ZOMB-POCALYPSE

Chapter Eighteen

Without having to stop for fuel, we make great time. We make even better time because Silas is driving, and he doesn't go much below eighty miles an hour. I can tell that Ryan hates it, but Silas seems to be a good driver, always in control of the vehicle. He's had to slow down a couple times to brake for shamblers on the road, but otherwise it's been a straight shot down a wide open highway.

We get more than halfway to Indiana before the late afternoon starts to fade into evening.

"We need to stop for the night," Ryan says tersely from the passenger seat. He's been tense all day.

My bladder is close to bursting, so I secretly rejoice at his words. I haven't wanted to slow us down, and I definitely haven't been in the mood to have the guys pull over so I can pee on the side of the road while zombies try to bite my exposed butt.

"How about this place?" Silas says, which is really more of a rhetorical question because he's already pulling off the road. He parks in front of a house that is nearly invisible from the road because of a large copse of trees.

Ryan eyes the trees nervously for any sign of zombies. I do the same, but nothing seems to be moving other than the branches swaying in the wind.

The place is small. It can't be more than a simple one or two bedroom house. The wooden slats on the outside are faded from the sun, and the whole place looks a bit dilapidated.

Silas pulls his gun from his holster and gets out of the vehicle without waiting for either Ryan or I. Ryan curses under his breath and pulls the large hunting knife from his own belt loop.

"Stay here," he commands me, and I do a double take.

"What?" I ask, my voice is frosty enough to give him a definite chill. It makes him pause and look back at me.

Ryan sends me a conciliatory smile, "It's just, with the two of us, you don't need to be in danger anymore."

I roll my eyes. It's the zombie apocalypse, I am in danger every second of my life, and the sooner I learn how to deal with that, the safer I will actually be.

I pointedly ignore Ryan and slide out of the truck, making sure not to slam my door. I pull my gun from my hip and jog over to join Silas, who has his lock picking set out and is working on the door knob.

"You should wait for backup," I lecture.

He snorts. "What do you think I did before you came along?" he challenges me. I could argue, but I let it go and turn my back on him to keep a watch on what might be coming up behind us.

Silas might not have the most amiable personality, but at least he treats me like I'm capable of doing things.

Ryan walks up, but I make a point to purposely ignore him. He doesn't say much to me either. We both turn when we hear the door click open. Silas pauses in the doorway and lets out the same low whistle I heard him do back at my old house.

I turn towards the house and smell the air. It smells stale and dusty, but nothing along the lines of rotting flesh jumps out at me, and more importantly, zombies don't jump out at me. Ryan brings his flashlight up and pans it back and forth in to the dark house.

His light reveals a kitchen with a grubby linoleum floor, and Silas takes his first few steps inside.

"I think it's okay," he says, motioning for Ryan and me to follow him in. "This place is a shoebox, it shouldn't take too long to clear." Silas moves into the kitchen and opens a door that reveals a bathroom. There is a washer and dryer squeezed in there as well.

The only other rooms are a living room with a small couch and a bedroom with a double bed.

"This place is no frills," Ryan remarks, and I secretly agree.