by Gill, Bonnie
"That's crazy. I've never heard of a virus that makes you violent," Star says, her voice shaky.
"Something doesn't sound right about this," Daria adds. "Wow, look at that." She points out the window.
Three cars are pulled off to the side of the road. One guy stands off to the side and is holding a large hunting knife. Another man presses a towel against his neck, with blood covering his shirt. Several other people are milling around the cars. I ease off the gas so we don't accidently hit them.
"I think the world has gone nuts," Star declares as she makes a circle with her finger by her ear. "What do you think is going on over there?"
“I don't know, and I don't care.” I press on the accelerator to speed away. We finish the drive home, and I park the truck on the gravel spot in front of my home. Dean waves at me from next door, where he’s talking to Mrs. Garcia. Both have worry lines etched on their faces.
"You two should get inside and change into something warmer," I say to Star and Dara as I walk toward Dean and Mrs. Garcia.
Star and her friend run up the stairs into the trailer.
"Raven, I'm so glad to see you’re okay. I've been reading the message boards, and they say the infected are attacking healthy people. They call them gabbies, after the Gabhart virus. There’s footage of people fighting and looting in Chicago." Dean rakes his hand over his short hair. His pinched lips tell me he’s genuinely concerned.
“That can’t be right. Why would someone who’s sick attack a healthy person? Unless they're delirious.”
He continues, "The news says their sister stations in San Francisco and Houston have gone dark. No one has heard from them. The last footage from those areas showed riots. Also, haven't you heard all the military planes and helicopters flying overhead for the past half hour?"
"I was inside the bar picking up those two." I thumb over my shoulder at the trailer.
He lets out a deep breath. "I don't like this. I think we need to pack up and make a game plan. The next thing you know, the government will instate Martial Law. They'll corral us up like livestock, and that'll be the end of everything. Tell Star and Daria to pack some things."
He's overreacting. He has to be. "I've heard the best thing to do in situations like this is to bug in." I don't want to be caught on the road after curfew and be thrown in jail. "I need to check on Dorothy and Edith. They're both sick." I hope they're feeling better and have only caught a cold or something. But honestly, I’m getting worried.
Dean places his hands on his hips. "They said to stay away from the sick. And what do you do? You make a special trip to visit them.”
"Don't worry. We'll wear masks and rubber gloves. Okay? I don't want to catch the flu."
He nods but doesn't look happy. He knows he can’t change my mind.
Star, Daria, and I pull on latex gloves and germ masks like the ones doctor’s offices give out to keep you from contaminating the waiting room. My sister has a stash of nursey things like that in her bedroom. I’m not the only one in the family who preps.
Together, we make our way over to Dorothy’s trailer. "Dorothy?" I call out as I knock on her front door. The lights are off, and no one answers. I turn to Star and Daria. "Maybe they took her to the hospital?"
"I think I hear something inside," Daria says. "It sounded like a bump."
"I hope she hasn't fallen," Star worries aloud.
Turning the knob, I push the door open. A sick, sour smell pours through the slight crack.
"Pew." Daria fans her face.
The trailer smells like a combination of an overfilled outhouse and the dead squirrel I pulled out of a motor a few months ago. My mask isn't filtering the smell at all.
A crash comes from the bedroom. "She must be in there." I flick the lights on in the living room. Dorothy’s living room has a flowered sofa and the mishmash of clown knick-knacks invading her end tables give me the willies. Bright colored, black velvet clown paintings cover her walls to add more to my horror.
We tiptoe to the bedroom. Bang. Bang. It sounds as if someone is throwing themselves against the door. "What if she's locked in?"
"They said the infected are attacking people," Daria whispers. "Maybe we should leave."
Star pushes past her. "That's ridiculous. Besides, she only weighs eighty pounds. I think we can take her.”
Slowly, I open the bedroom door. Dorothy runs at us, screaming like a tiny harpy from hell. Her skin is a grayish color, there’s dried blood plastered around her nostrils, brown stuff is caked on the back of her nightgown, and her eyes are bloodshot and milky. She latches onto my arm with her mouth. "She's biting me!" I try to pull my arm away, but she holds on tight. "Get her off of me! Her cold slimy tongue is swishing around on my arm. Gross.” My heart beats faster than pistons in a race car's engine. I want to punch Dorothy in the face to get her to release, but I also don't want to hurt her.
Both Daria and Star tug at her body until her wrinkled fingers lose their grasp. Her lips make a suction noise when pulled from my arm. Her eyes are crazy wide, and she's making a chomping motion with her toothless mouth. They shove her back into her bedroom.
Star slams the door, breathing heavily. "Let me see your arm."
I push up my sleeve, no blood. "She didn't break the skin. She didn't have her dentures in." I rub my arm, convinced the assault will leave a bruise or at least a large hickey. That woman has a strong bite for someone without teeth.
"This reminds me of a zombie movie I saw," Daria says. "You can't let them bite or scratch you, or you'll turn into one."
We’ve watched the movies together, and she's right. At least according to fiction. If Dorothy is a zombie and had her dentures in, I would be infected. My heart pounds harder in my chest. "Okay. But do you think she's dead? Maybe we should call her doctor? The number is here on her fridge." I point at the business card magnet.
"I'll do it." Star dials the number on her cell phone. "Hello? Dr. Patel?" She nods to us. "I'm a friend of Dorothy Miller. She’s caught the flu, and she just attacked us. Is she dead? Is she a zombie?"
Way to go Star. That sounds completely professional.
"Okay. Yes. Okay. Thank you." She hangs up the phone, and her nose crumples up.
"What did he say?" Daria asks.
"He said that the Gabhart virus infects your brain. It kills the host quickly, and that's when the person gets violent. So, yes, in a way, she's a zombie. He said to keep away from her and all the other infected. The only way to stop her is to destroy her brain." She lets out a shaky breath.
"Zombies! Oh, my gosh." I look at my arm again. A large, circular bruise is starting to form right below my elbow. "I could've caught it." My head suddenly feels light and spinney.
"Sit down. You look like you might pass out," Daria says.
"Yeah, you're pasty and swaying." Star leads me over to the couch.
"I can't believe this. We have to warn people. Why hasn't the news or radio warned us?" I let my face drop into my hands.
A loud thudding comes from the bedroom door, causing us to jump in surprise.
"I think she wants out. We should leave now, or we may have to kill her," Daria informs us.
"You can't kill her, it's against the law. I’m not participating in this escapade. I look horrible in orange." Star narrows her brow.
"Everyone looks bad in orange. That’s the reason they chose it for inmate outfits. Anyway, how is it against the law if she's already dead?" I ask.
A loud knock startles us, and Mrs. Garcia steps through the front door. "Hello, Dorothy?"
I leap from the sofa and run to the door. "Don't come in here! She's really sick."
Mrs. Garcia takes in our masks and gloves. "We should call the ambulance."
Star comes up behind me. "We called her doctor. Based on what he said, I think it might be too late."
Mrs. Garcia pushes her way past us.
"Wait!" I call out behind her.
Daria stands in front of the bedroom door with her arm
s splaying. "You don't want to go in there, Mrs. Garcia. She's a zombie. She bit Raven. Show her." She points to me.
"You girls have been watching too many of those horror movies," Mrs. Garcia says.
"No, she's right." I pull up my sleeve and show her the round mark on my arm. "She would've broken my skin if she had her teeth in."
"I'll call an ambulance," Star says in an exasperated tone.
Mrs. Garcia crosses her arms over her chest, not buying into the zombie story.
Another bump comes from the bedroom.
"What if she needs our help?" Mrs. Garcia asks.
"When we called her doctor he said, the people infected with the Gabhart virus die, they come back violent because the virus invades their brain." I tug Mrs. Garcia further away from the door.
"911 doesn't answer," Star calls out.
"What do you mean? They have to answer." Mrs. Garcia throws up her arms.
"Try again," I instruct. “Let’s all try.” We pull out our phones, and I dial nine-one-one. Ring. Ring. I let it ring fifteen times, hang up, and dial again.
No answer.
"Let me do it." Mrs. Garcia grabs my phone and dials. Her face grows more pale with each ring. "They always answer. I can't believe this. I'm dialing the police directly. What’s the number?"
Star looks up the non-emergency number and reads it to her. We all wait while she dials.
"I think your phone is broken. It's not even ringing now." She hands it back to me.
I look up the police number and dial. Nothing. There's still a signal, so I try again and hear an ‘All circuits are busy’ recording. Tucking my phone in my back pocket, I ask, "What about Edith? How's she doing?"
"I just came from there. Her fever is a hundred and two. I gave her something to bring her fever down and put her to bed," Mrs. Garcia says with a sad shake of her head.
"We should check on her.” We should nail her door shut like we should do to Dorothy's door even though she can’t bite though skin.
"What if Dorothy gets out? Who will destroy her brain?" Daria looks more scared than I've ever seen her. Usually, she's fearless, but at this moment, she looks like a deer dazed by headlights on a freeway.
"No one is killing Dorothy." Mrs. Garcia purses her lips.
"The doctor said not to let the infected bite us and to destroy their brain." I don’t want to do it. How could I hurt Dorothy?
"Just like zombies," Daria adds solemnly.
"If we tie her up, I can check to see if she still has a heartbeat. I have a stethoscope at home." Star heads for the door as she mutters, “I’m not killing her though.”
"I need fresh air," Mrs. Garcia hisses as she storms out of the trailer.
Daria and I follow her outside. The sky is clear and several stars twinkle above. Silence envelopes the mobile home park as if a major catastrophe isn’t happening.
She narrows her eyes and points her finger at us. "Are you girls taking any drugs? You know we'll get you help."
We all shake our heads.
Dean walks up to us. "What's going on?"
"The sick people are turning into zombies," Daria says with a little too much zest.
Then all hell breaks loose.
3
Mrs. Johnson screams and runs out of her front door. Mr. Johnson follows her in his tighty-whities. He's struggling like he's drunk, staggering and making grunting noises, but still moving at a good speed.
Blood streaks down her shirt from the torn flesh on her collarbone. "Help me please," she cries, but sprints in the opposite direction from where we stand.
Mr. Johnson screeches to a stop and looks from her to us. He sniffs the air as if he smells Christmas cookies, and shifts our way. His gray skin and blackish goo around his mouth makes me think gabbie.
"Oh, God. He's coming toward us," Star reports.
We don't move. They always say if a wild animal spots you, don't run. My breathing becomes more rapid, and my lungs aren't able to fill with oxygen. Screw this. We need to act fast. “He'll eat our faces off if we don't get out of here. Inside," I yell.
We dart down the street to my mobile home, Mrs. Garcia’s and Dean’s pounding feet behind us.
I yank open the door, and we jump inside. Dean slams the door behind him and locks it.
"What the heck?" he asks. Now I’ve seen Dean under some stressful situations, like the time he hired a high school kid part-time for oil changes. He said the teen was dealt some bad cards in life, and he wanted to give the kid a chance to make something out of himself. The only problem was the kid was dumber than a box of dirt. He messed up constantly. One time he put the wrong oil into a vehicle, and another time he forgot to put the oil in altogether. The engine blew and poor Dean had to rebuild it for the customer. The final straw was when the kid didn’t rack the vehicle properly, and the car fell off the lift on top of him. We thought for sure he was dead. He wasn’t. Dean was pretty rattled then, but now? Now he’s jolted. Dean’s face has no color whatsoever.
Mrs. Garcia makes the sign of the cross on her chest and is breathing hard.
Loud crashes and bangs sound at the front door. The whole trailer shakes.
"He’s cracked the glass in our storm door," Star says, while looking out the window. "He’s trying to get in."
I run over to see for myself. Sure enough, splinters of glass surround Mr. Johnson as he slams his face against the door. Thick dark blood oozes from the deep cuts on his arms.
"Kill him," Daria says. "He won’t stop until he breaks the whole door down. He wants to eat us."
We're all looking out the windows. All that's going through my head is this isn't happening. It's a figment of my twisted imagination. We have to do something.
"My gosh. They are zombies." Mrs. Garcia points to the right. Three people are heading toward my home, two males and a female. They hobble through the yards at a fast pace. A male trips over Mrs. Garcia's little fence. She has a pinched expression on her face, and I imagine her running for her flyswatter.
Dean cocks his head and leans closer to the window. "What's hanging from that woman's mouth?"
"Huh. It's an eyeball," Star answers while looking through a pair of binoculars. "Look, the optic nerve is stuck in her teeth. Gross." She hands them to Dean. Her hands are shaking as he takes them from her.
He focuses in on the zombies. "That's some sick stuff," he says.
We're all speechless, watching the horrendous sight. I've watched plenty of zombie movies and even critiqued them. I've yelled at the characters to run or kill the creatures. But now I'm living the outbreak and don't know if I have it in me to murder my neighbors, even if my life is at risk. I look at Star, Daria, Dean, and Mrs. Garcia and realize I can kill for them. I will slaughter any monsters to keep my family and friends alive.
"Do you think they're eating people?" Star asks.
"Of course, they are. That's what zombies do," Daria says.
The banging gets louder. My fake cactus falls from a shelf and crashes to the floor. Bits of terra-cotta and green plastic scatter on the linoleum.
Dean hands the binoculars back to Star. "I'll take care of them." He has a determined look on his face. He pauses in my living room. "Can I borrow your gun?"
"Which one?" I ask. I've accumulated a nice stash of weapons.
He raises his brows. "You have several?"
"Yes." I won't elaborate because I suddenly feel a little self-conscious. What will my cache of weapons reveal about me?
"A pistol will do," he replies.
He follows me to my bedroom where I open the closet that houses my gun safe. I had to reinforce the floor underneath because I was afraid the large safe was too heavy. I spin the combination into the lock and open the door. I swear I hear a choir sing "Ahhh" when I see my weapons, and I’m sort of surprised not to see light illuminating from them. They are always a glorious sight. Lined up are four rifles, a shotgun, some pistols, and my favorite, a semi-automatic grenade launcher.
"You've been
busy." He looks at me as if he doesn't know me. And he doesn't, not really. He doesn't know my life before I came to live in the area. I need to prepare because when Seth is released from jail, he'll find and kill me.
Dean picks up my nine-millimeter semi-automatic pistol and lets loose a wicked smile. He's no stranger to weapons. He served in Desert Storm for a couple of tours. "Where are the rounds?"
"There's some in the safe, and I have some loaded magazines up there." I point at them next to the small boxes in neat stacks on the top shelf of my closet.
He looks at all the ammo I've collected. Probably over ten-thousand rounds, not including the twenty-five forty-millimeters and the seven Hell Hound grenade rounds. He whistles between his teeth. "You planning for a war?"
Yes. Yes, I am. When Seth comes, he won't be alone. He'll bring a bunch of his goons who are hell-bent on killing me. I have an old friend in the prosecutor's office who'll contact me when he's released. So far, he’s not up for parole for another three years and seven days. I'm the reason he's locked up and where he belongs.
"Always be prepared. Isn't that one of the prepper's mottos?" I ask. Or is that the scout motto? Only now, I think I should have bought more ammo.
"Honey, we’ll talk later." He inspects the handgun. "This is nice."
I give him a nod, agreeing that it's a beautiful weapon.
He loads magazine into the pistol and heads out of the bedroom. "I'll be right back."
"Wait," I say. "Those zombies or gabbies, as you call them, will attack you once you fire. I'll cover you. Let’s go out the back." I point at the utility room with a door leading out back.
"You're not going out unarmed," Star says. She snuck up on us from the other room.
"I won't be," I reply.
We creep out the back door. So far, no gabbies are in the back of my mobile home. My truck sits on a gravel parking spot at the end. We step carefully so we don't make a noise. When we pass my truck, I grab a large pipe wrench out of the bed.
Dean gives me a thumbs up.
My head is foggy. Would it be viewed as murder or self-defense?
I peek around the corner, and the infected are pushing and shoving on the side of my home. The rage that flickers inside me flares to life. This is my home, my safe haven. They have no right to invade.
