Didn’t seem to bother my dad. He lay on his back, snoring softly. A dozen or so other refugees either slept or did a good imitation of it, on cots grouped in family clusters around the gym. In the far corner, a few played a subdued game of cards, faces stricken and empty. A mix of men, women, and children, all homeless, all without anyone to take them in. Like my dad. Like me.
Like me. I didn’t want to think about it, but there it was, staring me right in the face. Not only hadn’t Marcus come to find me, he hadn’t sent a message or anything. Sure, he was probably busy all day with the sheriff’s office taking care of the shit end of flood stuff, but now it was after nine p.m. and nothing. I sighed. Who was I kidding? It was pretty obvious he’d decided Fuck you, Angel was his response to my hanging up on him.
I sat up on the stupid cot and pulled on the donated sneakers—after shaking them to be sure none of the members of Roach Explorer Troop 666 had made their way inside. Standing, I stretched out the kinks in my back left by the nonexistent cot padding, pulled the thin blanket a bit higher over my dad’s shoulders, then crept out of the room.
The elderly security guard in the hallway looked up from his book and gave me a gently inquisitive look. “Everything okay?” With the white beard, jovial expression, and slight bulge in the middle, if this guy didn’t already make extra money playing Santa every year, he sure as hell could.
“Yeah, just can’t sleep,” I told him, shrugging. “Figured I’d get some air.”
He gave an understanding nod. “At least the rain stopped,” he said. “It’s a nice night for a walk. But be careful, okay?”
“Yes, sir,” I said. “I’ll be good.” Wouldn’t want to get on the naughty list.
He smiled warmly, returned his attention to the book. I slipped out the door.
The air was a touch cooler than I expected, but not enough to go back inside to scrounge a warmer shirt or jacket. I hugged my arms around myself and took a deep breath, looked up at the star-filled sky. Now what? I silently asked.
The problem was that it was too easy to focus on everything that was gone. There was so much of it—a giant cloud of loss. House, cars, clothing, furniture…Marcus. I knew I needed to take stock of what I still had and resist the overwhelming desire to slip into depression and self-pity.
But, damn, this was surely one of those situations where a little self-pity was allowed, right?
The sidewalk led to a practice field on the back side of the gym, not particularly scenic, but with fresh air and without skittering roaches or generalized creepiness. Off to my right loomed the dark football stadium where, only a few days ago, Marcus and I had spent a very enjoyable hour. Seemed like a dream now, with a hazy couldn’t-possibly-be-real quality about it. I sat on a concrete bench in the shadow of the building and leaned back against the bricks. The darkness felt safe, a hidden vantage to watch over the minimally lit school grounds. Safe. What the hell did that mean anymore? After the attack and the flood, I didn’t know if there really was such a thing.
I forced myself to consider the positives. The biggest was that my dad and I were alive and okay, of course. And I still have a job. That’s pretty damn good. At least I sure as hell hoped I did. I had a hard time believing I’d get fired for not showing up to work on the day my house got washed away. Even Allen wasn’t that much of a dick.
Not that I wanted to place any bets on that.
I also had every reason to believe that the freezer full of my stash of brains was safe and sound in my storage unit. That was on the other side of town, so it wouldn’t have been affected by the spillway. Okay, so I currently had as assets: Life, Dad, Job, and Brains. Oh, and twelve hundred soggy dollars.
Yesterday Marcus would have been on the list. Damn it. Taking a deep breath, I pushed away the pain that tried to rise again.
A rasp of sound to my left cut my musings short. I froze, listening. Labored breathing. Grateful that the bench was in shadow and that by blind luck I’d chosen dark clothing, I willed myself to remain still. I knew that sound, one that could only come from lung tissue breaking down accompanied by a hint of fluid. This was a zombie—and likely a very hungry one.
My pulse gave a weird double-thump as the figure came around the corner of the gym and limped away from me along the perimeter fence of the practice field. Not just any zombie. This was Philip.
The asshole was obviously suffering and hungry. Smug satisfaction with maybe a touch of gloating washed through me but, a moment later, yielded to a rush of dismay as Philip stumbled and nearly fell. Reflexively, I threw out my hand as though I could reach him and offer support.
Damn. There it was again, whatever parental instinct my parasite had included in its total package. However, this time, I was aware of it. If I hadn’t felt the out-of-place compassion for Philip during the extreme bullshit at the boat launch, I probably wouldn’t have given it a second thought and chalked it up to natural compassion. Both perspectives were alive and kicking and a genuine part of me. I hated Philip, and he terrified me, but it also twisted my guts to see him hurting.
Was this why Marcus was so overprotective? Because he was my zombie-daddy? And if so, did he even realize it was his parasite influencing him? Now there was some serious food for thought. Not that it mattered anymore.
But for now I wanted—no, needed—to see what the hell was going on with Philip. As silently as possible, I stood and followed at enough of a distance that he wouldn’t be able to hear me. I was fairly sure there was no risk of him scenting me; as hungry as he was, he’d be keyed to brains that were actually edible, and wouldn’t be able to detect much of anything over his own decay.
He continued along the fence line, then slipped between two outbuildings to cut across a lot and onto a dark residential street. I hung back before crossing the empty lot, certain that he’d glance back at any moment and bust me, but he seemed utterly focused on his destination, and I managed to follow without incident.
I almost missed it when he ducked off the sidewalk. He headed into the shaggy yard of a vacant Acadian single story house that outdid the creepiness of the gym by about a thousand percent. I drew back into the shadow of a tree and watched as he pulled a paper bag out of his jacket, went to the side of the steps, crouched, and…what the hell was he doing? His back to me, I could only wait and wonder what the fuck was going on. I heard a couple of soft clicks, a disturbing muffled noise, like a sob or moan, then the quiet rustling of the paper bag.
After about a minute, he stood, hands clenching and unclenching as his gaze swept the area, face twisted in…desperation? He didn’t have the bag in his hands anymore. Had he tucked it back into his jacket? Left it under the steps? I remained still, watching and barely daring to breathe. He stood, returned to the sidewalk, and crossed back toward the lot, his breathing even more labored and noisy.
On the other side of the street, he paused, visibly shaking, head jerking to the side the way it had when he attacked me at the boat launch. I watched as he appeared to grapple with indecision, then he turned to the right and continued, near staggering, up the street.
After a brief internal debate, I hurried to the steps, crouched and peered under. Yeah, that did a lot of good. Since I didn’t have a flashlight, my only option was to reach under and feel. Okay, I was a tough-ass zombie, but something about reaching blind under those haunted house steps made me question how badly I really wanted to know what was under there. After a brief struggle with my inner wimp, I put my hand into that darker darkness and groped for who-the-hell knew what. My fingers brushed something hard and moveable, and a second later I pulled out a shoebox-size black plastic container with a snap-lid.