Instead, Frankie had. She’d had the loving parents and stable home that Dylan never got to experience. Still, Dylan didn’t envy her. When Frankie was barely out of school, her parents died in a car crash. She inherited the house and a sizable chunk of money, but it was never the same, the rooms empty of life and laughter.
Now, as Dylan faced the locked gates, she wondered what waited inside. Was Frankie still alive? Did she even still live there? Dylan took a deep breath and steeled herself. “Only one way to find out.”
As she got out of the car, a cold breeze lifted the hair from her neck. Dried leaves swirled around her feet, and shiver worked its way down her spine. Not for the first time, she wished she’d grabbed a jacket on her way out that morning. As she turned to walk toward the gate, Dylan glanced at her watch and blanched. Sixty-nine hours, forty-two minutes, and ten seconds remaining.
Chapter 6 - Dylan
Dylan tested the gate with a tentative hand. It was locked. There was no bell to ring. No buzzer or intercom, and calling Frankie was out of the question. The networks had crashed days ago, and standing around in the open made her a target for any passing undead.
“Here goes nothing,” she muttered before climbing over. Her feet landed on the ground with a soft thud, and she pulled out her gun, just in case. “Let’s see if anyone’s home.”
With all her senses on high alert, she made her way to the front door. Along the way, she cast her gaze across the garden, noting that the grass was knee-high and the flowerbeds were overgrown. That didn’t mean her friend wasn’t there, though. Gardening wasn’t exactly a top priority during the apocalypse.
Dylan reached the front porch and walked up the steps with slow deliberation. She wasn’t at all sure she was ready for this. The thought of Frankie jumping out at her as a zombie was almost enough to make her turn around and flee.
She peered through the stained glass on either side of the wooden door. It was a wasted effort, however, for she couldn’t see a thing. Dylan flexed her fingers and reached for the brass knob. The door swung open with a loud creak, and she jumped back with her weapon held ready. Her heart thudded painfully in her chest as she waited for something to leap at her. Several seconds passed, and nothing happened.
With a sigh of relief, she cast a last look around the neighborhood before stepping inside. The air smelled musty, and the interior was dim, the curtains drawn. Plumes of dust puffed up around her boots with each step she took, teasing her nostrils. Nobody had cleaned in a long time.
A sneeze threatened to erupt, and she paused to gain control of herself first. Once her eyes stopped watering, she called out in a tentative voice. “Frankie? Are you in there? It’s Dylan.”
Not a soul stirred.
By now, she was sure the house was deserted.
“Guess it’s just me then.” Disappointment filled her chest, and she glanced back at her car. What was the point in investigating further? Her friend was gone. But maybe, Frankie had left a clue as to her whereabouts. It was a long shot, but… “What else am I going to do?”
She flicked on a light, gratified to see the power was still on. Despite the failing infrastructure and lack of communications systems, the grid was still holding in most places, providing water and electricity. But for how long was anybody’s guess.
As she moved through the house, step by step, Dylan was gripped by a strong sense of deja vu. She’d only been inside the place once, a week after Frankie’s parents died in the car crash. They’d had the memorial there, and as Frankie’s best friend, she’d attended.
On that day, the rooms had been filled with grieving family and friends. People spoke in hushed whispers while sipping on cups of tea. Frankie had looked beautiful but pale in her black dress, accepting an endless stream of condolences. At one point, she’d disappeared, and Dylan found her in the master bathroom, sobbing into a towel while holding a razor blade. The memory thrust its way into the forefront of Dylan’s mind, insisting on being relived.
***
“Oh, Frankie. Not that. Anything but that,” Dylan cried, grabbing the blade from Frankie’s cold fingers.
“It hurts so much,” Frankie said, her eyes puffy and swollen. “I want it to stop.”
“Oh, sweetie. It will stop…in time,” Dylan said, gathering Frankie into her arms.
“I want it to stop now,” Frankie cried, her voice muffled against Dylan’s shoulder.
“I know,” Dylan said, rocking her friend back and forth as she cried. “I know.”
***
The memory faded, though its after-effects remained, and the air felt laden with misery. Dylan cleared the foyer, living room, and the kitchen before moving on to the dining room. She briefly debated going upstairs but decided against it. The place was abandoned, and it felt like a violation of Frankie’s privacy.
A denim jacket hung on the back of a chair. She tucked away her gun before shrugging it on, grateful for the warmth. A whiff of musk teased her nose, and she buried her face in the collar. It still smelled of Frankie and the perfume she used to wear.
Suppressing her feelings, Dylan forced herself to keep looking for clues, and her eyes fell on a bundle of papers strewn across the dining room table. She moved closer and brushed away the accumulated dust with one hand.
It was a map.
A map covered in sticky notes.
Intrigued, Dylan leaned closer.
On the map itself, Sharpsburg was circled in red. A long, wriggly line ran down from it, following a route across the border of Illinois and into Kentucky. It ended at Fort Knox next to Radcliff which was likewise marked with red. She frowned. “It looks like
