Free The Fall (Book 2): Dead Will Rise by Joshua Guess

equivalent of giving two weeks' notice.
    Even knowing a crossing was the safest option, an hour after the fight he still hadn't done it. The part of him that spent years studying all the ways small things could slip past your defenses and kill you railed against putting an open wound in the creek. It wasn't a phobia or even an unreasoned discomfort, but the genuine reluctance of a man who knew better.
    An hour walking south along the banks yielded no crossings. Out here in the woods he didn't expect a concrete bridge or anything, but it seemed strange that no trees had fallen from one side to the other. There were certainly places narrow enough for it, and--
    Of course.
    Whoever lived on this side of the creek wouldn't want the zombies to be able to cross easily.
    Clenching his jaw, Kell decided to cross at the next shallow area he came to. He'd been hoping for something less than knee high, as his boots were waterproof so long as the tops didn't submerge, but he'd take wading if he had to. Swimming if there was no other choice.
    Determined, he picked up the pace as he marched the southern trail. The morning wore on and grew warmer. His gear felt as though it had taken another swim, his sweat permeating the heavy materials. Thirst began to gnaw at him, mutating into a painful grind in his guts. Still he soldiered on, looking for a way across that wouldn't sweep him off his feet.
    Just below the peak of a hill, Kell stopped to rest. Sitting wasn't a risk he was willing to take; tired and thirsty as he was, he might not get back up. His leg throbbed up the back of his calf like an infected tooth, nerves lighting up with white heat on every footfall. Stopping was no better until he leaned against a nearby tree to shift his weight from it.
    The sound of distant bells rang out. It was only then he thought to look down and saw the fishing line strung between the trees.
    Kell was too exhausted to manage more than mild curiosity. A glance back down the trail showed a few glimmers of fishing line hooked to other trees. A system not unlike the one they'd used at the house in Michigan.
    “Must be close to where they live,” he muttered to himself.
    “You're a hundred percent right on that, mister,” a voice said from behind him.
    A man walked down the hill, assault rifle pointed at Kell in a lazy but efficient way. The sort of loose-armed grip a man used to hauling a gun around all day used. The fellow was tall, though not close to Kell's own height. His skin was a deep tan color, hair black, but with startling blue-green eyes. The geneticist in him started breaking down probable ancestry, the habit so ingrained it was involuntary.
    “Heard you coming,” the man said. “Been watching you for a while, and had you come over that hill you'd have seen me waiting for you. Circled around a few minutes ago when we figured you'd walk right into our camp.”
    One hand still planted against the slim trunk of the tree, Kell smiled. Which drew a frown from the other man, eyebrows knitting together. “Something funny?”
    Kell shook his head. “Not really. Just that I was so worried about running into people, and now I find myself relieved.”
    “Why's that? Aren't you afraid I'm going to shoot you?”
    Kell shrugged. “Yeah, but that begs the question, doesn't it? Are you going to kill me?”
    The other man studied him for a while, then whistled. Two sharp notes. The clomp of boots through underbrush and dead leaves ended with two new arrivals, both young men. Mentally, Kell kicked himself for not noticing them. They'd been less than thirty feet away and he hadn't seen a thing.
    “Well, sir, whether or not you die remains to be seen. We'll have to have a talk, you and me.”
    Kell raised his hands over his head in the universal sign of surrender. “While you're making up your mind, could I trouble you for a glass of water?”
     
     
    The camp was indeed just over the hill, though Kell would have walked right by it if he hadn't been