Zocopalypse (Death Fields 1)

I don’t know what to say. His dark eyes carry a palpable sadness. But we’ve got to move forward. I eat the chewy bread, using it as a cover for my silence. Mom does the same, while changing into a clean pair of socks.

When the bagels are gone, I glance at her. “Are you ready?”

“In just a minute,” she replied.

“I guess I just forgot how nice it was to have people to talk to. Maybe I should leave when you do—just go to the evacuation center,” Paul says standing up suddenly. He moves quickly to his belongings and starts packing them up.

“So you’re going to the center?”

“I think it’s a good idea, I can’t stay h

ere forever. What do you think?” Honestly it’s a difficult question to answer. If Dad hadn’t told us to go find Jane would we be on the road right now? When would we have given up and left the house?

As he packs, Paul’s movements seem erratic, but not exactly crazy. I think he’s terrified of being left alone again. “I think going to the evacuation center is smart, if that’s what you want to do. You’ll be safe there,” I say.

Paul unplugs his devices and I shove the remainder of my things in my bag. Mom has slipped on her shoes and has her pack in her hands. “Thank you for your hospitality,” she says giving Paul a smile.

I pull out my map and go over the path I plan to follow. We’re skipping the elementary school and heading straight for the Carolina Heights community. It’s an older neighborhood but we know a couple of families that live there. If they’ll give us shelter we’ll take it. If not we’ll find our own.

Chapter Thirty-Five

~Now~

The campground, or really trailer park, appears long abandoned. Rusted-out trailers with busted doors and flat tires. Animals scurrying in and out of cracked windows, obviously unused to humans. This place truly looks like the poster child for the end of the world, like a bomb rocked it into oblivion. Whatever happened here must have occurred years before the current, actual end-of-the-world situation we’re in at the moment.

Chloe eased the truck under a large pine tree, the branches scraping against the roof of the cab. My feet have barely touched the ground when Wyatt’s hand wraps around my arm and he leads me behind a faded red and white camper. I jerk my arm away but go with him.

“What?” I ask, still not in the mood.

“Let’s check the perimeter and make sure there are no Eater’s locked up in these tin cans.” His gaze lingers over my face, probably trying to decide exactly how angry I am. I’m trying to decide why I care so much.

“Sure, whatever,” I grumble and lead the way.

We each bang on the trailers, with the butt of my hatchet or the nose of his rifle, listening quietly for the sound of life. Or death? God knows anymore. We pick our way through the campers, inhaling the stale, mold smell wafting through the broken windows and open doors. This place is worse than depressing.

I stop at a large zeppelin shaped camper, the shine long gone. I hear the distinct sound of shuffling feet and wave Wyatt over.

“Probably an animal,” I say quietly—hopefully. I’m not in the mood to kill anyone else today.

He mouths to the count of three and with a tight jerk of the handle the door swings open. I’ve got my hatchet in hand, at the ready, but the angry hiss from the Eater crawling out the door startles me all the same.

“Mother f—” I breathe, lowering the blade in a clean sweep, cracking it across his head. He falls forward, tumbling down the cinderblock steps. His fingers twitch and I hack away at them, severing them from his dirty, nasty hand. An angry growl comes from his mouth and his black eyes are bloodied from my initial attack. I stab him again and again until there’s nothing left.

Shit.

“You got him,” Wyatt says from behind.

“Duh.” I wipe the blade on the grass, turning away from the corpse. My hands shake and I fight off a wave of nausea. Where is the girl that was afraid of these monsters? Have I become one myself?

We clear the remaining trailers, each one more disgusting than the last. I can’t help but wonder about the people that lived here, the ones that left behind their pots and thrift store furniture. I stop in one that has a torn Miley Cyrus poster on the wall.

“God, Miley Cyrus. I wonder where she is now,” I say aloud.

“Probably in some underground bunker plotting how to use this whole thing to her advantage,” Wyatt says, closer behind me than I expect.

The air in the trailer is dank and musty and I walk past him needing to breathe. Wyatt follows me, leaning against the nose of a small, dirty aluminum one that had once been painted sky blue and white. He takes a deep breath, eyes looking up at the fading blue sky. “I’m sorry about that before, at the diner.”

“What for being a jerk?”