Trusting Strangers

(2014.02.11)

This was the last house Elliot would check before he'd move on. He twisted the knob and nudged the door open with the barrel of his rifle, clenching his teeth when it almost bumped against the wall. Light streamed into the hall, falling on faded wallpaper stained black with dirt and mildew. His footsteps came low and deep on the floorboards. Hollow underneath, he noticed. He remembered much too clearly the rotted, bony hands that reached for him through the floor back in Msta. A family that had been hiding when the infection spread through the town, no doubt. He shook the memory from his head. Now was not the time for thoughts like that.

There was a door on the right of the hall. The knob was missing. He pushed it open with his boot and swept the room. Empty corners, nothing behind the door. Chairs, nightstand, broken lamp, busted TV. The next room was a kitchen floored with linoleum. He could already see a can under the table. Tuna or sardines, he knew at once. It was worth it coming in here after all. He entered and swept the kitchen with his gun. No one. He shouldered it and snatched the can up. On a shelf was a half-full bottle of water. He twisted the cap off, gave it a sniff and closed it again. He tossed it in his bag.

Elliot pulled open the drawers, then the cabinets. He ducked down on one knee. Was that a battery in the back? It was too dark to see. He was already losing the sun and he didn't want to be in Novy Sobor past nightfall. He poked his head into the shadows. When he reached for the battery a loud crack exploded from behind him. Startled, he bashed his head on the bottom of the sink. Radio static crackled like rolling thunder. Damn, damn, damn! The volume had gotten turned up somehow. He shrugged the backpack off his shoulders, took out the walkie talkie and turned the volume down.

His heart was slamming against his ribs. "Heya lad," wheezed a familiar voice through the static. "Hope I 'aven't caught ya at a bad time."

It was Scotty. That was what Elliot had taken to calling the Scotsman when he couldn’t get a name out of him. "Is there ever a good time?"

"Where are ya, lad?"

"Why do you want to know?" asked Elliot, scanning the room again.

"Got meself in a wee predicament. You fancy a hike?"

No, Elliot thought to say. Should have said hell no. "Where to?"

"Gorka, mate. I broke my leg. Can't walk on the damn thing. I'm just lying here on the floor."

"Gorka's far," he said. He checked the windows and the yard beyond them, gloomy with shadows. "Sun's going down too."

"I know it's bloody far. I wouldn't ask if it wasn't an emergency."

There wasn't any way to tell whether it was really an emergency. And there was no point in asking. The fact was that he didn’t know the man. Not even his real name. He just had to make a decision. At the least there were woods on the way to Gorka. He could make camp when he couldn't see any more and start again with first light. It was the wrong way from the north west military base, but Scotty had been good company up to now. If he could really trust him, the two of them would be much better off together. The base could wait.

"I can be there mid-morning tomorrow," he said.

"Wait," Scotty replied.

"What do you mean, wait? If I'm coming, I'm coming now. I've got to move."

"Shut up. I hear something." There was a click that sounded like a door opening. Then another. "They closed the door. It's not one of the zeds," Scotty whispered.

His stomach knotted and Elliot found himself outside again before he even knew what he was doing. Over the radio he heard feet thudding against wood, slow and steady. They were climbing stairs, Elliot realized. He dashed down the dirt road and out of the town, and ran until he was out of breath. What the hell was he doing? Was he going to run all the way to Gorka before this person could climb a flight of stairs? He stopped, crouched low and listened.

"Hey mate. I'm no threat. See 'ere? Putting the knife down," said Scotty in between labored breaths. "Think you could lend me a hand? I've broken my leg. It 'urts like hell. Ya speak English or not? Bloody hell. Look, my leg. It's broken. Help?"

There was a brief silence that felt anything but brief. Then footsteps.

"Mate? Hey, mate? Put it down, all right mate? No need for blood here. Take what ya want. It’s not like I could stop ya.” The footsteps paused. Then started again. “Hey back off ya fuck! I'll cut ya goddamn feet off!"

Elliot heard a voice that rumbled like a starving bear's stomach. Russian for sure. "Don't you know any damn Russian? Hey!"

A thump came through the speaker. Then another. The third, fourth and fifth sounded more like boots stomping through snow slush. There were some muffled sounds, a few clicks and clacks. The static went silent.

Elliot sat among the dried, brown leaves. They crumpled under his hands, bending, cracking and breaking into flakes. He stared at them and watched a potato bug crawl over one, roll into a ball and tumble to the dirt. After a time he stood and walked west, with Gorka behind him.