“We had some firearms experience, but . . . ” Allens paused for a moment before continuning. “Well, we ran out of bullets about a month in. Both of these guns are unloaded.” Jason looked down at the shotgun in his hands and rolled his eyes. Allens noticed and gave a small chuckle. “Yeah, that shotgun usually gets people to back down before things escalate to the point where we’d have to call our own bluff.”
The woman nodded. “Now we just have to rely on what we have, mostly garden tools, baseball bats, rackets, stuff we can find around. Nothing that’s really good for defending against more than one monster at a time.”
Rachael nodded, turning to glance at the rest of her group, eyebrows raised. Peter and Jason looked dubious, but Claudia and Alice both nodded.
“Do you want help learning how to defend yourself with the tools you have?” Rachael included everyone in the question.
The woman looked shocked. “Why would you help us when we tried to hurt you?”
“You were defending yourself, your homes, and your friend. I don’t blame you for that. We’re not the best or most technically trained fighters, but we’ve figured out how to use what we have to survive. There’s different techniques for using different weapons, even shovels and axes. These techniques will help you use the weapons you have to effectively fight off the undead without needing bullets or more traditional weapons. Do you want to learn?”
A few of the men in the line nodded, while others looked skeptical. Allens and the woman spoke quietly for a moment. Then the woman stood, offering her hand to Rachael. “I’m Heather. Thank you.”
Rachael shook Heather’s hand with a warm smile. “Rachael. We all have to do what we can to help out our neighbors in these times. My friends and I need to gather our gear, and then we’re ready to go with you.”
She walked back to her friends, making sure to put enough distance between them and the Happy Valley folks to allow her to speak without fear of being overheard. “Tommy,” she said, “how ‘bout you go help your friends and we’ll be right there, okay?”
He frowned.
“It’s okay, sweetie,” Alice said. “Go on, now.”
Reluctantly letting go of Alice’s hand, Tommy trotted down the path to Heather.
“Okay, gang. Thoughts?”
“It sounds great,” said Claudia. Peter nodded.
Jason was less than trusting. “How do we know this isn’t just a trap?” he said in a low voice. “How do we know they won’t kill us once we drop our guard?”
“We need to be cautious,” Rachael agreed. She thought for a moment, then
said, “Alice, Peter . . . wait until we’re far enough for you to follow at a distance. Stay out of sight. Once we find out where Happy Valley is located, go back to the school and tell Brett what’s going on, and where we are.”
Jason still didn’t look happy, but he nodded in reluctant agreement.
“Sounds like we’re going to be here for a few days, at least to help out,” continued Rachael, “but maybe they’d be willing to let us all stay for a little while after we’re done training them. Maybe we can share in some of their luck.”
Walking back over to Heather and Allens, Rachael grabbed the shovel off the pile of weapons and handed it to the woman. As the Happy Valley folks collected the rest of their weapons, Rachael noticed that Jason didn’t remove his hand from the knife at his belt.
She couldn’t blame him. She wasn’t sure how much she trusted these people either, but if they were telling the truth, she would be more than glad to help them protect themselves.
— 13 —
THE SOLDIER AND THE DOG
As it turned out, the old lady was a former middle school librarian named Abigail Smith. Thin as a rake handle but tough as steel. Shrewd-eyed and stern, but those were exactly the right qualities for this kind of survival. While the others cleaned and cooked the sheep, Abigail and I sat on roadside rocks and drank from a little bottle of bourbon she pulled out of a pocket.
I sniffed the whiskey, nodded, took a sip and was, for a moment, in a very happy place. Although Top and Bunny would likely label me a “beer guy,” I could appreciate a fine whiskey. As I wiped my mouth after a second sip I caught Abigail studying me.
“You look like you have a story to tell,” she observed, accepting the bottle back and taking a hellacious pull.
“Doesn’t everyone?” I asked.
She shrugged. “Some more than others. You military? You have the look.”
“Used to be.”
Abigail shook her head again. “No. That’s not you.” She gave me such a calculating and intense stare that I wanted to check for dirt under my fingernails and pay any late-book fees she might ask. “Some people come home from duty, take off the uniform and go back to being who they were before. Most, maybe. Others always look like they’re wearing that uniform.”