Jenna noted how Billy turned red, then glared at the older man.
The duo ambled toward the exit of the building, Quentin trailing behind.
“Hey.” Jackie came running, closing the space between her and the search party. “Don’t forget about me.”
Outside, Emma didn’t let the conversation drop. “Billy, you get we all just want you and your brother Eric around for the big sweet sixteen party everyone’s planning. Quentin’s looking out for you, and we’re trying to keep you safe until you’re eighteen. Then you can fight whoever or whatever you want as often as you desire. For today, going into town will have to be enough excitement to satisfy you.”
“Yes, Mom.” Billy rolled his eyes.
“The sass on you.” Emma’s words didn’t relay a scolding. At any other time in history, she would have been the epitome of a stay-at-home soccer mom. Now, in combat boots, ripped jeans, and a KISS band T-shirt, she looked more warrior princess.
Jackie’s words could be heard even as she lagged behind. The opposite of Emma, Jackie was a fiery Brazilian. Today, her long hair flew out at all angles from behind a bandana, framing intense brown eyes. While not so handy with a gun or knife, her cooking skills were unsurpassed.
You could bring Jackie any odd combination of canned goods, and she’d create a gourmet feast with a little flour and a couple cans of condensed milk. She was the reason the group was alive and not suffering from malnutrition.
Jackie and Emma might be opposites, but they both managed to remain presentable and, more importantly, sane. Jenna wasn’t sure she’d accomplish either to a degree people would believe.
Her eyes moved down to her stained shirt, and she ticked off items on her personal inventory.
Camouflage jacket filthy and covered with muck. Check. Jeans stained with God knows what. Check. Unkempt, unwashed hair pulled into a severe ponytail. Check. Uniform complete. Doesn’t matter what the weather. Yep, a mess in more ways than one.
At least she’d managed a quick wash this morning and didn’t smell like the rotting flesh of the undead. A common perfume on many a days.
Kicking away a rusted soda can brought on reflection from pre-pandemic days. A friend had warned her to start dropping pounds, or she’d end life an overweight middle-class homemaker who spent most of her time transporting school-age children to boring events and fondly reminiscing about her few thin, high school years with the rest of the suburban parents.
What bullshit.
Now, one healthy meal a day had become a luxury and the strength to fight a necessity. Living in abandoned buildings, sleeping when possible, and sustained by hunting or scavenging was wearisome.
Her life had become a series of encounters with Streakers punctuated by periods of drudgery and boredom. She faced days of standing and staring into an empty horizon for hours, cooking for the group, hauling water, and washing and drying load after load of soiled clothes, forever stained with the remains of the undead. In these times, the survivors were always on the go, attempting to avoid Streakers following their every move.
No one could figure out what attracted zombies to the living, but they never ceased to emerge from the shadows or around the corner of a building. Being ready to jump ship at a moment’s notice produced constant packing and unpacking, sorting and resorting items, including the canned foods the group survived on, the bedding, and the makeshift stove for cooking. It also meant being anxious and forever looking over one’s shoulder.
Today would be no different. The small posse headed along the abandoned road. Billy engaged phantom Streakers with his nail-studded bat.
She wished he’d stayed back at the school. The teen was young and everyone wanted to keep him safe, but scavenging parties offered good training. It was unlikely the group would come across more Streakers after getting rid of so many.
Jenna shifted her baseball bat between hands and noticed Quentin carried a similar one, along with a gun. Emma and Jackie gripped long knives. The blonde also had a shotgun strapped to her back. While firearms were more useful for killing Streakers from a distance, the loud noise often summoned other undead. Baseball bats and knives were most peoples’ weapons of choice when not high on top of a building. Cars would have been faster, but the engines also attracted Streakers, and why waste gas for the short trip deeper into town to search the stores?
Emma carried a lifeline, a walkie-talkie.
Better safe than sorry, but let’s hope there’s no need to contact the base camp.
If they were quiet and remained on guard, the small group could get in and out of the center of town without a problem.
“How are you, Miss Jenna?” Emma nudged her, breaking into Jenna’s reverie.
“Are you probing for information? Do you want to know if I’m okay after the attack?”
“Maybe.”
Jenna nibbled her bottom lip with her teeth before answering. “A little tired but otherwise just dandy. Stop looking at the cuts on my face. They’re scratches. They’re fine. I don’t know why everyone is concerned. It was just one more Streaker attack. We’ve lived through plenty, remember?”
“You never know what will kill you these days.” Emma matched her pace, step for step. “But you sound like your old, cranky self, so you must be good.” The older woman placed a hand on her shoulder. “I have to warn you”—her smile full of compassion—“George started a ruckus about women—I take that back. It was about you—fighting. He wanted to be the one battling alongside Caleb to prove his prowess to Jackie.” She leaned close and whispered in Jenna’s ear. “He’s afraid Jackie will leave him for a New Racer. George was mad as the dickens you beat him to the party.” Her shoulder brushed Jenna’s. “A little secret, Caleb requested you join him and
