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(32) Sleepers on the Road

At least we can guess now why Morse code doesn't wake Sleepers. Ember figures a person has to recognize their name when it's spoken or tapped for the Redding to identify and use it, so Morse code isn't as safe as we figured. It's just that most Sleepers never knew Morse code. It makes me even more glad Calico J and I agreed early on that no real names would be shared within our group. And that we've never met anyone with the same real name as our nicknames. We might have taken someone down by accident just by introducing ourselves.

We find a driveway not much farther up the road. Ditzy turns down it, stopping and starting as we wait for Sleepers to wander past us. Given the general zombie ambiance, I expect to find another near-ruin like the Anport murder house at the end. I'm pleasantly surprised. It's a cute little cabin with a wood-burning stove inside, where I soon get a fire going. Patrick takes inventory of our food while everyone else gets settled.

"We want anything fancy for dinner?" I say to the room at large.

"If we do, it's up to you guys," says Ember. She jerks a thumb at Oreo, who's passed out on a couch. "He cooks. I'd burn a salad."

As it turns out, we're all too tired to make anything fancy anyway. We eat granola bars and instant ramen for supper, then steal mattresses, lay out sleeping bags, and try uneasily to sleep while the crackle of Sleepwalkers through the forest passes by us by all through the night.

Oreo's awake enough to navigate come morning. The Redding did a number on him, which I suppose is to be expected when its intent was to hijack his central nervous system, then kill him. It scarcely gets him down, though. Three hours into the day's trip, Ditzy gets bored enough to start a farm-animal-zombie bingo, and finds several willing participants in the vehicle.

"Beef!" shouts Calico J from the back seat, in tears of laughter.

"Beef again," calls Ditzy from the other side. "Where's mutton? We don't have mutton yet. Veal? No, that's beef. Goat? Can you eat goat?"

"Sure can," says Oreo. "Pigeon, too."

"That's not a farm animal."

"But they are domesticated."

"How do you know these things?"

He grins. "Nerd. Oh! Chicken strips!"

"Chicken wings."

"Rotisserie chicken."

"Chicken soup."

"Coq au vin."

"At least let me write down the directions so you can get distracted without losing our way," says Ember in exasperation.

"No," says Oreo. "I'm paying attention. Look at all my attention. Also, I don't have it memorized. I'll need to see the signs anyway."

"You're counting cows."

"No we're not. We're counting beef."

I'm glad I'm driving.

The game breaks as we enter another slow flood of Sleepwalkers crossing the road. They wade through the crop fields on either side, somehow both less and more intimidating than they were last night. They can't surprise us now. But they only look more ghastly in the light of day.

They can still surprise us. As we pass a windbreak, one steps from hiding onto the road. I slam the brakes.

"Careful," gasps Oreo.

"I am."

We were already going less than fifty, and I had enough warning to stop. I wait for the Sleepwalker to pass. When I glance in the rearview mirror to see if everyone's okay, Oreo is checking that the Sleepwalker made it across safely. Only when she's gone does he lean back against Ember's shoulder. She slips an arm around him.