Unloading
Kahwihta prowled along the fence-line, mind elsewhere. Attila trotted at her heels, receiving his just due from anyone they passed – mostly scritches and head-rubs, but a few treats as well. Fewer of those every day, though. Fewer of everything.
She knew she was supposed to be overseeing the unloading, but the others knew what to do. And despite Ramirez’ comments, Hutch hadn’t stolen anything in months. Even then, he mostly stole junk – empty bottles, sugar packets and the like. Nothing serious.
She glanced towards the lodge. Ramirez and Frieda had escorted Westlake inside, probably to talk to Dunnigan and Saoirse. She could guess what it was about. The lodge wasn’t safe. Not really. They’d only survived as long as they had because of the unique circumstances. Plenty of vacationers, with the gear needed to rough it and a broad range of skills. Fishermen, hunters, hikers. Also three IT specialists, a marketing consultant, and one yoga instructor. But while her core had never been stronger, yoga was no substitute for food and building materials.
Attila gave a soft whuff, and she paused. Beyond the makeshift fencing, the trees stood tall and brooding. She studied them for long moments, then looked down. “They’re getting closer, huh?” Attila thumped his tail in reply. She patted him and moved on.
The dog was better than any early warning system she’d yet seen. Animals and zombies didn’t mix. The zombies didn’t care whether it walked, crawled or flew, they’d eat it if they could catch it. She’d seen walkers dogpile a bear, once. It hadn’t been a pleasant sight.
Attila whuffed again, scenting the air. He had somehow survived on his own for what must have been weeks before she’d run across him. He’d come sniffing around her camp for food. She’d been able to count his ribs, and he’d seemed deliriously happy with the half-eaten gas station sandwich she’d fed him, despite it being several weeks past the expiration date. Since then, he hadn’t left her side.
Sometimes, she wondered who he’d belonged to, before the dead had risen and the world went topsy-turvy. Whether he’d been a part of some family vacation that had ended all too abruptly. Had he gotten separated – lost? Or had they chased him away? What must he have thought, to see the ones who’d fed him, who’d loved him, turn on him and try to eat him? She tried not to think those thoughts, though. Too maudlin by far, and they served no purpose save to lead her into thinking about her own family, far to the north.
She shied away from the past and tried to focus on the present. The dead were on the move and had been for weeks. They were leaving the towns, heading into the woods. They were drawing closer to the camps. Not quite looking for them, but on the way to finding them all the same. Things would get even more difficult when they did.
The defenses were good enough to keep out lone walkers, even the occasional runner. But the greater the number of zombies, the less secure those defenses looked. Sometimes, she wondered if maybe she would have been better off staying on the mountain. Like Sayers.
The thought of the former park ranger made her frown. Sayers had been living– or hiding, rather – in the lodge when Dunnigan arrived. She’d upped stakes for the wilderness not long after, complaining about the number of people. To her, more people meant more zombies. Sayers was a weird one. They rarely saw her these days. She hunted and fished and prowled the mountains and kept to herself.
The sound of laughter made Kahwihta turn. Hutch, Labrand, and a few others were unloading the trucks. The haul wasn’t great this time around. Mostly canned goods, some vitamin multipacks, a shrink-wrapped box of bottled water… all of it useful, but very little of it interesting. No guns, no ammo. The sort of stuff other scavengers left behind. She wandered over, trying not to look like she was eavesdropping.
“I’m telling you, town’s tapped out,” Labrand was saying. “We either got to head up the road apiece, or start hitting houses around the lake.” She didn’t know much about Labrand, other than that he’d been on vacation when zombies started putting the bite on everyone, and he looked like a cowboy who’d gone to seed. That image was only enhanced by the old-fashioned Colt revolver he carried low on one hip.
Hutch dropped a crate of empty milk bottles onto the ground. “What we need is some proper accounting.” In comparison to Labrand, she knew everything about Hutch – more than she wanted to, in fact. Hutch had showed up with Ramirez, and had quickly made himself very useful. He was one of those people who seemed to have been in training for the apocalypse all his life.
Hahm hefted a garbage bag full of pill bottles and tossed it to one of the others. The stout Korean woman shook her head. “I thought you were an outlaw biker, not an accountant.” Hahm, like Labrand, was something of a closed book. All Kahwihta knew about her was that she’d worked at an elementary school and had arrived with a gaggle of grade schoolers, after making contact with the camp by radio. Hahm didn’t like to talk about it, and Kahwihta liked to think that she wasn’t the sort to pry.
Hutch made a rude gesture. “I’ll have you know I was club treasurer. And as treasurer I grew adept at spotting chicanery.”
“Adept?” Labrand said.
“Chicanery?” Hahm added.
“Screw both of you,” Hutch grumbled. He picked up a milk bottle, sniffed it, and said, “How much booze we got left?”
“Enough to have a party,” Hahm said, tossing another bag out of the truck. “Why?”
“I was thinking Molotov cocktails.” Hutch bounced the bottle on his palm. “I bet one of the other camps has some booze. We could make a few dozen cocktails, draw all the zombies into a contained area – fwoosh! No more zombies.”
Labrand grunted, took off his Stetson, and ran a hand through his thinning hair. “How you going to get them all in one place?”
“Hell, I bet our zombologist has some ideas,” Hahm said, looking at Kahwihta. “What about it, college girl?”
Trying to hide her embarrassment at being spotted, Kahwihta ambled over. “Depends. The walkers – sure. But the runners? The brutes? That might require some creative thinking.”
“We got that in spades,” Hutch said, confidently. “I bet the mutt could draw them in.”
“Not if you’re the one throwing the bottles,” Kahwihta said. Hutch looked insulted. Before he could reply, she went on, “Have you ever heard of a place called the Villa?”
Hutch grunted. “Why do you ask?”
“The guy we picked up in town mentioned it.”
“Yeah, who is he, by the way?” Hahm asked. “Ramirez knows him, doesn’t she?”
“If she does, she don’t like him much,” Labrand added.
“He says his name is Westlake.” Kahwihta shrugged. “I think he’s a criminal – or he was. We didn’t really get a chance to chat.”
Hutch put down the bottle and looked at her. “Wait – Westlake? He said his name was Westlake? You sure about that?”
“I’m not deaf, so yes.”
Hutch laughed. “Well shit. That’s interesting.”
“Why? Who is he?” Hahm punched him in the shoulder. “Share the gossip.”
“He’s a thief. Like, a really good thief. Like a guy who robs casinos, professionally. That type of thief.” Hutch scratched his chin. “What’s a guy like that doing out here?”
“What are any of us doing out here?” Labrand said.
“He said he’s going to the Villa,” Kahwihta said. “That’s why I was asking if you’d heard about it. You’re the only other criminal I know.”
Hutch gave her a look, and she smiled sweetly. He snorted. “Yeah, but I’m a petty criminal. Like, I sold some weed and maybe some guns once or twice. Westlake is like one of those guys they make movies about, you know?” He shook his head. “A real asshole, in the best sense of the word.”
“There’s a best sense of that word?” Hahm asked.
“You know what I mean.”
“Clearly we do not,” Labrand drawled.
“You were telling me about the Villa,” Kahwihta reminded him.
“I wasn’t.” Hutch laughed again. “I thought that place was in Vegas.”
“You’ve heard of it, though?”
Hutch gave her a lazy grin. “Of course. Anyone who ever spent more than a week in the joint has heard about it. Nobody ever believed it was real. It was like the Dutchman’s treasure, you know? It’s a story cons tell each other.” He scratched his chin. “At least that was what I thought.”
“He seems to believe it’s here. In the mountains.”
Hutch sat down on the tailgate of the truck. “Well strip me naked and tattoo my rear.”
“Not even on a bet,” Hahm said. “So what is it?”
“It’s a hideout – but, like, the ultimate hideout, you know? A place wiseguys could go and last out a damn siege, if they were of a mind. It’s supposed to have everything you could want or need, so long as you had the cash to pay for it.” Hutch looked at Kahwihta. “You sure he said he was looking for the Villa?”
“Definitely,” she said.
He whistled. “If that’s the case, we might be looking at the big one.” He slapped the bed of the truck with his hand. “No more need to make supply runs, no need to risk getting chewed on for half a bottle of baby aspirin.” He glanced towards the lodge. “Westlake – shit. If it is him, that’s a stroke of luck there, I’ll say that.”
“It’s about time,” Hahm said, softly. “We’ve been needing some.”
A growl from Attila interrupted them. Kahwihta turned as one of the guards walking the fence shouted out a warning. Lights clicked on and swung, searching until they hit several shapes shambling down the road towards the lodge.
“Tourists,” Labrand said. His hand fell to his Colt.
Hutch waved him back. “Only a handful. Let whoever’s on duty handle it.” Even as he spoke, however, Attila started barking. More lights came on to the east. No shouts. Everyone knew what the lights meant. More tourists, coming down the trails. There were plenty of walkers in the mountains, and sometimes they wandered down for a visit.
“More than a handful,” Hahm said. “Think they followed us?” She reached down for her sledgehammer.
“Of course not,” Hutch said. He sat up.
“They did,” Kahwihta said. Hutch looked at her.
“You can’t be serious.”
She ignored him and started towards the fence, notebook in hand. It was camp policy to let walkers get close to the fence, and then put them down as quietly as possible. Zombies liked noise, and the less of it there was, the better.
Men and women walked the fence, sharpened lengths of wood or rebar in their hands. Whenever a zombie got close enough, they’d shove their makeshift spears into its head. Walkers were dumb, and they’d stumble right onto something lethal if you gave them enough encouragement. It was the others you had to watch out for. Runners were smarter, though only marginally. They’d still go after the closest target, but they’d do it a lot faster. Brutes weren’t smarter, but they were harder to put down.
But worst of all were the older zombies. The ones who’d been dead since the opening days of the outbreak and had gone lean and skinny from lack of food. They knew how to hide. There were other types as well. She’d observed some walkers that twitched and growled like hyperactive animals. They’d burst out of a horde like champion sprinters – faster even than runners – if they got a look at a potential meal.
She jotted down notes, accompanied by the soft squelch of rebar punching through rotted brains. The walkers fell, and would have to be cleared away and burned in the morning. Zombies were more active at night, for some reason. She wasn’t sure why, yet, but she had several theories percolating in the back of her head.
A crawler gripped the bottom of the fence and bit at the metal with broken teeth. She glanced at Attila. “Sit.” The dog sat. He whined as she approached the crawler, but didn’t move. He knew better.
Kahwihta crouched down in front of the zombie, sketching it with quick, steady lines. The zombie was wearing a fishing vest and a tattered flannel shirt. The remains of a fishing cap hung askew on its ruined head. She wondered who he’d been. A local, maybe. No way to tell, really. The crawler glared at her with empty hunger. She felt no fear of it, only a sort of muted sadness. It was a broken thing, a stranger to the natural order. “It must be a sad thing, not to be a part of the world anymore,” she said. She believed in the interconnectivity of all things. But zombies didn’t seem connected to anything. At least, that she understood yet.
As if sensing her pity, it redoubled its efforts to gnaw through the fence, even as it tried to force itself through the gap in the links. She watched it, taking notes on how it moved, and, more importantly, how it dealt with the obstacle. Most zombies didn’t deal with obstacles at all – they just kept going until they hit something they couldn’t knock over or squeeze through, and then they stopped. But some were more persistent, and they were becoming more common as time passed.
She finished her notes, set her notebook aside, and drew an icepick from her coat. She reached for its scalp, deftly avoiding its snapping jaws. She’d been bitten before and survived, but she wasn’t planning to repeat the experience. Holding its head still with her free hand, she punctured the zombie’s brain via its ear canal with one quick thrust of the icepick. The crawler slumped with a disgruntled exhalation.
She cleaned the icepick on her trousers and stood. Behind her, Attila was growling steadily. Out beyond the edge of the light, more shapes stumbled. Not many, but more than usual. She felt a flicker of unease as she rejoined the others.
“Do you have to do that every damn time?” Labrand asked, his expression one of disgust. He was more squeamish than the others, at least when it came to doing things that didn’t involve putting a bullet in something.
“Do what?”
“The thing with the icepick.”
“I don’t like guns,” she said. “There’s more of them coming down the road. Someone ought to let Ramirez and the others know.”
“I’ll do it,” Hutch said, dropping off the tailgate. “I want to see what they’re talking about anyway.” He started towards the lodge. “If it is the Villa – could be just the thing to save our sorry asses.”
Kahwihta turned back to the fence. There were almost a dozen bodies piled up along its length. But Attila was still growling. Absently, she stroked the dog’s head.
“Let’s hope.”