The Girl Who Kicked Ass (Death Fields 3)

awning. They appear to have little energy, mostly ignoring our moving vehicle altogether. Davis drives slowly, their bodies bouncing off the sides of the car. Through the window, I hear their typical howls are replaced with low, whimpering cries.

“This is a nightmare,” Parker says, covering her eyes. “A literal nightmare.”

It’s not a nightmare but a harsh flash of our possible future.

Davis tries to turn the corner. It’s completely clogged with apathetic bodies. The tendons on his neck clench with annoyance and he mutters, “Get out of the road, moron.”

I bite back a laugh and add in ranty voice, “Where’d you learn to walk? Your grandma?”

Without warning, Paul rolls down the second row window and shoves his knife into an Eater’s head. An ungodly odor fills the car as the victim gasps and falls to the ground. I hold my nose and Parker pulls her shirt up over her face and fights a gag. He does it again and again, like shooting fish in a barrel, until Davis overrides the window control and rolls it back up.

“What?” Paul asks. “I was releasing some stress.”

“Disgusting,” Jude says, although I think he’s jealous he’s not next to the window.

“How long do you think this is going to take?” Parker asks, shifting around her seat. Between the Eaters and Paul’s shenanigans and Davis’ tension, the car ride is getting to everyone. “Because it feels like it’s been forever.”

“God, you sound like my kids.” All eyes snap to the driver’s seat. His hands clench around the steering wheel and from the set of his jaw everyone knows better than to pursue it.

But yeah, Davis just revealed he has—or had—kids, and for better or worse, that truth bomb gets everyone to shut up.

*

We wasted so many hours passing through Eater Town (yes, we named it) that our next stop was not where I’d planned it. There’s nothing in this area but abandoned apple orchards and dilapidated bar-b-que shacks, so we settle on an old farmhouse converted into an art gallery-slash-antique store. It’s tucked up on a hill and definitely has a haunted house feel to it, but I’m not willing to sleep in a place that reeks of rotting pork, so it seems like an okay place to stay. Antiques don’t have much of a barter value post-apoc. I mean, there’s only so many uses for a stack of mismatched hubcaps.

“At least the windows are already boarded up,” Jude says.

Parker presses her nose against the window. “There’s literally nothing else around here. They probably went out of business years ago.”

Davis pulls the truck around the back of the house so it’s not visible from the road and we do a quick sweep of the outside. The front has a funky vibe, an old claw foot bathtub filled with metal folk-art flowers. Stacks of rusted Coca-Cola signs lean against the porch next to a pile of bicycle wheels. A peeling swing hangs still from chains and Jude nudges it when we pass, making it sway back and forth with a disturbing creak.

Davis approaches the door and raps on it twice. We wait in silence, but there’s no sound but the squeaky swing.

“Seems okay,” he says, twisting the door knob. It’s locked, but a quick hammer with the butt of my hatchet knocks it loose. The door swings open, releasing the scent of dusty books and old, stale fabric locked up for too long.

I follow Davis in and feel like I’ve stepped into a time capsule. Artifacts from another life are piled on every surface; vases, figurines, and jewelry. There are boxes of postcards and license plates stacked in crates on the floor, and large metal airplanes hanging from the ceiling. I’m immediately crushed with feelings of loss and nostalgia.

“Hey, we had one of these,” Paul says, pointing to a small, rusted fire truck perched in the corner. “It was my dad’s when he was a kid.”

We split into pairs and sweep the first floor, squeezing past boxes, china cabinets and racks of clothes. Parker and I pass through the former dining room and then the kitchen, working our way to the enclosed back porch. She steps carefully into the room filled with glass windows—an overly exposed nightmare of a room—but jerks back suddenly. I crash into her but manage not to knock into anything.

“Dude,” I say, but she covers my mouth with her hand. Gesturing ahead she whispers, “There’s someone in there.”

“Human or Eater?” I mouth.

She shrugs. I lean past her and sure enough, a person is pressed against the back wall, partially hidden behind a stack of cardboard boxes. If there’s one person or Eater there could always be more. But we don’t kill humans—at least not for hiding in their own homes. I glance down and see a basket of cassette tapes and pick up the one on top. The bearded, faded face of Willie Nelson stares back.

Parker levels her gun and I count to three loud enough for her to hear and toss it in the direction of the person. I flinch when it lands, clattering against a box and onto the hard floor. We’ve got our guns aimed but nothing happens. The figure is silent.

“Cover me,” I say. We can’t play this game forever.

I tiptoe into the room, stepping over a coil of rope. The person is wearing an old Falcon’s jersey and has a mop of dirty brown hair sticking out from under a baseball cap. I don’t see a weapon as I come up behind them and press my hatchet against their neck.

“Turn around,” I say. “Hands where I can see them.”

Again, there’s no movement, and panic mixed with confusion rolls over me but I take a deep, dusty breath and spin the person around by the shoulder. The hat and the hair both fall to the ground and I jump back with a high-pitched yelp.

“Oh my God,” Parker declares, snorting back laughter.