3: Dead Fools
The end came faster than he would have liked it.
It had started when he first heard the bridge go up in a cacophony of screeching metal and a wailing generator. They were about a half mile away from the bridge, and they heard everything. So did the Infected milling about in the houses.
The narrow, ill-kept streets around their refuge emptied rapidly as the Infected charged off in the direction of the bridge. Dean watched, his face half-hidden by the curtain, as they streamed off towards the source of the din. There was really only one explanation at this point. A group of survivors had come upon the bridge and for some reason had been stupid enough to try to raise it. Had they thought that they might be safe if they did? Didn't they know the Infected could climb? Maybe it was just a question of sheer height, but Dean thought and Dean knew that whoever had been foolhardy enough to bother with alerting such a large horde would probably pay dearly for it. In the distance, he could hear gunshots and screams. Then there was a series of explosions, and the roar of what Dean thought might have been multiple Tanks. Poor bastards, he thought. He couldn't think of a worse way to die.
Kelly joined him at the window. "I think this is our cue to go," he said.
"Where would we go?" Dean raised his eyebrows. "We don't have another refuge staked out."
"I don't think we have a choice," he said. "Whoever's on the bridge, God rest their souls, they gave us the window we needed. Now we can get the hell out of here."
"I don't want to take any chances," he replied firmly. "What if we run into trouble out there? There are only three of us."
Kelly shook his head. "Three is better than none," he said darkly, but let it drop.
Dean let the curtain fall. Deep down, he knew Kelly was right. There were no more Infected in the streets. They could leave, just pack up the food and the guns and leave without much trouble. They could go down to the port, find themselves a boat there, and if they were lucky, they could sail along the coastline and find a military base, or even an oil rig just staffed by the army. But what were the odds of actually finding a functional boat? The port would have emptied long ago from the initial panic. What were the chances of them finding anything at all? It was just as likely that they'd die a slow, agonizing death, lost at sea, forgotten by the world. What were the odds compared to the odds of them staying alive for much longer if they remained in the house? Either way, they faced the same fate: dying slowly as their supplies dwindled and the days grew ever hotter. He didn't know which scenario he hated more.
Marlena ended up making the decision for them.
They sat down that same evening to eat dinner, trying to ignore the now-fading gunshots in the distance. None of them spoke. It was now customary for them to spend the days in silence, not speaking simply for a lack of things to say. Each person was left alone with his or her thoughts. For Dean, the idea was rather unpleasant. He felt that he'd had too much time to dwell on the past. He could never really stop thinking of her, from the superficial things like what happened to the ring he'd bought her so many years ago to the circumstances surrounding her death. It always made him angry, it always saddened him, and it always left him unable to really form coherent words after. He didn't know what went through the minds of Kelly and Marlena. He tried to convince himself that he didn't care, a facade that grew weaker by the day.
There was a scrape of chair legs on linoleum as Marlena got up, breaking the silence. Dean was detached from his train of thought and he looked up curiously.
"I'm going to the bathroom," she announced, and left the room. Silence returned to the table.
A mere moment later, she was back in the doorway, her face white as a sheet.
"Oh God," she gasped. Dean looked up again; this time, he was worried. She was legitimately frightened. He had never seen her legitimately frightened before, and it was a little unsettling to see her like this now. Something really bad must have happened, he thought.
"What?" He stood up, too. "What's wrong?"
She pressed a finger to her lips. "You guys need to see this," she said quietly.
A Witch was in the house. An actual goddamn Witch was in the house.
How the hell had a Witch gotten into the house?
Somehow, a Witch had gotten into the house. Marlena silently pushed a door open a little ways and pointed through the crack. The cries were soft - Dean wasn't sure how he'd missed it - and the Witch herself was kneeling in the middle of the room, sobbing. His eyes drifted past her and landed on a broken window. He wasn't sure how he'd missed that, either. Was he really that distracted? This was a cause for worry. He stared at her, wondering exactly how detached he'd been to have missed these things.
Then the Witch spotted them, and began to growl quietly. The sound, no matter how many times he heard it, made his skin crawl. Marlena quietly shut the door, a thin slab of wood separating them from a seemingly invincible monster. His heart was pounding. They couldn't stay. They couldn't stay. That much was clear. If they startled her by some accident, then they would all be done for. There was no way that they could stay.
Finally, he made his decision.
"We'll clear out of here tonight," he said. "Before they come back. We'll head for the port and hope for the best."
They packed in silence and set out in silence. It was a long time before any of them spoke again.
"I'm glad you saw reason," Kelly finally said, quietly. Dean didn't reply. He hated being wrong about anything. He just hoped that Kelly was right, or they'd all be dead fools.