They resumed their ride to the school, pedaling behind a cluster of portable classrooms where they were shielded from sight. They propped the bikes up against the side of the building.
“This is the right thing to do.” Lena stood on her toes and kissed him softly on the lips.
He pulled her against him and held her for a long moment, pressing his nose into her hair. Lena gave him one more peck on the cheek before breaking away. They crept along behind the back of the classrooms, moving in the direction of the gymnasium.
The gym had been installed a few years ago after some aggressive fundraising by the PTA. When Dal had been in high school, classmates had groused about the little kids having the nicest gym in the county. Some of the local churches and clubs even rented it out for events.
Dal heard the Russians before he saw them. They weren’t making any effort to moderate their voices. He and Lena peeked around a fifth-grade classroom and had a perfect view of the gym.
“Is this close enough?” he whispered to Lena.
“Yeah, it’ll do.”
They crouched against the back of a fifth grade classroom, watching. The Russians had a fleet of shiny new trucks and jeeps. It looked like they’d raided a car dealership. In the back of the vehicles were boxes. Lots and lots of boxes, which they unloaded into the gym.
“It’s food,” Lena said.
“It looks like they cleaned out every grocery store in town,” Dal whispered. “They’re stockpiling it all in one place.”
That didn’t bode well. If there were survivors in Bastopol, there’d be no supplies once family cupboards were empty. He planned to tell everyone where these supplies were in his broadcast tonight.
“They keep talking about the Second Offensive. That’s the name of the second wave of soldiers Jim and Tate told us about. I think they’re stockpiling the food for that.”
They continued to kneel in the darkness behind the fifth-grade classroom. Dal ran a hand over the pre-fab siding, recalling what it had been like to be eleven years old.
Fifth grade was a dark time in his memory. It was the first time his dad had thrown him so hard into the wall that his shoulder had been dislocated.
He remembered snot dribbling out of his nose onto the brown linoleum floor as he cried. He remembered choking on his own saliva. He remembered the smashed bits of sheetrock on his clothes and in his hair. He remembered that even though the kitchen reeked of Pine-Sol, his mom could never keep it clean enough to satisfy his father.
“Daddy didn’t mean it.” That’s what his mom always said. “Daddy didn’t mean it. You’ll be all right, Dal. Let mommy see your shoulder.”
He would never forget the pain of having his arm slammed back into the socket. It echoed all the way back through the years.
Daddy didn’t mean it.
How many fucking times had he heard that as a kid?
Daddy didn’t mean it.
What were his parents doing now? Had his dad made it back from Rossi? Did they know about the zombies?
Were they safe?
Why did he even care if they were safe?
There would always be that little piece inside him that belonged to his parents. A little boy who wanted his parents to love him.
Dal hated that part of himself. Almost as much as he hated the rage that lurked inside him.
Something warm touched his hand. He looked down to see Lena’s fingers laced with his. She squeezed his hand.
Her touch brought him back to the present—back from the tunnel of hell that had been his fifth-grade year. The voices of the Russians crashed in around him.
“Two weeks,” Lena was saying.
“What?” Dal asked.
Lena squeezed his hand again. She’d only been a scrawny kid when Dal had been in fifth grade, but she’d been old enough to recognize he didn’t carry normal-kid bruises. He always figured her parents instructed her not to ask about them. He remembered her staring at them, but she never said a word.
“The Second Offensive will be here within the next two weeks,” Lena said. “They’re coming by cargo boat.”
Dal let the enormity of those words sink in. The Russians had created a virus that turned people into zombies. Then, after the nezhit rampaged around for a week or a more, they would all die out.
Then the Second Offensive would arrive. There would be food and housing for everyone.
America would be theirs for the taking.
“Did they say anything about their immunity?” Dal asked.
“No.” Lena took one last look at the Soviets in the gym. He knew she wanted to stick around longer, but all she said was, “We should go. We’ve been here long enough.”
They slunk away from the buildings, pushing their bikes back into the apple orchard. Once they were safely in the trees, they paused to get back onto their bikes.
As they did, a loud snap came from their left. Dal and Lena spun just as a Soviet soldier stepped out from behind a tree. His fly hung open.
Time froze. The Soviet stared at them. Dal and Lena stared back.
Then the Soviet moved, hand flying to his waist as he drew his dart gun.
Dal reflexively threw Lena to the ground, shielding her with his body. Several red darts flew over the top of them as they landed painfully on top of their bikes.
Dal barely registered the pain. He scrambled to his feet and dove for the enemy soldier, tackling him around the legs. Lena jumped up and rammed the heel of her Converse on the Russian’s forearm, pinning the dart gun in the dirt.
Everything happened so fast. The Russian rolled, freeing his arm from Lena’s shoe. Dal attempted to hold him in place, but the other man was bigger. He kneed Dal in the stomach and shoved him aside.
Dal’s back hit an apple tree, the breath whooshing out of his body from the impact.
The Russian sat up, dart gun aimed at Lena.
Dal’s entire universe
