CLAIRE
It still seemed ridiculous at times. Zombies. Think about it… Zombies!
Once upon a time, if you'd mentioned a fear of being eaten alive by a virus-infected zombie, your mental state would have been sorely questioned.
Funny how crazy shit can suddenly become normal.
Claire rubbed gritty eyes and pushed up out of her chair, leaning the shotgun against her foot while she looked out over the desert. The sun was just starting to peek over the horizon and as always, it was a relief. Dawn meant one more night of stolen survival for both her and her convoy. More importantly, it meant the end of her shift and a nice long sleep in a real bed.
She walked to the edge of the van roof and climbed down the ladder, then banged her knuckles on the side panel.
"Yo, Carlos. Your turn."
There was a long silence from inside the van. She had lifted one fist to do another louder and more obnoxious knock when the door slid open and was replaced with Carlos' sleepy face. He squinted at her, his dark eyes bloodshot and unfocused. "Lies, I just lay down. Like… just now."
Claire tweaked his nose with her upraised hand. "Sorry, sunshine. You lay down about 6 hours ago. It's your watch… Have fun." She stole the last cigarette from the crumpled pack next to him, and while he mumbled incoherent protests, turned and headed towards the hotel lobby.
Holiday Inn, Grantsville, the sign proclaimed. Before the T-virus it had probably been nice enough. Now paint-stripped boards hung off the walls and the lobby was a ruin of smashed windows, dust and old blood splatters. Looters had long since taken anything of value, and time and the undead had done the rest. A desiccated skeleton sat in one corner. Someone (probably K-Mart) had covered it with an old blanket.
Claire determinedly ignored both the blanket and the blood smears. The hotel had one thing going for it - one whole wing was still locked up tight when the convoy had arrived. The rooms were in OK shape and by god, the beds had real pillows, real sheets!
She ducked through the "Staff Only" door behind what was left of the cash register, and walked down the hall, poking her head into what had once been the games room. All but two of the six remaining mattresses had been dragged out of the suites and laid out on the games room floor in a dorm-like configuration, three kids per mattress. Four other adults lay asleep on the cold linoleum floor, in strategic positions around the room. A long shallow window above head-height on each of the two side walls meant you could keep an eye out for trouble if you so wished, without the risk of a reanimated corpse diving through into your lap. There were heavy external doors at two ends of the room, and a skylight in case of emergency.
She shrugged wearily. Not too bad in terms of defensibility, but it had also given convoy morale a huge boost. Sleeping in the back seat of an old Volvo or on a cramped school bus pew is all well and good, but there's something soothing about being under a real roof, behind nice solid doors. There was even an old pool table, complete with pool balls, and cues that Carlos had liberated from their cabinet with a crowbar. It was worth giving up the mobility of the vehicles for the bursts of laughter and childish squeals as the cues were handed out.
She nodded to Mitch, his face glowing grey in the light of the surveillance camera footage as he watched the perimeter, then carried on down the hallway to Room 114. She opened the door quietly, in case K-Mart was still asleep. Sure enough, the girl was sprawled across one of the twin beds, her long blonde hair spread out across the pillow. The steady rhythm of her breathing was punctuated with small snores.
Claire pulled the door shut behind her. K-Mart stirred and flung out one arm, but didn't wake. Claire smiled at the girl fondly, god, she was such a sweet kid. In a normal world she'd be all about boys, friends, and school. In the post-Infection world, she was a little ray of sunshine in their convoy, always the first to laugh at any joke, and famous for her fruit-salad-and-spam special. When Arcadia had turned out to be a total bust, they'd all needed their spirits lifted.
Claire crept to the other bed and sat down gingerly. The bed creaked loudly. She slid the strap of the shotgun off her shoulder and lay it down next to the bed. She pulled a P-14 from the holster at her thigh and set it down on the formica sidetable. The .45 was soon joined by a long bowie knife in an ankle sheath, and a Beretta 9mm from a second holster at the small of her back. Claire paused to study the assorted weaponry. More evidence of crazy shit replacing the normal.
Claire unbuckled her battered combat boots and slipped them off her feet, lining them up carefully next to the shotgun where she could find them instantly if the situation demanded. She tiptoed into the bathroom and tried the taps. No water, of course not. This place would have been desert even before everywhere became desert. Survivalist country. Any tank supply would've been stolen the moment the first undead foot hit the ground.
She noticed belatedly that K-Mart (thoughtful as ever) had left a bucket of water on the vanity. She splashed her face with handful after handful, watching as red dirt sloughed off and spun down the plughole. Lifting her face from the tepid water she stared her reflection in the mirror for a long moment. You're ok. Everyone is ok.
She sighed and pushed away from the vanity and walked back to the bedroom. She crawled onto the bed carefully, but it squeaked at the slightest provocation. Eventually she was comfortably settled on her back, staring at the ceiling with its cobwebs and unsavory stains. The bedsprings issued a tiny squeak with every breath. She ignored it, closed her eyes. You're ok, you're among friends, everything is fine.
Trouble was, everything was NOT fine. If everything was a-ok, if she was really among friends, then why did she feel so goddamn alone? It certainly had NOTHING to do with Alice leaving. No, absolutely not. And if everything had seemed just a little darker when the other woman had disappeared from view in the chopper's wake… well that was just coincidence.
CARLOS
Carlos gaped at the empty cigarette packet, then at Claire's retreating figure.
"Ba... Ggg... Wha… HEY!"
He launched to his feet in indignation, and cracked his head on the van ceiling. "Argh!"
One hand clutching his skull, he aimed for the doorway. His foot caught on the edge of the camp stretcher and he pitched head-first out the door. When he opened his eyes, his face was in the dirt, his legs still in the van. For a moment he suspected he might have broken his back, but no, feeling returned, it was just a really ungainly and painful fall. He dragged himself upright and picked up his M4A1 carbine, climbing up the ladder onto the van roof. The sun continued its ascent (going to be a scorcher!) and illuminated the dry, sparse landscape. Carlos turned slowly, scanning the horizon in all directions. Cactus, sand, cactus, tumbleweed, rock, another cactus. Gotta love the desert. Anyway, good news – not a zombie in sight.
He sat down in the tattered lookout chair, his hand casually on the stock of his firearm. The breeze was light and cool, the desolate landscape beautiful in its own way. It would be an excellent time for a cigarette. He thought about the empty pack again, and sighed regretfully. Thinking about the cigarettes naturally led to thinking about Claire.
Carlos had been an Army Ranger before he was recruited into UBCS, and before that, the son of a violent alcoholic on a clapped out reservation. After surviving all three, it would be fair to say that he was not a man prone to fits of worry.
(quick look around – more good news, still no zombies)
He WAS worried about Claire, and not because of her penchant for stealing cigarettes. Something was wrong, that much was obvious. As her best friend, he expected her to say something. As her second in command, he knew that she wouldn't. Pride, self-reliance, whatever it was, she'd push it all down into a nasty ball of upset in her stomach and smoke herself into an early grave.
He wished Alice was around. She had a way with Claire, a way of cutting through all the lone ranger bullshit. Not surprising, I mean, who could possibly out-badass Alice? No-one, that's who.
(quick look around – shit! Movement!)
Carlos jerked upright in his chair, the carbine flying to his shoulder in one smooth motion. He put his eye to the sight, centered it on the moving figure with his finger twitching off the guard and onto the trigger. He took a deep breath, held it, aimed… Then let the breath go in a strangled WHOOSH.
Even more good news… Walking casually into his line of fire, was Alice.