Deadlock

The human body stinks. Even more so when it’s dead. Granted, nothing smells fresh when intestines are splattered on the ground.

This steaming carcass is a fresh kill. Poor guy wasn’t here a couple hours ago when I crossed this field going into town for supplies.

“Make sure it’s really dead, then high tail outta there,” the tinny voice of my younger brother, back in the bunker, squawks in my ear.

“Not my first rodeo, bro.” I really don’t want to get any closer, but Connor is right. The dead don’t stay dead. Not anymore. And the only way to truly kill someone nowadays is to destroy the brain.

A sure kill now means there’s one less zombie to worry about in the future.

Though my Glock is handy, I don’t like wasting bullets, and besides, excess noise isn’t smart. It’s the one sure thing to attract all kinds of predators—dead or otherwise. I’ve been lucky enough to have avoided any strays branching away from the horde of zombies that have been gathering on the other side of the freeway.

Wherever he may have come from, at least this guy had the decency to die face down.

I take the machete from my waist sheath and stick the point between the third and fourth vertebrae.

As I sever his head from his neck—rest in peace—gunfire echoes nearby.

Connor gasps in my ear. “Did you shoot the zombie?”

“No, that definitely wasn’t me.” I wipe the blade on the guy’s shirt and sheath my machete. The gunshot came from the same direction where I stowed my bike. It can stay there just fine; I can always collect it later.

But the sun will set in about an hour, and that’ll be how long it takes for me to get back to the bunker on foot, especially with my pack weighed down with supplies. I don’t want to be caught out here in the dark. That’s my biggest worry. I’d feel much better being on my bike.

“I’m going to check it out, Conn.”

“Violet, please!”

“Whoever they are, they’re too close to us. I’m just gonna do a little recon and make sure they keep on rolling. Just like always, ‘kay?”

“Okay,” Connor mumbles. “Be careful.”

“Always.” I steady my pack on my shoulders and make my way toward the noise. A flock of thrashers darts away from the tree line. That’s never a good sign. I make it to the edge of the field just as I hear a keening wail pierce the air; I duck for cover when three gunshots fire in rapid succession.

Fuck.

I shimmy the camouflage cover from my pack and pull it over me. It’s my second favorite find from an army surplus store I hit a few months back. My first favorite find is hidden in the ground just a few feet away from me.

I move slower-than-slow as I crawl over the underbrush until I can dig out the M110 sniper rifle I stashed here earlier. Prone on the ground under a good cover of leaves, I look through the scope to see what in the hell is going on.

Once the scope focuses, I notice the predators first. There are five of them, using the abandoned vehicles on the road as a natural corral. All wear leather jackets with studs and jeans like some kind of apocalyptic biker dress code. Waving various DIY weapons, they snarl and snap at the group of prey that is huddled together.

One guy is already bleeding out on the ground. His eyes bug out as he’s surely choking on his own blood and fluids.

Painful death. Painful reawakening when he becomes a mindless eating machine that these guys will sic on his friends. That’s cold.

These roving gangs are exactly why I avoid the roads, especially ones like this connected to the goddamn freeway. If the zombies don’t get you, other predators will.

And there are always other predators. Like these assholes.

The bastards don’t even have the decency to kill the guy quickly or thoroughly. I wonder if they’re the ones who left the other body in the field.

So why are they all at a standoff now?

I know a thing or two about predators, thanks to growing up with a sadistic older brother. They’re normally opportunistic and go after the weak in a surprise attack. They hit fast and move along.

Something moves in the distance, and I hear a muffled cry. One broken word that trails off in a whimper: “Please.”

Dammit, there’s a kid among them. Maybe more. And the scream I heard earlier could have been from a woman.

Bile rises in my throat. These fuckers want those women or kids alive, I can feel it. And the other hopeless bastards are protecting them.

Flashes of gore, fear, and helplessness crowd my mind. I wipe the sting from my eyes. I’m not going to cry. Not out here. I grip the heart-shaped locket I still wear around my neck, willing the tide of memories to fade away.

“What’s going on, Vi? You coming back soon?” Connor asks. He doesn’t like it when things don’t go as planned. Since this outbreak started, our days have been filled with ritual—schedules and rules. Predictability comforts him. Honestly, me too.

“Yeah, I’ll be there soon. Problem is, can’t get to my bike just now, and I’m not leaving this place without it.” I give him the rundown of what’s happening and what I think will happen. “There’s no telling if this gang has a lookout anywhere. Hell, it could have been a good thing that I deviated from my route. Maybe I would’ve gotten jumped on my way back to you.”

Connor whines a little, a sharp sound in the back of his throat. Thankfully, he cuts it out before he starts sounding like those shrieking mandrakes from that kid-wizard movie. “They got women? Children?”

“Yeah, bro, kids. I see their little heads moving every now and again.” Fine, blond hair, too. Likely a boy with a bowl cut. If I can time this right, his haircut will be the only trauma he’ll need to survive.

“If kids need saving, then we have to save them.” His tone is harsh now. Steely.

Good. Connor is always in a better mood when he thinks my plans are his idea. “That’s right, Conn. Gotta save them.” I tuck my necklace back under my shirt, place the suppressor on the rifle, and take careful aim, moderating my breathing. “Tell me again what the rules are, Conn. Repeat them to me.”

“Be safe. Safe is S-A-F-E. Stay quiet. Avoid other people. Fake names. Escape plan.”

I measure the distance, taking into account the atmospheric indicators and wind speed. My heart rate slows as I narrow my world to one pinpoint. “And what are the exceptions to look for?”

“Help the people who help the helpless.”

“You got it, bro. Probably a good idea to kill comms for a few minutes. It’s about to get loud.”

I am the epitome of patience as I wait for my shot. Visualizing my target. Mentally bracing for the gun’s recoil against my shoulder.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Help the helpless.

I squeeze the trigger.