everyone else appeared to be asleep as he stepped quietly through the house, unlocking the door to confront the morning. He smelled the burned wood from the previous evening, and several other pleasant odors only found in nature. Far removed from smog, landfills, and even undead masses, he remembered why he loved being isolated from the world so much. When he stepped onto the front porch, he heard his new footwear clop against the wood planks, but as he stared into the open area along the front of the building, Sutton spied something unusual near his firepit and beyond the two parked vehicles.
Instinctively reaching to his right hip, he realized he hadn’t grabbed a firearm in his haste to look for signs of Sean. Taking only a few steps forward, down two steps, he confirmed the two objects he saw were bodies, both blackened from being thoroughly burned, and neither appearing to be undead in nature. Sutton knew the difference, and these bodies weren’t severely skinny like most of the undead, nor did they appear ragged, or decomposed, in the few areas that hadn’t suffered burns. He felt sick to his stomach, because he feared for the lives of both of his sons if they’d returned to the site and some maniac got to them.
