Wanted: Dead or Undead (Zombie West) (5 page)

Cowboy ignored Red for the remainder of the evening. He
didn't talk to her, or look at her. When he finished cooking dinner, Cowboy
slid some potatoes and meat onto a plate for Wen, but didn't offer any to her.
Fine. The angrier he became with her, the better. Maybe he'd go his separate
way and leave her alone for good.

She nibbled at some hard tack and potatoes of her own—well,
technically they were his too—and listened as Cowboy questioned the stranger about
the land out west and what might lay ahead for them. Red stood, gathered her
empty dishes, and went off to clean them. The trio had found darn near
everything they could hope for in the abandoned wagons—tubs for washing, wooden
barrels full of water, clothes, bags of beans and rice, and lots of flour and
cornmeal.

Yet no matter how useful it all was, a horse could carry
only so much. The less weight Classy had to carry, the longer she could travel,
and the sooner Red would reach California and find her brother, Davis. She had
no problem leaving behind perfectly good supplies to ensure a well-rested, fast
horse.

As the blood-red sun dipped below the western horizon, she
left the men and climbed into a wagon she hadn't searched earlier. She found
plenty of food and a couple of clean shirts, but what she most longed for was a
nice bar of lye soap to wash her hands and face. She sighed.
Soap
. Such
a small thing.

She opened a chest near the front of the wagon and searched
through the contents, mostly dresses and children's clothing, nothing of use to
her. Then she brushed her hand over a large, leather-bound book. A family Bible.

She lifted it out of the chest and placed it on her lap,
turning the pages and reading the scrawled names of strangers: Joseph W. Bell,
Martha Jane Williams, their children Samuel, Ella, James, and Mary. Dates
detailed births, deaths, and weddings—decades of family genealogy. Further on
in the Bible, portraits of people had been inserted between the pages. Red
looked at one after another, sad to know that these particular people were
gone.

Her fingers brushed over the picture of a young boy dressed
in knickers held up by brown suspenders. A school pail dangled from his
fingers. The laugh in his eyes and the tuft of blond hair poking out from under
his cap reminded her of her youngest brother. She held up the picture and
examined it more closely. For a moment, it brought the image of her brother
back to her, which she feared she'd forgotten. A tear threatened to escape the
corner of her eye, but she wiped it away before it had the chance.

She shoved the pictures into the book, just the way she'd
found them, and placed the book back inside the chest. She didn't need a Bible.
She needed soap.

Red moved onto a second wagon. She only stayed inside for a
moment—the baby clothes, toys and dolls proved too difficult to rifle through.
She left each small item where it had last been placed.

The children bothered her most. They turned faster than
grown adults, the feverish sickness ravaging their tiny bodies so quickly that
their whole makeup changed in a matter of minutes. They were also faster and
hungrier than their adult counterparts. Every time she had to shoot a child, it
tore at her heart. They would find peace only in death, but that didn't make it
any easier. She hated it above all else.

The third wagon looked more promising. A soft mattress with
a large comforter covered the floor of the wagon, and Red claimed it for
herself. Cowboy would be jealous, but it served him right. She searched through
the contents of the wagon for anything of use and found a small suitcase buried
beneath wool blankets and loose clothing. She opened it and sunk down onto the
thick bed with a smile.

Soap
.

She lifted the paper-wrapped package to her nose, and closed
her eyes while breathing in the flowery fragrance. She actually moaned with
pleasure at the scent of lavender—the best thing she'd smelled in months. The
suitcase also contained a hairbrush, comb, and other toiletries and ointments.
She pulled out a tube of cherry-red lipstick and twisted the bottom until the
color surfaced from its metal encasing. Proper ladies didn't wear stain on
their lips. Her ma never did and probably would've slapped the lipstick from
her hand had she been there.

Red turned her head and listened through the canvas covering
the wagon. The men continued to talk outside, seemingly unconcerned about her
whereabouts, so she tipped the tube toward her mouth and rubbed it lightly over
her lips—first the top and then the bottom. She smacked her lips together and
was amazed at how heavy it felt. Feeling self-conscious, she drew the back of
her hand over her mouth and removed the color, then rolled the lipstick back
inside its tube and tossed it out the front opening of the covered wagon.

Red couldn't wait to wash the grime and filth out of her
hair and off her body, so she climbed out and went in search of water. She
found a small metal tub and filled it with cool water from one of the barrels.
She considered warming it up over the fire, but didn't want to interrupt the
male bonding still taking place next to the pit. Besides, she'd bathed in water
far colder than that found in the barrels.

Cowboy glanced up at her as she passed by, but he didn't say
anything, so she ignored him.

Inside the wagon, she wriggled out of her clothes and sat in
her dingy undergarments. She'd been thrilled to find a replacement pair during
her earlier search, and couldn't wait to put them on after she cleaned herself.
She might have offered up a prayer of gratitude for having come across these
abandoned wagons, if she still believed in God.

With the sun descending in the sky, she lit a small lantern
and placed it on a crate out of the way. She unwrapped the soap, dipped it into
the water, lathered up her hands and ran it over her body, washing her arms and
neck. The wagon began to smell like tiny purple flowers—it reminded her of the
hills behind her home.

She didn't want to think about that. Not any of it. Nothing
good came from remembering what she'd lost.

She hung her head over the washbasin and vigorously scrubbed
her curls, weaving her fingers between the strands to remove the accumulated
tangles and dirt. She felt almost human after ridding herself of the weeks of
travel and grit that coated her body.

Done bathing, she tossed the water outside, put on the clean
undergarments and a fresh shirt, and climbed under the blankets. She
double-checked to make sure both of her Colts were loaded and within reach, and
kept her vest-pocket pistol next to her pillow. The guns must be handy and
ready, always.

Even though Cowboy and Wen planned to take the first watch
of the night, she found it difficult to close her eyes and fall asleep. For
Red, surrendering to sleep without worry or fear had died with her family.

When she finally shut her eyes, horrific images played out
behind her closed lids, as they did every night. Someone's mother, father, son
or daughter murdered by her hand. They weren't to blame for contracting an
illness that destroyed their bodies and minds. At one time, they held their
loved ones close and hoped for a better future, just like those fortunate
enough not to be infected. She couldn't forget that. She wouldn't. Even if
others did.

The worst images were those of the people she'd loved most,
turned into something she no longer recognized, a creature she had to kill so
the person she loved could find eternal rest. And, ultimately, so she could
survive.

Red opened her eyes and blinked back the tears that
threatened to fall down her cheeks.

***

Trace had found it almost amusing to sit by and watch Red
prepare her own dinner over the fire after he refused to plate any of his meal
for her. He'd intentionally turned his body away, angling to keep her on the
outskirts of his conversation with Wen. If she thought he was a jackass, he may
as well behave like one. She hadn't played nice either and had it coming.

Trace almost buckled when he watched her struggle to carry
the water-filled tub to the wagon. He fought the instinct to jump up and
help—something a non-jackass would do—but he held back and let her handle it on
her own. The invisible tally board had him ahead by two.

Wen added another kink in the chain of uncertainties, but he
decided to extract as much information from him as he could. He said very
little and allowed Wen to talk all he wanted, prodding him with a question now
and again. Sometimes that was all a person needed—a chance to talk and be
heard.

"I didn't realize things were so bad on the East Coast.
I kinda hoped the plague was localized and the rest of the country was
unaffected. Guess it was a good thing I ran into you both." Wen poked the
fire with a stick and stirred up the embers.

Trace nodded. "I guess so. Good thing we met."

He began to think it might be beneficial to align himself
with Wen and create camaraderie of sorts to keep the girl safe. Two men
watching over one stubborn woman just might work. Perhaps he'd even split the
reward with him as well.

While they talked, Trace cast his gaze toward the covered
wagon Red occupied. The lantern inside the wagon illuminated her silhouette
through the cream-colored canvas, and he watched her remove her clothing, run
her hands through her hair, and lift and lower her arms as she washed them.
She'd be horrified to know he was witnessing her bathing waltz.

Wen had his back to her and didn't notice anything.
Fortunate, since Trace couldn't help his distracted stares.

When she extinguished the lantern, casting the wagon into
darkness, he wasn't sure whether he felt relieved or disappointed. A bit of
both.

"...ghost towns. You'll find a lot of those between
here and the California border. People are packing up and heading for safer
ground."

Trace only picked up part of what Wen said, but nodded his
head anyway. "Safer ground? Where?" He'd not found safer ground anywhere.

Wen shook his head. "Just a figure of speech. There's
no such place. People want hope, and if they think they'll find it in Canada or
Mexico, well, they've got to try. I mean, if you heard Southeast Asia was
infection free, you'd sell your left arm to catch a boat ride there, right? I
know I would."

He was probably right. Up until recently, Trace hadn't
realized how dire the situation actually was. The walking dead, the invisible
plague, people eating other people—he'd heard about it and seen a few zombie
killings, but he'd otherwise been living his life as usual. Apparently,
residents of the Midwest didn't have a clue about how bad things were on the
coasts, or that the plague was making its way to the middle of the country at
such a rapid pace.

"You know what, though?" Wen went on. "Even
the rich are finding it difficult to escape the sickness. Money doesn't buy
what it used to."

Trace glanced toward Red's wagon again. He wondered what the
devaluation of money meant for him, and for the girl. Just then, a shrill of
terror echoed through the silent camp. Both men jumped to their feet, guns
drawn and eyes wide, scanning the camp for signs of an intrusion. The
surrounding darkness made it difficult to see, but Trace was sure the cries had
come from Red's wagon. He darted in that direction with Wen close behind,
compelled by an instinct to protect her.

Trace threw back the canvas flap, and the yellow glow from
Wen's lantern revealed Red's wild, terrified eyes. No intruder, just a scared
girl staring back at them with a look of such panic and fear that his
determination to keep her at bay dissolved. Red scooted to the far corner of
the wagon and hid her face, out of fright or embarrassment.

The two men glanced at one another, uncertain and awkward,
unsure of what to do.

"Go away." Her cries softened into painful
whimpers. "Just go away."

"What's wrong?" Wen asked. "You hurt?"

"No. I'm fine. Please leave me alone."

Her shoulders trembled, and she took quick intakes of
breath, which proved she was anything but all right. Trace couldn't leave her
in this state.

He looked over at Wen. "Why don't you go back to
keeping an eye out? I'm going to sit with Red for a minute."

Wen gave him a thoughtful nod before disappearing with the
lantern, leaving them shrouded in darkness.

"Mind if I come in?" Trace made no move to enter
the wagon without her permission. He wanted to comfort her, but she slept with
guns, and he didn't want to get shot in the head for his effort.

"I'm okay." Her entire body shook and gave away the
lie. "Please just go. I'm fine. Really."

"You're not fine. Can I come in?"

"I'd rather you didn't."

He pulled the canvas flap to the side and climbed into the
wagon. "You didn't say no."

"I'm saying no now." Red swallowed, her face
hidden behind damp curls. She looked so young and vulnerable, nothing like the
tough, mouthy girl he'd come to know. She did have a soft side after all.

He smiled and shook his head in defiance. "It's a
little too late. I'm already inside." He knelt down and reached out to
brush his thumb over her wet cheek, wiping away a trail of tears. Definitely
soft.

For some reason, this act had the opposite effect than he intended;
it made her cry even more, and he questioned whether or not he'd done the right
thing by touching her. The more she tried to pull herself together, the more
tears fell, and crying women always left him confused and at a loss. Should he
hug 'em? Leave 'em alone?

"Hey." He decided on the former, pulled her toward
him, and held her. "It's okay. Cry all you want."

He expected her to push him away, and he would've let go had
she done so, but she didn't. Instead, she folded her body into his and buried
her face in his neck, her warm tears wetting his skin. It surprised him, but he
didn't mind. Not at all.