Wanted: Dead or Undead (Zombie West) (17 page)

Even though he couldn't answer back, Red filled the silence
enough for both of them. She'd even worked out a bit of the "sign
language" he used to communicate, but mostly he just nodded or shook his
head to indicate his preferences. This time was no different—he shook his head
and attempted to smile.

"Okay," she said. "I'm going to see what
those boys are up to."
What were they thinking?

Red shoved her hands into her coat pockets and walked across
the yard to where Trace and Wen stood admiring their latest piece of work,
packing snow in around the snowman's head. Their smiles faded as she
approached, and they slouched over like two boys in trouble.

"You're gonna let them play with swords?" She
folded her arms across her chest.

"No, of course not," Wen said. "No one's
playin' nothin'. This is serious business, and I told them that. Why? Did they
go an' tattle on me or somethin'?"

"Are you tryin' to shift blame onto two little
kids?"

"We didn't do anything wrong here." Wen matched
Red's folded arms by crossing his own, but when Red narrowed her eyes and took
a step toward him, he dropped his arms to his sides.

"What's going on?" Caroline walked up with a
basket of clothing balanced on her hip. "What'd they do now?"

"Jeez, why do you always assume we did something?"
Trace threw his hands in the air. "We're doin' a good thing here. The kids
need to know how to protect themselves."

Red turned to Caroline. "They want to teach the kids to
chop off heads."

"Well, when you say it like that—" Trace began,
but Red shot him a silencing look.

Caroline jutted out her hip and released her breath.
"You're kidding, right?"

"No one was gonna get hurt," Wen insisted.
"They promised they'd be careful—"

"They're only six and ten." Caroline shook her
dark hair and readjusted the basket. "They'll end up chopping off their
own hands, or someone else's. They're too young for that kind of thing."

"Then how do we reassure them?" Trace asked.
"They're scared and want to know how to protect themselves. We thought a
sword was much safer than handing them a gun."

"They're kids," Red said. "Tell them that
we'll
protect them. We'll shoot the guns and cut off heads. You don't hand them a
weapon."

"How 'bout a small knife?"

"No!" Caroline snapped and slapped Wen's shoulder.
"No knives. No guns. No swords.
They're kids
!"

"So what do we do with all the snowmen, then?" Wen
gestured toward the populated courtyard. "That's just wasteful."

"Teach
us
." Red pointed at herself and
Caroline. It could prove useful for them to learn how to wield a sword.
"I've seen what you're capable of, so why don't you teach me and Caroline?
The kids can learn by watching us and you can still have your fun."

Wen looked at Trace, who simply shrugged.

"A'right!" Wen rubbed his hands together and a
grin spread across his face. "Let me get the swords."

***

"Now, of course, you're just learning the movement and
feel of the sword in your hands." Wen stood at a safe distance, and swung
two swords in unison around his body with such fluidity that Red didn't know
whether to be amazed or terrified. He'd step to the left and stab an invisible
foe on his right. Over and around his head and body, the blades sliced the air,
a ting of metal whizzing and vibrating around them.

The kids stood with their tiny jaws open as they watched the
precision and beauty of Wen's swordplay. They clapped at his tricks, which only
encouraged him to be more daring than Red thought he should. She caught the
concern in Caroline's eyes as she watched the man she loved waving the sharp
blades around his body, coming within inches of his arms or legs. One small
slip or miscalculation, and Wen could be seriously injured. Perhaps that's what
made the display all the more intriguing, and why no one said anything to stop
him. Even Ira pumped his fist in excitement to keep the show going—an overgrown
kid himself.

"The snowmen are for accuracy and aim only," Wen
said. "When you really try to sever a head from its body, you'll hit more
resistance than you're gonna get here—bone, muscle, stuff like that. You need
to make your slice go all the way through, no stopping in the middle. One clean
cut."

To show what he meant, Wen twisted his body and leapt up
into the air—overdoing it a little, Red thought—and sent the blade right on
through the neck of the snowman, spraying the crowd with white crystals.

The kids jumped to their feet, clapping and shouting. Ira
showed his approval by banging a crutch on the fort wall.

"Do it again!" Rivers bounced up and down, covered
in snow from Wen's inanimate victim. "Another one!"

Wen sailed the sword through a second snowman, which
garnished just as much excitement from the kids as the first head-lopping had.

"Okay, you two," he told the kids. "You're
both on head duty. Go make two new heads for our snowmen here."

They knelt in the snow wearing makeshift mittens and hats,
and gathered the snow into a good-sized ball. The kids became the "head
makers" and Trace became the "head placer," setting the newly
formed snow heads on top of the decapitated bodies.

"You want to give it a try?" Wen held a sword out
to Caroline, who eyed it as though he'd thrown a coiled rattlesnake at her.
"Come on, I'll help you."

Red didn't think it looked all that hard, and the fuss and
bother Caroline made over the sword put Red off. She'd been a good friend,
another woman to talk to, but as she watched Caroline act all meek and helpless
while Wen placed his arms around her to help guide the sword, she rolled her
eyes.

Without waiting for Wen's instruction or approval, Red took
up the second sword, made sure no one stood nearby, and drew it over her head.
The blade sliced through the thick neck of the nearest snowman. Clean. Crisp.
Precise. The head fell off and rolled a short distance away. With adrenaline
rushing through her veins, she twisted around and guided the metal blade
through one head after another, scattering the snow, which hung in the air
momentarily before falling to the ground.

In the time it took Caroline to dismember one snowman, with
Wen's help, Red had destroyed five. If more had been built, she would've taken
off their heads as well.

Trace smiled and tipped his thumb at her while addressing
the stunned kids. "And that right there is why no one messes with
Red."

She lowered the sword as Trace approached her, his grin
growing wider with each step. He reached up and brushed the snow crystals from
her cheeks and lips before lifting her chin. "You're scary, but I like
it."

Stupid rooster. Red wanted to throttle its murderous neck.
Bloodied, broken, and barely hanging onto life, the poor hen lay on the dirt
floor while the cocky rooster pranced about, pecking incisively at it. As much
as she wished to save the suffering creature, it was beyond hopeless. The best
she could do was put it out of its misery and use the meat for a meal that
could last them a few days.

Red kicked at the rooster and it shuffled away. She lifted
the battered chicken in her hands and its head flopped sideways. It watched her
with beady eyes as blood pumped from a gash on its neck and flowed slick and
warm onto her hands.

She'd seen numerous animals butchered for meals while
growing up on the farm, and helped her mother prepare most of them. The circle
of life. But as she grabbed the chicken's neck and snapped it with one quick
twist and pull, a vile sensation built and then ballooned in her throat. Her
hands shook as an unnatural longing crawled up from the depths of her stomach
and expanded her insides. She couldn't breathe—the smell of iron and copper
overpowered her senses; she couldn't think of anything but the dead chicken,
the bloody feathers, and the broken bones.

She choked down the urge to tear the chicken apart piece by
piece, tendon by tendon, muscle by muscle. Animal instinct pushed up against
her closed throat, begging for release, until she felt on the edge of passing
out.

"You okay?" Caroline placed a basket of eggs on
the ground and reached out to touch Red on the arm. "You don't look so
good."

Red shoved the dead chicken into Caroline's hands and pushed
past her without a word. She slipped out of sight behind one of the small buildings,
and fell to her knees in the snow with her hands stretched out in front of her.
She stared at the crimson color that covered her fingers and seeped beneath her
nails. The chicken's blood began to dry and harden on her skin, and her heart
pounded more insistently within her chest.

She used the snow to scrub her hands raw, turning the
whiteness around her into a sickly pink. Though diluted, it was still blood.
She knew it, and the darkness inside her knew it, too.

The animal instinct that came alive at the sight of blood
and the sound of the chicken's neck breaking screamed for release, and couldn't
be held back. It hurt to fight against it.

So she gave in and began to lick her fingers.

***

"Everything a'right?"

Red looked up and saw Trace standing there, watching her.
There was nothing left for him to see—her hands appeared free from blood, and
the surrounding snow with its once pink hue had all been consumed.

She relaxed her shoulders and climbed to her feet.
"Yeah, I'm fine."

"Caroline said you were sick."

"No, I'm good." She brushed her hands off on her
pants, her fingers too numb to feel the fabric.

His eyes narrowed. "You sure?"

She nodded and shoved her hands into the pockets of her
jacket, just in case. "Don't worry about me. I'm okay." Once she'd
licked and swallowed the blood, she felt better than she had in a long time—and
it scared her.

"Then why you hiding back here?"

"I'm not hiding. I just needed a moment."

"Behind the smokehouse?"

He took a few steps toward her, but Red stepped back, afraid
of what she might do. She didn't think she would hurt him, but after the new
experience of licking blood from her fingertips, and liking it, better not to
take a chance.

"Why not?" she said. "It's as good a place as
any."

"You're acting awful strange." He tipped his head
and assessed her. "Somethin' ain't right."

"You're the one acting weird."
Why won't he
stop looking at me?
Can he tell? Does he sense something is different?

"You should go lie down for a bit. I'm sure Caroline
can handle dinner."

"But I'm not sick."

"You look kind of pale to me."

Trace reached out to touch her forehead, and she sidestepped
his hand. When she realized her error, Red smiled to ease his concern. She
needed him not to worry, or suspect anything. More importantly, she needed him
not to touch her.

"I always look pale. It comes with the color of my
hair. It's a curse."

He appeared unconvinced. "If something was wrong, you'd
tell me, right?"

Red smiled again. "Of course, I promise. Go let
Caroline know I'll be there in a minute."

He shrugged his shoulders. "Don't be too long."

***

Sleep wouldn't come. Instead of tossing and turning, Red
simply lay motionless next to Trace.

She didn't want to sleep in the same room with him, let
alone the same bed, but she couldn't come up with a convincing reason why she
shouldn't. Trace wouldn't buy her lies anyway. She had no choice but to abide
by the established sleeping arrangement and hope she wasn't making a mistake.

To ensure nothing happened, she kept her eyes open and her
back to him, but felt every unconscious breath he took. Whenever he shifted,
Red shifted as well, curving her body away from his.

The day before, she'd found a great deal of peace lying
beside him with his breath on her neck and his arms enfolding her. Now, she
battled fear.

Something was seriously wrong with her.

Trace rolled away from her in his sleep, and Red used the
opportunity to steal unnoticed from the bed. She grabbed his jacket from the
hook near the door, slipped her arms into the sleeves, and lifted the collar to
her nose to breathe in his woodsy smell. Then she pulled on her boots and
inched the door open just enough to slip outside.

The sharp bite of midwinter snatched her breath away, and
she drew the jacket even tighter. Millions of stars sparkled overhead and a
full moon threw down its light, casting the snow at her feet in an otherworldly
glow. With everyone asleep, the only sounds came from the moaning undead on the
other side of the fort walls.

The zombies had trickled back in after her brother, John Gatherum,
and their travelling companions killed a bunch off a few weeks before. Within a
week of the slaughter, enough zombies had gathered outside the fort to fill a
small town. The undead had smelled them from miles away, and trapped them
inside once again.

She walked toward one of the lookout towers, wrapped her
fingers around the rungs of the ladder, and climbed upward. Her breath floated
in white puffs that quickly evaporated. At the top, Red shivered from the
feeling of uncertainty that penetrated her very core.

As she gazed down, the dark, undead shadows barely moved.
Most of the zombies swayed from side to side, since the frigid weather slowed
their ability to walk or crawl. They just stood about and stared at the fort
walls, too frozen to even claw at them. Once the sun rose, their activity would
increase dramatically. The more decayed of the bunch struggled against the
bitter cold. The more recently turned ones ambled around in small circles,
bumping into one another.

Regardless of their state, all of them ignored her. Their
moans of displeasure remained steady and unchanged by her presence.

Red slumped against the railing and squeezed her eyes
closed.

The kids loved to climb the towers, but whenever they did,
it caused the walking dead below to claw at the walls, pound on the doors, and
groan so loudly that they'd banned the kids from climbing them again. The men
only ascended the towers twice a day—after breakfast and right before
dinner—since the havoc lasted for well over an hour each time. None of them could
stand to listen to the noise any longer than necessary.

"Hey," she called down to the zombies. "Up
here!"

Her eyes followed them for any hint that they'd heard her.
Look
at me
.

Nothing.

"Do you see me?" She let Trace's jacket slip from
her shoulders, baring her skin and scent. She raised her arms, pressed her
waist against the railing, and leaned over the edge. "See me! I'm right
here." Tears slipped from the outer corners of her eyes and curved under
her chin. "I'm right here!"

No reaction. Not even a glance in her direction. The zombies
were oblivious to her.

She wrapped her arms around herself in an attempt to keep
from falling apart.

She left the jacket behind and clambered down the ladder.
Once her feet hit the dirt, she ran across the courtyard straight to Wen's
room. Before opening the door, she stood there with one hand on the knob,
calming her breathing, so as not to wake him.

She didn't want to wake
anyone
.

With a twist of the knob, the door fell open without a
sound. She waited, but the occupants of the double bed never stirred. The chill
from outside swept through the tiny room, causing the flames in the fireplace
to dance and flicker. Wen and Caroline still didn't budge.

Caroline's dark hair fell down her back and over the bare
arm Wen had wrapped around her small shoulders. She pressed her face into the
dip of his neck. The sleeping couple created a picture of peace and
contentment.

Red swallowed the sob that threatened to burst out of her,
and glanced around the room, aware of what she looked for, but unsure where it
might be.

Her eyes fell on the sheathed blade tucked carefully away in
the far corner, and she released her arrested breath. She calculated each step
to the corner, then wrapped her fingers around the handle and drew the blade.

A silhouette of the weapon appeared on the wall, a shadow
cast in the glow of the firelight as she held it out for inspection. She ran
her thumb across the blade and a red line of blood rose to the surface of her
skin.

Perfect.

She stepped outside the room and eased the door closed
behind her. Wen and Caroline slept on, unaware of her intrusion, exactly as
planned.

She quickened her footsteps to match the pace of her
heartbeat, and gripped the sword as though it were a lifeline. The heavy gate
fought against her, refusing to budge, and she nearly gave up. With a final
angry pull, it opened just enough for her to squeeze out and yank it shut
behind her. In order to get back within the safety of the walls, someone would
have to let her in, but in that moment, she didn't care.

Time to settle a score.

***

The cold air pricked her skin and flowed through her flannel
nightgown with ease. The heat of resentment and purpose encased every cell of
her body, warming her better than any coat or blanket ever could.

The smell of rotting flesh enveloped her and clung to her
skin, hair, and clothes. It didn't matter how many times she smelled a decaying
body, the stench still churned her stomach. Whether or not she vomited, she'd
continue on.

She expected a siege, —a mass assault from the collected
undead. She was used to such, having lived through it numerous times.

With the sword poised above her head, she ground her feet
into the soil and positioned herself for an attack.

But they didn't swarm her. They drifted around and
absent-mindedly brushed their mangled limbs against her in passing. They didn't
growl, moan, sniff, or bare their teeth. In fact, they barely noticed her at
all.

Standing in the midst of the dead walkers, fully exposed,
Red lowered the sword and guided her hand over her heart, to feel the repeated
thumping. She bit her bottom lip to still its quaking. If they didn't see her
as human, then
what
was she? A miracle? No, more like a mistake—a freak
of nature that belonged nowhere.

She whipped the sword above her head again and swung it into
place. She gritted her teeth so tightly, the fury inside her had no option but
to escape through her nostrils in a flared snarl. With a twist of her hips, she
sent the blade arcing through the air. With one fluid, circular movement,
rotating on the balls of her feet, she swung her arms and sent the blade
slicing through the necks of three zombies. Decapitated, the heads wavered for
a moment before falling to the ground.

"I'm not one of you!"

She released the intense hatred for the demons that had made
her a freak. Darkened blood, putrid and thick, sprayed across her arms, face,
and clothing in her mission to destroy each and every one of the undead
creatures.

The blade sung through the crisp air, lopping off heads with
each swipe in a grotesque dance between her and the unassuming zombies. Her
arms burned and ached, but her white-knuckled grip on the sword handle never
wavered. Each rolling head increased her mental tally in her favor—a win in a
game she'd thought already lost. She needed to feel the resistance as blade met
bone and tendons, sending vibrations up the length of the sword to sting her
strained muscles. She welcomed the pain.

How many zombies fell, she couldn't tell. She only saw the
dozen or so that continued to stand, and if they still stood, she wasn't
finished. Resolve surged through her veins and adrenalin pumped her heart.

"I'm not like you! I'll
never
be like you!"

Yet she wasn't like the people inside the fort either.