Wreckage
“This is it,” Ramirez said, tossing a rock down the scree. It clattered to the bottom, scaring off the birds that had been perched in the branches below. The smell was awful – dozens of burnt briquette bodies littered the slope, in various states of decomposition and deconstruction. The wildlife had already been at them, but that wasn’t surprising. This would be a buffet, as far as the coyotes and bears were concerned.
It took almost a week for them to get around to finding out where Westlake had crashed. Ramirez didn’t beat herself up too much. They’d been busy, after all. And it wasn’t like Westlake was in any position to mind. Besides which, she had others to mourn. People she’d known longer, and liked better. Hutch, Labrand – the ones who’d died at the lodge.
Even so, she frowned, annoyed by the wash of emotion that Westlake brought. She hadn’t liked him, but she might have learned to tolerate him, in time. Or maybe she was kidding herself. Then, stranger things happened – she’d learned to tolerate Sayers, after all.
The former park ranger stood some distance away, watching the trees. The other woman caught Ramirez watching her and gave a brusque nod. Ramirez returned it and looked back at the wreckage below.
Sayers hadn’t been welcomed back with open arms – not really. Not after what she’d done, even if the reasons had been good ones. People had died in the attack on the lodge. People Ramirez and the others had known and liked. Then, Sayers didn’t seem all that concerned about being liked. But even so, she wanted to help, if only for Ptolemy’s sake – and they’d let her, if only for Ptolemy’s sake.
“What is it?” Kahwihta asked, from behind her. Ramirez glanced at the younger woman. Attila sat by her leg, his expression placid. The dog was still limping, but he was getting stronger every day. More importantly, he wasn’t barking.
“Thinking,” Ramirez said.
“About Westlake?”
“About everything.” Ramirez looked back down at the burnt-out husk of the vehicle, and the broken, charred bodies that surrounded it.
Ptolemy cleared his throat. “I do not think there is merit in going down there. Whatever is left – it is clear it would be in no shape to get up again.” He stood a ways back from the slope, a shotgun in his hands. He had insisted on coming. So had Calavera, who crouched at the edge of the scree, cracking his knuckles absently.
“I made a promise,” Ramirez said. She looked at him. “You can go back, if you like. I’m sure Dunnigan and the others could use your help with the move.”
The exodus had started with North Elba. With the vehicles they’d found at the Villa, they’d begun to trek people and supplies up over the course of a few, somewhat nerve-racking days. Nonessentials could wait until things had settled down.
She remembered her rush of relief upon reaching North Elba and finding Frieda waiting on her. Finding Dunnigan and Saoirse and Hahm. Muriel. All of them. She remembered their voices on the radio, the cheers. The tears of relief as the first survivors saw what awaited them. There were still the usual worries, of course. There were more zombies in the mountains than they’d ever imagined. And all of them knew where the Villa was. But they had the means to fight back now. The means to survive.
She took a deep breath, coughing slightly on the stink of burnt meat, still present after all this time. “Me, I intend to see it through. I owe him that much.”
Ptolemy shook his head. “I owe him as much as you.” He straightened and met her gaze squarely. “We all owe him,” he said.
“Well said, my friend.” Calavera picked up a charred skull and studied it. “Whatever his reasons, Westlake helped us a great deal. For that, he deserves a hero’s burial.”
Ramirez nodded. So far, the Villa had proved to be everything they’d hoped, once they’d finished off the last of the walkers that lurked in the buildings. The walls were high and thick, the buildings sturdy. Most importantly, it was well stocked. Hahm had practically wept at the sight of the kitchens.
Not that it was perfect, of course. It had never been meant to house so many people for an extended period of time. They’d have to send out scavenging parties sooner rather than later, and they’d have farther to travel. But, for the moment, that was someone else’s problem. Ramirez was more concerned about finding the site of Westlake’s last stand. She’d made him a promise, after all – one she damn well intended to keep. Maybe even take her irritation out on him: the only man who would survive an apocalypse for cash.
Suddenly aware of how quiet it was, Ramirez looked around uneasily, her hand resting on her weapon. But nothing showed itself. She glanced down at Attila and the dog thumped his tail genially. She smiled and rubbed his head.
Sayers cleared her throat. “If you’re going down there, just go. And be quick.”
Ramirez nodded to herself. “Right, enough lollygagging.”
“My thoughts exactly.” Calavera stood and stretched. “Shall we go down?”
Ramirez gestured. “After you, big man.”
Calavera laughed and bounded heedlessly down the slope. She and the others followed more cautiously. “The animals have fed well – and continue to do so, judging by some of these marks,” he called back to them. “We should tread lightly. Just in case something wanders by, in search of a quick meal.”
Ramirez swallowed. “Well then, by all means, let’s see who’s home.” She gestured to the truck. “Calavera, do the honors, if you would.”
“A pleasure,” he said. When he reached the truck, he easily wrenched the mangled door off the frame in a litany of popping metal and cast it aside. A rush of charred bills fluttered into the air like startled birds.
Something groaned and half-fell out of the vehicle, cooked flesh tearing as it thrashed its way free of the cab. Blackened hands clutched at Calavera’s throat as the big man stepped back. Ramirez stopped as the walker collapsed onto the ground. “Is it…?” she called out hoarsely, her hand on her weapon.
Calavera shook his head. “I do not know – it is badly burned.” He retreated a few steps, giving the walker room to haul itself to its feet. Its joints made an ugly popping sound as it rose, swaying. It staggered towards Calavera, ash flaking from its burnt form and drifting on the breeze. He looked towards Ramirez. “Should I…?” he mimed breaking a neck.
Ramirez hesitated, but only for a moment. “Do it.”
Calavera nodded and slipped behind the walker, digging his fingers into the blackened flesh as he did so. There was a sharp crack, and the zombie collapsed in a smoldering heap. Calavera absently wiped his fingers on his shirt as he looked down at the body. “It seems smaller, somehow.”
“Fire does that,” Ptolemy said, as he approached.
“Fire doesn’t cut off a foot of height,” Kahwihta countered, as she joined them. She crouched beside the body and carefully rolled it over. Using her icepick, she prodded the body. “Was Westlake wearing a tie?”
“No,” Ramirez said.
“Then unless he decided to change outfits before he died, this isn’t him.” Kahwihta tapped the charred knot around the walker’s neck. “Whoever this guy was, he wasn’t Westlake.” She looked up at Ramirez.
Ptolemy circled the truck. “The vehicle was covered in them when he hit the treeline. Some of them probably managed to squirm inside.” He tried one of the rear doors and flung it open. A broiled carcass flopped out, its skull punctured by a bullet wound. Ptolemy ducked his head inside. When he stepped back, his expression was pensive. “I might be mistaken, but I do not see his body.”
“Did he get thrown from the truck when it crashed?” Sayers asked, prodding one of the corpses with her foot.
“No, the windshield is cracked, but intact.” Ramirez hurried to the truck and looked inside. Ptolemy was right. There was no sign of Westlake. She turned, scanning the broken zombified remnants that littered the ground. Even a cursory glance told her that he wasn’t among them. She looked at the others and knew that her expression mirrored theirs. “He has to be here,” she said, in disbelief.
“In point of fact, he does not,” Ptolemy said. “There is every chance that he might have walked away from this.”
“He couldn’t have survived.”
Ptolemy adjusted his glasses. “I didn’t say survive.”
A sudden growl from Attila interrupted Ramirez’ retort. She saw a flash of a low, four-legged shape in the trees followed by another. Attila barked, his hackles stiff. The coyotes responded with shrill yelps.
Ptolemy raised his rifle and fired. He cursed and lowered it. “Too fast,” he said.
Ramirez reached for her pistol. “How many do you make out?” she asked, trying to keep an eye on every direction at once. There was no telling whether these were zombified coyotes or the regular variety. Either way, they were dangerous.
“Not many. But there’ll be more. We should go.”
“He’s right. Time’s up,” Sayers said. She was already heading back the way they’d come. “Best to leave them to it, unless we want to be part of the menu.”
“She’s right,” Kahwihta called, as she wrestled a snarling Attila towards the slope. “If Westlake – or whatever is left of him – is out here, we’ll find him. Or he’ll find us. But not right now. Not today.”
Ramirez hesitated a moment longer. She knew they were right, but she didn’t want to leave – not without knowing for sure. Finally, she allowed Calavera to lead her towards the slope. Ptolemy fired off a few more shots to keep the coyotes at bay. But even as the quartet climbed the scree, the first lean, canine shapes prowled into view – eager to sate their hunger on the bounty before them.
Ramirez was the last up the slope, and when she reached the top, she paused. Searching, hoping to see something – anything – that might mark her debt as paid. Some sign as to whether Westlake was alive, dead, or otherwise. But nothing presented itself.
“Ramirez, we should go,” Ptolemy said. “Dunnigan and the others will want to know about this. We should be back at the Villa before dark.”
“I know,” she said, but she didn’t move. She watched the coyotes eat and waited. Finally, when she could stand it no more, she turned to follow the others back up the trail, followed by the sounds of coyotes squabbling over carrion.
And more distant still – but growing louder every day – the moaning of the dead, carried on the breeze.