by Brown, TW
“So what do we do with the prisoner?” Ken asked. “We may not have agreed to execute him, but we sure as hell ain’t gonna feed and care for him.”
“You are right. So maybe you can help me load him into the truck and give me a ride to my house?” Erin proposed.
“Sure,” Ken agreed with a shrug. “But I thought that you said you live next door. So why do we need to load that guy into the truck?”
“I do live next door. And out here, that is a good distance. As for Hank, I figure we could dump him on his doorstep. He lives about two or three miles up the road. His family has never been much for following the rules. Despite all of them having felony records, I am willing to bet we can find a good stash of guns and ammo. We will need everything we can get our hands on in the coming days.”
“So now we are the ones raiding other people’s houses?” Juanita protested weakly. “Doesn’t that make us just as bad?”
“Not at all,” Jason piped up. “Like we have pointed out, that kid has a nasty bite. He isn’t long for this world. We are just getting an early start on the salvage operation. Right?” He turned to Ken and Erin for confirmation.
“Whatever makes you feel better,” Ken huffed. He turned his attention to Rose. “You think your dogs will be okay if I brought them a friend?” He had almost forgotten about that doofy Golden Retriever that had so far ridden out all this insanity by staying down in the cab of the truck in a tight ball behind the driver’s seat.
“Umm, probably? Is your dog socialized?” Rose replied.
“I have no idea. The dog belonged to some guy down the street and just kind of tagged along with me.”
“The poor baby!” Rose exclaimed and dashed outside.
Ken shrugged, maybe she would take the thing off his hands and he would no longer have to worry about it. It wasn’t that he hated the dog, it seemed well-behaved. He just did not have the time or patience to worry about anything but himself at the moment.
A few minutes later, Rose returned with the dog. It was tight up against the woman’s legs. Immediately, Ken saw the black and white dog turn and give the newcomer a long look. Apparently it saw no threat and returned its attention down the hall. The red and white was a different story. Ken watched as the two dogs met; nose-to-nose at first, before engaging in all the assorted sniffing of butts and such that dogs are prone to do when they meet. Apparently the Golden was acceptable and the pair went to the couch and hopped up on it, each of them taking an end.
Ken shrugged. It looked like he wouldn’t have to worry about the dog any longer. It could be somebody else’s problem. He felt something inside kind of twist. He refused to accept that it was anything to do with how quickly that Golden Retriever seemed to just dismiss him and move on to the next person. He sighed and headed down the hall with Erin to fetch the boy.
***
Rose suddenly felt very tired. She looked down at Circe and saw that the dog’s large brown eyes were starting to slide shut despite all the activity taking place. Imp was an entirely different story. Where Circe had chosen to curl up at her master’s side on the couch, Imp was standing and his head was drifting from one stranger to another. Yet, it was to the hallway where he would always return his gaze. The fur around his neck still stood up just a bit more than normal, and the dog’s tail was sticking almost straight up. As for the new arrival, she had passed the sniff test and was now curled up at the opposite end of the couch.
Absently running her fingers through Circe’s fur, she glanced at the television. Somewhere along the line, it had been muted, but the EBS was still running its announcement about what people should do and where they should go. The crawler must have recycled twice by the time Erin and that older man came out carrying Hank Reynolds; Ken she thought was his name, but she was currently too tired to be sure (or care).
Reaching over, Rose gave Circe a scratch behind the ears. The dog took that as an invitation to climb up into her lap. Rose sighed and allowed the feelings of comfort that came from holding her baby to wash over her soul. Out of reflex, she had almost told the dogs to get down when they had both gone to the couch and climbed up. Violet had a strict policy when it came to pets being on the furniture.
“Not likely she will be enforcing that rule anymore,” Rose sighed. She leaned down and kissed the red and white Border Collie on the top of her head and hugged her close. Imp cast a look over his shoulder, but instead of joining them, he stretched out on the floor so that he was between her and the hallway where he still watched with his head tilting occasionally from one side to the other. The Golden simply closed…Rose peered closely…her eyes.
“What kind of dogs are they?” a voice caused Rose’s eyes to pop open. She had almost dozed off, and her obvious start made the man standing just a few feet away take a step back and raise his hands.
“Sorry,” the man said. “Name is Jason in case you didn’t get it earlier in all the madness. I was just wondering about your dogs is all.”
“They’re Border Collies,” Rose replied. “The red and white girl here in my lap is Circe and the black and white boy on the floor is Imp. I am pretty sure the new arrival is a Golden Retriever.” After a moment, she gave an embarrassed laugh and added, “And my name is Rose.”
“Pleased to meet you feels like a strange thing to say, but…”
“No, I understand,” Rose laughed.
“Can we turn the television up?” the woman named Juanita asked as she emerged from the bathroom. “It looks like somebody new is talking.”
Jason shot a questioning glance at Rose who nodded. She would have to make it clear that any thoughts of who was a guest or whatever social protocols from the past that people felt the need to observe were probably best left out the window.
“The remote is in the basket on top of the entertainment center.” Rose pointed.
Juanita grabbed it and held it out in front of her. A green bar moved across the screen, allowing the voice of the man behind a news desk to be heard.
“…have been informed that the president’s plane is reported to have crashed. No further details are being made available at the moment. However, we have been instructed by representatives of the United States Army to issue the following statement that reads as follows…” The man seemed to lean forward at the desk for a moment and squint. He looked past the camera. “Are you serious?”
A voice could be heard in the background, and the reply was loud enough to be heard clearly. “Read the teleprompter exactly as it is written.”
“The dead are returning to life. The CDC has confirmed that a living person bitten by one of the undead, or zombies as pop culture would call them, will turn within seventy-two hours, but some have done so in as soon as just a few minutes. There is no way to determine how fast or why the disparity in what are now called “turn” times. However, if a person has been bitten, you are required to either bring them to the nearest military-manned FEMA shelter or dispose of them yourself.
“There is to be no mistake, these are not your friends or loved ones. They will not recognize you in any manner or for any reason. Dr. Linda Sing had this to say…”
There was a flash on the screen and a poor quality video showed a doctor’s office that looked like any that a person would walk into. There were shelves of books in the background and several certificates or diplomas adorning the walls. Seated behind a desk was Dr. Linda Sing, the same woman who had gone on camera earlier in this same day to discredit any reports that the dead were returning and attacking the living. She looked tired and her uniform was a blood-stained mess. Also, she was wearing dark sunglasses.
“Am I on?” the doctor asked whoever was operating the shaky, handheld video device.
“Yeah.” It was one word, but the voice made it clear that whoever was holding the camera was agitated.
“Good. To whomever is watching, I am Dr. Linda Sing of the CDC. I am here to reverse my earlier statement that these people that are instigating attacks are not the dead come bac
k. After detailed observation of a specimen that had no vitals and had been declared dead, I was witness to that individual sitting up and attacking another person.
“There can be no doubt that this person was dead only moments before. However, after the specimen was restrained, numerous things were done that a living person could not endure, much less remain conscious during. Additionally, I can confirm that massive brain trauma seems to be the only method of dispatching these…individuals—”
“They’re fuckin’ zombies, you stupid bitch!” somebody off-camera yelled.
Dr. Sing glanced to the left and pursed her lips before continuing. “Simple decapitation is not entirely sufficient. While the body will become inert, the head still seems to function and a bite that transmits the infection can still occur.”
With that last statement, the doctor removed her glasses and leaned forward. It was not a necessary gesture. The dark traces in her eyes could be seen quite clearly.
“One of the telltale symptoms is the appearance of the darkening of the capillaries in the eye. If you are infected, I suggest you turn yourself over to the nearest FEMA center or military checkpoint. The only chance we have to contain this rests in your swift response—”
“That went out the window a long time ago while you fucking scientists sat on this information, you stupid bi—” another voice off camera hollered, but was cut off as the video ended abruptly.
The man behind the desk appeared on the screen once more. He was still looking past the camera in the studio, a look of what could very well be fear etched on his face.
“Umm…yes, well.” The man on camera looked past the camera again and seemed to grow even paler. A commotion could be heard in the background that ended with a woman’s shriek and a nasty crash.
“Read the teleprompter like you were told, or she endures more of the same,” a voice came over the broadcast clearly. The menace dripped from it with open hostility and no attempt to mask the threat.
“The United States Army has been given permission to…detain any person who shows signs of this infection—”
Click.
“That is enough of that,” Jason said. He’d picked up the remote that had fallen from Juanita’s hand at some point while they all stared at the television in disbelief.
“But—” Rose began, and Jason cut her off.
“This is a bad deal. We need to assume that no help is coming in any form. That gal Erin said that this farm and hers would be enough for us to take care of our needs for the foreseeable future.”
“My sister was in the process of trying to live off the grid or something. I never really got into it or paid any attention,” Rose sighed. Just mentioning her sister brought images of Violet and little Jacob tied down in the bed. And Crystal…
Tears came in a rush and Rose began to cry. It did not take long for her to lose control. She could not stop no matter how she tried. In fact, the more she tried to pull it back in, the worse it seemed to get.
The past several hours came in a rush. The first encounter during her run; the escape from Frank and the neighbor; discovering her sister and the note; Jacob; Crystal; and then the Reynolds family. It was too much. Something inside of Rose shut down, and all the dams seemed to burst as she spiraled into an abyss of fear, sorrow, and hopelessness.
***
“Turn down that road,” Erin pointed.
Ken veered down the dirt road that was too narrow for more than one vehicle at a time. As it was, his truck barely fit and the sounds of branches dragging down the sides made a fingernails-down-a-chalkboard sound that put his teeth on edge. The entry road went for quite a ways, and Ken was about to suggest abandoning this idea and backing out before it became even more of a chore, when they emerged into a large clearing.
Just ahead was a dilapidated single-wide. A tall fence of metal surrounded the trailer and a very large portion of the clearing. Ken stopped at the gate.
“Well?” He turned to Erin, but she was already opening the door and getting out of the truck.
With a sigh, Ken followed. Erin was at the rear of the truck, and had opened the door of the camper shell and was dropping the tailgate. Leaning in, she pulled the body towards her. Ken sighed and moved in to help. The twinge in his back was pretty sharp, but he pushed it down.
Together they hauled Hank Reynolds to the gate and laid him down. No surprise, a large chain and padlock secured the entrance. Without a word, Ken went back to his truck and climbed into the rear bed where the large toolbox was mounted just behind the cab. A few moments later he emerged with giant bolt cutters.
After making short work of the chain, Ken set the cutters down and they carried Hank to the trailer. They had just set the young man down at the bottom of the cinder block steps that led up to the door when a low moan carried on the quiet night air.
“Crap, that is inside the trailer,” Erin whispered.
“So?” Ken didn’t see why it mattered. They could just leave the guy outside. He was not their concern. Hell, he was lucky they had taken him this far. Ken would have been just fine leaving him in the ditch beside the road.
Erin moved up the stairs slowly, her machete coming free from its sheath as she reached the door and gave the knob a twist. No surprise, it was locked.
Ken watched, although he could not say that he was in any way surprised when she produced something from a pouch on her belt and went to work on the lock.
“What are you doing?” Ken stepped over Hank and joined Erin on the small, warped wooden porch.
Already he could smell the acrid stench that could be mistaken for a cat box. He knew the odor of a backwoods meth lab when he smelled it. He also knew the toxicity of the fumes. He was not going in that trailer no matter what might be inside.
“Ta-da!” Erin whispered. With a flourish, she opened the door and took a step back.
A zombie emerged from the doorway. It was a woman; that much was clear mostly due to her complete nudity. Erin gave the shambling corpse a gentle shove back.
“Oh, Sara,” Erin sighed. “I told you not to get mixed up with these guys.”
In the silver glow of the moon and the weak blue lights of the fluorescent bulbs flickering on the porch like something out of a bad movie, the zombie stepped back outside for Ken to get a better look at this time. She was a younger girl, close to Erin’s age which he guessed to be early twenties. She had that emaciated look like so many meth users. If he bothered to, Ken was certain he could count each rib. Her left forearm was wrapped in a filthy bandage that was held in place by what had to be several yards of duct tape.
With a swift upwards thrust, Erin drove the point of her machete up and into the chin of the zombie. Ken swore he heard the tip of the blade ting against the top of the skull. It did not go through, but that was more due to Erin jerking down and back to free her weapon.
“Don’t go in there,” Ken warned.
“Why, because of the toxic fumes?” Erin asked over her shoulder. She reached in and hit a light switch. “Come up here and tell me if holding our breath for a few trips might be worth it.”
Erin stepped away from the door and made an ushering motion with her arm to invite Ken to join her and look inside. With an exasperated groan, he came up the stairs.
“You think we can risk it?” Erin stepped back and let Ken take a better look.
“How does this happen?” he gasped.
The first thing a person could see when looking inside the Reynolds’ trailer was the heavy plastic that covered everything. To the right, you had a clear view to the kitchen where they obviously did their cooking, just probably not much in the way of food. Various fast food wrappers littering the floor as well as any horizontal surface acted as a visible testament supporting that theory. The counter was a mess of beakers, tubes, copper coils and gas burners. The table was littered with baggies, many containing shards of crystal meth.
However, that was not the standout feature; at least as far as Ken (and obviously Erin) w
as concerned. To the left were the living room and a hallway that led to at least two bedrooms and most likely a bathroom. The hall was stacked with metal boxes, the few that were open revealing what had to be several thousand rounds of varying calibers if all the boxes were actually full. Leaning against the wall were a variety of rifles; he saw a trio of .30-06s, five .22 caliber rifles and…
“A fucking M4?” Ken said with honest astonishment.
“Two.” Erin pointed to another weapon atop the canisters of ammo. “And how many freaking shotguns do you need?”
Leaning against one wall were fifteen shotguns of various makes and designs including three more street sweeper types with their huge cylinders.
“No handguns?” Ken turned to Erin with an arched eyebrow.
“In Missy’s room,” a voice croaked from the bottom of the stairs causing the pair to jump.
“Hank is it?” Ken walked down the stairs to the young man and nudged him with toe of his boot for emphasis.
“Yes, sir,” the young man croaked.
“Okay. So here is my question. Where are the masks?”
“M-m-masks?”
“Don’t play stupid, boy. I will drag your ass back up to the highway and leave you for one of those things.”
“Already been bit,” Hank said with a weak sneer. His efforts at bravado were pathetic at best and made all the worse when he cried out after Ken grabbed a handful of hair and jerked his head off the ground.
“You might be injured, but you ain’t dead yet. You want to see what it feels like to be torn apart and eaten alive? I am willing to bet it is a helluva lot worse than that little bite you are sporting.”
Ken could see in the young man’s eyes that a nerve had been struck. There was a moment where he thought Hank might be checking to see if perhaps there was a bluff being played. Ken sucked at poker, and the main reason was that he just did not have that ability to bluff. While he would never be credited with being overtly emotional, he still could not fake it. That had served him well during his years on the force. When confronted with a criminal, he was all business. Funny thing about criminals, they can usually tell. He had always credited it to a life based on lies and deception.
