“God, yes,” Abigail exclaimed, “it was like it was destiny. The world presented us with a problem, and Happy Valley was the answer. We could stay in our homes, safe, and surrounded by good people we trust. We had a variety of people with different skill sets, and they figured out how to set up gardens and generators and water purifiers. It’s such a lovely, safe community, filled with good people.”

“What about the workers?” Rachael prompted.

“Sometimes people make their way here, either because they’ve heard about us in passing or find us by providence,” Abigail replied, scratching at the back of her neck absently. “We don’t have a lot of space or extra supplies, but we do what we can in exchange for an honest day’s work.”

“That’s right,” said Will. “We offer them jobs, temporary assignments, so that they can earn a wage, pay for supplies, and sometimes in exchange for safe passage to another community we have a few miles away. It takes a lot of energy and manpower to get them safely there, but we’re willing to do it, provided that they put in the work to earn it.”

“But you don’t make the residents work?” Rachael asked, staring at the Mannerses unblinkingly.

“Why would we?” Will seemed genuinely surprised. “They’re all good people who worked hard to be here. This is their home, and we’re the reason it’s safe to live in Happy Valley. The residents are the reason we’ve all been able to survive. These people are given food, shelter, and safety. We just ask that they earn it.”

“With hard labor,” Rachael said quietly.

“They’re allowed to work for us. I mean, it’s the least they can do in payment for us saving them from what’s outside.”

“What if they bring supplies with them? Wouldn’t that mean they don’t need to work as hard since they’re contributing to the community?”

“When they come in, we ask that they turn over the supplies that they have, which is the basis of their debt, if you will, with the community. As they work, more value is added to that tab based on the jobs they do; the amount of time they spend working. If they cause any destruction of property or disturb any residents, then a penalty is taken out. It is all part of an agreed upon contract. It’s all made very clear from the start.” Abigail’s voice grew strained, agitated under Rachael’s steady gaze. “We just don’t have the space for just anyone to come here and be a resident. The person would need to show their true value to the community, prove that they are a good person who can contribute to Happy Valley.”

Rachael sipped her soda, thinking of the seemingly empty homes she’d noticed during their tour and subsequent explorations.

“For example,” Abigail continued, “for everything that you did for us, for saving Tommy . . . Will and I would speak to the council, and you could live here without needing to work off anything. Happy Valley could be your home, just like it’s ours.”

Rachael pretended to think for a moment.

“And my friends? Could they live here too?”

Will and Abigail looked at each other.

“They would need to work for a place here, just like everyone else.” Will finally said, shifting uncomfortably in his chair under Rachael’s gaze. “They would need to prove they’re good people, prove that they’re a good fit for our community.”

Rachael could hear the meaning behind his words loud and clear.

She could stay because she was white. Because she was useful and fit their image of what they wanted for their “perfect” home. Her friends, who were as capable as her, but with darker skin tones, were not welcome to become residents. Only indentured servants like the rest.

— 22 —

THE SOLDIER AND THE DOG

We moved as quickly as safety allowed, and both of us were good at that sort of thing. I have hunted a lot over the years, and mostly my prey has been other people. As it was now.

Baskerville went wide and ran parallel but a little ahead, sniffing out our trail, following the scent of the last person—or persons—to have visited the clearing where all those people were left to die. I followed, checking the landscape for trips and traps. Finding none even as we got closer to Happy Valley. That troubled me, because any community of people surviving in a world of the walking dead should have set traps. Tin cans filled with stones strung on wires would be enough; a simple sound alarm that the dead would be too stupid to avoid. There were also spots that were natural observation points—sturdy trees where a deer-stand could be erected, knolls where a fortified sentry post could command a view of the surrounding woods. Like that. I saw none of it.

What I did see as I reached the edge of the densest part of the woods, was a walled town. A big, sprawling, gated community with a ten-foot-high wall, probably cinderblock, covered in peach-colored stucco. There was razor wire along the top and I could see sunlight sparkle on a thousand tiny points, which I took for broken glass set into the cement. When I pulled my binoculars to take a closer look I was amused to see that the glass was all in decorative colors. Clearly a design feature of the original build rather than something added later. Besides, broken gl

ass wouldn’t deter the dead. The razor wire wouldn’t do much, either.

I knelt in shadows between lush trees and scanned everything I could see. There were heavy gates fifty yards to my left. And when I zoomed in on them I could see a very expensive security box. Digital and thumbprint scanner, I thought. Inoperative now, but suggestive of high-income residents. The place was remote, though a highway was moderately close, and—according to the map I’d found—so was a heliport, a small private airfield, and a regional rail line. Over the top of the wall I could see a lot of trees, though some of them looked prematurely withered, and the upper floors of two and three-story McMansions. The architecture looked modern. Maybe two or three years before the outbreak. Not older. The wall, too. This place had been built as a retreat for the very wealthy. That much was obvious.

Had it protected them? Time would tell.

I wondered how they were surviving, though. Where did they get the resources to sustain a community? It was impossible to tell from where I knelt just how big the community was, though it looked sizable on the map. Did that mean there was arable farmland inside? Were these wealthy residents really tilling their own fields? It seemed unlikely, though before the End Junie and I visited an intentional community in Central California made up of upscale organic farmers and artists. Was this like that? A place that had been built as a sustainable village before the need for such a thing became absolute?

A lot of questions.

“Come on, fuzzball,” I said softly to Baskerville as I started to rise, but then I saw him staring intently off to my right, and I settled back down. “What are you seeing, boy?”

His answer was a low, soft growl.

Tags: Jonathan Maberry Dead of Night Horror
Source: readsnovelonline.net