James’s girls were tough, capable young ladies. Not surprisingly, he was proud of all three of them—and would do anything to keep them alive. Luckily, though, they were skilled enough to keep him breathing, too. So, perhaps the four of them had indeed survived the Detroit shitstorm and made it safely to northern Michigan. Of all the family members possibly converging upon our “compound” up north, they had the fewest miles to travel—and the fewest cities to avoid.
John’s only daughter, Laney, was a different story. As smart and beautiful as her cousins, the first-year law student had long ago explained to the family that, should a zombie apocalypse ever occur, she’d be utterly useless. In fact, she’d gone so far as to inform us—at the ripe old age of fourteen—that she’d rather die than live in a world crawling with the undead and lacking in modern conveniences and luxuries, such as electricity, reliable plumbing, and high fashion.
Eight years later, such a hypothetical calamity had indeed befallen society, and I couldn’t help but wonder how John had managed to get her through the initial three days of the zombie tsunami swamping the globe.
“What about your parents?” Clare asked.
“I didn’t have time to ask him.”
True, I’d had to cut our conversation short, but still, I figured John would’ve told me if he’d heard from our mom and dad. For one thing, he would’ve been impressed that they’d actually figured out how to use the shortwave radio I’d shipped them a couple weeks back.
For the past twenty years or so, our parents had split their time between their primary home on a Florida golf course and the isolated Michigan property we were all desperate to reach. Both die-hard golfers, the two of them had only been a week into their seasonal stay in Florida when I’d received word of the impending Zombiegeddon.
Not surprisingly, they hadn’t believed a word of my tall tale. So, as much as I wanted to believe that they’d survived the initial wave of the undead invasion, I admittedly had trouble envisioning how two senior citizens in their mid-seventies would fend off a bunch of ravenous zombies, gather the necessary supplies for the trip, and, without incident, cover the fifteen hundred miles that lay between their two houses.
Before I could shift my worrisome mind into high gear, Clare spoke up again.
“I hope my dad’s alright. My aunts, too.”
As an only child, Clare didn’t have an extensive family. No siblings or first cousins, and all her grandparents were long deceased. But she still had a father down in southern Louisiana, a maternal aunt in Baton Rouge, and a paternal aunt in Minneapolis, and only a few days before, she had spoken to all three of them. Unfortunately, though, none of them had believed our crackpot theories, so it was anyone’s guess where they were now. If they were even still alive.
I didn’t know how to respond to my wife without resorting to dishonesty, something I only did when absolutely necessary. After what Clare had recently endured, I couldn’t bring myself to dash her hopes and upset her even more by revealing my true suspicions.
Luckily, though, I didn’t have to say anything. Why? Because, just then, Azazel unleashed the heart-wrenching cry that usually preceded a hairball episode.
“Aw, poor baby,” Clare cooed.
Normally, our cat was a pretty adaptable traveler, but given all the stress and upheaval she’d experienced since fleeing our French Quarter apartment, I was actually surprised she hadn’t puked sooner. No doubt she’d groomed herself more nervously than usual, resulting in her present convulsions and retching sounds.
Once she’d finished hacking up two clumps of matted fur and some partially digested tuna—inadvertently rousing George and Casey from their uneasy naps—Clare opened the gate of Azazel’s carrier, wiped off her blanket, and stroked her little head. Then, in customary fashion, our cat curled into a ball and went back to sleep as if nothing had happened.
“Did you put that pink ribbon on her?” Clare asked, clearly having forgotten that she’d already voiced that question back at the overrun campsite.
Given that her mother had died during the interim, I ignored the unusual brain fart.
“No clue,” I replied. “Didn’t you see her back at the campsite? When she came back from wherever she’d gone? Just strolled past me and Casey and hopped back in the van like it was no biggie.”
Clare peered inside the carrier. “Looks like she managed to get it off, but now, she’s sleeping on it.”
“Guess our girl had a wee adventure in the woods. Too bad she can’t tell us about it.”
Then, in a rare moment of cursing, Clare said, “I’m just glad one of those little fuckers didn’t get her.” She sighed sadly. “Like they got my mom.”
Again, the van fell silent. Just in time for me to slam on my brakes.
“Knew our luck was too good to last,” I muttered.
George emerged from the dining nook, stretching her neck. “What’s wrong?”
But I didn’t need to respond. Even in the dim lighting, the problem was obvious—a complete snarl of cars and bodies at the junction of 84 East and 98 South. Not to mention roving zombies who’d noticed our idling vehicle.
I banged the steering wheel with my fists. “Dammit, I was planning to take 84 to I-55. Thought it might be a quicker route up north.”
“Why?” George asked. “The interstates are usually the biggest parking lots of them all.”
“True,” I grumbled. “I was just hoping something would go right for once.”
“Well, we’d better make a decision fast,” Clare urged. “We’re gonna have company soon.”
Casey slipped past his mom, grabbed my tablet, and, by surveying the various maps I’d stored on the device, helped me backtrack through Meadville to a paved, northerly route called Hospital Road.
As I continued north, eventually veering onto a two-lane thoroughfare named after the small town of Union Church, the rest of the group tried to rejuvenate themselves with some overdue water
