An Outcast State

Preface

The first thing you’re going to want to know is how it began. I get it. Even now, that’s all some people talk about. But guess what? Knowing won’t make it better. It never does. Besides, I don’t know how it started, and to be honest - I don’t really care. You know what question I’d like to see answered? The only one that really matters? How it ended.

But that will have to be someone else’s story.

The books I used to read about them always started one of two ways. The authors either explained what happened to cause people to start changing, or they would tell you what the zombies or mutants or what-have-you in their imaginary world were like. Like I said, I can’t help you with the first part, so I’ll try the second.

At first, they looked normal enough. It’s not like whatever changed them instantly turned them into walking corpses like in those books. All it really seemed to do was make them quiet. One minute, you were talking with your best friend or your teacher or whomever; the next minute they’d just be staring off into space, ignoring everything and everyone, which was noteworthy considering all of the people who were falling over vomiting blood and dying.

We all thought the ones who changed were going to be fine. They were survivors like us. They were just in shock or something. Given all of the death and chaos surrounding us, it was easy enough to believe. Easy, but, ultimately, very wrong. People began to realize just how wrong about two days later. That’s when the things got hungry.

I’ll skip the worst of the details, but they pretty much eat anything and everything that crosses their paths. All that seems to matter is that their food does need to be fresh, as in walking around fresh. I have no idea why, but they eat no carrion, and they don’t eat each other. It’d be nice if they did, but in a way it’s good to know their hunger has some limits. I can’t say I blame them though. Based on their appearances, I’m guessing they must taste like something your neighbor’s dog would leave on your lawn. And it didn’t take long for them to start looking that way either. Within a few days after they started feeding, they were like caricatures of the dirtiest homeless people imaginable. Their clothes, if they had them at all, were in tatters, and obviously they have no inclination toward hygiene, so the smell got bad in a hurry too.

Even with their appearance and their stench though, we believed they were still human on some level, or at least that they weren’t actually zombies. Zombies have died and come back. These guys are disgusting enough, but they aren’t corpses. I mean, we do know the difference, but we have to call them something. Oh, and they don’t shuffle like zombies. The ones in books are always shuffling their feet and moaning. Ours don’t make noise, and they don’t shuffle. In fact, if you saw one walking from a distance, you might easily mistake it for a human, but it’s a mistake you’d get to make only once.

That reminds me. The books always tell you how to kill the zombies. The ones I read always said that you had to damage the brain in order to kill them. Sure enough, that works, but it isn’t the only way. Fire does them in if you have enough of it. You’ve really got to cook them in order for fire to work, but they do seem to retain some sort of healthy respect for it. I can’t say they fear it exactly; they don’t seem to fear anything, but they do try to avoid fire if they can. Any kind of massive trauma also usually seals the deal.

My usual method involves the only kind of math I ever liked doing short division on their skulls with an axe. Even then though, it’s not always enough. That kind of toughness is the reason a lot of people think the zombies are a result of some kind of military experiment to create a super soldier or something. But like I said, how they got here doesn’t really matter anymore. However it happened, they’re definitely here now.

In fact, as I write this, an entire herd of them is outside this building trying to claw its way in. The door to this place is reasonably solid, but it won’t hold forever. Doesn’t really matter I guess since I’m planning on opening it soon anyway.

The only comforting thought I have is that I don’t imagine the eaters are going to have any interest in this book. That means there’ll be some kind of record of my having been here, something that could give my death a little meaning. Assuming it even gets found. It’s better not to think about it. I have enough problems for today.

Speaking of those problems, I wonder if I had the last few weeks to do over again, knowing now how it’s going to end, would I be smart enough this time just to walk away from that girl. Somehow, I really doubt it.

Chapter One

As I steered my bike off of the main road and on to an oak and pecan tree-covered, slightly upper-middle class residential street in what was left of Dallas, Texas, I was finally able to relax a little in my seat. I had ridden 70 good miles that day, all of it through heat so intense that the asphalt on the road had bubbled out in places. The shade here from the many trees felt like industrial air conditioning by comparison, so I eased the pedals back to a steady coast, enjoyed the breeze, and kept my eyes open. I also made sure to stick to the wide-open spaces away from parked cars or any sort of cover. Not that eaters ever take cover, but humans still do. If you can find any.

It’s crazy how so many people just took off after the outbreak. I guess they figured there was nothing to stay put for. Some went to join family wherever they had it. Some headed for the hills. For the most part though, I think people just felt that anywhere must be better than where they were. It makes no sense really, but since when have people ever been accused of doing that?

Other people, when I have to interact with them, seldom want to talk about it, but there are two schools of thought about people since the big change. The first says that even the people who survived the outbreak were changed in some way. They became more selfish, less trustworthy. Maybe. There are certainly more things to be afraid of now, but I’m in the other school, the one that says that people didn’t change at all. All that love your neighbor crap wasn’t real. It was just in everyone’s best interest to play along with a certain set of rules that benefited those who played by them. People were nice because they were afraid of what would happen to them if they weren’t. Now that there is something more to fear than not being promoted or not getting invited to join some country club, people act in a way that benefits them the most in these circumstances. Except it doesn’t benefit them at all, and they’re all too stupid or too afraid to see it, so I choose to avoid them when I can.

Fortunately, this street, like most, seemed pretty empty. I didn’t have to ride for long before I saw what I was looking for either a nice two-story house that wasn’t too large. It was light blue with dark blue trim on the eaves and the shutters. There was even a blue mini-van parked in the sloped driveway. Whoever these people are or were, they liked their blue. But it wasn’t the color scheme that drew my eye.

I pulled in and left my bike on the front porch, eased my hatchet out of my overstuffed canvas backpack, and walked from one end of the porch to the other, looking in windows for any signs of life. Seeing none, I walked down the front steps noiselessly, hatchet up and ready. I took a left and then another at the end of the porch and approached the closed wooden gate that led to the backyard. I kept myself glued to the side of the house as I walked. There would soon be a time for being seen and heard, but this wasn’t it. As I reached the gate, I lifted the metal latch that held it closed and swung the heavy door inward, silently cursing its screeching hinges. I knew better than to try them without oiling them first. I must have been more tired than I had realized. Thankfully, the next thing I encountered wasn’t an armed homeowner, but a slightly rusted, red tricycle knocked carelessly on its side. I eased past the trike and walked quickly along the pave stones that led along the side of the house and into the backyard.

Everything appeared relatively intact. There was a path from the back fence that led to a small creek running behind the house. The creek was too small for fish and the water too foul for humans, but perhaps small game animals would come to drink there. Inside the yard, there was a tool shed, blue of course, with the lock undone but the door closed. Anything of use was probably taken when the original owners left, if they did, but it was still a good sign.

The only detail in this suburban paradise that gave me pause was a small spot in the yard just off the porch. Bricks had been pulled from the flower bed to form a ring, and cold gray ash still sat huddled up against them, seeking what shelter they could find from the prairie winds. Someone had been making fires, but there was no way to know how long ago.

I moved on and completed the formality of knocking several times before breaking out a square of glass on the windowed door frame and letting myself inside. I wasn’t quiet about it anymore. If anyone was home, I didn’t want to find out after I was bottled up inside an unfamiliar space. Satisfied for the moment, I took in the details of the room, noting the location of the kitchen pantry for later. My prize for the moment, the stairs, could be seen in the mirrors that lined the entryway to the front of the house.

I moved along on the balls of my feet, keeping my weight centered and low in case of trouble, but as I expected, I saw no one. I glanced out the window again. The sun was dropping. I had probably an hour of daylight left and much work to do before darkness fell, so I moved as quickly as caution would allow through the bottom floor of the house. If anyone was hiding, I was almost sure they would meet me on the stairs where they would hold the high ground in a fight, but I couldn’t afford another mistake like the gate, so I assumed nothing and continued my search.

After turning over or shifting every piece of furniture large enough to hide behind, under, or in, and calling out to the upstairs one last time, I marched carefully up the steps, my hatchet at the ready. Though I managed to reach the top without any trouble, I still had to repeat the same process I’d just gone through downstairs. I was going to be cutting it very close on time. An attic, three bedrooms, and two bathrooms later, I was satisfied I was alone.

I worked my way back downstairs and out the back door, this time exchanging caution for speed. I needed to get my bike prepped for the evening, secure the back gate so that no one could open it as easily as I had, search downstairs for supplies, and still get the stairs secured. That final step is, by far, the most important, and it’s the reason a two-story house is so valuable; furniture piled at the bottom makes a barricade that eaters can’t get past without making enough noise to raise the dead, or at least to prevent me from actually finding out.

After I had the bike and the gate secured, my next stop was the kitchen and what I had good reason to hope was a post-apocalyptic suburban goldmine. The only problem was that it was getting darker by the minute. I had a flashlight, but unless I found new batteries, I was reluctant to use it. Still, I wanted this search done that night, so I practically ran to the pantry, held my breath, and pulled open the door. The riches inside were so great, I almost forgot to breathe again. Granola bars, dry cereal, dry fruit, applesauce, and all manner of foods that people with children; and, therefore, tricycles and minivans, seemingly always keep on hand. The only thing missing was some nice protein like tuna or peanut butter. I could have checked the refrigerator for them, but opening it would only unleash what was certain to be a terrible smell. Some doors are better left closed.

Giddy with my discovery, I loaded my arms with all that I could carry and headed upstairs with my treasure. For reasons I still cannot explain, I took a last glance over my shoulder through the kitchen and noticed something I should never have missed a door. It was right there across from the pantry, and it obviously led to a garage. It should have been one of the first places I checked downstairs, if for no other reason than to look for tools. A house with a tool shed, even an empty one, was likely also to have usable items in its garage.

I contemplated leaving it for the morning, but I would never sleep properly with an unchecked door in the house. Sighing, I put down my buffet, retrieved my hatchet and my flashlight, and eased the door open. I swung the light from one end of the room to the other so quickly that I missed her at first. On my second pass back over the room, my light caught the reflection of a pair of eyes, and I froze. Her hand up to block the light, a young girl somewhere near my own age of 17 glared back at me, not even an ounce of fear in her eyes.

It took you long enough to look in here, she complained. I was starting to think I was going to have to spend the night in this garage.

Keeping the light squarely in her eyes, I carefully considered my options.

You are, I finally told her as I stepped quickly back and shut the door, scooting a chair from the kitchen in front of it to wedge it shut.

Some doors are better left closed.

Chapter Two

I stood and stretched away the last remnants of sleep, grabbed my pack, and headed into the bathroom. Some things can’t wait. Plus, I wanted to brush my teeth and try to look at least a little presentable before meeting my captive. As I looked in the mirror, I knew I wasn’t up to such a challenge. I ran my fingers through my overly-long mop of brown hair and tried to make it lay it in some direction that suggested I might have once had a hairstyle. I tried to think of something else I could do to improve my appearance, but I’m no miracle worker. Out of desperation, I tried the faucet. What I needed was a shower, but splashing water on my face would have at least helped. The taps were bone dry, but I hadn’t expected anything different. I grabbed my paste and my canteen and brushed at the sink. Finally, I could delay no more.

Before heading downstairs, I did take the precaution of grabbing a granola bar as a sort of peace offering. Garages being notoriously low on foodstuffs, I figured she might be hungry. Then again, a family with kids and a minivan probably shopped at those warehouse stores and might have tons of stuff stockpiled in the garage. Just another reason I should have checked there sooner yesterday. I debated taking my hatchet, but I figured that if she were seriously armed, she would have used whatever she had on me yesterday. Besides, granola bar in one hand and axe in the other sends kind of a mixed message.

Back downstairs, unarmed and with as much of a smile as I could force, I removed the chair, opened the door, and prepared for the worst. I wasn’t foolish enough to have headed in there blind, so I just stood in the safety of the kitchen and waited for her to emerge. Either she was too scared to come out or she was as stubborn as I am. Points to her for patience, but I didn’t have time for this.

If you want to get out of there anytime soon, it’s now or never, I called out to her. If you’re too scared to come out, that’s fine. When I leave in the next day or so, I’ll open the door on my way out. Even then though, you won’t actually know that I’ve gone unless you come out, so you might as well do it now. I’m not a threat to you. I don’t know why I encouraged her to come out; I did my best to avoid most people. Then again, I didn’t usually imprison most people either. I just hadn’t known what else to do at the time.

Slowly, she emerged from the darkness. She wasn’t exactly rushing out to greet me, but she wasn’t looking away or ducking her head either. Points to her again, this time for bravery, especially since, as I had predicted, her hands were empty.

What’s your problem? she asked me as she stepped into the kitchen, glaring at me with her arms crossed and a look on her face that absolutely dared me to answer her. You locked me in that garage all night long! Do you have any idea how hot and uncomfortable it is in there? She put her anger on hold just long enough to look at her watch. And do you even know what time it is? I was starting to wonder if you were ever going to let me out!

I prepared myself for the tears that I knew were coming, but for the first of what would prove to be many times, she surprised me. She stood there unmoving and staring me down. She was angry, but she wasn’t emotional or feeling sorry for herself. I respected that, and I felt even worse about what I had done. I wanted to make amends to her. I just wasn’t sure how.

I brought you some food, I offered as a form of apology, remembering the granola bar.

I hope you’re not expecting me to say thank you for this, she said, though she practically tore the food from my hands.

I’m not expecting anything, and I have more of those if you’re hungry. I can spare a few.

"Wow, that’s so generous of you," she said between large bites.

I rather thought it was, but I opted for keeping my mouth shut unlike my recent captive, who, I noted, was apparently attempting to exact her revenge by spewing equal parts anger and partially chewed granola my way. I still wanted to make peace, but she needed to understand that I had done, and would do again, whatever I thought was necessary to keep both of us safe during the brief time there would be a both of us to protect.

If you don’t want the food, that’s no problem. I can put these bars back where they came from. For that matter, if we can’t play nicely together, I can do that with a lot of things.

She stared at me, chewing in silence and deciding if I was sincere in my threat. She eventually reached the logical conclusion and curtly nodded her understanding, so I extended another olive branch.

I’m sorry, okay? You surprised me. I was tired, and I had no way to know whether you were a threat and no way to convince you that I wasn’t. Leaving you locked up seemed to be the best solution.

Still no reaction from her, but at least she wasn’t spraying crumbs at me. I’m Corbin, I said, extending my hand.

She reached her hand out slowly, the way a stray takes food from a stranger. Understandable, I guess, considering I did technically kennel her overnight. Molly, she muttered and even attempted a weak smile. She seemed to accept my explanation with a surprising amount of good grace given where we had started. She was either desperate for company, or she was practical in the extreme.

Excellent. Now that we’re on civil terms, I need to continue looking through this place for food and whatnot, and you can continue doing whatever you were doing when I temporarily and mistakenly detained you, I said.

"No way, Corbin, she snarled, once again staring at me and placing a heavy emphasis on my name, as if knowing it somehow gave her a special power over me. You can’t just come in here and take a bunch of stuff that doesn’t belong to you." Her voice was threatening, though she appeared to have no means to back it up.

"First, Molly, I actually can, I retorted, keeping my own voice calm. I know because I already did it last night. Second, what’s it to you? I offered to share. Anyway, if you don’t like it, you can walk out however you walked in. I’m not stopping you."

No, she blurted. I don’t want to leave.

That settled it she was desperate for human contact.

I took a second to actually look at her objectively for the first time. She was wearing denim shorts and a plain blue T-shirt that conformed to her lean, toned build. She couldn’t have been much over five feet tall. In fact, with her size, I was surprised that she traveled alone, but then size isn’t everything. Great waves of red hair that were pulled back into a pony-tail spilled just past her shoulders, and the blanket of freckles on her light-skinned face reminded me of a connect-the-dots puzzle. She was not, I acknowledged begrudgingly, what you could call completely unattractive.

What did you take? she finally asked me, fidgeting uncomfortably under my gaze. I hadn’t meant to stare.

Not much. Just some food and junk. The same stuff you came in here for, I’m guessing. Alright, I said, shrugging. Fair is far. We can split the food. It’s more than either of us could carry anyway, but no promises about anything else here. I haven’t finished searching everything yet. I’m guessing you didn’t get very far either judging by what was left.

Her shoulders slumped slightly as she became temporarily fascinated with the floor. No, but I doubt we were looking for the same things.

I perked up and asked, What are you looking for? Maybe we can work a trade. The look of very near horror she gave me told me what she thought I wanted to trade for wasn’t something you could carry in a pack. Fair enough. A lot of people in this situation might have thought the same.

I can assure you that was not what I was suggesting. I feigned just enough of an offended tone to let her know that, while she might have been cute, I wasn’t interested in bartering for that.

Hmph, she huffed. I couldn’t tell if she believed me or thought that I had been testing the waters with my offer. No matter. I didn’t intend to stick around long enough for it to matter.

I turned, entered the kitchen, and began opening drawers and overturning them on the counters. I wanted matches, lighters, batteries, rubber bands, twist ties, a good knife, a spare can opener, and anything else small enough to carry and useful enough to displace something else from my pack. I was loaded down already with about the maximum amount of gear that I could carry, so any deposits to my pack had to be met with an equivalent withdrawal. With few exceptions, gear that I found mostly got stashed somewhere and marked on my map for later.

As the old keys and pens and assorted junk, some semi-useful, most not, rained down in a clattering waterfall onto the counter, Molly took a step into the kitchen and watched me. What are you looking for? she asked quietly. There’s nothing in those drawers.

Well, Molly, not to impugn your powers of observation, but all this crap here on the counter begs to differ with you, I quipped without looking up. I scooped up a small flat head screwdriver with a chipped handle and examined it before returning it to the pile. I eased past Molly, who, by now, was watching me with hawk’s eyes. I supposed that she was making sure I didn’t pick up anything she missed that she might now want to claim. Good luck with that, I privately wished her.

I opened a small cabinet next to the stove where I hoped these people had kept their seasonings. I was out of salt, and most houses had an ample supply. Salt is another thing no one ever remembers to take when fleeing an apocalypse. I found every seasoning imaginable, but no salt. Who keeps a seasoning cabinet with no salt? I slammed the door a little in frustration, causing Molly to jump slightly.

What are you looking for?