First, they came along.

  Then those jokers and now this.

  He'd given his word to The Fosters that he would get those supplies to them today. He'd broken one promise before all of this happened (the biggest one in his life) and he wasn't about to repeat that offense.

  He pushed himself away from the steering podium, hurried toward the rear of the boat, scaled the knee-high railing and squatted next to a curved metal handle embedded into the floor. He slipped his hand through, gave a loud painful grunt and tugged upward. He stuck his head inside of a massive cubbyhole where a two-hundred horsepower engine sat, its wires snaking from one end to the other and ignored the smells of heat and exhaust wafting toward him.

  He groped the engine with his right hand to make sure everything was still intact.

  Cylinders were good.

  Plenty of oil and gas.

  Spark plug wire in place.

  When his hand groped the side of the engine next to the top cylinder, his middle finger slid into an empty hole located in the top head. His head slumped over in defeat.

  He drew a large cloud of hot odors deep into his lungs and bit down on his bottom lip. Anger sliced down his chest and churned inside the pit of his stomach. His heart didn’t sink into his feet but if he were standing it would’ve.

  "What is it?"

  "We're fucked." He said.

  "What do you mean?"

  "They tossed my goddamn spark plug into the river." He hissed. “Shit!”

  The baby flinched at the anger in his voice, but it still refused to cry.

  “Okay.” Stacey said. “Could you explain it those of us who don’t speak boat.”

  Swabbing his tongue across his bottom teeth, Colin said, “If we don’t have that spark plug, this boat isn't going anywhere unless you want to get some paddles and start rowing.”

  "We've got to get to Abilene."

  "Don't you have a spare?"

  "That was the spare."

  He hissed from between loose teeth and tightened his grip on the railing.

  “I'd love to help you,” He said. “but there's nothing I can do."

  They mumbled under their breath and, their faces creased with uneasiness, began hiking back up the hill. Colin sighed and stared down at his feet when he caught something glinting in the corner of his right eye. He glanced up in time to see the pinprick of fear in Rosie’s tiny blue eyes, followed by a wide pink grin that cut across her chubby face.

  A pang of regret jabbed him deep in the center of his chest. It wasn’t her fault everything had gone to Hell in a handcart. She was just born in the right place at the wrong time; he couldn’t bring himself to think about what those things would do if they got their hands on her.

  "Wait."

  The baby squirmed inside Stacey's arms and gave a tiny protest. Jason flashed a sad basset-hound stare, his bottom lip barely jutting over his chin.

  "Is there an auto-part store around here?"

  "Fester's."

  "Where is it?"

  "It's on the other end of town." She said.

  He sighed, laced his arms across his chest and glanced down at the thin tongue of water lapping at the shore. As much as he didn’t want to think about it, he knew their chances of survival were slim to fucked.

  "I hope you’re in the mood to walk.” He said.

  “Why?” Stacy said.

  “I made a promise to you,” He said. “and I’m going to keep to my promise if I have to drag you with me.”

  “Are you shitting me?” Jason said.

  “No.” He said. “I can’t take the risk of leaving you here and coming back to either find my boat gone or the three of you dead.”

  “Why don’t you trust us?”

  “It’s not that I don’t trust you.” He said. “What kind of a man would I be if I left three defenseless children in my boat alone when someone else and their friends could swing by and take the rest of my shit? What if those fucking things come down here to tear you apart?”

  She shrugged.

  He sauntered across the boat, crouched in front of the steering podium and fumbled for something underneath. He grasped the stitched black handles of a large green duffel bag in his right fist, dragged it out of hiding and placed it in the middle of the boat. When he zipped it open, Jason and Stacey gasped with shock.

  He tossed a package of cheese and crackers and a bottle of water at Stacey. Jason ran over, his body flooding with insatiable hunger, and reached inside of the bag. He snatched a bottle of lime-green Gatorade in his right hand, tore off the lid, took a giant swig, slid the bottle away from his mouth and sighed.

  Colin shrugged, tore the lid off the bottle of water he intended to hand to Jason and took a sip. Stacey tore the top off of one of the crackers, gave the other one to the baby and watched her lick off the cheese. He didn’t know if it were safe for a baby to eat but he knew little about children; if it would keep her then what right did he have to protest.

  Stacey whispered in her ear. A thin strand of drool stretched from the corner of the cracker to the bottom right corner of the baby’s lip. Colin removed a dark-blue rainslicker from the bag, slipped it over his head, tugged back on the hood and smoothed out the wrinkles.

  When Jason took his third sip of Gatorade, Colin eased the bottle out of his hands, replaced the cap and said, “I hate to be that guy but we’ve got to conserve this. You’ll get it back next time we stop but not until then.”

  He swept the rest of their rations aside and produced a black over-and-under twenty-gauge shotgun and three boxes of shells. He fed the shotgun, racked the pump and stuffed more shells into the front sling of his jacket.

  “Do you want any help with that?” Jason said.

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “I’m only thirteen. Most of the kids in school were hunting at my age.”

  “You’re not getting a gun.” Stacey said. “Mom and Dad would kill you if they found out you were carrying a gun.”

  “Are your parents Democrats?”

  “No.” She shrugged. “We had a gun up until one of our best friends shot himself.”

  Colin nodded. Jason sighed and rolled his eyes.

  "Can we get her some apple juice on the way?”

  “Of course, honey.” He said. “Would you like me to pick up anything else from the store on my way home?”

  He winked. She shook her head and smiled.

  “A rectal thermometer, maybe.”

  He ignored her, zipped the bag open and held it open.

  “You can put her diaper bag inside of here, too.” He said. “It wouldn’t make sense to carry two bags when this one will hold all of it.”

  She did as he suggested, leaned in and planted a soft kiss on Colin’s right cheek. Jason’s cheeks reddened as the baby made a childish cooing sound. It’d been a long time since he got one of those.

  He slid his right arm through the strap, brought it up and over his head and across his chest and lead them away from the boat. The wind sighed through the trees, caressed the nape of his neck and prickled his skin.

  When he tapped his right finger against the crown of Stacey’s right shoulder, she brushed a thick strand of hair away from her left cheek and glanced at him.

  “Can you handle the baby?”

  “Her name is Rosie?”

  “Can you handle Rosie?”

  “Yeah.”

  “If she starts crying, I need to know that you’re going to keep her quiet because if anyone knows we’re out here we’re dead. You are to stay beside of me at all times but if things should get hairy.” He said. “You are to run away as fast as you can and not look back. Understand?”

  She nodded, hitching Rosie further up onto her chest. He didn’t want to be “that guy” but this was important for them to understand. They were about to enter a city invaded by an enemy far worse than taxes and love, an enemy that had no table manners or prejudice; this had nothing to do with color or sexual orientation.

  He led them away from the boat and back up the hill toward the café. They made their way back through the veranda with less objection than the last time they were here. After waving the children inside the café ahead of him, he found a blood-streaked hiking boot lying in the tangle of dead bodies and jammed it onto the track to keep the door from closing.

  Once they crossed the dining room and headed out the front door, Colin snatched a rock from the pile sitting under the restaurant’s sign and used it to hold the door open.

  “What the hell did you do that for?” Stacey said.

  “The place could use some fresh air.”

  She shook her head and rolled her eyes. When they reached the faded yellow curb, he stretched his arm across their faces to keep them from going any further.

  Pointing at the street with the barrel of his shotgun, Colin turned and said, “Where do we start?”

  CHAPTER SIX

  IN the kitchen of the frat house, Dominic Grady listened to the footsteps parading upstairs and ignored the urge to light another cigarette. He stepped back from the counter, patted his left thigh with his left hand and felt the pack of cigarettes inside of his pocket. He licked his lips, tasted the sweet tang of nicotine on his tongue and coursing through his veins and slid his hand away from his pocket.

  Another set of footsteps paraded across the ceiling as Teresa and Malik prepared to go out. He didn’t see where they had to go because they’d already had plenty of supplies but he didn’t want to say anything. The last thing Teresa needed was for him to tell her that she’d been wrong to go in the first place especially after he’d stuck up for her when it came to Malik and Pixie.

  It wasn’t the only time he’d ever protested against them. They’d fought with Teresa on literally everything and they’d only been granted one wish. They’d gotten the biggest bedroom in the whole house but what else could they possibly want.

  Why had he asked himself that? What compelled him to come up with such an easy answer to such a stupid question? They’d approached him last week about a mutiny of some kind where he would get a say in things that went on in the future.

  “She thinks that badge gives her permission to tell us what to do.” Malik had said. “The last time I checked that badge is nothing but a goddamn paperweight but if we stand together and tell her how we feel she’ll know who’s really in charge.”

  “Do you ever think she actually has our safety in concern.” He’d said.

  “If she had our safety in concern,” Pixie had said. “she wouldn’t be treating us like a bunch of prisoners.”

  The sound of those words had grated on Dominic’s nerves. He’d turned away from the stove and jabbed his finger in Pixie’s face.

  “If she were treating us like prisoners,” He’d said. “we’d be in handcuffs.”

  He’d ignored them and gone back to cooking.

  Now, he slipped his left hand into his pocket, removed the pack of cigarettes and shook one out. He slipped it between his lips, returned it to his left pocket and knelt down beside of the gas stove to light it. He pinched his lips between the filter, drew the sweet taste of nicotine deep into his lungs and exhaled two thin streams of smoke out of his nostrils.

  After two long draws, a sharp bitter aftertaste danced across his tongue. He pinched his left thumb and forefinger between his cigarette, walked over to the sink and turned on the faucet. He stuck it under the faucet, igniting a loud hissing sound across the kitchen and then removed the pack from his pocket.

  He slipped the wet cigarette inside of the pack and tossed the pack into the trashcan beside of the entryway leading toward the back porch. He killed the faucet and retrieved the carving knife from the cutting board sitting on the countertop to continue cutting the onions when something appeared in the corner of his right eye. He turned and saw Teresa standing in the doorway between the living room and the kitchen and nodded at her with the tip of the knife.

  “Hey, buddy.” She said. “I didn’t get a chance to thank you for having my back.”

  “It’s nothing.” He said. “You’re my favorite customer, Hun.”

  “I still am. Do you need anything?”

  “Not really.”

  “Are you sure?” She said. “Do you need any more cigarettes?”

  “I’ll be fine without them.”

  He followed it with a wink. Teresa nodded, flashed a wide grateful smile and strode back into the living room. More footsteps drummed across the ceiling; a rap album blared from upstairs, followed by the sound of loud female chittering.

  “Oh shit.” She said.

  “Every time.” He said. “She’s gonna miss it one day so she might as well get it while she can.”

  The creak of bedsprings filled the upstairs. Teresa sighed.

  “I guess I’ve got some time to kill before we go.” She said. “I think I’ll take a nap.”

  “I’ll let you know when dinner’s ready.”

  “Thanks. Do you need any help?”

  “Nah.” He said. “Go take your nap.”

  “The last thing I’ll do is argue with you on that.”

  Teresa strode back into the living room and disappeared around the corner. He’d diced up the onions, carried the cutting board over to the big stockpot sitting on the oven and poured them inside the thick juicy mix of chili beans, diced tomatoes, hamburger and green peppers sitting inside. He placed the cutting board back onto the countertop, placed a pair of red peppers onto the board and began to dice them.

  There wasn’t a kitchen in all of the world that he couldn’t maneuver his way through. Hell, he’d been a natural in the kitchen since he was thirteen.

  At the age of nineteen, Dominic had served seven years in the Army until he took a bullet in the leg from a friendly fire and accepted an honorable discharge. He knew it wasn’t an accident because most of the guys in his unit had disregarded him ever since he’d came out of the closet to his commanding officer. The very men who swore they would take a bullet for him and die for this country whether it was every man, woman or non-binary pal lied to him.

  In the summer of two-thousand-ten, he’d taken his pension and bought an office building along Mannion Avenue. He bought one of the old building where the local IHOP was once located and turned it into one of many Mom and Pop restaurants that served authentic down-home family cooking. It was aptly named DOMINIC’S and was open from nine-to-five on Monday-thru-Friday and ten-to-four on Saturdays but were closed on Sundays.

  He had something for everyone. There was a special on the menu for every day.

  The place had served everyone from local cops, college students shaking off the night after and the church crowd on Sundays. The place was booming in ways he would’ve never imagined. For once in his life, he’d actually done something right.

  He’d dedicated his entire life to that restaurant and made no time for himself. He never took a vacation, nor did he ever take a sick day. There were moments when he didn’t know what sleep looked or felt like; he was locking the door one minute and then unlocking it the very next.

  He put the sole responsibility of the restaurant on his shoulders and no one else’s. One day, on the third Sunday of every month when all meals were half-price, he’d been scooping gravy into a bowl for Mrs. Carlson when he’d felt a tightness in his chest. He’d grown dizzy and lightheaded as a sharp slicing pain streaked down his left arm; his vision grew blurry and weak.

  The next minute, he’d woke up in Milton Ridge General. His sister Brandi had been standing on the right side of his hospital bed, wiping tears from her eyes and saying something about how he’d had a stroke. His doctor, a pock-marked kid with curly brown hair and dark-framed glasses that looked too big for his small pale face, had confirmed his diagnosis.

  Brandi insisted that she moved in with her big brother and help him. He was against it because of the fact that she’d just lost her husband in a construction accident that would’ve made for a good Stephen King story and thought that the added stress was the last thing she wanted. His doctor thought it was a good idea and suggested that he take her up on her offer; the next one would be his last.

  Of course, it began to work out for the best. She ran the place from five to nine while he ran it from ten to four. They’d sat down together and worked out everything from the day the food trucks would arrive to the employees’ schedules.

  It didn’t take long for the zombies to come. The first week that Uncle Sam had declared it a pandemic, social distancing had taken on a new meaning for someone in his business. It meant that people hardly left their houses for anything except doctor’s visits and grocery shopping and even that was risky considering how bad people had been fighting over toilet paper and other necessities.

  He and Brandi refused to give into defeat. They knew they could still the run place as is, but yet keep their eyes peeled out for any news that might’ve been crucial to them staying open.

  After the zombies came, all hope was lost. Brandi had called and told him she was going to their parents A-frame outside of Cincinnati with his seven-year old niece and his six-month old nephew. He hadn’t heard back from her in a while and he didn’t think he ever would.

  He’d still held out hope that he would hear something from her. It was that kind of hope that drove people insane and paranoid and sad; it made them wear invisible nooses around their necks that strangled the life out of them little by little.

  As long as he kept doing what he needed to do, he would survive. Until then, in Dominic Grady’s eyes, trust was something that was hard to come by especially when the world was nothing more than a desolate wasteland taken over by the dead.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  His veins racing with an old fashioned mix of adrenaline and anxiety, Colin bit down on his bottom lip as he followed them past the WELCOME TO MILTON RIDGE sign standing on the side of the street. He raised the shotgun, pressing its smooth walnut stock tight against his shoulder and tapped his finger against the trigger in case of emergency. He peered over his right shoulder, glanced back at the bridge he saw an hour ago and turned back.