by M. D. Massey
Arms and hands beat at the driver’s window. White clammy hands have sickly blue veins running up the forearms. Fingertips smear blood on the window. A head pops into view with drooping eyes darkened with blood and maroon-stained teeth. As it smacks the window, I’m jerked forward, hitting the steering wheel. A loud metal clanking follows the crash. I’m vaguely aware of the deploying airbags. My seat slams forward at the impact. I spot a zombie between Rhonda and a tree through a thick cloud of engine smoke. I try to keep my eyes open, but darkness sweeps me away.
I’m floating on a boat. The wind blows to catch my sail. The salt from the sea and the smell of leather brings me comfort. What an odd combination. The sun glares on me. I let it warm my face. The wind fades as I float.
Spots dance in front of my eyes, and I feel the sun again. I catch a noise at the other end of the boat. Malachi reclines there, smiling his lazy-cat smile. I gasp as my eyes feast on him. The sun makes his brown hair gleam shiny auburn. The love and acceptance he had always shown me radiates from him in waves. He’s wearing the green shirt I like best on him and simple khaki shorts. I return his smile.
“Malachi, I miss you,” I whisper as the wind blows through my locks, sending them flying around my body. That’s when I notice they aren’t locks, but my hair, light, free, and gusting in the wind. His eyes shine with pleasure.
“You’ll be okay, Kansas. I love you, always.” Tears spring to my eyes from hearing his voice laced with love. My stomach drops with hollowness as my anguish rises to the surface. I choke and reach for him.
“My dad? My mom?” His face crinkles with worry as he shakes his head, looking out into the sea and away from me.
I think I stumble, but I’m fading into myself. “No!” I demand and struggle to stay with him, knowing it’s only a dream.
11
I’m aware of a burning sensation on my face and chest. It hurts to breathe. As I move, the aches spring to life in my body. “Ugghh–” I groan as the muscles in my chest, back, and arms squeeze together. Straightening my legs, my right knee cracks as thoughts of the wreck flood me. I’m lying down in a square metal van. Checking my surroundings, the only light comes from small windows on each side of the van, illuminating bins and benches along the walls. I’m on a small mattress that occupies most of the space, leaving a walkway. I meet the eyes of the bandana guy, his reading material forgotten as he stares at me, waiting for a reaction.
My breathing quickens as claustrophobic panic sets in. I shut my eyes to keep the walls from closing in on me. When I open them, I spot a door behind him. He’s still frozen, as if waiting for me to say something. I glance at the bins containing various guns. I lick my dry lips at the sight. I hate guns but will do what I have to do if I need to use one.
He braces himself on the balls of his feet, guessing my plan. I spring in one leap, ignoring my screaming body, grab a gun, and knock myself into him in one fluid motion. The doors must’ve been open because we tumble out. As we hit damp earth and decomposed leaves, I land on top, but he grabs for my wrists, flipping me over.
His weight crushes me, but I jerk my hands away. Grunting, he clutches my wrists and knocks the gun away. He’s worried about the gun, underestimating my body. I struggle, kicking with my feet. My legs entangle in his as he fights to hold me still. He’s strong and equally big. I ram my head forward. When our heads crack together, he releases my wrists, and struggles to untangle his legs, blinking. As my own spots clear, I ball my fists and punch him in the gut. It’s like punching a hard punching bag packed with sand. He releases a deep grunt, more surprised than hurt. I roll away from him. A huge mistake because he pounces on top of me, knocking the wind out of me. Gasping for air, the moisture of earthy grime soaks my jeans. The decaying leaves are slimy against my skin.
With my heartbeat thundering in my ears, I spit over my shoulder, “Let me go!” Beyond him, tall, mature trees block the sky.
He pushes my face into the ground. More than angry, I open my mouth to protest and it fills with wet leaves and dirt. Dirt goes into my nose and eyes.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he gasps, so close to my ear I feel his breath, his deep voice reverberating through my body. He has a soothing, soft southern accent, as if his family lived in the south for generations. He puts more pressure on my head, diminishing the soothing part. I also hope that’s a gun pressed against my thigh. For that, I won’t give him the satisfaction of backing down.
Continuing to breathe dirt-infused oxygen, I go limp in his hold. He waits as his hot breath tickles my skin in heavy huffs of air.
When he thinks I’m complacent, he relaxes his hold. I tense my arm and throw my elbow as hard as I can and connect with his jaw. A shock shoots through my funny bone. I scramble in the general direction of the gun. Blinking dirt from my eyes and sucking in clean air, I snatch it from the ground, ignoring the electric waves in my arm. I fall on my butt with a thump.
Rubbing his jaw, his eyes wide, he spots the gun. “Don’t, you’ll draw–” He cuts off as I fumble with it. It’s a big gun, too large for my hands. I know there’s a safety somewhere, but I can’t find it. Taking a quick peek, I find him watching me. A flash of disbelief runs across his face before he breaks into a cocky smile. The bandana has fallen off in the scuffle, and his brown hair frames his face. He crosses his arms, making them bulge. I find a little spring button on the gun and assume it’s the safety. Triumph surges through me, but when I push it, the magazine pops from of the handle. It isn’t the safety.
He snorts, trying to hold back laughter while I stare at the traitorous gun. “You could have at least pretended to know what you’re doing.” Amusement is clear in his tone.
My eyes narrow as I palm the bullets and throw the gun at him. The gun whizzes by his head. As I jump up to run, he calls, “If you want to leave, you can. I told you I won't hurt you. Good luck staying alive without any weapons.”
I try not to sway on my feet. He hadn’t hit me. He was preventing me from hitting him, and he moved me to safety from the wreckage and presumably battled zombies in the process. I swipe at my face with my arm, coming away with mud.
“Anyone else with you?”
“No,” he says.
“Not planning to roast me over a fire?”
His eyes narrow, scrutinizing me as a slight smile crosses his face. “Nah, you wouldn’t feed me for long.” Panic rises, but he seems to figure this isn’t a joke because the smile slips as they screw in exasperation. “No. Never crossed my mind.” He sighs with weariness, but sounds sincere.
I don’t know why, but I believe him. “Okay.” My world goes black.
I’m on the mattress when I open my eyes. Bolting upright, I ask without thinking, “Where’s Rhonda?” My voice is hoarse and raspy with pain. With a fuzzy head, I casually slouch down.
“Rhonda? There wasn’t anyone else,” he tells me.
I clear my dry throat. “Um, Rhonda is my vehicle.” Running my hands over my face, I realize it’s clean of dry mud and chance a glance at my clothes. They’re caked with crud. My sports bra is worse for wear with a few blood spurts from shooting the zombie at close range. My stomach is as clean as my face. I don’t know what to think about this guy cleaning mud and whatever else off me.
His eyebrows rise, amused, “You named your car? You must be lonely.”
“I named it a long time ago,” I mutter, shrugging and ignoring his comment. “Is it drivable?” I close my eyes not wanting to know the answer.
“Totaled, I would say. Want to call your insurance representative?” he jokes.
I flinch from the word “totaled.” The flinch causes a sharp pain through my head.
The simper falters. “You’re in pain. I have ibuprofen. Couldn’t give it to you passed out.” He rummages through a leather duffel bag, and I can’t believe how courteous he’s being. I practically beat him up. Even though he shows no sign of it, guilt settles in the pit of my stomach.
I ignore it as something more pressing i
nvades my brain. I don’t have my crossbow or any of my stuff. Feeling exposed and vulnerable with no weapons, I tremble, wondering about his motivations.
With big, rough hands, he passes me three pills and a jug of water. His knuckles are scarred and have a few healing scabs. The pills say Advil on them and are coated, they’re not capsules. He watches me inspect them. Avoiding his gaze, I toss them in my mouth with a gulp of water. My throat aches, but the water feels good.
“Thanks.” I clear my throat. “Sorry. About earlier.”
A gun’s in a million pieces. I assume he’s cleaning it. It may be the gun we quarreled over. He shrugs off my apology. “I would have done the same. Just glad you don’t know how to use a gun. You could’ve drawn hundreds, or even worse, shot me.” He thinks for a second. “Cannibals stay away from the dead zones. Unlike you. Although, I’ve only heard of cannibalism happening once. Rare.” I can tell he’s curious about my comment before I passed out. Dead zone must mean we’re in an area with a lot of them. So, why is he here?
I shake my head. “I had a bad go of it. I panicked without my things, and I’ve had the Honda since before the outbreak.” I pause before going on reluctantly. “I’m not accustomed to someone coming to my rescue.” It feels strange explaining myself.
“Yeah, okay.” He nods with a furrowed brow pointing past my feet. “Your stuff is there.” I follow his finger to my pack and crossbow. “Everything else I could find is in the front.”
“Thanks.” I look at him in a daze. “I’m Kansas. Call me Kan.”
“Kansas.”
I swallow, realizing it’s the first time someone has called me by my given name in a long time. “I’m Rudy.” He beams. The smile transforms his whole face. He has even, white teeth, and dimples set in a sun-kissed masculine face with a softly square chin. Sideburns stop short at the bottom of his ears and stubble makes up the rest of his strong jaw. He’s rugged, but judging from his stubble, he likes to be clean-shaven. The bandana is still missing, and his hair falls forward. It’s thick and drops in soft brown waves above his shoulders. There’s an indention in the waves from the bandana. Looking to be in his late twenties, this guy hasn’t ever had a problem getting what he wants. I’m envious he hadn’t missed the best years of adolescence to zombies.
“You’re named after a state?” He asks so suddenly it shocks me, maybe because I’m staring. I wipe my hand down my face, assuring myself there’s no drool. It must be some kind of hero worship.
“Actually, the city. Kansas City Sunshine Moore.” He looks thoughtful as if my name isn’t anything out of the ordinary. I go on anyway. “I’m not kidding. It’s on my birth certificate.” I sigh, not knowing why I feel compelled to tell him something so personal.
“I like it. I think it suits you,” he mumbles before changing the subject. “I figured you headed this way. I’m glad I followed you. The famished that were after you would have eventually gotten in. They were so deranged they didn’t notice me or that I was shooting them. About fifteen. I had to break a window.”
“Thanks for helping me,” I offer. “Same with earlier in the street,” I add, although I had that under control.
“Yeah, closer you get to Clarksville, the more famished you will come across. I’ve been observing near the army base. The famished seem more organized there,” he explains, assembling the gun with practiced ease.
Clarifies why he was in the right place at the right time. “I heard, too, and came to see for myself. Famished?” I ask, scraping caked dirt off my jeans and brushing it onto the floor.
He stares at me. “The newly turned zombies. The old nasty ones people call putrids. I’ve heard them called by different names: Forsaken, living dead, walking dead, undead, stragglers.”
“Wouldn’t they all be considered famished?”
“Yeah, but the new ones aren’t slow and as decomposed.”
The famished describes them all right. “I also heard they’re keeping the living to eat somehow?” I’m amazed and disgusted at the same time and impressed with his knowledge. He hasn’t holed up for four years. I bet Harley, Nadine, Bridget, and Kale also knew these things. They played on my ignorance. I draw in a slow breath as my anger threatens to surge again. The house fire gives me little satisfaction of revenge.
“Yes,” he says bluntly. “It’s a big army base. It was part of the Coalition. I lived there for three years before men who acted as soldiers came in and took over. They weren’t soldiers. I had friends who were soldiers, friends they killed and threw to the famished like sacks of Alpo. They killed anyone who wouldn’t comply. That’s why the famished flock to it. It’s structured to save food. They use them to get the survivors to comply.”
This information is quite a bit to take in. He made it to a quarantine. That is amazing after what I saw coming here.
“So, you left?” I ask, full of curiosity.
He sighs. “I didn’t want to leave anyone there, but I had to… for help. I know a soldier, but he’s adamant I stay out of it. I have a friend at the base—she’s like family. I’m sure she’s waiting on me to get her.” He swallows and avoids eye contact for a moment.
“What about the Coalition in Birmingham? Surely there is help there?”
He shakes his head. “Other quarantines have been infiltrated. More soldiers, dead. My soldier friend won’t tell me, but I believe they’re using all of their resources to keep Birmingham from the same fate. Also, to keep an eye on all the little leftover pockets of–” He cuts off and clears his throat. “Anyway, I had to leave without her, but outside the base, there are hundreds of famished. I escaped when everything was still in chaos. I don’t even know if she’s alive or not.” From his tone, I can tell he lives with guilt.
I pick at my cuticles. I don’t know how it’d feel, to not know if someone is dead or alive, but it is better to know than not. Everyone I loved and cared about is dead, including my friends. I ventured out to look when I nearly went crazy from being alone that first year.
“Sorry,” I tell him. I, too, have guilty feelings. “I killed my mother when she was… famished. She was attacking my dad. I put off killing him before he turned, but when he did... I killed him, too,” I blurt, remembering their faces. I’ve told this man two personal things in less than ten minutes. When I meet his eyes, I know we understand each other. I tear my eyes away looking anywhere else.
For the first time in four years someone knows things about me. I don’t know how I feel about it. A strange thing because being alone makes a person self-aware.
Noticing my surroundings, I see he has an arsenal. His hunting bow leans against the locker bins. Hanging from a hook, a few quivers hold several arrows each. Bins hold boxes of bullets for various guns. The guy is some kind of GI Joe. I smile, imagining him in full army gear.
I peek at him.
He’s watching me when he says, “Couldn’t imagine having to do something like that. I had to kill someone I was acquainted with at my apartment building.”
“Is that where you were when the outbreak hit?”
He glances away. His jaw clenches a moment before speaking. “No. I was in jail.” I open my mouth to ask him how he escaped, but he knows it’s coming. “Just so happens my arresting officer had the keys on his belt. He’d been trying to get me through the bars. Killed him with a cot pole.”
I don’t ask him the details of his arrest. He’s uncomfortable talking about it. “Must have been gratifying.” I smile, trying to make light of it.
He smiles, too, and it reaches his eyes, deepening those glorious dimples. “Once I knew I wasn’t hallucinating from dehydration, it kind of was.”
“Thanks,” I tell him. Everyone has a story. I assume no one likes telling them.
“I can drive you to Birmingham, if you want,” he says, changing the subject.
He’s piqued my curiosity and given more information than he could possibly know. I shake my head, “I’m going to Clarksville. I need to rest first. I don’t want to look in
a mirror, but the airbag burns on my face and chest sting. I’ll be out of your way soon.” I wince as the ache throbs in my head. The ibuprofen’s kicking in, thankfully. I grab my pack to get food before remembering the food is somewhere else. “I’m going to get some food from the front.” I get up only to have him gently push me back.
“I have something back here.” He ticks off his fingers. “Spam? Ramen noodles? Tuna–” I cut him off with my hand.
“You have ramen noodles?” I ask, trying not to show my excitement.
“Yeah, I’ll even cook them if you want.” He laughs. The sound echoes through the van. I have to stay focused—my twenty-four-year-old hormones are getting the best of me and make me feel weird. No, not weird... alive. I should thank him and leave. I don’t because I’m curious how he'll cook them.
“I’ll help.”
“Nah.” He picks through a locker and goes to the front where an electric camping stove sits in the corner. Dad bought one, but it croaked on me a few years ago. This one plugs into an outlet, running on battery power from the van.
The van is square, dim, and smells of metal and fumes. “What kind of van are we in?”
“One of those armored money trucks.” He looks over his shoulder, grinning and shrugging. “I got lucky. Found it with the keys and a tank full of gas.”
I nod, impressed. It isn’t a bad idea. I bet it guzzles gasoline. Looking to the back, he has several five-gallon barrels. I notice my gas cans sit next to his.
“There are different armored vehicles. This one was used to transport money from the look of the bins and gun ports. The vault and cab are separate, too. This one wasn’t used by any of the major security companies. It’s plain black.” He pauses, pouring water into the small pot. “I like the armor, steel ram bumpers, and front grill guard. It’s large enough to live in the back, even for a couple of people. It’s perfect for our current situation. Runs over famished with ease, anyway.”
