The Dead Divide Us

by Vincent S. Tobia

  Robert’s landlord only shambled faster toward him. Robert could hear him making an awful gurgling and moaning sound. It sounded as if Carl was trying to breathe and scream all at once with a gallon of water stuck in his lungs. It was the most horrible thing Robert had ever heard.

  Just before Carl reached the bedroom door, Robert could see his eyes. They were cloudy-white, blank, and dead; matching the rest of his face that appeared to be drained of life. It looked like Carl’s face had been flushed of all its fluids and color. The black veins stretching down his neck stood out in stark contrast to the rest of his face. The last thing Robert noticed was the stench coming off Carl and thought if shit had a really bad day, it would still smell better then Carl Riggins’s breath.

  Robert slammed his bedroom door shut just as Carl slammed into it. For a second Robert thought that the door was going to snap off its hinges. He locked the door and took a few steps backward while Carl continued to slam against the door. Robert could tell that the door didn’t have much time; Carl’s fat ass would eventually break through.

  “Somebody’s got to help me out here,” Robert said to himself.

  Given what Paul had told him only a few minutes ago, Robert was pretty damn sure that his landlord Carl was infected by whatever was causing people to go crazy. He went for his cell phone to call for help.

  “Shit!” Robert whispered.

  Without even noticing, he’d lost the cell phone. He must have dropped it when he hit the coffee table. After realizing this, he also remembered that his laptop computer was out in the living room too, resting closed on his lazy boy recliner.

  “Fuck!” Robert said, a little louder now.

  Carl slammed harder on the door causing Robert to think that Carl could hear him just fine in there.

  “Yeah, that’s right Carl. Fuck you! You got what was coming to you, you greedy asshole!” Robert yelled back, feeling somewhat better despite his dire situation. Robert was not the biggest fan of his landlord Carl Riggins. He moved into his apartment five years ago, which was shortly after he was hired at the chemical company. The place was cheap and that was what Robert was looking for, but what Robert wasn’t looking for was a “cheap as balls” landlord who wouldn’t even fork out the cash to fix a broken furnace three winters ago. Robert remembered Carl telling him that it would be a few days until the heat would be restored. Robert could deal with that; he had a few electric space heaters set up around his place. But Wynona, the ninety-two year old woman with crippling arthritis who lived on the first floor, could not deal with that. She had next to no money and no space heaters. How could you expect an old woman to live in the dead of winter with no heat?

  Robert overheard Carl ordering Wynona to go stay with family for a few days, because the heat wasn’t going to be fixed right away. Robert knew that she didn’t have any family left in the immediate area; they had all moved down south to escape these bitter cold winters. Fairly ironic.

  So for those two days without heat, Robert had Wynona up to the second floor with him. It wasn’t all that bad really. Wynona told him stories about war time and her family. She talked about her late husband, how they’d lost a child to leukemia early on, and never wanted to try again with another baby. That experience came with a pain that should never be felt; once was enough. She talked about Catholic schools, social dances, and her love for John Wayne films. In two days Wynona had just about retold her entire life to Robert, all while sitting next to a cranked up space heater and sipping on hot tea. It was Wynona who got Robert hooked on her all time favorite television show, Happy Days.

  Wynona died a little over a year prior; her downstairs apartment still vacant. Robert was sad to see her pass on, but he was even sadder to see how hardly anyone showed up to her funeral.

  Robert’s memory was cut short by Carl slamming against the bedroom door again, splintering off a piece of the door frame in the process. The room was now fairly lit from the early morning light. Robert was startled again, but now enraged. If the news was true; the fat bastard that wouldn’t pay to get an emergency maintenance service on the furnace during the dead of winter was now infected with a killer virus that seemed to be spreading.

  Robert thought about what Paul had said, “You’ve got to get to Mom and Dad’s. Make sure they’re okay."

  Carl slammed against the door again. This time a top corner of the door broke off and almost hit Robert. He could hear Carl’s ghastly moans, no longer muffled by the door and completely sickening.

  “Alright, fuck this,” Robert said.

  He grabbed his truck keys from off of his dresser, slid on a pair of jeans, and yanked on his work boots. He took a hooded sweatshirt from the foot of his bed and put that on too. Robert looked at the bedroom door as Carl slammed on it again. He then looked to the corner of his room, spotting his trusty thirty-four inch aluminum softball bat leaning against the wall.

  “You’re dead, fucker,” Robert said grabbing his bat and squeezing it tight.

  3

  There are many ways to kill a person. Over the years, Robert had thought of a lot of ways to kill his landlord Carl. But that was all in his head you know, just imaging how fun it would be to off your piece-of-shit landlord. Now though, it was very real.

  Carl had been slamming himself against the thin plywood door for almost ten minutes straight. Thinking back, Robert found it very odd that when Carl first shambled out of the bathroom he was relatively calm, but once Carl had set his eyes on Robert it was like a jolt of raw power and rage that suddenly surged through his body. And Carl did not seem like he was going to be letting up anytime soon.

  A huge crack was heard and splintered wood exploded as Carl’s left arm and upper body smashed through the door. Carl was now momentarily stuck in the door. He was reaching out toward Robert, clawing at the air, and moaning that sick wet sound. Robert briefly looked over Carl’s face again. He still couldn’t believe what a grotesque being Carl had become. He was somehow worse than he was before. Robert couldn’t believe that either.

  “Now’s my chance,” he told himself.

  Robert ran up to his bedroom door with his softball bat held high in the air, ready to swing down on Carl’s face. If everything that his brother Paul told him was true, then putting Carl of out his misery was necessary. Necessary because that meant Carl intended to kill Robert and Robert never knew his brother to be a liar.

  Robert was a fraction of a second from swinging downward onto Carl’s forehead when the bedroom door completely broke open. Carl, along with the door, crashed directly into Robert. Robert was much too close and it happened far too quickly for him to get out of the way. Both parties hit the floor. Robert cracked his head on the wooden floor boards of his bedroom and was now wedged underneath Carl with the bedroom door between them. The doorknob punched into Robert’s crotch and for a moment he saw stars. Regardless, he was extremely thankful for that door between them, because Carl’s face was three inches from his own and violently snapping his teeth at him. If it hadn’t been for that door, Robert’s face would have been torn to shreds.

  “Holy shit, Carl’s trying to fucking bite me!” Robert thought, in a moment that felt like an eternity. He had managed to wedge his bat between himself and Carl while falling down and used all the strength in his upper body to raise Carl and the door up and away from him. This was no easy task either due to the gluttonous mass that was Carl Riggins. Carl continued to snap his teeth at Robert. The smell of his breath was powerful enough to knock a person unconscious and Robert had to turn his head away, seeking fresh air from the dusty wooden floor.

  “Get…off… me…you fat piece of shit!” Robert said through clenched teeth.

  The moans coming of out Carl were getting worse too, Robert could almost hear the sound of water or some rancid liquid being sloshed around deep inside Carl’s body. Focusing on those sounds even closer, Robert was sure it sounded like Carl was gagging or dry heaving while also trying to bite the skin off of Robert’s face.


  Robert had enough; he slid his back to the right and pushed Carl off to the left. It worked; Robert had just enough room to move around and get up. His left foot was still caught underneath the door though. He had to yank it up quickly before Carl changed his position.

  Robert had just gained his balance when Carl started to vomit all over the floor. Carl was sprawled out, face down, and still tangled in the door as black and green viscous fluids ran out of his mouth, hitting the hardwood floor with a ferocious splash. Robert turned the other way and ran to the other side of his bed. Any smell that bothered Robert before was absolutely nothing compared to this.

  “Carl. What the fuck, man?” Robert said with a hand over his mouth.

  Robert heard Carl cough up the last of this sickly stomach stew and then the room fell oddly silent. From Robert’s new vantage point on the other side of the bed, he wasn’t able to see Carl lying on the floor. Robert gripped his bat again, ready to swing, as he slowly crept around the corner of the bed. Robert looked at his bedroom doorway; the path to freedom was completely open. So he decided to make a run for it.

  Robert only took two steps before Carl jutted out in front of him. He was kneeling now and trying to stand up. And he was back to moaning again.

  “Carl. Listen, back the fuck off man. I don’t know what virus or whatever shit has gotten into you. But I will beat you with this bat! You need help!” Robert screamed at Carl in a pleading manner.

  To Robert’s dismay Carl just continued to squirm toward him, reaching out with pale dirty hands. It was too much for Robert, he knew more than ever that he had to get to his parents' house and soon. If there were more people out there as fucked up as Carl, God help them all.

  Robert took aim and held up his aluminum bat. An old memory came flooding back to him; while learning to play baseball at the age of seven, both Paul and their father had taught him how to swing. It was three easy steps: keep your eye on the ball, step forward, and follow through.

  Well, Robert had hit plenty of baseballs in his youth, but not once did he ever have to swing his bat at a person. Robert closed his eyes and swung hard at Carl, hitting his outstretched left hand. Robert could hear a few bones snap as his bat connected. He opened his eyes to see that Carl’s left hand was badly mangled and blood ran down his arm in large dark spots. His pinkie, ring, and middle finger were crushed inward toward his palm. It looked grossly impossible and extremely painful. To Robert’s surprise, when he looked at Carl, there was absolutely no change in his behavior. Carl just kept coming toward him.

  “Carl, dude we’ve got to get you looked at. Come on man!” Robert pleaded again.

  Carl was now leaning on Robert’s bed, shifting his weight around. He was about to stand up.

  “No! Carl, I will bash in your fucking knee caps! Don’t get up!”

  Carl had shifted more and was now halfway standing up. His left knee was still on the ground and his broken bloody left hand was still reaching out for Robert. Carl’s moans were reaching their loudest yet.

  “I will break your legs. Do you understand me?” Robert stated calmly and slowly.

  Carl brought his left leg up and wobbled to a full attention stance. He leaned toward Robert and lunged at him. Carl’s face was almost excitable with blind rage.

  Robert stepped forward, swung his bat low, and struck the outside of Carl’s left knee cap. The knee made an incredibly loud snapping sound and for a moment that was all Robert heard; he cringed at the sound. Carl collapsed under his own weight, falling onto his left tibia. Carl’s back slammed against Robert’s dresser. As Carl landed on the floor, his left leg lay beside him and his foot was behind his neck.

  No sooner than he hit the floor with a severely broken left leg, Carl was at it again trying to move forward and grab a hold of Robert. Robert was stunned.

  “You gotta be shitting me. Don’t you ever stop?” Robert said, confused and tired.

  Carl just rolled around, back and forth trying to right himself. It was as if Carl didn’t realize his left leg was broken and unusable. Robert decided to just leave him be, the damage was done.

  He made sure he still had his truck keys and then jumped onto his bed stepping around Carl in the process. Robert did not want to risk jumping over Carl. He looked to his left and saw the stinking pile of Carl’s vomit all over the floor; the stench smelled to high heaven. Robert gasped out loud as he recognized that a human ear was sitting in amongst the black and bloody vomit.

  Robert felt something hit his feet hard as suddenly they were pulled out from under him. He fell backwards onto his own bed. Looking down at his feet, Robert saw Carl had a rather strong hold and was trying to bite through his boots.

  He screamed and sat upright quickly. Carl was ferociously gnawing away at the hard leather of his work boots. Panicking, Robert raised his bat again and swung down as hard as he could onto the top of Carl’s head.

  Carl stopped biting immediately as the top of his head split open with a huge crack. Robert swung again with that same amount of strength. That was all Robert would need to do to Carl Riggins; the last swing divided Carl’s face into two pieces from the top of his skull right down to the bottom of his nose.

  Carl let go of Robert’s boots and slid down to the floor. Robert quickly jumped up and raced to his doorway.

  “No pain anywhere it seems unless you whack their head good and plenty. Gotta tell Paul,” Robert said looking back at Carl’s body, now a broken and bloody mess.

  As Robert caught a really good look at Carl’s split head, he thought he’d never in his life be able to see that far into someone’s skull. He was astounded.

  Robert had to run to the bathroom and puke.

  4

  Robert closed the door to his apartment and locked it, double checking that he had his cell phone and baseball bat (which he also made sure to clean off while in the bathroom). Robert looked down the hallway and then down the stairs which lead outside of his apartment. It was dead silent: a very eerie and dry silence.

  How could he have just left that miserable nightmare of a situation and walk twenty feet to where complete morning silence held its ground? Robert thought, “Does this happen everywhere? Does the world really work like this? To have such polar opposites happen so close together?”

  Not wanting to waste any more time, Robert ran down the stairs and out into the dim morning light.

  Not a soul around. It was still pretty early Robert supposed. His green Ford Bronco was parked on the curbside about fifteen feet away.

  Robert then spoke out loud to himself, “Gotta get to Mom and Dad’s and then call Paul about what happened here.”

  “Why? What happened here?” a voice from behind Robert asked.

  Surprised and alarmed, Robert whirled around to face two men in army fatigues. Both were holding fully loaded assault rifles.

  “Sir, I repeat, what happened here? Did you encounter a hostile?” asked the taller of the two Army men. He was a skinny man and very young. The thin mustache he was trying to grow looked incredibly weak and sparse.

  “Um, no sir. I didn’t encounter any…hostiles you say?” Robert said, lying like a sickly lawyer on the verge of a million dollar conviction.

  The taller Army man looked back at the shorter one incredulously. He asked the shorter man for a cigarette.

  Robert wasn’t sure what the entire situation was exactly. But he was sure that he just beat a man to death in his own apartment. As crazy as Carl was acting, definitely trying to bite and kill him, Robert was still the one who did the killing. That was for sure.

  “Okay, good. Hostiles have only been reported way east of here. You should head toward the fire hall. We got a safe house set up just in case,” said the taller Army man before lighting up his cigarette.

  “Okay, sir. Will do,” Robert replied, turning to his truck and fumbling with his keys.

  “Hang on a sec, mister,” the army man said.

  Robert slowly turned around; he could hear the suspicion in his voic
e. Robert just desperately wanted to get into his truck and drive to his parents’ farmhouse.

  “You got a nice bat there,” the Army man said, taking a long drag off of his cigarette.

  “Decided to bring it along; the TV scared me with all of its emergency alerts and…”

  “Ain’t a bad idea, but I don’t think you’ll need it. Sounds like they’ve got this thing under control. 'Prolly got all them crazies in Manhattan all quarantined already,” the Army man finished.

  Robert turned and walked to his truck. Both Army men stayed back and shared a laugh. Their redneck laughter was somehow unsettling.

  Robert thought, “Quarantined my ass. It’s here. In Colton. This is spreading worse than Paul had heard.”

  Something had to be truly wrong if these good-ole Army boys were fully aware of the situation. Not only them, but the news stations here had been far too vague with their information. This could be bad, very bad.

  As Robert turned the keys to the ignition he looked up toward the sky. The gray overcast clouds looked like they were promising snow. He could smell it in the air. Yet there was another odor, or maybe it was just something inside of Robert’s head. It was a gigantic smell and had an even bigger feeling, a very different feeling altogether.

  It was the end; the end was near.

  Chapter 2: West Coast

  1

  Paul Landry snapped his cell phone shut. As he did, a deep shiver passed through him, and he thought he could feel his toes going numb. It was way too early, close to 3:30 in the morning. Sunlight and promises of a new day seemed impossible; his world was different now.

  Paul hoped the call to his younger brother Robert, all the way back in Colton, Pennsylvania, was not in vain.

  He looked outside his large bay window. The night was as dark as tar, but every single house in his neighborhood was lit up like Rockefeller Center during the holidays.

  “Suburbia gone to shit,” Paul muttered to himself.