The Blood That Binds by Madeline Sheehan
Logan
Standing on the edge of a street corner, I assessed the desolate scene before me. Hollowed-out shops cast long shadows across a crumbling two-lane road. Ahead, a streetlight lay on its side in the center of the intersection. Nearby, a busted sign swung idly from its chain.
Behind me loomed a familiar-looking barricade—a two-story monstrosity composed of stacked cars and concrete highway dividers with a multilayered soft-fence middle. It was nearly identical to the barricade the National Guard had erected around my hometown back when this nightmare had first begun. And it was the same ugly structure I’d seen erected around almost every other town I’d come across since.
The farmhouse we’d found wasn’t as isolated as I’d initially thought—something I’d quickly learned only a few miles into my journey down the highway when I’d come across a second farmhouse. And another half dozen miles later, another one. Eventually the long distances between homes began to lessen, as did the size of the homes, until the houses became virtual carbon copies of one another, with only a driveway and small sliver of lawn between each. I continued on through several neighborhoods, eventually finding my way here—Main Street in the Town of Elkins Point, population 8,216, according to the welcome sign I’d passed on the road in.
My tire iron firmly in hand, I started down the sidewalk, pausing to glance inside each storefront. It was rare to find a town this empty, even small towns like this one. In fact, there’d been a distinct lack of Creepers in these parts, something that should’ve been cause for celebration… only, I found it concerning. Creepers, unless caught up in a moving horde, tended to congregate in places just like this—once populated areas. I didn’t know whether it was muscle memory—some leftover spark of who they’d been—or simply because towns were remnants of people and people were their favorite prey. And yet, I hadn’t seen a single Creeper since the two at the house—the ones Willow and I had disposed of.
Willow.
Just leave, she’d said.
It had taken me all of yesterday and the better part of today to find this place and I was still seething. It would serve her right if I did leave—leaving her to fend for herself for the first time in her life. She wasn’t without skills but she was for damn sure without sense and I didn’t doubt she would make it little more than a week without my direction. Lucas either.
I closed my eyes briefly. Of course, I could never leave my brother behind. It wasn’t his fault he was so impressionable, and so goddamn softhearted. And in love with a raging bitch.
Peering into a shattered storefront, CAROLE’S CAFÉ painted boldly overhead, I climbed inside. Snaking around toppled furniture and scattered dishes, I made my way to the back of the store where its display counters had been smashed and cupboard doors ripped from their hinges. The cash register, torn from its wires, lay upside down on the floor, its drawer open and its contents long gone.
Ducking beneath the bar flap, I muscled my way through a door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY—a tight squeeze due to a heavy shelving unit tipped on its side, blocking the door from fully opening. Finding myself inside a kitchen, I gazed at the various pots, pans, and stacks of dishes piled on the work surfaces. Numerous machines and gadgets that I had no name for lay among them, rusted into oblivion. The entire room was dusty, but otherwise undisturbed. Standing there, envisioning steam rising from the pots, hearing the clang of dishes being stacked, the din of the employees rushing around, I felt as if I were standing in the middle of two worlds, toeing the line between before… and after.
And I hated it.
I didn’t want to see the before; I didn’t want to look at what could have been, at everything this world had taken from me.
“That’s what you get,” I muttered.
That’s what you get! Those four words pounded through my thoughts like a battering ram, wreaking havoc on my emotions, upending a tornado of memories.
I was seven years old again. My father, knees bent, hands on his thighs, shouting in my face, you hear me, you disrespectful little shit—that’s what you fucking get! And then he wasn’t just shouting, he was gripping a handful of my shirt and he was shaking me so hard that my front teeth broke.
Just go…
“Fuck you,” I growled with a heavy, panting breath.
You’re just like your father…
“Fuck you.” Anger surging. I sent the tire iron smashing into a stack of dishes, sending plates flying across the room in different directions.
I was fourteen years old and this time we were eye to eye and toe to toe. I could smell the gin on his breath. And this time he wasn’t shouting, he was screaming. And instead of shaking me, he curled his hand into a fist and smashed his knuckles into my nose, breaking it.
A spike of adrenaline and a second surge of anger came crashing together in the center of my chest, swooping upward in a breathless rush.
“Fuck you and this fucking world!” I roared, and swung again, sending the socket end of the tire iron into a nearby coffee maker. Iron collided with metal, the painful reverberations of which I felt echo up and down my arm.
Hell, yes, that felt good!
I swung again at another stack of dishes, sending an explosion of broken shards down the countertop. Another surge of adrenaline shot through me, a heady rush twice as potent as its predecessor.
I swung again and again, in front of me, behind me. I was a human-shaped tornado, nothing but a spinning gust of anger, destroying without rhyme or reason. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew that I was making too much noise, that I needed to be fucking quiet like I preached about endlessly, only I couldn’t seem to care just then. Maybe I’d finally snapped.
Like father, like son, I thought bitterly.
I continued swinging and smashing my way around the room until not a single surface remained untouched, until the floor was covered in broken bits and I had kicked up so much dust and debris that I was choking on it. Breathing hard, sweat dripping down my face and back, my arms fell limply to my sides. Surveying my ruins, I felt a sense of satisfaction that the room matched the rest of things now—utterly fucking destroyed.
Ceramic shards and slivers of glass crunched beneath my boots as I retreated from the kitchen, my tire iron dragging noisily behind me. Righting a toppled table and chair, I relieved myself of my pack and sat down hard. Droplets of sweat fell from my face, splashing down on the grubby tabletop, out of sync with the slow pitter-patter of blood dripping from my right hand. I had no idea how I’d cut myself, nor did I care. Squeezing my hand into a fist, the blood dripped faster.
I felt strangely detached and oddly drunk. My muscles were tense but also heavy with fatigue; my thoughts were exceptionally blank for the first time in a long time—maybe the first time ever. Energy still thrummed through me, my wild pulse still visible in my veins. Yet, if I were to close my eyes, I wondered if I might fall asleep.
I have no idea how long I sat there like that—unwilling, or maybe even unable, to move. There were moments that felt as if minutes were dragging past at a snail’s pace, and moments where it seemed as if entire hours had flown by without notice. Even after the sun had dropped behind the buildings, knowing full well that it would be dark soon, I still didn’t move.
Then, as the last vestiges of light streaking dimly across the ravaged shop began to fade, I heard something—a faint scratching noise off in the distance.
I went stock-still, waiting to hear it again. Scraaaatch-scraaaatch.
Rising from the chair, I moved to the front of the building, peering outside.
Scraaaaatch-scraaaaatch.
Whatever it was, it was growing louder. Closer.
Scraaaatch-scraaaatch.
Scraaaaatch-scraaaaatch.
I glanced up and down the street, unable to pinpoint its location. The otherwise silence served as an echo-chamber, making the sound seem as if it were coming from every direction.
Scraaaatch-scraaaatch. Scraaaaatch-scraaaaatch.
The stink of it reached me first—the same putrid stench all the dead carried with them—and moments later a figure emerged from behind an abandoned delivery truck. It limped across the street, its left leg and what remained of its left foot—a bony stub being dragged across the concrete—was the source of the scratching noise.
It continued toward me, soon close enough for me to fully appreciate the sheer horror of its face. Its eyes were milky white—a sign of just how old it was—and the skin around its jaw had been shredded and left hanging in rotten, shriveled ribbons.
I glanced back at the table where my tire iron lay and was debating on whether to kill it or let it pass by, when a familiar sounding hum gave me pause. There was a shout, followed by the sound of tires squealing. As the Creeper swung in the direction of the approaching commotion, I dropped down into a crouch, ducking back behind the wall.
A military Jeep was speeding down the street, flanked by two motorcycles. All three vehicles slowed as they passed the Creeper, encircling it.
“Shit,” I whispered, counting six—no, seven people. All of them were armed.
“Y’all, I got this,” a gritty, feminine voice drawled. One of the motorcyclists climbed off their bike; helmeted, with a long blonde braid hanging down her back, she wore a tight red leather jacket that showed off her ample curves.
Instead of using the sawed-off shotgun strapped to her back, she pulled a wooden baseball bat from her saddlebag and charged the Creeper, swinging with all the skill and grace of a pro ballplayer. The bat clipped the Creeper under its chin, shattering whatever jawbones were still intact, and sending it staggering backward. Despite its injuries, it quickly regained its purpose and began careening toward her once again.
“That’s it, sugar,” she taunted, crooking a gloved finger. “Come to mama.”
“Britta!” the driver of the Jeep called out. He was a heavily bearded man wearing military-style camouflage; standing in his seat, his elbows were perched on the top of the roll cage—an impressive DIY made from steel tubing and heavy-duty fencing. “We’re burnin’ diesel and daylight—hurry up and kill that fucker!”
“Patience, Davey—jeez loueez. How many times I gotta tell ya that killin’ is an art form?”
“Your art is gonna make me late for dinner.”
At that, titters of laughter rose from the group.
“It’s beef stew tonight, Brit,” another man called out. “You wouldn’t make a man miss his favorite meal now, would ya?”
Ignoring her companions, Britta swung again, this time catching the Creeper on the side of its face. It folded to one side, toppling over. Unable to get back up again, it began a pitiful crawl forward. Britta backed away slowly, humming a familiar-sounding tune, and swinging the bat around like a baton twirler in a marching band.
The loud crack of a bullet ejecting from its chamber made us both jump—Britta and me. On the ground, the Creeper lay unmoving, brain matter seeping from the newly smoking hole in its skull. The second motorcyclist had dismounted their bike and was currently tucking their pistol back inside their chest holster. Removing their helmet, a fair-skinned face was revealed, with messy, short brown hair cut into a pixie style.
“Dagnabbit, Lei!” Britta huffed. “You’ve gone and spoiled my fun again.”
“You know I hate when you play with them,” Lei replied. Her tone was gentle, yet commanding, and with no trace of the accent that both Britta and Davey possessed.
“Quit your whining, Harley Quinn, and help me load the body.” The man who’d expressed worry over missing his dinner sauntered past Britta, smirking. He was a big guy, well built, who looked to be in early to mid-thirties, but what really struck me was his clean-shaven face. In fact, all of them were well groomed and clean; even their vehicles were clean. It all made sense now—why this town was so tidy, and why there weren’t any Creepers hanging around anywhere. Whoever these people were, I was positive that they had a pretty nice setup somewhere nearby.
The man stopped suddenly, abruptly glancing in my direction. Reflexes in check, I dropped down. His steps picked up again, growing louder as he headed toward me. Heart pounding, I held my breath, my hand poised to grab the gun tucked into my belt. I’d shoot him if I had to, though I doubted I’d get very far with six armed people on my tail, and with vehicles at their disposal. Still, I’d never go down without a fight.
“What’s the holdup, Joe—you see somethin’ in there?”
The footsteps halted. “Thought I did,” Joe murmured, too close for comfort. He was standing directly on the other side of the wall, mere inches from me. All he would have to do was lean in through the broken storefront and look to his right.
“Probably just a critter. I’m guessin’ that’s what the Dead Head here was chasin’ after.”
“Yeah, maybe.” Though Joe sounded uncertain, his footsteps resumed, fading in the opposite direction. Sagging against the wall, I blew out a silent breath.
“Alright, you fools, that’s that—street’s clean! Let’s giddyap ‘fore Joshua locks us out for the night!”
“Oh, please, Davey-cakes.” Britta laughed. “He would never lock his missus out here—would he, Lei?”
“The rules are the rules.” Lei’s voice still held some of her previous command, but there were traces of humor now, too.
Peeking around the wall, I watched Britta mount her bike, revving her engine. She was the first to pull away, followed closely by Lei, with the Jeep bringing up the rear. Making a U-turn at the barricade, they sped off down the street.
Jumping up, I hurried to grab my things. I wouldn’t be spending the night here now, not with armed people patrolling the goddamn streets. First lesson learned at the end of the world was not to trust anyone… not even your own parents.
I ran back the way I’d come, this time keeping off the roads. That evening, I ended up setting up camp inside a semi-remote home just outside of town. It wasn’t optimal; camp consisted of a loosely barricaded garage, where I managed only a few broken hours of shut-eye in the back seat of a rusted-out Chevy Cavalier.
Come sunup, I resumed walking, still keeping off the roads, hoping to minimize leading anyone back with me. I stopped to eat only once, and cut my normal respite times in half, hoping to make it back before nightfall.
As the sun was setting on the third day of my journey, I finally breached the property line of the farmhouse. Circling around to the back of the home, I could see that the office window was open, and no one was manning it. Shaking my head, I announced my arrival with a quick two-finger whistle.
Unsurprisingly, no one answered.
Reaching for the windowsill, I hauled myself inside. As I’d suspected, neither Lucas nor Willow were here.
“Jesus Christ,” I gritted out. Camp was a disaster—bedrolls and clothing had been haphazardly tossed around. Packages of food lay strewn about, grapes were smashed on the floor, ants trailing over top of them. Worse, the door to the room had been left open.
Dropping my gear, I headed into the hall and whistled once more. Again, no one answered. Knowing that they had to be here somewhere, I began searching the house. Not even Lucas and Willow were so thoughtless as to venture out near nightfall unless absolutely necessary, and definitely not without their gear.
When I’d finished combing through the house, I stood in the foyer, the sinking sensation in my stomach doubling. I was seconds away from freaking out when I heard a loud thump. Relief flooding me, I darted down the hall and burst into the office, ready to tear into them for not listening to me. Again.
Willow shrieked when she saw me and staggered back a few steps. “L-Logan,” she whispered hoarsely.
I knew right away that something wasn’t right—Willow was uncommonly dirty and far more disheveled than was typical. She’d been crying too; tear tracks lined her face, streaks of wet through the grime on her cheeks and chin.
“Where’s Luke?” I asked slowly, noting that she was alone.
Willow opened her mouth and then seemed to freeze that way. She stared at me, her expression quickly crumbling. Bending forward, gripping her stomach as if it hurt her, she opened her mouth again, releasing a noise that sounded as if a sob were trying to claw its way out of her throat.
“Willow,” I growled, rushing to her. Gripping her arms, I noticed that one of them was bleeding, the skin around the scratch-like wounds on her shoulder was angry and swollen. Nausea rose in my stomach, burning a fast track up my chest and into my throat.
“Willow,” I rasped. “Were you bit?”
She raised her trembling chin, her shell-shocked gaze locking with mine. “I… lost him. Luke is—” She took a gasping breath, releasing it with a shudder that seemed to take all the energy from her. As her knees buckled, she whispered hoarsely, “He’s gone—Luke is gone.”