Ramirez
Estela Ramirez leaned forward, binoculars fixed on the street. She could hear the herd, or horde, or whatever you wanted to call it, but so far none of them had so much as poked a rotting head into sight. She didn’t know whether to feel relief or annoyance.
“I told you it would work,” came a soft whisper from beside her. Ramirez glanced at the young woman crouched near her on the rooftop. “Attila knows what to do.”
“Kahwihta, no offense, but your dog has a brain the size of a peach pit,” Ramirez said, bluntly, her hand resting on her sidearm. The presence of her service weapon had always been something of a comfort to her, even before the dead had risen. Now it felt like a totem – a connection to better times. A time when things made sense.
The world had gone crazy, and for a time, Ramirez had thought she might go crazy with it. Those days were thankfully past now. She’d found something to keep her busy. A reason to keep breathing – to keep fighting.
That was why she was crouched atop the tarpaper roof of what had once been a hardware store, along with half a dozen other survivors, all of whom were experienced enough to keep their eyes on the street, rather than each other. As far as Ramirez was concerned, this was enemy territory, and she expected her people to treat it that way. “I once saw him get into a staring contest with a garden gnome,” she added.
“Yeah, he’s got it in for that gnome,” Kahwihta Trapper said, cheerfully. The two women were a study in contrasts. Ramirez was tall and built like an athlete – even now, when a decent protein shake was hard to come by, she had muscle to spare beneath her battered leather jacket. She had been an FBI agent, before things went sideways. She wasn’t sure what she was now, other than alive – a state she intended to maintain.
Kahwihta was smaller and rounder, and while Ramirez was as American as apple pie, Kahwihta was Canadian – or Cree, rather. Mushkego, to be exact. From Moose Factory, Ontario. She was a long way from home. She’d been studying at Empire State University on an environmental sciences scholarship when things went bad. She’d adapted remarkably well, all things considered. She seemed to regard the apocalypse as an extended field study.
“Ten to one that dog is zombie-chow,” Hutch murmured, from her other side. Ramirez glanced at him. Hutch wasn’t particularly tall, but he was as wide as two men put together. He wasn’t fat, per se, just big – the sort of big that came from lots of manual labor and big meals and not enough focused exercise. Curly, stringy hair hung down around a wide, unshaven face, and he still wore his colors, though the outlaw motorcycle club he’d ridden with was a thing of the past.
Like the others, he was armed. A coiled bullwhip hung from his studded belt, and he cradled a short-barreled Stoner 63 with a box magazine in his arms, occasionally giving the weapon a fond pat. Like most of their gear, it had been commandeered from the local National Guard armory. The whip, though… that was all Hutch.
“Maybe, maybe not. Either way, keep it to yourself,” Ramirez said.
“I’m just saying, they eat dogs, too.”
“I’m aware, thank you.”
“Though I don’t think that mutt would be much of a meal.”
Ramirez looked at him. “Why are you still talking?”
Hutch made a placatory gesture and turned away. Ramirez sighed and turned back to the street. He wasn’t wrong; one day, that damn dog wasn’t going to come back. If it had any sense, it’d have already upped stakes for the woods like the rest of the strays. But as dogs went, Attila was pretty dumb – or maybe just loyal. Either way, she said a silent prayer on the mutt’s behalf and kept her eyes on the street.
They’d emptied out around seventy percent of the village over the last three weeks. It was easier to do, now that there were more people. But it also meant that what they found didn’t stretch as far. Soon, they’d have to expand the search radius even farther from the camp, and that was dangerous. They were already too far out for her liking. As it was, if the trucks broke down or ran out of gas, they were a five-hour hike from home.
She glanced down at the street below, where the vehicles were parked. Two pickups, Hutch’s motorcycle and what had been a delivery van for a catering service. A number of sheet metal plates had been welded onto the three larger vehicles, theoretically giving the occupants some protection. The only real problem with it was the added weight – none of the vehicles were what you’d call fuel efficient, and now they were even less so. They kept them rolling on siphoned fuel, but even that was either going bad or running out.
But that was one of many cans she was currently kicking down the road. They were running low on everything, and there were more zombies every day. Long-term planning had never been her forte. She’d always been the day-by-day sort, but that wasn’t good enough anymore. Not when she had people depending on her.
Ramirez pushed the thought aside as she heard a dog bark and saw a dark streak bounding across the street towards the hardware store. Attila was back. The dog leapt through the broken display window and was scrabbling up the iron access-ladder a moment later. She wasn’t sure who’d taught the animal to climb ladders, but it came in handy. Probably the same person who’d named him Attila, given the tags and collar he’d been wearing since Kahwihta had found him.
Attila was a brown and black dog of indeterminate parentage. He was big, but not heavy, and had the lean look of a hound. His dark eyes were either soulful or utterly empty of anything approaching self-awareness, depending on who you asked.
She glanced back at the street. She could hear the sound of walkers doing what they did best. Their groaning cries hung heavy on the air. She hated that sound. Something about it reminded her of the droning of insects, and her stomach did a little flip-flop.
“Good boy,” Kahwihta murmured, giving the dog a quick scruff. She looked up at Ramirez. “Sounds like he got them all going in the right direction – just like I said.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Ramirez said, smiling. The young woman’s plan had sounded crazy the first time she’d suggested it. Then, all her plans sounded crazy. But they worked, often as not. “Now we just need to hope they keep going that way and don’t wander off – or worse, stop dead.”
Kahwihta smiled. “Pun intended?”
Ramirez grunted. “Get up. While they’re distracted, we’ve got scrounging to do.” She turned. “That goes for all of you. On your feet and remember the drill. No one goes anywhere alone, in and out, and the trucks loaded up as quick as possible. We miss anything, we’ll get it next time. Hahm, you’re on medicine duty.”
Hahm, a stout Asian woman dressed in coveralls, her hair hidden beneath a kerchief, nodded and tapped her pocket. “Got the list. Antihistamines, anti-inflammatories and baby aspirin.” She hefted a sledgehammer onto one broad shoulder and headed for the ladder.
“Tampons too,” Kahwihta interjected.
“Relax, they’re on the list.” Ramirez paused and fixed Hutch with a steady glare. “Essentials only, Hutch. No booze, no pills – not this time. No screw ups. You read me?”
Hutch gave a lazy salute. “Loud and clear, boss.”
“Call me boss again and I’ll feed you to the next batch of walkers we come across.” She looked at Kahwihta and motioned to Attila. “Think he can do another circuit? I want to make sure we don’t have any surprises waiting for us.” Attila wasn’t smart, but he made for good zombie bait. A few barks and the walkers would pour out of whatever hidey-hole they’d wandered aimlessly into and follow the doggie. The only problem was the runners. Most weren’t fast enough to catch a dog, but every so often one managed to get too close for comfort.
Kahwihta frowned but nodded. “Probably, but he’s getting tired.”
“We’re all tired.”
Kahwihta took two handfuls of Attila’s jowls. “You heard her. Go play.” The dog barked and headed for the ladder. Ramirez heard Hutch curse as the dog clambered past him down the ladder. A few moments later, Hutch and the others were spreading out, hitting the closest storefronts. They didn’t worry about noise – strictly smash and grab. Early on, they’d tried to do things quiet, but that took too long. Better to be quick and loud, despite the attention it drew from the locals.
Attila was already out of sight, racing around somewhere behind the buildings on the opposite side of the street. She could hear him barking – then, a screech of tires. The unexpected sound had her on her feet. She swung the binoculars around. “Did you hear that?” she asked. “That was a damn car, wasn’t it?”
“Sounded like one to me,” Kahwihta said, joining her at the edge of the roof. “Who’d be crazy enough to drive through town?”
“Somebody who doesn’t know any better.” Ramirez spotted a flash between the buildings and heard the screech of compacting metal. The tenor of the zombies’ groaning changed, becoming something eager and desperate. They had new prey. Attila was off the menu; lucky dog.
Hutch came puffing up the ladder. “You hear that?” he panted, looking winded. “Sounds like somebody’s got trouble. Should we…?”
“Should we what?” Ramirez asked, not looking at him. “Help them? And how do we do that, exactly?” She paused, peered for a better look. “There. Just at the intersection. Looks like the car wrapped itself around a lamppost.” She glanced at Hutch. “The others…?”
“Down by the trucks, loading what we got. We didn’t get far. The walkers haven’t noticed us yet, but it’s only a matter of time.”
“No. I don’t suppose you did.” She tensed as a gunshot punched the air. Instinctively, her hand fell to her own weapon. The car was swamped, with walkers all over it. She could see a few runners jittering around the edges of the crowd, and a hulking shape lurching towards the front end of the car. “Shit. We got a brute.”
“Really? Let me see.” Kahwihta snatched the binoculars from her grip and peered towards the confrontation. “That’s the first one of those we’ve seen this close to the camp in a month. They don’t usually wander too far from home.” She glanced at Ramirez. “This isn’t good. That means those aren’t just locals down there.”
“Probably followed the car,” Hutch said, half-heartedly.
Ramirez shook her head. Zombie numbers had been on the increase for a few weeks now. Just a few stragglers at first, then more. Too many. They hadn’t figured out where they were coming from yet. Down out of the mountains, maybe.
“Doesn’t matter. They’re here now, and there’ll be more of them before too long. We need to let the other camps know tourist season has begun.” She took the binoculars back from Kahwihta and saw that the new arrival had managed to make it to the top of his car. He wasn’t screaming, which was a point in his favor.
When the brute heaved itself after him, she figured he was done for. He put a shot into its head, and the car bobbed like a cork on the ocean. The guy, whoever he was, went down, but was back up again a moment later. When the brute went for him again, she caught the glint of the knife and whistled appreciatively. “Well, damn.”
Hutch leaned forward, squinting. “He stabbed the shit out of that bloat-bag. Whoever he is, he’s pretty badass. Think we should help him?”
“Might not have time. They’re on his tail and more are coming. I think he used up his luck.” Ramirez focused the binoculars, trying to get a better look at the man’s face as he scrambled away from the fallen zombie. Something about him seemed familiar, but she couldn’t say what precisely. Just a feeling. Like she’d met him somewhere before.
Maybe he was a Fed – or had been. A cop, maybe? She’d known a lot of cops. Then his face jumped into focus and she knew. “Sonnuva…”
“What?” Hutch asked. “You know him?”
“I know him. What is he doing out here?” Ramirez was already pushing past Hutch as he made to reply, heading for the ladder. As she hit the doors of the hardware store, she realized she wasn’t afraid of the zombies getting him. She was afraid of him getting away.
The others were quickly loading up the trucks as Attila skidded around the corner and bounded towards them, barking to beat the band. The man was just behind him, running flat out. When he saw her, he slid to a stop, a confused look on his face. She drew her service weapon and aimed at him. “Down,” she shouted.
He went flat and she fired. The runner that had been about to tackle him went down in a heap just behind him. He clambered to his feet just as the rest rounded the corner. No more runners, thankfully. Just garden variety walkers. Still deadly, though.
Westlake – and it was definitely Westlake – trotted towards her. He smiled.
“Special Agent Ramirez. Long time no see.”