Chapter 1: The Man with the Shotgun

“Don’t you move!” The shotgun wavered in the man’s hands. There were two people standing in the driveway. "I’m serious, motherfuckers!”

“Jim? Jim, please,” pleaded one of the strangers, a man. Only his silhouette could be seen in the darkness. The other shadow-person looked bored, arms crossed as it leaned against the mailbox.

“How do you—who are you?” said Jim. He squinted his beady eyes. Sweat collected on his forehead.

“It’s me, Dustin,” said the first shadow, stepping into view. Dustin was tall with broad shoulders, and he wore a heavy denim jacket and a backpack. His face was thin, his hair dirty blond and unkempt. Both of his hands were raised. “You worked for the Make a Wish Foundation, right?”

Jim’s face scrunched up, and he passed a hand over his bald head. “I don’t remember you.”

Dustin spoke calmly. “My daughter, Elise. She visited the space observatory, got to meet Neil DeGrasse Tyson. You set up a bunch of it.”

“The scientist mom and dad.” Jim wiped his mouth with a trembling hand. “Small world.”

“That’s me,” said Dustin as he remained frozen in the driveway, “The world is smaller every day.”

“How did you... what do you want?” said Jim.

“Just a roof over our heads for the night. I’d love to explain beyond that, but it’s getting dark. We have food to trade,” said Dustin, lowering his hands.

He gestured to the sky. The clouds were giant and rolling, deeply purple with a swath of angry red at the horizon. The night would be thick black and full of deadly promise.

“Right, come in.” Jim took a step back from the porch steps. His skin was pasty and loose. His lips were a bright red bloom in the midst of a sprawling dirty black beard. Jim rattled his shotgun in one hand, “Sorry for the manners. Is that your wife?”

Dustin paused and waved at the person leaning against the mailbox. “No, she’s my traveling partner. She’s safe. Her name is Sam.”

Sam slouched past both men and into the house. Dustin and Jim followed. When they were all in, Jim took one more look into the night: his house was one of many stacked end to end like victorian Legos. Beyond the darkness, however, the rest of the neighborhood was torn apart. There would be smoldering fires in the rubble of family homes.

Jim lit a tiki torch in the darkness, and the ragged corners of the living room flickered into existence. He bent over and set the shotgun in an umbrella holder, groaning as he stood. “Welcome to my home sweet home.”

All of the furniture had been pushed to the walls, the carpets were covered in mud, and the ceiling was black from soot. The smell of kerosine was sharp, masking a stench that was not immediately visible. A cat clock glared at them from the far wall, its pendulum tail frozen in place. The house groaned.

They all stared at each other silently. Sam wandered to a ratty loveseat and deflated into it with a huff. She kicked her feet up on a coffee table with a loud bang.

“We have peaches!” Dustin unzipped his backpack and pulled out two cans. The butt of his pistol glinted in the torchlight.

“I don’t want to offend you, but,” Jim smiled nervously, his teeth sparkled yellow in the torchlight, “I have a no weapons policy beyond the front door. Think of it like taking off your shoes.”

“Of course,” Dustin pulled the gun out of his pants and set it next to the shotgun. He looked pointedly at Sam, who was fixated on the cat clock.

“Sam,” said Dustin. She sighed with an electronic buzz. Sam removed a hatchet tucked in the back of her pants, a machete from underneath her hoodie, and a snub nosed revolver from her pants pocket. She dropped them all on the ground beneath her chair, as if she didn’t have the energy to walk them to the front door.

“That all?” Jim cracked another nervous smile.

“That’s most of them,” said Sam. Her voice was a mechanical hiss. She bounced her foot on the coffee table and crossed her arms, staring at Jim.

Sam looked about twenty and she was impossibly thin. The hoodie she wore hung from her shoulders like a sail. Most of her face hid in the shadow of the hood, and her eyes were orange sparks in a sea of black.

“Sam was a smoker,” explained Dustin. “She had a tracheotomy, that’s why she sounds weird. She also doesn’t like strangers, but she’s harmless. I’m the conversationalist, obviously.”

“Ah.” Jim’s eyes widened as he watched the peaches. He licked his cracked lips and scratched at his beard absently. “Let’s sit in the kitchen.”

They followed Jim. The linoleum floor was pocked with burns and spotted with mouse shit. Dirty dishes were piled in the sink, covered in black mold and dried food. Large green-black stains emanated from the bottom of the refrigerator, which stalked at the edges of the light, hulking and mustard yellow. There were three bar stools at a central island. “Sit, everyone!”

Jim grabbed bowls and spoons, wiping each with his shirt. The dishes somehow looked dirtier afterwards. “So how did you find me?”

“Long story short, I was here in Columbus with my wife a few months back. We got separated and I ended up in Washington D.C. Now I’m back trying to find her. I had your address from a while ago, and I knew it was a long shot, but I stopped in to see if you were here.” Dustin popped the tab on the peaches can and Jim shuddered with delight at the wet splock it made.

“Sounds like that story’s a lot longer,” said Jim. He set the bowls down and smiled unconsciously for the meal to come.

“We’ve all got long stories Dillweed,” said Sam. Her face was still in total darkness, but Jim got the impression that she was glaring at him. “The city is a wreck, the streets are overrun, but here you are. Still playing house all alone.”

“Yeah, sure. Well,” Jim coughed uncomfortably. He raised his eyebrows and nodded at Dustin. “Like you said, long story short: I was a part of a group outside the city. Then I wasn’t. So I moved back in because I didn’t know where else to go. Been here for a few weeks.”

“And then you weren’t.” Sam continued to stare at Jim. She tensed slowly, like a spring.

“Sorry, Jim,” said Dustin, glancing at Sam. He set the peaches down. “But that seems like a part of the story we should hear.”

Jim scratched his neck and shifted his eyes from Dustin to Sam. His face cracked with worry. “Listen, I’m not infected. I swear I’m not.”

“That’s fine, just tell us what is going on,” Dustin raised his hands and spoke soothingly. Sam continued to coil.

“I’m immune, alright,” Jim shrugged quickly and started flailing his arms, “I was bit, okay? But I didn’t turn and it’s been a long time and I swear I’m not infecte—”

Sam exploded from her seat, knocking the table aside and grabbing Jim’s right hand. Her momentum flung them against the refrigerator. She pulled his hand up over his head and held it there. Jim looked at Dustin sheepishly, his hand still holding a pistol. “I’m not infected. I’m not.”

Dustin got up slowly, and pulled the gun out of Jim’s hand. “Fine. You’re not infected.”

“It was just a precaution,” babbled Jim, “I don’t wanna kill you, but the group I was with, they got a no tolerance policy. One bite, one scratch, they’ll burn you alive. I mean, zombies haven’t killed shit compared to these guys. I ain’t infected.” He turned to Sam, “You’re strong!”

“You’re a twat.”

“Listen,” said Dustin, “We got off on the wrong foot. Jim, we’re not here to hurt you. We just want to stay for the night. You let us do that, and then we’ll be on our way. You can have the peaches. Fair trade.”

“Yeah, yeah sure.” Jim squirmed beneath Sam’s grip.

“Let’s see the bite.”

Sam let go of Jim, and he reached for his shirt. “I’m just going to pull up my shirt, okay?”

Dustin motioned for him to get on with it. Jim lifted the cuff slowly, and exposed a festering wound in the shape of a human bite. Dustin leaned down, “It’s infected.”

“No!” Jim swung a meaty arm into Dustin’s face. Caught off guard, Dustin reeled back into the overturned table. Sam grabbed Jim by the throat and pushed him against the fridge. He looked over at Sam, her face still, amazingly, deep in the shadow of her hood. “Sorry.”

Dustin untangled himself from the table, his calm demeanor evaporating. “Sure, bad word choice. The wound’s infected. You’re not. That’s obvious. Because you are fucking talking. Zombies don’t do that, and people who are infected this long don’t either. Just calm the fuck down. Can you do that?”

Jim nodded. He looked at Sam again, “You smell really bad.”

“You’re still a twat.”

“One more time,” said Dustin, exasperated, “We’ll leave if we have to, but I’d rather stay the night with a roof, and I think you would rather have a meal.”

Jim nodded again. Dustin looked at Sam, and she released him. Dustin offered Jim a hand, “I can treat that wound, too.”

Peaches covered the far wall, and the bowls were scattered everywhere. They reset the table. Jim gathered the peaches and scraped the juice off the wall into his bowl. “I’m sorry. It’s so hard to trust anyone.”

“You don’t say?” Sam was practically vibrating with anger.

“Right. Can we start again?” Jim set out the bowls and spoons and set the recovered peaches in the center of the table. Sam waved him on. “Okay, when the infection thing started, I joined a neighborhood watch. We got proactive on the zombies. Then we started tracking down people we thought were infected. We called it NT. No tolerance. Open wounds, cuts, bites, didn’t matter. Dragged them into the streets and burned their bodies. Their houses. Their stuff. About a month ago, I got bit and so I ran. I came back here, I didn’t know where else to go.”

“Family?” asked Dustin.

Pain flickered across Jim’s face. He shook his head almost imperceptibly and forced out a quiet, “no.”

“How have you survived since then?” asked Dustin.

Jim shrugged noncommittally, the peaches were all he could look at now, “It’s been hard.”

“Eat.” Said Dustin. He filled his own bowl from the second can. Sam played with her empty bowl. “My wife Christine and I were located at the Riverside Hospital when the fire bombings happened about three months ago. We were working for the government on a project to try and help the infection. We got separated when the hospital blew up. The military outfit that was watching over us took me and a few other scientists and I ended up outside of D.C. I came back to find her, and I met Sam on the way.”

Jim was making loud slurping noises, fitting entire peach halves into his mouth. His eyes bulged with ecstasy. He looked at Sam.

“I like the dark mysterious vibe I’ve got going.” Sam fashioned her hand into a gun and shot at him sarcastically. So much for new beginnings.

Jim turned back to Dustin. “Did your daughter...?”

“No. She was gone long before the zombies.” Dustin stared at his bowl. Finally, he said, “It’s probably better that way.”

“Yeah,” said Jim, glancing at a picture frame sitting on the stove. It was turned away from them. Dustin knew then what happened to Jim’s family.

“You can come with us,” offered Dustin. Sam’s head snapped to, and her fingernails started to grind into her plastic bowl.

Jim smiled ruefully. “I dono. This is still my home.” There was a maniacal glint in his eye, and his eyes flitted back to the frame.

The rest of their dinner was silent. Jim showed t

hem the sleeping arrangements: there was a soggy couch in the living room and a relatively well-kept bed in the guest room. Dustin took the bed, and Sam took the couch.

Hours passed. The wind howled and the house creaked like a tired old man. Jim stared at the ceiling, which, despite his best efforts, was starting to fall apart in giant clumps. How odd to be visited by specters from a past life. And now they offered a new life: to join them on the road.

Leaving would mean getting away from endless starvation and claustrophobia, but it also meant abandoning the spirits. Sometimes Jim swore he could hear his wife wandering the halls, and the laughter of his daughters in darkened bedrooms. He would run from room to room, mad from thirst and hunger, calling their names. On the worst days, when the wind howled through broken windows, Jim could hear their screams, and screamed with them, curled on the floor, delirious and broken.

Jim was sure they lingered here, trying to tell him something. Something about... something. Regardless, those peaches were the best meal he had had since the last roamers stopped by. Their carcasses had long since run out of edible meats. He wondered absently, if they hung in his basement long enough, whether they would turn into jerky.

No matter, his mind was made. Jim reached into his dresser drawer and pulled out a long carving knife. It was a new world, and this world had new rules. He really would feel bad about Dustin. Sam, however, he would relish her death.

“Thank you, Gwen,” he whispered to the darkness.

Jim snuck into the living room, melting from one shadow to another. He leaned in close to Sam. The smell coming off of her almost made him gag.

Jim raised the knife and pulled her hood back with his other hand. She had a small face with an upturned nose, and her ears stuck out too far on either side of her face. She was cute, in a mousey way. She couldn’t be much older than his daughters when they died. Jim shook his head. No turning back now. He laced his fingers into her hair and held tight.

Jim stabbed into Sam’s neck with a sharp, piercing blow. Her large eyes snapped open. He stabbed her again. The knife slid in easily and came back out gummy with congealed blood. Confused, he cursed softly, “What the hell?”

Sam’s cold hand palmed Jim’s face and muffled the surprised scream. The bones in Sam’s fingertips pressed through her rotting flesh as she squeezed.

“I knew you were a twat,” she hissed.