Survivors, Part 2: Two Lonely People

The gun-man must've realized he was leaving tracks. I lose them at a half-frozen creek. Can't smell him out either, he had too much time to put space between us. Oh well.

I plop down the corpse on my shoulder, drink him dry, bash his skull in, steal his boots and clothes and put 'em in my bag. Then I chuck his nearly-naked corpse down a ravine. Hey, don't judge. Not like he needed any of it anymore. As for the messy disposal, you can't save corpses for long. Besides veins hardening and blood turning to molasses, bodies have a habit of getting back up eventually, if you don't destroy the brain.

Either way, back to wandering.

The birch trees give way to pine trees. The area's rugged, not quite mountains, but it feels like it when I'm climbing up and down endless ravines and steep rocky hills. It takes all day, after the morning scrap, to find a road. It's one of those simple, narrow country highways, covered in snow.

It's totally dark out, 'cause the street lamps have been dead for ages, and cloud cover's hiding the moon. Not a big deal. I can see pretty well in the dark. I push my shades up.

Eventually I spot one of New Hampshire's many covered bridges, like a little barn over a little river, pretty as a Christmas postcard. Except for the car parked sideways in front of the entrance. I head over, scratch frost off a window and peek inside for useful loot.

Whispering voices nearby. I straighten up, call out, "Hello?"

The whispering stops. I peer over the car into the bridge. Piles of branches make a dam-like wall on the other end of the bridge, another car is parked inside, miscellaneous supplies are piled around it. After a second, I see figures shuffling around the opposite side of it.

They can't see me in the dark. I pull out a lighter, flick it on and hold it up like I'm at a Bob Dylan concert. "Hello?"

Not scared of them. Just trying to look less threatening. They can see me now, probably think I can't see them.

"What do you want?" a woman calls. Something weirdly familiar about her voice, which is weird enough I don't answer for a few seconds.

"Uh. Nothing. Didn't know anyone was in there."

"Are you alone?"

"Yep."

"How do we know you're not trying to rob us?"

"Well, you don't."

Some more quiet whispering. I stay still with the Zippo overhead.

"I got supplies to spare," I say.

The jury deliberates a little longer before the woman calls out again, "Okay. Come in slowly with your hands up."

I do that, leaving the rebar leaning against the car. A flashlight beams on from the other side of the other car, hiding the wielder while she (presumably she) scans me up and down with it. Apparently satisfied, she lowers the beam toward the cement, and two of them walk around to me.

"Are we good?" I ask.

"I guess," she sighs. Up close, I see they're both women, and the first woman looks naggingly familiar. I can't tell who she is, though, with all the layers of winter clothing.

"Do I know you?" I say.

"You recognize me," she says. "Lina Minassian."

"Wait, seriously? The celebrity?"

"Do you know anyone else with that name?" she snaps. "Who are you?"

"Van Renard." I look at the unidentified woman.

"Kira."

Lina says, "What supplies are you offering?"

I flick off the lighter and drop my pack down. "Anything you want in there, I guess."

They look through it. They pull out the boots, some of the clothes, rubbing alcohol and bandages, second set of sewing supplies. Can never have enough sewing supplies these days. They look surprised over the gun.

"You'd give us a gun?" Lina says.

"Sure."

"Do you have something against guns?"

"Nah."

That's half a lie. I'm not against 'em on principle. But loud noises attract zombies and scare away wild game, and bullet holes waste precious blood.

"Keep it," she says. "We have our own."

I shrug.

"There's no food in here," she says. "We can spare some."

"I'm good. Ate my last rations on the way here."

The girls push the pack back to me, still mostly full.

"We're not lighting a fire," Lina says, with an accusing stare, as if I'd asked for fire. "We'll get back in the car. It's warm enough. You can sit in the front."

Another shrug. They pile into the back seat, surrounded by more clothes and a couple quilts. Towels are nailed to the inside frame as makeshift curtains over the windows. It warms up quickly with the two of them in here. I don't make a difference one way or another, except as another 140 pounds of insulation, I suppose. I curl up sideways in the front seat.

"What did you do before?" Lina asks.

"Part-time. Odds and ends. Nothing special. This economy, right? Guess I don't have to ask you the same thing, since, uh... Anyway, what about you?" I look at Kira.

Kira looks awkward. "I was a bus driver."

"Nothing wrong with that."

Now they both look awkward, glancing off in opposite directions. Okay then. After a long, awkward silence, I make up an excuse about being tired from walking, and pretend to doze off. They fall asleep behind me.

Nothing like being the newcomer on group drama.