Undead 02 The Undead Haze (6 page)

“You’re kidding.”

“Does it look like I am? Anyway, I escaped. Here I am.”

“And I thought zombies were something to worry about.”

“Same here. As for the second question? It’s hard to
have
a plan in this case. I don’t know where she would be. I don’t know where I should look. This is worse than looking for a needle in a haystack, you know?” I sighed. “It’s unbelievable. Before any of this I was pretty damned content being emotionless.”

“Being emotionless is impossible,” he said. “I guess it took an apocalypse to get the ball rolling, but its rolling nonetheless.”

“I guess.” I sighed. “But this is the worst time ever to find someone to care about.”

Buford looked at me skeptically. “She isn’t the only one you’ve ever cared about, though, in your whole life.”

I laughed, but it turned into a wet cough. “I cared about a man named Francis Bordeaux who died because of me.”

Buford raised an eyebrow.

“No, you idiot. He was like a father to me.”

“No one else?”

“Not really. My parents died when I was young and I haven’t seen or heard from my sister in at least five years.”

“That’s sad.” He stood up, stretching. “But everyone’s got their own problems.”

He stepped over me and went to the window. He looked out for a few moments then turned back. “There aren’t that many out there. They’re mostly scattered in the parking lot where we were.”

I forced myself to stand, ignoring the blackness creeping in at the edges of my vision, and peered out the window. There were only five or six of them outside, slow and meandering. One of them was particularly withered, to the point that it didn’t look capable of walking around. I couldn’t tell a gender—too much was eaten or ripped away.

“We can leave when you’re better.”

“What?” I rasped, turning to stare at him. “We? And listen here, I can leave whenever I damn well please.”

“Cyrus, you may not recall, but I saved your life. You fainted just outside this building.”

I couldn’t dispute that, but the ‘we’ part still bothered me. “What about ‘we?’ Who said we were going together?”

“The way I look at it, I found the keys to that truck, if they are the keys. Finders keepers. If you plan on going wherever you’re going on foot, then we can part ways right now. I just figured you’d want a ride.”

He was right. I was sick and he was right. The last thing I wanted was to get into a friendship situation that raped me in the end, but this time around I wouldn’t cave into other’s peoples’ desires so easily.

“We’ll see,” was all I said.

* * *

‘When I’m better’ didn’t come as fast as I wanted it to. The days passed by, stormy and dark, without much improvement. Buford took away my pills and syrups, claiming mixing them just made everything worse.

So I lay in my cramped office, burning or freezing, asleep or awake, waiting for my strength to come back.

I hadn’t seen Pickle since Buford showed up. I told him about her, and to always keep the door shut, but he said he never saw her anywhere. I knew it was his fault when he brought me back into the office. He’d left the door open. I didn’t mention it, though. I’d wake up and expect to feel her curled against me or see her in front of me. But she was never there.

Buford rarely entered my den of illness, which was for the best. He stayed across the hall in another office, having made a neat set-up for himself. The only time he ventured into mine was to give me rations of medication and food. When he wasn’t sleeping or taking care of me, he was checking the building for things I’d missed.

My perception must’ve been on leave when I looked around, because Buford kept coming back with stuff I’d overlooked. More substantial foods, like canned soups and fruit. Bottles of water. He even brought back little items I never paid attention to, like matches and batteries. Off to the side of his office I’d watch him make neat piles, which I assumed we’d each carry.

I still saw Blaze. She came to me in the form of dreams or hallucinations. Sometimes when I saw Buford I thought he was her. I’d see his dark hair flash in a door way and think she found me somehow. They had the same physique, tall and slender. The same walk, confident and quiet. Whenever he raised a brow in skepticism I had to look away. The similarity was unbearable.

Then there were the visions of
undead
Blaze. Those were the worst. The dream was vicious, repetitive, and always hit me when I was feeling guilty and restless. She hung, limp and bloody, from her seatbelt in the Mustang, and always said the same words over and over.

You didn’t look for me.

You left me.

My sleeping mind put her back in the car even though she’d been missing when I’d woken.

In reality, if I met up with Blaze again I doubted she would spend effort on words. She’d probably beat the hell out of me as soon as she saw me. After waking from a nightmare, I’d fantasize about meeting up with her, but even those daydreams were short and incomplete. I didn’t have a clue how things would go down if we found each other. The main reason?

I fucked her over, plain and simple.

Not on purpose, but I did. I’d looked for her, but there was no sign of her or which direction she went.

Undoubtedly, Blaze would be as mad as a hornet. If she knew where Frank’s cabin was, she would’ve found me and killed me with her bare hands for leaving her.

Or was I projecting? Creating feelings for her she wouldn’t have?

I had one other fantasy. An awkward one. The one I didn’t know how to complete. I stopped having daydreams about women when I was thirteen, so I didn’t have much practice. Ideally, I would miraculously find her and…and then what? I was already stumped. Hug her? Kiss her?

Hell, I couldn’t imagine doing any of that. The idea was so foreign. Not unappealing, but foreign.

I’d figure it out if I found her.

* * *

Outside was all blue skies and sunshine. Billowing white clouds drifted above a pristine, sparkling white cityscape.

When I was a kid, my favorite part of the winter months was waking up to find an untouched white wonderland outside. Everything looked different covered in snow, almost like a foreign world. That feeling returned now.

The office felt like a freezer. As I stared out the window, bundled up in everything I managed to get my hands on, my breath fogged the glass and obscured my reflection.

Ah, my reflection. I looked like I went to Hell for an all expenses paid torture. My nose was reindeer red (appropriate for the time of year) and my eyes were puffy and bloodshot. I hated having weeks of beard growth, but there it was—almost half an inch of golden red.

I breathed out and wondered what I looked like a few days ago when I was at my sickest.

Buford’s footprints remained across the bridge, and leading into the Parks building. He left in the middle of the night for more supplies, but hadn’t come back yet. Well, not exactly. There were footprints going back and forth, which meant during the night he made several trips. Since sunrise I’d been watching for him to come back out, but nothing happened.

I considered going in for him. I
was
feeling better. I vetoed the idea every time. There was no way in hell I was going to risk a relapse. My throat was blissfully devoid of slime and my nose was only trickling, but going outside on another adventure was sure to set me back.

So, if Buford was alive, he was taking his time. If he was dead, he was dead.

I remembered my situation with Khakis. I only waited a handful of minutes before I’d acted, but the situation forced me to remain stationary. Buford might be in a similar circumstance, waiting for an opportune moment to make his escape.

I returned to my nest of blankets and cushions. Shortly after, my ears picked up on a soft scratching noise. Slowly, as to not scare her away, I turned my head and looked out the office. The light from my window cast far enough into Buford’s room that I could see Pickle moving around his bed area.

My heart swelled, “Come here, girl!”

She rose up, as ferrets do, and looked at me. It was then I understood her disappearance. Pickle was upset about Buford. My furry companion hadn’t seen another living person in months and this probably freaked her out.

I shrugged off the blankets and crawled to the doorway, beckoning. She stood as I was about to enter Buford’s office, then disappeared farther into its depths.

“Drama queen,” I muttered as I entered his room. Pickle scurried behind a filing cabinet. I paused and decided to wait.

I hadn’t been in Buford’s office. It was clean and neat. An absolute dream compared to my revolting cavern. It was in my nature to be organized, but I’d let myself go since settling in the college.

His sleeping bag and blankets were made up in the center of the office, while his backpack was propped up in the corner. Next to the head of his sleeping bag was an assortment of nightstand items—bottled water, flashlight, and…

A photo? Curious, I reached over and gingerly picked it up, but not before committing to memory exactly how it sat before I moved it.

When I saw who was in the picture, I froze. My hand went limp. The photo slipped to the ground. It landed face down, and I starred at the scrawled letters on the back.

Bea and Beau Wright.

Blaze.

Blaze Wright.

Chapter 5

Suddenly, everything made sense. Both looked years younger, but I still recognized her. Blaze was wearing a plain t-shirt and jeans, and her hair was longer, but the same scar and chipped right canine told me it was her.

Now I knew why Buford, or Beau, looked so damn familiar. He looked like his older sister.

The odds were astronomical—they had to be—but somehow the kid who knew where Blaze was walked straight into my part of town. If that wasn’t fate talking to me, I didn’t know what it was. Not only did he
know
where she was, but we had a car to get there and he could fly a plane for fuck’s sake!

As soon as Beau came back, I planned on telling him I would absolutely love to travel with him. I would be de-fucking-lighted to.

As I studied their similar features, I wondered why I hadn’t assumed a possible relationship to begin with. Well, aside from the ridiculous odds against it. Their noses were identical—sharp and slightly crooked. Their pale skin and dark brown eyes were the same.

A question popped into my mind and my eyes unfocused. Should I tell Beau I knew his sister? He was taking me to her whether he knew it or not, so technically telling him wouldn’t change anything. If he knew everything, stuff could get messy.

Hey, Blaze’s brother, I was snooping around and found this photo. I know your sister. Yeah, we got in a wreck a while back and she disappeared. Couldn’t find her so I gave up. Crazy, huh?

I laughed aloud. Telling him was a bad idea for now. If it came up, I’d deal with it then. In the meantime, I was sure he’d talk about Blaze, giving me an opportunity to learn about her pre-apocalypse personality. It’s something I found myself interested in—it was time to stop denying my feelings.

Suddenly, Pickle shot across the room and hallway, scurrying into my office. I grinned. Things were looking up.

Before leaving, I replaced the photo and scanned the room to ensure I didn’t leave anything behind. It felt good to have the upper hand again. Manipulating people for my own benefit was something I knew and was comfortable with. It made me feel like my old self.

My name is Cyrus V. Sinclair.

The V stands for villain.

I was standing in the hallway, feeling pleased with myself, when I heard the downstairs door rattling. It was probably Beau. I walked down the hall to the stairs. I made it a few steps down before I heard something else. The all too recognizable snarling and gasping of a runner. Then it scrambled up the stairs, coming for me.

Just as I turned to run, I saw him out of the corner of my eye. His mouth was brimming with saliva, blood, and dark ooze all undead seemed to produce. He had no shirt, revealing a clean torso with minimal splatters of blood on it, most of which came from a large head wound. At the sight of me he howled and climbed the remaining stairs on all fours. Flecks of liquid splattered the cement walls and steps as he moved.

A burst of adrenaline shot through me. I rushed through the stair entry and towards the hallway. My pulse was through the roof, and I knew it would only be seconds before the runner got me. Even as I ran, I knew escape was impossible. I was still weak and he was too fast.

I barely made it to the double doors when the bastard grabbed me by the waist and dragged me to the hard floor. His mouth clamped down on my shoulder.

If I wasn’t wearing two sweaters, his teeth would’ve gone straight through. It still hurt like a bitch though. His mouth worked furiously, trying to take a chunk out, grinding the cotton fabric and bruising the skin below. Searing hot pain shot through me. I screamed, using my pain and fear as momentum to turn us both over. He was wedged between the floor and my back.

Sick or not, I had to fight. I lifted us both up, put my shoulders to the huge window, and hurled myself backwards.

A startling crack sounded. His arms and mouth released me. I sprung forward and spun to face my opponent.

At least the fight looked to be a short one. I was unarmed, and I wasn’t sure who was going to be on the winning side.

The glass behind my new friend fractured into a spider web that radiated out from a bloody dent where he’d hit his head. He rushed me again. My shoulder throbbed, but I charged, too, grabbing him.

He didn’t weigh much. The guy must’ve been starving when he met his demise. Grateful for this advantage, I took the opportunity and pressed forward, pushing him toward the weakened glass.

The Zs motions caused globules of ooze to flick onto my face. This struck a chord of primal fear within me as the drips approached my mouth and tried working into my eyes. I had him against the window and pushed at his shoulders. His head flew back and hit the same spot as before. Two more shoves and the glass began falling away in chunks.