Page 61 of Death Valley

“You’re talking about the legend,” she says. “About the transformation or whatever. Zombies.”

I nod, knowing how ridiculous it sounds, especially when you throw the term zombie in there. “As I said, the locals have stories, passed down through generations. About how some of the settlers changed after eating human flesh. Transformed. Became something…else. Yes, zombies if you will.”

“But that’s not possible,” she says.

“Why not?”

“Because…”

“There are examples. Rabies. Cordyceps. And what probably happened here, prion disease.”

“Like Creutzfeldt-JakobDisease? Mad cow?”

“Some say there’s a curse, and maybe that’s true,” I begin. “I would never discount the stories from the Indigenous peoples here. That would be unwise. They know better than any of us settlers. But I’ve been doing a lot of research. Based partly on the accounts of what my great-great-great-granddaddy Jake McGraw told the generations. What if when the Donner Party consumed the flesh of their dead companions they unknowingly exposed themselves to a rapidly mutating prion disease? Perhaps the pathogen was initially a rare variant of prions that spread through infected cattle and oxen, but in the isolated wilderness of the Sierra Nevada, it evolved into a much more insidious strain capable of crossing from animals to humans.”

Aubrey gnaws on her lower lip for a moment. “You know, with the way preventable diseases are being spread in this country, I wouldn’t be surprised. But still…people getsickfrom things. They don’t turn into zombies.”

“But what if they did?”

She lets out a low laugh, even though the humor doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Well, I’d say we’re even more fucked than I thought.”

I nod. “Three years ago, I saw them,” I tell her, the memory sending ice through my veins. “Tracked them to a cave system out here, beyond Benson Hut, at Soda Springs. They were people. Pale, feral people. Too strong. Too fast. Eyes like blue fire. Teeth…”

I trail off, the image too vivid, too terrifying to fully describe.

“Feral people?” she repeats in disbelief, and I realize how fucking foolish I sound. “Don’t tell me you believe the lore about the ferals who live in the tunnels beneath the parksystems. Those are just stories. Made up stories. I should know because…” she trails off, as if catching herself saying something she shouldn’t. Then she clears her throat and straightens up. “They don’t exist, I can tell you that much. If they did, it would be all over the news and law enforcement?—”

“I’m gonna stop you right there,” I say, lifting a hand. “Law enforcement doesn’t do shit for the citizens and you know it. You know you know it. You said it yourself about Lainey. And she was white. Had she been Indigenous, Black, Hispanic, they never would have looked. Now I’m not saying the rumor of feral people living in tunnels across the country is true. That’s a Jordan Peele film and a weird one at that. But if it were true, the cops, the FBI, they wouldn’t do shit about it. People disappear all the fucking time.”

She seems to bristle at that. “Then what are you saying?”

“I’m saying you can listen to what I’m saying and believe me, or don’t. But I know what I saw. I know what I escaped from. There are people in these mountains, call them zombies if it makes you feel better, and they’ve been here for a very long time. They hunger for human flesh and if I were a betting man, I’d say they have Hank right now.”

Silence fills the cabin, punctuated only by the crackle of the fire. I’ve never admitted so much in my life, let alone to a stranger. And yet here I am, telling Aubrey my deepest, darkest secrets.

Well, almost all of them.

When I tell her the biggest one, I think whatever we have between us, this tense and fragile thing, will evaporate into thin air.

And I would deserve it.

“I think they’ve been watching us since we crossed the pass,” I go on. “Testing our defenses. Waiting for someone to make a mistake.”

Aubrey absorbs this, arms crossed over her chest as she processes the implications. “Okay. Let’s say for the sake of argument that you’re telling the truth. Why didn’t you tell me this before we came up here? And I mean, lay it all out, instead of hinting at shit left and right. Why risk all our lives for a search you know is probably hopeless?”

The question cuts to the heart of my guilt. “Because I need the money,” I admit quietly. “And because…a part of me hoped I was wrong. That we’d find nothing but old bones and you could have closure.” I pause, leaning forward to gaze into her eyes. “I still have that hope.”

She stares back at me. I know I’ve been careful to never give her false hope, I know she’s talked about Lainey being dead, that she expects it, and yet I see her beautiful face crumble in front of me.

It breaks my damn heart.

I go on. “Lainey came up here looking for answers about her family history. About your family history and the McAlisters in particular. And I think she found them.”

Her brow furrows. “The McAlisters? You mean the baby? Josephine?”

“The blood remembers what the generations forget,” I murmur, repeating what my grandfather once told me, what his grandfather told him, and so on.

Understanding dawns in her eyes, horror close behind. “Are you saying my sister was related to the McAlisters?”

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