Z-Burbia: A Zombie Novel (16 page)

When I see the tiny toddler arm being fought over
, I turn away. There’s only so much I can handle. Anymore of that and I know I’ll hit my limit.

We hike for a good hour before Melissa calls a halt. Tran and his wife are still well behind us,
just out of sight, it is hard to tell how far back because she went silent after twenty minutes or so.

“Bite check,” Melissa says.

We strip and check each other. No bites. Everyone is good. We get dressed and wait. I can tell Melissa and the scavengers don’t like staying put, but we have to wait for Tran and his wife. It is the least we can do. The very least.

“How long to the Farm?” Greta asks and she’s shushed by several people.

Normally I’d be pissed at anyone shushing my little girl, but not today. Today she needs to shut the fuck up.

Then there is Tran. No wife. And we know no kids. But no wife?

He walks up to one of the scavengers and holds out his hand. It’s West Bullock, a burly man with a barrel chest and these gnarled short fingers like blunt sausages. He’s holding a wicked machete and keeps looking from Melissa to Tran and back. Melissa nods and he hands the machete to Tran.

We all watch as Tran walks back down the path and around the hill. We wait, our ears straining for some idea of what is happening. Then we hear the whacks and thunks. In a
minute, Tran comes back up the path to us, fresh blood splattering his chest, neck and face. He wipes the dripping machete on his pants and hands it back to West. The man shoves it into its sheath on his belt and hands Tran a bandana. Tran nods and wipes his face and neck and hands the bandana back. West shakes his head and Tran looks at it then stuffs it into his back pocket.

He walks past us all without a word and keeps hiking. Melissa sighs, looks back from where we came
, then up at Tran. She nods and waves us all forward. We follow Tran, trailing in the wake of his grief and despair. You can almost taste it on the air like a bitter wind.

Everyone knows not to say anything, even Elsbeth.

Another hour of shell-shocked hiking and Melissa calls a halt. She sends Andrew, Lanny, and Steven up the hill to the road. We wait a few minutes and they are back, quickly huddling with Melissa in quiet conversation. After a few nods, she turns to gather us all in close. Except for Tran. He’s crouched on the trail a few feet away, his eyes staring at his dirt and blood covered sneakers.

“The road is clear for now,” Melissa says
, “and will get us to the Farm faster.”

“But?” Carl asks.

“But there’s a higher likelihood of running into Zs up there,” Melissa says. “Andy’s gut is telling him we haven’t seen the last horde.”

“Maybe you
r gut just didn’t like the egg salad,” Landon sneers.

“Not the road,” Elsbeth says then glares at Landon. “Not the egg salad.” He wilts under her look.

“So we stay on the path,” Melissa states.

“Shouldn’t we vote?” Stubben asks. “You ain’t in charge, Melissa.”

“Fine,” Melissa says. “Anyone want to waste time voting or are you fine with me keeping you alive?”

“Alive,” Charlie says.

“Alive,” Greta pipes up.

The rest of us nod.

“Not what I meant, but whatever,” Stubben mumbles.

“The other problem is daylight,” Melissa says. “It was going to be cutting it close before, but with this detour
, we aren’t going to get to the Farm by sunset.”

“Let’s not decide yet,” Stella says, knowing what Melissa is about to say. “Keep pushing on. If we see a place to hold up on the way
, then we take it. If we don’t, then we don’t stop.”

“We’ll have to stop once it gets dark,” Andrew says. “Too many drop offs along the way. We could all end up falling down the hill and crashing the Z party down there.”

“Then our first priority is shelter before it gets dark,” Melissa says. “I’m sorry we can’t get there tonight, folks. We’ll get there tomorrow, I promise.”

“Promises are like assholes,” Elsbeth pipes up. “They stink when you put your nose in them.”

None of us have a response to that.

“Okay then,” Melissa says. “We keep going until we find shelter.
West and Alison know this area best, so we’ll let them lead.”

“There’s an old tobacco
farm a few miles up,” Alison says. “That will work if we need it.”

We nod to each other and push forward. Tran gets up and lets us pass before he follows. He keeps his distance, not wanting to be a part of the group, but not letting us leave him behind. I can feel the internal debate he’s having: keep going on
, or just give up. It’s not an unfamiliar debate for any of us. I don’t know if the kids have had to deal with it, but every adult on this path has looked that choice square in the face. My instincts tell me that we’ll know his answer by the morning.

It’s not quite 6pm when Alison steers us off the path and up a short incline. We come out of the trees and into a field, overgrown and unkempt, but still obviously part of a small tobacco farm. We stumble over the ups and downs of the long gone
dirt rows of tobacco plants, now just wild weeds and grass. At the far end of the field is a dilapidated two-story structure. It had probably seen better days well before the apocalypse hit this part of the mountains, but now it looks like it is held up by the whims of fate.

“Yeah,” Charlie scoff
s, “that looks safe.”

“You want to sleep in this field?” West asks, pl
ayfully grabbing Charlie by the back of the neck. “I think we just found our volunteer for first watch.”

“No, no, I was serious,” Charlie says, twisting
away and out of West’s reach. “I think it looks safe. That’s what I was saying. Why? Did I sound sarcastic? Sorry, my bad.”

“Exactly,” West grins.

“Come on,” Alison says. “It’s fine inside. This tobacco barn is probably a hundred years old, but men that knew how to build shit to last, built it. Just watch out for spiders.”

“Oh, no,” Greta says, shaking her head. “Not going in there. No spiders, thank you.”

That’s my girl. She can hold her own with a horde of Zs, but mention spiders and she’s done, thank you.

“Taking second watch?” West asks.

“Screw you,” Greta says. “I. Don’t. Do. Spiders.”

“Tonight you do whatever you are told,” Stella says. “And the
first thing is to be quiet.”

“Good plan,” Melissa says as she motions for her team to split and each take a side of the barn.

We wait in the field, watching, the late summer sun beating down on us as it burns a little more before dipping behind the trees. It takes a few minutes, but soon all of the scavengers are back, giving the thumbs up. Melissa waves us in and we step into the musty darkness of the tobacco barn.

The architecture has always fascinated me. Tobacco barns aren’t like regular barns. They aren’t these huge buildings with one double-
door entry on each end. They aren’t designed to hold livestock and horses, or bales of hay. They are long and flat. Usually two stories with each story only about twelve or fifteen feet high. Thick beams crisscross the ceiling, with spikes and hooks every foot or so. The sides aren’t boxed in like a barn either, but open to let the air get inside. Tobacco barns are for hanging and drying the harvested leaves of tobacco- huge, yellow brown things that can be a foot wide and more than a couple feet long. The tobacco is long gone, but the earthy smell has been left behind from decades of use.

“Upstairs,” Melissa says and we all follow to the second floor.

The scavengers space themselves out evenly along each side of the barn, their line of sight broken only by the occasional frame post of the barn, otherwise they can see in every direction clearly.

“It’ll keep the weather off us,” Melissa says
, “and give us a defensible place to sleep.”

“Where are we going to cook?” Landon asks. “This place’ll go up in flames if we start a fire.”

“That’s why we won’t start a fire,” Alison says. “We eat what we have, cold.”

“Cold?” Landon asks. “What about in the morning? I brought green tea.”

“Oooh, I want some green tea,” Greta says, then sees her mother’s look. “When we get to the Farm. Let’s save it for the Farm.”

“This blows,” Landon says. “Stuck in some fucking barn like a yokel and can’t even have my green tea.”

None of us see it coming. We’d been so used to giving him space and letting him be, that I think we forgot about Tran. It just was easier to push it all out of our minds and let Tran keep to himself. So when he pounces on Landon, I think it takes even Melissa and her scavengers a few moments to realize what is happening.

“Jesus fuck,” Andrew says as he dives for the two men.

Tran is on top of Landon, having tackled him and knocked him to the barn floor, his fists slamming again and again into Landon’s head. When Landon gets his arms up to protect himself, Tran starts in on his gut, landing gut crushing blow after blow. The distinct smell of shit hits our noses. Tran is literally beating the shit out of Landon.

“Enough!” Andrew hisses as he yanks at Tran.

The man shoves him away and starts back in on Landon. It takes Andrew, Carl, West, Stubben, and Melissa to pull him off. Landon just lies there, whimpering, his arms covering his face. The rest of us stand around, looking at each other, waiting for someone to make the first move.

“You’re a fucking douche,” Brian says quietly
to Landon and walks away to another part of the barn.

We all decide to do the same thing and leave Landon to his wounds and the shit in his pants. He eventually gets up and makes his way down to the field to get cleaned up. It’ll take a lot of leaves and grass to get that shit off, but he’s got nothing better to do.

Tran settles down and collapses against one of the support beams, his eyes closed, tears dripping down his cheeks. We share looks of empathy, but none of us know where this is going. Tran could pull out of it or he could spiral down until he gives up. Like I’ve said, it’s a debate and choice we’ve all had to face. But facing it is the first step, and I don’t know if Tran will go there. Nobody but Tran knows that.

The sun finally starts to set and we hand out some of the food. There isn’t much left, just enough for a small breakfast, so we had better make it to the Farm tomorrow. You get used to hunger in the apocalypse, but it never gets easy. It slows you down, dulls your senses,
and makes mistakes more likely. But we’ll face that tomorrow.

No one is up for much conversation
, so we pick our spots and bed down. I have Stella and the kids with me and we curl up into a tight ball, resting against each other for comfort and warmth. As the last rays of the purple and pink sunset fade, I watch the silhouettes of the scavengers against the open sides of the barn, their bodies rigid and alert. I wonder how many times they’ve been in this type of situation while out foraging. I’ll have to remember to thank them in the morning. Not until recently did I really understand the shit they walk out into every time they leave the gate.

The Zs leave us alone during the night and I’m surprised to wake to the sun coming up over the field below us.

“Why didn’t anyone wake me for watch?” I ask.

“You need your rest,” Stella says. “It’s easier on everyone if your leg is healthy than for you to stay up watching for Zs.”

“But now that you’re up,” Melissa says. “Time to hike. We have to backtrack a little bit to get to the Farm. We still have a long day ahead of us.”

It is a long day, made that much longer by Tran. He stays behind us, barely part of the group. His head is
down; his eyes watching his feet take step after step. At times, each of us want to go to him, to give him useless comfort and speak useless words. But we don’t. Not our place. Even still, I can’t help looking over my shoulder every few minutes, hoping for eye contact, some way to tell him I get it. Which, of course, I don’t. Useless words…

“Did they feel it?” Greta asks as we eat the last of our food for lunch. Water is scarce and I pass around what’s left in our family canteen. “Or did they die quick?”

“I pray they died quick,” Stella says, hugging Greta to her. “I prayed for that all night long.”

“I don’t even remember their names,” Charlie whispers. “I only spoke to them a few times, you know.”

“Josie, Jeremy, Laura,” Tran says, suddenly standing by us.

“I’m sorry,” Greta says and Tran looks at her.

“Thank you,” he nods.

“We’re all sorry, Tran,” Stella says.

“Daniel,” he replies.

“What?” I ask.

“Everyone calls me Tran,” he says, “that is, uh, my end name”

“Last name?” Charlie asks. “Is that what you mean?”

“Yes, last name,” Tran says. “But my name is Daniel. I took Daniel when we move to America.”

“Oh,” I say. “Sorry. I didn’t know. I’ve always thought Tran was your first name.”

“You didn’t ask,” Tran says. He looks at the group. “No one ask. Never.”