by Urban, Tony
“You still do.”
Wim could feel his cheeks heat up as a blush spread across them. “Anyway, when I told people my name, it came out more like ‘Wim’. It stuck.”
“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Wim. I’m Ramey. Do you live around here?”
Wim nodded. “About eight miles back that way.”
“I’ll follow you?”
“I like that plan.”
Chapter 40
It was dark when Aben came to, and he was pleased to discover that he hadn’t bled to death during his unintentional siesta. Part of him wondered if maybe he had died and didn’t realize it. Do zombies know they’re dead?
He looked at what used to be Dolan and his stomach flip flopped. He had no desire to take a bite and that convinced him he wasn’t a zombie. He climbed to his feet, careful not to disturb his destroyed hand and tucked the dead policeman’s pistol into the waistband of his pants.
Aben vacated the police station and as he stepped out into the night, the first thing he saw was a zombie stumbling up the street. It was an older woman, clad in a floral print housecoat that hung halfway between her knees and ankles. Her hair was rolled up in blue curlers.
More zombies filled the town. Some of them grouped together like packs of feral dogs while others went the lone wolf route. Aben was careful to avoid all of them, but he took out the pistol just to be safe.
The more he moved, the more his hand ached. It was a throbbing fire that burned the whole way up his arm. He risked a glance at the bloody, mangled mess and knew it was only a matter of time before infection set in. If the situation in this town was an indication, a trip to the hospital was not an option.
Aben never believed much in fate, but when he saw a faded awning reading, “Clark’s Hardware, Tools & More,” he took it as an omen.
He used the grip of the pistol to knock out a pane of glass on the door to the shop. He scanned his surroundings to make sure none of the zombies heard, then reached through and opened the door and moved inside.
After browsing the store for a few minutes, Aben had gathered together a series of items he thought might be of use. A first aid kit, a table vice, a Bernzomatic gas torch and a reciprocating saw. Thank God for battery powered tools. Tinkering with the equipment kept his mind off what he was about to do, at least to some extent, but before long, everything was ready to go and it was time to focus.
Aben started off by using the vice to secure his ruined hand to the checkout counter. He tightened it down as hard as he could stand, then tried moving his arm. It didn’t budge and he was content that it would stay in place.
He loaded the reciprocating saw with a dual purpose blade, one suited for cutting both wood and metal. They didn’t make blades meant for cutting through bone, at least, not ones you could buy in the corner tool shop, but if this six-inch yellow blade could cut through steel, he didn’t think his ulna and radius would put up too much of a fight. He had the torch close by and could only hope he didn’t pass out before he could use it.
Aben squeezed down the trigger of the saw with his right hand, just to get a feel of it. It jerked like a son of a bitch, but it had enough weight that he felt gravity would work in his favor. He rested the blade about an inch above the cut on his wrist. He wondered if he should count to three, got to one, then went to town.
The pain as the saw cut through the layer of skin coating his arm wasn’t as bad as he’d expected. It was fast and reminded him a little of a time he’d skinned his knee down to the bone playing wiffle ball in a church parking lot. But that only lasted two seconds. Then he was on to the hard part.
When the blade hit the white bone his entire body shook. He worried that his arm would be jerked free from the vice and pressed down even harder. He felt the scorching heat as the friction turned the blade red hot. The pain he’d felt when his hand was degloved was a pinprick compared to the saw ripping through his radius. There was a moment of relief as the bone gave way, but the radius was next. Why didn’t I get drunk?
He felt himself slipping away. Maybe it was the blood loss – it was coming out so fast – or maybe it was the pain. Either way, he tried to focus on the pain which was worse than he ever could have imagined but he latched onto it to kept himself conscious.
About half way through the smell hit him. It was like burning hair combined with a sirloin steak cooked too long on a charcoal grill. He held his breath as he kept cutting. His good hand had gone numb from holding onto the vibrating saw and he needed to finish while he could still hang on to it.
After what seemed like an eternity, he felt the radius bone splinter and break, and with the hard material out of the way the blade ripped and tore through the remaining flesh in seconds. The saw tumbled from Aben’s hand and crashed against the floor where it petered out in a few dying chugs.
Even though he’d kept the belt tourniquet in place, blood still rushed from the site of the amputation. He grabbed the Bernzomatic. What an appropriate name. It sounded like something Ron Popeil would sell in a late night infomercial.
“Buy the Bernzomatic and you can do your own at home amputations!”
He pressed the button and blue flamed roared from the nozzle. Aben gritted his teeth so hard he thought they might shatter as he held the fire to the bloody stump of his wrist and cauterized the wound. After ten seconds of fire, he turned it off and set the torch on the counter.
Aben was proud of himself for not passing out again. He expected to lose consciousness half way through the cutting part and then bleed to death with his arm trapped in a vise. Then he’d come back as a zombie and spend eternity stuck to the table and unable to move more than a foot in either direction. That would suck even if he was dead.
He looked down at the black flesh of his arm, pleased with the results. He’d seen field amputations in Iraq that weren’t much better. Aben dumped an entire bottle of peroxide over the wound, then wrapped it in gauze. He finished it up by securing the white gauze to his arm with duct tape. He was a man, after all.
Aben deposited various first aid supplies into a canvas bag which he then slung over his shoulder. He took an eight-pound hammer maul in his remaining hand and headed into the night.
Chapter 41
Bolivar and Peduto fled south, out of the city. They caught I-95, but by the time they got to Crum Lynne, a multi-vehicle pileup blocked the road, making it impassible. They abandoned the Smart Car and made their way on foot.
Peduto made several attempts to contact Sawyer via the radio to no avail. Neither of them said anything about that. Peduto then tried other bands, but the radios had gone silent. They were unsure whether that was intentional or a sign that things had taken a terrible turn.
Outside the Chester Prison they ran up on a group of zombies eating a policeman, and when the zombies saw them, three of the creatures ditched the cop buffet and gave chase. Peduto shot two of them and they lost the third after cutting through a park.
By this point, Peduto wheezed and struggled to keep up. They came across an abandoned Saab with the engine still running. A severed and chewed upon arm rested on the seat, but the car had over half a tank of gas and the situation didn't allow them to be choosy.
They caught Highway 13, where they drove as fast as they could. Only a handful of cars moved on the road, but plenty of abandoned vehicles littered the highway. Jorge noticed some of them contained undead passengers fighting to get out. Apparently, in death, fine motor skills like the type needed to open car door handles disappeared.
Random zombies roamed about and a few of the fast ones gave chase to them as they passed by, but they soon lost interest when the Saab sped away. Jorge drove while Peduto rested. Her breaths were thick, and she kept clearing her throat of phlegm. Neither of them acknowledged that either.
Just before noon, they hit the section of 13 where it aligned with Interstate 495 and ran parallel to the Delaware River. South of Philly, there were a few more cars in motion and when they got to 495, it had an almost normal amount of traffic mov
ing in both directions. They hadn’t seen any zombies in miles.
“Pull over for a few minutes,” Peduto said and Bolivar eased the car onto the berm.
She stepped out of the vehicle and stretched out the aches. She walked around the rear and took a seat atop the gray trunk as she looked north toward the city in the distance. Bolivar joined her.
At 11:58 jets roared overhead, and they weren’t the kind carrying passengers into Philadelphia International. They were warplanes: A-10 Thunderbolts, and they were headed to the city.
Precisely at noon, the smoke came into view. Black masses of it billowed into the air in a way that reminded Bolivar of the footage of wildfires in California he saw on the news almost every year. Only there was nothing natural about this. The city of Philadelphia was burning and whoever had still been alive when the fire rained down was incinerated.
He felt empty inside as the realization swept over him. He’d seen horrible, unbelievable things the last few days, but part of him still believed it could be reversed. But there was no coming back from this. Nothing could ever be the same again. He felt like he had a front row seat to the end of the world.
“I’m sorry,” Peduto said.
Bolivar noticed she was staring at him, not at the city. It was only then he realized his cheeks were wet with tears. He wiped them away with the back of his hand.
“It doesn’t seem real, does it? None of this,” he said.
She didn’t respond. Instead, she slid off the trunk and got back into the car. Bolivar followed, and they drove on.
Chapter 42
Wim built a fire in the stone pit outside his home and cooked them supper. Canned meat and veggies combined into a makeshift stew. The flames and the smell reminded him more than a little of burning the bodies of his acquaintances and neighbors in town, but constant chatter from Ramey helped take his mind off that part.
The girl was a talker, that was for sure. He thought it seemed her natural demeanor, but her rapid pace and sky high inflection made him believe at least some of it was nerves.
She had an edge to her; one he suspected hadn’t built up over just one day. But there were fleeting moments, like when she told him about getting an uncontrollable fit of laughter during her junior high Christmas pageant and her father laughing along in the audience, where he could see the shell wasn’t too thick.
He got most of her life story over the course of an afternoon and evening. She left out the part about Bobby Mack, but didn’t hold back on the rest. Ramey was candid about her mother’s life and death and had just started on the subject of her father.
The wistfulness she used when speaking about him made the man seem almost heroic. Wim wondered how a man who could walk out on his family during a crisis was worthy of such admiration, but he listened and didn't judge, at least not out loud.
“He always thought I’d grow up to be a scientist like him, or maybe even a doctor. But even when he was around, I didn’t want that life. Cooped up in a lab all the time, surrounded by all that sickness."
She shivered. The sun had set and only the orange embers of the fire illuminated them. “Your log is closer to the fire than mine,” Ramey said and she used that as an excuse to sidle up next to him.
Her thigh brushed against his and he almost scooted away. She was eighteen and an adult, or so she said, but all her talk of high school drama had made the years between them feel like a chasm. Nevertheless, as she leaned into him and rubbed her hands over her upper arms for warmth, he decided that sharing body heat was normal enough.
“I think it broke his heart when I wouldn’t go with him. And I probably wanted to hurt him, at least a little, because I thought if he saw I wasn’t leaving, maybe he’d stay, too. Stay for me. But he didn’t.” She fell silent for a little while, but that was okay. Wim didn’t mind and she never stayed quiet for long.
“I have to try to find my dad. I know it’s ridiculous. And I know he’s probably as dead as everyone else, but I need to know for sure.”
Wim stared into the rust-colored coals and pondered this. He did think it was ridiculous. Ridiculous and needlessly dangerous, but who was he to crush whatever little hope she still had left?
“I understand. I do believe it’s safer here, though. I’ve pretty near cleared the area of zombies. It wouldn’t be a bad place to wait things out for a while. At least, until we see what happens."
“I know.” She reached over and placed her small, soft hand atop his thick, calloused palm. “And I won’t ask you to leave here. But I have to know. I have to go on.”
Wim slid his hand free and took a hickory stick he’d been using as a poker and stirred the coals. They blazed crimson momentarily before fading back down. “All right. But stay in Mama’s room tonight. The linens might be a little musty, but the bed’s soft and I suspect you need your rest.”
She looked up at him and smiled. He felt gooseflesh prickle his forearms and it wasn’t because of the cool, May air.
“I’ll do that.” Ramey stared at him so long he broke eye contact and looked away.
“Are you happy here, Wim?”
He didn’t meet her gaze as he tried to answer the question, both to himself and aloud to her. “I was. I won’t lie, it got lonesome at times, but that never bothered me all that much. Now…” His eyes drifted up and he saw she still examined him. “I guess I’m not sure about a lot of things anymore. What made you ask?”
“I couldn’t understand why someone like you is all alone in the world. I figured it must be by choice.”
She covered her mouth to hide a yawn. “I think you’re right about needing rest.” Ramey stood and stretched and he couldn’t help but notice how the remaining light of the fire silhouetted her figure.
“Thank you, Wim, for saving my life and for bringing me in to your home.” She bent at the waist and gave him a soft kiss on his cheekbone, just below his right eye. “And for not letting me be all alone tonight.”
He opened his mouth to say, ‘You’re welcome,’ but before he could work out the words, she skipped toward the house.
He sat there for a long while and watched the fire wither, then die out completely. It occurred to him he’d spent more time talking to this girl he’d known for only a few hours than he’d spent talking to his neighbors in several years. It surprised him how much he enjoyed it.
Wim retreated to the house and checked the bedroom. The door hung half open and he saw Ramey sprawled on the bed. She looked to have fallen asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow and hadn’t even covered herself. Her breaths came out in soft puffs. Wim tiptoed into the room and took a blanket from the cedar chest. She didn’t wake when he cloaked her in it.
In the morning, she was gone.
Even without the roosters around to cock-a-doodle-do, Wim woke before sunrise. Long habits were hard to break. He hadn’t undressed the night before and didn’t bother changing clothes. After he made his bed, he eased out of the room and into the hall.
The bedroom door hung ajar and when he peeked inside the bed was empty. The blanket he’d covered Ramey with the night before was folded neatly at the foot of the bed. It surprised him that the girl was up so early. He was also disappointed as he’d hoped to fix something passing for breakfast for her before she awoke.
He found the kitchen as empty as the bedroom, and when he looked out the window he saw that his Bronco sat alone at the end of the dirt driveway. The only sign of her truck were some fresh tracks in the soft earth.
“Well. Damn.”
He liked the girl. He enjoyed her silly stories and her sense of humor. But more than that, he liked her company, even if he’d only shared it for half a day. He also felt sick with worry. It was one thing being alone on the farm. It was another altogether being alone out there, on the road where any number of awful things could happen.
His appetite had disappeared, but he sat at the kitchen table until the sky transitioned from navy to robin’s egg blue. Then he moved outside where he saw a note tuck
ed under the windshield wiper of his Bronco. There were only four lines of pretty, loopy script.
“Thank you again for everything and for understanding why I have to leave. I took a box of bullets. Now I know the gun can fit six.”
She signed off with a lopsided heart and the letter ‘R’.
Wim folded the note into fourths and slid it into his back pocket.
“I never expected this would happen, but I’m leaving the farm.”
Wim sat facing his parents’ tombstone. He’d gathered a clump of yellow tulips and held them in his hand. He looked from the silky petals to the grave, then back and forth again.
All morning long doubt and worry filled him to the brim. He knew the opportunity to find Ramey had likely vanished. She’d shown him the map to her father’s supposed residence, and he remembered the general location in southern West Virginia, but there were a dozen or more possible routes to get there.
At the same time, he knew nothing remained for him here. No farm. No animals. No town. And even though he frequently talked to his parents’ headstones, they were long gone, too. Staying on the farm might be the safe choice, but it was a pointless one. A choice with no future. He was tired of simply existing. He needed to know what was happening in the world around him and if there was any point in going on.
Wim set the tulips in front of the marker and traced his fingers over the “Mother” engraving. “I’ll miss you so much, but this is something I have to do. I know you’d understand, but that doesn’t make it much easier.”
Wim leaned in and kissed the tombstone. “I love you, Mama.”
He left the only home he’d ever known and took nothing more than the guns, ammunition, and a small family photo album. He realized, with everyone dead, the album contained not only his memories, but the only proof he and his family had ever existed.
Wim locked the front door behind him and resisted the urge to look back as he climbed into the Bronco and drove away. He turned left at the end of the driveway and headed down the empty, two lane road.
