Free The Walls Have Eyes by Clare B. Dunkle Page B

dead bodies, with their glazed eyes staring into infinity, seemed invested with a horrible power and knowledge.
    â€œOkay, let’s get out of here,” he said. “I say we head back the way we came. There was this great lake back there, I saw it on my first night out, we must have gone right by it and notknown it. It had birds all over it. Big ones. I bet that means big fish, too.”
    â€œNo,” Mom said, and her voice was unusually stern. “No, Martin, your father’s right. We aren’t safe out here with these wild animals roaming around. We need a front door of our own.”
    Martin’s jaw dropped. “Mom!”
    â€œI’ll tell you what we do, Tris,” Dad said. “We’ll investigate every single one of these old houses until we find a place that’s fit for us to live. We’re putting walls between us and them, and that’s a promise.”

CHAPTER EIGHT
    Trailing behind his parents as they hiked down the old road, Martin tried to talk them out of their decision. Instead of nagging or whining, he tried honesty: he attempted to convey some idea of the dangerous enemies these houses held. But honesty failed in spectacular fashion. He wasn’t surprised. It usually did.
    Decayed houses crowded the underbrush at the edge of the road like grotesque monsters shambling into the light. Their busted doors seemed to leer at Martin; the sunlight glittering on their broken windows winked with obscene meaning. The roof of the house closest to him had fallen in, so that it looked like it was wearing a hat pulled down over one eye. “I swear, I’ve seen zombies hiding in better-looking houses than these,” he told them. “We’re gonna be sorry once it gets to be night.”
    Dad ignored him. He sized up the line of sinister wooden buildings as briskly as if they were new scooters. “We won’t go look at that one,” he said, pointing. “Too worn. It’s gone all soft.”
    â€œWalt, this one coming up doesn’t look so bad.”
    â€œGreat, Mom,” Martin groaned. “That one looks just like our house back home . . . in a few million years, maybe.”
    Their shabby road wound around the base of a steep, forested hill. Other roads branched off it. Dozens of ruined houses came into view. “Wonderful,” Martin whispered. “A whole zombie suburb.”
    They came around a long curve, and the road changed. It split into two roads running parallel to each other, with a strip of tall weeds and bushes between them. The concrete slabs of the two roads heaved and tilted at awkward angles.
    Enormous trees lined each side of the new double road. A number of them were hollow black shells with only a spray or two of green leaves to show that they still lived. Others were dead, rattling skeletons with brittle branches. Several had fallen across the roadway.
    Off to the left was open ground, a break from the dilapidated houses. Iron swing set frames and the remains of a stand of bleachers stood among bushes and wildflowers.
    â€œThat was a park,” Mom said.
    A couple of hundred yards beyond the old bleachers, the ground lapped up to the edge of a steep incline covered with massive pine trees. Directly above that slope rose gray granite cliffs.
    â€œWow!” Martin said. “The mountain starts right over there.” The nearness and hugeness of it made his pulse race with excitement. It was accessible. It was personal. Heck, it was part of a park! What fun he and David would have had if they’d had a mountain in their park.
    â€œA park is good news,” Dad opined. “The best houses are by the park.”
    A shallow, pebbly stream flowed down from beneath the dark pine trees at the mountain’s foot and cut across the park parallel to their street. It sang loudly with its own importance.
    â€œCome on, Chip,” Martin called, and they hurried over to investigate.
    The stream wasn’t