Zombies: The Recent Dead by Paula Guran

They’ve kept me going on tinned vegetables, extra blankets. I even had a little gas stove for a while, which was great. Got right around the whole smoke problem, and so I had hot coffee all day long. Ran out of gas after a while, of course. Finding some more is a way up my wish list, I’ll tell you, just below a new vacuum flask.
    Problem is, those places were never year-round dwellings, and the owners didn’t leave much stuff on site, and I haven’t even found a new one in a couple weeks. But I live in hope. I’m searching in a semi-organized grid pattern. Could be more rigorous about it, but something tells me it’s a good idea to leave open the possibility you might have missed a place earlier, that when you’re finished you’re not actually finished—that’s it and it’s all done and so what now?
    Living in hope takes work, and thinking ahead. A schedule does no harm, either, of course.
    Those lessons you learn at a parent’s knee or bent over it-have a way of coming back, even if you thought you weren’t listening.
    What I’m concentrating on most of all right now, though, is building my stocks of food. The winter is upon us, there is no doubt, and the sky and the trees and the way the wind’s coming down off the mountain says it’s going to land hard and bed itself down for the duration. This area is going to be very isolated. It was that way before the thing, and sure as hell no one’s going to be going out of their way to head out here now.
    There’s not a whole lot you can do to increase the chance of finding stuff. At first I would go to the towns, and had some success there. It made sense that they’d come to sniff around the houses and bins. Towns were a draw, however small. But that doesn’t seem to happen so much now. Stocks have got depleted in general and—like I say—it’s cold and getting colder and that’s not the time of year when you think hey, I’ll head into the mountains.
    So what I mainly do now is head out back into the woods. From the back of the cabin there’s about three roads you can get to in an hour or so’s walking, in various directions. One used to be the main route down to Oregon, past Yakima and such. Wasn’t ever like it was a constant stream of traffic on it, but that was where I got lucky the last two times, and so you tend to get superstitious, and head back to the same place until you realize it’s just not working any more.
    The first time was just a single, middle-aged guy, staggering down the middle of the road. I don’t even know where he’d come from, or where he thought he was going. This was not a man who knew how to forage or find stuff, and he was thin and half-delirious. Cheered right up when he met me. The last time was better. A young guy and girl, in a car. They hadn’t been an item before the thing, but they were now. He believed so, anyway. He was pretty on the button, or thought he was.
    They had guns and a trunk full of cans and clothes, back seat packed with plastic containers of gasoline. I stopped them by standing in the middle of the road. He was wary as hell and kept his hand on his gun the whole time, but the girl was worn out and lonely and some folks have just not yet got out of the habit of wanting to see people, to mix with other humans once in a while.
    I told them Noqualmi still had some houses worth holing up in, and that there’d been no trouble there in a while on account of it had been empty in months, and so the tide had drifted on. I know he thought I was going to ask to come in the car with them, but after I’d talked with them a while I just stepped back and wished them luck. I watched them drive on up the road, then walked off in a different direction.
    Middle of that evening—in a marked diversion from the usual schedule, but I judged it worth it—I went down through the woods and came into Noqualmi via a back way. Didn’t take too long to find their car, parked up behind one of the houses. They weren’t ever