Chapter Thirty-Six

When Char woke up, first thing she noticed was sunlight from the slightly parted curtain filling the room. She shielded her eyes with the back of one hand, as she threw off the bedspread and sheets. With bare feet planted on icy hardwoods, she shivered. She thought she’d seen slippers before going to bed, but wasn’t sure where. Right now, she needed to use the bathroom more than she felt the need to search for slippers.

Cash still slept. It had to be after seven. She wanted to be up before daybreak and on the move. Something about the room must have tricked them into getting a good night’s rest. Sleeping had been rough the last two nights. Last night was not only refreshing, it was appreciated.

Before Char could remove the desk she’d slid in front of the door to block it, she needed to un-stack everything she’d piled on top. It didn’t really make the desk heavier, it just ensured things would fall off and wake her if anyone, or anything, tried pushing their way in.

As she pulled off dolls, snow globes, books and dirty clothing, trophies, a lamp and crystal unicorn shaped knick-knacks, she listened. It sounded quiet beyond the bedroom. No feet shuffled. No grunts. No moans. Most of all, no smell.

The dead smelled. There was no explaining it, and more importantly, no mistaking it. She often felt like a wolf when walking the streets with her little brother. Her nose raised, nostrils flared, head cocking from one side, then the other. She wasn’t trying to see the dead. She was trying to smell them. Thing is, you see one, it’s obvious. They don’t hide. They don’t wait to attack you. One spots you, you spot it, and you run. And they chase. And the dead can run. Fast. Hunger drives them, no doubt.

But if you smell them, you can avoid them. Avoid being chased.

Chases are bad. It’s how they’d gotten sidetracked. The plan once leaving her mom’s house had been simple. Go find dad. She knew how to get to his apartment on the main roads. The zombies forced her and Cash to find alternate ways the last day and a half.

In this house, whatever house they were in, she did not smell the dead. At least not upstairs. Not near the still shut, still mostly barricaded bedroom door.

She cast a look at Cash as she pushed the desk away from the door. By the bed, leaning against the mattress was her pick-head axe. It was thirty-six inches long and just under fifteen pounds. Swinging it was not a problem. Crushing a dead’s head, simple enough.

Char needed strength freeing the blade or pick side once embedded inside a skull. She hated having to step on the dead’s neck and yank every time, especially when more dead were around, and there was only little time to retrieve the weapon currently impaled in a dead’s brain.

She decided to leave the axe. The house was silent. Cash would know it was there. If he woke up, he might even take more comfort seeing the handle of the axe near him, than his own big sister.

Char twisted the knob slow ly and opened the door but a fraction. She knew the hinges squeaked. But only at about twenty-five degrees. She also knew the third step from the bottom at the edge of the hallway squeaked. Normally, she’d never remember either thing. Currently, knowing what makes noise, when, and how, could be the difference between survival and becoming dinner for the dead.

Once she squeezed through the doorway, Char moved stealthily down the hall, past the staircase, toward the bathroom. She stopped at the banister, and gave the downstairs a once-over. Nothing looked troubling, the front door was shut. The chain engaged.

She sniffed at the air. Stale. Musty. The house must have been vacant since the virus spread, since the vaccination, meant to stop the H7N9, infected most of the United States. That was how long ago now? A year ago? Almost two?

In the bathroom, Char shut the door. Protocol was broken. She knew it. She engaged the simple twist lock on the center of the knob. The wood door was solid. Old houses were great that way. Hardwood floors, gum wood trim, and when taking shelter from the dead, solid doors. Nice.

If Cash ever went to the bathroom alone, she’d knock him in the head with a Bible and hope some common sense sank in. He was nine though. A kid. Stupid, even. Forget the fact he’s a boy, and boys just don’t think things through. At fourteen, Char knew better.

Usually.

Except this time.

When she finished with the toilet. She depressed the handle. It flushed. The bowl filled, her waste swirled and sank and shot through the plumbing.

Running water.

She closed her eyes, shook her head.

When she opened them, she knew what she’d see. The drawn shower curtain. How long had it been since she’d bathed? Just two days?

It couldn’t hurt. A fast shower. Even if the water was icy cold. The idea of a bar of soap ... wait, wait ... she parted the curtain, and yes, yes, soap, shampoo – conditioner, a razor! A razor!

She had to do it. A fast shower. And Cash could take one too. God knows he smelled raw. She must, too, it was just harder to admit. Easier to blame the stank on him.

She stepped out of her clothing, turned on the faucet and almost cried. Water flowed. But not just cold. Hot, too. She was going to have a hot shower. It felt like Christmas. The smile she wore felt so wide the corners of her mouth already began to ache. The muscles rarely used, were flabby and out of shape. She’d have to try smiling more, just wasn’t much these days’ worth smiling over. She missed living with her dad, her parents being apart, and now this . . . zombies.

While it felt like it was over in moments, Char knew she must have been in the shower for over half an hour. The hot water was barely tepid. If Cash was going to shower, he’d at least need water that wasn’t freezing. Or else she could just imagine him arguing with her about even getting in. And he was going to shower. Icy cold water, or not. The boy needed soap embedded in his skin, if not a flea-bath dip to boot.

She towel dried, pulled her newly scented Rain Forest hair under her nose and breathed it in. She didn’t know if the dead would smell her, the way she smelled them, but she also knew the fresh, clean hair would only last the day. By tomorrow, she’d begin to stink again. And so would Cash.

Char decided she’d put the bathroom supplies into her back-pack. Take the items with them. She wasn’t sure an actual rain forest smelled like this shampoo, but she was sure . . .

She took in a quick breath, lips closed tight and sniffed.

She released her hair, let it fall over her shoulder and turned her head toward the closed bathroom door. She sniffed again.

Her heart beat accelerated.

Dead.

Outside the door? Could be downstairs still. The smell, however, was strong enough to make her think—

Cash!

She spun around. The axe—she’d left her father’s weapon in the bedroom. Cash knew how to use it. It was heavy for him, but he was getting better at wielding it.

The sink counter-top held a bar of soap, a cup with three toothbrushes, and a can of shaving cream.

With freshly shaved legs forgotten, Char opened the medicine cabinet. Pill bottles, creams, disposable Bic Razors. Nothing she could see working as an effective tool to fight the dead.

Under the sink, she found only one thing. It might work. Mostly likely it wouldn’t. She had no other options. She grabbed it and unlocked the door. The solid wood --the only barrier between her and the dead-- was also a barrier between her and her brother.