“Adventure seekers used these to climb icy cliffs,” her grandfather had told her, handing the new weapon over. It was heavy enough to wield as an efficient weapon but light enough that it didn’t tire her out with extended use. The balance was perfect and didn’t strain the user’s arm. For her, it was the perfect weapon. Efficient, small enough to hang by her side and not hinder movement, and light enough for her to retrieve and dispatch threats with ease. Not to mention, most of the time, it took very little effort to remove it from the skulls of the dead.
She slides into her shoes and snatches up the ax and heads out of the room. The stairs creak with every step as she makes her way downstairs and to the front door. The ax’s weight felt perfect in her hand. She can’t remember how many of the dead she and grandfather had destroyed over the years. Since receiving the ax, over the last few years, she and grandfather had successfully rid the dead from most of the town. But now that task was nearly complete, she feels as if there’s an emptiness in her life. There’s nothing to keep them going anymore—no purpose.
She opens the front door just as the stumbling dead man reaches the far edge of the yard. She hadn’t seen one of the dead for a long while—at least a month or two, yet here’s one now. Where did it come from? Did it break free from one of the local houses—one that she and grandfather hadn’t gotten around to clearing? It didn’t matter, it’s here now, and she has a purpose again.
She could just let it go, but her grandfather had instilled in her that if you see one, you kill it—there’s no telling where it will turn up again and possibly take you by surprise. She glides down the steps. Her feet make only the slightest whoosh-whoosh as she drifts across the overgrown lawn. Sneaking up behind the creature, she raises the pickaxe and is just about to strike when a loud noise shatters the evening. Startled, she pauses in mid-swing—her head and body whip around toward the sound behind her—towards home.
“Paw-paw!”
A bubble of panic rises within her. Then she remembers where she is and what she had been doing. She spins back around toward the dead man. The thing, hearing the noise, also turns in that direction.
Toward her!
With arms raised, hands inches from her face, it blindly grasps for her. If she had been any closer, it would already have her. She sidesteps and uses the pickaxes curved edge to push the thing away from her. Already struggling to remain upright, it falls to the ground with a heavy thump.
No longer distracted—she attacks, bringing the pickaxe down into the skull with a wet crack. She jerks the ax free with a quick twist of the wrist. A stream of thick black liquid jets from the hole, staining the ground. If she came back tomorrow, she’d find all the vegetation within a five-foot radius, would be dead. It would stay dead for years.
Scrambling through the thick undergrowth, she steps onto the street and sprints toward home. Panic overtakes her. She recognizes the sound she’d heard.
It was the sound of her grandfather’s shotgun.
Chapter Three
After making quick work of the undead in front of the house, the boy with the machetes moves forward as if to continue on his way, but after a few steps, he stops. He looks around curiously and the old man thinks somehow, some way, the boy knows he’s standing in the darkened doorway. As if to confirm his suspicions, the boy turns toward the house. The boy’s eyes pierce through the screened door and into the darkened interior, settling on the old man even though he knows there’s no way the boy could see him. The sun is setting and the shadows are growing long. He extinguished all the candles inside, so there should be no way in hell the boy could see him.
Yet, here he is, staring intently as if he knows—has known all along that he was being watched. The boy raises his left hand and slides that machete into its scabbard, but leaves the other in his right. He turns and faces the house full-on now.
The old man reaches just to the right of the doorway and grabs an old shotgun that he keeps there for emergencies. He doesn’t know who this boy is, but if the boy remains armed, then he will be too. He pushes open the screen and laughs inwardly. He received three men as guests about a year ago, and now, here is another living, breathing person. Since those three men, he hadn’t received another guest since before the chaos—before the dead had risen and walked amongst the living. After last year, he never thought, in all his remaining days, that he would meet another soul, yet here he is, opening his screen door and stepping out onto the porch to meet this young stranger.
The boy reaches the bottom step and takes the first step up.
“Uh-uh,” says the old man, lifting the shotgun’s barrel higher and pointing it at the youthful face. “That’s far enough for now.”
The boy stops and slowly, deliberately removes his foot from the step and places it back on the cracked, weed-strewn concrete walkway.
“Do you have any water?” asks the boy. With his free hand, he shakes an old military canteen that hangs from a hook on the side of his massive backpack. It sloshed—sounding almost empty.
The old man cocks his head to the side. The boy sounds as if he needs it—his voice is throaty, cracked, and sounds as dry as the ground beneath his feet. His eyes flick upwards and to the left, glancing toward the large water tower located just two blocks over. The tower is still half-full of water and even though it can’t be drunk straight from the source, he’s figured out a way to distill it with filters and heat, making it (if not exactly fresh) drinkable. That’s the one thing he has going for him—he’s not lacking for water.
Food, however…now that’s another story.
The old man stares down curiously. Doesn’t he recognize the water tower for what it is? It towers over the entire town; it’s visible for miles. He could easily figure out how to get water from the there—so why is he asking me?
Then there are the lakes. Almost every road leading to town passes a lake or two— most with drinkable water once it’s boiled. Why didn’t he stop there for a drink?
Maybe this is just his way of opening the lines of conversation. There’s no telling how long he’d been out wandering around. Hell, the old man thinks, I might be the first living person he’s seen in months…years even.
“Wait right here,” the old man says. “I just finished boiling a fresh batch…maybe it’s cool enough by now to drink.”
He retreats into the house, grabs a metal pot full of water off the wood-burning stove, pours some into a glass clouded with age, and returns to the porch. The boy stands where the old man left him, although now, the boy is unarmed. The second machete is resting just over the boy’s shoulder. Seeing the blades like that reminds the old man of a comic book hero his son used to collect back before the world got flipped on edge. Thinking about his son causes a brief stab of pain, and he quickly tucks it away in the back of his mind.
“Here you go,” says the old man, bending down to set the glass on the porch near the top set. “It’s still warm but shouldn’t be too hot to drink.” He backs away to give the boy room—and to protect himself just in case the boy isn’t as friendly as he seems.
The boy may no longer have his weapons brandished, but it wouldn’t take much to reach over his shoulders and retrieve them. The way he carries himself (not to mention the way he dispatched the dead), he’s probably fairly adept at using them.
No, better to keep your distance, for now, old man…you didn’t get to be this age by taking stupid risks.
The boy waits a few seconds, watching the old man with a gaze that, the old man thinks, probably mirrors his own—wary, investigative, but curious.
Another thought hits him like a brick—is the boy alone? Maybe his calm demeanor is just him being satisfied in knowing that someone is out there, hiding, watching out for him. The old man’s eyes scan the street beyond the boy, searching for anything out of the ordinary. His focus lingers on the shadows between the houses, looking for human shapes or movement of any kind.
He sees nothing. At least nothing that moves. With time com
es all the ailments of age. Cataracts began forming in his eyes a couple of years ago and his vision steadily deteriorated. A few more years and he’d be blind. He tucks that thought away too—there’s not another year left for him, much less two. But that’s a secret he’s keeping to himself for now
Then another thought hits him and his heart flutters in panic. It’s growing late.
His granddaughter should be here by now!
Now that the boy is here, he hopes that she doesn’t return yet. At least, not until he can determine the boy’s intentions. He returns his gaze to the boy, lest the young man notice his sudden panic. The glass is almost empty.
“Thank you, sir,” says the boy. He sighs with deep satisfaction and wipes his mouth with the back of his wrist.
Well, at least he’s polite, the old man thinks, accepting the glass back, taking it directly from the boy.
The old man can’t help himself, his eyes shift back to the neighborhood in search of his granddaughter.
The boy notices. “Expecting someone?”
His heart nearly leaps from his chest but he tries to recover his composure. “No,” he blurts…probably too quickly. “Just making sure there are no other dead walking around.”
The boy turns and scans the neighborhood for himself. “Who else is here?” he asks, obviously not believing the old man’s answer.
The boy turns away as if he’s ready to pounce on something. Nervous energy fills the air and the old man can feel it wafting from the boy as if it’s a physical thing.
“It’s like I said, boy…I’m not expecting anybody.”
“Don’t call me boy.” He turns to face the old man. “I’m not your boy.”
The boy’s eyes are intense with a new fire as his panic rises another level. As young as the boy might be, he doesn’t seem the least bit intimidated by an old man’s senior status.
The boy advances toward him, eyes burning intently. He lifts the gun, but the boy takes another step.
“Boy…” he repeats, as if not hearing the young man’s earlier remark. He lifts the gun and points it at the boy’s face. No, he thinks, he’s really not a boy—he’s a young man. Possibly even the same age as his grand…
He cuts off the thought, knowing he can’t think about her right now. He needs to get this boy on his way out of here so they can live in peace. He’s seen riffraff like this before. Back when the world turned, and the dead began walking, it quickly became a world where only the strongest survived and the weak became slaves. As if the dead weren’t enough, men became hungry for power. The looting was rampant here, and, he assumed, in every town throughout the world. If the dead didn’t kill you, those seeking possessions would. It didn’t take long for them to realize that things weren’t of value anymore. Almost everything ran on electricity—and it wasn’t long before that was gone too. Without a refinery chugging out more fuel, vehicles soon became abandoned hunks of metal lining the roadways—like a string of alien cockroaches, abandoned to the elements. He often wondered if hydroelectric dams were still functioning but there weren’t any within a hundred miles from here—and he never was an adventure type.
The old man was lucky—he had a farm once, and a five-hundred-gallon tank full of quality diesel. Used sparingly in the generator, it lasted for another six months after the first outbreak of disease. The underground storm shelter kept food cold and fresh far longer than if he would have left it out. His garden flourished even though the livestock dwindled quickly.
Yes, he and his family were lucky.
Until the bandits came and drove them out, killing his…
He shakes his head to clear the memory. This is not the time to think about such things. Think about the here and now—about the boy before you, staring you down with untrusting eyes. After ten years, you can’t bring back the dead—even if within your own mind.
The boy takes another step toward him and the business end of the shotgun rises to meet him, mere inches from the boy’s face. The young eyes turn down to look at the flat black metal tube in front of him. There’s no fear there.
What the hell? When there’s a gun pointed at you, he thought he would see terror, fright, or, depending on your state of mind, a longing for death—an easy escape from this world. But no, what he saw in the boy’s face was genuine curiosity. His gaze did not waver. He didn’t sidestep the weapon or push it away; he just stood there staring over the top of the polished metal.
“Don’t you know what this is, boy?” He tries to sound menacing, but the boy’s eyes are steady—no flick of comprehension. “This thing’ll fuck you up.” After several seconds of silence, the old man finally asks, “What’s your name?”
“I told you to quit calling me boy.”
The old man leans forward, putting the end of the barrel right up against the skin of the boy’s forehead. “Why do you think I just asked you for your name?” he asks, condescendingly. “Would you rather I keep calling you boy…or by your name?”
The young man doesn’t argue, but says, “Chris.”
“Well, Chris…I’ll ask you again. Do you know what this is?” He shifts the weapon, drawing Chris’s attention to it—he already knows the answer. He can tell by the way Chris looks up the barrel, to the wooden stock pressed to his shoulder, then back to his finger, where it rests gently against the trigger guard.
“I’ve seen them before. It’s a weapon of some kind?” Chris asks.
“You’ve got that right. Haven’t you heard of a shotgun before?”
Chris’s head rocks slowly from side to side. “No, sir. Like I said, I’ve seen plenty of them in houses. What does it do?”
The old man pauses, eyebrows raised in perplexed curiosity. Is he serious? He really doesn’t know what a shotgun is? Or does? Who doesn’t know what a shotgun is?
But yet, these are in strange times. Things happening now didn’t happen a decade ago. In fact, if his estimation is correct, Chris was probably only seven or eight years old when the dead started walking and turned the earth to shit. There may be plenty of things he either does not remember or was never witnessed to. Could he have been so sheltered even then?
He remembers his own childhood. He got a taste for guns at an early age, as did most of his friends. Dad would take him out and he’d beg to shoot targets or go hunting—it was a major part of his youth. He just can’t imagine a young man being deprived of those experiences. It was at that moment that the old man’s feelings toward the boy…Chris…turned to pity.
Those were different times for sure.
“Step back,” says the old man, motioning with the gun for Chris to move. “I’ll show you what it does.”
Chris doesn’t hesitate, he backs away.
Trusting little cuss, thinks the old man, watching as Chris backs down the steps and wades through the tall weeds. The old man follows and with each step he takes, Chris takes one to match, backing away until he is once again standing on the broken street.
With no preamble or warning, the old man turns, points the shotgun at a rusted shell of a mailbox, pulls the trigger, and fires from less than three feet away. The report is loud and echoes up and down the street. The top of the wooden pole splinters and rips away, sending the now shredded metal box flying several feet away and into the street. It clatters a few feet and comes to rest in a shredded heap of twisted metal.
Relief floods through the old man. He hadn’t fired the weapon in years. He kept it clean and always at the ready, but he was also unsure about the shells. The ammunition, although he’d kept it dry, had been sitting around for a decade and he was unsure if they would have even fired.
At the sound of the gun’s report, Chris takes a stumbling step away. Eyes wide with open curiosity, he turns from the dead mailbox and faces the old man. “I’ve never seen anything like that.”
The old man pumps another round into the chamber. The ejected shell flies and lands at Chris’s feet. He reaches down to pick it up but quickly drops it again.
The old
man can’t help but laugh. “Better let it cool a minute before you pick it up.”
Chris tries again, picking it up by the plastic this time. He brings it to his face and takes a deep sniff. The unmistakable aroma of burnt gunpowder lingers in the air, bringing back memories within the old man—memories of his childhood, a long, long time ago.
The young man—Chris, he reminds himself again—takes a deep breath, pulling in the aroma for a second time. The old man watches him curiously and sees at that moment, an awakening within the boy. He remembers that same look in his son and grandson’s faces long ago—it’s a look of awe, a look of power, a look that says: This is the answer to everything. With this, I can do violence or keep the peace. I can protect or harm. It’s a primal look, something he’s only seen in men. Once you smell it (like smelling pussy for the first time, the old man thinks), once you have a taste, you want to experience it over and over again. That’s the look that crosses Chris’s face.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” Chris says, dropping the shell to the ground and turning his attention back to the old man. “I promise. I’d like to learn more about this…” He points to the gun.
“Well, the jury’s still out on you,” says the old man. “And I’m not sure if I will hurt you or not.”
Chris nods his head. “I understand…I wouldn’t trust me either.”
Taken at face value, that statement should have caused the old man to go ahead and blow the kid out of his shoes with the shotgun. But something about Chris’s honesty gives him a curious pause. For someone so young, he seems much older than his years. He guesses being isolated here for so long has skewed his perception—this world can make you grow up much faster than before the outbreak. He saw that first-hand with his granddaughter. If it wasn’t for her, he’d have already given over to trust this stranger. However, because of her, he’d keep a wary but friendly eye out. He’s certain she would have heard the shotgun’s blast and was hightailing it back home.
Tainted Mind Page 2
