They stopped just north of a town called Moorefield: Thick vegetation pressed against either shoulder of the highway and low, green hills rose in the distance, backlit against the dusty blue sky. Lynn spotted a clearing to the right wedged between the embankment sloping down from the road and a slow moving river with rocky banks. A tree sat in the middle of the clearing, its wide-spreading branches providing deep and ample shade. On the opposite side of the river, a crumbling barn sat tangled in undergrowth, its decomposing facade peeking out through vines and brambles like a ghoul watching...waiting patient as a spider in web. A shiver went down Lynn's spine and she almost kept going, but pulled to the guardrail and killed the engine anyway. She was being stupid - it was a building and nothing more.
By that point it was well past noon and the sun was high in the heavens, the day going from warm to unbearably hot. They encountered a smash-up on Route 7 - a twisted pile of metal blocking the road like a fortress wall. Either side of the road was flanked with steep hills, and Lynn briefly considered trying to pass, but worried that the Bronco would flip, so they backtracked nearly ten miles and took an alternate route. In Moorefield, a tractor trailer jackknifed across Main Street and spilled its contents - cans and cases of Coca-Cola products. Lynn detoured and drove across the high school athletic field, the Bronco's tires tearing up the turf and flinging clumps of dirt at the empty stands. The next pitfall came a mile later: The bridge leading out of town had been washed away in an apparent flash flood (if the junk and debris littering the riverbed and the banks were any indication) which meant another detour. By the time they crossed seven miles later, Lynn was frustrated and beginning to wonder if the universe wasn't trying to stop them. Go back...death lies this way. Stupid, but that thought filled her with cold dread, and she thought back to the house on the mountain - isolated, remote, safe. Maybe she was wrong, maybe they should have stayed.
"How much farther?" she asked Lincoln as she killed the engine. He stared out the window at the clearing, scanning it for signs of danger.
"About forty-five miles to Capon Bridge," he said and turned.
It was about two o'clock. "Do you think we can get there before nightfall?"
Lincoln thought for a moment. "I don't know," he said at length, "at the rate things are going now, probably not."
Damn. She was hoping to stay the night there and then start the final approach to Washington in the morning. She was allowing several days from Capon Bridge to D.C. In the old days, before the plague, it would take only a matter of hours, but now the way was more dangerous and littered with obstacles. Taking the conditions of the roads around Washington into consideration, it might take closer to a week, especially if they were forced to ditch the Bronco and go in on foot. She hoped to God they didn't have to do that, but the more she thought, the more certain she became that they would.
And if they got into the beating heart of the nation's capital only to find that it, too, was dead, they'd be stranded...and have to make their way out.
Sigh.
Lincoln opened the door and jumped out, grabbing the M-16 and slinging it over his shoulder. Lynn followed, taking the Springfield and looking at Luan, whose face was gray and her eyes wide with worry. "You coming?" Lynn asked.
The older girl hesitated, then nodded. "Y-Yeah." She grabbed her Glock and climbed out, dust kicking up when her sneakered feet hit the ground. A furnace blast breeze ruffled the fabric of her blouse, and she nervously smoothed out her jeans. Lynn put a comforting hand on her shoulder and leaned in until their foreheads were touching. "I won't let anything bad happen to you," she said. "I promise."
Luan swallowed thickly and nodded. "Okay." She flashed a tight smile, then followed Lynn to the rear, where Lincoln rummaged through the cargo compartment for the chickens. He grabbed them, his fingers wrapping around their necks, and pulled them out. Luan paled a little at their dead faces and looked away.
"Let's see how I well I do," Lincoln said.
Ten minutes later, Luan watched from the shade of the tree as Lynn dropped an armful of sticks next to Lincoln, who knelt over one of the bodies, a knife in his hand and his bare chest glinting with sweat. Lynn's eyes darted to him, tracing the outline of his flexing muscles as he worked, and felt a twinge in the pit of her stomach. "Here ya go, Linc-O," she said and glanced at the river; water splashed over rocks with a low hiss and a hot wind rustled the tops of the trees. Lincoln filled her phirpiery, his warm skin, rugged features, and her throat went dry. She glanced away and looked over at the road: The Bronco stood against the guardrail, silent and waiting. She made sure to leave the keys in the ignition as she always did, just in case something happened to her and Lincoln and Luan needed to get away. Her eyes started to drift back to Lincoln, but she forced them to the headless chicken lying before him instead. Lincoln jammed the tip of the blade into its pink, plucked body and jerked to one side; its entrails spilled out and plopped onto the grass with a wet sound, the rank smell of its stomach cavity wafting into Lynn's nose and making it crinkle. Lincoln's hands were red with blood and moved in quick, surgeon like motions. So steady, so strong, so sure.
"Now comes the fun part," he said and plunged his hand deep into the bird's stomach cavity. He didn't wince, didn't recoil; he would have two months ago, but he'd seen, and done, a lot on the road.
She glanced over as Luan walked up, her eyes pointed away from what her brother was doing. "Is there anything you need me to do?" she asked tentatively. Her face was wan, but Lynn saw clear, though faint, determination in her eyes, and that made her grin. She was taking what Lynn said to heart and bucking up, finally.
Lynn twisted around and looked at the pile of sticks. "You can set those up," she offered, "you know how, right?"
The older girl nodded, her ponytail bobbing. Lynn knew that she did, or should: She'd done it before. She'd also washed clothes by hand along with Leni and Luna. "Alright," Lynn said, "do that. I have to pee."
Slinging the Springfield over her shoulder, she started toward the river bank - there was a stand of brush off to the left, and she figured she could get behind it to screen herself. Normally, she didn't care if one of her siblings caught sight of her going, no one did (privacy was a luxury they'd long debased themselves of), but suddenly the idea of Lincoln seeing her squat, exposed, naked, and like an animal, twisted her stomach. She stole a furtive glance back: Luan stood over Lincoln, and he stared up at her, squinting against the glare of the sun. He said something, and Luan snickered.
At the bank, she ducked behind a bush and looked around to make sure that no ghouls were going to sneak up on her. Satisfied, she took out the Desert Eagle, pulled down her pants and underwear, and bent facing the river, flashes of blue through entwined green. When she was done, she wanted to bring out the roadmaps and go over them with Lincoln - Luan could handle the cooking. She wanted to know exactly where they should stop for the night and get there with enough daylight left that they could set up before nightfall: Sunset wouldn't be for another three or four hours, but as the motto of the cautious goes, it's better to be safe than sorry. Being caught on the road at dark was not something she wanted to do.
Finished, she stood and pulled her pants up, wincing at the feeling of pee drops dribbling into the fabric of her underwear. Cleanliness, like privacy, was something she and her siblings had to forsake over the past two months. Speaking of which, they should probably bathe while they were here - that river was just begging for it.
Slipping the Desert Eagle back into its holster, she crossed over to the campsite, if campsite it can be called. Lincoln was gutting the third chicken and Luan was on her knees arranging the sticks in a tight teepee shape. Sweat coursed down Lynn's forehead and stung her eyes; she wiped it away with the back of her hand and drew a dry breath. Did it always get this hot in the south? It never did in Michigan. If so, you'd never see her outside. Baseball? Football? Ha. Nope. Sorry.
As she passed, her eyes fell on Lincoln, then on the chicken. His arms were slimey with guts up to the elbow, and a pile of internal organs sat next to him. She couldn't resist a playful jab. "Saving that stuff for yourself, Linc?"
Lincoln glanced up at her, his cheeks flush and his sweaty bangs plastered to his forehead, then down at the guts. "Best part," he said. "Loaded with iron."
Lynn snickered. "You're loaded with something, alright. Shit."
Before he could fire back, she hurried up the embankment and climbed over the guardrail, her hands touching then yanking back when the heated metal stung. Ow, damn. She opened the passenger side door, leaned into the glovebox, and grabbed the map. Before going back, she looked up and down the highway to make sure it was free of the dead.
It was.
Back at camp, she dropped into the dry grass next to Lincoln and crossed her legs. Luan came over, knelt, and shoved a handful of dry grass into the teepee, then produced a lighter from her pocket and lit it; thick white smoke drifted forth, pinching Lynn's nose and stinging her eyes. Coughing, she waved her hand in front of her face. "Sorry," Luan said sheepishly.
"You're killing me, Smalls," Lynn said, and glanced at Lincoln to see his reaction. It was from The Sandlot, one of her favorite movies. She used to say that to him when they were playing baseball in the backyard and he'd miss a perfect toss. He lifted his brows, flipped the chicken over, and carved out its heart.
Lynn chuckled. "You heard that a lot, huh?"
"I still hear it in my sleep sometimes," he said and smirked at her. "In that annoying Lynn voice."
Luan smiled wanly and Lynn gaped. "Annoying Lynn voice?" she asked, the corners of her lips creeping up in a smile.
He nodded and started to carve the chicken into pieces. "Yep. The one that makes my ears bleed." He looked at her with a smug little grin that dared her to wipe it off, so she did by punching him hard in the arm.
"Real smart," he said, "punch the guy holding a knife." He held it up, blade pointing into the heavens.
Blowing a raspberry, Lynn waved him off. "I could take that thing away from you easy." She couldn't - probably - but admitting defeat or weakness was not the done thing when you're Lynn Loud. Well...it didn't used to be. Actually, she'd admitted both more times over the past two months than she cared to remember. It never got easier, but it was better to admit your shortcomings than to hide them, right?
Like you just did?
Well...this is different. She was just kidding around with her brother.
Presently, Lincoln snorted and sawed through a tough piece of cartilage, separating two pieces of meat. "You think so."
"I know so," she said.
When all three birds were in manageable chunks, Lincoln skewered them on five different sticks and looked at the fire; it was low, smoky, and crackling. "Uhhh...I guess just like roasting marshmallows." He handed one to Luan, another to Lynn, then took one for himself; they held them over the flames, and the meat began to sizzle.
Lynn glanced over her shoulder at the sun dappled river, scanning the brush for danger but seeing none. "We should probably all bathe while we're here," she said, turning back to the task at hand.
"You guys can go first," Lincoln said.
No power meant no running water, and the only way they'd taken baths since leaving home was in rivers, streams, and once in a lake near Parkersburg. In Ohio, they camped in a farmhouse that had an old stone well in the backyard, so they filled buckets and washed themselves with rags. Method notwithstanding, when they bathed, at least one person always stood guard, only a couple feet away with a rifle and eyes peeled for trouble. Lynn was never ecstatic about her brother watching over her as she did that, but today, for some reason, the thought made her blush deeply. Not that he was gonna be a perv and look at her or anything, still…
Then, when it was his turn, she'd have to watch over him, and that made her blush deeper still.
Lincoln turned his chicken over the fire - it was starting to turn white, and the smell of it cooking found Lynn's nostrils; her stomach growled and she began to salivate. "Do you want me to go to the car?" Luan asked haltingly. "T-To get soap?"
Lynn blinked. Luan volunteering to go off on her own? Yeah, she didn't exactly sound excited about it, but the fact that she offered...jeez, what Lynn said earlier must have really snapped her out of it.
That made her feel kind of bad. She didn't want Luan to push herself too hard...she just wanted her to take care of herself a little. "Nah, I'll grab it," she said, "I need to get something anyway." That was a lie, she didn't need anything from the car other than bath stuff. Soap. Towel. And that was it.
When the chicken was finally done, brown and crisp and smelling so good Lynn's eyes rolled back into her head, they dug in, the flavor of hot, fresh meat like ambrosia after sixty days of canned slop. "This is really good," Luan said around a mouthful.
"Best chicken ever," Lynn agreed, spraying bits onto her lap, and it was - dry and bland as it may have been.
Lincoln tore a piece off with his teeth, chewed, and swallowed. "Colonel Sanders ain't got shit on me."
Lynn laughed so hard she inhaled a piece of meat and started to choke. Lincoln slapped her hard on the back, and it flew out of her mouth into the fire. "Thanks," she said, blushing with embarrassment.
"Don't mention it," Lincoln said, "I…"
He trailed off when a ghoul appeared at the guard rail, a tattered suit hanging from its emaciated frame. From here, Lynn couldn't tell if it was a man or woman; sparse tufts of hair clung to its rotting scalp and blood crusted the lower half of its face - mess from a meal past, she thought with a shiver. Luan turned, saw it, and tensed. For a second, it stood where it was, then came dumbly forward, bumping off the guardrail and stumbling back. It tried again, this time doubling over the metal and landing hard before rolling down the hill. Lynn couldn't stop a morbid laugh from bubbling up in her throat.
For a moment, Lincoln stared at it, then pulled out his Bowie knife, grabbed the stick he'd roasted his chicken on, and started to sharpen it. Lynn turned her head and furrowed her brows. "What are you doing?" she asked incredulously. Luan watched the ghoul warily as it struggled to its feet, her hand creeping shakily to the Glock on the ground next to her.
"I'm gonna spear his ass," Lincoln said, shaving off long strips of bark with the blade.
"Really?"
"Yeah."
The ghoul stood, swayed like a drunk on his way home from drinking up his paycheck, and started forward. Lincoln got to his feet and Lynn followed: She had to see this shit. "You think you can do it?" she asked.
Lincoln looked down at the spear and ticked his head from side to side. "I think so," he said and looked at her.
"G-Guys…" Luan said.
Lynn glanced at her sister, then followed her gaze: Another ghoul was wading through the river, the water up to its waist. This one was a woman, clad in a pink dress, her bushy hair faded red and her face white. Lynn spotted a third picking its way through the brush on the other side of the river, and her heart started to race. Okay, maybe this wasn't good.
Never taking her eyes off the advancing creatures, Lynn stooped down and picked up the Springfield. The woman reached the bank and slipped on the rocks, falling to the ground in a heap. She aimed at the third, still tangled in the brush, and that's when she noticed a fourth and a fifth; her stomach clutched. Yeah, this was not good. "Linc?"
Gripping the spear, Lincoln wound up, one foot leaving the ground, then drove it forward - it sailed through the air and sank into the ghoul's chest, knocking it back but not over.
Six, seven, eight, nine zombies moving along the treeline. On the ground, Luan started to hyperventilate, and Lynn couldn't blame her...she was starting to panic too. Lowering the gun, she turned to Lincoln, who watched the ghoul with a frown. "I missed," he said simply.
"We have to go," Lynn said, "now."
Lincoln's brow furrowed. "Why?" He twisted around, saw the army of the living dead amassing on the other bank, and paled. "Oh, shit. Yeah, let's go." He hurried over to the M-16, snatched it up, and aimed at the monster in the dress.
BLAM!
She jerked back and sprawled on the ground, her legs spread out in a wide V. Lynn slung the rifle over her shoulder and went to Luan, who was frozen on the ground. "Come on," Lynn said and helped her to her feet, casting a fearful glance over her shoulder. Lincoln turned, shot the zombie with the spear in its chest, then stopped to grab a piece of chicken.
"C'mon, Linc!" Lynn said sharply and slipped her arm around Luan's shoulder. "Forget the damn chicken."
Lincoln shoved it into his mouth, grabbed another, then hurried over. By the time they climbed over the guardrail, the ghouls were crossing the field. Lynn stopped, looked back, and saw even more pouring out of the woods. "Oh, that's nice," Lincoln said. She turned in his direction, and saw six stumbling up the highway.
Okay, that's it, we're out.
Luan trembled and panted for air. "It's gonna be fine," Lynn said and hustled her around the back of the Bronco. She ripped the back door open, shoved her in, and slammed it. Behind the wheel, she turned the key in the ignition. She counted eleven now, all spread out and staggering toward them. Lincoln climbed in and pulled the door closed behind him.
"I hate these fucking things," Lynn said earnestly and threw the Bronco into drive. She hit the gas and angled across the road, pressing down on the pedal and gathering speed. There was no passing them, she'd have to plow through.
The front end slammed into one and it fell, the tires crushing it; the passenger corner clipped another and flung it aside.
"Tell me about it," Lincoln said, "I didn't get to finish my chicken."
Lynn bowed her head and snorted. "You're a real lame-o, you know that?"
Lincoln shrugged. "I've heard that once or twice."
"Well it's true. And a dork." She reached over and squeezed his leg.
And a good brother, she thought.