If someone perished in the pen while the guards weren’t around, Scott and the other prisoners made damn sure the corpse didn’t get back up, even if it meant bashing its head with a stone until they were covered in blood. The newly risen dead weren’t always as evolved as the guards, and they often went on a feeding frenzy. Stopping that from happening was worth the lashing. The men took turns so that no one was overly punished or outright put to death for the deed. It was Scott’s turn now, and he figured it wouldn’t be long before he was bashing open Hank’s skull.
The guards mostly stayed inside the compound proper. Whatever force had reanimated them had also greatly reduced their rate of decay, but hadn’t stopped it. Being outside in the heat of summer was unhealthy for them in the long run.
Scott watched as “Chief Hole in His Neck” peeked out of the compound door for the hourly check on the pen; the dead man had gotten his name because his throat was torn open and his rotting windpipe dangled out. He was one of the few guards who couldn’t speak, but he held a high rank among the dead and was easy to get along with if you stayed out of his way and didn’t cause trouble. The dead man’s gaze lingered only for a moment on David, who still stood at the fence, then the mute guard popped back inside, closing the door to the air-conditioned compound behind him.
Scott tiredly pushed himself to his feet, wiping his hands on the pair of tattered black jeans he wore. David didn’t notice his approach.
“You’ve got to stop doing this,” Scott warned.
David jumped at the sound of his voice. His bloodshot eyes stared at Scott in shock. “Doing what?”
“Hoping,” Scott answered. “If you don’t, they’ll likely have you for dinner soon. It makes them nervous when one of us shows any bit of spirit left. Just be thankful you’re not one of them already and get over it.”
David started to respond, but Scott had already turned his back to the newcomer and was headed towards his spot, where he planned to sit and wait for the cool of the night.
2
The dead were getting closer. Riley ducked farther down in the brush, which grew on a hill above the gravel road. Two jeeps, flanked by a number of creatures on foot, crept their way up the mountainside. The whole scene was very troubling. Just how desperate were the dead getting for food if they were sending hunting parties this far out, and did it mean that all the cities had fallen at last?
The hunting party had stuck to the road so far, and Riley doubted they would stray into the woods, but his cabin was only a few miles north of the road. He counted eight of the things, including the drivers, all heavily armed. He couldn’t face a force of that size by himself, and even if he miraculously took them all out, more would come in search of their brethren, and likely in greater numbers. Then they would surely find his place.
Riley kept still and waited for them to pass by. When they were well out of earshot, he began to sneak back the way he’d come.
As he reached home and emerged from the trees, he saw little Brandon playing in the tall grass surrounding the cabin. The boy’s face lit up when he noticed his father. He dropped the stick with which he’d been hacking at the wild flowers and ran towards Riley with his tiny arms open. Despite his worries, Riley couldn’t help but smile as he swept Brandon up from the ground and clutched him tight to his chest.
“Where’s Mom?” Riley asked, cutting off his son’s litany of questions about his scouting trip.
Crestfallen, Brandon motioned towards the cabin, keeping one arm propped on his father’s wide shoulders. “She’s getting ready to cook dinner.”
Riley frowned and placed Brandon back on the ground. The last thing they needed were smoke signals pouring out of the cabin’s chimney today.
Brandon followed as Riley walked onto the porch and stuck his head inside the kitchen through the open front door. “Hi, honey, I’m home,” he called out, trying to hide his concern from Brandon.
Hannah looked up from the vegetables she was chopping and greeted Riley with a smile, which died on her lips as she saw the fear in his eyes. “It’s time isn’t it?” she asked.
Riley nodded. “We both knew this day would come sooner or later.”
She moved to take Brandon’s hand. “How long do we have?”
“I don’t know. An hour, a week, there’s just no way to tell. They may never find this place, but they’re close enough for us to be better safe than sorry.”
Hannah leaned down and kissed her child on the forehead. “Brandon, honey, would you please go play in your room for a few minutes? Mommy and Daddy need to talk, okay?”
As the boy marched off deeper into the cabin, Hannah got back to her feet and turned to face Riley. “Where are we going to go?”
He shrugged. “I have no idea.”
3
It had been a tough decision but ultimately Riley had chosen to leave the truck. It was in great shape, perfect for off-road travel, and he had stored enough fuel to fill it up twice. But the dead controlled the roads now, and the truck was too risky, even out here in the wilderness. It was better, Riley knew, to set out on foot. They would travel slower and they wouldn’t be able to carry as much, but it would be far safer. On foot, they could stick to the trees and stay clear of the roads; they would be nowhere near as noticeable should they come across a group of the dead.
Hannah prepared some rations, and the family divided the load of food and water, with even little Brandon carrying a canteen of his own. Riley also let him carry a hunting knife, though Hannah had protested. The knife would be of no use against the dead as Brandon didn’t have the strength or the skill to drive it into someone’s skull, but it made the boy feel safer and that was what mattered to Riley.
Hannah carried an old-fashioned .30-.06 rifle, which once belonged to her father, and she also strapped a .38 revolver to her hip. Riley carried two holstered .45 automatics, an M-16 he’d bought illegally before the world fell apart, and numerous spare magazines for all three weapons in his backpack.
Leaving this place wasn’t easy for any of them. They’d been up here alone for a full three months since the dead first began to rise. In a lot of ways, it felt more like home than the house they’d lived in for years before they fled for the high country.
They made their way into the woods, and Riley watched a tear slide down Hannah’s cheek as she looked back at the cabin. It cut into his heart like a blade.
They still had no idea where they were headed. There was no logical place to head for, so Riley and Hannah had merely decided to set out east for the coast and hope for the best. If nothing else, maybe Brandon could see the ocean once before they all died.
Riley swore to himself the dead would never take his family alive, even if he had to kill them himself.
4
It was feeding time in the pen. The sun had long sunk beneath the surrounding mountains. Two of the dead guards emerged from within the compound, carrying a large bucket filled with slop as runny as cream corn. With the help of a third guard, they emptied the bucket over the fence onto the ground of the pen. The human prisoners pounced on it like hunger-maddened animals, scraping it up from the dirt with their bare hands.
Scott and David did not participate in the fight for their evening meal. David remained at the pen’s far side, staring at the roadway that lead up to the breeding center. Scott sat Indian style on the ground with his arms across his legs, palms open towards the stars. His eyes were closed, his breathing slow and steady. Scott would
