Day Thirteen
We prepare early, just before dawn. I’d kept the second watch, as I usually do, and had been peering into the darkness for the last few hours, moving as little as possible. So far, the wandering dead used little in the way of stealth. They shambled through twigs and leaves without a thought, and we’d learned to use this. Our camp was surrounded by a rough perimeter of brush. The danger of this was the noise it took to set up, of course. But we’d taken the chance in order to relax a little.
A little was about all it was good for.
The dead were not completely oblivious to their surroundings, as we’d seen. They used doorknobs, and opened gates. A few were seen to pantomime common daily activities, passing through the motions as if expressing complex motor reflexes. Movement without motive. The corpse we’d seen standing at a public phone in the last town was one of those, her finger punching buttons endlessly, distended jaw working.
Julia had pretended to be amused, but I couldn’t manage that. It was worse than animal behavior, and hinted that the dead remain, to some small degree, the people they’d once been. Thoughts of my daughter rise unbidden, and I cannot suppress them. As I sit and serve as watch, they return, along with the thought that a dead game hunter might move with mindless ease and stealth through brush like this. The fields all around us rustle, the wind playing tricks.
The hours don’t pass quickly.
Finally, the dawn. I put a silent hand on Julia’s shoulder, and, without transition, she’s awake, sitting up, her hand gripping her club. With a silent nod, she rises, and our day begins. A brief meal, and we’re off.
The only decision that needs words is our route. Julia favors the wide strip between the fields, a path worn by tractors and trucks, but I remember the last family we’d seen on the main road, car stalling, steam pouring from the radiator, surrounded in moments by a rush of people from the fields all around. The dead were watching the roads and routes.
“We’ll be able to see further, on the road,” Julia insisted.
“That won’t help if we’re surrounded,” I returned. “Remember the rail yard?”
She was getting angry. “We can be surrounded just as easily in the fields. More easily!”
“They can’t see any better than we can, in the fields!” I pointed out.
“How do we know they even do see?” Julia snapped. “Lot’s of them don’t even have eyes!” This was a good point, and I nodded, partly relieved. The tractor path it was.
Julia’s anger had been born of fear, but that didn’t make the anger diminish when the decision had been made. Though mollified, she set a quick pace, lips compressed, club ready in her hands. I wanted to slow her down, to remind her of caution. But she was in no mood for advice, and I let her be. Discord between us was its own danger. As soon as we cleared these fields, exploring the farm would allow her mood to improve. I hoped.
The barn loomed before us, a large, hollow structure, the use of which I’d never understood. Now, the doors stood open, and I could see more fields through the opposite opening. As we drew close, I realized how large a building this was. The stone foundation of the lowest level was taller than I.
Julia rounded the corner, just turning to say something, when a shot rang out. Her club flying aside, Julia spun about, her foot skidding on the grass. With a cry, she dropped.
“Julia!” I shouted, rushing forward. She was struggling to get to her hands and feet, one hand clutching her shoulder, which welled red with blood. “Don’t shoot!” I shouted at the farmhouse. “Hey!”
A second shot sounded, and I imagined I could hear it pass close. Perhaps I had. In any case, I dove for the ground, dragging Julia down with me, and half-dragged her to cover. The hollow spang! Of a ricochet made me examine our shelter. A propane tank large enough for a farm this size.
“Hey!” I called again. “Don’t shoot!”
“If you can understand my voice,” came an answer, “you’ll do what’s best, and move along!”
Julia struggled to rise, taking my forgotten club into her good hand, her teeth barred. “I’ll show him what’s best!” she snarled. Her skin had a pasty, pale glow, and her face was covered with sweat. Shock had descended, and she didn’t have the strength to rise. She sagged against me, the bat falling from her grip.
“I’ve been shot,” she said, her tone both amazed and calm. “I’m dying.”
“It’s just grazed your arm,” I said, shaking my head and pulling her closer, getting ready to move. “You’ll be fine.”
“Hey!” came another voice, from the other side of the house. “Hey, don’t shoot!”
I paused, peering around the white-painted curve of the tank. A figure stepped from the field, a tall pitchfork in his hand. Another shot, and the man was blown violently back into the rows. Three more stepped forward, each carrying a tool: pitchfork, scythes, a wood saw.
“Hey,” one called out. “Hey, it’s us!”
Firing began in earnest from the house, and from the field came rank after rank of walking dead, some barely walking, others holding sledgehammers or hedge-trimmers. Bore-drills or bales of barbed wire.
“Hey,” some called. Their voices were of dirt and loam. Children called out in high, uneven voices. “Don’t shoot,” they said. Reflexive. Without conscious thought. Echoes of who they’d been.
I picked up Julia, and began to run away from the farm, cutting into the fields and dashing blindly through the rows, battering a path away from the retort of gunfire, and the voices of the dead.
I've noticed a need for an item-discovery system for the campaign, so that's what I was doodling with today. Just a few quick notes, to keep things fresh until I have more time to work out the details.
The game will include a large list of equipment, most of which is needed in combination, and in conjunction with the player's skills. Since the survivors can scavenge anywhere, the game should allow quite a bit of latitude in what's available, if you're willing to take the risks needed to get it.
I'll have more on this in the near future.
