Fermata: The Winter: A Post-Apocalyptic Survival Series (The Fermata Series: Four Post-Apocalyptic Novellas Book 1) Read Free Page A

sunlight. We were in a basement with a high window. Bruce knew better than to make any noise, but his lips moved as he stared earnestly up into the light. I guess he thought if he kept trying, God would listen.
    I knew we were on our own. If there was a God, He was doing something else. But I didn't say that to Bruce. He needed there to be a God. He needed to believe we were going to be saved. Gradually an idea formed in his mind. He became obsessed with the new “calling” to lay hands on the “lost” and “return them to the fold.” So one night he answered the call. He put out one of those hands and drew back a nub.
    In typical Bruce fashion, he picked a dead biker covered in tattoos. Alive, this guy would have had Bruce for lunch. Dead, he just took one massive, decaying paw and snapped Bruce’s hand clean off at the wrist.
    Bruce just stood there staring at the dripping stump. I hope being that dumb was a painkiller. The dead biker ripped Bruce’s throat out. I watched from my hiding place.
    It all happened on Huntington Avenue. We were scavenging in the abandoned restaurants. The dead biker was out in front of a trashed Starbucks. There was nothing I could do to help Bruce. I ducked down some stairs leading to a lower level and stayed out of sight. I had my own plan for personal salvation — staying alive.
    Two hours later, Bruce rose from the dead. That’s when I made my mistake. I tried to put him down. I wasn’t in love with Bruce anymore, but we’d been through a lot. I didn’t want to leave him like that, but I didn’t count on how many new friends he had. Six of them backed me down an alley. My only weapon was a tire iron.
    When my back hit the brick wall, I knew I was going to die. Then, I did talk to God. I asked him to let me kill Bruce on my way out. Why? I was pissed. For the past 11 months I had desperately needed this guy to man up. What did I get? Terrified religious gibberish.
    She came out of nowhere. One minute I’m trapped, and the next, the alley erupted in gunfire. The six dead guys went down one at a time. Behind them stood a little woman holding a big gun. She said, “Are you coming or not?”

    January 2015: The Cabin

    Abbott glanced over his shoulder. “That woman who saved you in the alley was her? She doesn’t look capable of doing anything like that.”
    In spite of everything, Lucy chuckled. “Don’t ever make the mistake of underestimating Vick.”
    “She is the leader of your little group?”
    “Yes. She’s kept us alive all this time.”
    “You can’t possibly have been on the run for five years,” he said.
    “We haven’t been,” Lucy said. “Back then, we had a pretty good handle on things. We were doing okay.”

    June 2011: Boston, Lucy

    The woman walked out of the alley. I looked down at Bruce. She'd shot out one of his eyes. His throat was just a tangle of raw tissue. Around him slick, wet things covered the pavement. I didn't know who she was, but I couldn't stay there and I didn't have any place else to go. I followed her. It was the best decision I’ve ever made in what would otherwise have been a very short life.
    She got into a banged up, seriously high-end SUV. I climbed in the passenger seat and said, “I’m Lucy.”
    “Vick,” she said, starting the engine.
    She pulled into the empty street. We rode in silence until I asked. “Where are we going?”
    “My place,” she answered, steering around a shuffling dead man in a crosswalk.
    “Why not just plow him down?” I asked curiously.
    “They get caught in the wheel wells,” she explained. “It’s a real pain to clean the mess out.”
    “Oh,” I said, blinking a couple of times. “Um. Where’s your place again?”
    “York, Maine.”
    “But that’s in another state!” I protested.
    She glanced over. “And exactly what’s keeping you in Massachusetts?”
    It wasn't so much that anything was keeping me there. It was just that I'd never counted on anything taking me away. I