SurvivorZ: Grave Harbor

45

DARLA

Major Darla Adams was one of the select few who spent the end of the world differently than most everyone else in Boston. Whereas other survivors gravitated around friends and community, her priority was isolation. The frail thread of a radio signal was her only tether to civilization.

The military scattered her and the rest of her team of scouts throughout Boston on the first day of the crisis. They were to serve as the army's eyes and ears now that satellite surveillance was no more. It was her mission to track the comings and goings of zombies in the west end of the city. With a district that covered most of the cemeteries in Boston, she had her work cut out for her.

Darla turned a small, out of the way building in the middle of the Lost Pond Conservation Area into her base of operations. It was a remote structure surrounded by a wildlife preserve with a natural pond. Since nature hikes weren't in high demand by scavengers, its presence went overlooked by both the living and the dead. Its central location worked for her, though. She even had a nearby waste management depot to help mask her scent.

A few times a week, she would journey to the neighboring stores on Boylston Street to recon and resupply. When the dead emerged from their graves, the occupants of Chestnut Hill grabbed what they could from places like this during their flight from Boston. Since then, she had the run of the place.

Her treasure hoard consisted of a Wegmans, a few takeouts, some clothing and electronics stores, and a furniture store or two. Though scavengers cleared out much of the food, liquor, and other easy to carry perishables long ago, the area still had much to offer.

Darla munched on the granola bar she found for breakfast and studied her map of the surrounding area. It stretched from Newton to Roxbury and all points south of Brookline Avenue. It was the fourth such record that she had gone through during her two-week vigil. The others were too marked up to be legible anymore.

Tracking the migration of the walking dead was a full-time job. During the first week, their attention remained focused on the populated areas to the south of Boston. Lately, however, she caught more of them heading northeast, chasing the rumble of the bombings from two days ago.

The big herds were scattering, making her job more onerous. Every time she travelled, she stood a greater chance of attracting the notice of smaller bands of zombies. They might not be as deadly, but they were a hell of a lot harder to spot.

These groups roamed freely, usually drifting towards the intermittent gunfire erupting around Needham, Oak Hill, and Roxbury. She steered clear of those warzones. The way she saw it, anyone forced to engage in noisy gun battles had already lost the war anyway.

She wasn't here to help the locals or cull the dead. Her orders were specific – under no circumstances was she to jeopardize her cover, not even to save civilians. As much as it might still resemble it, this wasn't America anymore. She was alone behind enemy lines. Those who weren't hungry for her flesh would skin her alive for everything else in her possession.

Finishing her meal, Darla sat back in her beach chair and pulled the heavy wool comforter tighter around her shoulders. She raised her binoculars and stared out over the Wegmans parking lot. The store's rooftop provided her with a clear view of Chestnut Hill Village, Boylston Street, and the empty graves of neighboring Holyhood Cemetery.

The distant gunfire intermittently popping from the east reminded her of Afghanistan. She didn't know what was worse; that the sounds of battle had come to Boston, or that it resounded with unnatural clarity in the otherwise still city.

The battle raged on in Roxbury, but lately everything had gone deathly quiet to the west. She hoped that meant whoever was surviving in Oak Hill had managed to beat back the darkness. She strongly suspected that wasn't the case.