Alive in a Dead World

“I’m fine,” Brian said, swaying slightly in a non-existent breeze.

Paul cautiously pulled Brian’s shirt up; deep red lines radiated out from the entry wound in Brian’s stomach. “We need to get you some meds,” Paul said.

“How could he be sick so fast?” Mrs. Deneaux asked.

“What do you mean? He got shot,” Paul said with some heat.

“I understand that. But he shouldn’t already be showing these signs of infection. It takes at least one or two days to get those symptoms. Something else is going on here.”

Paul stepped back, Brian’s shirt fell back in place. Brian felt like decisions were being made regarding him, but fever was beginning to cloud his judgment and all he wanted to do right now was lie down.

“Sergeant Wamsley reporting for duty,” Brian said as he went to the ground, mostly under his own power. Paul placed his head on a small patch of moss.

“He’s burning up. We need to get him some help,” Paul said.

“I think it’s too late,” Mrs. Deneaux said coolly, finally getting to light her smoke up.

“What are you saying?”

“You can’t really be that dense, can you? I really would have thought Michael would have a better screening method for his friends.”

“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that and you’ll explain to me what I’m apparently missing.”

“He’s dying, and fast, from the looks of it,” she said, taking a large drag off her cigarette.

“We just need to get him some pills and he’ll be fine.”

“Nothing short of a medical team and a blood transfusion are going to save him now, but I’ll allow you your fantasy.”

“You’ll allow me? How fucking considerate!” Paul shouted.

“I’m wondering if he’s turning into a zombie,” Mrs. Deneaux pondered, completely ignoring Paul’s outburst.

Paul couldn’t help himself, but he moved from his protective stance next to Brian to one in which he had a better angle to see if any change had taken place.

“I see that you think that too,” Deneaux laughed.

“I didn’t, until you said it. We need to go get him something to help,” Paul said, fear fighting bile to be the first to root itself firmly in his throat.

“We? I think not. I’ll only slow you down and someone should stay here to keep watch over him,” Deneaux said, pointing to the prone figure of Brian with her cigarette holding finger.

Paul doubted her sincerity on the whole “keeping watch” part, but she was slower than a three-legged tortoise racing in molasses when it came to walking through the woods. “I’m not even sure where we are,” Paul said with some rising alarm. The thought of going out on his own was not sitting well. Paul looked all around, the trees suddenly looking very constricting.

“You can wait a few more hours until he dies. Then we can leave here together, dearie,” Deneaux said, completely catching Paul’s anxiety attack.

Paul trudged out of the woods and onto the roadway, trying his best to gauge their location. It would do no good to get what he needed only to find out he didn’t know his way back.

Paul heard Mrs. Deneaux cycle a round into her rifle. He fully expected to hear the shot ring out as she “took care” of Brian’s illness. And would that be so bad? he thought. Mrs. D was probably right, he was already a dead man. “And now I’m risking my life for him,” Paul muttered, stopping his forward progress. “He’d do the same for me. I think,” he said, going again.

“Twit,” Mrs. Deneaux said as she watched Paul’s conscience at work. “He’s as dead as this one,” she said as she casually kept the rifle pointed at Brian’s head.

She wasn’t overly concerned with her future survival. She was a survivor, always had been and she saw no reason why that would change now. She would give Paul two or three hours at the most to get what he needed and get back. If he wasn’t here, she was going to seek out a more hospitable location to spend the night and the next morning she would resume her search for Michael. Nothing ensured her continued existence more than staying with the penultimate survivor.

The only flaw she saw in Michael was his commitment to others, although that would work in her favor this time because he would not leave until he had the rest of his raiding party with him.

Brian stirred restlessly in his fever-soaked dreams, Mrs. Deneaux pushed his shirt up to watch the ever advancing infection as it branched to his heart. Once it got there, nothing could save him, except a priest and that would only be his eternal soul.

Paul felt completely exposed as he walked down the road. He looked longingly to the brush-covered street sides, but time was of the utmost importance. He hesitated. Who would know if I turned around now? I could tell Deneaux I didn’t find anything. She’d suspect and I’d know, he thought, chastising himself.

Paul had started walking again when he got a creeping sensation at the back of his neck. It was that same feeling he got so long ago at the gas station when that man had begun to approach him, when this whole thing had originally started. He had ignored that feeling then and almost fell into the same trap. “I’m going to be pissed if I turn around and there’s nothing there, I’m just scaring myself,” he said aloud much like people who enter a dark basement whistle so as to abate their fear.

At first, what he saw just didn’t register. Luckily, his lower reasoning abilities of survival kicked in. Two speeders, a large male and an even larger female, were bearing down on him. Paul involuntarily cried out as he began his own sprint. Cognitive thought slowly came back as Paul tried to do some basic calculations in his head. Had to have at least a couple of hundred yards head start on them, should I turn around and look? No I’ll lose time. He could swear on more than one occasion, he could feel fingernails narrowly miss his neck and he would put on another short burst of speed.

He had gone less than a quarter mile and knew his time of running was rapidly coming to a close. “Can’t…keep…this…up!” He huffed. He stole a quick glance over his shoulder, hoping the zombies had stopped their pursuit. No such luck, the lead zombie dressed in tattered camouflage gear was, at the most, twenty feet away.

I’m screwed, Paul thought. Okay, okay. His mind going into overdrive. What would Talbot do? Even in the dire situation, he smiled a little at the comparison to the popular What Would Jesus Do? slogan. Paul held his rifle up to his face, not sure what he was looking for or if he’d even be able to tell as the firearm swayed violently back and forth in his field of vision. I think I see red. Does that mean the safety is on or off? How many bullets do I have? What are the odds I could hit him with the rifle over my shoulder, about as good as you stopping and aiming. He swore he heard Mike say that last part.

Paul planted his left leg to turn and make a shot, the force of his forward momentum causing his ankle to roll. He fell and spun hard from the pain. Camo man had not broken stride as Paul rolled over two complete times. Tears had already welled up in Paul’s eyes as the Camo man lunged for him. Paul pulled the trigger of his rifle. He couldn’t have placed the shot any better if he had put the rifle on a gun stand and fired it off. The bullet struck Camo man squarely in the forehead. The zombie’s forward progress halted immediately as brackish, gray-green matter leaked out the entry hole, and the smell of sulfur-laden, stagnant water assailed his nostrils. Paul’s triumph was short-lived as the Amazonian woman who had been struggling to keep up was now gaining by leaps and bounds on the prostrate Paul.

Paul sat up to get a better shot, the pain in his ankle throbbing with every beat of his heart, which at this moment, meant it was pretty much a continuous pain. “Gotcha now, bitch!” Paul screamed as his well placed shot slammed the woman in her calf. Her immeasurable bulk slammed to the ground as the bottom half of her right leg snapped in two.

The zombie woman landed on her face, and her teeth broke out as she made hard contact with the ground. As she rose, Paul noticed white jagged pieces of her shattered incisors poking through her bottom lip like shards of glass used on top of rock walls. She looked in sorry shape, but yet she rose. Paul sat there, watching her in stunned silence as she got to her feet. Her knee-high skirt did little to hide the hideous sight Paul was gazing at. The zombie advanced slowly, her left foot landing normally on her sneaker-clad appendage, her right foot and a full six inches of her lower leg folded away at a ninety degree angle as it came down. Paul could hear the bones in her leg as she cut through her calf muscles and made contact with the pavement. The sound was mind-numbingly sickening. It sounded like a wet fish being slapped down on a marble table, Paul was mesmerized with the horror of it. The zombie cared little for the irreparable damage she was committing as she approached. Blood spurted from the veins and arteries in her leg as she ripped through the tender vessels.

Paul pulled up his rifle, realizing at this distance even he would have a hard time missing. He pulled the trigger, or more correctly “tried” to pull the trigger. He was not even rewarded with the satisfaction of a dry fire. He tried the trigger again, nothing. He turned the rifle over, an expended brass cartridge was lodged half in and half out of his rifle. Paul pulled back repeatedly on his bolt, the piece would not move and Stumpy was gaining.

Paul turned over and used his gun as a makeshift cane to prop himself up. He thought sourly that this would be the time it shot, while it was firmly entrenched in his armpit. How many horror movies have I seen like this? Paul asked himself as he limped away, the injured zombie nearly on his heels. His ankle was swelling. He could feel it testing out the boundaries of the boot he was wearing. If he took it off now, he’d be lucky if he could get a sock to stretch over it.

Paul nearly spilled a second time as he paused to look over his shoulder. Stumpy was losing ground and height as she continually splintered the bone in her calf. A little while longer and she’ll be down to her knee, Paul thought. Would she keep trying to walk with an exaggerated swaying gait? Or would she drop to her knees and come after him that way? Paul really didn’t want to wait, fearful that at any moment, he would run into another zombie, and with no other weapons than an unwieldy club, he wisely decided that confrontation would not be in his best interests.

It was another two hundred yards before Stumpy fell over. Paul heard the thud and possibly a low soft moan, of that he was not sure. The zombie opted for the crawling mode of transportation. Paul was relieved; the savage pain in his ankle was impeding his forward progress. He could slow his pace down now, he was in much less danger from her now than he had been moments earlier, but he was still a long way away from safe.

When Paul pulled his gaze from his traveling companion, he realized that he was on the fringes of a residential area. The house on his immediate left had been abandoned long before the zombies had come. Signs warning of danger and to not trespass were displayed prominently on the front door. It looked to Paul like the only thing holding the house up was force of habit.

The house on the right did not look much better, but as of yet, had not been officially condemned. He thought about going into that house, but it looked eerily similar to a house that a young couple had gotten trapped in, in some zombie movie Mike had made him watch. Paul was under the impression that if a movie didn’t star Charles Bronson, it wasn’t much worth watching. He had suffered through it to appease Mike, but mostly because Tracy had made some unbelievably good queso dipping sauce and he had brought with him a near insatiable case of the munchies.

He limped further down the road. The next house on his left looked like it could stop half the Mexican army. And if they couldn’t get in, what would be his odds?

“I’m going to the next one,” Paul said as he turned to look at his pursuer. Her arms and hands were bloodied, but yet she still came. “It’d be way cooler if you’d stop,” Paul told her, but she paid him no heed.

The next house had some promise, scary promise, but promise all the same. The front door was intact, however, it was wide open. That was not a common sight these days. “Well,” Paul reasoned, “whatever got in at least had a way out.” That reasoning held sway with a zombie, but if humans had ransacked it, little of any value would be left for Paul to use. “At this point all I want is a chair and two aspirins. That would be just about the best thing I could think of right now. Twenty-four Mapledog Lane it is,” Paul said as he made way for the door. Stumpy changed her course to match Paul. “I’ll get us some tea ready,” Paul told her.

The house was pitched in darkness; Paul expected no less. He did a quick scan of the entry room and then immediately opened up the drawn shades to let in some much needed diffused curtain light. Dried blood coated the far wall and even abundantly dotted the ceiling. Bits of matter, the origin of which he cared not to dwell upon, littered the small throw rug and wood floor.

Paul looked out the door. His traveling companion was still making her way towards him, but was still an extremely safe distance off. Paul still felt a powerful urge to shut the door though and try his best to put her out of his mind. But he feared that a much more mobile threat might still be lurking in the household and he wanted to be able to get out as soon as possible. Against his better judgment, he left the front door open.

“You make sure to ring the bell before you come in!” he shouted at the zombie.

She did not either confirm or deny her intention.

Paul kept his rifle out in front of him as he went from room to room. At this point, it was no more than an early detection system as the barrel would strike something first, but as a weapon, it was almost useless. He wouldn’t even be able to get a good full extension on his swing in these tight quarters. The house was a disaster, but from the looks of it, not by looters. A battle had been waged here, but the chunks of fingers and bits of bone scattered around led him to rightly believe that the zombies had come out victorious in this round. Animals had done a fair amount of damage also, getting to anything in a carton or box, Paul laughed a little as he stepped on a small pile of Sugar Smacks.

“I guess even raccoons have enough sense to stay away from that stuff,” he said to the empty room. As he got past the kitchen and further into the house, the smell of disuse became prevalent. It wasn’t the overwhelming stink of the dead or the undead, just stagnant water, mold, mildew and old food. He never thought he would be thankful for those odors. Blood was the dominant color as he entered into the aptly named dining room.

“This must have been the last stand,” he said reverently. A small candelabra was on the ground, with matted bloody hair stuck to the bottom. “About as good a weapon as my own,” he said as he made sure to step around it. The copious amount of blood on the floor was strewn with footprints and animal tracks. Some were hand-like, paw prints of raccoons, but the more disturbing were the various sized prints of dogs. Paul had a healthy fear of dogs since he had been bitten as a youth. But they all looked old, human, zombie and animal alike. The blood had dried long ago and it appeared that nothing currently shared the house with him.

He did one more run-through of the entire first floor of the ranch. Thankful that the small home did not have a second floor. He locked the basement door on the first pass by. He blamed his sprained ankle and the pain it would cause to go downstairs on his decision to lock the door, but mostly he was just afraid of going down there. The basement from his vantage point on the top of the stairs, did not appear to have any ambient lighting coming in and he couldn’t see the point in stumbling around in the dark looking for anything, especially when he didn’t know what was down there, if anything worthwhile.

Paul went into the bathroom. The medicine cabinet was opened, but surprisingly it looked like everything was still there. He pulled down a bottle of aspirin and immediately gulped down three of them, sticking the rest of the bottle in his pocket. Stomach pills, flu medicine, cough syrup, hemorrhoid cream, most of it was standard fare and everything but the cream ended up in his pockets.

“Come on, everyone has unused meds somewhere,” he said. Paul shut the mirror on the cabinet, completely confident that he would suffer the same fate as every horror movie ever produced in the last fifty years. Something would be behind him as the mirror shut. His heart almost stopped when he realized the cliché he was performing. “Not enough scary shit going on, I’ve got to see if I can drum up a few more quarts of adrenaline.” Nothing was there, but his fear wasn’t quite abated, he knew that you could not see the reflections of vampires. He turned as quickly as his injured ankle would allow, it was not fast enough. Whatever had been behind him was now gone, even if it was all only in his imagination.

“No more mirrors,” he said, chiding himself. “Kitchen cabinet or nightstand?” Paul headed for the master bedroom in the small two-bedroom house. The first thing that struck him was how neat the room was, even the bed was made. “Who makes their bed in a zombie invasion?” Paul wished Mike were here to share this moment. They’d definitely get a good laugh over it.

Paul shuffled over to the nightstand. A molded-over mug of coffee stood alongside a lamp as the only inhabitants on the top of the small nightstand. Paul pulled out a book called Indian Hill by Mark Tufo that looked to be about half read, judging by the bookmark. “Doesn’t look like they’ll ever finish that,” he said as he tossed the book onto the bed.

“Bingo!” Paul said excitedly as he grabbed four prescription bottles. The first was full of thumb tacks. “Okay that’s not going to work,” he said, tossing it beside the discarded book. The second was Xanax. He knew it was for anti-anxiety and didn’t know how it was going to help in this present situation, but he stuck it in his pocket. The whole world is one giant anxiety now, he thought. The third contained painkillers. He opened up the bottle and shook them out in his hand. “Eight, that should be enough,” he said as he popped two in his mouth.

“Perfect!” he yelled sarcastically as he shook the lone pill around in the bottle labeled Amoxicillin. It was the right drug but the wrong quantity. “I do not want to do this shit all day,” he complained. He quickly went into the kitchen. Besides a lot of canned goods, there was nothing there that would do him any good in his present situation. He grabbed a small screwdriver he had seen in one of the drawers and sat down at the table to see if he could get the jam in his rifle out. “Might have been a good idea to do this first,” he said. He then moved his chair when he realized he had his back to the front door. Paul had just finished prying out the jammed cartridge when the first effects of the painkillers began to take effect. “Now that’s what I’m talking about,” he said as he stood, testing out his new not-caringness on his injured ankle, for that’s all that painkillers truly do, they numb the mind, not the injury.

Paul debated heading back to Brian with the one antibiotic or setting out again to look for more. Would one pill do anything? Or would it be akin to pissing on a forest fire? He decided to keep looking. It would take him too long to hobble back and then out again, and that’s if he didn’t need to take a nap somewhere in the meantime. Paul was deep into the effects of his prescription meds as he stepped out of the house. His first footfall out of the house landed squarely in Stumpy’s mouth. Paul toppled over as the zombie bit down hard on the toe of his boot. Paul was halfway to meeting the pavement before his lagging mind was able to catch up to the situation. He was thankful that it was not his injured ankle in the zombie’s mouth, but that was about it for the pros as his face raced to meet her injured leg.

His mouth opened in the exclamatory O shape as he got a face full of zombie calf. He knew without a doubt you got the zombie virus from being bitten, but what are the repercussions from the other way around? he thought as he tasted her vileness upon his lips. Paul twisted around and over, as did Stumpy. She had a good hold of his boot top and was not going to yield her prize. “Fucking bitch!” Paul yelled as he brought his right foot down on the top of her head. He immediately regretted his decision, three more pain pills would not have been able to mask the intense pain his ankle brought from the jolting contact with her skull.

Pain was his all-consuming thought as he swayed from side to side on the ground. Stumpy stayed with him, move for move. As the pain level came to a manageable point, he tried to crawl away, but the zombie was having no part of it. Her mouth had not left his boot as she tried to gnash her way through the heavy material, but her arms had come up and she wrapped her hands around the bottom of his leg. Death by crawler, Paul thought, Mike’s going to love this.

The rifle! The idea ripped into his thoughts. But I can’t even swing it, like this. Paul whined in response to himself. Even Paul’s psyche was let down by his inability to reason together a workable escape plan. “Oh yeah, I fixed the jam!” Paul said with elation. Paul’s subconscious did a small, sarcastic jig in celebration. It would be tough to miss from this distance even for Paul, but whether from lack of judgment or impeded painkiller judgment, Paul did not take into account what was on the other side of Stumpy’s head, namely his boot. The relief of having Stumps fall to the side was immediately replaced by the pain in his foot where he had just lodged his bullet.

“Are you fucking kidding me!” he spat. Paul rolled violently from side to side, not caring that half his movement brought him into contact with the newly departed Stumps. “So much for Saturday night dancing!” he shouted at the top of his lungs. The endorphins released from the volume helped to diminish the pain, but not nearly enough. Paul finally looked down at his foot. Blood was pumping out from the bullet hole in the top of his boot at an alarming rate. I always thought if I died from a self-inflicted gunshot wound, it would be something a little further north, he thought as he crawled back over to the front door so that he could sit on the stoop and access how much damage he really had incurred.

As he pulled himself up, he reached into his pocket and immediately downed another two painkillers. He debated waiting for them to take effect before doing what needed to be done, but thought better of it because he could possibly bleed out before that happened. Paul undid the laces, feeling strangely detached as he did so. The boot came off without a hitch; it was the sock that was proving difficult. Not that it was stuck to anything, but rather he just didn’t want to see what lay hidden beneath it.

“Ours is not to question why, but rather to do or to die. Why the hell am I quoting Tennyson?” Paul asked himself as he looked down on his blood-soaked sock. His next question to himself paralyzed him with fear. I just shot myself with a bullet that went through a zombie. Paul ripped the sock off, the webbing between his second and third toe had a nice round hole blown right through it. No bones, that’s good. Paul couldn’t figure out how he was going to get up and on which leg he could stand. He opted to crawl on his hands and knees to the fridge. The only thing reasonably viable in there were the cans of diet Sprite. “Can’t hurt any more than it does now,” he said, grabbing four of the cans. He moved over to the kitchen chair and opened the cans, dumping the entire contents on his injured foot, hoping that it would somehow disinfect the wound.

“Does aspartame have any antiseptic qualities?” Paul asked his wound. It wept some foamy pinkish fluid onto the floor in response. “Doesn’t look like a wound that would be my undoing.”

Paul was stuck in indecision. He was effectively hobbled with a right sprained ankle and a left foot with a bullet wound in it. A rifle with exactly two rounds, no antibiotics and enough pain pills that he might not even feel a bullet to the brain if he went down that road.

“Whoa where’d that come from?” he asked the air. “Fuck! I’d probably miss.” And then he started laughing; he almost choked, he was laughing so hard. “Okay what are my options? I can try to get back to Deneaux and let her know what happened.” He dwelled on that for a second. “No good, she’d shoot me as soon as I said I was infected. I could try to find Mike. He’d at least wait until I changed over before he shot me. No, I’m not doing that either. Plan C.” Paul gimped over to the front door, shut it securely, locked it tight and sat back at the kitchen table. “Hell, if I’m going to turn into a zombie, I’m doing it with some style.” He took one more pain killer, rationing the rest off for later that night.

Chapter Eleven - Ron’s

Travis had pulled up a recliner and fallen asleep by Ron’s shortwave radio. Tracy put down her cup of coffee to drape a small blanket around her son.

“You should get some sleep too,” Ron said, coming into the room.

Tracy grabbed her mug of coffee and walked to the other end of the room so as to not disturb her son.

“They should have called in by now,” she said, staring out the large picture window at the pond, which was just beginning to reflect the morning light.

Ron was all ready to pull out the standard responses. Maybe the radio is broken (likely possibility, knowing his brother’s penchant for breaking things), or maybe the batteries have died (possible, but not probable; Ron gave them enough batteries to last a year even if Mike had left the damn thing on all day, every day), or they were making such good time, they didn’t think to let anyone else know (also another possibility, considering Mike’s what-me-worry? attitude). But he was not so selfish as to not let his loved ones know what was happening. Ron didn’t even go with the standard, “Everything will be alright.” The lie died on his lips before he could even say it.

Ron sat down at the living room table, looking at the same view as Tracy, occasionally remembering to drink his rapidly cooling coffee.

“Anything?” Travis asked, looking over at his mother and uncle.

A small terse shake of Tracy’s head was all the answer he needed.

“Any more of that?” A stretching and yawning Cindy asked.

Tracy was pretty sure Cindy and Travis had arm wrestled for the right to sleep in the chair by the radio the night before. Cindy looked like she may have paced the entire night away.

“I’ll go get you some,” Ron said as he got up to head into the kitchen.

“He…they have to be alright,” Cindy said, hugging herself.

“How’s Perla doing?” Tracy asked, wanting to avoid that conversation completely.

“Someday she’ll be alright, but not today.” Cindy answered, now realizing that maybe she didn’t want to dwell on the fate of her fiancée just yet either. “The view is beautiful,” Cindy told Ron as he handed her a cup of coffee.

“Thank you,” Ron said. “If you guys need anything, please let me know. I’d like to get to work as soon as possible before it gets dark.” Work involved designing, and building all viable means of defense of the Talbot stronghold. Ron wasn’t a betting man, but he was fairly certain Mike would be back and he would be coming in hot. Meaning every zombie and vampire for a thousand mile radius would be in chase. That was Mike; he never got himself halfway into trouble, he always made sure to be fully wedged tightly in its grip, and he planned on being as properly prepared as possible.

“Hi Perla.” Cindy said as she wrapped her arms around her friend.

“Anything?” Perla asked.

Only the resulting silence answered her.

“I’m going to help Uncle Ron,” Travis said, removing the small blanket.

“Be careful, hon. Your dad used to tell me all sorts of horror stories about your uncle and that machine he’s using.”

“The back hoe?” Travis asked.

“Yeah, that thing. Just be careful.”

Travis looked like he wanted to tell his mother that there were way worse things to be afraid of. But now that he thought about it, being around his uncle using a fifteen-ton machine had its own inherent dangers.

***

Ron was fueling the machine and getting ready to check the hydraulics when Travis came out to the garage to meet him.

“You need any help?” Travis asked.

Ron actually preferred to work alone because he didn’t have the greatest track record running the big machine. There were enough houses with their siding missing to attest to that. But he could tell his nephew needed to keep busy doing something.

“Sure, I can’t get into the tree line with this beast and I need some holes dug about yay big,” Ron said, roughly showing a box about a foot deep by a foot across.

“What are they for?”

“Explosives.”

“Sweet,” Travis said as he went over to the wall and grabbed a pick and a shovel off the peg board. “I should have stayed with them,” Travis said to his uncle, his back still to him.

“They’re just late calling in. You don’t know if anything is wrong,” Ron answered his nephew. It sounded flat even as he said it.

“I’m faster than any of them, I’m as good a shot as my dad. I could have kept them out of trouble,” Travis sighed, turning to face his uncle, his seventeen-year-old features strained from the stress.

“Alright, I’m not going to lie, ever since your dad was a kid, he found some of the most unusual ways to get into trouble. It’s like he has a trouble-homing beacon on so it knows where to go. But somehow he always comes out smelling sweeter than when he went in. Now, I don’t know what kind of mess he’s gotten himself into this time, but there’s no reason at all to think he’s not going to pull out of it like he always does.” Ron’s words seemed to have a measurable effect on Travis. “Come on, we’ve got a lot of work to do before they get back.” Ron wrapped his arm around Travis’ shoulder and showed him exactly where to start digging.

***

“Hi Tony, how you doing?” Tracy asked. She was sitting at the table with the radio.

“I wish they’d hurry up and get back,” he said, sitting down next to her. “This not knowing is horrible. If I was twenty years younger, I’d be out there looking for them.”

“I saw you on that on-ramp. I think you could handle yourself just fine.”

His eyes twinkled at her as he flashed a smile and grabbed her hand. “How have you put up with him so long?” Tony asked, half kidding, but also half serious. “That kid has more kinks and quirks than piping done by the Three Stooges.”

“That’s a pretty old reference, Tony, and I never liked that show growing up.”

“Butch…I mean Mike and I,” Tony started with a faraway look in his eye, “used to sit and watch it every Saturday morning. I’d seen them all, years before as a kid, but it was a way for the two of us to be together to do some bonding. I’d always wished that I had spent more time with my children as they were growing up, but Mike got the least time of any of them. Maybe that’s not such a bad thing, now that I think about it.” And then he smiled.

“Well, at least I know where he gets his humor from. They’ll be back, Tony.”

“You’re that sure?” Tony asked, looking her in the eyes.

“I am,” she answered. “Do you want me to get you some more coffee?” Tracy asked, getting up so as not to give away her illusion of holding it together.

“I would,” Tony said, handing her his cup.

As Tracy was leaving the room, she turned to answer her father-in-law. “In spite of every flaw that man possesses, and there are more than I care to count, he is a wonderful father and husband with whom I cannot imagine spending the rest of my time here on earth without. That is why I have put up with him and why I know he will be back.”

Tears welled up in Tony’s eyes.

“I’ll be right back with the coffee,” Tracy said, giving Tony some time to collect himself.

Chapter Twelve – Mike Journal Entry 8

“Oh fuck!” Was the first thing out of my mouth. In retrospect, I wish I had thought of something better. My best friend had just been dealt a death sentence and the most profound thing I could think to say was an expletive. My English teacher was going to slap me upside the head if she ever found out. And then I followed that initial bad opening statement with one almost equally as lame. “Are you sure?”

BT rolled up his sleeve. A neat half moon wound on his forearm wept blood. “And before you go asking if what bit me was a zombie, you can match the wound up to that one’s mouth,” BT said, pointing to a zombie that laid close to his legs.

I wanted to tell him that most likely wasn’t going to happen. The zombie in question appeared to have every skeletal feature in its face and skull crushed, but even still, it was easy to see that it was indeed a zombie and not some random urbanite, gone cannibal. I sat down heavily next to BT. “How long ago?”

BT looked over at me. “Couple of hours, I think, lost track of time after I pulled that trigger for the thousandth time. I was really hoping to avoid the part where you blow my head off.”

“Wait…what? I can’t do that, BT!” I exclaimed, getting back on my feet.

“Listen, pencil-neck, you are not going to let me become a zombie. I will purposefully hunt you and you alone until I eat your skinny ass.”

“Great, you can join Eliza.” I meant it as a jest, but as the reality of that statement hit, we both became silent for a moment. I tightened my grip on my rifle.

“You have to, Mike. I won’t hold it against you. I’ll talk to you when you get upstairs.”

We both stopped talking.

“This really is going to be an awkward conversation,” I said to BT, referring to his statement about running into me on the streets of Heaven.

“He has to let you in, doesn’t he?” BT asked. “I mean you’ve done so much good.”

“That’s just it, BT, there’s nothing for him to let in. Whatever corporeal part of me I housed is gone, and that, my friend, was my golden ticket. Without it, I’m just another bag of bones.”

“I would have brought more beer if I’d known we were going to have a party,” BT said.

‘What?’ my stare asked.

“You know, the whole pity party thing.”

“Not hilarious. Come on, get up,” I said, extending my hand.

“Wouldn’t it just be easier if you shot me where I sit?” BT asked.

“Come on, man, let’s just see if there’s anything we can do. Maybe the wound wasn’t deep enough to transfer the parasite. The house I just left, the lady living there is a nurse.”

“Mike, you’re stalling.”

“No shit!” I yelled at him. “How much of a rush do you think I’m in to put a bullet in my friend?”

“Okay, fair enough,” BT said as he got up. “You think a nurse in North Carolina is going to have any kind of answer for me?”

I didn’t reply. I didn’t think the Dalai Lama himself had an answer, but it bought me some time. Within a few minutes, we were within sight of Mary’s home. Some of her dinner guests had departed, but not enough of them. I’d say a good fifteen to twenty were still hanging around for some leftovers or maybe a doggie bag.

“How we going to get by them? I’ve got ten rounds,” I told BT.

“I’m fully loaded,” BT answered.

“You’re holding a bat.”

“Yup. It hasn’t ran out of ammo yet.”

“Where’s your sword?”

“It got stuck,” he answered.

I had no desire to know how it had become so imbedded in its victim that not even BT could dislodge it.

“No way, BT, we’ll figure out something else.”

“By the time you think of something else, I’ll be nibbling on your innards. Yo zombies, I’ve got something for you!” BT yelled, standing up from our hiding spot behind a small bush.

“I hate close combat, BT.”

“Don’t get anywhere near my swing; homie don’t play that,” BT said with a wild glare in his eyes.

***

“Mom! Mom! I see the big man again and Mike!” Josh shouted from his mother’s bedroom window. He had been keeping a watch out ever since his play partner had left.

Mary and Gary came running in from the kitchen.

“My God, he’s huge!” Mary exclaimed.

“What the hell is he doing?” Gary asked, watching as BT roared and brought his bat up. Gary turned slightly to his left and saw zombies running straight for BT. “They’ll kill him.” And then Gary watched in alarm as Mike stepped up next to BT. Gary ran out of the room into the living room to grab his rifle.

Mary was too enthralled in the scene before her to notice the departure.

“Mom, what are they doing?” Josh turned to look up at his mother.

“You should stop watching,” she said robotically, but she made no move to shield him from the view.

***

The first zombie reached BT and met a blissful exit from this world, courtesy of a Louisville Slugger, the preferred choice of zombie slayers nationwide. The zombie’s skull conformed to wrap itself around the bat. Crushed bone giving way to hard wood. I don’t know how I saw it, but the force of the contact was so hard, I watched the zombie’s dental fillings fly from its mouth. There were seven of them, apparently somebody liked their sweets.

BT had pulled the bat back and was swinging again before the first zombie could find its final resting place. It was those damn twitching legs that I think about a lot when I wake up in the middle of the night. BT’s next swing caught zombie number two square in the mouth; and the shattering of its teeth made me cringe. The third zombie that made it to BT was a young woman, and BT didn’t hesitate a beat as he brought the meat of the bat down on the top of her skull. The sheer force of the contact brought her to her knees, and her brain ruptured around the intrusive object.

“Any time you want to join in is fine with me,” BT growled through heavy breaths.

“Right,” I said, bringing my gun up. There was just something so visceral, so raw, so fluid in BT’s motions as he killed the zombies. It was like he was doing a Tai Chi demonstration.

“Mike, my bat cracked. You should probably start doing something,” BT’s arms rippled as he cracked another head like an eggshell.

He had taken out six zombies before I fired my first shot. I wasn’t thinking about it then, but on some level, I realized that I had about a five-foot, zombie-free bubble around me. I just wasn’t under attack. I started picking off zombies, four out of five fell from my cartridge. Now the fun would really begin as I had to reload the magazine. The barrel of BT’s bat whistled past my head.

“Ooh! Sorry about that,” he said as he thrust the wooden-sharded handle into a zombie’s eye socket.

I was three rounds into my reloading procedure when shots began to ring out.

“Been waiting for the damn cavalry!” BT yelled as he roundhouse-punched a zombie in the temple. It hadn’t died, but it did drop to the ground, dazed. The rest of BT’s bat was lodged in the neck of a zombie that was desperately trying to pull the foreign object out.

Now that BT had stopped using the bat, I got closer to him so that we could defend each other better. I popped the clip into the rifle and got ready to acquire a target.

“What the hell?” I asked.

“They stopped attacking,” BT said.

Eight of the ugliest zombies walking the planet were just staring at us. They saw food, but something was holding them at bay. I more than half expected to see Eliza or Tomas walk out from one of the nearby houses.

“What are they doing?” Gary yelled from across two front yards.

A zombie looked to the new sound and immediately began chasing Gary down.

“Oh shit,” he said, not wanting to shoot because of his angle to the zombies and then us beyond. “I’ll see you in the house!” Gary yelled as he retreated back to safety.

“I do not want to die, Talbot,” a heaving chested BT said to me as we watched the zombies chase after Gary.

“You just took on eighteen zombies with a wooden stick, I’d say your actions speak differently.”

“No, just because I’m pissed off shouldn’t be construed as a suicidal gesture.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, let’s see if Mary can do anything for you.”

I know BT wanted to tell me we were wasting everyone’s time thinking a nurse in a North Carolina suburb had the only known cure for the virus that was systematically taking out mankind. But when you are thrown a lifeline, it matters not that it is made from smoke. We are hard-wired for hope, plain and simple.

“What was up with the zombies?” BT asked as we walked back to Mary’s.

“Damned if I know,” I said as I took two shots. Two more zombies went down, but that still left half a dozen. The remaining zombies did not even look in our direction as we approached. They were too busy sniffing around the front door. Probably picking up on the stink of Gary’s grievous injury.

“Is your brother alright? I saw a bandage around his head.”

“I shot him. I was saving his life!” I added when BT stopped to look at me.

“How much time you think I have left?” BT asked as we walked into Mary’s front yard. The zombies still didn’t care about us, but they were exactly where we needed to be.

BT doubled over as painful spasms racked through his abdomen. Less than I hoped, I answered him, but only in my thoughts. I rubbed the man’s back as he bent over, I noted that my hand was almost level with my ear as I did so. I didn’t know what to do. I was exposing everyone to a zombie if I brought him into Mary’s home and there wasn’t anything I could do for him anyway. It was a pipedream to think that Mary could either. I’m sure one of the topics she might have brought up while we were in her house was how she had developed this incredible cure for the zombie disease and had been waiting for some nice men to come and help her disseminate the medicine. Yeah, you would think that would be the conversation starter.

I could not shoot my friend. The alternative was to leave him out here to fully become what was already happening. My hand immediately fell away as BT dropped to his knees and blood flowed freely from his nose while his head sagged down. His chest was covered in snot and blood from the discharge.

“Oh my dear God,” I said as I placed the barrel of my rifle against the side of his head.

“Please do it,” he begged. “I’d do it for you.”

Chapter Thirteen – Paul

Paul had found two emergency candles in a kitchen drawer next to the oven. The drawer was too close to the heat source as they had semi melted out of shape. Paul had to cut the bottoms off to enable the misshapen candles the ability to stand on their own. Even then, he had to let some wax drip onto the tabletop to make them stick.

Paul decided that he did not have eight hours left like the wrapper on the candle bragged about, and he lit both of them. The small room was nearly entirely lit up. Paul popped one more pain killer. The wound in his foot was completely forgotten as he gazed deeply into the fire of the two light sources. He was certain he had discovered the meaning of life in those flames. It was a pity he did not have a notepad to write down his findings.

“I wonder what it will feel like?” Paul had turned around and was having a conversation with his cast shadow.

“I bet it hurts,” he said, as his shadow mate nodded in agreement or it could have been the flicker of the flame.

Paul was mesmerized as his companion picked up a gun and held it to its own head.

“I know that’s what I have to do,” Paul said as he scratched behind his ear with the long-necked lighter he had used to light the candles. “But I’m afraid.” The shadow man put down the gun at the same time Paul’s itch was sated.

“I’m not really religious, but I’ve always heard that suicide is instant damnation. Would God make an exception, you think?”

The shadow shrugged its shoulders in indecision just as Paul shivered.

“You sure don’t talk much,” Paul said, turning back towards the light.

“I should leave Erin a note. Yeah, and how am I going to get it to her? Well, that’s not really the point, is it?”

“Man, I am messed up. I would swear there were two candles on that table.” Paul snorted as he realized there were. “My mouth is so dry, I sure could go for a beer.” Paul took a swig of the diet Sprite and almost threw it up when he realized it wasn’t the beer he had been hoping for.

“Hey that’s pretty good,” he decided.

***

“Mike, I could sure use your help right about now!” A much younger and somewhat skinnier version of Paul echoed his older self. Paul was pinned tight in his smoldering car, the steering column nearly crushing his sternum. The thickening smoke was making vision difficult, but it was not so dense that he could not tell what happened to his missing shotgun seat passenger. That and the hole in the windshield left little doubt.

I need to check on him, Paul thought. Where’s Dennis? Paul’s mind raced, trying to locate their third friend who had also gone to the Cheech and Chong Drive-In festival. Paul could not turn his neck far enough to look into the back seat of his 1970 Buick Century and determine the fate of his friend.

“Help!” Paul thought he shouted, but the weight on his chest and the choking smoke might have seriously hampered any volume. Someone must have heard it as the passenger door opened and Mike peered in.

“Paulie, you alright?”

“Yah, except for the broken ribs and potential barbecuing, I’m doing dandy,” Paul wheezed.

“Paul, I’m going to get Dennis out first,” Mike said.

Paul figured Dennis was either not quite as stuck as him or in worse shape, so either way, it made sense that Mike would try to get him out first. Paul, however, was not looking forward to burning alive. He had read once that it was the most painful way to die although, whoever had done the study and who were the test subjects, he just wasn’t sure.

“Dude, just hurry! Barb’s (Paul’s mother) gonna be pissed if I ruin this new shirt she bought me.” Paul tried to laugh at his poor attempt at humor, but it came out more as a grunt.

“Dude, save your strength. I’m going to need your help when I get to that steering wheel,” Mike said, lifting his broken arm up with some difficulty.

“I didn’t know you were double jointed.” Paul swooned a little at the sight of the broken, bent appendage, but would later remember it as smoke inhalation poisoning.

Paul sat for time un-recordable as the heat in the car began to turn up. The back door opened and Paul could crane far enough to see Mike climbing into the backseat. Mike’s heavy grunting dominated all. It was even louder than the crackle of vinyl seating on fire. When Paul heard the heavy thudding off to his left, he figured Mike had extracted Dennis.

Paul watched a line of flame traveling closer and closer, as if seeking him out. “Umm Mike, it’s my turn, buddy,” Paul said, pissed at himself that he was letting fear put a quaver in his voice, but he’d take that over frying in his car any day.

“Mike?” Paul asked. No answer. “Dennis? Guys? Come on, man, what the fuck?” Paul pressed up against the steering column, but his fractured ribs prevented him from giving the thrust he needed to escape his fiery prison.

Paul turned to his left as far as he could. He could just see two sets of legs on the ground. Mike must have passed out. “Mike! Wake up! Mike! Help!” His crying out was as much for his rescue as for his friend’s. He thought that Mike and possibly Dennis were suffering from more grievous injuries than he knew.

Paul started to make his peace with God, and was doing fine just up until he caught on fire and then all bets were off. “Talbot! Get up!” Paul screamed in a last ditch effort to get some assistance.

Paul finally heard some rustling on the ground. “Thank you, God,” he whispered.

Paul turned as Mike stuck his head back in the car door. “Paul, I just want to get him clear.”

Paul understood the necessity of the act, but he wanted to be clear of the burn zone too. Self-preservation is a powerful instinct. It’s not called friend-preservation for a reason. “Hurry up,” Paul ground out. Mike did not hear it as he was already dragging their friend to safety.

“Paul, I’m going to need your help,” Mike said as he climbed back into the car, quickly slapping out the flames that had crawled onto Paul’s leg.

“Mike, I don’t have much left.” Paul was mad with himself that he felt defeated, but the smoke, fire and pain in his chest were quickly draining him of fight and life.

“Bud, use whatever you got, because we either both get out of here, or we’re both going to be on the school lunch menu tomorrow.”

Paul didn’t think this was the right time for a joke, if that was even what it was, but it had the desired effect.

“Fuck that,” Paul croaked, thanking anyone that would listen that he hadn’t started coughing when he pulled in a particularly nasty influx of polluted smoke. Although we’d probably be the tastiest things they’ve had in a few years, Paul thought. He wanted to tell his friend the joke, but the pain was too intense and he didn’t think he could afford to inhale any more noxious gases.

“When I say three.”

What about three? Paul thought. Consciousness was becoming as elusive as a Vaseline-coated eel.

“Three!” Mike said.

Where was one and two? Paul wondered.

Air seemed to rush into Paul’s lungs as Mike pushed up on the steering column, and lucid thought came back in a hurry. Paul began to fight back for the life that Death was in such a hurry to get its greedy hands on. The steering column moved by minute fractions of an inch. What made the rescue attempt even more infuriating, was that as the column moved up, so did Paul’s compressed chest. For all their straining, it did not appear that they were making any headway. Death had parked its ass on top of the steering wheel, its sightless eyes peering deeply into Paul’s face. Paul could just see Death’s silhouette and the light that shone through it and beyond it.

“I’m not ready for you,” Paul told Death.

“Most aren’t,” it answered back.

Paul hadn’t been expecting a response. Now he knew how close he truly was, and with every last ounce he had left, he pushed up.

“Dude, this isn’t going to feel good.”

“What?” Paul asked, not sure who he was asking the question to, and why Death would hurt him?

And then blissful sweet air! Paul’s chest heaved with the glory of it. The cold of the night was exhilarating on his heated skin. Paul glanced over and back to the car. Death was becoming a phantom shadow once again. Paul let loose a scream that Jamie Lee Curtis would have been proud of as Mike dragged him further away from the pops and cracks of his car while it went through its death throes. Paul looked one more time into the car before he passed out. Death flared brightly for a moment and then was gone.

“Did you see that?” Paul asked. But Mike was looking in the other direction and Paul had the feeling he might have already blacked out.

When he awoke three hours later in the hospital, he was hooked up to a variety of machines, each with its own distinctive trills and beeps. Mike was asleep in the bed next to him and Dennis was nowhere in sight.

“Mike? You awake?” Paul asked, barely above a whisper. His chest hurt, but it wasn’t the all-consuming pain that it had been in the car.

“Dude, they gave me Diadlin. If I open my eyes, the room spins like a top on a playing record,” Mike said.

“Is it any good?” Paul asked.

“It’s unreal, I’ve tripped with less intensity.”

“Where’s Dennis?” Paul asked, concerned that possibly their friend hadn’t made it.

“I think he went to get some potato chips.”

“Huh?”

“He’s fine. Got a knot on his head; that’s about it. I think he’s going home tomorrow.”

“What about you?”

“Compound fracture on my left arm, no baseball for me this spring. But if they keep giving me this shit, I won’t really care.”

“Dude, I’m sorry,” Paul said, almost crying.

“For what? It was an accident.”

“It wouldn’t have happened if I wasn’t so fucked up.”

“Nobody died, man.”

“We would have, if not for you.”

“I guess that makes me a hero,” Mike said. Paul knew he was kidding but kidding or not, it was the truth.

“I guess it does.”

“Dude, you’re embarrassing me, and you need to be quiet for a while. I think I’ve found a way to move things with my mind.”

“Are you shitting me?”

“Nope, try it man. You’re on the same shit as I am.”

The remainder of the night went quietly as Paul and Mike tried to move things around their room with mind control. It was an unsuccessful experiment, but thoroughly enjoyed by both.

***

Paul was still staring deeply at the candle; half of it had burned. “Four hours, I can’t have too much time left. I sure wish I could get on WebMD and see what the symptoms were, so I’d know when to take myself out…to the disco!” He laughed. “Okay let me run down everything I’m feeling. My right ankle twinges and my left foot burns a little, my eyes feel like someone is hanging barbells on them, my mouth tastes like dry cotton and…that’s about it. No fever, no craving for brains. Can the virus not survive outside the host? Come on, how long would it have taken the bullet to go from its head to my foot? That can’t be it. Was the bullet too hot for the virus to survive?” Hope, which was at an all time low in Paul, surged. “It’s a pathogen right? How hot was the bullet? It’s got to be some absurdly high temperature, right? Maybe it cooked it! I friggin’ might be alright.” Paul thought about getting up and doing a jig, but even in his painkiller-addled mind, he knew that to be the bad idea that it sounded like.

Chapter Fourteen – Mike Journal Entry 9

“What are you doing, Mike?” Gary shouted from a window he had just opened.

“He’s been bit,” I said. At this point, I was full on crying.

I watched as Gary’s head dropped. The zombies who had previously been at the front door began to quickly move to the sound of Gary’s voice. I was just so sick of it all. The pressure of everything was taking its toll. My friend was dying because of some stupid idea I had of giving Eliza a black eye. Even if I had succeeded in killing the bitch, it wouldn’t have been worth the price of my friend.

“What are you going to do?” Gary asked. He was obscured by the zombies, but his words were not.

Just stop!! I screamed in my head. The zombies by the window didn’t move away, but they did stop jostling in their ever earnest need to eat us.

“Wow, that was weird,” Josh said, I guess from behind Gary. “They look like they’re frozen.”

“Mike, what’s going on?” Gary asked, but I barely heard it as I looked over to BT, whose spasms had stopped. He wiped his lip, and then began to stand up. I looked up into his eyes as he got to his full stature.

“You alright?” I asked him, fearful of his answer.

“I’m not sure,” he answered. “The pain stopped.”

“Stopped? That’s the word you’d use to describe what happened?” I asked him, a glimmer of hope beginning to flower.

“I guess. I can’t think of a better way to describe it. One second, I was in such intense pain, I couldn’t think, and the next I wasn’t. What’s going on?” he asked. Then he looked at the grin, which I think was spreading across my face.

“I think I’ve gone two up on the lifesaving competition,” I told him.

Horror showed in his eyes. “No way!” he sputtered out. “I just killed fifteen zombies with a damn baseball bat! I think I just saved your ass, right then! At worst, making us even.”

I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I was never really in danger. The closest I came to getting hurt was when part of his bat almost hit me. “Fine. I’ll give you that one, although I might lodge a formal protest.”

“What’s going on, Mike?” BT asked, picking up on my now good mood. It was hard not to. I had just been holding a gun to his head and now I was smiling like it was Christmas day and I was seven years old.

“I’ll explain it to you when we get in the house. Come on, my friend.”

Within a few moments, we were at the door having a rather heated, one-way discussion with Mary. She was doing most of the yelling and we were doing most of the listening.

“Was he bit?” she asked for maybe the umpteenth time.

“Well technically, yes,” I answered her in kind.

“Well then, didn’t I already tell you that you cannot bring him in?” Her pitch elevated each time she asked the question in the hopes that it would finally register with us on some level.

“His name is BT,” I told her.

“Don’t!” she yelled even louder. I can’t imagine how it must have echoed in that small house. She was making my ears ring and I was on the other side of a thick steel door. “I do not want to know what his name was.”

“I’m telling you, I’ve stopped it. He won’t become a zombie now.”

“Holy shit!” she yelled. “Do you see that?”

BT and I looked around, thinking there must be some new threat.

“I think I just saw a fat pig flying!” she continued.

“Hilarious, Mary. I’m telling you he isn’t in any imminent danger of turning into a zombie.”

“Imminent?” BT asked quietly.

I shushed him with my hand. “I’ll explain later.”

“Imminent?” he asked again.

“Gary, could you please tell her?” I asked my brother through the door.

“Tell her what, Mike? I wouldn’t even know what to say, and besides this is her house.”

“Come on Captain Fix-It, tell me how you stopped a virus once again with your mind control.” Mary was taunting me with a sneer in her voice.

“Did you see the zombies by your bedroom window?” I asked her.

“She’s nodding her head,” Josh said for his silent mother.

“Why do you think they just stopped attacking?” I asked, trying a different avenue.

“They’re just asleep or something. Zombies sleeping doesn’t mean that you’ve learned how to cure people from a zombie bite,” she said.

“I never said anything about a cure,” I told her.

“I’m not cured?” BT asked quietly.

“Mary, please, I need to get his wound cleaned out and a quiet place to think about this.”

“Why don’t you just fix his germs along with the virus, or whatever the hell it is?”

“Mary, I’m not a doctor.”

“But yet, you’ve somehow managed to stop zombieism.”

There was that sneer again; it was infuriating. “It’s not like that. I told you. I was given some sort of link to them and I have some moderate control, if they are nearby.”

“How nearby?” BT asked. “I mean, do I have to go into the bathroom with you now?” BT asked, looking completely mortified.

“I shouldn’t have even let you in! You jeopardized my entire family.”

She was right, anyone around me was in more trouble just for being in proximity. I couldn’t argue that point.

“What if I can guarantee you that I can control a zombie if it is around me?” I asked, but Mary didn’t respond.

“She’s listening,” Josh said.

“Meet me back by the bedroom window.”

“What are you going to do?” Gary asked.

“Just hand me some rounds through the windows,” I told him.

The six zombies were right where I had left them. Gary dropped the rounds out the window, not wanting to expose any part of himself, I couldn’t blame him.

I loaded my rifle up. “You guys might want to cover your ears and turn away.” Nobody immediately moved to do either of those things until I placed a round dead center in the forehead of the closest zombie. Mary was shouting something, but I couldn’t hear anything, at least not until the fifth zombie fell, leaving one zombie standing.

“…Does that prove?” she was yelling.

“Huh?” I asked; my ears were ringing. I had not felt anything from dropping those five zombies. I was wondering if it was due to the loss of my soul or the callousness of the world we now lived in. Both reasons sucked. I didn’t see one being much better than the other.

“What does that prove? You killed five sleeping zombies. Aren’t you the great white hunter?” she said with contempt.

I didn’t answer her because it would have been laced with expletives and I didn’t feel like going down that road. Looking back, I wish we had just gotten Gary and gone to a different house.

I handed BT my rifle.

“Now what?” he asked. He had, apparently, not gotten the memo.

I was staring intently at the zombie. Its frozen state evaporated as its hunger lust came back into its eyes. BT immediately brought the rifle up.

“Hold on,” I told him; the zombie did a quick scan of those around him.

“Mike, this really has a feeling of one of those things that sounds way better on paper,” Gary said.

The zombie didn’t seem very interested in me, but BT looked pretty good from the way the zombie was licking its lips.

“That’s disgusting,” BT said, holding the rifle up; the barrel was almost touching its forehead. “Mike, I have absolutely no idea what you’re up to, but I’d really like to know what you’re up to.”

“See how he’s keeping it from attacking?” Josh told his mother. The kid was pleading for my case. His mother hurrumphed.

With some effort, I was able to pull the zombie’s attention away from BT to myself, but it kept looking over at BT, hoping he wasn’t going to leave.

“People don’t get it. I’m always telling them the dark meat is sweeter,” BT said.

“There is no way you just said that in this situation,” I said, trying to keep all my attention focused on the zombie.

“Why’d you kill all the other zombies?” Josh asked.

“Because I wouldn’t have gotten them all to listen,” I answered him. I could feel the temperature of my body begin to rise as I worked in overdrive to try out an experiment I wasn’t even certain would work.

“If you’re all focused on this one,” BT asked, “am I going to be alright?”

“You’ll be fine, I have enough concentration to work on this zombie and keep your virus at bay, but if people keep asking me questions, my strength is going to get a little diluted.”

“Mike! Come on, brother! What are you doing?” Gary asked.

“Zip it, man!” BT said, taking one hand off the rifle and pointing a huge finger in Gary’s direction.

I think it was the first time I had ever seen BT raise his voice to Gary, but I guess when you have the threat of becoming a zombie hanging over your head, all bets are off.

The zombie jerkily moved closer to me. It was like trying to force magnets of the same polarization together. The zombie really did not want anything to do with me. I kept reeling him in closer. My eyes were watering from the stink of it. Its gray, vein-lined face was less than six inches from mine. It finally stopped trying to find BT and its eyes locked onto mine. Its mouth opened up. It ran its gore-encrusted tongue over the shards of its remaining teeth. This one looked like it had eaten a bag of marbles; blood welled up from where its tongue made contact.

I cocked my head to the side, giving it a large area of my neck to peruse.

“What the hell?” Mary moaned, “I would have never let you in if I had known you were clinically insane. Make him stop!” Mary said to Gary.

“BT told me to zip it,” Gary mumbled.

The zombie eyed my neck greedily, and its mouth opened even wider. I didn’t think that was possible. It leaned in closer. A thick liquid dropped from its mouth and onto my neck. I was going to go with it being drool, not that that was much better, but it was worlds better than the other myriad fluids it could have been.

The zombie slowly eased its way in, the blood throbbing through my neck was too much. I might not be its favorite thing on the menu, but I was hot and it was hungry. I was holding the zombie a quarter inch from my neck. The strain in my mind and my body was beginning to wear me down. I could feel the heat of decay from its mouth on my neck. If I moved a fraction of an inch, it would bite, and then it licked my neck. Half vamp, former Marine, father of three, none of that mattered; my stomach threatened to completely turn itself inside out. I pulled away.

“Kill it,” I moaned to BT.

BT waited until all the noise from his shot went quiet. “What were you trying to prove?” he asked.

“That I can control them. That what is inside of you has stopped its advance, that’s what I am trying to prove.”

“That proves nothing,” Mary said defiantly. “I’m not letting either of you in here with my son and me.”

My head dragged even lower. I had expended a lot of energy with the useless test and I had a slow steady trickle being sent to BT. I could hear rustling inside the house.

“What are you doing, Gary?” Josh asked.

“If they can’t come in, little man, then I have to go out,” Gary told him.

“Wait,” Mary said. “Are you sure? You could spend some time here, with us,” she added, a little pleadingly.

“You guys have been great hosts, but that’s my brother and his friend,” Gary said.

BT and I looked at each other as Gary said “his friend.”

“I guess he didn’t like your ‘zip it’ comment,” I laughed.

BT shrugged.

“But they’re dangerous,” Mary yammered.

Gary stole a quick glance out the window, looking at us to maybe see if we had sprouted wings or maybe horns. “They don’t look any more dangerous than they usually do,” he said, pulling away from the window.

Mary looked out the window, I think to her, we had sprouted those things. “How can you say that? One is part vampire and the other is part zombie! What could possibly be more dangerous?”

“Mike’s plans,” Gary shot out without missing a beat.

“I heard that,” I told him.

“Sorry, it was the first thing out of my mouth, I didn’t even need to think about it.”

“Mom, we can’t leave them out there.”

“We most certainly can,” she answered him.

“She’s right, Josh. You guys don’t really know us and you certainly don’t owe us anything. Could you please just send out a few first aid supplies with Gary so I can field dress my friend’s wound?” I asked Mary.

“I’ll do it,” Mary agreed.

I didn’t know at the time she was talking about cleaning the wound herself, not just sending the stuff out.

We walked over to the front door, I expected to be greeted by Gary. Mary was looking around the front screen security door; and when she was satisfied there were no other boogey men besides BT and me present, she motioned for us to come in.

“You sure?” I asked her.

“No, so get in before I change my mind.”

BT brushed past me. Mary almost got her neck stuck craning it high enough to look at BT’s face this close.

BT sat calmly as Mary scrubbed, cleaned and disinfected his bite and a dozen or so other various scrapes and bruises.

“You don’t take very good care of yourself,” Mary chided him.

BT was in the middle of eating a Beef Stroganoff MRE packet. He didn’t really know what to say to her comment, so he just kept eating, but he did send me a knowing glance like “What the hell is she talking about? Doesn’t she know there’s a zombie apocalypse going on right now?” Or it might have just been indigestion. I’m not sure. I wasn’t paying him so much attention as I was one of the things inside of him.

“Man, it’s creeping me out the way you’re looking at me, and I’m trying to eat too,” BT said.

“Sorry man, I’m just…”

“I don’t want to know,” he said, cutting me off as he dug deeper into his foil food packet.

I could link with what I’d come to know as the Hugh-Mann’s, according to my great grandfather’s research. I read most of his findings while someone else had been driving. Contrary to popular belief, I can read; it’s writing that most seem to think I have a problem with. I could sense them and they were dormant for the moment, kind of like the stasis we had seen from other zombies, but if BT was to stray more than thirty feet or more, I lost concentration. Then any influence I had would be gone and the process would continue. Right now, I could keep him from becoming a zombie, but if he were to turn, there would be nothing I could do. That would be the point of no return.

Mary had seemed particularly nervous when she first started working on BT, but the more she got into the routine of her profession, the more she loosened up. And there was just something about the big man. If you were not on the opposing side, he made you feel safe.

“Is Mike still looking at me?” BT asked as he dived into a tuna casserole packet.

Mary looked up from a cut on his leg she was actually stitching up. “Yes,” she answered turning back towards her work.

“This food would be much more pleasurable if you weren’t looking at me, man,” BT said, never looking up. “And you too, little man.”

Josh was sitting at the table and looking at BT, slack-jawed. “Are you a wrestler?” Josh asked.

“Josh, that’s rude!” Mary said. BT umphed as she pulled a stitch too tight. “Sorry.”

BT nodded curtly.

“Competitive ballet dancer,” I told Josh.

“What?” BT and Josh both looked at me. Gary just shook his head as he came in from the living room.

“Sorry, it popped in my head.”

“It’s still all clear out there,” Gary said.

“We’ve got plenty of moonlight. When BT is all fixed up, we should probably get going,” I said. “Although the sun will be coming up soon,” I added as the sky to the east was already beginning to lighten up.

Mary’s shoulders slumped. We might not be her primary choice for guests, but we were company and at least one of us was comforting to her.

“I sure wish we could go with you guys,” Josh said. “But if my dad came home, and we weren’t here, he wouldn’t know what to do.”

“Are you sure you won’t spend the night and get a fresh start in the morning?” Mary asked.

“There are three more of us out there, and I have no idea where they are or if anything has happened to them and they’ll only wait so long if they’re already at the rendezvous point. On top of that, I’m really late checking in with my brother. If I don’t check in with him soon, he might get a crazy idea to launch a rescue,” I said.

“Alright, let me just finish cleaning BT up,” Mary said, standing so she could go into the other room and get some more supplies. I had a sneaking suspicion that she was going to drag this out as long as possible. She might even scratch him a few more times so she’d have something else to put some Bacitracin on. I was going to keep an eye on her. BT wasn’t going to notice shit if she kept stuffing different MREs in front of his face.

“How many of those things you going to eat?” I asked him.

“Don’t bother me while I’m eating, man,” BT growled, placing one arm protectively around his newest packet, which looked like pork and beans or something equally as unappetizing.

And just like that it hit me. I thought back to Eliza’s caravan and the zombies under Eliza’s control. She wasn’t actively directing them to sit and behave. She had given them an earlier command and had somehow tied it off like those damn, infuriating bread ties. You know the ones; you can never figure out which way they are tied. You spin them to the left for a few turns before you realize that it isn’t getting any looser, so you do the other way, and for some physics-bending reason, you get the same result. I can’t even begin to tell you how many loaves of bread I have just ripped the plastic sleeve on. You want to talk about pissing my wife off? Alright, enough of a divergence.

I knew it was possible to tie commands off, I just wasn’t sure how to do it. I felt like I was five again and my dad was telling me to tie my shoe. Sure, he had showed me like fifteen times previous, but it might as well have been advanced geometry. I wonder if Eliza would be so kind as to give me a lesson. And then the second dawning came to my mind.

Tomas? I reached out tentatively. I felt like I had enough control that I could communicate with him and him alone, but I wasn’t completely sure.

“My sister is extremely angry with you, Michael,” Tomas answered.

So she’s not dead?

“What do you want?” Tomas said wearily, or maybe warily.

BT is in trouble. Now I panicked. How much information did I want to give him (or them)? Stupid, stupid, I should have not brought his name up. Forget it, nothing, I said, just about to close the connection.

“Michael, it was obviously important enough that you felt the need to seek me out.”

“Dammit!”

“What?” Gary asked.

“Did I say that out loud?”

“I don’t want to know,” Gary said, walking out of the room.

BT’s been infected. I laid it all out there; he was no worse off than he had been a moment before.

There was no response from Tomas for long seconds, and then I heard what could only be described as a sigh. “I’m sorry for your loss.” When I hesitated, Tomas spoke. “There is nothing I can do to help him.”

I actually think you might be able to.

“Even if I could, I do not understand why you think that I would be willing to help you.”

Cut the shit, Tomas! Tommy, George, whatever the hell you want to call yourself now. You are not so far removed from that boy I knew, the one that I adopted as one of my own. Eliza is not evil because she has no soul. Eliza is evil in spite of that. You helped me on that rooftop and you know it, no matter how you are trying to justify it to yourself or your bitchster. You could have let me and all the rest of us die up there. I’m telling you now, BT will die without your help! Don’t do what you think you’re supposed to do, or definitely not what your sister would want you to do, do what is right! I shouted internally.

“How is saving BT so that he can try and destroy us, doing what is right?” he asked.

He had a valid point from his angle. Just because I thought it was right didn’t mean everyone else would. Damn semantics.

Listen, we can go round and round, but here’s the deal: BT has been bit. I have halted the advance of the virus, but I do not know how to hold it off indefinitely.

There was a bigger pause than when I had told him about BT’s infection. I thought maybe I had not made myself clear enough.

After more long moments of silence, he responded. “Eliza grows suspicious and is even now attempting to see what I am doing. We do not have much time. You will have to give me access to him.”

I wasn’t so sure about this, I just wanted a “how to.” Once he had his fingers inside BT, so to speak, he could do something irreversible.

“Michael, I can sense your indecision. You’re right. I could have let you all die on that rooftop. What purpose would it serve to now undo that? I’m running out of time, Michael.”

Dammit.

“What the hell is that?!” BT yelled in exclamation.

“It’s just a little hydrogen peroxide,” Mary answered. “The same stuff I’ve been using this whole time.”

“No, in me! Something’s in me,” he said, standing in alarm.

“Josh, get out of here!” Mary yelled. “He’s turning into a zombie!”

“I am?” BT asked with alarm.

“Hold on!” I yelled, coming in late to the party. I had been so intent on watching what Tomas was doing, I was unaware of my physical surroundings. Gary was moments away from putting a bullet in BT.

“Mike! What’s going on?” BT asked, looking like he was getting ready to jump out of his own skin.

“I asked for some help,” I told him.

“What kind of help and who specifically?” he asked with a very large note of concern.

“I asked Tomas for some help.”

“Tomas, as in Eliza’s brother, Tomas?” Mary asked Gary.

Gary shrugged his shoulders. “I told her everything. You guys were gone for a long time.”

“Yes, that Tomas,” I said, answering her question.

“Mike, don’t you think you should have maybe asked me before you let the enemy in?”

“Tomas is here?” Josh asked, running to the front window. “I don’t see anyone.”

“Did you ever stop to think that he could really do some damage?” BT asked. He was more than a little pissed off.

“I took a risk. It was a calculated risk,” I told him.

“With my life!” he yelled, bringing his fist down on the table. Mary jumped as if she were startled, but it could have been that the shock wave from the table had caused her to raise up off the floor.

“There were not many options, my friend,” I told him.

“Don’t pull that ‘my friend’ shit with me!” he roared.

I hadn’t seen him this mad in a long time, if ever.

“He’s inside me!” he said thumping his fist against his chest.

“It’s done,” Tomas intoned. “Do not contact me again.”

We’ll see, I answered him, but he was already gone.

“You don’t get it, BT, I had to ask for his help. I couldn’t hold them off indefinitely. While I’m thinking about it or while I’m conscious, it’s easy enough to keep telling the parasites to stay put. But I have no idea what happens if I sleep. And I love you, my friend, but I don’t always want to be within shouting distance, do you?” I asked throwing it back at him.

“Well, not really,” he answered, a small measure of anger dropping off.

“I guess I’d never have to worry about running out of toilet paper,” I told him.

“What are you talking about?” Gary asked.

“Because BT will always be around and if Mike runs out, BT will be able to hear him. Have you not been listening to the conversation?” Josh asked.

“So am I supposed to shoot him, Mike?” Gary asked me.

“I think he’s fine now.”

“How would you know that?” BT asked me suspiciously.

“Tomas is gone,” I told him.

“So how would you know if I’m good or not?” BT asked once again, threatening me with his finger.

I didn’t answer. I was hoping against all odds he would just drop it.

“Are you saying you can get in me too?!” His temper was beginning to flare again. “So what? I’m like a 7-Eleven? Always open?” BT was pacing around Mary’s small kitchen. He was running his hand across his head. “I don’t like this shit, Mike. Sorry, kid,” BT said to Josh. “I think I’d rather have Eliza rooting around in there. At least, I’d know what she was up to. You scare the shit out of me, man.”

“So you can like mind control him?” Josh asked, making his arms move like a robot.

“Really?” Gary asked, “Because there’s a few things I’d really love to see him do.”

“Nobody is making me do anything I don’t want to do, right?” BT asked, threatening to come over and smash my skull if I didn’t give him an immediate answer that completely meshed with his.

“I can’t control him,” I told Josh.

“Damn right, I’m uncontrollable,” BT said, crossing his arms.

“Okay, rebel, calm down, so I can finish cleaning you up,” Mary said. “We’re out of immediate danger, yes?” Mary asked, looking over towards me.

I nodded my answer, hoping that BT hadn’t picked it up. No such luck.

“What am I thinking now?” BT asked me.

“You’re thinking about how you’d like to pop my head off my bony body,” I told him.

He bounced up like a spring-loaded toy. “He can read my damn thoughts!” he yelled.

“Relax,” Mary laughed. “Even I could have read your thoughts about that.”

BT seemed to settle down as he finally sat. “How would you feel if you had a crazy Talbot running around in your head?” he asked her.

“Just so we’re clear,” Gary said, “he’s talking about Mike and not me.”

BT looked defeated or maybe just tired. I couldn’t really blame him either way. I couldn’t even begin to think about what he’d been through the last few hours.

“Mary, when he’s all cleaned up, could you find him a place to get some rest? If you don’t mind, I’d like for us to spend another night.”

She nodded, gratefully. I think she really liked having some company, someone who could take the pressure off her constant vigilance.

“What about the others?” Gary asked.

“They’re on their own for the moment.”

Chapter Fifteen – Mrs. Deneaux

Night was rapidly approaching. Mrs. Deneaux had removed Brian’s jacket, justifying her actions by saying that he was burning up and that she was chilled.

“He would have offered it to me himself, if he were awake,” she wrongfully assumed as she peeled the coat from his fever-racked body. The lines from his gut wound had grown a deeper crimson, almost violet red, and were now mere inches away from his heart.

“I knew he wouldn’t make it,” Mrs. Deneaux laughed as she realized she had just summed up the fate of both of the travelers she was with. Her plan was to wait out the night on the off chance that the twit, Paul, had found some medicine and had not become a casualty himself. When he didn’t show by morning, which she just knew would be the case, she would walk out and either find Michael or her own mode of transportation.

Mrs. Deneaux had no illusions. She had only survived this long because of the charity of others or at the very least, the indifference of them. She knew Brian was a lost cause, as was Paul, even if he showed up in the nick of time with medicine. Brian was in no shape to protect anyone, and to her, it seemed that Paul had survived along similar lines as her own, by the grace of others.

The night almost passed by uneventfully. She heard something going on maybe two or three streets over, but who and what it was were not discernible. She felt as if she had slept, but she couldn’t remember. Mostly she had stared at Brian and smoked cigarettes. With the moon still high in the sky, she found herself in the same spot and in the same position she had been when she had initially fallen asleep.

She had a small mountain of butts by her side, her exhaled smoke nearly obscuring her vision as she scanned the woods around her.

“Zombie,” she said, standing up and crushing her latest butt into the ground. She exhaled the blue-gray smoke. The zombie hadn’t quite locked onto their position.

“Must have smelled the smoke. My husband always said these would be the death of me. I can’t imagine he thought in this fashion though.” Mrs. Deneaux looked quickly down at Brian. He was on his own. She would not be able to move him and where to, anyway?

Mrs. Deneaux moved away from the small clearing and her smoldering pile of ash, to hide behind a fairly thick bush. The zombie was coming up on her left. If it kept its present course, it would run into her before getting to the clearing.

Mrs. Deneaux picked up a small stone. “No sense in both of us dying,” she said as she threw the rock at Brian. It landed a few inches from his face. He took no notice as he slept.

“Dammit,” she said, taking a peek from behind her cover. She picked up the only other thing within arm’s reach, a thick branch, it was about a foot long and six or seven inches around. She hurt her shoulder throwing it as hard as she could. Whether divine intervention or the luck of the devil, the branch struck Brian in the right cheek. His moans of surprise and pain changed the zombie’s angle of pursuit.

Brian stirred slightly, a red mark blooming on his face as he opened his eyes. Pain, confusion and recognition registered on his face as he looked straight across the clearing and could only see the eyes of a hiding Mrs. Deneaux. He tried to pull himself up, but completely lacked the energy.

“What is going on?” he scratched out of his fire-seared throat. Mrs. Deneaux held up her index finger to her lips. Brian could hear someone approaching. His initial hope was that it was Paul, but it made no sense that Deneaux would be hiding from him. Maybe she wanted to play a prank, he thought, but nobody in their right mind played those kinds of pranks anymore. You were more likely to end up with a bullet wound than a laugh.

Zombie or other people, not very likely to be a wild animal, at least not here. Brian’s vision focused on a stick that was no more than a few inches from his face. He felt and then realized the source of his initial pain, which caused him to awaken.

“Bitch,” he said just as the zombie plowed through the opening and lunged straight for his head.

Brian fought for his life harder than Mrs. Deneaux could have imagined. More than once, she thought that Wamsley had gained the advantage and that she would have to shoot him, lest he came after her when he was done. The zombie had finally landed a knock-out punch when it bit the same cheek she had prophetically hit with the stick.

She left her hiding spot amidst the screams of Brian and the moans of the zombie as it ate its meal. “That was close,” she said, staying in a half crouch until she was far enough away that she felt comfortable rising up.

Mrs. Deneaux looked around; there were no other zombies in the vicinity. She felt no regret when she realized she could have just shot the one that ate Brian. In hindsight she could have, but the prudent path had been the one she had taken. By not firing a shot, she had preserved her own life while also not alerting any other zombies in the area to her whereabouts. And just because she could not see any, did not necessarily mean that there weren’t any around.

“I should have never killed that two-timing bastard of a husband,” Mrs. Deneaux said as she hefted Brian’s rifle onto her shoulder. “That wasn’t the first time he had cheated on me and it wouldn’t have been the last. If I had just ignored it like I had all the others, I could be on the Riviera. They would never have allowed the undead in there, much too exclusive.” She laughed at her own joke.

Mrs. Deneaux found herself walking down the center of the roadway. She knew this might not be the best approach, but she was above skulking around on other people’s lawns.

Chapter Sixteen

Paul took one more painkiller that night, not because he was in any abundance of pain, but primarily because if he were to awaken as a zombie, he would be pissed with himself for not having done so. Moonlight streamed through the kitchen window as Paul picked his drool-laced face off the table. The candles were close to burning out. Paul’s legs ached as he shook the plastic bottle, which he was still clutching.

“One lone pill to rule them all,” he coughed out as he popped the top and took the remaining tablet elixir. “Breakfast of champions,” he said as he downed his warm diet Sprite. “Yuck! That doesn’t taste nearly as good as it had earlier. So now what?” he said to the empty bottle. “I’ve got to get back to Brian and the other one.” Just thinking about her gave him a headache. The approaching light of day was not bringing with it the promise that all those motivational posters talked about. He was effectively hobbled, one of his friends was dying from infection and three others were missing. He had no means of transportation, and in reality, didn’t really know how to get to Ron’s. Sure, he’d been there before, but he wasn’t driving and they were always smoking or drinking while they were heading up there. It wasn’t like he could pick up a phone and call anyone. The more he thought about it, the more he couldn’t remember having ever been so alone.

He got up to look for some more pills or at least an accelerant, maybe some Jack or SoCo. He sat back down quickly. “Maybe I’ll just wait until this kicks in a little,” he said as his ankle seemed to be high on the pain priority list today. He was deeply immersed in his pity party when he heard shots. “Damn, that sounds like it’s right out front,” he said, shuffling away from the table to the window next to the front door.

“Deneaux?” Paul was having a tough time putting all the images in front of him into a cognitive state. There was Mrs. Deneaux, looking like a skinny, old, female Rambo, rifle slung over her shoulder, giant, oversized pistol in her hands, zombies running at her from up the street. Paul craned his neck, but the wood from the window pane prevented him from getting a better look. It took him much longer than it should have to realize that he should open the door to get a better look…and to help. His head was as fuzzy as a schoolgirl on her second beer.

Paul pulled the door open, loudly cursing at himself as he dragged the door over the top of his shot foot. “Motherfucker!” he screamed. A fresh stream of blood spewed out as the bandage and wet scab was neatly pulled off.

Mrs. Deneaux looked over quickly. Paul was standing in the doorway to the house immediately to her left. He was swearing about something, but she had no idea what and no time to figure it out. She started to make her way over towards him. “You need to cover me!” she shouted.

Paul looked up, red veins criss-crossing his eyes so much, it was almost a solid color. “What?” he asked, finally focusing, the anger and pain welled in his features.

“You need to shoot, shithead!” Deneaux yelled.

“Where’s my gun?” Paul asked, more to himself than to her, but she heard him.

Deneaux was certain if she wasn’t so pressed for time and bullets, she would have shot him dead for being so damn useless.

Paul scrambled around. His rifle was on the sofa. He didn’t remember putting it there, but he couldn’t pin it on anyone else moving it, so at some point he must have, although for the life of him, he couldn’t remember when.

He got back to the doorway. Deneaux was holding her own, but she had put her pistol away and was now using the rifle. Paul’s first shot knee-capped the closest zombie to her. Effective, but far from a kill shot.

It did, however, give Mrs. Deneaux the opening she needed. Paul noted that the old crone moved with some serious step when she needed to.

“Keep firing!” Mrs. D intoned. “You’re about as useless as a reformed alcoholic at a wine tasting.”

Paul started shooting again, but his mind could not race to catch up with her dig.

Mrs. Deneaux pushed past him. Zombies were racing across the lawn trying to get to her. “Shut the damn door!” she said, leaning up against the wall.

Paul was stoned, but not that far gone, and the door was closed before her words had completely finished.

“Haven’t had that much interest in these old bones in a long while,” Mrs. Deneaux said as she smiled, her tobacco-stained teeth shining dully.

Paul thought he heard one of her cheek muscles groan from the effort of the foreign maneuver. “Where’s Brian?”

Paul noted that she paused a half a beat too long before she answered, which was only a side to side shaking of her head.

“What happened to you?” she said, pointing down to his foot, which was now sautéing in a small stew of his own blood.

“Hunting accident,” he answered as he made sure the door was locked. Paul moved away from it as the first of the zombies made contact with the screen door beyond. He shuffled over to the couch and sat down.

Mrs. Deneaux sat in the closer chair. She kept peeking out the living room window until one of the zombies saw her and ran through a small bush to press his face up against the screen. She quickly pulled the shade down, plunging the room into an uncomfortable darkness.

“What happened to him?” Paul wanted clarification. When she answered that they had been ambushed by some zombies and he had gotten eaten defending her, he didn’t completely believe the story, but some part of him was relieved that he had not succumbed to the infection. Paul would have felt directly responsible for Brian’s demise if that had been the case. If he hadn’t shot himself, he might have been able to get some antibiotics.

What Paul wasn’t factoring into the equation was if he had not gotten hurt, he may have found some medicine and actually been back hours earlier to help defend their encampment. Every time his mind wandered into the realm of different possibilities, he kept reining it in so that it would not stray too far.

“Now what?” Paul asked.

“Do you have any more of what you’ve been drinking?”

Paul shook his head in the negative.

“We wait. Do they have any food? I’m starving,” Mrs. Deneaux said, heading for the kitchen.

Paul did not answer her as she walked by and began to open cabinets up.

“Talbot always said God had a hell of twisted sense of humor,” Paul mumbled.

Paul could hear Deneaux rummaging around for some utensils and a can opener.

“Cold soup will have to do,” she said.

“I hope you don’t get botulism. That can wreak havoc on someone your age,” Paul said it softly, but with no other noise in the house the acoustics were actually pretty nice.

“Maybe you should try it first,” Deneaux said as she slurped in a large swallow of Italian Wedding soup.

Paul got back in and leaned against the entrance to the kitchen. Deneaux summarily ignored him as she kept slurping the soup.

“Alright, so we both know, you just fed me a big heaping of bullshit. Why don’t you be straight with me now?”

Deneaux looked up from her spoon, her eyes cold and calculating. “What exactly are you talking about?” The creepy smile came back.

“Brian. What really happened to him?”

“I told you. Zombies got him.”

Paul kept looking at her, trying to somehow divine the answer, but Deneaux was a practiced and skilled liar. It would take much more than his amateurish attempt to get her to confess to anything.

“I think that’s only part of the story and I don’t believe or trust you. You can tell me. There isn’t a court or even a jury left to convict you.”

“Once I feel like confessing, you’ll be the first to know,” she said resuming her slurping.

“Suit yourself,” he said.

Paul grabbed his meager medical supplies from the table and went back to the couch. He re-wrapped his foot, which was on fire and took three aspirins for his splitting headache. He put his head down on the cushion and fell asleep to the sweet serenading of Deneaux’s slurps.

When he woke up, seemingly minutes later, the room was as black as Deneaux’s heart. He sat up quickly, not quite able to remember where he was or in what state of danger he might be finding himself.

“Good nap?” Deneaux asked without feeling.

Paul looked to where her voice emanated. Eyes darker than the room they sat in stared back at him.

“What’s going on?” Paul sat up quickly, reaching for his rifle.

“You looking for this?” she said, ratcheting a round into the chamber.

Paul’s heart sank as his blood pressure soared.

“Relax, you look like a rabbit trapped in a fox den. I was just keeping watch on the zombies outside and you’re the only one of us with any ammo left. Is that crawler on the steps the one that did you in?”

“Did me in?”

“The bite on your foot.”

“It’s not a bite,” Paul said, starting to rise.

“Do not get up,” she said coolly.

Paul didn’t. “She bit my boot, not my foot,” he said, trying to explain.

“Then what’s all the blood about?” she asked.

“I did not get bit!” Paul said heatedly.

“What really happened?”

“I told you!”

“You told me nothing. What if I were to say that I did not believe you or trust you?”

Paul fumed.

“Come, come Mr. Ginson, turnabout is fair play.”

“What are you planning on doing?”

“Why, whatever I please. You yourself said there isn’t even a jury to convict me.”

“I know what I said,” Paul replied angrily.

“Yes, Michael, they both died trying to save me,” Deneaux’s words were laced with syrup. “And he’d believe me because he’d have to. What’s the alternative? That an old crone like me killed two strapping young men? Huh? Who would believe that?”

“Mike’s smart, he’d suspect you were lying.”

“Suspect away, you can’t try someone on suspicion,” she laughed. “I should know.”

“So you’re just going to shoot me in cold blood, is that it?”

“I had rather hoped to wait until you turned into a zombie, but if you keep trying to get off that couch, I will have to put you down like a cur.”

“I’m telling you for the fiftieth time, I did not get bit!”

“Keep your voice down, or your friends will come back.”

It took Paul a moment to realize what she had said. “The zombies are gone?”

“Yes, your back-up left while the virus was spreading around inside of you. Obviously, because you were not worth eating anymore.”

So what does that say about you, you fucking battleaxe? Paul thought, but wisely kept to himself.

“Listen, Deneaux, I did not get bit. I shot myself, okay? I fucking shot myself.”

“Oh, that’s rich,” she laughed. “Sad, if true, but rich. Worthy of a hearty laugh, I’ll make sure to do one over your shallow grave.”

Paul hastily pulled his bandage off.

“Easy,” Deneaux said from across the room. “Don’t go getting any ideas, I didn’t say ‘bright’ because I have yet to see you have one, and I didn’t think you were getting ready to buck that trend.”

“Look at my damn foot! Does that look like a bite?!” Paul was nearly shrieking.

A high intensity flashlight blasted Paul in the face. His headache, which had been on the decline, came back with a vengeance. “You did that on purpose,” he said, shielding his eyes from the handheld sun.

“Of course, I did. Hold your foot up.”

Paul sat back on the couch and put his foot in the air. Deneaux stared long and hard at the wound. It was long minutes before she spoke.

“It’s amazing you’ve survived this long.”

“So you believe me now?” Paul asked.

“I do.”

“Can I have my gun back?”

“I think I’ll hold onto it for a while longer. At least we know you’ll be safer.”

“You’re a…”

“Careful, the number one cause of accidental shootings is careful aim.”

Paul wasn’t entirely sure what that meant, but she was holding the gun. “I’m getting some food.” Paul stood up.

“There are more candles on the table,” she told him before she opened the shade a bit to get a look out into the night.

“All the people left on the planet and I get stuck with her, I had more fun by myself last night.” The more he thought about that, the truer it rang. Of course, he had been with half a bottle of pain pills. “Should have saved those for tonight. Might have actually made her worthwhile company.”

“What are you going on about in there?” Deneaux asked.

“Just wondered what this peanut butter would taste like on some bread,” Paul said as he ate the thick, rich goodness off a tablespoon. It was the small things that hit the hardest. Paul thought the last time he had fresh bread was the day of the apocalypse. He had gone to a Subway and gotten a six-inch meatball sub. “Should have gotten the damn foot-long,” he said wistfully, popping another spoonful into his mouth.

“Bitch, where are you!” Paul heard from outside the house.

Deneaux was standing up by the window now, her half a smoke hanging from her lip. One word emanated resoundingly from her mouth, “Shit.”

“What’s going on?” Paul said, coming up beside her. He could not help but notice that an ashtray would be offended by her aroma of smoke.

“It’s Brian.”

“Brian? You said zombies got him,” Paul said as he got a closer look out the window. The person ambling down the roadway looked somewhat like their traveling companion, but the abundance of blood on his face and clothing made identification almost impossible.

He did not look so much like he was on death’s door as possibly he had passed over the threshold; and when he realized he had not quite finished his business back in the mortal world, he had come back a step to do so.

“I’ve seen zombies that look better than him,” Paul added, a little frightened.

“Bitch!” Brian yelled again. “I know what you did, well I got the best of him, you friggin’ hag! He couldn’t kill me!” Brian yelled, thumping his chest as the blood welled up in his mouth.

Paul made a move to open the door.

“Don’t you dare!” Deneaux said as she leveled the rifle on him.

“What the hell is the matter with you? What did you do?” Paul asked in alarm.

“He’s a dead man. Look at him.”

“What is he talking about, Deneaux? You said zombies got him and that he was dead.”

“Zombies did get him. Can you not see that?” she said defensively.

“He doesn’t look dead.”

“He’s a dead man walking,” she added flippantly.

“I’m going to help him,” Paul said, reaching for the door handle.

“You open that door and you’ll be joining him.”

“Fuck you, Deneaux, I’d rather be with a person that’s about to become a zombie than with you anyway.” Paul walked out the door, Brian was still a good fifty feet down the road but immediately saw Paul.

“Paul?” Brian asked, blood and sweat stinging his eyes and making it difficult to see.

“Hey, Brian,” Paul said, walking cautiously towards him, not sure if he should be expecting a bullet in his back for his trouble. “Are you alright?”

“Do I fucking look alright?” he asked heatedly, blood spilling from his nose and ears.

“No, you don’t, man, I’m sorry.”

“That bitch set me up,” Brian continued without any prompts from Paul. “I was sleeping and zombies must have been coming or some shit, but she throws a stick at me to wake me up. I look over and she’s hiding behind this small bush, and I’m thinking what is this crazy bitch doing? At first, I thought maybe I had just woken up and caught her taking a piss, but to take a piss, you have to be human!” he yelled the last word. “And I’m not convinced of that. She threw the stick, hoping that I would make a noise or that the noise of the stick hitting the ground would cause the zombie to attack me. It was on me before I could even sit up.”

Paul couldn’t imagine the horror, the guy was burning up with a fever, probably had the strength of a newborn kitten and a zombie comes and attacks. Guilt began to heft on his shoulders that he had not at least gone back to stand guard duty. He had spent the night getting stoned, staring at candles. Brian was beyond antibiotics at this point, Paul could count at least two bites on Brian’s face alone.

“I need to kill her,” Brian pleaded.

Paul pointed to the house he had just come from.

Deneaux threw the cigarette she had finished onto the floor, grounding it out with her foot. “Son of a bitch,” she said calmly as she lit another coffin nail.

Brian started walking towards the house. Paul stayed where he was. He wanted to go, but he had only one boot on and no weapon.

“I really need to think things out before I do them,” he said as he watched Brian approach the house.

Brian was halfway up the drive when he dropped onto his knees. Crippling stomach cramps hunched him over as his body expelled everything in his stomach. Ropy strings of blood and vomit hung from his chin as he stood back up.

Brian stood still in the driveway for a second longer; he then turned around to look at Paul.

“Fuck me,” Paul mumbled. He wasn’t going anywhere fast and now Brian wasn’t Brian anymore. Paul got into a reasonable facsimile of a fighting stance.

Brian started running full tilt. “I love you, Erin,” Paul said as Brian halved the distance. Bone, blood and brain sprayed across Paul’s face as Brian’s body, sans the head skidded past. Paul had yet to move from his fighting stance.

“You look like chum for sharks, you should get in here,” Deneaux said from the porch of the small house, her rifle still smoking from the shot she had taken.

The shock of the event took a while to wear off. It was more the sounds of the dead in the distance that got him moving. It was still a fifty-fifty debate on whether or not to go back into that house or just keep wandering down the road. “I still need my boot,” he said, heading towards the house.

“What do you think you know?” Deneaux asked Paul as he walked over the threshold to the house.

Paul noted that she had lit another cigarette and was sitting on the couch, the rifle draped across her lap.

“I know Brian turned into a zombie and you saved my life by killing him.”

“That’s all you need to remember,” she said, then taking a large drag from her smoke. He also noted that she had not so much as a quiver in her hand as she did so.

“You’re one cool customer, aren’t you?”

“How do you mean?” she asked as she exhaled her smoke.

“All I’m saying is you put a bullet into the brain of one of our traveling companions and you look as calm as if you were watching Lawrence Welk re-runs.”

“Oh I loved him.”

“Brian?”

“Lawrence Welk, you twit. That was before television began to cater to the masses and we ended up with drivel like Charlie’s Angels.”

Paul didn’t see the reason to argue the merits of TV, but anything with Farrah Fawcett fueling his young hormones was okay with him.

“What about Brian?”

“What about him? He was a zombie. Should I have allowed him to eat you? Would that make you feel better?”

“No, and thank you for saving my life, but I find your lack of compassion somewhat startling.”

“I killed a zombie, like I’ve killed a dozen times before. I feel the same as if I killed a pheasant, maybe less. At least we ate those.”

“I guess I don’t understand it.”

“Tell me what should I feel?” Deneaux asked coolly taking another drag. “Should I go tell my therapist about my touchy-feely feelings, about how I’m all broken up about Brian’s death? It is a survival-of-the-fittest world out there and he succumbed and now he’s dead; it’s as simple as that.”

Paul didn’t think it was quite that simple, but she held the gun and he didn’t think she’d have any problem using it on him. “I’m just coming over to get my shoe.”

Mrs. Deneaux tensed her hands on the rifle. “Let’s not have any accidents.”

Paul couldn’t help himself. “Is that what you’re calling what happened to Brian?”

“I don’t know what you think you know, but I saw him get bit by a zombie. I didn’t stick around to see the ending to an event I already knew the conclusion of.”

Paul bent down to grab his shoe. Deneaux was mostly showing indifference, but Paul knew it was an act. And then she struck deeply and cruelly.

“Maybe if you weren’t so busy being inept and shooting yourself, you would have been able to get back and prevent the whole thing.” Her cold eyes remained on his the whole time.

“You really are a bitch,” he told her, but her words cut deep. He had been feeling exactly that, but to have them spoken from someone else, even someone he couldn’t stand, hurt.

The fight was out of Paul and she knew it, she focused her attention away and to somewhere deep within her own dark thoughts.

“I’m going to try and find Mike.”

“Not with this rifle,” she told him.

“It’s mine, Deneaux.”

“It was, but it belongs in the hands of someone who knows how to use it.”

“Whatever. Keep it, I hope you shoot yourself with it,” Paul said angrily.

“Oh sweetie, I’m not you,” Deneaux laughed as Paul pulled the front door shut behind him.

He hobbled to the driveway, sprained ankle, shot foot and no weapon, but he liked his odds more now than he did inside the house.

Chapter Seventeen – Mike Journal Entry 10

As worked up as BT was, he still fell asleep rather easily. His legs were hanging off the large couch, but he didn’t seem to mind too much. I had gone outside to pull the dead zombies around Mary’s house away. I was pulling the last disgusting wretch away when Gary showed up beside me.

“Need some help?” he asked.

“How long you been watching?” I asked.

“About half an hour.”

“Nice. I think I can finish this off on my own.”

“Did you hear that?” Gary asked as the body I was pulling was making excessively loud squishy noises. I did not dwell on what could be causing it.

I stood up straight, I wanted to cup my ear to get a better grasp on any incoming sound, but I’d be damned if I was bringing those gloves anywhere near my head.

“I didn’t hear anything. What was it?”

“Gunshot.”

“Just one?”

“That’s all I heard, but it was impossible to hear much beyond your bellyaching about moving these zombies.”

“You could have helped.”

“Could have.”

“Fine, smart-ass, any idea which direction the shot came from?”

“Best guess is back that way,” Gary said, pointing to the side and back of Mary’s backyard.

“You think it’s Paul and them?” I asked, hoping, although how would he know?

“My guess is probably. Haven’t heard much of anything since we pulled into this town and now a gunshot.”

“I’m going to check it out.” I had made the decision there and then.

“Well, let me get some stuff.”

“I didn’t mean to volunteer you too.”

“That’s alright. I feel like doing something.”

“Helping me move all these zombies would have been helpful.”

“Probably would have,” Gary said as he headed back to the house to go and grab a few supplies.

I dropped the gloves on top of the last zombie I moved. I swear I could feel microbes crawling around on top of my skin, looking for a particularly large pore to gain access into my system so that they could wreak their havoc. Nothing short of a bath in bleach was going to make me feel any better.

“You alright?” Gary asked, coming back a few moments later.

He handed me a bottle of liquid, anti-bacterial hand soap. I contemplated kissing him.

“I’m with you if you want to go, but are you so sure this is a good idea?” Gary asked.

I knew what he meant, we were low on ammo, it was nighttime and we weren’t really sure what we were walking towards. “Nothing else going on.”

“That’s the spirit,” he said sarcastically. “Why did BT think staying with you was a good idea?”

“Beats me. Let’s go and be careful.”

“Did you really think you needed to add that last part? Were you afraid I might start singing or something?”

“Sorry, it’s just something I added with the kids all the time, it’s second nature, kind of like saying ‘bless you’ when someone sneezes.”

“It’s nothing like that,” Gary said huffily. “It was commonly believed in the middle ages that when a person sneezed that they could potentially let a demon into their body and corrupt their soul, that was why people responded with God bless you. It would keep the demons from taking hold inside.”

“Okay,” I answered confusedly. Gary still looked peeved. “You still believe in the demons part?” I asked him cautiously.

“It was rooted in some truth!” he said heatedly.

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry. Can we go check the noise out now?”

“Just make sure you say God bless you and not just bless you or you are not conveying the true meaning of the message. That shit really infuriates me.”

“And yet I’m labeled as the crazy one. I demand a recount.”

“Just go. I told Josh I’d read him a story when we got back.”

“He’s a good kid,” I said absently.

“So’s his mom,” Gary said.

“A good kid?” I asked, turning to face him as we came to the end of Mary’s backyard.

“I meant good person.”

“Oh no, you’re falling in love. I’ve seen that look before, we’ve known them less than two days.”

“The heart cares not for such trivial matters as time.”

“Gary, her ex-husband could still be alive and even if he is zombie chow, he’s only been gone a few months.”

“Time is less significant now, Mike. Nobody’s planning their summer vacations anymore, they’re planning out how to get their next meal or where the safest place to sleep is. Nobody gives a shit about the Monday morning commute anymore. It’s all about the basest of all human instincts.”

“Sex?” I asked.

“Survival,” he corrected. “Could you please get your thoughts to a loftier perch?”

“But our survival depends on sex, procreation.”

“What possessed Mom to have a fifth kid?” Gary asked the heavens. “How can you take something so beautiful as love and debase it?”

“You’re like the sister I never had,” I told him. “You can cook AND you have feelings.”

“Feel this,” he said as he smacked me upside the head.

“Can we maybe get going again?” I asked as I rubbed my head. “You even hit like a girl.”

We crossed through Mary’s neighbor to the back and then through their yard and onto the street.

“It was further away,” Gary said as I turned to him.

“Man, it’s quiet,” I said, turning back around. “I wish we could hear gunshots. At least, we’d know where to go.”

“Or where to avoid,” Gary added more prudently.

“Or that,” I said to him, not really agreeing.

Chapter Eighteen

Paul slowly moved down the roadway, constantly weighing his decision. More than once he had stopped and pondered going back.

“How dangerous is she really?” Paul asked himself on more than one occasion. “She saved my life. But she shot Brian and somehow got him bitten. She’s a snake that lies in the grass, waiting to strike her unsuspecting victims.” That was usually enough to get him moving.

Mrs. Deneaux was not worried in the least about her secret getting out. Paul was a dead man stumbling, she thought. She even allowed herself a laugh at her pun. Still, she was not fond of loose ends. More than once, they had come back in her long and storied life to add some disruption to her plans. She reasoned with herself that she was down to four rounds and why waste one on him when the zombies or something equally as deadly would save her the much-needed bullet. “A ferocious hamster could take him out right now.” She laughed again, and long-buried, stale lung smoke ventured out her nose as she chortled.

Chapter Nineteen – Mike Journal Entry 11

“It couldn’t have been much further than this,” Gary said as we came to our fifth street.

“You know the way back?” I asked, just now thinking about that small fact.

“I’ve been leaving bread crumbs,” he answered quickly.

“Okay, Hansel.”

“Don’t worry, I know the way.”

“I was more concerned with me. If we have to run, I want to know which way to go because you obviously won’t be able to keep up.”

“I guess you’d just better not leave me behind this time.”

We had been walking up the road, my guess would have been in a northerly direction, but that would have been merely a guess. I always feel like whichever direction I’m walking is north. When we saw a bloody body in the road, Gary grabbed my shoulder to keep me from getting closer.

“That’s probably what I heard,” Gary whispered.

My heart was sinking, the clothing looked familiar. We were edging closer, keeping a close lookout for the shooter.

Gary had stopped his forward progress.

“What’s up?” I asked him softly, looking around. We were both in crouched positions, trying to make ourselves as small a target as possible. But we were in the middle of the road, so we were pretty much fair game if someone were so inclined.

“I think that’s Brian,” Gary said trying to suppress some gagging.

“I think you’re right. Stay here and cover my back.”

Gary nodded, his mouth closed tightly.

I moved closer, trying to get into as small a ball of humanity as possible. I could see the bullet’s entry into the base of the skull. I dreaded what I had to do next. I mean the body had, I think, the same clothes on as Brian, but I wasn’t completely sure. It’s just not something I pay all that much attention to. I placed my boot under his left hip and kept my rifle aimed at his head. I then turned the body over. The left side of Brian’s face was missing, the only way I knew it was Brian was because the right side was in remarkably good shape.

“Fuck,” I said. It really seemed like the only fitting thing to say.

“Is that him?” Gary asked from his vantage point.

I nodded.

“Shit,” he said.

I agreed wholeheartedly.

When I could tear my gaze away from his destroyed face, I began to take in other details. The one remaining eye was opaque and his skin was gray. Yes, I knew he was dead, but there was a difference to the skin tone of the dead and the undead. I had been around enough of both to unfortunately become a resident expert.

“He was a zombie,” I told Gary as I came back to where he was standing.

“Shit,” Was all Gary had to say again. I’m thinking that if he said more, he would have to keep his mouth open, and any longer, and more than words would come out.

I wondered what happened to Paul and Deneaux? “How the hell am I going to tell Cindy this?”

“We’re still not out of the woods ourselves; you might not have to,” was Gary’s dour reply. He was not accepting this new wrinkle very well and far be it for me to blame him.

“Michael?” I heard from further up the road.

“Deneaux?” I asked, as Gary turned around.

He pointed to a lady standing on a porch step about three houses up.

“Is Paul with you?” I asked as I approached.

I could see her head shaking as I got closer.

“What happened?” I asked as I got to her.

She related her story about how Brian was shot during the initial ambush and that Paul had left them to go get antibiotics. While they were waiting, they had been attacked by zombies, Brian had been bitten and she had run for her life. She had not seen Paul since she had found this house. She had been staring out the window when Brian had come. She had called to him, but when she realized he was a zombie, she had shot him.

***

Her story had holes and the house she was in just about screamed “liar,” but I couldn’t figure out why and I didn’t want to yet call her on it.

“Big fan of peanut butter?” I asked her innocently as Gary and she sat at the kitchen table. I was walking around looking at the counter.

She was playing the part of a grieving woman, but it did not fit the true Deneaux I had come to know and loathe.

“I can’t really stand it, gets stuck in my bridge work,” she said as she turned to look at me, holding the near empty peanut butter jar and oversized spoon.

“Previous occupant,” she said without missing a beat, turning back to Gary.

The spoon was still wet with the saliva of the previous occupant. She was spinning a web and I was willing to let her until she wrapped herself up in it and choked.

I could see the necessity of shooting Brian. He was no longer human, but if she had called to him like she said, she would have had to shoot him in the face, not the back of the head. Why lie about that part? It made no sense.

“You haven’t seen Paul since he left to get the meds?” I asked her again.

“Really, Michael, how often do I need to keep explaining myself? If you weren’t going to listen the first three times, maybe you should have just saved us both some time and told me that,” she said, never turning to face me. She was holding Gary’s hands for comfort.

Something reeked here and it wasn’t even a zombie.

“Gary, will you help Mrs. Deneaux get her stuff and then we’ll head back to Mary’s?”

“Sure what are you going to do?” he asked.

“I want to do a quick once-over through the house and see if there is anything worth grabbing.”

“We should just get going,” Mrs. Deneaux said. “There have been zombies around all night. We might not get away from here if we stay much longer.”

Gary looked over to me. “I’ll risk it,” I told her.

For the briefest of seconds, she sneered at me. If I had blinked, I would have missed it.

I went through the house. It had been ransacked. Someone had been here before, but there wasn’t anything to substantiate whether it was Paul or Deneaux; and besides a few hypo-allergenic pillows, there really wasn’t anything we could use.

“Isn’t this Paul’s rifle?” Gary asked as he handed her the rifle and we got ready to leave.

“He gave it to me when he went to look for the medicine,” she said as she grabbed the gun.

I couldn’t help myself. “Bullshit! He left giving you his only means of defense?”

“I offered him my pistol; he said he was more apt to hurt himself than anyone else,” she said.

“Let’s go,” I said, not wanting to question her anymore. Now we both knew I had my suspicions about her. The question was, what was she going to do about it?

Gary led the way, Deneaux in the middle, and me at the end, more to keep an eye on her than anything else.

We saw one band of five speeding zombies, which we did not engage; we stayed hidden behind a motor home. They were running at a full sprint, in the opposite direction from which we had come. They very much looked like they had dinner reservations and they were running late, I saw absolutely no reason to alter their dining plans.

Within twenty minutes, we were back at Mary’s stoop, once again arguing with her over whether or not she should let us in.

It was actually a good showing from Deneaux that got the door open.

“Oh dear, I feel rather faint,” she said as she began to fan herself with her hand. “I haven’t eaten in days and I’ve just been so scared,” she said, shivering.

She was actually quite good at the grandmother card, although I’m almost completely sure nothing could have survived in that frozen womb of hers to be born, hatched perhaps, but not born.

“You poor thing! Come on in,” Mary said, opening the door and ushering the woman in. “What kind of savages are you two that you would make her carry this heavy rifle?” Mary said, grabbing the gun from an unwilling Deneaux’s hands. I suddenly felt much safer.

Josh, who had been watching from the kitchen, went upstairs when he saw Deneaux come in. I knew the kid was smart; this just proved me right. Deneaux made a great show of sitting down heavily on one of Mary’s chairs.

“Oh you poor thing! Let me get you some food,” Mary said, retreating to her pantry.

“He’s here?” Deneaux asked, pointing to the slumbering BT.

“Does that somehow interfere with your plans?” I asked.

“Relax, Michael. I was merely asking a question,” Deneaux said, smiling, I think happy that she was making me so upset.

“Listen, I know you’re covering something up, and if I find out that something happened to my friend because of you, I’ll leave you on the side of the road. Do you believe me?” I told her, now standing over her, my finger pointing directly at her face.

“Oh, I do believe you would, but I’ve already told you, I have not seen your precious friend since he left us.”

“What’s going on?” Mary asked as she came back, with a tray, an MRE and some utensils.

I walked away, heading up to where Josh had safely retreated.

“Just a misunderstanding,” Mrs. Deneaux said, warmly thanking Mary for the food.

I heard Gary ask Mary how BT had been and her reply that he had slept the whole time, before I made it to the top of the stairs.

“She’s fucking scary,” Josh said, peeking his head out of his bedroom.

“Yes, she is, and I don’t think you’re supposed to be swearing.”

“I’d rather face that Eliza lady than her.”

I thought about it for a second. “No, you wouldn’t. Close, but no, you wouldn’t.”

Chapter Twenty

“Mike, where the hell are you?” Paul asked as he hunched down by some trashcans. He had heard something moments earlier and nearly wet his pants when an angry raccoon came out from a row of hedges to claim its trash barrels.

“Sorry, fella. These yours?” Paul asked as he grunted to get away from the large animal. A rabies bite from the raccoon would be just as fatal and more painful than a zombie bite. Paul backed away carefully, making sure the animal did not crazily charge him. He fell over a long-unclaimed bag of trash. The smell of old diapers and moldy cabbage assailed his nostrils.

“Couldn’t be an old florist shop. No, had to be a damn daycare or something,” Paul said as he began to stand up. His eye caught something moving on his peripheral, but it was not the raccoon. The animal had taken off, sensing a greater predator than Paul in the neighborhood. It sucks not being on top of the food chain anymore, Paul thought as he looked past the trash cans to five rapidly approaching zombies.

He knew if he so much as clenched his asshole, he would wrinkle the trash bag under him and the zombies would come his way. He wasn’t yet sure that they hadn’t already seen him.

The zombies passed by less than twenty feet away. Paul relaxed somewhat as they began to head off. The small release in tension caused his arm to slip, pushing his elbow down onto a soda can. Paul held his breath as the can popped. He could still hear the zombies’ footfalls heading away and felt like he had dodged a bullet until he craned his head to find the best way to get up and saw one lone zombie staring straight at him. Its head tilted like a dog’s does when it’s trying to figure out what it is looking at.

The zombie started to approach. The blending-in-with-garbage trick was not going to work anymore. Paul thought about turning to run, but right now, he wouldn’t be able to out distance a deader. He once again adopted the pose of the fighter as he got on his tender feet. “What are the chances that another bullet saves my ass?” Paul asked the heavens as the zombie ran towards him.

The heavens weren’t listening as the zombie ran straight into Paul’s fist. Paul was sure he had broken at least one knuckle on the zombie’s skull. The shot on the eye of the zombie may not have put a man on his ass, but it should have at least dazed him. It had no effect whatsoever on the zombie. The zombie fell on top of Paul as they both went down onto the stinking pile of refuse. The bag exploded, sending leaking diapers everywhere.

Snapping teeth came within the width of a fingernail from shearing Paul’s fingers off. Paul felt the slime of the film that coated the zombies’ unbrushed teeth. Paul placed both hands on the zombie’s shoulders and pushed away as the zombie attempted to draw closer. When the zombie realized it could not reach Paul’s face, it began to turn from arm to arm, looking for a place to seek purchase. Paul had to keep alternating his hand placement in an effort to stay one step ahead of the zombie’s teeth. Already his arms were beginning to tire, he did not know how long he could play Hide The Flesh From The Zombie before his arms gave out.

No one is going to save me this time, he thought.

Paul shoved his hips upward, gaining some distance from the zombie as he brought his knee up, in what could only be described as a ball-busting maneuver. The zombie did not so much as flinch from the contact. Thick tendrils of drool and liquefied plaque hung from the zombie’s mouth, dangerously close to Paul’s face, Paul kept blowing out great puffs of air in a futile hope to keep the mouth offal from striking him. The smell of the old, wet, moldy diapers competed with the zombie for odor of the decade. Paul was having difficulty getting in enough clean air to work with.

Paul was trying to scramble from under the zombie, but his feet kept sliding in rubbish. Had a newly axed girlfriend once tell me I was going to die in a pile of shit. I can’t imagine she meant this, Paul thought. Or maybe she did.

The zombie was fairly predictable in its approach. After nine or ten times through the cycle, Paul got an idea. As the zombie reached for Paul’s left arm, he pulled it away. The zombie would make a slight attempt for Paul’s face and then move to the right side. Paul moved his right arm quicker than the zombie was expecting, then he thrust up with his left hip. The death-tangled duo rolled to the right, precariously balancing on their right side until momentum brought Paul on top.

“How about I eat you, motherfucker?!” Paul screamed. Paul made a feint to bite on the zombie’s arm. Once again, the zombie could not have cared less as it still tried to bite at Paul’s hands, but it now did not have as much range in motion. Paul still had no clue as to what to do. He did not want to release his grip. He was afraid he might slip in the piles of garbage as he turned to run and then they’d be doing this dance all over again. Paul did the only option that was available to him as the zombie went for Paul’s right hand. With his left, Paul grabbed as much trash as he could, becoming utterly dismayed when his hand went through decomposing diaper.

He began to shove as much refuse into the zombie’s eager mouth as he could. The zombie, at first, greedily took the offering and then began to fight against the force-fed meal. Paul had already let go and was halfway to getting up. The zombie was still struggling with a Pamper lodged in its throat. Paul’s nightmare nearly came to fruition as he slid on a cliché. No way! A banana peel? Are you kidding me? But banana peels were much more slippery in cartoons. Paul was quickly on terra firma and shuffling for all his life to the doorstep closest to him. Locked door, crazy resident, home full of zombies or just pissed off squirrels, Paul was placing all his marbles into this bag; there were no other options. He could not make it to another house and he’d much rather see the zombie coming than get brought down from behind like a gazelle on the Serengeti.

Paul’s ankle groaned as he climbed the first step. If not for forward momentum, he would have brought his foot down and brought up his left. That was no bargain either as his foot wound broke open from the flexion of the move. Blood was seeping through his boot at an alarming rate. Paul had no time to take notice as he reached the top of the third step and got onto the landing. His zombie friend had finally got its feet under it and was now ready to continue its pursuit.

Paul reached out to grab the storm door, his hands slick with an unidentifiable, or at least, unwilling to identify, substance. His hand slid off as effectively as if the handle had been Vaseline-coated.

***

For the briefest of synapses, he remembered that time in college when Mike and he had gotten a particularly difficult Resident Assistant to quit his job. An RA’s job is sort of like den mother. It is his or her responsibility to make sure that no huge parties are held on the floor; or that any huge violations are being broken, (like having an oven in a dorm room). Sometimes they even act as a pseudo counselor when a freshman runs across the familiar homesick blues. Paul and Mike had the unfortunate luck of the draw, with their RA, he took his responsibilities a little too seriously. Most of the RAs were simply in it so that they could break all of the rules in a single; as opposed to the standard, two-to-a-dorm room. Gert (yes, he was a man) was studying to move on to grad school and could absolutely not stand any noise whatsoever on his floor. He had once written a sophomore up because her alarm clock was excessively loud.

Mike and Paul had been written up no less than five times in their first month on the floor. Six meant an automatic meeting with the dean and potential disciplinary actions, up to and including, expulsion. Mike and Paul had on more than one occasion caught Gert outside their door listening to see if he could get that elusive sixth offense.

“Is he there?” Mike asked Paul as Paul had snuck up to the door and quickly opened it, trying to once again catch him.

“No, but he was here recently. I can almost hear the echo of his goosestep as he went down the hallway.”

“Good one,” Mike had said. “We need to do something about him. We’ve been good for a few days now, but how much longer do you think we can last?”

“Not long, I’m already itching for another fiesta.”

“That’s what I’m saying. We need to get rid of the party Nazi.”

“Wouldn’t it just be easier to wait until next semester and move off this floor?”

“You think we’ll make it that far? And then we have to admit that he wins. And that sure doesn’t sound like the guy that threw perhaps the largest spitball ever conceived at Mrs. Weinstedder back in the sixth grade.”

“You sure do know how to flatter a guy. What’s your plan?”

“You think he’s in his room?”

“The only time he isn’t is either when’s he’s at class or writing a student advisory slip.”

“Alright, we’ve got to be careful. He’s got the other freshmen on this floor so wound tight, they might rat us out if they catch us.”

“You sure about all this, Mike?” Paul asked with some concern.

“I’d rather go out in a blaze of glory than skulking into the night.”

“I agree,” Paul said, feeling himself quite possibly being peer-pressured. There’s something to be said for skulking, Paul thought.

“Alright, I’m going to need your help with this one.”

Paul nodded and noted Mike taking a stack of pennies from their shared coin jar.

“When we get to Hurtie Gert’s door, you need to press on the top corner as hard as you can.”

“Which corner?” Paul asked.

“Valid question, the one above the doorknob.”

“What’s that going to do?”

“It’s going to give me the room I need to shove these pennies in.”

“You know our fingerprints are all over those things.”

“So? No way, do you think he’d get these dusted?”

“Who knows?”

“We don’t have our fingerprints on file, do we?”

“I don’t think so, but I’d rather not take the chance.”

Mike wiped all the coins on his shirt and then put a sock over his hand to grasp the coins.

“That doesn’t look suspicious at all.”

“Come on, let’s get this done.”

Mike kept his sock-clad hand in his pocket to allay any prying questions, should they arise. The twenty-five-foot walk to Gert’s door was uneventful. The only noise was when some unlucky student had dropped his chemistry book on his foot and cried out in alarm and pain. Paul and Mike had frozen, thinking Gert would come busting out of his door to quiet the offending student. He didn’t do that, but he had yelled for the clumsy scholar to shut up.

“He’s a very caring individual,” Mike had said, turning back towards Paul.

The door had groaned slightly as Paul pressed on the top corner.

“Harder,” Mike had intoned, looking at the gap being formed from the pressure.

The gap had finally widened to a liking for Mike as he pulled the pennies from his pocket and placed about seven of them in a stack against the bowed door and the frame.

“Let go,” Mike said.

“There was a brief second where the corner of Mike’s sock got pinched in the door. Paul thought it had been Mike’s finger and was waiting for the resultant scream that would most assuredly get them kicked out of school. Mike quickly pulled the sock out and bolted for their room, Paul hurriedly followed. They had no sooner shut their door when someone down the hallway had opened theirs.

“That was fucking close,” Mike laughed.

“Now what?” Paul asked, not sure what was going to happen. All he could think was that Gert might be mildly surprised with the clatter of change and would be seven cents richer for their effort.

“We wait.”

“This seemed funnier when we were talking about what we were going to do.”

“Wait, buddy, it gets better.”

As it turned out, it wasn’t too long of a wait before Gert decided it was time to go to the cafeteria and get some food. At first, there was nothing and then came the struggles of someone beating on their door. If it had been anybody else besides Gert, they would have received a violation. Nearly every door on the floor opened to see who had the balls to make that much noise.

Gert was beating on his door with closed fists, swearing in his native tongue of German.

“I always wondered how to say that,” said a pretty, little brunette named Debbie, who Paul remembered was taking German as her language of choice. “Interesting.”

“Someone needs to call the Fire Department! I am locked in my room!”

“He can’t get out?” Paul asked, turning back to a laughing Mike.

“No man! The pennies wedge the lock up against the slide; he can’t even turn the handle.”

“That’s brilliant, man.”

The ranting, cussing and general screams of fear continued for a full two minutes longer until a junior who had seen the prank before recognized it for what it was. He told Gert to move from the door. He then pressed against the corner of the door, and the pennies fell to the floor.

“What the hell is going on!?” Gert screamed as he came through the door.

Most of the meek freshman retreated back into their rooms.

“Was this you?” Gert asked the junior who had helped.

“Screw you, man, I just helped you. I should have left you in there.” And then he walked away.

The hallway was clear, save a few students, who decided this might be a good time to go get some food. Gert honed in on Paul and Mike like an eagle to a mouse.

Mike quickly pulled Paul in and shut the door.

“Do you think he knows?” Paul asked, smiling.

“I’m sure we’re on a short list.”

“Kind of like Spindler?” He was the boys’ old high school principal, who followed them around relentlessly, at least, until his car mysteriously burst into flames.

“Kind of like that, but by the time we’re done, we’ll make all that look like child’s play.”

For two weeks, Mike and Paul had harassed Gert to no end. On a particularly eventful evening, Paul gained illegal entry into Gert’s dorm room via a credit card and some precision maneuvering. Paul had hooked up Gert’s Bose stereo system to a timer set to go off in the wee hours of the morning. At precisely three-thirty-eight am on the morning of Tuesday the eleventh of October, “Runnin’ with the Devil” by Van Halen ripped through the night like a fire truck through a sleepy village.

“Fitting song,” Mike told Paul as they sat at their doorway. They were careful to only open their door when they heard the rest of the floor doing the same.

The music and Gert’s resultant cursing had been heard on the floor below and above. Despite Gert’s protestations, he had received his first written warning since he had started school four years previous.

“How much more of this do you think he can take?” Paul asked Mike after they had seen a hangdog expression on Gert as he exited the student lounge.

“I guess we’ll see,” Mike had answered. “The good thing is he’s been too paranoid to write anybody up.”

“He doesn’t look like he’s slept in days,” Paul said. “I’d almost feel bad if he wasn’t such a prick.”

“If who wasn’t such a dick?” Debbie asked. She was working the counter at the snack shop.

Mike looked up guiltily. “What did you hear?”

“That Gert’s a dick,” she said, flashing a smile.

Mike and Paul quickly rewound through their conversation trying to see how much they had given away.

“We never said Gert,” Paul said. Mike was inclined to believe him, but they had just shared a particularly large joint and Mike wasn’t entirely too sure what they had said. He had been so fixated on the large, frosted, chocolate chip brownie, he hadn’t even noticed Debbie working the counter.

“I saw you working on Gert’s door two days ago,” she said to Paul.

“Shit,” Paul answered her. “But that was two days ago, if you knew, and we’re still at school.”

“Relax! I can’t stand him either. He asked me on a date on the first day of school and when I told him no, he wrote me up the next day for having a candle in my room. Didn’t matter to him that it wasn’t even lit.” Debbie handed Mike two brownies.

“I don’t have enough for two,” Mike told her, brushing the dust off his wallet.

“They’re on me,” she said, flashing another smile.