Wasteland

I'm Low On Gas and You Need a Jacket

She refused to talk for the entire ride into the town. If I was correct in consulting the map, we were now in some obsolete place on the border on Indiana and Illinois. We’d already driven through a few cities and towns, most were ravaged from the infestation. This place was as well, but it was more quiet than most of the others. They all had blaring and incessant horns of ambulances and police who never made it to their destinations, the screams of terrified people, the imminent growl of zombies; the streets we littered with trash, everyday objects, clothes, scrap metal, abandoned cars, body parts, human road kill, and an overall hopeless feel.

Yet the streets here were devoid of any living people or cars. The windows were all boarded, the doors locked tight. “Do you think all the people just picked up and left?” I asked, turning to look at the resolutely silent Merida.

She considered me soundlessly for a moment. “No. I wouldn’t say that. See that Inn over there?” I followed her pointing finger. “Look at the top right window.” At first nothing happened. The old dusty window barely let me see the curtains. But I could see enough to notice when the curtain pulled snugly shut. “Zombies don’t care if they’re seen or not. Those are living people in there. Stop the car. Maybe they’ll give us a place to sleep for the night. And some food other than chips and soda.” Her lip curled in distaste with the last words.

I led the sports car to the side of the dirt road, and we cautiously stepped out, our hands resting on our guns. At the old wooden door I looked over at Merida. “What makes you think that they’ll open the door for us? For all they know we could be zombies.”

Merida smirked at me. “Zombies don’t knock.” She then proceeded to rap her knuckles on the door a couple of times.

We waited in silence for someone to answer. I was debating just getting back into the car and just sleeping in there for another few hours (even though I wasn’t sure I could handle the poor quality mixed with the brevity of our naps again) when the door opened a sliver. All I could see was a shock of grey hair, old blue eyes, and a dirty pale pink apron.

“Wha’d ya want?” Asked a gruff and low female voice.

“Only a place to spend the night.” Merida answered immediately, her eyes telling me not to speak.

“Yeah. And probably some fresh water to drink and bathe with. And eat up all my food and preserves.” The old lady said indignantly.

“Please, ma’am. My boyfriend and I only need one night of help. Then we’ll be off. We’re both very sore and tired.” Merida pleaded. Boyfriend? I’m pretty I was the farthest thing from her boyfriend.

The lady stared at us with unreadable eyes. She finally opened the door enough for us both to squeeze through. Once were both inside the lady wasted no time in shutting and sliding the lock on the door behind us, saying, “Can’t just wait for them zombie to waltz on in here to my fine establishment.” She slung her wooden rifle over her shoulder in a practiced movement.

The lady roughly beckoned for us to follow her. “This place is mine and Christopher’s. We got it from ‘is parents once they got too old to keep up with demands, you know?” The lady’s wiry silver hair was pulled back into a messy bun, and she was a rather plump woman, whose rump swayed to each side with a pronounced swish when she walked. Yet she walked stiffly, as if both of her legs were straight as board and she had to waddle because of it. “Where you two from?”

“New York.” Merida answered.

“Hm. Never been.” The lady responded unconcernedly. “I’ll assume you two lovebirds’ll like to share a room. ‘nfact, this is one o’ my only rooms left. This place got ransacked when the zombies came into town, so just try’n make do. Dinner’ll ‘e served in fifteen” She said, opening one door in a hall of three or four. “Here’s your key.” She dropped it into my hand before her turned and left.