I handed Ian the key.
In the back, Gary was still slamming garage lids, and I started to worry about anyone else who might be lurking about in ear-shot.
We went in. The old Victorian had seen better days. Plaster crumbled off the filigree trim around the ceiling. The rose pattern wallpaper looked faded. It looked like there had been a tussle in the living room. We could hear groaning and the sound of a body slamming against the door in the back.
“There might be more than one,” I whispered, my memory of the incident in the Sheriff’s Office still fresh.
Jensen nodded and waved us toward the left side of the house into the dining room. I bent one ear toward the upstairs but heard nothing. The dining room was beautifully bedecked with dark navy brocade wallpaper. A slightly tarnished tea service sat on a cherry server. The formal dining room had a small serving window that looked into the kitchen. In the back was an old woman who clawed at the back door.
“Got her,” Jensen whispered and then took aim.
“Watch out for Gary,” Ian cautioned.
I turned away, unsheathing my sword, and kept one eye on the dining room entryway.
Bam. The hunting rifle discharged a loud boom that made the chandelier rattle.
A moment later I heard a flurry of feet from the other side of the house. Surprisingly fast for being undead, a young woman, Jenna, caretaker for many of the town’s elderly, emerged from a side room and lunged at me.
“Layla!” Ian called out.
Jumping onto a dining room chair, then onto the table, I spun, the sword slicing through the air. I severed Jenna’s skull in half. Her momentum caused her body to fling forward. It hit the table and buckled. The severed head spilled a mush of brains and blood onto the table.
“Gross,” Jensen said.
“Dammit, she was fast,” Dusty cursed.
“Who?” Ian remarked sarcastically.
We all paused and waited, listening. My heart was pounding.
“Let’s check upstairs,” Ian whispered.
When we got back to the foyer, Gary joined us.
“Better keep guard,” I told him. “You might have gotten someone’s attention.”
“I’m on it,” he said and took a post on the porch.
When we got upstairs, Ian called out. “Anyone alive up here?”
We waited.
A moment later we heard slow foot-steps. Everyone raised a weapon. One of the bedroom doors opened, and an elderly man stood clutching the door frame. It was Mr. Franklin. Clearly, he was not in good health, and he looked frightened out of his mind.
“My wife,” he whispered, rasping.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Franklin, she’s dead,” Dusty told him.
He nodded sadly and took a puff on his inhaler.
“Come sit down,” I said, sheathing my sword. I guided the old man back into the room and to a chair. The room smelled like body odor, urine, and moldy food. He must have been locked in there for several days.
“Mr. Franklin, we need to move you. You’re not safe all alone in the house. Let us take you to stay with someone,” Dusty encouraged.
“Mrs. Finch is going to move in with Fred Johnson. That might be a good place for him,” Ian suggested.
“My medicines,” the old man said, motioning toward the table.
My stomach hurt. There was no way this man would survive. Just like Frenchie’s children, he was so vulnerable. The enormity of keeping such people safe overwhelmed me.
“I got them,” I said and rose. I unzipped a pillowcase and put all the medicines inside.
Dusty and Jensen led Mr. Franklin down the stairs. Outside, Gary shot twice at an approaching undead man. I could only see the shadow of their figures through the beveled glass windows. Mr. Franklin stopped.
“What is happening?” he asked.
“It’s the end of days,” Dusty replied. “Come on, Mr. Franklin. The good Lord hasn’t called you just yet.”
The old man muttered in reply.
When I reached the bottom of the stairs, I noticed Mr. Franklin’s and his wife’s wedding portrait hanging on the wall. They looked so young and happy.
Ian came up behind me. He stopped and looked at the photo as well. “I want to talk about last night,” he whispered, but I raised my hand to cut him short.
“Not now,” I said and went outside. Who would have thought that the end of the world would bring me the one thing I thought I wanted most. I did still want him, didn’t I?
Chapter 11
The sun had just peaked over the mountains when we collected in the elementary school parking lot. The sunrise was a mix of pink and orange. The air was cool. Mist was rising off the lake and river. Half the streets were shrouded in fog. It was amazingly quiet: no cars, no hum of electricity, no nothing, just birds and the sound of the wind.
About two dozen people had assembled.
I rubbed my gloved hands together. “We need to get some barricades in place at both ends of Main Street. Is Fred here?” I asked, looking around.
“Here, Layla,” he called.