Keep moving, girl.
The end of the hallway loomed.
Romy knew what was out there. She knew that a space opened up to her left into the living room. The wall on her right continued further, ending in the doorway to the kitchen. Beyond that and along the opposite wall was the front door.
She knew these things. What she did not know, was if there were zombies pressed up against the windows, zombies at the door – or if that door even still stood.
She crept forward, agonizingly slow. Then she was at the corner of the wall. She breathed a small sigh when she saw that the front door was still intact and shut.
She hesitated at the corner though. She knew that there was a large bay window at the back of the living room. She felt the cool wind on her skin, and heard it gust outside.
So, the window is busted. Great.
Romy hesitated. Would she stick her head around the corner to see zombies standing inside the living room? She could feel a cramp slowly developing in her calf.
Dehydration, her analytical mind told her. A full water bottle lay on its side, agonizingly close but out of immediate reach. She looked up from the bottle and saw a clock hanging on the opposite wall. It was about 7:25 AM. She felt her sidearm – a sharp pressure digging into her right butt cheek.
Enough lollygagging, Romy Stewart. Go. Now.
She stuck her head around the corner. For a second her eyes grew wide, as there was movement towards her. Then she realized that it was the curtains, catching the wind. She took a halting breath and tried to calm herself.
Romy looked around the living room and it all looked the same as when they first arrived, except for the busted-out window.
She sat back, but not before snatching the water bottle. She opened the bottle and tried not to gulp the contents, as her mind drifted back.
Chapter forty-five
Willemtown was a typical small town. It was surrounded by farms on all sides, with a highway running through its northern edge. The tallest buildings were the grain silos adjacent to the railway that neatly dissected the town.
Approximately two thousand souls called Willemtown home. Over half of these folks worked out in the farms or had something to do with agriculture. The town boasted a typical yet charming main street. This broad road offered angle parking and a few quaint shops along with the hardware store, grocery store, family restaurant slash bar, and bank.
If you wanted gas, or some fast food, the only options were to be found along the highway.
They used to have a small movie theater, but that shut down over a decade ago. The building was left untouched and started showing its derelict state, with grass growing through the cracks in the concrete near the entrance, and many of the glass windows broken in front of the boards that were installed as an afterthought.
There used to be a steel shop too. The truth was that this town was dwindling.
There was a small school, the sheriffs’ office, a small legion which doubled as the community center, and a couple of motels clinging to the highway for their business. Like most of the town was.
The biggest investment the town made in the last three years was the sign on the highway. Some all-too-common slogan plastered on it in garish colors, in a feeble attempt to tempt people to turn off and spend a few of their dollars.
That was pretty much it. The town was dying.
Romy had arrived four years ago, to take on the assistant manager role at the bank. Four years, and she was still that ‘new person’. An outsider...
Romy was also the only African American in town, and therefore quite a curiosity. She was tall, and rather athletic. Being in her early thirties made her the object of many advances by the local hound dogs, and she literally had to beat them off with a stick during her first year in town. The constant attention forced her to keep to herself. Which made her even more of an outsider. She had heard that one of the farmers had married an African American and their kids were mulatto, and in a fit of desperation had driven out to their farm, only to sit in front of their driveway, change her mind, and head back to town feeling stupid.
She rented a basement suite from the Baxters. They were nice folks. Older. All their kids had spread their wings and left the house. And didn’t stop there, as they flew as fast and far away from this town as they could. Now the Baxters were alone in a house that was too big for them.
They treated Romy well, and mostly just let her be.
Well, up until that day.
Romy had been watching the events unfolding worldwide on the little tv in her basement suite. The bank had shut down the day before. A bunch of people had fled town to go to the nearest ‘safe zone’.
Not Romy. She really had no place to go, anyway. Her parents died six years ago in a plane crash and her older brother got shot the year before that. He had a son. Her nephew. That was the only family she had, but she had not spoken with him or his mom for over a year.
She had a couple of friends in Chicago that she’d talked to. They convinced her that things would not be better in any city. So, she prepared herself. Romy was no survivalist, but she had a couple of good guns and some decent gear.
Her most prized gun was also her smallest. It was a Micro Desert Eagle. The thing was a super compact, .380 automatic pistol cartridge or APC. It was this gun that she immediately grabbed when she heard the loud
