The Lodge
They reached the lodge just before dusk. Labrand honked the horn as the van slowed. Westlake heard gravel popping beneath the wheels as they came to a rolling stop.
Ramirez flung the doors open and jumped down out of the van. Kahwihta and the dog followed. Westlake hesitated, looking around. The van and the trucks had pulled into a gravel parking lot through a maze of concrete barricades. As Westlake watched, men and women hauled rolls of barbed wire back into place between the barricades.
“Keep an eye on him for a minute,” Ramirez said.
Kahwihta saluted lazily. “Will do.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Westlake said, as he sat on the bumper of the van.
Ramirez looked at him. “Damn right you’re not. If you try, you’ll get a tap from her cattle-prod.”
“Might even turn it on first,” Kahwihta added, gesturing with the prod.
Westlake shrugged. “I’ll sit tight.” He turned his attention back to his surroundings. The lodge was a large two-story split-frame, made from stone and timber, crouched on the shore of the lake. It was a long structure, and something about it put Westlake in mind of a fort. Towering spruce and pine stood thick and tall all around, with what looked like only a single road through them.
Smoking chimneys topped the high, peaked roof, and he could just make out the edge of a deck overlooking the water. A long dock jutted from beneath the deck, and extended out into the lake proper. It was lined with chain-link fencing, topped by what he thought was barbed wire. Spotlights had been set up at its end. More lights sat atop the roof, and along the makeshift walls that enclosed the lodge.
The walls that he could see were mostly a hodgepodge of sheet metal, timber, and chain-link, with construction scaffolding running along their length. A secondary defensive line of sandbags and more concrete barricades had been erected just behind them. It all had a temporary look to it – like it was in the process of being taken down, or put back up.
Inside the walls, it looked even more like a construction site. There were stacks of wood and cement sacks everywhere. A makeshift fuel dump of plastic jerry cans had been erected under a lean-to of tarps a somewhat safe distance from the lodge. Most of the fuel would be going bad about now, he knew. He wondered how they were planning to run their vehicles after the last of it was gone.
Jury-rigged systems for rainwater collection had been set up all over the place, and someone had torn up the ornamental flower beds to make room for more useful crops – though what they could grow in this sort of soil, Westlake wasn’t sure.
He could smell smoke and food: cooking. Chili, he thought. His stomach rumbled. He hadn’t had cooked food in a long time. Not since before Tommy had taken him for a ride, in fact. There were people everywhere – not many, but more than he’d expected. Most camps he’d passed through held only a dozen individuals, if that. This place was practically hopping in comparison.
“Impressed?” Kahwihta asked, sitting beside him on the bumper. She had her cattle-prod across her knees and was gently stroking Attila’s head.
“You could say that.” He looked at her. “How long did this take to set up?”
“I wouldn’t know. We’re not finished.” She smiled. “It’s sort of a work in progress.” Her smile faded. “Materials are hard to come by these days. I think we’ve raided every construction site between here and Albany.”
Westlake grunted. His eyes strayed to Ramirez. She was talking to the fat biker. She’d taken his Glock. She didn’t trust him – which was smart of her, he had to admit. But she knew she needed him. That meant she wasn’t planning to shoot him. Not yet, at least.
“She doesn’t like you very much,” Kahwihta said, as if reading his thoughts. “You seem alright to me,” she added. “Attila likes you, anyway.”
Westlake looked down at the dog, who was drooling on his shoes. He shook his head. “Well, that’s something. How long you been out here?” he asked, watching Ramirez.
“A few months. I was up here when everything… y’know.”
Westlake was silent for a minute. Then, “I was in Jersey.”
“Long way to come.”
“Yeah,” he murmured. Ramirez turned his way, a smile on her face. The smile faded the moment she saw him looking. He’d been as surprised to see her as she’d been to see him. He hadn’t given her much thought since he’d slipped his security detail in New York, with plans to go meet Sal. In retrospect, he should have known better. Ramirez started towards them. “Well?” he asked. “What now? Going to slap me in the pokey?”
“Not if you watch your mouth.” Ramirez looked at Kahwihta. “Take over the unloading for me. Make sure Hutch doesn’t swipe too much.”
“Sure thing, boss.”
“And don’t… no, forget it. Never mind.” She sighed and gestured to Westlake. “You, come on. Inside.” She started towards the lodge.
“Where are we going?” Westlake trudged after her. The adrenaline had long since worn off, and he was feeling frayed at the edges. He wanted something to eat, and to sleep, in that order. He had a feeling he wasn’t going to get either until Ramirez was satisfied.
“I’m going to introduce you to some people, and then we’re going to go talk about how you might be able to help us.”
Westlake paused. “So you decided to trust me after all, huh?” He let none of the elation he felt show on his face. He’d been certain she’d see the sense of it. That, and desperate people tended not to look gift horses in the mouth.
Ramirez stopped halfway up the wooden steps of the lodge, but didn’t turn around. He could read the tension in her shoulders, the way she held her head. “I wouldn’t go that far,” she said. “But you’re right. We need each other. And we might be able to help each other.” She turned and looked down at him. “Especially if your pal Bonaro is alive.”
Before he could reply, an African-American woman with gray-flecked locs came down the steps towards them. “Estela,” she said. “Welcome back.”
“Frieda,” Ramirez said, as she threw her arms around the other woman. Westlake paused, startled. Hugs weren’t something he associated with Ramirez. He studied the newcomer. Frieda was tall, and dressed in black BDUs and a flowing, colorful scarf, with a machete sheathed on one hip. She held Ramirez for a moment, then stepped back. “You’re still in one piece,” she said, laughing. “I think Saoirse owes me a beer.” She looked at Westlake. “Who’s this? Another stray?”
“Something like that,” Ramirez said. “Dunnigan in?”
“Where else would he be?” Frieda indicated the lodge with a nod of her head. “We were going over the supply lists when I heard you were back.” She paused and asked hopefully, “Insulin?”
“I think so. You’d have to ask the others. I was a bit distracted.” Ramirez gestured to Westlake. Frieda gave him a longer, more considering look.
“Westlake,” he said, extending his hand.
“Frieda. Frieda Calmet.” She looked at his hand, and then at Ramirez. “I assume you checked him for bites. Just because some folks don’t turn, it doesn’t mean we need to get sloppy about it.”
“If a zombie bit Westlake, it would die of blood poisoning.” Ramirez gestured to them both. “Come on. We’re going to go have a chat with some people.”
“What’s up?” Frieda asked, falling into step with her.
“Let’s wait until we get inside.”
“That doesn’t sound good,” Frieda said, tossing a suspicious look at Westlake as she held the door for them.
“Hey, this is some place you got here,” Westlake said, changing the subject. The interior of the lodge was warm, and there were people inside. Not many. Mostly kids. He wondered how many of them had been on camping trips when it had all gone south. “Big. High walls, lots of trees. Nice lake for fishing.”
Ramirez grunted. “The walls are shit, the trees make it hard to see what’s coming, and the lake is full of zombies.”
“And it’s not that big,” Frieda added. “Twelve rooms, including communal bunking areas and a dining hall. It used to be a place where the upper crust came to rough it, but it got turned into a public facility about thirty years ago.”
“Lucky for you, huh?” Westlake said.
Frieda snorted. “You might say that. You might also say we had precious little choice.” Westlake grimaced. He was trying to be friendly, but Frieda was taking her cues from Ramirez. She glanced at him. “You look tired.”
“I’ve been on the road.”
“New in town, then?”
“You might say that.”
“Where are you heading?” she asked.
“What is this, twenty questions?”
“It’s rare we get visitors.” Frieda paused. “Other than… you know.”
“Yeah. You seem to be safe enough, though.”
“Not really. The locals are all over the mountains. And in the lake. On the road.”
Westlake frowned. “Didn’t see any.”
Frieda gave him a mirthless smile. “Doesn’t mean they’re not there.”
Ramirez stopped in front of a door and swung it open without bothering to knock. “Inside, Westlake. Try not to embarrass me.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Westlake murmured, stepping past her. The room was large, with a set of windows overlooking the lake. A big stone fireplace occupied one wall, with an impressive rack of antlers above it. There was a long couch and a few upholstered chairs, grouped around a low coffee table.
Westlake could imagine sitting in this room, sipping coffee, watching the sun rise over the lake. The image was marred somewhat by the heavy boards someone had nailed across the width of the windows. He didn’t wonder why. “They ever get past the walls?”
“On occasion,” Ramirez said. “Runners – the fast ones. They can climb when they’re in the mood, though not easily. And the big ones – the brutes – they can knock over most anything, if they get up a good head of steam. Even the concrete only does so much.”
“They common around here?” Westlake asked.
“I hadn’t seen any in a while. First time I saw one, I passed through a camp near Utica.” Ramirez’ gaze went vague for a second, and her voice trailed off. “Guess we’re lucky.” She swallowed and shook her head. “Were lucky, at least.”
Frieda looked at her with a raised eyebrow. Ramirez grimaced and explained, “Runners and a brute. In town.”
“But where there’s one, there’s more,” a new woman’s voice interjected. Westlake turned as a woman in a wheelchair rolled towards them. She brought herself to a halt just in front of him and looked up at him. “Saoirse Breen at your service. I’m what you might call the mayor of this little township, though I assure you the election was thoroughly rigged in my favor.” Her voice had a soft lilt to it – Irish, maybe. She was middle-aged and pretty, her red hair streaked with white. Her arms were bare and muscular, her hands clad in fingerless weight-lifter’s gloves.
“You’re in a wheelchair,” Westlake said, without thinking.
Saoirse looked at Ramirez. “Oh, he’s a quick fella, then.”
Westlake grimaced and gestured apologetically. “Sorry – just… didn’t expect it, is all.” He put on a smile. “Must make it easy to outrun the dead, huh?”
“I got the advantage on the straightaway, but the curves are murder.” Saoirse rolled herself backwards. “Dunny! Ramirez is back, and she brought us a stray.”
“Who’s Dunny?” Westlake asked.
“Jerome Dunnigan,” a big man near one of the windows said, offering his hand. Westlake took it. “Only Saoirse gets to call me Dunny, on account of she ignores me when I ask her not to.” He was dressed in flannel and a puffer vest with a faded company logo on it. He wore a battered ballcap and a pair of hatchets hung from his belt. “So who are you?”
“Westlake.”
“Glad to meet you.” Dunnigan went to a tiny fridge set back against the wall. He pulled out a quartet of beers and passed them out. “Have a brew.”
Westlake stared at his. “It’s cold.” He hadn’t had a cold beer in months.
Dunnigan smiled. “Lodge has a generator system. Long as we keep it fueled up, we’ve got power. Makes a lot of noise though. Tends to draw unwelcome visitors.”
Saoirse popped the cap on her beer with the table edge and the flat of her hand. “And I keep saying, if we could find some solar panels, we wouldn’t need the generator.”
“You’re free to go look,” Ramirez said.
Saoirse laughed. “I thought that’s why we had you.”
They all chuckled at that, but underneath Westlake could hear the strain. “So, he another Fed?” Saoirse asked, a moment later.
“Even better,” Westlake said. He took a sip of the beer. It tasted stale, but he drank it anyway. It’d have been rude not to, and after four months without company, he wouldn’t commit another social faux pas. “I’m a thief.”