COLD FAITH AND ZOMBIES

by Sean Thomas Fisher

  “Yeah, but so did the grocery store,” Wendy said, wincing as soon as the words had slipped from her pink lips.

  A stabbing pain sliced through Paul’s heart at the mere mention of the grocery store, taking his breath away. He looked out the car windows. They were so far away from her now. How many miles?

  Dan quickly changed the subject. “Let’s go.”

  Wendy slowly rolled the cop car onto the house’s cracked, concrete double-drive, put it in park and shut it off. It was so peaceful, too peaceful. Even Gary looked paranoid as the four let their eyes roam freely across the front yard.

  “This how you people live now?” Gary whispered.

  No one responded.

  “You’re gonna get us all killed.”

  “You’re the one without a gun,” Paul said, staring at a brown half-barrel turned on its side and spilling out last season’s corpses of flowers onto the brown grass. The quintessential landscaping trick performed by all of the stay-at-home soccer-moms and grandmas. A light breeze tickled an American flag, proudly waving atop a tall shiny pole by the road, while a dirty BMX bike looked like someone had hastily dropped it by the front steps. Along the front walkway withered bushes clutched a sun-baked basketball that looked like it could use a good drink of air. The rusty hoop over the garage was missing its net and Christmas lights lined the white gutters around the garage and house.

  They double-checked their weapons and cautiously exited the vehicle.

  “Hey, what about me?” Gary said, holding his bound wrists up.

  “You stay here,” Dan whispered, gently shutting his car door.

  “You can’t just leave me here!”

  Wendy hit the locks with the key chain and joined Dan and Paul in sweeping their guns across the exterior of the home.

  Paul wiped sweat from his upper lip and forehead with his shoulder. He felt light headed again. He wondered how much longer they would have to do this S.W.A.T. team stuff. Months? Years? Forever? His legs were too heavy. Almost as heavy as his heart.

  His pep talk to Sophia after Carla, Mike and Matt had died flashed through his mind. No time to grieve. He needed to make time.

  Rather than politely rapping the brass door-knocker, Paul smashed out a long skinny window, running vertically next to the door, with the butt of his shotgun. Carefully, he reached through the jagged shards of glass, expecting something to bite down into his hand at any moment, sealing his fate forever. He held his breath and strained to find the lock. He grunted and the dead-bolt clicked. Smoothly, he pulled his hand back out and exhaled.

  Dan pushed on the door and it swung open with a nasty creak. Just like in the movies. They all flinched backwards at the stench of rotten eggs. On a silent black and white security video, it would’ve looked like a ghost had just slapped them.

  “Okay, that is bad,” Wendy moaned, trying to cover her nose with her shoulder.

  Their flashlights lit up a thick big-screen TV, the kind that now looks silly next to an ultra thin flat screen. They stepped onto a large rug with a southwestern pattern that covered most of the silver living room carpet. Their noses wrinkled and the stench made their eyes water. Indian and cocapelli figurines sat on tables, window sills and wall shelves while framed family pictures covered the white walls. There was a red, white and blue Houston Texans blanket draped over the back of a light brown couch that had seen better days.

  They crossed into the kitchen, where two black dog bowls, one with the name “Ginger” on its side, sat devoid of food and water. Mangled packages of cereal, chips and cookies were scattered around the kitchen floor. A set of keys hung from one of four utters on a small black and white cow attached to the wall.

  Just off the kitchen was a white door that Dan opened while Paul and Wendy readied themselves for anything. They cautiously entered the attached two car garage, swinging their lights and guns around the room. It was free of any cars or unwanted guests and smelled like oil. Three mountain bikes, an old freezer, and a work bench littered with dirty tools filled the edges of the room. Fishing poles and two bags of golf clubs leaned in a corner with some rakes and shovels while two car show trophies framed a large picture of a black Chevelle four-door coupe, sitting on a nearby white shelf. The rear fenders of the car bulged upwards giving it a classic “Coke-bottle” look. The balding man from the photos in the living room proudly leaned against it with his arms folded across his chest and a big smile running from ear to ear. One of the tall first place trophies resting on the shelf sat on the grass in front of him and the car’s front license plate read, “Shelly1”.

  “Too bad they took it with them,” Dan murmured.

  They debated parking the cop car in there, but decided against it. Better to have it backed in the driveway and “ready-to-go” than have to manually open the large metal door. But, if the house were to be suddenly surrounded by ZIPs, Wendy pointed out, they could safely enter the vehicle from within the closed garage and then crash through the things if they had to. Another one of life’s little decisions. They decided to park the cop car in the garage after all and moved on.

  The screened in back porch contained a seven-foot pool table with a marked up green felt and was a stretch to be in a room that small. A cache of pool sticks poked out the mouth of a rusty milk can with the word “Welcome” etched into its side. Three walls of windows looked out onto a huge back yard holding several pine trees, an oversized metal shed and a big round golf net.

  Paul wondered where the man in the pictures had gone. They had broken into how many houses now? Outside of Gary, they hadn’t come across one survivor. Paul found it hard to believe. Did they all turn into walking stiffs and go off on a hunting trip, never to remember how to get back home or even to care?

  They left the back porch and went down a long and narrow, carpeted hallway. Dusty pictures of flowers and cows lined the walls. They passed a full bath and two small bedrooms. Then they found Ginger lying on the bed in the master bedroom. Worms were still wiggling around in the Golden Retriever’s swollen stomach. Her golden brown hair was matted and greasy, revealing patches of dark skin beneath.

  Wendy covered her nose with her white vest and gagged. Trapped inside the house, the poor dog was left to figure its way out of this mess on its own, explaining the empty cereal and cookie boxes in the kitchen. Finally out of ideas, Ginger had taken her rightful place on her master’s queen-sized bed and went to sleep, never to wake up again. Paul shook his head while Wendy opened a window. The family must’ve been in one heck of a hurry.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  After securing the rest of the house, Wendy opened up some more windows while Dan and Paul dragged Gary inside the house and let him use the bathroom.

  “Too bad the fan don’t work,” he said, chuckling on his way out and zipping up.

  “Too bad your brain don’t work,” Dan said, shoving him into a bedroom peppered with NASCAR memorabilia and a door poster of Carrie Underwood.

  Paul and Dan tied Gary to one corner of the bed.

  “You just gonna leave me in here?”

  “Beats a jail cell, which is where a pervert like you belongs,” Paul snapped, making sure the rope was good and tight.

  “I told you I wasn’t going to do anything!”

  “Right, and Charlie Sheen was never going to have another drink again,” Dan said.

  A quizzical look stole over Gary’s unshaven face. “Who?”

  They turned to leave the room.

  “Hey, how’s about some food and water?” he said, just before they shut the door.

  “We’ll be back soon,” Dan said, pulling the door shut.

  “Say boys?”

  Dan and Paul poked their heads back inside, wearing equally annoyed expressions.

  “I’d like her to feed me,” Gary grinned, then wiggled his tongue at them.

  Dan shook his head. “You know what?”

  Paul grabbed the knob, yanked the door shut and went down the hall.

  “We should’v
e never brought him!” Dan said, shadowing him.

  Paul plopped down onto the couch.

  “What’re we going to do with him anyway? We can’t take him with us. He’s more dangerous than those stupid things out there!” Dan said, gesturing towards the large front window.

  “What do you suggest we do with him, Dan? Should we take him out back and pop a cap into him like I wanted to from the get go?”

  “Let’s cut him loose! Right here, just before we leave!”

  Paul dropped his head into his hands and rubbed his exhausted face. Gary would definitely slow them down, if not kill them when he found the chance. That much was for sure. But, like it or not, he was their responsibility now. Just like a convict was a sheriff’s. If they left Gary here, he wouldn’t stand a chance on his own. He was old and out of shape. They could leave him a gun, but then he’d turn it on them. They could give him the gun, but keep the clip until they were driving off and throw it out into the yard, buying themselves plenty of time to get out of range. It was a serious problem. One they didn’t need on top of all the others.

  “Let’s do something about that dog first,” Paul said, rising from the couch, which took everything he had to do.

  They found work gloves and a gray tarp in the garage. With watering eyes, they carried Ginger out into the back yard and gently laid her down behind the machine shed with Wendy providing cover along the way.

  “That poor dog,” she said, staring down at Ginger. “Why would they just leave her trapped in there like that?”

  Their eyes settled upon the dead dog for a moment longer and then Paul folded the tarp over her.

  “Let’s check the shed next,” Dan suggested.

  Wendy’s jaw dropped. “Shouldn’t we bury her or something?”

  Dan exchanged a glance with Paul. Without responding, they walked around to the front of the huge shed. Paul felt like doing it later. Sweat ran down his face and neck but he was glad to be outside in the fresh air. Securing the shed would also give the house some time to air out as well, which it badly needed. He badly needed the couch in the living room, and soon.

  The door on the side of the shed had a window with drawn white blinds on the inside. With their guns drawn, Dan slowly turned the knob. It opened. Wendy shined her flashlight inside and there she was... Shelly1. Dan gasped and they stepped inside the spacious machine shed, breathing in the aroma of stale motor oil and lawn clippings. A hulking green John Deere tractor sat behind the show car while an old bean buggy took up space next to the tractor.

  “Wow!” Dan purred, admiring the glossy black Chevelle 300 Deluxe Sedan. It looked as if it had just rolled off the lot in 1969. “I’ll be right back,” he said, running back inside the house.

  “Hey!” Paul yelled after him, but Dan was already gone. “This is how people die. Never split up,” he mumbled, looking back to the car.

  The Chevelle’s rich black paint glistened in their flashlight beams as they circled it.

  “I dated a guy who had a car like this one time. Only his was sunset orange with black racing stripes,” Wendy said, shining her light inside the car. “Fast too.”

  Paul nodded and said, “Nice.” It was all he could muster in response.

  “Yeah, so nice he basically chose the car over me.”

  Paul wondered how he could avoid the drawn out tale about some small town jerk and his prized muscle car. He really didn’t care. “Bummer,” he said dully.

  “What was a real bummer was that I had left my iPod in it the day before he decided that...”

  “Check this out!” Dan said, storming back into the massive garage with the mystery set of keys from the kitchen and saving Paul at the same time. “How much you wanna bet?” he said between deep breaths, holding up the corn-cob shaped key-ring.

  “Try it,” Wendy said.

  The first key he tried unlocked the driver’s side door. “I knew it!”

  Within seconds, the throaty 307 cubic inch V-8 roared to life, vibrating the metal walls of the shed and filling it with white billowing smoke.

  “Wow!” he said, like a kid who had just unwrapped a brand new Wii for Christmas. He revved it louder and louder. “Whew! Listen to those horses!”

  The car was a sweet ride but it wasn’t helping Paul’s headache. He threw open the two large metal garage doors. “Back it out!” he said, waving his hand through the stale smoky air.

  Shelly1 rumbled out into the darkness on shiny black tires, with “Winston Winner G/T” printed in white letters, mounted on polished chrome rims. The interior had white bench seats with lap-belts, a black dash and a full tank of gas. The only thing that didn’t look original to the casual eye was a Pioneer CD player.

  They decided to trade in the cop car for the Chevelle, mainly because it didn’t have a cage separating them, which had made passing food and water impossible. And also because Dan was in love. He pulled it around front and they transferred their gear and food from the cop car to the Chevelle and backed it inside the garage in a “ready-to-go” position.

  “This is the coolest thing I’ve ever seen!” Dan stated like a proud father, closing the driver’s door and circling the car like a vulture.

  Paul snorted and went back into the house, not caring if they followed or not.

  Inside the house, he pulled Sophia’s black hoodie from his duffel bag and curled up with it on the couch. Then he said a short prayer. The first one since she had died. He prayed for God take good care of his girl. Then he cursed Him for taking her from him, saying He had no right. He saw Sophia’s grave in his mind, alone in that backyard. Dark and cold. He saw her scared face on the couch. The pharmacist. The butcher. Her books. The gunshot.

  He heard a horn beep twice followed by the Chevelle’s roaring engine. Dan yelled something to Wendy in the garage, which caused her to laugh.

  Paul remembered tubing down a snow covered hill at the Sleepy Hollow Sports Complex with Sophia in the bright sunshine, laughing and yelling. It was just four weeks ago, but seemed like four years. Sporting black sunglasses, a puffy red coat and a smile a mile wide, she screamed and howled as they sped down the slick hill together on a two-person tube, knocking the legs out from some poor unsuspecting kid at the bottom. A smile crept across his face for the first time in days. He could see her getting a stomach cramp from laughing so hard. Could see her silky hair and smooth skin. Then he saw her sunken, ravenous face lunge for his. He heard the gunshot. It ricocheted inside his skull like a steel pinball.

  He opened his eyes and focused in on the house’s furniture and pictures and trinkets. Another wave of unfamiliar discomfort washed over him as he stared at the family’s prized possessions. They didn’t seem so prized now. He inhaled the sweatshirt, still smelling her on it.

  He closed his eyes again. The darkness was familiar. He tried to find the positives in there. He was good at this. More often than not, he had always been able to keep depressing thoughts at bay by listing off the positives of any grim situation. What did he have? He had Dan, his best friend since freshman year in high school when Paul’s family had moved into the house across the street from his on Val High Road. They had a girl they barely knew, who had zero faith, smoked too much and wasn’t so great with a gun. But they were healthy and still alive, unlike Sophia. He would never kiss her again. Never give her another hug.

  His mind shuffled and he found himself pulling into The Donut Hut down the street from his house. He saw the racks stuffed with fresh, shiny donuts, glimmering in all different shapes and colors. Glazed over apple-fritters, chocolate long-johns, red and white frosted cake donuts stared back at him. He would need a dozen. The owner awaited him behind the counter with his usual welcoming smile. Paul smiled back, stepped forward and opened his mouth to let the ordering begin but tripped on the long black mat lying on the floor below. He stumbled and fell into the glass counter and awoke with a violent body spasm on the couch. The car show guy’s couch.

  Despair gripped his insides again. She was really
gone. Gone forever. He would miss their Sunday mornings together, eating donuts and sipping hot coffee while flipping though the newspaper’s colorful ads. Pointing out great deals to each other while Joel Osteen doing his thing up on stage in front of another twenty-thousand on TV. Little things like that he would miss the most.

  His mind shuffled again. No one would ever put flowers on her grave. He fell asleep, forgetting to say amen.

  Paul and Sophia sat on the green grass in New York City’s Central Park with the warm sun soaking their bare skin. They still had a few hours until the train at Grand Central would take them back to their car in New Haven, where they would then drive to their apartment in Enfield, Connecticut. It was the perfect day out. People in shorts threw footballs and Frisbees around the vibrant park while others went jogging by, dodging dog’s tethered by leashes to their meandering owners.

  He and Sophia sat back and took it all in. After countless hours of shopping on 5th Avenue and Broadway, just to name a few strips of Manhattan, it was a much needed break from the swollen crowds. Sophia had a shine that made her face glow. She was so happy. There were no ZIPs or any awareness of them at all, just another weekend in the Big Apple.

  They shared an ice cream cone with a scoop of mint chocolate chip and one of rocky road. A light breeze tickled her shiny, rich brown hair. She was so radiant and loved coming to New York City. Said it made her feel electric. She let out a short scream and laughed as ice cream dripped onto her bare legs. They kissed and got ice cream on each other’s lips and noses, pulled apart and smiled into each other’s ample eyes. It was the perfect day.

  A Golden Retriever stopped by with its tail wagging and tried to lick from the cone as well. Sophia giggled and twisted away from the furry visitor. The dog came over to Paul and began licking the ice cream off of his face with a tongue that was rough and wet. They laughed in the sunshine. The dog stopped licking and sat down, panting in Paul’s face. Its breath was warm and smelled like it had recently eaten its own waste. Paul scrunched his face up and looked over to Sophia, who was suddenly sitting further away from him on the park’s lush green grass. The dog came closer again as Sophia floated even farther away. He opened his mouth to speak but couldn’t find his voice. The dog’s warm breath washed over his face. Sophia continued to fade. The dog’s breath was rancid. Paul tried to call out to her to come back but she was already gone.