Survival Instinct: A Zombie Novel (84 page)

Misha headed toward the car again.  Just in case he was wrong, he moved as silently as he could.  Although, he had been snapping branches the whole way, so something would have already heard him if there was something
to
hear him.

Eventually he reached the car without incident.  He searched the glove box, but at first, couldn’t find the package of cigarettes he had come across earlier. 
Apparently, he had dropped them into the foot-well when he realized they were of no use to him.  He scooped up the package and headed back into the woods.

Despite his attempt at trailblazing, he did have to stop and search for his broken stick markers several times.  Getting this package of cigarettes was taking much longer than Misha had planned.  On the other hand, it wasn’t
as if he had much else to do.  It was a task, one he could complete and focus on.  The focus helped take the edge off his exhaustion and hunger.  The water had helped with that too.

Finally
, he entered the clearing again and made his way, once more, through the grass.  Once he got close enough to see the body, he feared the worst.  The firefighter hadn’t moved an inch, and didn’t appear to be moving at all now.  It seemed he had slipped away in Misha’s absence.

Then his arm lifted up and scratched Rifle’s ears.  He was still alive.

Misha walked over to him, not sure if he preferred the rocky shore under his feet over the sharp grass against his legs.  The firefighter though, was on a single, large, and quite flat rock and Misha’s feet appreciated standing on it.

“I found them.”  Misha held the pack in front of the firefighter’s face so he could see it.

Rifle stood up from where he had been lying next to the man and sniffed them.  Misha then gave the dog his toy, who left with it to frolic in the field.

The man squinted, making out the pack in the frail light.  Half his face started to grin, but the ruined half quickly pained him and caused the grin to turn into a grimace.

“Are you sure you can even smoke like that?” Misha wondered.  He took the pack away from the man and shook out a cigarette.

The man was so weak, he couldn’t even bring his hand up to smoke.  Misha carefully placed the cigarette in front of his lips and the firefighter did the rest.  Misha took out the lighter next.  It took a few flicks but the flame caught and Misha brought it down to the cigarette.  The man inhaled deeply, then exhaled through his nose.  He didn’t cough at all.  Clearly it wasn’t his lungs that had been stabbed.  Maybe it was his liver, or kidneys.  Maybe nothing really vital at all had been stabbed and he had just bled out.  Misha had no idea how long he had been there.  He guessed he came from the river though due to his position and general sogginess.

“I think you should know, if you pass, I’m taking your jacket and boots,” Misha told the man honestly.

He nodded weakly.  He understood.

“If it happens, I can’t bury you, I don’t have the strength, but would you like to be pushed back into the river?”  Misha thought he could at least do that.

The man frowned and shook his head.  He definitely did not want to end up in the river.  He gestured weakly to the field.

“You want me to drag you into the field?” Misha guessed.

The man nodded.

“Coyotes or wolves would probably eat you.”

The man nodded again.  He was okay with that.

Although Misha had spoken as if it might not happen, he was certain they both knew it would.  Otherwise, the man wouldn’t have refused help, and Misha would have brought the first aid kit.  He continued to sit next to the man in silence, watching him smoke his last cigarette.  It looked painful for him, especially the occasional times he exhaled out through his mouth around the cigarette.  Misha could see the smoke come out through his slashed cheek, sometimes creating a little bubble of blood with it.

Finally the cigarette fell to one side, only two thirds smoked.  The firefighter stared up at the stars, his breathing becoming more laborious.

His lips moved as he tried to speak.

“What is it?”  Misha leaned a little closer to hear what the dying man had to say.

It clearly took a lot of effort and was extremely painful, but he managed to speak.  “Cillian.”  It was the first word Misha had heard another speak since he stole the motorbike from that family.

“Cillian?”  Misha didn’t understand.

The man weakly patted a hand on his chest.

“Your name?  Your name is Cillian?”  It seemed right to Misha.

The man, Cillian, nodded.

“It was very nice to meet you, Cillian,” Misha told him.  “I’m sorry you have to go so soon.”

Cillian tried to grin again, and this time succeeded more than before.  With the gash, it looked horrific, but at least he was happy.

His breathing became more laboured, and weaker at the same time.  His chest barely rose with each breath.  As he closed his eyes, Misha again noticed how pale his skin was in the moonlight.  It was totally white, as white as the moon in the sky.  Cillian’s chest hitched, then hitched again. 
Finally, it stopped moving altogether.

Misha sat there for several minutes looking down at the body.  He kept expecting it to move again.  Not because of what happened to Dean, but because it was so strange that he just slipped away.  They had only just met, and now he was gone.  Not just gone, but dead.  Misha thought he would have liked to have gotten to know Cillian.  Perhaps in another life.

Once he realized that the firefighter truly had passed, Misha got to work.  He took his boots first, pulling them off of the dead man’s feet and putting them on his own.  They were big for him, but they would do.  He looked at Cillian’s socks, debating, but decided, in the end, that the bandages and tape would be enough.  He could also wrap more around his feet if it became necessary.  Getting the jacket off him proved to be a lot more difficult.  He had to roll Cillian’s body and manipulate his arms out of the sleeves.  As he pulled it off, he discovered a firefighter’s glove in one of the pockets.  He looked for its match but couldn’t find it.  It must have gotten washed away in the river.  He put the glove down on the rock.

Finally the coat was free and Misha put it on.  Like the boots, the inside was still damp and he shivered slightly.  He would have to dry it out, but, for now, he would wear it while he did this last job.  Misha surprised himself by not being concerned about any blood that may have fallen into the coat.  He was so covered in dirt and grime, anything he wore probably didn’t touch his skin.  And a little more wasn’t going to kill him.

Next, he hooked his arms under Cillian’s and started to drag him toward the grass.  It was extremely difficult.  Misha was so tired already and Cillian was a big guy, but he had said he would do it and so he did.

Rifle trotted back over to see what he was doing.  He sniffed at Cillian then looked up at Misha as if to ask what happened.

“He died,” Misha told him.  “Bled out.  He was stabbed.”

Rifle sniffed at Cillian again.  He then went to where Misha had left the glove and sniffed at that.  He picked it up in his mouth, carrying it along with his skunk.  He then followed Misha’s struggle to drag Cillian.

“You could help, you know,” Misha grunted.

Rifle just stood there.  Then sat there.  It was
as if he was mocking him or something.

Misha pulled Cillian until he was completely in the grass.  Once there, Misha dropped the man’s shoulders and collapsed in a huff.  He lay there next to Cillian’s dead body, staring up at the stars.  He wondered what was happening to his family back in Russia, whether they were dealing with the same problem.  Although he had lived in Canada for many years now, he had never felt so far away.  He shivered.

He started shivering quite badly, uncontrollably.  Part of it was from exhaustion, part of it was from cold, part of it was just the weight of the future combined with that of the past.  Misha couldn’t remember what he thought about as he lay there, shaking, or if he even thought at all.  He just knew that when it had subsided, it was time to leave.

He went back to the river to get another drink of water.  He didn’t know when he’d have another opportunity.  If he had had something to carry the water in, that would be a different story.  But he thought about everything he had found and none of it would help him.

“Come on Rifle, time to go.”  Misha patted his leg as he crossed the field once more.

Rifle trotted up alongside him, ratty skunk hanging out of one side of his muzzle, tattered glove hanging out the other.

“Do you want me to carry one of those for you?” Misha laughed.

Rifle paid him no attention.

The two got back to the bike, once again, without incident.  After using the hose he had found at the last car to top off his tank, Misha gathered up the first aid kit and placed it in the sidecar, then put the revolver back inside it.  Rifle put his own belongings in there as well and Misha helped him up into it.  The bike started fine and they made their way around the car.  The monotonous backroad journey continued.

* * *

They rode until Misha was pretty much falling asleep at the handlebars.  He was afraid of ending up like the car: smashed into a tree.  He didn’t know where to pull over, and he didn’t want to stop just anywhere; that seemed like a very unsafe idea.

As he came to crossroads, he tried to pick the ones that looked more used.  By doing so, he managed to find a road that led to a house.  He thought it was a farmhouse at first, as these woods were between the highway and farm country, but he realized there was no barn, nor any crop fields.  The house sat alone, nestled in amongst some trees.

Misha didn’t come at the house from its main access road; that was to his left at the front of the house.  He came at its side from what was probably some four wheeler, or snowmobile path.  Either way, the house meant shelter.

It was dark inside.  There were no lights on.  Still, that didn’t mean that nobody was home.  Misha parked the bike at the edge of the woods and rolled it between two trees.  It wasn’t really well
hidden, but it should do.  Misha had no idea what time it was, but he figured it was late enough that people could just be asleep in the house.

“Stay here,” Misha told Rifle.  “Watch over the bike.”

Rifle sat obediently.

Misha snuck up to the house, heading for the closest window.  The place had only one floor, which was convenient, and didn’t appear to have a basement.  It was probably a summer cottage, but being that it was summer and the weekend meant Misha would have to use caution.  The first window he found revealed a kitchen.  He made his way around the house looking into each and every window.  All the rooms and all the beds appeared empty.  It looked like no one had decided to use the place that weekend.

He quickly headed back to where he had left Rifle.

“Come on, boy, let’s find a way inside,” Misha whispered.

After retrieving their things from the sidecar, Rifle tagged along with Misha back to the house.  Misha tried the front and back doors first, but they were both locked.  He tried all the windows as well, but got the same result.  He figured that whoever stayed there probably kept a spare key somewhere nearby.  He began searching for it under the welcome mat, behind lamps, under rocks.  He finally found one tucked behind the downspout.  He unlocked the front door and let Rifle inside.

He searched the house again, just to make sure it was empty.  Rifle joined him in the search so that when they found no one, he was extra sure that the place was empty.

Misha went into the kitchen and raided the fridge.  The power seemed to be out because the little light inside didn’t turn on.  He wondered if the power was out everywhere, or if these people just turned it off when they weren’t using the place.  He didn’t find much in the fridge that he could eat quickly, just some cheese slices and some jelly.  He made mini jelly sandwiches, using the cheese slices as bread.  They were kind of gross but they were food.  He looked in the cupboards next.  He found some cans of soup and some cans of gravy-covered meatballs.  Once the can opener was located, he opened the soup for himself and the meatballs for Rifle.  He dumped the meatballs and gravy on the floor, not giving a rat’s ass about being tidy.  Rifle ate them greedily.  Misha drank the various kinds of soup out of the can, using a spoon only to scrape out the chunks at the bottom.

Once their bellies were full, Misha led them to a bedroom.  He collapsed on a bed that smelled faintly of mothballs.  Rifle began circling a throw rug on the floor.

“You can sleep up here if you want,
bratishka
,” Misha told his friend, patting the bed.

Rifle looked up at him and decided to accept his invitation.  He hopped up on the bed and started circling the end of it.  He lay against the side of Misha’s legs, placing his toy between his paws.

Although Misha had meant to take off the damp jacket and boots, he suddenly felt very, very heavy.  Moving anything seemed extremely difficult.  He didn’t have the energy to get them off.  The only things he had the energy to do were to place the revolver on the nightstand, and get the blankets on top of him.  Curled up in a nest of puffy blankets and puffy pillows, with Rifle against his legs, Misha instantly fell into a deep sleep.  He slept heavily, and without dreams.