Dead: Winter (5 page)

I took a few steps in the direction I thought it might be and then waited. All I could hear for se
v
eral seconds was my own heartbeat. Then…I heard it; the still-hair-raising sounds of a b
a
by cry. It was down the hill and to my left.

I drew the long blade I kept strapped to my hip and went to the barrel that was under an overhang by the tool shed and fetched one of the ready-to-light torches. Moving out into the open, I called up to the lookout tower atop the huge building we called home.

“DeAngelo!”

“Hey, Steve!” a deep voice rumbled. I still suffered from a bit of starstruck-itis when it came to DeAngelo. Considering that he was once a standout defensive monster on my beloved Seattle pro football team, I just couldn’t help it. “Sounded like a bit of an argument coming from downstairs. Everything okay?”

“Just some differences of opinion being aired,” I brushed the question aside. “Sounds like we have a lone shambler down below. Who’s in the stand?”

“Jamie.”

“Signal him that we have something inside the perimeter,” I called up. “I’m going down to check it out.”

I saw the light start flashing the message. Morse code had replaced the cell phone. All that was old is new again.

I started down the hill and was just about to light my torch when I heard a voice whispering in the darkness. I froze. That changed everything in an instant. Whoever it was—and since zombies don’t whisper, I knew it was a who ve
r
sus a what—had slipped past our perimeter security without tripping a flare, as well as the little tower we had set up in the trees where the road emptied into the former N
a
tional Park camping grounds.

We all carried blades or bludgeons everywhere we went, but unless we were leaving the area, we left the firearms inside. B
e
sides the fact that ammo was a very finite resource, and we were nearing the end of our reserves, the sound of gunshots carried for miles and served as a zombie dinner bell. Plus, it gave our pos
i
tion away to those who, while not zombies, might be more dangerous: the living.

We’d decided a while back that, from now on, we would seek survivors out on our foraging runs versus advertise our presence. We’d had enough difficulties when it came to learning that the undead were only one small part of the problem. Lately it seemed that the living were far more dangerous. After all, it wasn’t a zombie that had murdered some of the group and then led a horde to our doorstep in an attempt to kill us all. It hadn’t been a zombie that had shot DeAngelo’s wife, nearly kil
l
ing her.

“Hey out there!” a voice hissed. “I know you’re there, I heard you talking up the hill at that big building to somebody.”

I stayed silent.

“Yeah, I wouldn’t answer either,” the female voice whispered a bit louder. “Look, I just took down a walker that was roaming around in the road down here.”

I still wasn’t talking. I didn’t care if this person had dropped a dozen zombies, I didn’t care if it was a woman’s voice. That is why they called them traps.

“Okay,” the voice huffed, “I get it; strangers…bad. Trust me when I say I get it. My group was wiped out…and it wasn’t by the zombies. But you should know that your guy down at the entrance is sleeping, which, if he is supposed to be on guard…”

I couldn’t just take this person’s word. Whoever this was could
say
that Jamie was asleep. That would explain any lack of response we might experience. Of course, he could be down there with his throat slit or something.

“My friend is up the road in the back of a car and needs help.” The voice had an edge of pleading to it now. “We’ve seen lights in this direction from our camp in the hills, and I had to risk it. It has taken me three days to get her down the hill and back up. I kept her wrapped in blankets and laid her on the big tarp. You know how hard it is to drag a tarp with a person on it? Through the woods? Tr
y
ing to avoid the freaking undead?”

I gave it a moment’s thought. “I want you to lace your hands behind your head,” I finally called. “I am going to light a torch and come to you. Any sudden moves and we have somebody in the to
w
er.” I wasn’t going to mention that the person in the to
w
er didn’t have a gun handy at the moment.

I made my way down the hill until the person finally came into view at the edge of the circle of light put off by my sputtering torch. As I’d requested, she had her hands behind her head. I didn’t know what good that would do me, but I’d seen it in enough crime shows.

I quickly realized that if this woman wanted to take me out, she had the upper hand. The big r
e
volver on her hip looked formidable, but the M4 (I’d seen enough of them to know what it was) hanging from a tether over her shoulder like the modern day equivalent of a purse had a scope that let off a little glow. That meant she had probably already “seen” me in the darkness.

“My name is Steve Hobart,” I introduced myself.

“And that’s all fine,” the woman said, “if it makes you feel better. My name is Nickie Bailey and my friend Christina is d
y
ing. So, if you don’t mind…”

Cairo, Egypt—
Aaheru stepped out into the chilled morning air and breathed deep. He had b
e
come accustomed to the smell of the walking dead. In the distance, the iconic pyramids loomed. Those were the signs of the old Egypt. Those were the jewels of Cairo, a truly dead city which was ironic considering that, as far as he knew, the only life resided behind the walls of
Qarafa, el-Arafa
: The City of the Dead.

In this place, Aaheru was king, pharaoh, and God. He had led his followers here and ove
r
whelmed the rabble that had lived for years in their primitive tribal societies amongst the tombs and shrines to the dead. Of course his name hadn’t always been Aaheru—a name which meant Chief of Terrors. He had claimed it after shooting his commanding officer in the face and taking control of the unit he had been assigned as a soldier of Egypt. There were none remaining who knew his given name, and that was just as well because that man was dead; more so than the cre
a
ture chained by the neck to a post outside the entrance to his grand tent.

The abomination stood silent and still, its white-filmed eyes staring at him with no emotion. Its mouth hung open, but not even a drop of saliva dripped from it. The creature had not fed in weeks, yet it remained as it had the day of its first death; a slight rip on one arm the origin of its transformation from living to dead to undead. The cruel desert heat had sapped any hint of moisture from the zo
m
bie—the Western word used to describe the dead who now walked the Earth—yet it remained.

“My Lord,” a voice said in a whisper, “I am here to do your bidding and please you in any way you require.”

Aaheru glanced down to see the young, dark haired beauty kneeling before him. He’d told Ahi to send him a new girl to r
e
place his previous consort; foolish thing, she’d not heeded his warnings about the gate and ventured too close. The hand that snagged her scarf and pulled her to that grasping wall of arms that writhed, more deadly than any asp, had held her fast. She was ripped apart in moments, pieces of her pulled through the bars. At least she would not join their ranks…there was not enough remaining to rise and walk.

“What is your name, girl?”

“Ahmes.”

Child of the Moon
? Aaheru thought.
How appropriate.
“Have Ahi dress you in something more fitting.” He looked at the faded rags the girl currently wore and made a note to have the next group that went out for supplies bring back clothes. Food and water had been such a priority that he’d fo
r
gotten that his people would need clothing.

The scrawny figure scooted away and vanished to do as she’d been told, leaving Aaheru alone to consider his plan for the coming days. As much as he had a fondness for Cairo, he would need to lead his people out of the city at some point. They could strike out for Alexandria. From there, they would find a ship and sail someplace more hospitable. His ancient ancestors might have been able to carve out an existence on the banks of the Nile; he would not be following in their footsteps.



Juan stepped off the small boat. A few deaders had been stumbling along the shore despite the fact that they’d shut off the motor and rowed from a few hundred yards out. A misty almost-fog swirled across the surface of the dark waters of the Willamette, adding to the muffled surrealism of the scene.

“Horror movie shit,” Keith Thomas, whispered.

“Don’t get all spooked by a little weather,” Thad scoffed.

“It ain’t the weather that wants to take a bite out of our as
s
es,” Keith grumbled.

“Everybody shut up!” Juan snapped. “Last time we came over, JoJo said he heard voices.”

“Then why didn’t you guys check it out?” Keith grumbled, knowing full well the reason why.

“The Bently guy was bleeding out, and we were trying to get him back to the island.” Juan could still see that whole scene in his mind’s eye.

Morris Bently hadn’t fallen victim to a zombie or a raider, but rather simple clumsiness. They had been searching a house for supplies, and he’d found what amounted to a jackpot in these days: a stocked medicine cabinet belonging to either a very sick person, or one of the world’s biggest hyp
o
chondriacs. He’d run down the stairs with his hands full of pill bottles and missed the last step. The break in his leg where the bone jutted through the skin was bad, the gash opened on his forehead from where he’d smacked the corner of an end table turned out to be just as bad. Juan had always heard the saying, “Nothing bleeds like a head wound.”

They’d gotten him back across the river. Mackenzie had done all she could, but between the blood loss and an infection in the compound fracture, the man had died in a feverish delir
i
um.

JoJo had insisted that he’d heard voices from someplace nearby as they were hustling the man to the boat. So far, in seven trips across, there had not been a single sign of anybody alive in the area they were currently scouring for food and supplies. There were deaders…lots and lots of deaders.

Twice they’d had to abort their trip due to an overwhelming number of the cursed things wande
r
ing the shores. Juan couldn’t make any sense of it. Sometimes they came across and only e
n
countered a few; at other times, they were greeted by mobs of va
r
ying size. Fortunately, today was one of those days where only a few of the things were present.

“I want to get at least three houses swept,” Juan announced. He didn’t know when it had ha
p
pened, but at some point he had become the leader of their little group on Sauvie Island.

When Thad, Keith, and JoJo had shown up, it was only Juan, Macke
n
zie, and Mackenzie’s mom, Margaret. Now, they had taken in a few small groups and the numbers were over twenty men, wo
m
en, and children. He only knew the names of a few, but Mackenzie had everybody down pat.
Hell
, he thought,
she probably knows their birthdays.
Yet, lately, anytime there was a decision to be made, folks were asking him what he wan
t
ed them to do.