What We Left Behind (Z is for Zombie Book 1) by Peter Cawdron

Author:Peter Cawdron [Cawdron, Peter]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2015-05-04T21:00:00+00:00

Chapter 08: Sleep

After dumping everything back on the bed, I slip my arms inside my shirt, allowing me to turn the shirt around without taking it off. Then I pick up my old clothes again. Finally, we head downstairs. I catch a glimpse of Steve’s face when his flashlight reflects off a mirror in the hallway. His cheeks are red, but he’s grinning.

“What’s so funny?” I ask as we round the stairs.

“You.”

I give him a little poke behind his ribs. It’s playful, nothing harsh, but it makes Steve jump. He lets out a fake yelp. He must be thinking, of all the people to survive the apocalypse, I end up following this weirdo through a zombie-infested city.

A thin layer of water covers the marble floor downstairs making it slippery. Being barefoot, I almost fall on my ass, but somehow I stay upright.

“It’s just like ice skating,” Steve says, taking the crook of my arm to help me keep my balance.

“Ice skating in a shallow lake,” I reply.

David has a fire going in the fireplace. I can feel the warmth as soon as we walk into the room. The carpet by the marble entrance way is soggy, but further into the lounge it’s still dry, which is a welcome relief.

Jane’s hanging clothes out to dry on the back of a few chairs. She smiles. Jane has brightened with the warmth of the fire. Having an opportunity to stop and rest has revitalized her.

“Did you have a shower?” she asks, watching me unwind my towel-turban and drying my hair by the fire.

“Out on the balcony,” I reply. “It’s cold, but there’s shampoo.”

“Oooh,” she replies, and I can see the cogs turning in her mind.

David hands us a couple of plates.

“Thanks.”

In the flickering light of the fire, I can see that the plates have ornate patterns weaving their way around the rim. It seems such a shame. Something so beautiful wasted in the apocalypse.

David has soaked our beef jerky with a few vegetables we brought with us and thrown them into a steel pot, cooking them over the fire. The smell of a fresh stew wafts through the air. There’s salt and pepper on the table, which is a rarity back at the commune. I’m already salivating.

“I couldn’t get either the camp stove or the light to work,” he says. That’s disappointing, but the crackle of the fire is nice. I notice David has drawn the blinds, keeping the light from spilling out and attracting unwanted attention.

“This tastes wonderful,” I say, biting into some soft jerky. Steve mumbles in agreement with his mouth full.

“Did you find anything else of interest up there?” Jane asks.

“No, but Steve did,” I reply. Steve almost spits out his stew. Jane cocks her head, clearly wanting a little context, but I’ve embarrassed poor Steve enough already.

“Hey,” I say with a burst of excitement. “What about that gun?”

“Oh, no good,” David says. “No ammo. Wrong caliber. It would make a nice paperweight, but nothing more.”

“Bummer,” I reply.

“Can you imagine the early days?” Jane asks, sitting on the couch.

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