I woke early the next morning, as usual. Apparently, whoever had taken the last shift had been kind enough to let us sleep in - either that, or it was a lot earlier than I thought it was. I was curled up in a ball with Francis lying behind me. I could feel his powerful arm draped over me, feel his chest rising and falling against my back as he slept. The first rays of dawn were beginning to filter in through the cracks in the boards covering the large picture windows on the wall in front of me, and the only sound was Francis's slow, soft breathing. Slowly extracting myself from Francis's embrace, I slipped out from beneath the blankets and stood up, shivering as the bitterly cold air slithered up against my bare skin. I quickly tugged on my clothes, buckling my holster back onto my hip and sliding my pistol into it. Pausing to glance one final time at the writing on the wall, I shrugged and pushed open the door, stepping out into the upstairs hallway. Starting down the stairs, I paused as I realized I could hear conversation coming from the kitchen below me.
"Get over it!" That was Nick's voice. "You can't go chasing around after the girl forever, Ellis! Francis nearly beat you to death last time you brought the subject up - imagine what he'll do next time!" Then Ellis's voice cut in, defiant and sullen. "I don' care, Nick. I c'n handle myself. Francis jus' took me by surprise, that's all." Nick snorted. "Oh, please," he drawled, cynicism dripping from every syllable. "That man is twice your size, with four times your fighting experience. He could chew you up and spit you out with one hand tied behind his back." I heard a loud crash, and Ellis yelled "Who in tha flamin' hell's side are you on, Nick!" I winced. I just wanted some breakfast, and now it seemed like I was going to walk in on the middle of a heated argument. Over me. Spectacular.
The two men abruptly stopped arguing as I walked into the kitchen, Ellis turning away and blushing and Nick snickering to himself, turning away to keep watch out the window. Pointedly not looking at either of them, I walked over to the counter, grabbing my backpack and unzipping it, reaching in and pulling out a handful of miscellaneous snacks - granola bars, rice krispies, and the like. Giving the briefest of nods to Nick and Ellis, I hastily retreated with my food, fleeing to the living room to eat it.
I plopped down on the big plush couch that dominated one wall of the living room, propping my legs up on the coffee table that sat before it and tearing into my meager repast. I had finished my first granola bar and started on the second when Coach walked into the room. Without a word, he walked over to the high-backed wooden rocking chair at the far end of the room and lowered himself into it carefully, as if he was afraid he would break it. Folding his powerful arms over his barrel chest, the big football coach sat in silence for several long moments, staring at me. Finally he said "I wanted to 'pologize for th' way Ellis has been behavin'." Swallowing my mouthful of granola bar, I said "You have nothing to apologize for… you can't control him." Coach gave a heavy sigh and reached a hand up, massaging the bridge of his nose with his index finger and thumb. "I know," he said, lowering his hand after a moment. "I just felt like someone should try'n make amends." Standing up, he walked over and rested a meaty hand on my shoulder. "If he gives you any more trouble, you be sure'n let me know, okay?" He said, and left.
We decided to move on that afternoon, after everyone had eaten something. Bill didn't want to waste another minute in the search for Echo, and both Nick and Coach heartily agreed with him. The ground began sloping steadily upwards, and suburbs gave way to pine woods and rolling hills dotted with the occasional farmhouse or cabin. And it was cold. After several days up here, you'd think I'd have started to get used to it, but no. Up here in the northern wilderness made Philly in the winter seem positively warm, and my red sweater soon proved insufficient. Francis must have been suffering worse than me with his bare arms, but he made no mention of it, slogging along as determined as ever. Whenever he caught me looking at him, he flashed me a grin and stood a little straighter, as if trying to reassure me that he was fine. Coach and Ellis, both southern boys used to the broiling heat of Georgia, weren't even trying to hide their shivers. Ellis had scavenged a ratty old coat from our stay in the ranch house, but it didn't seem to be helping much.
As the group crested a particularly large hill, we broke out into a clearing and got a view of the terrain ahead of us. More woods. Francis groaned, and muttered "Goddamn it, I hate the woods." After a pause, he added "And Canada." "We know, Francis," Bill growled in a tone that brooked no further grumbling, and the group started off again. After about ten minutes, I had begun to take notice of the startling lack of zombies, and put on a burst of speed to catch up to Bill. "Shouldn't there be zombies here?" I whispered to him, and he nodded, saying "I know, and I don't like it one bit. It reminds me of how the Viet Cong would lead us into ambushes in 'Nam by pulling out of an area, leaving it empty to draw us in. Then they'd come out of the jungle from all sides." I glanced around nervously, suddenly picturing zombies bursting from the trees surrounding us. It wasn't a pleasant mental image.
After ten or twenty more minutes of walking - truth be told, I lost count - we stumbled upon an old English-looking manor house. A flight of ten concrete steps led up to the column-lined front porch, ending in an impressive double-door that stood open almost invitingly. "Hey ya'll, there might be supplies in there," Ellis said, pointing up the stairs to the open door. Bill shook his head, muttering "Too easy… too goddamn easy…" "Relax, Bill," Francis growled from directly behind me, making me jump. I hadn't realized he was there. "They're zombies, not soldiers. They're too damn stupid to lay traps for us." So saying he walked past us, unslinging his shotgun and racking the slide. Mounting the front steps, he walked up to the door, shotgun resting on his shoulder, whistling a tune. "Francis…" Bill hissed, gaze darting around. Francis took no notice, however, and walked through the open door into the manor house.
With a curse, I ran after him, taking the steps two at a time, pistols out and at the ready. The house was dark, long since having lost power. Francis was standing in the middle of the large entrance foyer, shotgun still resting lazily on his shoulder, staring up at the crystal chandelier, the balcony wrapping around the room above us. He was still whistling. Breaking off the tune as he took sight of me, he grinned and said "Nice place." Walking over to an antique chair that must have been worth at least a couple hundred bucks, Francis delivered a vicious kick to the unfortunate chair, snapping a leg off and sending it to the floor. Turning towards me and laughing, a shit-eating grin etched on his features, he said "Damn, but I've always wanted to break something that valuable." I couldn't help it. I started giggling, looking at that big man standing over the ruins of an extremely valuable chair and laughing. "You are a violent man," I said, walking over. "And you love it," he added, stepping forward to meet me and pulling me into a hug. Slowly disengaging, he walked back to the door and yelled "No vampires in here - all o' you ladies can come on in whenever you feel like it!"
That was when I heard it. A low, voiceless, soulless moan, seeming to come from all around. Francis froze in mid-yell, turning slowly to listen. The very floor seemed to shake as the moan, filled with an unspeakable hunger, echoed and reverberated around the huge room. "Uh, forget what I said!" Francis yelled over his shoulder, advancing back into the middle of the foyer. "What the hell?" he muttered, walking over and putting his ear to wall. His face paled. "Shit," he hissed, backing rapidly away from the wall. "What? What is it?" I said, heart racing. "Get out," he snarled, placing himself between me and the wall. When I didn't move, he yelled "Get the hell out of this house now!" That worked. I turned and raced out through the door, Francis close on my heels. Coach, half-way across the front porch, took in our expressions, cocked his shotgun, and said "What the hell's goin' on in there?" Francis walked up to him, close enough to touch him, and said, his voice barely above a whisper, "Tell everyone to move, fast as they can. There's God-knows-how-many vampires locked up in there, and it sounds like they're all tryin' to get out. And if we don't move - and I mean now - we're gonna end up as their dinner.