We were soon joined by Mitch. He sat next to Paige, much too close to Paige for my liking. Kira nudged my ribs with her elbow and gave me a DON'T SAY IT smirky look.
As the sun sank behind the naked tree limbs, we snuggled closer, and I thanked whatever power had brought these marvelous people into my life.
OUTNUMBERED volume 5
Prologue
A good and caring friend of ours recently passed on in a disturbing manner. Elsie Talbot was a human resources manager at an international company before the Zombie Apocalypse. She was vastly overqualified to manage the small office for our survivor group at Deliverance. For more than a year she'd been despondent; several of us attempted to help her cope and adjust to our darkening prospects. But we failed.
One bright, beautiful, morning two months ago, Elsie rose, showered, primped to look her best, had coffee and a muffin, and strolled outside. She sat on a wood bench facing the warmth of the rising sun. The guard in the watchtower said Elsie smiled and waved at her. Then without hesitation, Elsie raised her .40 caliber handgun to her chest and pulled the trigger.
Elsie was an indirect victim of the Zombie Apocalypse. She was a product of the technical world they destroyed. Her life revolved around her work, friends, and the hubbub of the modern, technological world we lost. She clung to memories of a life zombies wrenched away from her. The anticipated decline of the remnants of our society to the lifestyles and hardships of the fifteenth century frightened her more than death, so she chose death on her terms.
Ultimately, those of us who remain must continue to struggle, no matter the hardships, or humanity will cease to exist.
Tom Jacobs – 2028, the tenth year of the Zombie Apocalypse.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Kira and I scurried away from the safety of our truck. We carefully made our way along the deeply rutted dirt road and walked up the slight incline toward the farmstead two hundred yards ahead. Traces of gravel littered the edge of the straight trail, but none had been spread in at least a decade. Tall, uncut weeds bordered the road on each side of us with rows of hedge trees a hundred feet farther out. A pack of barking and growling dogs charged us to announce intruders were on the property. We ignored them as they scampered, snarled, and snapped at our heels. The temperature was in the upper forties but would rise by mid-morning. Kira turned her head and smiled. Her short auburn hair framed the deeply tanned, delicate features of the woman I adored. We advanced with our handguns holstered against our thighs; our long guns lay on the bed of the truck. We each wore hiking boots, US Army camouflage pants and long sleeved, cotton camo t-shirts.
Behind us, our pickup sat crossways on the dirt trail. Jesse Pitchford and Rick Jones stood behind it, covering us. Both were excellent long range shooters. If they'd been in Delta Force with me, we would have been rated as nearly equal in sniper skills.
A hundred feet from the nearest building, I called out, "Tim Masters, we want to talk." We knew the occupants of the three buildings saw us approach, because rifle barrels poked toward us from several raised windows.
On each side of the large two-story brick and vinyl covered house, a smaller vinyl sided house had been built. Behind them sat a large, metal-covered pole barn and several small wood outbuildings. A sparse line of leafless deciduous trees partially circled the compound, and fields lay behind them. Some showed signs of crops from last year, but most of the acreage had been overgrown by tall weeds and saplings during a decade as they lay fallow. Even before the zombies descended on us, the line of trees near the house provided shade and a windbreak. Since then, they provided cover for the undead to approach and, in my opinion, should have been razed.
"Tim, we want to talk. There are four of us, two stayed at the truck."
The sun rose behind us, barely above the tree tops. We'd planned it that way so Tim's group stared into the bright orange ball. It wasn't much of an advantage, but it was well worth having. I felt we should be on good terms with Tim's group after two previous visits, but why take chances? I still had lingering doubts about Masters, but it was a gut feeling with nothing tangible to back it up. When we first approached his group, they were adamantly opposed to joining us. On the second contact they had softened, somewhat.
A tall, thin man stepped from the house onto the wood porch that stretched across the front. He hobbled down two steps on a gimpy leg as we walked to him. Tim's face was gaunt. Several days of facial hair sat under a receding hairline. The rifles swiveled to bear on us as we got closer. The dogs drifted away from us as Tim approached, but they continued to dance and bark loudly. The dogs ran between the houses to the back, still barking. Something more interesting had caught their attention.
"What the hell do you want this early in the morning, Jacobs? It's not a normal time to come calling." He briefly turned his back to us. "Y'all in the house put those guns down. It's Tom Jacobs and his wife." He smiled thinly as he extended his right hand to shake mine. He turned to Kira; she acknowledged his attention with a grin and a slight nod. As Tim and I spoke, I watched two women and a man move from the house to the porch. They were armed.
