Surviving the Dead (Book 7): The Killing Line by James N. Cook Page A

the front door, rubbed a hand across the back of my neck, and took a deep breath.
    “Just get it done.”
    I knocked on the door.
    “Hang on a minute.” Gabe’s voice was muffled. At this hour, he was probably in his office going over inventory logs and trade requests. His approach was quiet, boards creaking gently, telling me he was wearing the fur-lined moccasins Great Hawk had made for him. He had made a pair for me as well. They were warm and comfortable, perfect for wearing around the house on a cold day.
    The door opened. “Hey, Eric. Come on in.”
    He vacated the entrance and walked back inside. I entered and shut the door behind me.
    “What brings you by?” he asked from the kitchen.
    I walked into the living room and stared through the open doorway. Gabe was squatting in front of the woodstove feeding split sections of cedar into the fire.
    “There’s something I need to talk to you about.”
    A glance over his shoulder. “Sounds serious.”
    “Yeah. It is.”
    He stood up and gestured toward the table. We sat down.
    “So what’s on your mind?” Gabe asked.
    I removed the picture from my pocket and slid it across the table. “Recognize that?”
    He picked it up and stared at it. At first his face was blank, then his eyebrows slid down and I heard him mutter, “What the hell?” The cold eyes grew distant, as though seeing something far away, the look of someone dusting off long-ago memories. Finally, he came back to the present and stared intently at me over the photograph.
    “Where did you get this?”
    “There’s someone at my place you need to meet.”
    “Who? Did they give you this?”
    “Yes.”
    Sudden hope dawned on Gabe’s face. “Is it her? Is it Karen?”
    I shook my head. “No, Gabe. I’m sorry.”
    “What do you mean, you’re sorry?”
    “I think Karen died in the Outbreak.”
    The big man’s face began to flush. “Eric, you need to tell me what the hell is going on. Who gave you this picture?”
    “Come over to my place. I think all will be made clear.”
    Now he looked confused. “All right. Fine.”
    He followed me to my front door, where I stopped and faced him. “Do me a favor.”
    “What?”
    “Calm down. Try not to look so angry.”
    “Eric, I’m getting real tired of this mystery shit.”
    I put a hand on his shoulder. “Please, Gabe. I’m asking you as your friend to trust me.”
    He let out a long breath, white mist fogging the air around his head. “Okay. I’m good. Can we get on with it now?”
    “Gabe, this is going to be difficult. Whatever happens after today, don’t forget you’re not alone. You have help whenever you need it.”
    The confusion returned. “I appreciate that. But right now, you’re making me nervous.”
    I tried to think of something else to say, something to smooth the road. Nothing came to mind. The only thing left to do was take the leap. I opened the door and led Gabe inside.
    Sabrina was sitting on the couch with Miranda, leaning over my son, face shining with the smile all women seem to instinctively exhibit around babies. She noticed us come in and stood up quickly. I stepped aside and studied Gabe’s face. First came a narrowing of the eyes, then a jaw-drop not unlike Miranda’s a few minutes ago. Sabrina pointed at the picture in his hand.
    “You look different than I thought you would.”
    Gabe stepped forward on numb feet. He held up the photograph. “Where did you get this?”
    I winced a little. He was in denial, his mind refusing to admit what the eidetic memory was undoubtedly telling him. Sabrina backed off a step. Gabe realized what he was doing and stepped back as well.
    “Mom gave it to me when we had to evacuate,” Sabrina said. “It’s the only thing I have left from before.”
    “Karen gave this to you?”
    “Yes.” Sabrina stepped closer to him. From my angle, the resemblance was downright spooky. Even their expressions were the same. “You’re Gabriel Garrett, right?”
    He nodded