THEM (Season 1): Episode 1 (7 page)

There’d been many a time when I’d run across folks in similar predicaments, and more often than not they were corpses by the time I’d found them. I had no idea who it was or what their disposition would be toward me, but it was an unspoken rule among the civilized living that you never left another human hanging out to dry. Of course, there weren’t that many civilized folk in the Outlands, so typically if you got into such a situation even if there were people around they’d wait for you to die and then raid your gear.

Unfortunately for me, however, I had a conscience, so chances were fair to good that I was going to help this person, if it didn’t put me in any undue danger. Shit, who was I kidding? I was about to put my ass in a sling for this unfortunate asshole. They’d better be grateful about it, because I was already in a foul mood as it was.

- - -

[6
]

I
looked around to see if there was anything about the surrounding terrain or structures I could use in my favor. Truth be told, there wasn’t shit that I could use to my advantage. Of course, I could get their attention, and then draw them off so this asshole could get away. But that crap only worked in the movies and on
Scooby Doo
—in real life, that was an excellent way to get yourself killed.

So, plan B. I hoped this individual was possessed of a greater moral fiber than the average Outlands dweller, because if not, I was about to get screwed with a double-barreled zombie cock, and without any lube. One side of the trailer had most of the zombies congregated around there, and thankfully it was the side away from the front deck, which was likely where this unfortunate fool had climbed up to the roof. I moved slowly and quietly around to the side with fewer deadheads, staying within the tree line until I was behind an old junked-out truck that said
Gonzalez
in faded vinyl letters on the back window.

I peeked out from behind the truck and counted four zombies on this side of the trailer. It also looked like whoever was on top of the mobile home had seen me, because I saw a watch cap pop up and then back down quickly.

Time to set this clusterhump in motion
, I thought to myself. Grabbing a nice softball-sized rock, I got a little room and heaved it to the other side of the trailer well off into the woods. Soon, I heard the collective moaning of the zombies increase, and could hear the better part of the group tromping off into the woods on the other side of the trailer to investigate. However, three of the four deadheads that were on my side were still milling around.
Great.

I drew my golok in one hand and my combat tomahawk in the other, then came out from behind the truck in a stealthy low run that brought me up behind the first zombie in short order. This one looked like she’d been a large woman in her previous life, as I could see large folds of leathery dead skin hanging off her under the torn and decaying muumuu dress she had on. I buried my battle axe in her head and pulled it back out again before she knew I was there, then carried my momentum forward into the next one.

This one was a kid, about fifteen or sixteen, wearing a Green Day shirt and ragged skinny jeans over Converse low-tops that had lost a toe cap on the left foot. He’d heard me hit the first one and turned to face me as I approached at a full run. His mohawk had long since lost its ability to stand on end, and the resulting effect now was to make the poor sucker look like he’d gone bald before his time and tried to cover it with a bad comb-over. He half growled and half moaned at me, and despite myself it reminded me of Kara. Enraged at the thought that this thing had made me think of something I cared about at a time when it was the last thing I wanted on my mind, I took his head off with the golok in a clean forehand swing.

Turning to face the last zombie of the three, I felt more than saw movement on my flank. As I completed the turn, I realized too late that the deadhead was already right on top of me; anything moving that fast was obviously a ghoul. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw and felt it snatch my arm in a death grip while it lunged in to take a bite. For the first time in longer than I could remember I had a twinge of fear, because I knew I was about to be infected. No way I’d go down without a fight, though, and I spun the other direction to plant the tomahawk in the thing’s neck.

Just was I was expecting to feel its teeth rending the flesh of my arm, I heard a
thwap-hiss-thunk
and the thing fell away from me in a limp heap. As I completed the spin, I nearly stumbled over it, catching myself in time to see what had happened. Glancing down at the corpse, I saw a short, feathered shaft poking out of its right temple, pinning a trucker cap that said
FRESH
in seventies-style iron-on lettering to its head.

I looked up to see a kid of maybe ten or eleven years old balancing a pistol crossbow on the railing of the trailer's front porch. Knowing how inaccurate those things could be, I was grateful that he’d taken the time to brace it before firing. As the kid raised the crossbow and began reloading it, I corrected my initial assumption. This wasn’t a he; rather, my “savee” turned savior was a she.

The kid was probably Hispanic, Native American, or perhaps East Indian, taking me in with brown eyes that glittered with intelligence under a black watch cap and tufts of dark-brown hair that jutted out from beneath. She studied me cautiously, and I could see that she was ready to bolt at the slightest provocation. Understandable, considering that she was just a kid and on her own in the Outlands. I could be a punter, or any manner of psycho. She was taking a risk by saving my hide, that was for sure. Not many people would have done it, in her shoes.

She looked like she’d been on the move for a while, as her clothing was not in the best of shape, and her cheeks were hollowed in the way that only an extended lack of sufficient calories can produce. She was wearing a long-sleeve hunter’s camo shirt that was at least a couple of sizes too big over a dark T-shirt, along with a pair of faded, filthy jeans and running shoes that’d seen better days. I noticed an old Ka-Bar combat knife at her hip, as well as a Ruger Mark II pistol in a handmade holster.

I nodded at her and motioned for her to follow, which she did silently and without question after retrieving the crossbow bolt from the zombie she’d just dropped. I led her back through the trees opposite the way I’d come at an oblique angle to the road, hoping to make some distance between us and the rest of that zombie herd.

She followed along silently, ten meters to my right and behind me. Obviously, someone had taught her rudimentary squad-level movement tactics at some point. When I paused, she paused, and when I crouched down, she copied me. Whoever had been watching over her before, I had to hand it to them, they’d trained her well.

Once we’d put a few miles between us and the trailer, and I was certain we weren’t being followed, I paused under a large live oak and handed her a water bottle. She snatched it from my hand and immediately began sucking down water in large gulps. After a few swallows she seemed to catch herself, and brought the bottle away from her mouth. She looked down at it as if to determine whether or not it would be her last for a while, then capped it and started to hand it back to me. I raised my hand to decline, gesturing for her to keep it.

I whispered just loud enough for her to hear, “We’re about five miles from a safe house, so we’ll stop to eat once we get there. Now, let’s move.” She nodded, placed the water bottle in the worn and patched canvas messenger bag she had slung over one shoulder, and followed without saying a word. Based on her silence, I decided that she was either traumatized or an apprentice hunter used to practicing noise discipline. Based on the way she’d handled herself at the trailer I strongly suspected the latter; I’d find out more once we reached that safe house.

- - -

T
he safe house was supposed to be just ahead, a mile off the road at an old abandoned winery. Before the Great War, this entire area was a tourist hotspot popular among the well-heeled from Austin, San Antonio, and Dallas. However, these days it was nothing but abandoned ranches and farms, with the occasional ghost town along the way. Few people would care to live out here, and the only people you were likely to meet in these parts were scavengers, caravaneers, and punters.

I decided to take us away from the road and approach the safe house from the opposite side for safety. Most hunters, scavengers, and caravaneers had their own safe houses set up in the Outlands, keeping the locations a secret from their rivals. However, it wasn’t uncommon for safe house locations to become common knowledge, as scavengers and caravaneers were known to move from crew to crew based on opportunity and what sort of action they might see. Most tried to avoid action whenever possible, but there were also those crews that took riskier runs in the expectation of greater payoffs. Most of those ended up dead or missing, which was the same thing in that line of work.

As we approached the back of the winery, the trees abruptly ended at a dilapidated fence line bordering an overgrown vineyard. I briefly entertained the thought that there might be a few bottles of wine to be scavenged here, and then quickly abandoned the idea, knowing that Sam or his boys would’ve raided whatever was left here long ago. We stopped and observed the field for fifteen minutes or so, and after ensuring that nothing was out of place we proceeded through a gap in the fence line toward the safe house.

As we approached the main buildings, I could see an old farmhouse that had once been used as a storefront for the operation, as well as several outbuildings that included a barn and some cottages that were probably rented at one point to couples driving in from the city for a romantic getaway. Everything was overgrown by weeds and brush, although the house still looked like it had a solid roof on it. However, that wasn’t where we were headed. According to Sam’s notes, the safe house was a secure tornado shelter back behind the barn.

Again, we remained hidden for several minutes to observe the area, making certain we wouldn’t get any surprises. Nothing appeared to be out of place, so I led the way behind the barn and found the door hidden beneath some old sheet-metal roofing material, just like Sam’s notes said I would. Whoever had set this place up had cleverly attached the sheet metal together with some scrap wood and barbed wire, hinging it crudely so it could be lifted away to access the door and then dropped back over the entrance once you were inside. The door itself was secured with a combination lock, not likely to keep out anyone who might find the place, but enough to deter the weakest and stupidest of the undead from getting in and making this their bolt hole. I spun the lock, took one last look around to make sure no one saw us go in, then motioned the kid in and closed the door behind us.

Once inside, I lit a small LED flashlight so we could find our way around. One of my most prized possessions, the light was rechargeable and worked on a small crank or sunlight. Such technologies were more valuable than gold or silver in the postwar world and I rarely showed it to anyone, as owning it would make me a target for thieves and bandits. If I wanted I could easily trade it for a gross of bullets, a few head of cattle, or in the less reputable settlements, for three or four slaves.

I secured the door with a steel bar that was left just for that purpose, and looked quickly around the small cellar. My eyes soon adjusted to the low light, and I found an oil lamp that I lit with a flint and steel. Lighting even something as flammable as an oil-saturated wick is harder than it sounds, and it took me a good five minutes to get it started. When I was done, I looked up and found the kid marveling at my flashlight from a few feet away.

“You’ve never seen one before.” I said it as a statement of fact, not as a question.

“No. My
tío
told me stories about them. He used to tell me about how the cities were lit up at night with electrical lights. I think that must’ve been before I was born, because I don’t remember it.” Her voice was lightly accented with the Spanish lilt I recognized from my youth before the War. It reminded me of my own family, most of whom were lost when the bombs fell.

“He’s gone then. Your uncle.” I looked up after adjusting the wick. She was still studying the light. She nodded silently, fascinated by it. “You can pick it up if you like—just be careful. It’s the only one I have.” That actually wasn’t true. I had two more just like it stored in hidden caches near my cabin. Not even Kara knew about those caches, and I intended to keep it that way.

She reached out for the light, then pulled her hand back as she got close to touching it. “It’s not hot,” she said with a hint of surprise in her voice.

“No, LED lights don’t get hot. They were just starting to become popular, before the Great War. They don’t use as much electricity, and they don’t put off heat. Supposed to be better for the environment.” She looked at me quizzically. “Before the War, people were concerned that we were messing up the planet with chemicals and whatnot that were floating off into the atmosphere—the air—from the fuels we burned to make electricity and to power our cars. People were worried we were ruining the planet.”

She shook her head. “I’ll never understand people before the War. Dropping bombs all over is a funny way to save the planet.”

I chuckled and nodded. “Well, it certainly solved our greenhouse problem. You hungry?”

That perked her up considerably, but only for a moment. Then her eyes hardened, and she looked at me with more than a bit of distrust. I saw her hand edge toward the small .22 pistol at her hip, ever so slightly and slowly. “I don’t have anything to trade, mister. And I don’t do what those kids do in the punter camps, so don’t even think about it.”

I turned away, ignoring her reaction with my body language while watching her with my peripheral vision to make sure she didn’t try to shoot me and steal my food. “I’m not asking for anything in return. You look like you haven’t eaten in a while, and I know how that feels. I have enough to share.”