Desperate Measures Read online

  Desperate Measures

  Staci Hart

  Contents

  1. Desperate Times

  2. Welcome Wagon

  3. Creature Comforts

  Untitled

  4. Tonic

  Also by Staci Hart

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2016 Staci Hart

  All rights reserved.

  stacihartnovels.com

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Cover design by Quirky Bird

  1

  Desperate Times

  No one expects the zombie apocalypse. Other than me, I guess.

  I blame it on The Walking Dead. Some would have said, when they were still alive at least, that I was obsessed. I’d watched every episode a dozen times, and had poured over the graphic novels like they were gospel. An instruction manual. The first step was moving to the mountains (choosing a location high enough in altitude and cold enough to keep the walkers moving slow). Then it was converting my basement into a shelter (steel doors, an armory, and enough food and water to last me for years). Equipped my roof with solar panels hooked into generators (since Denver gets as many sunny days as San Diego). I’d even trained in krav maga, and had gotten real, real handy with a hunting knife.

  You know, the basics.

  So when the virus first appeared, I wasn’t surprised. I holed up in my basement — which boasted reinforced steel walls, and a ventilation system with a pump and ducts too small for a human to fit through — and I watched the news. The day they flash-bombed Denver, along with every other city in America with over a million residents, I knew there was no going back. The news stopped that day, and it had been static ever since. Nothing on the radio, either.

  That was two years ago. As far as I knew, I was the only person left.

  I flipped the page of the Sexy Swedish FunTime lying in my lap and dusted the cheese doodle crumbs off my hands (what? I told you — the basics). Not gonna lie — it was lonely. But I’d always been sort of a loner. A geek, a nerd. Not to say that I didn’t have friends, but they thought I was crazy. Until it happened. I don’t even know if any of them came to try to find me, since the shelter was soundproof too.

  It’d just been me and Darryl, my golden retriever. He looked up at me with his eyebrows angled in a way that made him look depressed. I probably didn’t look much better.

  I turned back to the porno mag I’d browsed a hundred times. When I bought the old house, I found a cache of old porn magazines and figured it was a good idea to hang on to them. No internet would mean no Tumblr, which would mean no inspiration. My cheeks heated as my eyes scanned the page. He was tall and blond and so very Swedish, with abs of steel and thighs that looked like sexy-ass tree trunks of manliness, and she was on her knees, looking up at him with something close to worship with his rocket cock in her mouth. His hand clutched her hair at the back of her head.

  Things the zombie apocalypse has taught me: the Swedes know their porn.

  Warmth spread through me and down, sending a rush of heat straight between my legs, and I hauled myself off the couch.

  Inspiration is a beautiful thing.

  I made my way through the basement, but Darryl stayed put and might have been judging me, probably knowing with his dog intuition that he didn’t want to see what I was about to do. My lip was between my teeth — I tossed the magazine on the bed and sat down, reaching underneath it for The Pleasure Box.

  Don’t make fun of me. I’ve been alone for two years. Literally everything I own has a name.

  The Pleasure Box was one hundred percent planned from the jump. The first thing I did was order a dozen vibrators, pretty much all of the highest rated vibes on Amazon. There was Mr. Friendly, my rabbit, who probably got the most play of everyone. I have a magic wand named DumbleWhore and a butterfly kiss named Rodrigo. Rod, for short. Bullets and butthole ticklers and G-spot stimulators, oh my. A girl’s got to have options.

  I also invested in bulk batteries, just in case for some reason I found myself without a power supply.

  I picked up Brad — a hot pink contraption with pieces that swung around in circles like a KitchenAid mixer — and turned him on.

  He didn’t make a sound or move a millimeter.

  With a frown, I set him down and picked up the next one. Then the next as panic spread through my chest. No dice. Every single one of them was dead. I wondered briefly how long it had been since I’d used one. I’d been favoring Brad for a while, and even though his last job was a little sloppy, I thought I had time.

  Worst mistake of my life.

  I flew across the basement, past the racks and shelves of canned goods and water barrels, back to the supplies. I’d had an entire shelf devoted to batteries — not just for my vibes, I’m not deranged — and I hadn’t really noticed that I’d depleted my supply. Some were left, and I breathed a sigh of relief. Until I took a closer look.

  It looked like the pack had corroded, the crusty leak around the edges flaked when I touched it, but it coated every battery in the box. Frantic, I snatched it up and ran back to the bed to begin the task of testing them.

  Hours later, I’d tested all combinations on three different vibes. None of them worked. Not a single one. And then, I cried.

  After twenty minutes or so of waterworks, I wasn’t sure if it was even about the batteries anymore.

  At some point, I fell asleep. This was not uncommon — half the time I didn’t even know what hour it was or if it was day or night, but when I woke, I woke with resolve.

  I’d prepared for leaving the shelter. For surviving. But I hadn’t been — I’d been hiding in my basement eating Slim Jims and Twinkies with my dog, using kitty litter on our shit and taking a bath out of a bucket. I hadn’t breathed fresh air in two years. Hadn’t seen sunlight.

  I wondered how I hadn’t gone crazy. Darryl walked over and rested his head in my lap, and I pet him gratefully. And then, I got to work.

  Combat gear was donned. Hair was pulled back into a tight French braid. Backpack was loaded with guns, knives, ammo, power bars, and water. I set Darryl up with grub and water for a few days and said a little prayer. And that was all there was to be done.

  Let me tell you something — when you haven’t seen sunshine in years, the sight of it could nearly blind you.

  The house was in shambles, the world outside quiet. Two years had aged everything by what looked like ten times that, and I crept through the living room, knife drawn, listening, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the light. The place had been ransacked — the cabinets were all open and empty, furniture flipped, plates and glasses smashed, leaving its shrapnel all over the carpet and tile.

  The only sound was the crunch of glass and porcelain as I made my way toward the front door, heart thumping, palms sweating, eyes darting. But as I reached the door, I relaxed a hair, not hearing any moaning, shuffling, thumping, or otherwise nefarious zombie tells.

  The assault of the sun was a trillion times worse as I stepped outside and into the ruins of my old neighborhood. The most unnerving thing wasn’t the silence. It wasn’t the overgrown yards or broken houses. It was the stillness. Nothing moved, not even the trees. Not a breeze or a bird flying. Like the energy of life had drained away, leaving the world absolutely desolate.

  I was an alien in an alien world, displaced and foreign, left reeling at the grim, godforsaken scene I found myself in.

  I struggled remembering my objecti
ve. It seemed so stupid now, but it was the reason I’d come out in the first place, and I hung onto it with a wild air of lunacy that crept over me like a fog.

  Batteries. I’d find batteries and then I’d go back to my basement and hide again. But a little voice in the back of my mind whispered that it would never be the same.

  I took a breath and looked around. My house lay on a strip of homes on a small brook that ran down into town. I wondered if anyone else was left, or if looters had come through and wiped all the houses out like they had mine. Batteries would be a precious commodity, probably one of the first things to go, and I wracked my brain to think of where I should start.

  I doubt Mrs. Mench next door would have prepared for much of anything besides a Tupperware party, and judging by the state of her front door, I’d be willing to bet there was nothing left. Mr. Beasley on the other side was a handyman — the likelihood of him having a stash was probably decent. A good place to start, at least.

  I walked across his lawn and up the steps, pushing the cracked door all the way open with a creak, ears so alert, they felt charged. His house hadn’t fared much better than mine or Mench’s — it was completely flipped. I wouldn’t find anything in the main rooms, and I figured I had two options: the garage and the basement.

  I decided on the garage first — moving through his home with my hunting knife at the ready in front of me. I opened the door, finding the room in absolute darkness, and I clicked on the flashlight hanging from my backpack strap, directing the tiny cone of light around the room.

  His shelves had fallen over, scattering tools, nails, nuts and bolts, wire and more across the cement floor. But along the walls, the shelves and counters housed cardboard boxes that looked like they might give me results.

  I descended the wooden stairs, hands trembling. I hated the dark. The dark with nothing but a tiny flashlight was a nightmare, the blackness around me suffocating. That tiny beam was my only connection to this world as I made my way toward the boxes.

  Three steps in, and time froze, everything happening in a millisecond. A grunt and a shuffle. Mr. Beasley in front of me, arms outstretched. But it wasn’t him anymore. Even in that flash of time, I saw everything — his sagging, gray skin, his upper lip missing, teeth yellowed and decayed. One of his eyes hung by the nerve out of the socket, swinging as he lunged for me.

  I reacted automatically — this was a shock to me … part of my reason for the shelter was because I was sure I’d die in the first wave. But I shifted, moving out of the way as I swung my arm around to try and bury my knife in his skull. But I wasn’t strong enough to pierce the bone. It looked so easy in the show, but the reality was that the skull isn’t made out of silicone and jelly and pig blood, and I only succeeded in pissing Beasley off.

  He hissed at me, and my flashlight swung as I darted around, my thoughts a jumble as I tried to pay attention to him and look for another weapon with nothing but the flashlight to help me do both. I caught sight of a hammer and ran for it, but he jumped for me, grabbing me by the pack. I hit the ground — pain shattered through my kneecap, and he climbed up my body, growling and gurgling as my fingers closed around the handle of the hammer, and I brought it down on him with every single bit of strength I had.

  The hammer hit his temple with a crunch and a squish, and he went limp.

  I was shaking all over, my hands numb and freezing as I dislodged the hammer and wiped the brain matter off with his tattered shirt, not knowing why it being clean was important, but it was. And then I found a way to pick myself up and search the garage.

  I found some useful stuff, tools I could use for weapons, mostly, but no batteries, just an empty box where they’d been at one point.

  Let me tell you something else — killing a zombie isn’t nearly as fun as I imagined it would be. It wasn’t even empowering. Mostly, I felt used up and scared. Disgusted. Horrified at what I’d done. So much so that once I was out the front door and fresh air hit me, I puked in the overgrown rose bushes in Beasley’s front yard.

  I closed my eyes and wiped my lips with the back of my hand, hanging onto the porch rail to keep me standing. My life wasn’t worth this, something so ridiculous. I had food. I had water. I had Darryl Fucking Dixon the dog to take care of.

  But now I knew what was out here. Now when I went back, I’d have nightmares of Beasley trying to kill me in the dark of his garage, of him tearing me open and burying his hands in my intestines. I shuddered at the thought, at how close I’d come to just that.

  So, I decided I’d walk the half-mile into town. I’d be smart. I’d keep my hammer in one hand and my Ruger in the other. I’d see what was left and go back home. Because what if I wasn’t alone in the world? What if there was someone like me, someone alone, someone who needed help? Could I determine if they were good or bad? I shook the thought away. I’d be able to tell. I’d trained and planned for this. I’d use Rick Grimes as my conscience. Not crazy-talking-to-his-dead-wife-on-the-phone Rick but straight-up-badass-dude-who-runs-shit Rick.

  In Rick We Trust. When I founded my new utopia, I’d put that and a hand drawn portrait of him on our paper money. Hopefully I ran into an artist, otherwise it’d be a stick figure with a grisly beard and a bloody machete in his hand.

  I unpacked my gun and kept both weapons in hand as I headed into town. Ghost town took on an all new meaning. Abandoned cars littered the street and sidewalk, and one had crashed into the hardware store. Guessed I wouldn’t find any batteries there. The market windows were busted, the shelves empty. But I didn’t see a soul, living or dead. Just that silent stillness.

  I walked up the street, taking it all in, wondering where all the walkers were. Were they locked in their homes? Wandering around in the woods? Did they die off? They’d left their mark — the street and sidewalk was stained with streaks of blood, sometimes a limb, sometimes a body. I steered clear of them all, looking away, keeping my eyes ahead. Well, until I came across half of a man I named Gutsy who dragged his mangled torso toward me, teeth clicking, eyes dead and cloudy.

  I picked up the pace, trying to decide where I might stop to check. Everything looked so picked over that hope seeped out of me with every step. Until I came to the toy store.

  It was a small boutique that had been an attraction for the kids of the city — there were even still outdoor games on the sidewalk, like corn hole, scooters, a portable tether ball set. Toy stores always had batteries. The thought put a little silver lining on what otherwise looked to be a wash.

  At first, it seemed strange that the store had been largely untouched, though I gathered that not many people had a need for stuffed animals or plastic dinosaurs during the end of the world. It was creepy, all the dolls collecting dust, watching me as I walked through. Shelves of board games and puzzles. A train set.

  As I walked past the stupid dolls, a noise shot out of one as it asked me to be its mommy, sending a scream out of my throat, past my lips as I spun around and stabbed it in its creepy eyeball. Its voice died down in mechanical slow-mo, the words stretching out like something out of a goddamn Stephen King novel.

  And then came a thump from the back room.

  I tightened my grip and raised my gun. The doorknob turned as a very gruff, very male voice said from behind the door, “I’m alive and unarmed.”

  I blinked, my breath gone at the sound of another person’s voice after so long. And the door opened slowly, revealing the most terrifying and beautiful thing I’d ever seen.

  His hair was long and blond, tied in a knot to keep it out of his face, which was covered in a thick, shaggy beard. His eyes were an electric shade of blue, and they watched me like he felt the same way about me as I did about him. And he was tall, with broad shoulders and narrow waist, the shirtsleeves of his flannel rolled up to his elbows.

  It was beautiful because he was beautiful, yes. But he was alive and standing right in front of me, and that was the most wondrous thing of all.

  I hadn’t moved.

  He
stood there a moment with his hands up. “Planning on shooting me?”

  I swallowed and tried to breathe. I couldn’t shoot him if I was holding my breath or I’d miss. “Depends. Are you alone?”

  He nodded. “You?”

  “Nah, I’ve got eleven more back at camp.”

  His eyebrow rose. “And you came alone?”

  “Sure, why not?”

  His eyes narrowed a hair as he looked me over. “I don’t believe you.”

  “How many walkers have you killed?”

  That warranted a smile, revealing a flash of bright teeth. “I watched Walking Dead too. Before.” The smile fell just a hair.

  I ignored him. “Where are you from?”

  “I’ve been moving from mountain town to town looking for others. I’m from Denver.”

  “How long have you been alone?”

  His smile fell completely at that, his voice heavy and hard when he answered, “Six months. I was with my sister until …”

  I swallowed again, forcing the lump down. “I’m sorry.”

  “Thanks,” he said, hands still in the air. “Think you could maybe lower your gun? My arms are getting tired.”

  I lowered the pistol slowly.

  “Where did you come from? You look like this is your first time pointing a gun at a man.” He chuckled.

  When I didn’t react, his brow dropped.

  “This isn’t your first time pointing a gun at a man, is it?”

  “I live close,” I said, evading. “Just came out looking for supplies.”

  “As it goes. What do you need? Maybe I can help.”

  “Batteries. Mine are all corroded.”

  He nodded. “What size?”

  “Double or triple-A. Either will do.”

  His brow quirked as he pulled off his pack and opened it up. “Not very big. What do you need them for?”

  My cheeks flushed. “My CD player,” I lied. “I just can’t live without music, you know?”