Before venturing out north, Marty fished out a cell phone and turned it on.
“Is there still cell coverage?” Jocelyn asked as he watched the screen boot up.
“Went out a few days ago, but I keep trying, in case. If the cell grid comes up, it means someone revived the towers . . . Nope, still no signal.” He shut off the phone to preserve the charge.
The area was devoid of cars, except not far up the road from the store stood an old orange Hyundai with the driver’s door open. There was blood on the door and the asphalt below.
It was a keyed ignition, and although the key was in it, when they tried to start it, the ignition wouldn’t turn on. Marty guessed the engine had been left on for a while, eventually using up all the gas. Once the snow melted, he and Vin had tried to start most of the cars on the roads, but they were either out of gas from running so long, or the keys or fobs were missing, or both. Invariably, no one could start any parked cars in the two-thirds-full parking lot.
With beautiful blue skies, the air heated well such that Marty perspired. They reached the outskirts of town soon after the sun disappeared behind the mountains. They passed several houses on both sides of the highway, leading into denser housing, and when they reached an apartment building on the left, Jocelyn called from behind him to stop.
He froze in place as two figures crossed in front into the road. Each had a Glock handgun out and pointed at them. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a man on each side of the road in line with them. He turned around and saw two men behind Jocelyn—they were surrounded.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Day Eight
The men in front of Marty and Jocelyn loomed about a hundred feet away. They were closing. The two men in the rear had shotguns, but they were hanging by a strap behind them. Did they not want to waste the shells? Did they even have any?
All the men wore fatigues and sported large beards. Most were bald, but not all.
“No sudden movements, now,” said one man. “All we want is your gear—your backpacks and weapons. Just to show we’re not too mean-spirited, you can keep your water and your lives.” The water was not much of a concession. The supermarket had running water, and Marty suspected most places did where there was either town water or a pump with backup electricity.
“When I say so,” Jocelyn muttered under her breath, “drop on your belly and stay there. Nod if you understand.”
What the hell was she doing? He only had a few seconds to decide. Should they test their theory now that she was impervious to bullets? If not, they’d both be killed. But it would be a much harsher world if they couldn’t acquire new weapons.
Marty gave a slight nod.
After a brief pause, Jocelyn appeared to think things over and sighed. “All right, you can take everything. Do you agree, Marty?”
“Yep,” he called.
“Smart girl,” said the man. “Now reach for your shotgun slowly. If you look threatening, we’ll fire. Understand?”
She nodded.
“Good. Now the shotgun.”
She reached back for it, and made a show of starting to place the shotgun on the ground when she called, “Drop!”
Immediately Marty dropped to the asphalt. Gun fire erupted from all sides. Marty aimed his shotgun at one man in front of them and hit him in the groin area while the other man’s chest exploded from Jocelyn’s blast. Both men cried out and dropped their weapons and collapsed.
Marty turned his head to the right and then to the left. Both men on either side had fallen. By now, Jocelyn had to have been hit at least once, if not several times. Marty turned his body around and aimed at the two at their rear. They stared wide-eyed, looked at each other, then looked back at Marty and Jocelyn, who remained standing, her shotgun pointed at the two men, too. The two men surrendered, dropping their handguns and putting their hands up.
A shot rang out from behind. Marty turned around to see the man he had shot in the groin with a gun in his hand. Prone, lying down, his head and arm barely above the asphalt, the man seemed in no condition to fight back. Yet he was making a valiant attempt.
The man fired again. Who he was aiming at was uncertain, but regardless, Marty had no idea where the bullet ended up.
Marty dropped again to the ground, cursing himself for his lack of vigilance, though he’d never been in a firefight with non-zombies. And zombies don’t fire back.
Marty dropped the shotgun and aimed his handgun at the firing man’s handgun, and shot. Although missing its mark, the bullet hit the forearm, and the man cried out and dropped his gun. Marty got up, kneeling on one knee, and fired again. The man’s body jerked as the bullet hit him in the chest, his head and arm falling back to the asphalt.
Still aiming his gun, Marty got up on his feet and walked slowly toward the grimacing man.
Marty barely heard him say “kill me.” Marty pivoted behind him and saw two tiny figures running in the distance. He saw they still carried their shotguns.
Jocelyn continued to point her own weapons in their direction. They could really have used those shotguns, but Marty understood why she couldn’t shoot anyone running away.
Marty turned back to the man who wanted to die. “Where did you come from?”
“If I tell you.” He grimaced again and paused. “Will you kill me?”
“You have my word.”
“I come from . . . a group of . . . survivalists. We’re a scout team.”
“But you tried to rob us.”
“That was Jeb’s idea . . .
