Accord
A whistle sounded from the road.
“That was a signal,” Ramirez said, as she turned towards the sound. Westlake wasn’t listening. He dove for her weapon. She jerked around as he caught her wrist, and her fist punched into his belly. He staggered and gasped, but didn’t let go. She hit harder than he’d expected. He was still wheezing when she kicked his legs out from under him, and he fell on his ass.
“OK, I admit,” he panted, hands raised. “That didn’t work out as I’d hoped. Let’s pretend it never happened.”
“I take it back, you are an idiot,” she said, backing away from him. “Get up.”
“I’m OK here, thanks.” Westlake wondered if he could get to his knife before she pulled the trigger. He doubted it, and honestly, he didn’t particularly want to.
He had the outline of a plan in mind – not a good one, but it might be the only one that got him where he needed to go. He was starting to realize that his original plan to head into the mountains alone had been somewhat flawed.
He’d known from the outset that his odds of success were infinitesimal without a crew, but putting one together these days was impossible. He’d decided to do it alone anyway, more out of stubbornness than any real hope of success. But Ramirez might hold the answer to that particular problem.
“Get up, Westlake. They’ve spotted hostiles. So get up and let’s get back to the van.”
“I don’t think so. See, I don’t think you have my best interests at heart. In fact, I think maybe I ought to chance it on my own.”
“Oh no, you’re not getting out of my sight, Westlake.” Ramirez lifted her weapon, and he tensed. The Ramirez he’d known, however briefly, wouldn’t have pulled a stunt like popping one off next to his feet. She’d changed – there was something in her eyes. A hardness that hadn’t been there before. The plan started to crystalize. If Ramirez was as desperate as she looked, then he had the advantage. He decided to push it, and eased to his feet.
“What are you going to do, Ramirez? Shoot me?”
“If I have to.”
“I’m willing to roll the bones on that.” Westlake stepped back – and darted into the trees. The same way he’d done with Tommy, that night in the Barrens. Ramirez wasn’t Tommy, but there were other similarities. Like dead people in the trees.
The walker seemed to stumble out of nowhere, hands grasping. Westlake ducked and rammed his shoulder into the zombie’s midsection, knocking it over. It clawed at his legs as he stumbled over it. He lashed out, pulping its skull with the steel toe of his boot.
“Westlake!” Ramirez shouted. He paused, saw her raising the pistol. Fear filled him as he heard the shot. A walker in a waitress uniform toppled, its fingers snagging in his coat. He shoved it aside and turned, looking for a safe direction. There wasn’t one. No matter. He wasn’t really trying to escape. Just like he hadn’t been trying to escape the night the cops came for him.
Not really. Not when the threat of turning state’s evidence was the only real leverage he had over Sal. Sure, he could have gone to war – could have hit every Bonaro joint on the East Coast, bled the Outfit of every dollar he was owed. But that had never been his way.
He preferred to keep things simple. Efficient. You could adapt on the fly with a simple plan. A simple plan was a hard plan to ruin. Not impossible, though. He’d found that out the minute Tommy had thrown him into the trunk of a rental car. But Ramirez wasn’t Tommy. She’d see sense. Or so he hoped.
He stumbled as a new walker grabbed the back of his coat. This one wore a padded jacket and a cap with ear flaps – a hunter, maybe, who’d never made it home. Westlake pivoted, snatching his knife from its sheath and snapping it open in one motion. He slammed the knife into the dead thing’s skull, dislodging the cap in the process. He kicked the twitching zombie back and turned. More of them lumbered closer – how many dead people were in these woods?
Westlake spotted Ramirez out of the corner of his eye and went flat as her pistol barked twice. Two zombies, both in varsity jackets, collapsed like puppets with their strings cut. Ramirez reloaded smoothly as she strode towards him. “That was stupid.”
Westlake leaned into it. After all, he now knew she valued him alive, despite her threats. “Hey, you’re the one who stopped your little convoy so you could threaten me in private.”
He knew he’d scored a point when Ramirez looked away. He paused and decided to be charitable. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“Saving my life. Just now.”
“Yeah. Don’t make me regret it. Come on, and don’t run again.” He followed her through the trees, back towards the vehicles. Just before they reached the others, he came to a decision. He stopped. She turned and looked at him.
“I’ve got a proposition for you,” he said.
“Now isn’t the time.”
“Now’s the perfect time. You’re desperate, otherwise you wouldn’t have pulled this stunt.” He narrowed his eyes. “I’m guessing you’re running low on everything, aren’t you? Guns, medicine, food. Every camp I’ve passed on the way here has had the same problems. Too many zombies and not enough of anything else.”
Ramirez flinched slightly. If he hadn’t been watching her face, he’d have missed it. He pressed on, speaking quickly. Knowing every minute they wasted was another walker heading right for them. “You said I was the answer to your prayers – well, maybe you’re right. You want the Villa? You can have it, and everything in it, if you help me.”
“Help you how?”
“If the stories aren’t bullshit – if it is a fortress – well, I might need some help getting inside.” He smiled and held out his hand. “So what do you say? Deal?”
Ramirez made to answer, when another whistle sounded. Then, brusquely, she said, “I’ll think about it – come on! Back to the van!” She turned and ran. Westlake followed. He spotted a few more walkers lurching through the trees, but not many. Even so, one was too many for his liking.
When they reached the others, he saw that they’d had trouble as well, but had dealt with it quietly. Baseball bats, shovels, hammers and the like had done the job as well as a bullet. Labrand trotted towards them, his Colt in his hand. “Everything OK, boss?” he called out.
“We’re fine,” Ramirez said. “Status?”
Labrand tipped his hat back, a look of relief on his hangdog face. “A-OK. But we got more walkers incoming. We need to skedaddle.” As if to emphasize his point, he swung the Colt up and snapped off a shot – dropping a walker that had just ambled onto the road. The dead man’s toupee went flying off as he fell. “Like now,” he added, as more walkers came out of the trees.
Ramirez and Westlake hustled back into the van, where Kahwihta was waiting with Attila. As Ramirez closed the doors, the young woman said, “So what was that about?”
“We needed to have a chat,” Ramirez said.
Kahwihta looked at Westlake. “About what?”
Westlake shrugged. “Ask your boss. If you don’t mind, I’m going to take a little nap. It’s been a tiring day.” He cleaned his knife on his trouser leg and slipped it back into its sheath. He glanced at Ramirez. “I don’t suppose I can have my gun back now?”
“Not yet,” she said, refusing to look at him.
Westlake nodded amiably. “No hurry.” He closed his eyes.
“Did you see any walkers in the trees?” Kahwihta asked.
Westlake cracked an eye. “What?”
“Can you describe them for me?” He saw that she had a small Moleskine notebook out, and a pencil. “What were they wearing?”
“Clothes?” he said, bemused.
“What type? Winter wear? Hiking gear?”
He opened both eyes and stared at her. “I don’t know, sorry. Wasn’t really paying attention to their sartorial choices, if you get me.”
“No need to apologize,” she said. “Just try and pay attention next time, huh?”
Westlake looked at Ramirez. She smiled thinly. “She’s a zombologist.”
“Environmental biologist,” Kahwihta corrected. “Possibly thanatologist. Like it or not, the walking dead are now an environmental factor, and one in need of study.” She held up her notebook. “For instance, I’ve been trying to map migration patterns.”
“Which means?”
“Zombies move – mostly very slowly, but they do move. I’ve been trying to figure out if there’s a pattern to those movements.”
“They follow us,” Westlake said. He’d seen enough over the past months to know that much, at least. Zombies went where the food went.
“Yeah, but how do they know where we are? How do they know anything, given that they’re, well, dead? How does one walker spotting someone turn into thirty walkers, or worse? Do they have some way of communicating that we’re not aware of? Are they even capable of something so basic?” She leaned back and tapped her notebook. “I’ve got reams of data, but no answers.”
Curious despite himself, Westlake asked, “So why do it?”
Kahwihta smiled. “I figure someone’s got to. Might as well be me.”
Westlake found it hard to argue with that. He sat back and tried to rest. It wasn’t easy. The van wasn’t the most comfortable conveyance. Better than a prison van, but not by much. He glanced at Ramirez. “Tell me about the lodge.”
She frowned. “What do you want to know?”
“Are you in charge?”
She laughed. “Hell, no.”
“Everyone calls you ‘boss’.”
“Because she is,” Kahwihta said, not looking up from her notebook. “Even Attila knows that.” The dog looked up at the sound of his name. Ramirez grunted.
“They do it because it annoys me.”
“Good reason,” Westlake said. “Is it the only one in the area?” Most of the camps he’d passed by or through were small things, isolated and isolationist – people were wary of strangers these days, especially when everyone was scrounging for basic necessities. There weren’t many of them, either. Staying in one spot was dangerous, unless you had walls and plenty of weapons.
Ramirez frowned. “There are two other camps nearby. One near North Elba and another close to Averyville. We’re the largest; sort of a hub. We stay in contact with the others by radio and help them with supply runs when we can – and vice-versa. We trade what we don’t need for what we do, and give any extra.”
“How charitable.”
“It’s not charity; it’s common sense. If we didn’t help each other, we’d be isolated and picked off in no time. Instead, we’ve managed to survive.”
“How many people?”
“Somewhere between not enough and too many,” Ramirez said, bluntly.
Westlake sat back. “So what you need is a bigger space, and one more easily defended. Sounds like the Villa to me.” He resisted the urge to smile. It was always nice when things went according to plan – even a half-baked plan like this one.
“I told you I’d think about it,” Ramirez said.
“What’s there to think about? You said yourself – I’m the answer to your prayers. The Villa is the answer to your prayers. And I can help you get it.”
“What’s the Villa?” Kahwihta interjected.
Westlake looked at Ramirez. “You want to tell her, or should I?”
Ramirez glared at him, but only for a moment. She sighed and ran her hands through her hair as the van bumped along. “It’s an urban legend. At least I thought it was. Westlake here says otherwise.”
Kahwihta leaned forward eagerly, notebook forgotten on her lap. “What sort of urban legend? I’m guessing it has something to do with the mob?”
Westlake blinked. “How’d you guess that?”
“There used to be speakeasies all through these mountains.”
Westlake laughed. “It used to be one, certainly. It’s more like a hotel, these days.”
“A hotel?”
“A big one.” Westlake gestured for emphasis. “Hidden in the mountains. Safe from the prying eyes of the Federal government, local law enforcement – maybe even God himself. And I know where it is.”