The Dead Survive Read online

  The late afternoon sun was quite warm, and they must have been pushing themselves to get here before nightfall, because he and a few of the other newcomers had their shirts off, folded and tucked into the waistbands of their pants. Perspiration plastered his thick, dark hair to his neck and the sides of his face. He got closer to the gate, and when he whirled, swinging a machete at one of the zombies, I saw a gruesome tattoo covering most of his broad back, some sort of winged demon which appeared to be ripping its way out of his spine. I thought he must surely be a demon himself.

  The zombies were quickly dispatched by Joseph’s arrows from behind the wall, and the deadly swipes of the demon’s blade, and the gate swung open enough to let the exhausted men inside. I stood, my back to the small gap in the wall from which I’d watched the battle, unable to stop staring at what I was sure was the physical embodiment of evil.

  As they passed, the man looked right at me. I started to close my eyes, but he gave a hoarse shout and lunged at me, drawing his machete back to strike. I screamed and ducked my head, only to stumble and fall. When I looked up, there was a decapitated zombie lying just feet away. It must have been in close to the wall during the fight, and slipped through the gap when we’d turned our attention to the new arrivals inside the perimeter.

  Mr. Evil had saved my life.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The community population had grown to a level I thought would make it possible to avoid him. When this proved incorrect, I became convinced he was seeking me out, contriving ways for our paths to cross.

  Even when faced with almost daily fights for survival, people still found time to gossip, and our newest residents caused quite a stir. I’d heard shortly after their arrival that the men had all served time in the Luther Luckett Correctional Complex in La Grange before the outbreak, which had only cemented my opinion of the tattooed hulk. Yes, he’d saved me from being zombie chow, but I couldn’t get past his powerful, frightening appearance.

  While helping clear brush from a public space near the center of the neighborhood in preparation for a vegetable garden, I overheard a conversation between Liz and Lexie, whose job was to help monitor radio and intermittent cell communications for the Compound.

  Liz’s voice was soft but clear as she pulled a stubborn vine out of the ground. I didn’t catch the start of what she said, but she finished with, “…because of the halfway house.”

  I glanced over and saw Lexie nod. “That was it. I told Marcus when he said we didn’t need their kind that he was being short-sighted.” She brushed short, chestnut hair off her sweaty forehead. “They did their time at Luckett and were at the halfway house. High-risk prisoners don’t go there. I told the council that house was for guys with a vocation, ones who would transition back into society without much trouble, so long as they got a little help.”

  “Josh didn’t take much convincing after he heard that,” Liz said, attacking some dead brush with her rake. “They were up front about it, rather than taking the easy way and making up where they were from. We’d never have known any different.”

  “Marcus was still suspicious at first, but he’s spent a good bit of time with them in the motor pool, and he’s convinced they mean to be assets and stick around for the long haul.”

  Liz made murmurs of approval, and the two women moved a little distance to see if they could dislodge a stubborn rock from the planned garden. I didn’t catch all of what they said after they started digging around the obstruction, but did pick up a few more details.

  It turned out the ex-cons brought some useful skills to the table. Mr. Evil, whose name I learned was Quinn, had worked as a diesel mechanic when he wasn’t incarcerated, one was a welder, and two others had solid backgrounds in construction. It was decided they could stay, as long as they proved to be hard workers and abided by the rules the council had established.

  To avoid encounters with Quinn, I spent more and more time working on the library project with Liz. This had the added benefit of spending time with her two dogs. I could pet them for hours, taking comfort in their unconditional affection, though I ached every day wondering what had happened to Skip. I put the word out to those who ventured outside the Compound working patrols or scavenging for supplies, asking them to keep an eye out, but nobody had seen him.

  One day, Liz needed to check on some aspect of the ever-increasing garden plots, and I’d promised to stay at the house and sort through some automotive manuals a scavenging team had found at a technical college.

  “I’ll probably only be a couple of hours,” Liz said, reassuring me with her warm, brown gaze. It was the first time she’d left me alone while working in her house. “I told Josh to ask around and see if he could find someone to come by and tell us which of the books are most useful, or if any of them are too outdated.”

  I hoped the person Josh asked was a woman. The idea of being alone in the house with a man—any man—set my stomach churning, but I nodded.

  Shortly after she left, there was a knock at the door.

  Of course, it was Quinn.

  He wasn’t as tall as I remembered from when he was swinging a machete at my head, but he was broad, seeming to take up more space than the laws of physics would dictate. The sleeves of his chambray shirt were rolled above the elbows, revealing powerful forearms with tattoos much more crudely drawn than the one I’d glimpsed on his back, probably obtained while in prison. His dark eyes revealed little emotion, but something told me he was working hard to present a bland, non-threatening appearance.

  It wasn’t working.

  I moved away, putting the boxes of books between us. I couldn’t help watching closely for any sign of imminent assault, even as I felt foolish for doing it. I was simply unable to get past his resemblance to a photo straight out of central casting filed under “homicidal maniac.”

  He started to take a step through the doorway, then paused mid-stride. He looked at me, seeming to ask permission. After a moment, I nodded, and he entered, stopping only a few feet into the room. A safe distance, I thought. My anxiety backed down enough to allow me to breathe.

  He started to speak, then hesitated, swallowed, cleared his throat, and said, “I’m Quinn. Josh asked me to come by?” He knew I was aware of his identity. This was a formality, a parody of normal social convention of a now bygone time.

  “Uh…I’m Ellen,” I said, though he knew perfectly well who I was too.

  Should I shake his hand? That’s what polite people would’ve done, before. But this wasn’t that time anymore, and no way in hell was I shaking his hand. I’d be more likely to invite him to sit in the sun room and have tea and cookies. If I had a sun room. Or tea. Or cookies.

  I shook my head to clear my thoughts and realized he was speaking. “Are these the books Josh asked me about?” He gestured to the boxes at my feet. “I had a couple of training classes while I was locked up, so I should be able to tell you which ones will help people learn, and which ones are more advanced.”

  His voice was softer than I’d expected, with a subtle hint that he might at one time have lived farther south than Kentucky. “Yes, um, those and one more box in Josh’s office. He was looking through it last night.” Damn. I sounded like I’d been inhaling helium.

  He studied me for a moment, then to my relief he moved away, clearing a space on the worktable against the wall. He moved the boxes and started sorting the books into piles on the table. I went to retrieve the other box, waking both dogs from a nap in the process. They followed me back to where Quinn was working, their keen canine gazes studying him intently. Seeming to make some sort of decision, they settled to the floor beside the table. In between placing books on one pile or another, Quinn dropped his hand to stroke one of the dog’s heads, or ruffle an ear. They were calm and relaxed in his company, and while I’d long advocated trusting a dog’s opinion of people, I couldn’t bring myself to do so in this instance.

  After so much time spent here, though, I’d become protective of the dogs. I felt
almost like an aunt, proud and a little possessive. “That’s Bigby,” I said, indicating the beautiful golden retriever mix currently on his back, waving all four legs in the air, begging for a belly rub. “And that’s Rowdy.” The smaller Border collie was working his way under Quinn’s elbow, intent on shifting his hand into prime petting position and stealing his attention from Bigby.

  He murmured softly to the dogs, his voice gaining volume little by little. Soon, I realized he was speaking to me, as much as to the dogs at his feet. “I had a dog growing up. He was a lab mix named Bogart. Man, I loved that dog, but he died while I was in jail.” He looked in my direction, not quite meeting my eyes, as if afraid I’d bolt. “It was all so stupid. I was stupid. Everything I knew about cars, stealing them was easy, and not much risk. But when the guys wanted to break into some houses, I should’ve stayed out of it. They said no worries, the family won’t be home, and we aren’t going to carry any guns. Except the family was home, and Dale had his brother’s Glock in his jacket pocket, and he dropped it after he shot over the guy’s head and we ran. Got caught, ’course. Stupid.” His head hung with the weight of his impromptu confession.

  I found myself replying. “My dog is missing. The looters were robbing my brother’s store, and Skip started barking. They shot Matt, then shot at Skip as he ran away. I don’t know what happened to him.”

  His dark brown eyes softened. “I’m sorry,” he said. “What kind of dog?”

  “A tri-color beagle,” I said, eyes going misty as I pictured him in my mind. When I could speak, I told Quinn where I’d last seen him, and where we’d lived. I wondered if he’d gone back to the house looking for me.

  “I go outside the walls pretty often,” he said, still speaking softly. Our mutual sharing of our regrets seemed to have warmed the air a little, and I began to feel less afraid. “I work in the motor pool most days, but I go on patrol with Marcus too. I’ll watch for Skip when I’m out. I’ll find him if I can.”

  I felt a little more hope, knowing one more person would be on the lookout for Skip. I carried the last box over to the table, and Quinn reached to take it. I was holding it against my chest, and his hand brushed my ribs, just below my breast. I gasped and dropped the box, taking several lurching steps backward. I knew it had been an accident, but I was unable to stop my reflexive response.

  Quinn held his hands in front of him, palms facing me, indicating harmless intentions. He slowly reached for the books as I tried to catch my breath and slow my racing heart. Once he’d placed the box on the table, he said, “Look, Ellen, I understand you don’t know me, but I’m not like those men. I’d never hurt you, or anybody else who wasn’t trying to hurt me or someone I care about first.”

  I didn’t care for his mention of those men, but everyone knew about the hotel. “I know,” I said, too quickly.

  “Maybe in your head you know, but your heart, your instincts, they haven’t caught up yet.” He pulled a stack of manuals from the box before turning back to me. “I wish you would try to trust me.” The last was spoken so softly I had to strain to hear.

  “Why?” I asked. “Why does it matter if I’m afraid of you?”

  He sat down, one hand absently drifting down to rub Bigby’s ear. “I don’t know. It just does.”

  “If you want me to trust you, you have to do better than that.” Where had that remark come from? I didn’t want to know him well enough to trust him. Did I?

  He sighed and fanned through the pages of a thick Caterpillar diesel service guide. “I guess it’s because of how we met.”

  “You mean when I thought you were going to decapitate me?”

  “When I saw that zombie right behind you and stopped it from killing you.”

  “So, what? Is it like those warrior movies where after you save someone, you’re responsible for them?” I didn’t like the sound of that at all. I wanted him to keep his distance, not become my shadow.

  He rubbed one large hand over the stubble that shadowed his jaw. “No, not like that. Well, maybe a little. But it’s more about how it gave me hope.” I raised an eyebrow, indicating skepticism or confusion. Either way, he took it as a sign to continue. “While I was in the halfway house, I promised myself I wasn’t going back to my old life. I was going to stop being a selfish punk and do something good with my life. Then the outbreak happened, and we were too busy trying to save our own asses to worry about anything else. I saw a lot of people die, but I was never able to do anything about it. After a while, I wasn’t even sure if I would, or if I’d just keep running. But when I saw you, and that zombie, I didn’t even think. I reacted, and that’s when I knew I could do the right thing, that maybe I really was capable of doing something to make this fucked-up world a little better.”

  He seemed drained after his speech, as if he’d been holding it in a long time. I still didn’t know exactly how I fit into this new reality, and part of me envied that he seemed to be figuring it out. “That’s great, but it doesn’t have anything to do with me. Not really.”

  “Yeah, it does.” His gaze intensified, and I started to feel more uncomfortable again. “I don’t know why, but I notice you. I want to get to know you better.”

  I looked away, but found my gaze sneaking back in his direction. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  The corners of his mouth twitched, and I thought I detected the hint of dimples. “Oh, it might be a terrible idea. You might find out you don’t like me at all. But I want to try. I have a feeling you’re going to turn out to be worth the risk.”

  This was so totally the opposite of a conversation I wanted to have. I shook my head slowly, composing the necessary words to tell him to forget it. I wasn’t anywhere near ready for whatever constituted dating in an apocalypse.

  He wasn’t about to give up the topic. “Listen, Ellen, I know what you went through…”

  The high voltage switch to my rage was triggered at a second mention of that hot-button topic, and I almost took a step toward him. Through gritted teeth, I said, “You have no idea what I went through! Maybe you were in prison, but I bet you were never completely helpless, never begged for your life and wished you were dead, all at the same time. You have no fucking clue what that’s like!”

  “So tell me.”

  “No!” I gasped, panicked. I didn’t want to even think about it. I went out on the fortified front porch, slamming the heavy, reinforced door. It took a lot of effort, but my anger allowed me to produce a nice, satisfying thud. I stayed out there, watching the neighborhood activity and thinking, but no way was I going back in there.

  Quinn joined me on the porch about forty minutes later. “I have the books sorted,” he told me, leaning on the railing a good six feet from where I perched.

  I debated moving further away, but decided it would be due to bitchiness, not fear, so I stayed put. “Okay, thanks.” My t-shirt suddenly felt too small, as if it were squeezing my chest and making it hard to breathe. “Were any of the books worth keeping?”

  He nodded. “Yeah, most of ’em are good for something or other. I made three piles.” He moved as if to seat himself closer to me on the rail, but then seemed to think better of it. “The ones on the desk are the best, most up-to-date ones, and for vehicles you’re likely to find around here. The stack under the desk are more specialized or a little older. Too good to throw away, though. The ones I put in the chair by the door, they can go. Too old or for vehicles you won’t bother to mess with even if you find any. Not a lot of use for two-seater sports cars these days.”

  I was glad he was finished. Being in his presence was too stressful. I knew I was supposed to say something, and ran through my mental end-of-the-world etiquette file. Oh, right. “Well, thanks, Quinn.” His name felt strangely savory on my tongue. Then I realized I had to say something else. “Um, hey, I’m sorry about…”

  “No, Ellen.” His voice wasn’t any louder, but it was quite adamant. He did not want to hear an apology. “You have nothin’ to be sorry for. We�
��ve all got scars we’re working on, and I won’t blame you for showing yours sometimes.” This time he did take a few steps closer, and I didn’t run. He leaned toward me, not dangerously close, but enough for me to hear when he dropped his voice even further and said, “But don’t you blame me for my scars, either. It hurts sometimes, people assuming you’re something you’re not.”

  With that, he stepped off the porch and turned in the direction of the house he and his friends shared. I hung my head, somehow ashamed. He was right, I knew. If I hadn’t learned anything else since the world fell apart, it was I couldn’t judge people by how they appeared, at least not entirely. I certainly didn’t want anyone to judge me by the broken, terrified, drunken wreck I was when I arrived here. I sat in somber reflection, reentering the house only after he had crossed the street and vanished from sight.

  CHAPTER SIX

  I tried again to avoid Quinn, but I was conflicted. He made me nervous, as all men did, but this nervousness felt different. It wasn’t fight or flight waiting for something to set it off. It was more intrigue, and a roiling confusion in the pit of my stomach.

  I saw him during his shifts on the wall, or hauling wood when I was working in the gardens. Whenever he seemed about to approach me, I fled. But I couldn’t stop thinking about what he’d said. In the time before, Mason would have been a harmless character on the periphery of my life, zombies would never exist, and Quinn would have been the monster who murdered me in my bed. But everything was inside out now, and I no longer knew what was real.

  Melissa still hadn’t spoken. I wondered if she’d had emotional problems even before being captured, but doubted it. I’d heard whispers from some of the other former captives that her mother had been killed the same day she was taken. I wondered if her mother’s dying cries were the only reason Mason had known her name.