by Rob Horner
He wanted to argue, she could tell. He wanted to ignore her and rush out to help the dogs.
Instead he released the door handle and raced through the kitchen, heading for the back of the house and their bedroom. “Get the boys up,” he said. “Get them downstairs.”
* * * * *
One of the traits which made for an efficient emergency nurse was a solid memory for detail. Whether taking a history from a patient in order to regurgitate it for the providers or listening to a doctor rattle off a list of labs and meds then running to fill his orders—being able to hear something once and recall it perfectly cut down on wasted time and improved patient care.
For Jessica, the ability to recall information went beyond auditory. If she did something once, she remembered how to do it again. That included driving. Though Tina lived so far outside the city that she was practically across the border into North Carolina, Jessica had no problem retracing her route. Dr. Crews remained silent for most of the drive, which helped. Conversation was one of the few things which could sidetrack her memory and make her lose her place.
A quick glance showed the doctor staring morosely at his leg, as if watching would stop the colorful lines from forming. That they hadn’t yet seemed a good sign; maybe he was immune. Or maybe the dogs couldn’t transmit the sickness back. It wasn’t so much being spared—though that was obviously a good thing—it was still being unsure as to his own status. Was he immune, or wasn’t he?
What would change if he was?
Jessica thought about that.
Would she be more or less careful if she knew she couldn’t contract whatever virus or disease was making everyone go crazy and turn cannibal? Just because they couldn’t turn her into a zombie didn’t make them any less dangerous to her, did it? A picture of Johnny as he’d looked a short time before, standing in the doorway to their bedroom, confirmed her danger. He hadn’t gone easily to the other side. Something, or someone, had torn his throat out. Immune or not, that was a fatal wound.
The other side.
For the first time, she wondered if the poor souls were trapped in their dead bodies. Were they aware, on any level, that they were dead but still up and moving? Johnny hadn’t smiled. He hadn’t acted anything like she remembered. Maybe it wasn’t him in there anymore. Maybe all those things which made him who he was really were gone, the soul moved on to heaven or hell or somewhere in between, or to nothing, as the atheists believed. It made thinking about them easier, simpler. If they were already dead, already gone, then nothing she did could truly hurt them. She’d be performing an act of mercy by putting them down.
Beside her, Dr. Crews stiffened, and Jessica held her breath, waiting for him to report that lines were appearing on his leg.
But he was only sitting up, apparently relieved. “So far, so good,” he said. There was a softness to his voice which hadn’t been there before, not even when they were dragging their asses out of the hospital, physically and emotionally drained. He was doing his best to hold back his grief and loss, and Jessica respected him for his strength, though it wasn’t fair. It shouldn’t have happened. And since it had, he shouldn’t be prevented from grieving. Holding in pain like that…well…it didn’t make anything better. This kind of pain, this grief, it was like a bad debt. You could hold off the collectors for a time, but they would always get their due.
And there would be interest.
“How much farther?” he asked.
“Not much,” she answered. “A few more miles and we’ll be there.”
He lapsed back into silence; his eyes closed.
Maybe being surrounded by friends would help.
Jessica hoped so.
* * * * *
Despite their deep sleep, both William and Bradley came awake quickly. William wanted to question, but one look at his mother’s face told him now was a time to listen and act.
Bradley was afraid, but he moved just as fast as his older brother, two big boys who were men in size but still and forever children in her heart.
Tina hustled out of Bradley’s room, following her younger son.
Their path took them downstairs and past the kitchen table where her coffee mug sat half-empty. Beside the mug were a Mossberg shotgun and a 9mm pistol. Bill was nowhere to be seen. The back door was shut but not locked. The curtain over the glass panes swayed; he must have just left to check on the dogs.
She paused by the door, straining to hear, but the barking had quieted. She didn’t hear anything from Bill, either.
William went straight for the pistol, picking it up and giving it a quick and thorough examination. Eighteen and ready to start college in the fall, he’d hunted and target practiced with his father since he was old enough to know which end of a gun to point at something. He ejected the magazine, counted the bullets, and slammed it back home. A practiced tug on the slide loaded a round in the chamber.
“Only fifteen here,” he said. “But Dad keeps a couple boxes in the cabinets downstairs.” He nodded at the shotgun. “There’re spare shells for that down there, too.”
Bradley hesitated long enough for Tina to grab the shotgun. Just as tall as his older brother but not quite as wide in the shoulders, Bradley shared a lot with William, but there were precious differences between them. Where William was outgoing and drawn to physical competition, Bradley preferred the quiet worlds inside a book to the noisome and messy places outside. Where they both performed well in school, Bradley dug deeper, and had several AP courses planned for the fall.
They were different, and that was all right. Tina was glad to still be Bradley’s protector, just as William was more than ready to step up and be hers.
“Go on down,” she said. “Move the couch near the walk-out door, but don’t block it yet. Move everything else over by the fireplace, ammo and water included.”
“Good call,” William said. “We can cover both doors from there.”
“What about you?” Bradley asked. “Aren’t you coming down with us?”
“I’ll be right behind you,” Tina said.
William started to say something else, but Tina’s silenced him by pumping the shotgun, readying a shell. He closed his mouth and gave her a nod, then led his younger brother to the stairs in the hallway.
Once their backs were turned, Tina steadied herself against the table. She closed her eyes, praying she wasn’t about to endure an encore of the horror in the hospital.
They couldn’t have followed them all the way out here.
On the other hand, if Bill was right and it started with an airborne bug, it wasn’t about being followed. It was about moving from one area of exposure to another.
God, please don’t let him be right. I love him to pieces but let him be wrong this time.
With her eyes closed, Tina didn’t notice the splash of light shining through the front windows, there and gone before she looked up.
Resolved, ready to find her husband and help her dogs, Tina hefted the shotgun and moved to the back door.
The sudden sound of two car doors slamming reached her before her hand could grasp the knob.
A fist pounded on the front door. A familiar voice called, “Tina! Let us in!”
* * * * *
Crossing I-85 at the community college and finding Twin Bridges Road confirmed Jessica’s belief that she was following the right path, retracing her route from an hour before. She drove slower, not wanting to miss the left turn onto Green Park Drive. It was near a curve in the road and the sign was partially overgrown by tree branches. Last time she’d had Tina watching and warning her the turn was coming. This time there was only her memory.
And Dr. Crews. But he was lost in his own grief and hardly fit for playing co-pilot.
She squinted in the darkness, focusing on the yawning blackness of intersecting streets rather than seeking out the shrouded signs.
Would it kill the homeowners to spring for a streetlight at the corner?
Jessica knew it could be done. Her own HO
A, useless for just about anything that didn’t involve measuring the shrubs outside the front window like some kind of foliage-Nazis, still managed to cough up the money to light several of the corners in the subdivision. This far out of town, there probably wasn’t an HOA. But still, how much could it cost?
Her headlights picked out a solitary form walking along the road, moving the wrong way, of course. Jessica cursed the education system which didn’t teach pedestrians to walk against traffic.
Except.
This guy wasn’t even trying to stay outside the white line. His feet shuffled left and right, almost like a toddler’s wide-stance waddle. He apparently heard the minivan approaching, its engine working a little as she accelerated up a rise. He turned in a strange two-part motion, first his head and shoulders, then his hips and legs, like one led the other and the two couldn’t work together.
If the manner of walking didn’t give away his nature, his clothes did. Cut off sweatpants which were shredded in ways no manufacturer or at-home fashion designer would ever contemplate showed way more than they hid. What was visible was a dangling mass of bloody tissue, unrecognizable as a male sexual organ; only their location gave a hint to their function.
“God,” Dr. Crews gasped.
The man’s dark skin glowed in the light, though with the night as a backdrop, it was impossible to tell if he was covered in blood or just wet for some other reason.
Maybe he’d come from a pool party.
Likewise, his shirt; she couldn’t tell the original color or if it was altered by dried blood. It was in much better shape than his pants.
Luckily, she’d been moving slowly, looking for her turn. With no oncoming cars, she veered around the staggering pedestrian, regaining the right lane. For the brief moment the apparition was visible in the rearview, now stained a universal red in the backwash of the taillights, it was obvious he’d turned again and appeared to be chasing the minivan.
Yeah, good luck with that, Jessica thought viciously.
Then, “Oh shit!” and she laid on the brakes. The minivan, a marvel of technology with front end sensors that did not detect an imminent collision, didn’t allow the brakes to lock or the tires to squeal. So, while no rubber was left behind the tires, the stop was still hard enough to get another curse out of Dr. Crews as he slammed his hands out to prevent himself toppling into the dashboard.
The opening to Green Park Drive yawned on the left. She’d almost missed it and was certainly too far forward to make the turn onto the street with the big vehicle. She’d have to back up a little.
The man in the rearview broke into a shambling run.
“Uh, Jess—” Crews said, twisting in his seat to look behind them.
“I see him,” she replied, flipping the gearshift into reverse.
It would be a close thing, her reversing while the man kept coming. If she was quick, she could back up just enough to make the turn, switch to Drive, and get going down the street before the guy could catch them. She thought about trying to hit him. He was one of those crazy should-be-dead-but-wasn’t guys; he had to be. But the thought of intentionally hitting a man with a vehicle couldn’t take hold.
She backed up quickly, not trying to turn or maneuver, just moving a dozen feet, studiously avoiding looking at the man looming larger and larger in the mirror. She slammed the brakes a second time, this time making Dr. Crews bounce back against his seat. The shambling man was almost at the car, hands out to grab or slap against the fiberglass, she wasn’t sure. Jerking the gearshift into Drive, she gave the wheel a yank and pulled onto Green Park Drive, zooming into the residential area at a reckless speed and still accelerating.
The yellow Drive Like Your Kids Play Here sign flashed by on the right and she eased off the accelerator. Four in the morning or not, some things were so ingrained in the driving subconscious that a simple reminder was all she needed to slow down. Without the brake lights, she couldn’t see if the shambler was still behind her, but she didn’t want to bet against it. Even in the hospital most of them seemed to have a single purpose—to get to as many people as they could. She wasn’t sure if their drive was precipitated by a hunger for food, a hatred of the living, or some ineffable other purpose, and she wasn’t about to get out and ask.
The first house on the left flashed by, dark building sitting on a dark lot.
Her headlights didn’t pick out any movement on the street.
Tina’s house was the next, the only other dwelling on the left side. Before reaching it, she could see the lower level ablaze with light. Tina must still be up, perhaps unable to sleep after what they’d seen in the hospital. Jessica understood. Her night was still going strong, after her run in with Johnny. She wasn’t sure how long the adrenaline would keep her going, but she sure as hell wouldn’t be able to sleep right now even if she had a locked room and a Purple mattress to crash on.
She slowed for the turn into the nurse practitioner’s driveway, headlights picking out a branched tree with a dangling tire swing in the front, then caressing the brick front facade. A mobile light, probably a flashlight, flicked this way and that in the backyard, picking out low, moving shapes. Tina had said something about dogs; maybe she was outside walking them.
“We’re here,” she said, putting the van in park.
She couldn’t discount the possibility of the lone zombie coming down the street after them, though they likely had several minutes before he caught up. Dr. Crews climbed out the passenger side, not moving as fast as her, though that could be explained by his hurt leg. Jessica tried not to think about that. If the doctor noticed anything going wrong, he’d tell her, right?
Sure, he would.
“Shit!” someone yelled from the backyard. It wasn’t Tina; that was a man’s voice. Maybe her husband?
Dr. Crews moved as though to bypass the house and get to the fence.
“Come on, let’s get inside,” Jessica hissed.
“What the hell, Karrie?” the voice asked. It sounded strong, maybe a little angry. Certainly not the voice of a man terrified for his life.
Jessica reached for the doorbell but couldn’t see one in the dark. Raising a fist, she pounded on the outer door. “Tina! Let us in!”
Chapter 17
Bill carried a twin to the Glock left on the table, a fifteen plus one 9mm. He’d debated leaving it in favor of the Mossberg, but then decided he couldn’t risk hurting one of the dogs if they were caught in the spray. Tina’s experience and his own presumptions aside, he didn’t really believe there were zombies fumbling through his little stretch of woods. More likely one or both of his dogs caught a scent of fox, probably a gray, and had it treed. He’d had a hard time at first, accepting that some foxes could climb trees like a cat. The reds couldn’t, but the grays of North Carolina proved remarkably efficient at adaptation.
A fox wouldn’t be a danger, but it would be considered a trespasser on the property, and the big dogs weren’t likely to leave it alone, no matter how much he called to them. Better to see what the problem was and deal with it if he could. Otherwise he was dooming himself and Tina to a restless night of very loud large dog barking.
Bill chuckled and shook his head. Despite what he thought, he’d pulled out all three weapons and sent Tina to wake the boys. Clearly, he wasn’t as unconcerned as he tried to tell himself.
The big dogs weren’t barking anymore, and he hadn’t heard anything from them since Bear let out his scream.
It’ll be just my luck, he thought. I’m going to find Bear with his throat bitten and the other two moping around.
He didn’t stop to wonder what could possibly tear out the throat of a hundred-pound dog.
Raising an industrial flashlight—solid steel casing and four heavy-ass D batteries, thank you very much—Bill crossed his gun hand over the flashlight hand and moved away from the house, down the porch stairs and to the dry summer grass. Having big dogs usually meant having to avoid big dog poop piles, but that was the beauty of seventeen acres
in the country. The dogs liked to wander off into one of the farther areas of grass near the back fence line to do their business. He didn’t know if they did it to be courteous to him, his kids, or to themselves, and he didn’t care. He’d been dealing with Kuvasz for over a decade and had never stepped in a pile of their mess. They might shed like crazy and leave long stringers of white fur on low hanging branches like an alien lichen out of a science fiction movie, but they protected the family and policed themselves. He couldn’t ask for anything more from a dog.
Some companionship would be nice occasionally, he amended. Damn kuvasz are more like cats than dogs sometimes. They’ll come if they feel like it, obey if they want to, and cuddle on their terms.
The flashlight was old-school in design, something a Night Watchman might carry on a patrol route of marina, but the inside was all brand-new LED technology. A single click of the power button made the tip glow like a lightbulb, illuminating a wide area, including himself. The instruction booklet called it the “campfire” setting. A second click turned it into a mini spot, a tight, focused beam of over 400 lumens, with which he could guide his steps and search the distant grass, looking for his dogs or for whatever animal they’d cornered.
A slight breeze rustled the trees, late summer foliage as dry as kindling clicking and clacking as the branches swayed. The grass between the house and the stretch of trees was short and dry, kept neat by a landscaping crew they called out every two or three weeks. Bill ached for the day when he could maintain his land by himself, when he had the kind of time his father had at the end of the work week. A big part of that dream included owning the tools to make the work manageable; he’d had his eye on a zero-turn riding mower at Tractor Supply for some time now. It even had cup holders.
