Decisions
“Come on, man, this way.” Hutch crooked a finger, and Westlake dutifully followed. He knew why Ramirez had sent him out, but that didn’t mean he had to like it. He could tell that neither Dunnigan nor Saoirse knew quite what to make of him or the story he’d told. If Ramirez hadn’t been desperate, she might have been equally doubtful. He briefly wondered what he would do if they all decided not to help him find the Villa.
They went out through the kitchen. Hutch stopped long enough to retrieve a cooler and led Westlake outside, onto the back deck. It looked out over the lake. The rails had been raised and extended, the thick wooden slats covered in sheet metal and barbed wire. The deck was covered, and the roof had been built up into something resembling a watchtower, with makeshift ladders nailed to the support beams.
Westlake could hear people walking across the roof above them, and the soft murmur of conversation. Hutch led him to the edge of the deck, and a pair of brightly colored plastic chairs. A bullhorn sat on the deck beside them. Hutch gestured to the other chair as he sat, and set his gun down. “So you’re the Westlake, huh?”
“Yeah. What about it?”
“Heard stories about you while I was in county lockup.”
“Shouldn’t listen to those kinds of stories.” Westlake sat. “Pretty out here.” The moon was up, the sky was full of stars. The surface of the lake was like a mirror.
“Yeah. View to die for.” Hutch laughed – a guttural growl of noise that seemed to emerge from somewhere near his belt-buckle. “So, it true you were the guy behind that armored car job in Milwaukee?”
“Got to be more specific than that.”
“The one where the money got set on fire.”
Westlake smiled. “Money was small potatoes. We were after bearer bonds.”
“Why’d you burn the money, though?”
Westlake was silent a moment. Then, “Matter of principle.”
Hutch grunted and flipped open the Styrofoam cooler. It was full of grainy ice, and several bottles, capped with cork. “Ramirez doesn’t seem to think you got any – principles, I mean. Never seen her that sore at nobody.”
“She’s entitled to her opinion.” Westlake looked at the other man. “So, how’d you two meet?”
Hutch grinned. “I was living up in Malone, running an… extralegal Canadian pharmaceutical importation business, you might say. Insulin, mostly. Anyway, somebody somewhere got wind, spilled the beans. Ramirez was part of the task force they set up to catch little old me. She was just serving the warrant when the dead rose and started chowing down on folks – including the rest of the task force. So we, ah, put aside our differences, you might say. Got out of town on my bike.”
“Really? Can’t imagine that.”
“I mean, she made me ride behind her, but it’s still my bike, y’know?”
Westlake laughed. “That sounds more like Ramirez.”
Hutch nodded. “She’s tough.”
“That’s one word for her.”
“How’d you know her from before, I mean? She bust you too?”
“Not quite.” Westlake scratched his jaw and looked out over the water. “Protection detail. She was supposed to keep me safe.”
“Did she?”
“Didn’t give her the chance.”
“I’m guessing that was a mistake.”
“One of many I have made in my life.”
Hutch laughed and reached down into the cooler. He fished out a bottle and offered it to Westlake. Westlake took it, popped the cork, and drank a sip. He grimaced. “Grape soda?”
“No booze, no pills. Boss’ orders.” Hutch had the good grace to look embarrassed. “I sort of had my problems with both, if you get me.”
“I get you.” Westlake took another sip. It was worse than the first, if that was possible. “Jesus. It tastes like flat battery acid.”
Hutch took a long pull from his own bottle and smacked his lips. “Yeah. My bad. I make it myself.” He sniffed. “Bit of a, y’know, connoisseur when it comes to pop.”
Westlake shook his head and looked at the water again. It was almost pretty in the moonlight. “How long you think it’ll take them to talk things over?”
Hutch shrugged. “Depends.” He cut his eyes at Westlake, a sly smile on his face. “You really know where the Villa is?”
“You know about it?” Somehow, Westlake wasn’t surprised.
“I’ve heard some stuff.”
“Only about half of it is true.”
“Hope it’s the good half.” Hutch took a long swallow of soda. “Because let me tell you, we ain’t got shit going on here.”
“That bad, huh?”
“Way I see it, we ain’t got much choice. It’s either find the place – or we die. Not immediately, but eventually. We’ve got maybe another month’s worth of ammunition and food, if we’re careful. If not… barely a week.”
“You could leave. Hop on your bike and shoot off over the horizon.”
Hutch snorted. “And go where?” He ran his fingers across the faded club patch on his vest. “Nobody to ride with, nothing to do except not get eaten. Not much of a life.”
“Not much is better than none.”
“That’s a matter of opinion.” Hutch emptied his bottle and set it carefully back into the cooler before selecting another. “Save the bottle.”
“Recycling?”
“Manner of speaking. Sometimes I reuse them – refill them, re-cork them. Sometimes I make them into Molotov cocktails. Depends on my mood.”
Westlake chuckled, but the sound died in his throat as he caught sight of something moving out in the water. He tapped Hutch, and the big man leaned forward, then stood with a curse. “Should have goddamn known.” He reached for the bullhorn and activated it. Then he reared back and shouted, “Floaters!”
Spotlights flared on above them, striking the water. Zombies waded through the shallows, covered in reeking weeds, their bodies swollen from prolonged submersion. Maybe twenty in all. Staring down at them, Westlake wondered how long they’d been walking under water. They didn’t need to breathe, after all. They could walk forever, if they wanted.
“Does this happen a lot?” he asked, the grape soda taste still lingering in his mouth.
“Not so much at first, but recently, yeah. Too often. Usually, they just sit in the lake. It’s why we stopped fishing out there.”
They watched as the floaters rattled the fencing, trying to find a clear path to shore. Westlake glanced at the Stoner sitting beside Hutch’s foot. “Shouldn’t you shoot them or something?”
Hutch grinned. “I wish. Gun is too loud. More of them I shoot, more of them show up. We got to do it the old-fashioned way – Muriel!” He turned in his chair and shouted behind him. “Hey, Muriel!”
“What?” a creaky voice called out. Westlake followed Hutch’s gaze and saw a grandmotherly woman, clad in military-issue BDUs that were too big for her, and a bow cradled in one sticklike arm. She hobbled towards them.
“Floaters, Muriel. Thought you might like to get some practice in.”
“Did you now?” Muriel sucked on her false teeth and made her way to the rail. She peered over the side, selected an arrow from the quiver on her hip and nocked it. Hutch leaned towards Westlake.
“Watch this.”
Muriel let the arrow fly. A floater fell back into the water. Hutch applauded. “Fine work, Muriel.” He looked at Westlake. “She makes a mean banana bread, too. When we’ve got bananas… and flour.”
Muriel selected another arrow and loosed it. Another floater sank down into the shallows, the arrow stuck clean through one of its eyes. Her third arrow wedged in a breastbone. The floater staggered, but didn’t fall. “Shoot,” Muriel said, in exasperation. She turned to Hutch. “Make yourself useful and go get my arrows back. Ain’t got many left.”
Hutch snorted. “Maybe you shouldn’t miss.”
Muriel flipped him the bird and Hutch gave a bark of laughter. She turned back to the rail and selected another arrow. Westlake watched her, impressed. “Tough old lady,” he murmured as she let it fly.
Hutch nodded. “You got to be, to survive this long.”
“What’s her story?”
“From what I heard, it involved a cigarette and a gas station and a ka-boom heard across the county.” Hutch looked at him. “What’s your story, Westlake?”
“Thought you’d heard all about me,” Westlake said.
Hutch grunted. “That was pre-zombies Westlake. I want to know about post-zombies Westlake, you dig?” He drained his bottle and set it aside. “Can’t imagine running around out there alone. Drive me crazy.”
“I like being alone,” Westlake said. He sat back, watching Muriel send another arrow humming home. “I liked it, anyway.”
“No man is an island,” Hutch said.
“No, I suppose not.” Westlake closed his eyes. “You get used to it. The quiet, I mean. Nothing but your thoughts to keep you company.”
“My head’s mostly full of theme songs. Remember Have Gun, Will Travel? That was a great theme song.”
Westlake grinned. “Duane Eddy. ‘Ballad of Paladin.’ Classic.”
“Television was great,” Hutch said, dolefully. He looked so sad in that moment that Westlake wondered if he might cry. Hutch shook himself. “Ah well.”
“I’ll take over, Hutch.”
They both looked up, startled. Ramirez held two more beers in her hands. She handed one to Westlake. “Go do something useful,” she continued, indicating the door. Hutch nodded and gave Westlake a commiserating look. Then they were alone, save, of course, for Muriel and the others on guard.
Westlake listened to the hum-snap of Muriel’s bow and said, “What’s the verdict?”
Ramirez tapped her bottle against his. “Congratulations. We’re going to steal a Villa.”
“You don’t sound happy about it.”
Ramirez dropped into Hutch’s seat and leaned back with her eyes half-closed. “I’m not. Not really.”
“How is it any different than looting a town?”
“Why don’t you tell me, Westlake.”
“What do you mean?”
“You had four months,” she said, tipping back the beer. “Why did it take you four months to get around to this?” she elaborated.
“I had other, more immediate concerns. As we all did.” He paused. “Took me a few days to get my shit together.” He tapped his head. “Up here, you know?”
Ramirez nodded. “I know. But why now?”
“Why not now?” Westlake set his beer down on the deck and tapped his fingers on the armrests of the chair. He watched the moonlight on the water. It was pretty – except it was full of zombies. So maybe not that pretty. “The truth is, it took that long to get here. I went for help first – remember Handy McClellan?”
Ramirez frowned. “He’s a fence, isn’t he? Worked out of a storefront in Trenton?”
“Was. Was a fence. And a friend.” Westlake fell silent, his mind on that night. Handy had holed up in his store, locking himself in. It had taken Westlake most of the afternoon to get in, and when he did… Handy hadn’t been in the mood for much save dinner. He still remembered the kick of the pistol, as he put what was left of Handy down.
“You went looking for help,” Ramirez said, softly. “A crew.”
Westlake nodded, looking at his hands. His knuckles were white in the moonlight, and he forced himself to loosen his grip on the chair. “But nobody was around. Or if they were, they weren’t in any condition to be of use.”
Ramirez took another sip of beer. “I’m sorry. About Handy, I mean.”
Westlake looked at her. “That’s why I want to make a deal. That’s why you can trust me. I’m starting to think I might need a crew. Especially if the mountains are this infested with zombies.”
Ramirez looked at him. “You still haven’t said what you’re after.”
“That’s my business.”
She turned and poked him in the chest, hard enough to hurt. “And I’m making it mine. You’re going after Sal, aren’t you?”
“What if I am?”
Ramirez fell silent. Westlake gave her a few moments, then said, “If Sal is up there, he’s going to cause trouble for you eventually. Trouble for everyone. Better it be handled now than when you’re not ready for it.”
“Maybe.”
“No maybes about it.”
She finished off her beer and sat up. “Dunnigan is contacting the other camps now. If they want in on this, they’ll send volunteers to help. If they don’t, we’ll go with who we can get. One way or another, you’ll have your crew.” She looked down at him. “Until then, you should get some sleep.”
“Where, exactly?”
Ramirez looked around. “Here’s good. I’m told it’s nice to sleep under the stars. I’ll send someone out with a blanket.”
Westlake watched her go back inside and shook his head.
But he was smiling when he did.