The Last 21

by Morrison, Donald

  He dove back into his car and locked the doors, leaning towards the center console as the officer slammed against his hood and then slowly slid his way up the side towards the windshield.

  He didn’t hear the phone dialing from the next seat, or even realize that his fingers had dialed Raquel’s number as he had scrambled back into the car. His eyes were locked to the stale gaze of the police officer that was leaning across his windshield, clawing at the glass between them as fluids painted crimson streaks across the clear surface.

  “John?”

  Three more approached. John began to feel panic building inside of him.

  “John, are you there?”

  Two of the people that were sliding against the car had massive wounds. One of the men had his entire left cheek torn away, his teeth all the way to his molars exposed, slamming open and shut like a novelty wind-up toy as he clawed against the passenger window, his hungered gaze locked unblinking to the man cowering over the center console.

  “John, can you hear me?”

  He was frozen in place. His mind was screaming at him to escape, to turn his car on and ram through the others to get away, to kick out his back window and crawl to safety, but his body was frozen, paralyzed in fear. Then the first cracks began to slowly spider web across the glass underneath the police officer.

  “John!” Raquel yelled into the phone, her eyes locked to the yard in front of their house. She could hear pounding coming from the phone and her husband whimpering for something to go away. She yelled again, trying to get his attention.

  “John, please answer me!”

  Then she heard a shattering sound, followed by a sound she had never heard before; her husband screaming.

  “John!!! Oh God, John!!! What’s happening!?”

  The screaming continued for the next two minutes—an eternity in the empty house, then the phone fell quiet.

  “John?” she whispered, her ears straining to pick up any sound. Then she heard something.

  Her eyes moved around the room in front of her as her body held perfectly still, tuning everything other than the receiver out. The world faded out around her and she focused only on the sounds coming from the other end of the phone; the sound of wet cloth being torn and what almost sounded like chewing.

  Day 16

  Mike stood in the kitchen of the two story dream home his wife and him had designed together. His arms were splayed out to opposite ends of the sink, his tired gaze locked to the stream of running water, swirling into the drain beneath it. Their home had become a lot quieter when his wife had passed away two years prior, and when his daughter became sick, nearly silent.

  He watched the cold water run for a few more moments, gathering the strength to go back upstairs and lie to his little girl; telling her that everything was going to be fine. Everything was not. He had heard the reports, he had seen firsthand what happens when someone is bitten and the infection takes hold.

  He had cleaned her wound the best he could, but no matter how much he did, or how much alcohol he used, the blackness still spread outwards. He cursed himself for leaving her in the truck to get her medicine. He had thought it would be safer. He had expected her to stay inside, not come looking for him.

  He slowly lifted his head, reaching out to fill the glass next to the sink and brought his other hand to his nose as he sniffled, then wiped the tears that had formed from his eyes and turned the faucet off, turning to make his way upstairs.

  As he made his way upwards he shifted the barrel of the 357 in his waistline and paused when he reached the top, taking a deep breath before starting down the hall.

  “I brought you some water honey,” he called out as he approached his daughter’s room. “You need stay hydrated if you’re going to get better.”

  Again he lied.

  He stopped, forcing his best smile on his face and reached out to slowly push the door open. “Amy?” he said, stepping into the room, the smile staying in the hallway behind. “Amy?” He paused, his eyes scanning for movement from the tiny frame covered in thin sheets on the bed. “Sweetheart?”

  Mike set the water down on the dresser and stepped cautiously towards the bed. “Amy…?”

  He approached and stopped just short of the bed. His eyes moved to her chest and held fixed, watching for movement that didn’t come.

  “Oh god…”

  He felt his legs go weak and allowed gravity to pull him to the praying position, his hands reaching out, slowly clasping tiny hands that were still warm.

  “Oh babygirl. Don’t leave me…” he sobbed into her tiny chest. “You can’t leave me. I promised your mama…”

  His little girl coughed.

  “Oh my god. Amy…”

  He pulled his head back, letting his eyes fall to hers.

  Slowly her crusted eyes pulled open.

  “Daddy…” she moaned softly.

  “Oh baby,” he cried softly. “Don’t scare me like that.”

  She took another small breath.

  “You, you remember when we all took that trip to the Grand Canyon?” he began, his hand now clasping hers tightly. “You’re mother,” he continued, his lips twitching as a smile struggled to form. “You’re mother thought it would be a good idea to get that trail horse to run.”

  The smile grew, a small laugh escaping as he rubbed the stubble that had built on his chin.

  “The horse didn’t like that idea too much; jogged a few paces then bucked up and sent her flying down the hill.”

  He gazed at his little angel’s peaceful face.

  “She had… she had to spend the rest of the vacation seeing the canyon from that wheelchair.” He chuckled slightly, the memory of the three of them together bringing a very real warmth to his features. “You gotta be strong babygirl,” he said, the smile fading as he looked across the bed to her. “You remind me so much of her.”

  Amy stayed quiet.

  “I need you to be strong baby.”

  His words trailed off as he realized the muscles around her mouth and eyes had gone slack.

  “Baby…?” he whispered as he slowly squeezed her hand. “Amy baby…?”

  Her body was still, the small movement that had been in her chest a few moments ago now gone.

  “Babygirl… No… Please. Amy…”

  This time there was no cough. Only silence filled the room.

  Mike slowly pulled his daughter to his chest and sobbed. His tears soaked the front of her lace trimmed nightgown, his body shaking from the emotions wracking his sturdy frame. For the next three minutes he held his daughter and sobbed, his usual gruff, bodyguard demeanor washing away in a stream of salted lines. Then the sobs slowly faded and he pulled his head away, letting his eyes graze over her serene features before slowly laying her back into place.

  Mike wiped the tears away from his eyes with shaking hands and stood up, taking a staggered breath before pulling the heavy piece of steel from his belt and letting the weight dangle at the end of his arm.

  Outside three corpses shambled towards the house, their attention pulled like a moth to the candlelight glowing behind the downstairs window. They crossed the lawn, eyes fixed on the flickering glow when a flash yanked their attention to the upstairs window. Dead eyes stared up to the second floor. Moments later they illuminated again. Now the house stood silent.

  Day 17

  Bill Evans stared at the bleached bone colored wall across from him. He sat atop the three inch thick mattress in his cell that was referred to as a house. He was serving a ten day sentence for stealing a Snicker’s bar from the local 7-11, a crime that he had committed not out of necessity, but instead, for a quick adrenaline fix.

  ‘Next time I better make sure the guy watching me isn’t an off duty cop…’ he thought to himself as his eyes moved to the silver, one piece toilet/sink setup.

  He stood and stretched, slowly making his way to the door and looked out into the commons area. Two guards were making their rounds, doing their lunch headcount. />
  “Remove the towel from the window,” one of the guards said at a low shout, tapping his nightstick against his neighbor’s door. There was a pause before he heard a toilet flush and the guard stepped in front of his room, making quick eye contact and then moving on to the next cell. Bill watched as the second guard made his way across the upper tier and as he was about to turn around and go back to his bed he heard the guards radio’s blare out, “Ten-Forty! Ten-Forty! All guards to central housing, stat!”

  Both of the guards stopped and shot each other a nervous glance before turning and sprinting towards the entrance to the cell block.

  “Hey!” one of the prisoners in the room across from his yelled, his face pressed against the wire fused glass slot in his door. “What’s happening!? What’s Ten-Forty!?”

  The guards either didn’t hear him or simply didn’t want to take the time to reply. They both hit the door, fumbled with their keys and then in an instant were out and dashing down the hallway.

  Above him one of the other inmates, a trouble causing lifer as they referred to him began slamming his foot against his cell door. The steady pounding reverberated through the large dormitory and continued until three of the other inmates shouted for him to stop or they were going to shove his leg up his ass.

  Bill stood at the door, his nose slightly touching the cool glass, his breath fogging beneath it. Then he heard the first gunshots.

  “WooHOOOO!” the upstairs neighbor howled like a wild dog, beginning again with the pounding on his cell door. Bill could see the windows of every house filling with the curious faces of the other inmates.

  Three more gunshots erupted from the guard hallway.

  ‘What the hell is going on..?’ he thought to himself as he stared at the bullet proof walls that lined the last twenty feet of hallway before the monitoring station.

  Other prisoners began to shout, yelling for someone to let them out, others screaming in excitement about the unseen riot. Bill just stayed quiet and watched. Then he felt a chill run through him as one of the guards that had been in the dorm room moments before came blasting down the hall and slid into the monitoring station door. He watched as the guard fumbled with his keys, quickly turning his head to shout something at another guard that slid next to him and had started firing rounds from his sidearm at an unseen menace that was rushing towards them from the other end.

  “Yeah!!! Die you fuckin pigs!!” the guy in the cell next to Bill’s yelled, his foot slamming against the cell door three times to emphasize his excitement.

  Then silence flooded the cellblock.

  From the other end of the hall, four bodies came into view, rushing towards the two guards with their backs against the door firing shot after shot from their pistols. Bill watched as the group of three guards and two inmates slammed against the two guards and started tearing at them with their hands and teeth.

  The dormitory was silent, speechless faces framed by tiny windows.

  Bill stood at his door, his breath fogging up the bottom part of the glass as his breathing increased. Inside the dormitory forty-five men listened to the anguished screams of two men being torn apart, their flesh peeled away from bone by loudly snapping jaws. Even the man on the second tier held quiet, frozen with his face against the tempered slot.

  Ten minutes went by before the group of corpses slowly stood and started back down the hallway. Another five passed before the two guards slowly rose to their feet.

  “Wha—” he whispered into the thick glass as two guards, flesh torn to bone on their face and neck, slowly rose. Then the man upstairs began pounding again.

  Outside the Ohio County Correctional Facility a lone guard raced towards his car. There was blood leaving a dotted trail from his bleeding arm to the doorway where a group of mutilated guards came rushing out of, shambling straight for him. Inside the facility there were four hundred and fifty men and women that would be lucky enough to not be torn apart. Four hundred and fifty men and women that would be safe, locked in their cells while the dead walked the halls.

  Day 18

  “RUUUUN!!!”

  The piercing yell cracked through the calm air like a gunshot.

  “GO!!”

  Frank looked behind him to see two of the infected facing towards him. He yelled to his thirteen year old son to move faster. They had decided to scavenge from the line of cars as they made their way out of Atlanta. They hadn’t had time to stock up before leaving. That had been Frank’s fault. He thought it was another made up illness, that it would pass by and nothing would happen, like the swine or avian flu. He had made the mistake of not taking it serious, and now as he ran down the gridlocked freeway his mind raced with those regrets.

  They rushed between the cars, blurred forms slapping behind closed windows as they passed.

  “Don’t stop Cabel!” he shouted, turning back to see the two shambling forms trailing behind them.

  Ahead the line of cars ended at an overturned semi-truck. They just needed to make it there.

  The man’s son ran as fast as his legs would carry him, so fast he was leaning forward to keep from falling. He could hear his dad yelling from behind but the words were lost to the wind rushing past and the fear pumping through him.

  As the man reached the over turned semi he spun and slammed his back against the warm metal, his hand raising up with the heavy revolver in his hand; a personal gift to himself that his wife had given him grief over for months. The same one that had saved his son and himself from her when she turned. But that memory was distant. The present was slowly approaching.

  He leveled the barrel and fired off three rounds. The closing bodies dropped out of sight.

  He stood still against the bottom of the overturned trailer, his breath coming in short hitches. He had no idea how bad it was going to get.

  “Cabel?” he said, calling over the truck, his eyes still scanning the serpentine trail of cars leading back to the city. “Cabel?”

  “I’m ok dad,” the boy said, stepping around the side of the semi.

  Frank turned and stepped quickly to his son, wrapping his arms around him. “I don’t know what’s happening Cabel, but we’re gonna get out of this, you hear me? We just have to get to your grandmother’s place and we’ll be fine.”

  Cabel nodded, his head pressed into the red Braves hoody his dad was wearing.

  “We’ve gotta keep moving.”

  Frank released his grip and slowly stepped back, turning his head back towards the city. His mother’s house was a little over a hundred miles away. She had a remote piece of property well off the main roads with a well and working garden. They just needed to make it there.

  “Come on,” he said, barely above a whisper, his hand lightly nudging his son’s back. “We’ve got a long walk ahead of us.”

  The highway had become empty. Clouds loomed like cotton patches in the light summer sky. Two figures made their way down a deserted road, behind them tendrils of smoke rose into the sky above the Atlanta skyline and a car rocked lightly as its captive struggled to free itself to pursue its escaping meal.

  Day 19

  The air shifted in the tiny apartment as the slightly overweight man with a far receded hairline stepped out of the side bedroom, pulling his zipper up as he closed the door behind him.

  “Whoo…” he said with an exasperated exclamation gusting the word forward.

  Another man, slightly younger and grizzled turned his head from the couch across the room.

  An unfriendly smile slithered across the man’s face as his zipper reached the top and he slowly tugged his belt back into place.

  “I tell ya what boy, that is something that I have always wanted to do…”

  The man on the couch stayed quiet for a moment, his eyes moving slowly to the closed door and then back to his friend. “Shoulda kept her for a while longer,” he said. “She still had some miles on her.”

  “Yeah,” the man standing replied as he stepped towards the kitchen, “I’m sure
there’ll be more.”

  “What are you suppos’n we do with the body?”

  The tubby man in the kitchen scratched his belly lightly under the red and black flannel shirt as he reached for the fridge door.

  “Shit,” he scoffed as the cold air wafted towards him. “We could toss her out the front door for all it matters. Not like the police are gonna be rilin’ themselves up over a dead hooker.” He paused, his eyes scanning the old condiments and stale bread. “Thinkin’ they kinda got their hands full with the dead comin back and all.”

  The man on the couch stayed quiet.

  He shut the fridge door and made his way into the living room.

  “Well if the dead’s comin’ back, then ain’t she gonna too?”

  “She weren’t bit you idiot.”

  “Oh. Weren’t sure that’s how it had to go.”

  The other stared at him blankly for a moment before inhaling quickly.

  “We outta beer,” he said as he came around the couch to look at his friend. “And after that,” he said, a smile growing on his face as he pictured the young blond girl, tongue lolling as she clawed at his hands around her throat as he thrust heavily into her. “I could use a drink.”

  He took another deep breath through his nose and exhaled, his gaze coming back to his friend.

  “I’m gonna go take another run down to Wal-Mart, assuming it ain’t been cleared out in the last forty-eight hours, there should still be some drink lying around. You wanna roll?”

  “I’m good,” his friend replied. “Ankles still a bit swole from the last run. Not tryin to get my guts ripped out just yet.”

  Silence moved between them as they both thought of the third man that was no longer with them, screaming as a group of zombies ripped through his flesh like a wet paper bag.

  “Suit yourself,” the older man said, turning to make his way to the door. “If I ain’t back in an hour, I’d appreciate if you and your ankle could come lookin for me.”