They’d started out with eight, as good a number as any, and yet over the course of the past five weeks their numbers had dwindled to three – a culmination, perhaps, of fear and relentless physical danger. Two years ago Amelia Wilson would have been horrified by the sight of festering bodies and the stench of death and disease, now she was gradually becoming accustomed to the lack of feeling. While survival did demand a heightened sense of awareness and a certain level of intelligence it rarely, if ever, demanded basic human compassion. The less you felt, in other words, the better. Memories of those they had lost (she missed the company sometimes, but anyone would have) were best forgotten, or at least confined. Dennis, thank goodness, wasn’t one to dwell on past encounters or rotting corpses. Michael…she could never quite be sure with Michael, sometimes it seemed as though he thrived on a sense of nostalgia and other times it seemed as though he lived purely for the present. Either way, he was the one with the maps, the food.
The house they’d found was stable, the interior partly furnished despite its general state of deterioration. It was the sort of place that sent one’s well-cultivated survival instincts into a frenzy, unassuming in terms of its appearance and relatively easy to defend, or escape. Clearly the days of five star motels and three course meals were over. If Amelia were to be completely honest, unencumbered by her growing resentment of baked beans and tinned water, those days had never really existed in the first place. Most of her savings had gone towards med school, a glittering front to an otherwise dreary existence. Up until the invasion she’d spent her days studying and her nights cooped up in a small, one bedroom apartment with her boyfriend’s sister. Hardly a life worth fantasizing about. That said, there’d been good company and passable food, and she’d be hard pressed to say that she didn’t miss it. Life on the road, a backpack slung over one shoulder and her boots falling to veritable pieces, often felt as though it were a life without purpose. They had their reasons for going north, of course, but they weren’t the sorts of reasons that could sustain an entire life, an entire existence. Besides, there was no guarantee that the three of them would even make it. They’d started out with eight.
Her thoughts were cut short by the familiar rasp of Dennis Heartman, not surprising so much as slightly grating. Their group functioned on the silent allotment of roles, each practical and each of invariable use. Michael was the leader; perhaps a little more resourceful than they ever gave him credit for being. Dennis was the muscle, not that anyone had ever outwardly addressed him as being such. And herself? Amelia wasn’t exactly sure; all she knew was that the extensive medical training had proved somewhat useful given the nature of their situation. No doubt the other two had already placed her in a more definitive category.
She lifted the can of beans to her lips, watching as the larger of the two men huffed and puffed and made for the door. Was there any point in staging an intervention? Probably not, noise usually caused them to cluster, no doubt looking for more opportunities to breed and feed and whatever else it was that they did to their victims. Amelia hadn’t taken a close enough look at any bodies to know.
“Seems to me he’s mad enough for both of us.” The beans were cold, slimy in texture and off-putting in color. Lifting an eyebrow, she placed the can on the ground. “Going out there while it’s dark,” the former med student paused, “next thing you know he’ll be shooting targets.”
Truth be told, Amelia couldn’t exactly blame Dennis for the sudden outburst. It was tedious, the walking. It was tedious, the sleeping in different houses and the living off of baked beans and the having to operate on constant schedules (someone had to be awake at all times, even a novice would have known that). Complaining didn’t make much of a difference to their situation though. Neither did running off while it was still dark out and you had no decent backup. The best thing they could do was hope that the area was relatively clear, having to run to Dennis’ aid when they could barely see and she and Michael both looked exhausted probably wasn’t a winner.
“Could’ve saved the beans though.” Amelia stood, surveying the bean-splattered wall. “Sure, they taste like shit, but at least we’re not going to sit here and starve to death.” Starvation was common, like dehydration. It was also slow and torturous, a lesson learned from watching a multitude of people simply whither away. “For now, anyway. We should find some more stuff tomorrow if we can. Not beans." She cracked her knuckles once, twice. "They say too much of one thing isn't good for you."