(Book 3) Left 4 Dead 3: Dry County

3.2

“Overrun??”

The news had struck the visionaries like a fiery plum, shattering their hopes and blowing them up into smithereens. Their faces were marked by melancholy and despair. Those survival efforts and narrow squeaks, all went in vain. Fate made them for a fool—believing they would be saved for good; only for them to be led astray. Sheriff Dalton was generous to take the survivors in and let them stay in his station; they were lucky to be alive at this point. 

“The zombies and the people were getting out of hand,” Dalton explained. “So they bombed the base last night.” Every single word was a gale: strong enough to crush the walls of their faith, but not to lift them up. 

Brenan, sitting on the bench, slowly leaned forward, arms on his thighs. “So you're tellin’ us…that we busted our asses out runnin’ away from zombies and dodgin’ those freakin’ bullets for squat?” He made some agitated hand gestures as he complained.

Sigh. “I’m sorry…” The lawman muttered. “But you'll probably end up in the same fate had you guys reached the base on time,” he added. “Doesn't mean those Choppers ambushing you was right either. It’s a whole conundrum.”

A weary exhale escaped the medic. “Yeah, can't argue with that,” he wearily replied and shook his head. Suddenly, silence poured into the room, and the air was filled with dread. Then, Brenan eyed Dwain, drawn by his posture. He observed the man. His elbow was on the desk, fist clenched up bracing his lips. Eyes were glued to the floor. Given he was their leader, everything must be harder for him. He had no idea what was going on in the ebony’s mind. But he can clearly see the disappointment on his face. 

He stared at Daeshim, there he saw the same imagery and felt the same misery. It wasn't really that hard to see with his pale skin.

He looked at Jess, and furrows formed above his brows. That plain ivory face of hers never changed the whole time, it was a whole wilderness. Her emotions were difficult if not impossible to grasp.

Then, he nabbed an eyeful of the floor before asking Dwain, “What's your call, man?” 

Dwain closed his eyes, and then made a heavy, deep breath upon opening them back. The weight of all the responsibilities and the decisions to bear, laid wide on his broad shoulders. More burdens were opened, all coming down to him in rancor, constantly clobbering and trampling on his heart. A rasp in the form of a gritty whisper shot out. He pressed his lips, at first no words could escape. All of a sudden, his chest rose and was followed by a vocal line. 

“Do we know where’d they bring survivors before they got thrashed?” 

“When we evacuated our folks, the army said they were gonna fly them to Alaska, where the zombies won't live.” Dalton replied. 

“Winter aside, we're sitting in the middle of the scorching wilderness, yet look at the amount of zombies we’ve killed, so I doubt it.” Viper barged in. “I don't know where the fuck those bitches were even  coming from.” 

Dwain’s eyes shimmered with acknowledgement, and then swept them towards the wall, a canvas for his contemplations. His gaze ran down to the edge where it met with the floor, sunlight came in shapes as they lay on the surface. There, he saw the reflection of his thoughts. 

But the lawman’s voice intruded on his moment of heed once more. “You know, it wouldn't be a big deal if you all stay here,” he assured. “And I mean, for good. Or say, at least as long as until this shit’s over.”

Again, Brenan’s inquisitiveness took point. “Why'd y’all choose to stay here though?” 

A vacuum timidly booted up over Dalton's tongue. The chair caught his back, and his hands hung on its armrests. “The answer to that question is as simple as a barn dance, kid,” he replied, face lighting up with a lifted chin and an assertive demeanor. “This is our town. We grew up here.” That was his answer. He watched the young man’s face mold into acceptance. “It ain't nothing like Salt Lake City, or Miami-Dade, but this place’s all we had. That simple.”