CHAPTER SIX
With so little sleep, I fight the fatigue that pulls at my brain. Not only that, but my body hurts. I may be in shape, but the events of last night tell me I’ve got a lot more to do.
None of this matters, though, and I can only hope we find survivors as we make our way back to the barricade. As it stands, this is not looking good for my future, and I’m fucking tired of the fight.
The tiny kernel of hope deflates in my chest when we stop before the entrance and find nothing.
After, I grimly drive us to the home we stayed at while we lived here and fight back the tears when it too is empty. The Homeward Inn is equally barren, and with that, we make our way back downtown in search of supplies because I can no longer put it off.
Unfortunately, we’ve ransacked this town multiple times now, with little luck. This time is no different. The only good news is that there are only two of us to feed and hydrate, but having only two of us means we’re extra vulnerable—it’s six of one and half dozen of the other.
The air is brisk this close to the mountain and snow could be in our near future, which is not a bright thought without a safe place to hunker down, especially without supplies.
We’re going to need to decide what to do soon, but I can’t see myself leaving without waiting for Cole for a bit of time because he could be heading here on foot, or injured. If that’s the case, it would take him a while to make his way here. I don’t want to miss him by leaving too soon, but I know that we’re screwed and better have a plan in place before the temperature drops.
We could try to find the group that found us the last time we were here, but they only told us to head west. Where west? And what’s there?
The farther into Flagstaff we go, the older the buildings get, their majestic brick structures still going strong after all this time. The area is run through by a set of train tracks that still operate or did before the end, and to the east is the downtown area, filled with old historic buildings, faded but still standing. They line the street and climb toward the hill of trees bordering the small town, creating a picturesque backdrop for anyone willing to look.
It’s this charm, and the milder temperatures that drew tourists here in droves, pre-apocalypse. Now the town is barren, the buildings are nothing more than broken glass, smashed doors, and papers that point to a life long gone floating in the breeze. It’s a literal ghost town, and the quiet is downright eerie.
We patrol the streets, checking out the buildings for a good place to stop before I spot an auto parts store. It’s been ransacked, but I can’t go any longer without another sturdy weapon of the quiet variety. So, we stop and venture inside, traversing the mess quietly as we survey the scene. Enzo has his gun and also a baseball bat, but I feel disturbingly naked beside him.
The doors are no more, with glass strewn across the entryway, and it’s dark farther inside but quiet. With a flashlight we found in the truck, I shine it around, hoping to draw anything out, but when all remains quiet, we walk cautiously through the store, the crunch of our footfalls the only sound.
Once we’ve cleared the store, my heart rate returns to some semblance of normal, and I grab a couple of backpacks before handing one to Enzo. From there, I throw a few changes of clothes, a coat, another set of flashlights, and a few knives inside. There are no tire irons, so I settle on the blades I’ve already found, and we hightail it out of there.
There’s a small mob waiting for us at the door and we push and shove our way through because we don’t want to risk firing our guns, and the knives I just stole are still in their pretty packaging. Fuck me.
Luckily, they’re more of an annoyance than an actual danger, and we break away from the group, walking up one of the streets and leaving the truck behind for now. There is no way to make it to the doors and safely inside with the number of zombies lurking, so we wander through the buildings one by one, passing over those with clothing and tchotchkes, meaning nothing useful, until a candy store catches my eye.
Enzo is quiet beside me, thank fuck. He must sense my need for peace because he hasn’t done much more than grunt since we set out this morning. Truthfully, I don’t care how he feels, so I avoid making eye contact as much as possible.
The candy store has large windows that shine plenty of light inside, revealing a safe place free of the Turned. Still, I enter cautiously, studying the bright, swirling patterns of broken candy littering the floor like a kaleidoscope. It crunches under my feet as we wander through, and I run my fingers over the touristy shirts, stuffed animals, and old-timey packages of candy.
A strange sense of nostalgia floods my nose, and my mouth waters at the remembrance of the flavors melting on my tongue - the sweet, caramel roll of root beer, followed by the fresh tart zing of lemon.
The bright red chairs and tables are lying on their sides, the homemade ice cream long since melted. It still smells of vanilla from the sugar cones, with a layer of something dead over the top, but I can’t resist the urge and grab a few bags of the packaged candy before shoving them in my bag.
There’s nobody left to make more, so I might as well try to preserve what still exists until I get a craving and shove it all down my mouth anyway. Maybe I can drown my sorrows in candy just like in the good old days.
After hours of going store by store and room by room, we’ve found a few bottles of water, more candy, canned food, and beef jerky. It’s a start and more than I could have hoped for because I know we’re not the only group out and about. Eventually, everything will be picked over, and this town will be nothing more than a place people used to come to . . . before.
To my frustration, the truck is still surrounded by the fuckers, and by silent agreement, we walk back to the Motor Inn and settle in for the night. My body isn’t physically capable of staying up another day, so I know I will have to cave in and sleep, but it makes me jumpy enough to wake multiple times throughout. And every time, I trace the room wildly, before my eyes meet Enzo’s where he’s sitting in a chair by the window, and I ease back into sleep.
A week passes, and no new people show up, and my hope fades because I know that if Cole were okay, he would have made his way to us by now. We debated going back but Enzo insisted we stay because if anyone were alive they’d have fled by now. Flag is the common denominator and we don’t want to miss them.
I grudgingly agree because I know if Cole’s still there, he’s dead.
This means I’m stuck with Enzo. The question is, what do we do now?
I float along in a fog of guilt and depression until Enzo starts making the decisions for us. First, he decides to scope out the Sam’s Club because if it’s still secure and hasn’t been ransacked, our worry over supplies will be a nonissue. With that, we head that way on a clear morning, the sun shining above with a brisk bite in the air.
We’ve since been back to the Walmart to obtain winter gear as the nights are getting colder and our little hideaway in the Motor Inn does not come equipped with heat. Zipping my coat up further on my chest, I follow Enzo from the parked truck toward the store. The gates are still down as they had been before, and nothing appears to be changed from our last attempt, but we won’t know until we try to breach the doors and go inside.
With just the two of us, this has become more complicated, but we resume our initial plan to open the door slowly and kill anything we can take out. But the door, which Cole pried open before won’t budge.
Instead, we walk around to the back side of the building but I’m not physically strong enough to pry open the new door, so Enzo takes his position, and I stand beside him with the knife and wait.