A Place Outside The Wild Read online

  Jeez. Old Uncle Pete, all alone in the radio wilderness. Maybe I’ll hook up my stereo and blast some tunes later. I’ve thrown the rest of our protocol out the window, might as well see if I can bring the FCC down on my ass. Maybe they’ll bring some grub. You out there, Uncle Sammy? I’m partial to spaghetti and meatballs if you feel like dropping off some MREs. [LONG PAUSE, STATIC ON TRANSMISSION]

  Anyway, if you’ve seen . . . I can’t call them . . . you know. Everybody else around here thinks it’s a pretty funny joke, and they try to drop as many nicknames as they can come up with, like we’re in a movie or TV show. I watched that stuff with my nephew, I guess. Never wanted to live through it. If you’ve seen them, you know what I’m talking about. They’re not right. If you haven’t seen them, trust me when I say that when you do, run until you can’t run no more. Until then, keep quiet and keep your head down. I’ve been to war. I’ve seen things that no man should have to see in a lifetime. But nothing has ever scared me as deep and as hard as the things outside the fence. Anybody out there? [LONG SILENCE] To hell with it. KG3BBX, out.

  //END TRANSCRIPT

  Chapter 1

  From the journal of Miles Matthews

  March 3, 2026

  My daughter does not laugh.

  It’s our fault, of course. From the day she was born, she has been shushed at every noise no matter how innocent or joyous. Years of small, silent moments — anger, love, praise, and discipline conducted in hushed speaking tones. It was hardest when she was a baby, in the first years after Z-Day. She didn’t know any better, but we did the best we could. With the walls and the fence, it was enough, but noise was always a concern. Sometimes I wonder if the difficulties we faced made those around us reconsider children. Even if that wasn’t the case, she is one of the youngest in our community. It was hard enough raising a kid before. Having to worry about them making an errant noise just means that hardly anyone is having children now.

  In the beginning, we never thought that we’d come this far. For a while, we thought that life moving forward would be little more than blood and teeth with a generous helping of terror.

  The strange thing, of course, is that we were perhaps the best-equipped generation to face this crisis. We’d grown up with zombies — dancing zombies in music videos, stumbling ones in horror movies and exploding ones in video games. The fact that our ‘zombies’ were mostly different from anything Hollywood had ever envisioned didn’t change the circumstances. The rules are still mostly the same. Stay quiet and out of sight. Don’t waste your time with anything other than a head shot.

  Don’t get bitten.

  The funny thing is — well, maybe not funny. Humor has taken a decided turn for the macabre in the last eight years. The odd thing is, almost every zombie movie I watched as a teenager or streamed at work while I was doing server maintenance had one thing in common. They all stopped at pretty much the same point — an indeterminate future, with our heroes heading toward the unknown.

  We live in that unknown.

  We still don’t really know what caused the outbreak, though we have our conspiracy theories and debates. No matter the cause, there is one fact that can’t be denied. There is a half-life to human flesh. No matter how infernal the engine behind its reanimation, at some point it gives out.

  Eight years of freeze and thaw, stumbles and falls, and battles against a population of survivors particularly well-equipped for this disaster. Let’s just say the zoms aren’t much of a threat anymore. Not like they were in the beginning, anyway. It’s an empty world out there, as best we can tell. Which is where the funny part of it comes into play.

  Why do I say that’s funny?

  I never really thought a zombie apocalypse would be boring.

  He hadn’t slept well in years; when something grabbed him, his eyes opened immediately. He shoved his hand under the pillow in search of his pistol even as he searched for the source of the touch. In a sea of shadows, he made out the small form beside his bed and relaxed. Even though he knew for a fact that his home was a safe place, his initial reaction was still a defensive one. At least until enough he was able to recognize the source of the touch.

  “I’m hungry,” Trina whispered. “Is it time to get up?”

  Miles squinted in the darkness and found his watch. He never wore one before Z-Day — like many of his generation, he’d used his phone to keep time. Now his phone was worthless and a watch was something to depend on once again. He angled the face and noted the dull reflection off of the glow-in-the-dark hands. “Yes, it is,” he said to his daughter, and levered up on one elbow to give her a hug with his free hand. “Good morning.”

  He threw the covers back and sat up. His jeans had been clean yesterday, so they were still good for today. Pulling them on, he hunted in the dimness for a clean shirt. He’d long been in the habit of sleeping partly-dressed in boxer briefs, socks, and a t-shirt. You never knew when you’d have to be up and moving in a moment’s notice. It had been a long time since he’d needed to do so, but it was a hard habit to break.

  After a moment of hunting in his laundry basket, he pulled on a clean shirt and buttoned it. “How long have you been awake? Did Mommy tell you bye?”

  “Yeah. She said not to bother you until it was almost time to go to school. What were you doing last night?”

  Miles grinned as he stood and headed for the bedroom door. “Aren’t you the curious one? Didn’t your mom tell you? It’s not a big secret.”

  “Just a meeting,” Trina replied as she followed him on swift, silent feet. “Grown-up stuff. It sounded lame.” Outside of the bedroom, the house brightened. They’d boarded up the bedroom windows years ago, and as with his sleeping habits, he was leery of change.

  “Maybe a little lame,” he conceded. “We’re finally going to name the town Wednesday night. The kids get to vote — that’s something, huh?”

  “I guess. Why does a name matter? We never had one before.”

  “Well,” he began, then paused to consider his words for a moment. “Maybe it doesn’t mean much. But in a way, I think it means we’re starting to think about the future. Maybe we’re the only ones who will use it. There’s always the chance that one day we’ll meet other people. When they ask where we’re from, what are we supposed to say? ‘The fenced-in area on County Road 300’?” He reached down, grabbed Trina around the waist, and tickled. “Does that sound good to you?” He hoped for a giggle, a laugh, something.

  No such luck; she flashed a wide grin and wriggled out of his grasp. “I guess, but you know what sounds better?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Pancakes!”

  Miles shook his head. “I don’t know if you’re lucky. Let’s see.” The modern appliances in the kitchen always struck him as incongruous. Without a working infrastructure, none of them were usable. The gas stove had lasted longer than the refrigerator, but the propane had run out as well.

  These days the stove served as a stand for an alcohol-fueled camp stove. Even then it didn’t get much use. The town was still small enough to make a common cafeteria the most efficient way of feeding everyone, but the communal breakfast tended toward gray and runny. As such, many people tended to make their own. His wife, Tish, had the early shift at the clinic, but she’d left them a meal somewhat better than oatmeal.

  He waved his hand near the side of the coffee pot and smiled. It was still lukewarm. The microwave over the stove had long ceased to produce popcorn, but it still worked to keep food warm. He opened the door, and sure enough, a plate of pancakes sat inside.

  What little wheat they grew went for bread. As a result, the ersatz ‘pancakes’ were an unfortunate mix of Bisquick with roughly-ground corn meal, to stretch out their supplies. On the bright side, they had good egg production, and a yellow mound of scrambled eggs sat by the pancakes. Miles still would have given almost anything for a dairy cow or two. Or bacon. His mouth watered at the thought, but he pushed it aside. Might as well wish for the world to be ba
ck to normal. Mankind had held on at the brink of extinction. As far as they could tell, pigs hadn’t been so lucky. The zombies would eat anything they could catch; penned livestock was effectively a buffet.

  He piled up a trio of cakes on a plate for his daughter and drizzled a healthy dollop of syrup on top. That, at least, they had plenty of. He made himself a plate and poured a cup of coffee. “Water?” The eggs and pancakes on his daughter’s plate were disappearing at an impressive rate. Trina’s immature palate declared them to be ‘great’. In his opinion, the pancakes were flat, gritty, and a bit on the bland side. The eggs weren’t bad, though they could have done with some butter and seasoning. He doused them in pepper and tried not to sigh.

  Breakfast shouldn’t be so depressing.

  “Yes, please.”

  A bucket of ice in the bottom of the fridge kept drinks cool and the seals kept insects out of anything stored inside. They had to make ice in one of the central buildings that had solar power, but there was enough to go around, at least.

  The door opened with a soft sucking sound. The sound drew out, too long for normal, and Miles grimaced and rubbed his forehead with the ball of his fist. Inside the refrigerator, the fat guy from the motel that he’d left to die grinned broadly, his eyes gone steel gray.

  He closed his eyes. One, two, three. Not real, not real.

  Miles opened his eyes again and tried to still the pounding of his heart. The interior of the fridge held nothing more ominous than food. Demons thus banished, he forced himself to adopt an air of normalcy. He poured a glass of water from a pitcher into a cup for Trina and sat down with his coffee and food to eat.

  Miles finished his eggs and ate the pancakes with mechanical precision. He forced himself to ignore the taste and texture. This was fuel; no more, no less. The coffee was decent, though it would have been better served with a touch of cream and sugar. Their supply of it wouldn’t last forever, but eight years in they still had stacks of scavenged, sealed cans.

  He spent most of his time watching his daughter and trying not to think about intermittent hallucinations. It wasn’t like they had a plethora of psychiatrists.

  As tedious as life was, at least there were some things in the world that made him look forward to a brighter future. Trina caught him staring and wrinkled her nose at him. Miles chuckled.

  There was a rap at the door and she flinched. As it opened, a tall figure leaned inside and intoned in a deep voice, “Is it safe to enter?”

  Miles laughed, and Trina said, “Grandpa!” She jumped out of her chair and ran over to him to share a quick hug.

  “Finish your breakfast, girlie,” Larry Vance intoned. He swept her up for a quick squeeze and then deposited her back into her chair. “Glad to see your daddy decided to get up.”

  Miles rolled his eyes in an exaggerated fashion. “Trina, tell your grandfather that some of us have more responsibility than others. And I only have those responsibilities because Grandpa refused to accept the nomination. I hope he’s not getting senile in his advanced age.”

  “All right, truce,” Larry said with a grin. “I think I’ve bitten off more than I can chew.”

  “Grandpa, do you want pancakes?”

  “No, I’m just fine, Trina. I hauled up a bit of breakfast for your Uncle Pete this morning and watched the sunrise.”

  She turned back to her pancakes. Miles pushed his own plate away with a grimace and took a sip of coffee. He raised his mug and cocked an eyebrow.

  “Thanks,” Larry said, and moved over to the pot and poured himself a mug. “I need to talk to Charlie one of these days and see if he can find me a new Thermos. My old one is starting to leak.”

  Miles chuckled. “I’m sure he’ll make you a deal.” Charlie Maddox was a notorious altruist when it came to scavenging for the good of the town. He was also a notorious pirate when it came to ‘special’ favors. In Larry’s case, though, Miles thought the other man was liable to make an exception. They’d all been through a lot together, and that counted for something, these days. “You stop by the office?”

  Larry nodded as he sipped his own coffee. “I did. Slow night. Jimmy Taylor’s sleeping one off, and we’ve got half a dozen noise complaints. Miss Jaid is in a tizzy about those, of course.”

  “Great,” Miles rolled his eyes. He got along with most everyone, but Jaid Sims had always rubbed him the wrong way. In high school, she’d run with the popular crowd. Miles had been an odd duck, preferring to hang with the farm kids and computer geeks, despite being on the basketball team. Most of his friends had looked at her with stereotypical nerd-cheerleader adoration. Miles himself had always thought something was off about her. That hunch was only cemented after her crew spent most of a school year making his best friend’s life hell. Sticks — his long-time best friend — had put forth an epic rant on the subject when he learned that Queen Mean Girl had been one of the few survivors to make it out of Lewisville after Z-Day. His ire had turned to humor when Jaid had made it obvious she was now head of the Miles Matthews fan club. If she noticed his lack of interest, she didn’t seem to care.

  And of course, thoughts of Sticks turned to other things and . . .

  Larry noted his grimace. “Who came to mind?” Such was the form of conversation, eight years AZ. Streams of normalcy interrupted by memories of loss. Everyone dealt with it in their own way; some with better function than others.

  “Sticks,” Miles said with a sigh. “Da — dang,” he corrected, looking at Trina out of the corner of his eye. “I miss that skinny little jerk.”

  The other man smiled. “He was a good kid.” He fell silent for a long moment, then continued. “Pete also mentioned that he saw Alex hiking out to the south fence with that Ruger of his. I figured we’d swing down that way after we drop Trina off at school and see what sort of field trip he’s on.”

  Trina perked up. “Miss McKee says that Alex is a stubborn boy.”

  “Indeed he is,” her grandfather agreed. “And that’s not always a bad thing, but rules are rules for a reason.”

  “Always be quiet,” Trina intoned, “and don’t draw attention.” Miles frowned as he looked at her. He wanted to say something, but words failed him at the moment. Instead, he smiled as she made eye contact. “Daddy, will Alex get in a lot of trouble?”

  “No, no,” he replied. “We’ll just talk to him. He’s not in any trouble.” I hope. He glanced at his watch. “Ready to go?” She was out of her chair before Miles could even register the nod. She scrambled to the back door and strapped on a worn backpack after removing it from its wall peg. Miles’ AR-style short-barreled rifle hung on a pair of higher pegs. This put it out of Trina’s reach even if she’d been standing on one of the kitchen chairs. He brought it down, chambered a round, and put it on safe.

  “Guess I’m done with my coffee,” Larry complained, and Miles laughed.

  “Fill up your Thermos,” he suggested.

  In short order, they were out the door and onto the porch. Miles held the door for his father-in-law and pulled it shut as the older man stepped through. He didn’t bother to lock it. There wasn’t anything inside that was easy to steal except clothing. If thieves managed to haul his gun safe out without heavy equipment, he’d let them have it out of sheer respect. Of course, even if someone did break in the list of suspects would be predictable and short. One of the few benefits to having such a small population.

  The top of the tallest grain bin that loomed over the house wasn’t visible from the ground. Miles waved anyway as he slung his rifle over one shoulder. Trina imitated his actions then blew an exaggerated kiss. He smiled and hoped that Pete had seen it.

  Trina skipped ahead to the end of the gravel drive and turned right to head toward the school. At one time, it had housed the tractors and combines for the farm. Since it was the largest building within the community it was now used as a combination cafeteria, school, and meeting hall.

  Miles gave his daughter a few steps to draw ahead as Larry fell in next to him. �
��You try and talk him into coming down for a bit?”

  “I swear he just makes me go up that damn ladder to screw with me. Yeah, I tried. Tried is the operative word.”

  “He’s not scared.”

  “I know that, son. Pete’s just . . . focused. It’s like part of him thinks that if he’s not watching over us all the time, something bad is going to happen.”

  Miles glanced up. “He’s got to sleep at some point, even he knows that.”

  “I think he naps in the daytime, or when his trainees are around.” Larry frowned. “At night, I guess, he’s up the whole time. Says he doesn’t trust the wall guys to do their job without him being there to nag at them.”

  “Was he like that when you guys were in the service?”

  Larry grunted and gave a sad smile. “No, not really. He was serious, but he was never much of a worrier. He usually left that to me. He’s been through a lot, even before things fell apart.”

  “Yeah,” Miles replied, then trailed off for a moment. “Thanks for picking up those noise complaints. You’d think with me being Town Marshal and all they’d let me pick my own secretary.”

  Larry snorted. “You and I both know that she’s Norma’s eyes in the station. But, let’s be honest. Of all the career paths available for those of us around here, which would you rather have Jaid in? You think she’d volunteer to work in the cafeteria, or stand a post on the wall?”