Moonlit Retribution

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Even with a measly meal in our stomachs, we’re feeling a bit discouraged in our quest for a map until we eventually stumble across a gas station that seems very much intact. How illogical.

Mella, eyes narrowed in suspicion, voices this concern: “Why, of all places in this dump, would the gas station be the only thing left in one piece? I know I don’t have the whole ‘survival’ mindset, so correct me if I’m wrong in assuming that the first thing people would raid would be a gas station.”

“How should I know?” Ríjez grumbles. “The fact is that it is intact, and it’ll most likely have something useful in it.”

Mella puffs up like a blowfish, and I feel one of their trademark arguments brewing. I brush past them and start for the gas station in an effort to steer them away from verbally abusing each other. Thankfully, they shut up and follow my lead.

You have no idea how freaky it is to lead two adults. It’s unsettling as hell to think that I’m in charge of keeping these two from killing each other.

Like the dozens of our other break-ins today, Ríjez and I ready our guns and cautiously make passes along the barren aisles to make sure we really are alone. Unlike the other times, I’m in the lead, and I’m just barely able to react appropriately when some screeching thing flies at me from behind the check-out counter.

Grunting, I twist around and use its momentum to throw it to the floor. With an indignant roar, it smashes against a rack of postcards, sending a shower of scenic pictures fluttering through the air, and it’s momentarily stunned long enough for me and Rí jez to blast two holes into its chest. Usually I’d consider this a waste of ammo, but my heart is throbbing painfully in my chest from the adrenaline.

Ríjez slowly approaches the prone body--some tall Korean-looking dude--and prods its leg with the muzzle of his rifle. No reaction.

Now, I should point out that this knee-jerk reaction of ours to just shoot at anything that moves can sometimes work against us. Like now, for example. This guy had obviously been able to survive all on his own for God only knows how long, and here we come barging in and end it all without so much as a “hey, how’s it going.”

Shame leeches into my conscious, rendering me immobile, and Ríjez is frozen in place next to the man. Mella, ever the levelheaded one, is actually thinking clearly enough to check the guy over for infection (like anything would be noticeable), careful to not come in contact with any bodily fluids. When she reaches his eyes and peels the lids back, she sighs in a quick displacement of air and rises to her feet.

“Don’t feel too terrible,” she intones dryly. “We’ve got another dead-eyed one.”

What? There’s more of these things?

Shivering, I shake my head and hope that will somehow clear up the jittery nest-of-cockroach-larvae feeling in my stomach. “‘Dead-eyed’?” I parrot. “Someone watched too many Jaws reruns.”

She sends me a mildly lethal glare and casually picks up one of the displaced post cards from the dead thing’s chest. “Well, looky here, Vess.” Her airy sarcasm forces me to look away from Freak Numero Dos. I meet her gaze, which is surprisingly serious. She holds up the card. “Pretty little desert, just a couple counties over. Convenient, isn’t it?”

“No kidding,” I mumble, absentmindedly stroking the length of my gun. I still find it amazing that I used to hate them. Funny how an alien-zombie apocalypse can revise your old morals.

Ríjez finally snaps out of his little daze and fixes me with a hard, inquisitive stare. “What do we need a desert for?”

Still staring at the postcard, Mella explains, in one of her rare patient tones, “Vessa’s got this theory that I want to test, and it obviously involves finding a desert. Or any deserted area, come to think of it. Unless you’ve got some other place to be, Mister Ríjez…?”