When Will lowered the can, he saw that the garage had gotten noticeably darker. He checked his watch just to make sure his internal clock wasn’t out of whack. No, it was still just 12:11 p.m.
“It’s getting darker,” he said. He glanced up at the roof. “Rain.”
The first drop hit Fredo’s rooftop on cue, quickly followed by sheets of rain pouring down across the holes and crevices along the closed garage doors.
“Good thing I went shopping earlier today,” Zoe said.
The rain made him feel better, and allowed him to relax and concentrate on not dying. The daylight kept the ghouls away, and rain kept the collaborators hunkered down. He wasn’t sure if they still had pursuers, but he always liked to keep his options open.
He got some of his strength back, enough that he could climb out of the truck on his own and walk around in the tight confines of the garage while barefoot. (He didn’t recall when Zoe had taken off his boots.) Every muscle ached and joints popped with every move, but he kept shuffling anyway until he got the hang of it again.
Zoe watched him carefully, and he wasn’t entirely sure if it was admiration he saw in her eyes or pity. Probably a combination of both. Eventually, he got enough strength back to pull his shirt on.
By three in the afternoon, the rain was still pounding on Fredo’s, and water had seeped into the garage under the closed doors. He slipped his socks and boots back on and continued his movements. He felt better with every step, every hour on his feet. His strength wasn’t there yet, and it would be a while before he was his old self. The good news was that he barely felt the sutured wound along his thigh, and the one in his side was manageable as long as he didn’t think about it too much.
He ate his share of the beef jerky and canned food Zoe had scavenged from the Phillips 66 next door. Whenever they ran out of water — which was often — they refilled it outside in the rain, taking turns. Zoe regulated his medication, not that there was enough variety to choose from. The pain was unavoidable, but he soldiered through it and thought of something else.
The island. Lara. Danny’s bad jokes. Sarah’s cooking.
He was at least heartened that Gaby and Nate had probably made it back to the island by now. He had no way of knowing for sure, but Gaby was resourceful, and even injured, Nate had proven himself to be a good companion for her.
Teenage love in the apocalypse lives after all.
When he opened his eyes again later that night, it was pitch dark inside the truck, and he couldn’t hear the sound of rain anymore, only the soft and steady drip-drip-drip of leftover water falling off the sides of the building.
Nightfall.
He could see the whites of Zoe’s eyes. Her knees were pulled up to her chest, hands over her legs. She was staring at him as he stirred awake.
“They’re outside,” she whispered. Her lips trembled, making it sound as if she were stuttering.
He looked down at his watch, the hands glowing bright green in the darkness: 10:39 p.m.
Will twisted slightly in his seat, grimacing with the pain (Ignore it), and reached into the back for his M4A1 rifle. There, the cold but comfortable feel of well-worn metal. He pulled it forward by the barrel and into his lap. He ran his hands over the carbine, checking to make sure everything was where it should be.
Zoe was looking at the closed garage door in front of them now. Moonlight filtered in through the tiny crevices at the bottom and along the sides, as if the door were glowing in the dark. Figures — thin, gaunt shapes — darted across the other side, never staying at one spot for very long, and the sound of splashing puddles that had accumulated in the parking lot after the day’s rain.
How many? More than two. Possibly five. Likely more than that.
His gun belt was on the floor. He reached down and tugged the Glock gently out of its holster and checked to make sure he had a full magazine inside. He slipped it back into the holster, the slide of the Glock’s plastic polymer against leather like fingernails on a chalkboard. He carefully wrapped the gun belt around his waist and pulled it tight, ignoring the brief flash of pain. He was glad he had swallowed extra painkillers when Zoe wasn’t looking.
His pack rested between the two front seats; he picked it up and calmly, silently searched for the spare magazines inside. He had two spares for the M4A1 and two for the Glocks. All silver ammo. He had given the rest to Gaby.
“What are we going to do?” Zoe whispered, her voice impossibly strained.
He shook his head. “Nothing.”
Her eyes trembled and widened, over and over again.
“We’ll be fine,” he whispered.
There was a loud bang! as one of the ghouls crashed into the steel garage door. The whole building seemed to shake for an instant, before another one of the creatures smashed into the same door just as it was settling.
Zoe almost screamed, but somehow managed to stop herself in time.
“Did you latch the garage doors?” he asked.
Will had dispensed with the whispering now. The ghouls clearly knew they were inside, and he could see the number of figures increasing through the slits. There were so many that they completely overwhelmed the slivers of moonlight that were once visible.
Twenty. Maybe thirty…
Zoe managed to nod back at him, her voice trembling when she answered. “I couldn’t find the keys to lock them in place.”
“It’s okay, neither could I.”
He had looked everywhere the first time they had spent the night at Fredo’s, but the keys were nowhere to be found. The garage doors were simply latched, but not locked. It was one of the reasons why Will didn’t like staying in a place more than once. Betting on the ghouls missing you two times in a row was asking for trouble. Betting on three days in a row was begging for it.
Dead, not stupid.
“We’re going to die, aren’t we?” Zoe said suddenly.
“No.”
She was trying to read his face. Will smiled back at her. He had mastered hiding his emotions years ago. Fear, happiness — things that could be tempered with the right combination of resolve and denial.
He was very aware that there was a way out of this. The hazmat suit. It was still crumpled on the floor behind his seat, where he had tossed it days ago after they escaped the camp. He could put it on and probably survive tonight. Probably. He wasn’t entirely confident that was even true. Were the ghouls ordered not to attack any hazmat suits? Or just people wearing the uniforms at certain locations?
Too many questions, too many possibilities.
Not that it mattered. There was Zoe to think about. She had saved his life, even when she didn’t have to. He couldn’t pay that back now by grabbing the suit and leaving her to fend for herself. Besides, there was still a way out of this.
“We’ll be fine,” he said. “I just need you to stick with me, okay?”
“I don’t want to die, Will.”
“You won’t.”
Zoe jumped at the sound of footsteps moving across the roof above them. The truck’s windows were open, as they had been for the last three days. He could hear the steady, unmistakable patter of soft, bare feet treading over wet, loose gravel.
Definitely more than one. Probably a dozen…
“Oh, God,” Zoe whispered. “What are they doing up there?”
They’re probing, looking for a weak spot.
He said instead, “I need to get behind the steering wheel, Zoe, and you need to get in the back.”