Only The Dead Don't Die (15 page)

Dean yawned and stretched in the comfortable recliner recently liberated from the furniture store down the street. He found himself remembering back to the day when he had first chosen the Sweet Suites hotel to be their
temporary
home, back when it was just the three of them: LuLu, Ella, and himself. And despite the end of the world and all, things had been much simpler then: basic survival. Now, things were more complicated. Not only was
he
the one responsible for maintaining the hotel; he also felt the heavy burden of keeping them all safe and alive, and at the same time he had to deal with the often volatile Stockton Boys, definitely a force to reckon with. Dean found it difficult to sustain a happy balance, a balance of safety, one that satisfied their basic needs.

The problem was that even though they now had plenty of food (compliments of the Costco and La Superior trucks), shelter, and companionship, human nature always seemed to get in the way. Even now, during these dangerous times, Dean realized it was just plain human nature—that driving desire to always want more, which was most likely the colossal human flaw that had brought on this god-forsaken plague in the first place, bringing mankind to its knees in the most dreadful way imaginable.

Dean hunched over to pull on his black snakeskin boots, thinking back. Things were actually easier in the beginning, despite the madness. Or was
he
just tired, sick and tired of dealing with this whole damn mess? “I’m too old for all this,” the words slipped out.
I’m just an old curmudgeon.
Hell, the sooner I get back to my cabin, the better.

His stomach rumbled, reminding him it was time for his predawn breakfast. Grabbing his jacket, eager to make it to his secret lookout post, he shook his head in disappointment recalling the other day: Justin’s near insolence when he had flatly forbidden the kid to leave the hotel (without him) to continue those risky scavenger hunts. It wasn’t safe to be out there alone.
Hell, it was plain stupidity.
And, what yanked his chain even harder was that despite everything Dean had done to keep them all safe, he found it irritating for the heat he often received when enforcing one of his rules.

Dean inventoried the supplies in his pack, and his thoughts drifted to the Stockton Boys. There was something about Nate and Paxton that had him worried. There didn’t seem to be much he could do to control the two’s wild antics and their frequent wild rampages through the town. On several occasions, Dean had found gruesome evidence of the Stockton Boys’ massacres: hundreds of dead-heads slaughtered in the streets, their pulverized innards now melded into the bloodied-asphalt.

However, Dean had remained extremely firm regarding one particular rule: to wash off that dad-blast-it gunk (the remains of what was once human) off their trucks before returning to the hotel. The stench was unbearable. And, luckily for the sake of everyone Paxton and Nate had obliged. Perhaps he shouldn’t concern himself so much over those two; after all, they did haul out the trash and bring in fuel every day. Still, if those two happened not to make it back to the hotel one day, he’d be a happier man.

A soft rapping at the door brought Dean back from his troublesome thoughts. “Yep?” Dean shouted. No answer. Must be Ella, and he scurried to the door sure wishing he had a cup a coffee right about now.

Dean opened the door to his suite. Ella stood there holding a piece of paper in one hand and a flashlight in the other. This was her way of communicating. The poor thing hadn’t spoken a word, not since he had rescued her and LuLu that day. He read the handwritten note: POWER’S OUT IN THE KITCHEN.

“Hell’s bells,” he exclaimed and scuttled down the stairs.
Damn, that’s the second time this week.
And, he had a pretty good notion of the culprit or culprits.
Must be the Stockton Boys messin’ with me, trying to stir up some shit. Sounds like something they’d do.
Or, were they trying to figure how the whole generator system worked? He had purposely never explained the generator setup to Paxton and Nate. He had even added an unnecessary contraption of wires and hardware to make it look more complicated than it actually was. No, he needed them to need him. An eerie feeling told him it was the best life insurance policy he had ever invested in.

***

Dean sat in the dining room and devoured a quick bowl of Grape-Nuts cereal, one of his favorites (probably because it had been his granddaddy’s favorite). It had taken a while to MacGyver the generators into working again; evidently they’d been tampered with.

Ella busied herself in the kitchen, no doubt whipping-up something wonderful for lunch as usual. Dean pulled out the tattered mini-notepad from his front shirt pocket to review his neverending “things to do” list and debated on skipping his usual morning post at the big rig on the Nut Tree overpass down the road.

He supposed he could miss one day. He stood in the doorway, his lungs rejoicing the sweet-smelling cleansed air. The rain had finally stopped. The first storm of the season had been quite a doozy and from the looks of it, Mother Nature wasn’t done yet; she still had more housecleaning to do as another storm front of dark, blue clouds moved in. He finally decided to skip today’s trip when Ella tapped the back of his shoulder and handed him his cooler.

“Ella, you’re such a sweetheart.”
Guess that decides it—might as well go take a look-see
. Besides, he had things to think about: what was the motive behind the apparent sabotage of the generators? What did the Stockton Boys have to gain?

On his way to the Nut Tree overpass, Dean noticed an unusual amount of activity; there were small groups of dead-heads everywhere. Of course, he had left about six hours later than usual. Still, he found it alarming. Usually in the wee hours of the morning, right about dawn or thereabouts, while the dead-heads (got to call them zombies) apparently slept, he could count on little activity in the streets.

Now and again Dean would run across one or two early-risers, but because they were still groggy, the zombies merely leered and gurgled while struggling to find their feet, occasionally lunging at the passing Fiat half-heartedly like a house cat might yearn for a bird through the window; its desires only fleeting, knowing its prey was beyond reach.

“Definitely more alert than usual.” Dean swerved the car to miss a mob of them that had suddenly spawned directly in his path; they had been hiding behind the opened hood of an abandoned Ford. “Damn!”
Never seen ‘em move that quick.
Then he got this odd feeling that all these small mobs were systematically searching for something
or someone,
a notion he found troublesome. The scene reminded him of a posse for lack of a better word, like in those old Western movies his granddaddy had loved so much.

Turning onto Nut Tree Road, he winced at the possibility of zombies becoming quicker, more aggressive. And, even more chilling was the notion that they could become smarter. Did the rain stimulate them somehow? Better ask Justin, the Zombie Expert, about the evolution of zombies, he chuckled. He parked the car in a zombie-free zone, for there were none in his field of vision at the moment.

Dean made it to the bright, green cab of the jackknifed big rig that perched on the top of the overpass, overlooking the west and eastbound lanes of I-80, the perfect spot to scout for other survivors. No one knew of his secret lookout post on the edge of the desolate city of Vacaville, which meant there would be no one to rescue him if he got into trouble, which also meant he was breaking one of his own rules: Always have a partner to watch your back.

Dean stepped up on the big rig’s side-railing, thinking he’d better draw up the plans to reinforce the hotel’s front entrance fencing. If the zombies were, in actuality, stimulated by the rain, it was going to be a long winter.

Dean eased in the passenger seat, relieved he had made it to his post without having to deal with any zombie bloodshed, one sure-fire way to ruin his appetite. His mouth was already watering just thinking about the lunch Ella had packed. “Hmm,” he sniffed at the sandwich,
Spam and Miracle Whip sandwich. Gotta love it.

A screeching scream ripped at his ears, startling him so that his coveted sandwich went flying in the air and luckily landed on his lap.
That was close
, relieved that his sandwich hadn’t wound up on the grungy floorboard.
Holy Mother of God, did LuLu follow me?
His eyes darted about half expecting to find LuLu in trouble. But the scream had been much closer. Not from outside.

“I, I got a gun . . .” a shrilly voice from behind him warned. “I’ll shoot you—I will. Believe me, I will not hesitate,” the woman’s voice cracked.

Dean had a feeling she was bluffing. “Whoa lady—h-hold on a minute here. Don’t mean you any trouble. Say, how the hell did you wind up in here?” Dean cautiously twisted around in the seat, and there standing in the sleeper section of the cab, stood a beautiful woman draped in a blanket and apparently nothing else. He couldn’t help but stare in complete wonderment. She stood there shivering, her knuckles turning white from clutching the blanket so tightly.

“Not to worry, I’m harmless—a perfect gentleman,” and Dean cautiously turned back around in the seat. “Best, you get dressed now ‘fore you catch pneumonia.” He avoided mentioning the flu, the Super-Summer flu. “Hope you don’t mind if I stay put, that scream of yours most likely alerted every creeper in the county,” he forced a chuckle while rubbing his ears.

“Fine, but don’t turn around until I say it’s OK,” her voice sounded stern.

Dean heard her tossing things around in the sleeper.
Hell, she’s probably looking for something to wear.
As he recalled, there wasn’t much in the sleeper, some worn work clothes, tools, kitchen supplies, and the bottle of Crown Royal he had stashed. It was all he could do to control himself from stealing a glance in the rearview mirror, but he didn’t want to risk losing her trust or for that matter, risk a bullet hole in his brain if she hadn’t been bluffing.

After a very long couple of minutes, “OK, it’s OK now, you can turn around,” she mumbled quickly as if unsure.

When Dean turned around, she brandished a butcher knife she must have found in the mini-kitchen.
Lord,
please don’t let this woman be a complete whack-job. Got enough on my plate as it is.

Dean raised his hands in defense, “Honestly, I don’t wish you any harm. Here—take this.” He slowly, very slowly, handed her his 9mm.
I’d much rather be shot than slashed.

She reached for the butt of the gun and let out an absolutely gorgeous smile with dimples and all. “Hi, I’m Scarlett, Scarlett from Roseville.”

Dean responded and shook her hand, “Pleasure to meet you Miss Scarlett from Roseville. I’m Dean, Dean from Winters,” he couldn’t help but smile back at her charming smile. To his surprise, she suddenly gave him a huge hug followed with agonizing sobs; her entire body quivered while he held her steadily in his arms. He wanted to say something, anything, to comfort the despondent woman but decided it best to keep his trap shut.
Hell, probably wind up sayin’ something to make her feel worse.
He never was good at that sort of thing. Funny thing, as he recalled, it had been the same way when he had first found Ella and LuLu.

After the woman’s sobbing spell, he sat her down in the other seat and waited for her to speak first. She looked to be in her mid to late twenties and wore a pair of men’s overalls about ten sizes too big, which she must have found in the sleeper. Her long, black hair, accented by a strikingly attractive widow’s peak was now knotted in a bun, revealing her stunning facial features that he tried hard—not to notice.

She probably got stuck in that humdinger of a storm and managed to get separated from her people.
They must be nearby . . .
Dean handed her a bottle of water from his pack, and she gulped it down.

“Oh, thank you, thank you—so sorry,” she offered.

He unscrewed the lid to the thermos, and offered it to her, disappointed he’d be missing out on the soup; it was one of his favorites. “This’ll take the chill off, nothing like a can of piping-hot Progresso Beef and Barley soup.”

Her eyes lit up as she took the thermos. “You’re too kind.” She sipped at the hot soup. He watched as she closed those breathtaking, aquamarine eyes of hers and sat back in the chair, finally at ease from the looks of it.

“This is wonderful. I really don’t know what to say,” she sighed.

“For starters, what the hell are you doing here?” he finally asked again, anxious to find out any news and selfishly hoping she was with a big group of survivors, maybe even a military escort. It would be the answer to his prayers to find help finally.

“I don’t know where to begin,” she faltered and looked out the window as if talking was too much to bear. She cleared her throat, stalling.

He could see the tears welling-up. He took a bite of his Spam sandwich while he waited for her to explain.

“I got stranded in the rainstorm yesterday evening. I had to ditch the car—had three flat tires. Do you know what it’s like driving on three flat tires?” She finally turned and looked at him as if expecting an answer.

“I can only imagine,” he said.

“It’s impossible. And loud. Jeez Louise, creepers were everywhere,” she gasped. “I had to make a run for it. Good thing I’ve been working out so much these days—”