Zombie Chaos | Book 4 | Scout's Horror

the spotty moonlight, I caught a sympathetic expression on each of their faces.
Obviously, they’d overheard the incident with Jill and Azazel. Still, I wasn’t certain why they pitied me. Because I was forced to deal with an ungrateful mother-in-law? Or because they thought I was tortured by her slow fade into zombiedom?
With a shrug, I focused on more pressing matters. “George, could you guard the campsite while Casey and I set up a tripwire around the perimeter?”
The pity in her eyes hardened into resolve. “You got it.”
So, while she stationed herself atop the battle wagon, her weapons at the ready, her son and I strolled to the back of the step van. After unlocking the rear doors, I clambered inside to retrieve some supplies. Clare had joined her mother on the couch, and Azazel had curled up on the passenger seat up front—though I could see little more than her dangling tail. Once I’d grabbed what I needed, including my jacket from the stuffed closet, I hopped to the ground and shut the doors again.
As it turned out, I had more than enough twine to encircle the entire campsite. Not that I was surprised. Any good prepper should keep plenty of string, rope, and, of course, duct tape in an easy-to-access spot.
The trouble was… I didn’t have any disposable items to secure to the line—things that would clank together if someone or something broke through our perimeter. No empty cans or bottles to signal us. Nothing I was willing to lose. We needed something that would alert us without alerting the whole damn forest.
“No worries, Mr.… I mean, Joe,” Casey said. “I’ve got just the thing.”
After snagging the car keys from George, he unlocked the back of the station wagon and pulled a ratty blanket aside. Much to his mother’s chagrin, he’d uncovered a case of empty beer cans he’d apparently forgotten to toss out before everything went to hell.
Man, I really like this kid. He’s resourceful as shit.
From her perch atop the vehicle, George glanced from the box in her son’s arms to his face. With squinting eyes and a shaking head—the full disapproving-mother treatment—she said, “You’re lucky this whole apocalypse thing happened, young man, or you’d have some serious explaining to do.”
Casey flashed his mother a sheepish grin but said nothing in his defense. Three years shy of his twenty-first birthday, he wouldn’t have been able to purchase alcohol legally, but that had never stopped teenage boys from snagging some beer—especially in southern Louisiana. With a halfhearted shrug, he shut the door and followed me into the woods with his case of empties.
Using my tape measure, I marked off a large square around the campsite, then together, Casey and I unwound the twine, methodically tied it to the ring-pull tabs on the cans, and secured the line to several bushes and tree trunks. In the end, two dozen beer cans surrounded us, tied together in pairs spaced about ten feet apart, hovering only about four inches above the ground.
If an unwanted visitor stumbled into our campsite, triggering the line, the cans would hopefully rattle against each other loud enough to awaken us—and warn us of any potential danger before he, she, or it busted into our vehicles and tried to snatch their pound of flesh.
Satisfied with our makeshift security measure—and too exhausted to set any other booby traps—we returned to the vehicles.
“Well, we’ve done all we can for now,” I told George. “I suggest we all get inside, lock our doors, and grab as much sleep as we can.”
With an agreeable nod, she jumped down from the wagon’s roof. Simultaneously, the rear doors of my step van opened, and Clare poked her head outside.
Having helped my wife through many tough situations over the years, from health scares to the loss of loved ones, I knew her expressions well—and yet, I’d never seen her face more pinched and drawn with concern.
“Joe, she’s not doing well. I don’t think the antibiotics are helping at all.”
Before I could respond, George circled around the battle wagon.
“How’d she get infected?” she asked me.
“She got scratched by a zombie back at her house. I hoped it would heal, but…”
George bit her lip pensively. “Any chance she was sick before getting scratched?”
But Clare had passed the point of deluding herself. “She was fine a few days ago. Before the scratch.”
George nodded sadly. “I’m sorry. I really am.” Then, she offered a comforting smile, the kind everyone needed when life seemed to serve up only shit-sandwiches.
She’d probably worn that motherly expression a lot lately. Like… when her husband had returned home as a zombie, and her poor son had been forced to shoot his own father. She’d surely given Casey that same smile then, and now, it was all she could do for Clare.
We all knew the sad truth, even if no one wanted to voice it: Jill was going to die soon and ultimately transform into one of the foul creatures that had irreversibly fucked up our world.
Unless someone was willing to put her out of her misery.
And we all know who that unlucky bastard’s gonna be.
“Okay, kiddo,” George said as she nudged her son toward the front of the station wagon, “how ’bout you and I have a little chat about that beer?”
“Come on, Mom, really?”
Without a word, she unlocked the driver’s-side door and gestured him inside.
Casey took one look at her stony face and reluctantly scrambled across the front seat. Once he’d settled onto the passenger side, she slipped behind the steering wheel and shut the door.
Despite Casey’s look of displeasure, I doubted George intended to give him any crap about the beer. She was simply offering me and Clare some space.
To do what exactly… I wasn’t yet sure.

Chapter
5
“Look, worst-case scenario, you put her out of her misery. Just as long as you’re prepared for that, and I mean, sure.” – Sam, Ginger Snaps (2000)
Clare gazed around the moonlit campsite, perhaps checking