Chapter Seven
Friends in Low Places

Diane moved her mom into the garage, had trekked back into the house to drag out bedding and couch-cushions and set Martha up comfortably on the concrete floor so she could sleep. She kept the door closed tight, kept as quiet as she could when she had to go back into the house to move water and food out with them.

The whole time she ignored the bodies on the porch, stepped over the corpse in the doorway, skirted around what was left of the dog – she didn't look at them. She couldn't.

Her mom didn't ask questions when she was awake – Diane didn't try and explain anything because she didn't know how to explain it. She didn't know what was going on, what was happening: she didn't know jack shit. So she focused on doing – on turning the garage into a little den for them to huddle in, a nest for them to sleep in, a burrow to hide in.

She got as much out of the house as she could: meds, food, water, bandages; the guns that weren't locked in the safe, the boxes of ammo, the machete her sister used to clear brush; candles, flashlights, lighter-fluid: it all came out, stacked around them in their hidey-hole until they had enough for a couple months, if it was just the two of them.

Which it probably was, because Dave was dead and Abby hadn't made it home. Whatever was going on out there, it was bad. Bad enough that there were no emergency services, bad enough that there was no cell service, bad enough that her sister hadn't made it home – bad enough that they weren't trying to fix it, just evacuating everyone and if no one was coming to fix it they were stuck exactly where they were.

Diane couldn't let herself think about that though because she would break if she did. She couldn't afford to break, Martha needed her still functioning. If Diane couldn't keep moving, couldn't keep pushing then her mom would weaken even more than she already had since she had first gotten sick.

"I heard you screaming." Martha said suddenly and Diane jumped. She hadn't even known her mother was awake.

"What?"

"In the house. I heard you screaming and I heard the dog barking. I was outside. I was sitting in the truck because I couldn't be in there anymore."

Diane listened quietly.

"I saw you run out and then go straight back in. And then they were there, going in after you. I couldn't find the gun. It was under the seat." She choked. "I thought – I thought I was gonna lose my baby after losing my husband."

"I'm right here, mom." Diane said calmly, sliding across the floor to squeeze her mother's hand.

"It took so long to find it, but I knew I wouldn't be able to help you if I didn't. I'm not strong enough to fight anyone. When I did find it, I couldn't remember how to work it. It's been so long since I've shot and I couldn't – I couldn't remember what to do to get it to fire."

"Because of the stroke?" Diane wondered aloud. There had been a lot of things her mother had lost when she'd had the stroke. Numbers were hard for her, certain memories were just gone. She'd forgotten certain words and forgot how to do things. It had been a mild one and they'd caught it quickly, but there were still lasting effects.

"I don't know." Martha sighed, deep and heavy and closed her eyes. "I had to try so hard to get it to work. It took me so long."

"It's okay, mom. It worked out."

"It's not okay. I couldn't protect you. You needed me and I couldn't do anything!" She was shouting and Diane shushed her quickly.

"You did protect me, mom. You did. You fought and you're the reason I fought. You're okay, I'm okay. We're going to get through this." Diane murmured, squeezing her mother's hand as hard as she dared. "We're okay."

Martha was silent after that, clutching back at Diane until she fell back asleep.

Diane knew she ought to get some sleep as well. She'd been up all night, she was exhausted and moving slow. It was hard to think and she hurt. The hand that her dad had tried to bite was swollen and bruised, she could feel where the bone was snapped and shifting around where it shouldn't be. She'd been using it too much and too hard when she really ought to have been taking it easy and resting it. She might not have cared about the lasting damage if there hadn't been someone depending on her being well.

It was easy to find the ace-wrap, less easy to find something to splint it with. Ironically, the garage itself proved more helpful than their medical supplies – a couple of drill bits would be good enough to brace the bone.

The splint was easy enough in theory, but it was a bitch-and-a-half to try and do it one handed. Her left hand felt clumsy as she laid out the ace wrap across her thigh and tried to get the drill bits pinched into their proper places and still have enough room to wrap the hand up. It didn't help that putting the strain on her injured hand made a wave of pain shoot up her arm that was sour and punishing, quick like lightning and ever so slow to fade when she did let up on the pressure. The third time she lost hold of the end of the elastic wrap and the bits went skittering across the floor, when she had to cradle her hand to her chest and wait for the pain to ebb away so she could try again, she changed tactics. It was much easier to wrap up her hand without trying to keep the metal in place.

It hurt. It hurt so fucking bad. Diane screwed her face up, gritting her teeth as she pried up the ace wrap and worked the first drill bit into place alongside the broken bone. It pressed hard, the wrap snug and secure and whatever relief she had first had from the constant, steady pressure of the compression was lost to the wretched ache under her skin. She had to break for a while after that, rocking back and forth and trying so very hard not to cry.

At long last, it faded to something less overwhelming, something manageable and she took several large, shaking breathes before snatching up the second bit to make sure the bone was braced from the other side.

It wasn't as bad the second time, maybe because there was less wrenching to get the bit in from that angle or maybe because the sweat on her palms made for an easier slide than the dry skin on the top of her hand. It was over quick and she'd done what she needed to do.

Once again, Diane didn't know what to do next. Her mom was still sleeping soundly, and there wasn't really much left to drag out of the house. Still, she slowly got to her feet and grabbed up the pistol that had been resting in easy reach next to her hip. Without anything specific in mind, she eased out of the garage, silently making sure the latch caught completely as she closed the door behind her. A brief scan of the area showed nothing, no movement. The coast was clear from what she could see and she couldn't hear anything but the rustling of the wind and a few birds chittering as they fluttered around the lowest branches of the big oak tree in front of the house.

Gravel crunched under her feet as she crossed the driveway, not letting herself stop or look down as she neared the bodies that were still splayed over the porch. It occurred to her that it might be wise to move them, might be better to clear the doorway so she could close it properly, but she couldn't even bring herself to look, let alone touch.

That was her daddy laying there. Face down on the rough wooden slats, skin ripped and mangled – half a dozen bullets in him before he finally went down, before she got him in the head.

She'd had to get them all in the head, some way or another. Nothing else worked. Maybe because they were already dead, but she couldn't even begin to comprehend how that was even possible.

All she knew was that her dad had died. He'd died. Then he'd gotten back up and tried to take a bite out of her.

Diane moved through the house again, rummaging through drawers and stepping on broken glass. She found a couple more flashlights, some batteries, a pint of bourbon that her dad had stashed away. The radio was still sitting on the table next to her dad's chair, silent and she grabbed it up and went to sit in Dave's small workroom. Breathing heavily, she took as big a gulp of the bourbon as she could stomach as she sat at his workbench and flicked the radio on.

Static.

Cursing, Diane tweaked the antenna and slowly turned the dial through the stations, trying to find one that was still broadcasting. There was one, but it was crackly and distant and she couldn't make out the words. The only reason she knew it was still the emergency alert message was because she could hear the intermittent buzz-honk in between the garbled voice.

She kept trying, taking another swig of the liquor as she cranked the tuning dial as low as it would go and started tuning up. Slowly, steadily, intently.

Static. Static. More static.

She passed by the wisp of a station that was still blaring the message and kept going.

More static.

She was almost to the top, around the 105s and it was just endless static. Then "…in low places where the whiskey drowns and the beer chases my blues away and I'll be okay. Hey, I'm not big on social graces. Think I'll slip on down to the oasis. Oh, I've got friends in low places."

Diane stared at the radio, at the country song blaring through the speakers. "What the fuck?"

It was Garth Brooks. She wasn't that big into country music, but knew enough people who were and there was no way she didn't recognize that song. She listened to it blankly as the song kept on, listened but didn't comprehend. It ended pretty quickly. She'd tuned into the last of it, apparently.

As the song faded, a voice came on.

"Well folks, that was Garth Brooks with 'Friends in Low Places.' One of my favorites. Hope you liked it. If you didn't, I don't care because it's the end of the world and it's my radio station now and I'm going out playing whatever the fuck I wanna play. Course, I'm open to requests if anyone's willing to pick up their goddamn phones and give me a call. I can't reach anybody, ain't no one listening in obviously. Or they just don't care. But I'll give the number off anyways. Just in case. And if you don't call, you can't complain now can you?"

Diane scrambled for the phone, never happier that her mom had insisted on keeping the landline for 'just in case' as she punched out the number that the man on the radio listed off and put the receiver to her ear.

The phone rang.

On the radio, the man stopped what he was saying mid-sentence and there was a long moment where there was nothing.

"Well I'll be damned."

The phone in her ear clicked and for a long moment Diane couldn't hear anything, either on the receiver or the radio.

"Hello?" The man asked hesitantly and there was a delay before she heard the echo through the radio speakers.

"Hi." Diane said, swallowing thickly. "I got a request."

Silence was her answer.

"Please, please, please tell me what's going on. Please. Because I woke up yesterday morning and the power was out and then there was nothing but the emergency broadcast and then my dad died and came back and I don't know what to do." Diane choked. "I don't – I don't know what's happening."

There was another long moment of silence and for a minute Diane thought maybe she was going crazy and that there wasn't actually anyone there. Her voice broke when she asked, "Are you there?"

"Yeah, Sweetheart. I'm here."

"I don't – I don't know what's happening." Diane repeated helplessly. "I don't know what to do. I can't – I'm not prepared to handle this."

"Ain't nobody I ever known prepared to handle this." The voice on the line said quietly. "You said your daddy died and came back. He was bitten by one of them, right?"

Diane choked. "Yes. How did – how did you…"

"Bite's how it spreads. Get bit and you start running a fever. Then after it kills you, you come back as one of them."

She sobbed at that. "Isn't there – isn't there some way to stop it?"

A harsh laugh from the man on the line, "Not that anyone's found yet. You get bit, you're done for. Were you bit, honey?"

"No." Diane whispered. "Yes – but he didn't have teeth. Didn't break the skin."

"Well I'll be damned. You're a lucky one. You got a name, Sweetheart?"

"Diane." She said slowly. "You?"

"Scott. There's something else you have to know here. They're dead. They're already dead," he explained. "And they don't die a second time. Won't go down, not unless you – "

"Get them in the head?" She interrupted bluntly.

It took a few seconds for him to reply. "You figure that out on your own?"

"Yes. He didn't go down at first. Not after the first shot, or the second, or the third. He just kept coming. Then I got him in the head and he was down. And the second one – I had to keep shooting him and it was the same. And there was the one with the axe – I put it through her head."

"You sound like you know how to handle yourself."

"Nope. Just desperate." Diane drawled back, slumping forward over the workbench and fiddling with the still mostly full bottle of bourbon. "They were after my mom."

"You safe now?"

She stared around at the cluttered workroom for a minute, turning her gaze out of the window. "Doubt it. How many of them are there? How – how far does this go?"

"I don't know how far this goes. It's been happening everywhere, I think. As far as how many – I think there's at least two-dozen of them outside the station. That's just here, just right here. They've got the place surrounded. Can't get in – but there ain't no way out, neither."

"I'm sorry."

"Me too, lady. Me too." Scott sighed heavily. "I'm set for a little while. Got the generators, some water. Ain't much in the way of food, but hopefully I can hold out long enough for someone to… Fuck it. I don't even know if there's anyone out there that can help. The National Guard was mobilized last week, but where are they now? Ain't no one answering the phone when I call 9-1-1 and I know a little something 'bout emergency systems. They're set up to hold up in power outages. They're set up to run when the grid's down. Like this station, there's a backup system. So why ain't it working? It should be working."

"Something happened at the call center probably." Diane mused, leaning back in the chair until it was tilted on the back two legs. She threw back another shot of the bourbon and set it on the windowsill behind her. "Or there's no one there anymore. Evacuation order was meant for everybody, I suppose."

"So why didn't you go?" Scott asked.

Diane snorted. "No one was giving any real information out. Didn't know what I was supposed to be running from, what I was supposed to be getting away from. Not everyone was home and I wasn't 'bout to leave my sister behind because I knew she'd be headed back home. And even if I thought it was a good idea, how was I supposed to get there? It's a hundred miles to the nearest one and there ain't no gas to be had anywhere. Why didn't you go?"

"Same reasons as you, I suppose." He explained. "Didn't know hardly anything. Came to the station to try and tune into some official channels and see what I could find out before dragging my family out in this mess. They're still waiting on me at the house. I told them to wait for me to get back. I was gonna find out what was going on and then figure out what to do."

"Learn anything from those official channels?"

"Only what I told you." Scott grunted. "I think they fucked up. I think – I think they were holding off on letting the public know what was really going on and that was a big mistake because no one knew to stay away from someone if they got bit. And then next thing we know it's out of control."

"Trying to avoid a panic and instead making it uncontrollable." Diane turned over the possibility in her head for quite a few seconds. "Funny though. I'd heard about the riots and whatnot. My sister thought it was ridiculous, half of what people were saying. Thought it was some scam to keep our attention locked up so we weren't paying attention to what else was happening."

Scott laughed. "Wish that were true. I'd take a whole heap of new taxes over this any day. Your sister make it back okay?"

She swallowed hard, forcing a deep breath before answering. "No. Abby's not home yet. I don't – I don't know if she's gonna get here."

"I hope she does." Scott said, voice low and surprisingly sincere. "I hope she does."

"I hope you get back to your family." Diane replied, meaning it. "I don't know if there's any way I could help you, but if I could…"

"Yeah. Same for you."

They were silent for a good long while after that. Diane couldn't think of anything to say that didn't feel fake and shallow. What was she supposed to talk about in this situation? The weather? Sports? The news?

"You still there?" It was Scott asking this time.

"Yeah. I'm here."

"Any requests?"

Diane frowned in confusion and it hit quite suddenly that they were still broadcasting and there was a moment of unease that she didn't know how many people could have been listening to their conversation. But then, she wasn't sure it mattered any if they had.

"Not really big on country music." Diane said slowly. "But – got any Skynyrd?"

"You bet your ass I do." Scott said. "What song?"

"Gimme Three Steps."

"Done."

Through the radio, Diane heard the opening chords for the song start up. She could hear Scott humming along through the phone receiver and singing along flatly when the lyrics started up. She turned the volume down on the radio so she could still hear the song without drowning out Scott on the line. "What do you think I should do now?"

Her question didn't come through the radio speakers and she was glad for that.

"Get safe." Scott answered immediately. "Get your mom and make yourselves safe."

"How? Where? She's sick – really sick." Diane felt like she was going to cry in that moment. "I don't – I don't know what I'm going to do when she runs out of medicine."

"Hit the pharmacies."

"They don't stock it. It's too – it's a new drug. We have to get it shipped in every three months." Diane took a shuddering breath. "I don't remember when the last delivery was."

Scott was silent for a good long while. "Well, Sweetheart. My best suggestion is to make your peace. Make the most of the time you got."

It was absolutely not what Diane wanted to hear and she was a half-click away from getting angry until she heard the rumble of an engine. She automatically turned the volume on the radio all the way down, leaning closer to the window to listen to the sound of the engine drawing closer. It was a smooth rumble, heavy and loud and powerful; even and smooth and healthy. It was something that was tuned up right, not at all like her families' pitiful, sputtering pickup.

"Someone's driving up the road." Diane whispered.

"Be careful, Honey." Scott said.

She didn't respond, listening intently as the sound of the engine got closer and she was on her feet in a flash when a cop car suddenly whipped into her driveway, skidding to a stop in the gravel and outside of the range of view she had from her window.

"It's a cop. A fucking cop just pulled into my driveway." Diane wasn't sure what to do with the information. She heard the car door slam shut, the crunching of gravel under jogging footsteps and stayed frozen in place when she heard the footsteps across on the other side of the house.

"He's in the house." Diane whispered and she thought she shouldn't be as terrified as she suddenly felt. A cop – they should be there to help, right?

"You got your gun on you still?" Scott asked through the receiver.

"Yeah."

"Don't be afraid to use it if you have to." Scott said definitively. "Put the phone down and take care of it. I saw – people are going crazy right now. Get back on when you've settled it."

Diane did as he said, setting the receiver down on the table and picking up her 9mm. She could hear the footsteps more clearly, tromping quickly through the kitchen. Every muscle in her body tensed and she aimed her gun at the door, waiting. She had to force herself not to hold her breath. In the living room, the footsteps stopped. Diane thought her heart might just be trying to pull a Houdini right out of her chest.

AN: This is my favorite chapter so far. Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed it. Feedback welcome.