Campfire Stories
The forest was quiet. Westlake took a sip of camp coffee and watched the stars.
They’d made camp off the trail, back up in the trees but within sight of shore, after searching for any zombies that might pounce. It was safer that way. Kahwihta’s research had showed that walkers largely congregated on the trail rather than in the woods, despite what Westlake had experienced. Zombies followed people, and people walked the trail. Of course, there were more zombies than people these days.
Ptolemy brewed camp coffee as Hutch broke out the jerky and trail mix. Westlake lit a fire. Kahwihta attempted to dry her hair. She was putting on a brave face, but Westlake could tell she was still freaked out. “You sure they’re not going to follow us?” he asked, indicating the lake.
She shook her head. “No. I think that if they could, they would have by now.” She paused as Ptolemy filled her mug with coffee. She gulped the scalding liquid down gratefully. Attila huddled next to her, panting slightly. “The ones closest to shore will, but the ones that are farther out – they’ll just sink back down and go back to sleep, or whatever passes for it among zombies.” She took out her notebook, gave it a mournful shake, and set it down beside the fire to dry.
“Until the next poor sucker tries to cross the lake, you mean,” Westlake said.
“Until then, yeah.”
“You did good, by the way,” he continued. He tapped the side of his head. “With the icepick, I mean.”
“Go for the brainstem,” she said. “Surest way of putting one down. They’re not much more than a brain and a stomach.” She shivered slightly. “Even so, they almost had me. That’s the closest I’ve come in, well, ever.” She looked at Westlake. “Thank you. I mean it.”
“We’re a crew, and you look out for the members of your crew.” He patted Attila. “Even those with tails.”
“Still – thank you.”
He waved her words aside. “De nada. We were both lucky.”
“Luck had nothing to do with it, I think,” Calavera said, startling Westlake. He’d been sitting so quietly he’d almost forgotten the big man was there. He’d rolled the bottom of his mask up, exposing his mouth, and he’d lit a cigarette. He held a tiny icon in his big hands. “Santa Muerte was watching out for you, as she watches out for me.” As he spoke, he leaned forward and blew a thin plume of smoke from a lit cigarette onto the icon.
“Who?” Kahwihta asked. In the light of the fire, Westlake could just make out the image on the icon – a well-dressed skeleton, though whether that of a man or a woman, he could not tell. It was clearly religious, however.
Calavera looked at her. “Senora de la Noche – our Lady of the Night.” The big man touched his chest. “I have her tattooed here as well, over my heart, though my grandmother would not approve, I think.” He cradled the small icon gently and puffed on his cigarette. A moment later he blew another mouthful of smoke onto the icon. “She protects us against the darkness, and that which prowls the night… living or dead.”
He brought the icon up to his forehead and then slipped it back into his coat. “It was she who called to me and made me what I am. I was lost, and then Santa Muerte found me and led me once more to the light. It is she who guides us all.” He flicked his cigarette into the fire. “And it is she who will lead us safely through the forest of the night.”
Ptolemy cleared his throat. “Forest of the night. An apt phrase given our surroundings.” He chewed thoughtfully on a mouthful of trail mix, swallowed, and added, “The word Adirondacks was thought to be Mohawk in origin.”
“Haderondah,” Kahwihta said. “Eaters of trees. Not exactly an auspicious name. Thomas Pownhall, the British governor of Massachusetts Bay, wrote that the Oneyotdehaga peoples referred to it as the Dismal Wilderness or the Habitation of Winter.” She looked around. “Makes you wonder why people ever wanted to vacation here.”
“It is pretty, though,” Labrand drawled. He leaned back, hat tipped over his eyes and his hands crossed behind his head. “That’s why I came.”
“Yeah, well, it’d be prettier without the zombies,” Ramirez said. She prodded the fire, raising a scattering of sparks into the air. Privately, Westlake had thought a fire wasn’t the best idea – they didn’t need to attract any attention – but he hadn’t argued about it. He needed to dry out. He inched closer, letting the heat wash over him.
Ramirez looked at Ptolemy and asked casually, “Where does she hole up?”
Ptolemy frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Sayers. She’s got a place somewhere out here. Where is it?”
“She won’t be there.”
“I didn’t ask whether she was there, Calvin. I asked where it was.” Ramirez stared at him.
Ptolemy shifted uneasily. “Why?”
“Because I am a trained investigator, and I do not like mysteries. Ergo, I want to know why she decided to do what she did. More, I want to ask her myself.”
“He’s right, she won’t be there,” Westlake said. He could see the plan going even further off the rails, and he didn’t like it.
“Doesn’t matter,” Ramirez said, not taking her eyes off Ptolemy. “Tell me,” she said, her voice like iron.
Ptolemy looked away. “Marcy Dam. At least that’s where she was a few weeks ago.”
“If you haven’t spoken to her, how do you know?”
Ptolemy looked suddenly uncomfortable. “I… might have come looking for her. Once. Or twice. To talk.” He glanced at them. “I could not bring myself to intrude, in the end.”
“Well, that’s not creepy at all,” Kahwihta murmured. Ptolemy hunched forward, visibly stung by the comment.
Ramirez silenced the young woman with a stern look. “Is that where she was planning to take you?”
Ptolemy rubbed the top of his head. “Possibly. I cannot say with any certainty. If she was planning to risk coming back, it would be because she does not know that I know.”
“Then that’s where we’ll go.”
Westlake gave her a sharp look. “What about Lake Cutter? What about the Villa?”
“It’s on the way,” Ramirez said.
“Is it?” Westlake looked at Labrand. The cowboy tipped his hat up and shook his head. Westlake turned back to Ramirez. “Apparently not.”
“Relax, Westlake.” She leaned forward and prodded the fire. “I haven’t forgotten why we’re out here. But I don’t like loose ends. Or betrayers.”
Conversation petered out after that. One by one, the others fell asleep, even the dog. Ramirez and Ptolemy were the only ones who stayed awake. Long nights on stakeout had prepared her for this sort of thing, Westlake figured. He pulled his jacket back on as the night chill gripped him. It was dry enough, but he was still too wired to sleep. He felt Ramirez’ eyes on him. “What is it?” he asked, softly.
It took her a moment to answer. “Nothing.”
“Something, otherwise you wouldn’t be staring at me.” Westlake straightened and met her gaze square on. “You have something to say, say it.” He noticed Ptolemy watching them, but thankfully the other man had decided to mind his business.
“You didn’t have to dive in after her.”
He shrugged. “Somebody had to.”
“Didn’t have to be you.”
“Is this your way of saying thank you?”
Ramirez snorted. “I already said it once. You’re not getting another one.”
“We’ll see.” Westlake hid his smile. He sat back, pulling his coat tighter about him. The wind brought the sound of distant moans. Attila perked up but didn’t growl. After a moment, the dog laid his head back down and closed his eyes. Westlake peeked at Ramirez, and saw that she had her hand on her pistol. She caught his eye and relaxed.
“Not close enough to worry about,” he said.
“Maybe.” Ramirez looked away. He could see the worry eating at her. Not for them, necessarily, but for those they’d left behind.
“Surprised you didn’t bring a radio,” Westlake said. “We got everything else.”
Ramirez ran a hand through her hair. “Couldn’t spare one. It’s hard to get a signal on the mountain. Not worth the hassle, frankly. Besides, there’s one at Sayers’ cabin if we need it that badly. She seemed to get signal just fine,” Ramirez finished darkly.
“Seems like it might have been worth a little hassle.”
Ramirez frowned. “If we don’t come back, they’ll know why.”
“I suppose.” He paused. “They’ll be fine.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do. One thing I’m good at is evaluating risk. Every thief must be. You need to be able to look at a job and tell whether it’s the next – or the last.”
“And if it’s the last?”
“You don’t do it,” he said, simply.
“So, what’s this one?” she asked.
He fell silent. He didn’t have an answer for her, or maybe he did and just didn’t want to say. It wasn’t nerves, exactly, so much as a certainty that something, somewhere, had gone irretrievably, inevitably wrong. He’d gotten that feeling the night Tommy had shoved him into the trunk of his rental and hadn’t been able to shake it since.
When he didn’t reply, she said, “I read your file, you know. Seven years in Folsom. Angola before that.” She looked at him. “Angola as bad as they say?”
Westlake paused, and then pushed down the brief stirring of memory. “Worse, in the summer. What else did my file say?”
“The usual. We had those prissy jagoffs from the BCA put together a profile on you.”
“Bullshit,” Westlake said. “Why would you bother?”
“Not my idea, I assure you.”
“Good, because it was a stupid one.” Westlake leaned towards her. “I’m a simple guy, Ramirez. I’m a good thief because I was shit at everything else. I tried day trading, car repair – even acting. Bad at all of it.” He held up a finger. “But I’m good at stealing shit.”
“Yeah. Let’s hope.”
Westlake decided to change the subject. “Hutch said you saved him.”
Ramirez glanced at Hutch’s snoring form. “Yeah. He’s not all bad. And I got a soft spot for motorcycle-types.” She looked away from him. “My dad rode with some bullshit motorcycle club out in California’s Central Valley. They used to run guns for real bad guys.”
“Ah,” Westlake said. “That explains a lot.”
“Shut up. I shouldn’t have said anything.” She shifted uneasily, looking out into the night. Then, abruptly, she turned back to him. “What about you? Tell me something about yourself. Fair’s fair, after all.”
It was Westlake’s turn to look away. “Nothing much to tell.”
She leaned forward. “You said you hadn’t always been a thief. Start with that.”
“OK. I used to be an altar boy.”
She laughed. Then, “What, really?”
“Hand to God.” He smiled. “My first job was the donation box for the Children’s Fund. I skimmed the cash, tucked it in my cummerbund, left the change. Bought a nice bicycle with it that summer.”
“Jesus.”
“Jesus had very little to do with it, I assure you.” Westlake prodded the fire and fed it a few more twigs. “After that, well, my dad ran a carpet store, and I did some work for him. Used to case people’s houses while I laid carpet.”
“This reminds me of a damn Warren Zevon song.”
“The one about the werewolves?”
“No.”
Westlake sighed. “Shame. I dig that one.”
Ramirez was silent for several moments. The fire crackled on the new twigs. “What are you planning, after all this is done?”
“You mean, assuming we survive?”
Ramirez snorted. “Yeah, assuming.”
“Atlantic City.”
She peered at him. “Atlantic City.”
“That’s what I said.”
She shook her head. “You know it’s probably full of zombies, right?”
“Everywhere is full of zombies.”
“Why Atlantic City?”
“Why not?” Westlake stirred the fire. “I always liked it there. One of the few places I ever felt at home. Even had an apartment there. Under a different name, of course.”
“Oh, of course,” Ramirez said. “So you’re just going to… kick back and enjoy the apocalypse?”
Westlake nodded. “Pretty much.”
“Figures.” She pulled her jacket shut and zipped it up. “Getting cold.”
“It gets cold in the mountains.”
“Thank you for that trenchant observation, Westlake.”
“I try to be helpful.” He went quiet and then asked, “What about you? Afterwards, I mean. What are you going to do?”
Ramirez frowned. “The same thing I’ve been doing.” She paused, looking up. Westlake followed her gaze. The trees rose so high and thick that the stars were all but hidden from view. It reminded him of being in the city, somehow. Ramirez continued. “There’s an airport near Saranac Lake. Small. Lot of charter flights. Or used to be. Figured I might be able to use it to get supplies. Find survivors. Something. Anything.” She looked back into the fire, rubbing her hands together. “Something other than hiding up here. Waiting for the day it all goes wrong.”
“Noble sentiments.”
Ramirez looked at him. “That a joke?”
“Would you believe me if I said no?”
“No.”
“Then yeah, it was a joke.”
She studied him for a few moments. “I wish I knew why you were here, Westlake. It would make me feel a lot better about this whole thing.”
“It wouldn’t. Your problem, Ramirez, is you don’t know how to trust people.” He fixed her with a cool eye, knowing she’d never understand his reasons. “Most cops don’t. Especially Feds.”
“And you do?”
“Of course. If you’re in a crew, you have to trust the other guys to do their jobs and not get funny when it comes to splitting the take. Otherwise, nothing would get done. When that trust gets broken, that’s when things get nasty.”
“That’s what Sal did, huh? Broke your trust. Or did you break his?”
Westlake made to reply when a distant explosion rumbled through the night. Through the trees, the lake’s surface was painted red by fire. Ramirez lurched to her feet, expressionless but for a slight widening of her eyes.
“Fuel dump,” she said, softly.
“Why would they blow it up?” Westlake asked, getting to his feet.
“They wouldn’t, not unless they didn’t have a choice.”
The others were stirring, their sleep disturbed by the explosion. Ramirez clapped her hands once, sharply. “That’s our cue, everyone up. We need to move. That big a boom is going to attract every walker for a hundred miles to the lake. We need to put as much distance between us and it as possible. Labrand, think you can lead us in the dark?”
Labrand nodded. “I expect so. Might be slow going, though.”
“Slow is fine, so long as we go.” Her fingers tapped the sidearm holstered on her hip, and Westlake was suddenly glad that the cold fury in her eyes was directed elsewhere.
“I have a few things I want to say to Sayers.”