Die Laughing (The Fearlanders)

by Joseph Duncan

  There was a gate set in the fence, but it hadn’t opened since Vince was a pledge at Epsilon Omega. The top hinge was broken and the bottom of the gate was sort of embedded in the ground.

  He heard footfalls behind him. Muffled grunting.

  Not daring to look over his shoulder, Vince scrambled up and over the fence, landing hard on his ass in the back lawn of the chapter house. The fence shook as Brody collided with it. Shuddered again. Vince stumbled to his feet, panting.

  Rubbing his aching tailbone, Vince limped toward the back door. Each time Brody slammed into the fence, he looked back nervously, hoping the big jock didn’t knock the fence over completely. It was definitely a possibility, as big as the young man was.

  As he retreated, Vince tried to calm his racing heart. He couldn’t catch his breath, and his heart was beating so hard it felt like his eardrums were pulsating. A cold wind blew, stirring the fallen leaves that carpeted the back lawn—a morose, autumnal sound, one that made him think of sad rainy days and dying.

  He waited in the moonlight by the back door, the chilly November air cooling the fear-sweat on his body, his breath steaming.

  Brody smashed into the fence a couple more times, then seemed to forget why he was doing that. Vince heard the big jock make a plaintive moaning sound, then swish away through the high grass. He imagined the giant football player wandering down the deserted street in pink tights and a tutu and didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. When Lance unexpectedly jerked open the back door, he nearly soiled himself.

  “You okay?” Lance asked.

  “Jeez! You scared the shit out of me! Yeah, I’m okay.”

  “Oh, good. He still out there?”

  “No, I think he’s wandered off. Their short term memory isn’t so hot.”

  “Whew! That’s good. Man, that was a close one!”

  “I know. I thought he was going to rip off your head.”

  “Me, too!”

  “How’s Steve?”

  “I think he bruised his kidney when Brody knocked him into the wall. He says his back hurts really bad.”

  Vince nodded. “Let’s go have a look at him.”

  They went inside.

  16

  “Does it look bad?” Steve asked, back to his friends. He had pulled his shirt up to his ribcage so Vince could examine his injury. Just above his buttocks on his right flank was a large red area in the shape of Japan, already starting to bruise. The skin had broken where he had collided with the pedal of one of their bikes, but it wasn’t bleeding badly. “Hurts like a mother!”

  “I don’t think it’s serious,” Vince said. “We could put some ice on it if we had ice. I guess you’ll just have to take some Tylenol and man up.”

  But he was no doctor. For all Vince knew, Steve was bleeding internally. Brody was a strong man, and Zombie Brody had thrown Steve off with terrific strength. Still, he was pretty sure it was just a bruise, nothing life threatening. Steve would be in a lot more pain if he were bleeding internally, Vince believed.

  It was Lance he was really worried about.

  Lance had come through their little meet-and-greet with Zombie Brody relatively unscathed, except for the scratches he’d received when Brody tried to twist his head off like a beer cap. Brody had raked his nails across Lance’s face, and it was those minor injuries that alarmed Vince the most. The scratches slanting across Lance’s narrow, weasly face were already starting to puff up, looked more like burns than scrapes, and the skin around them was a livid red.

  The bell of doom tolled inside Vince’s brain as he examined Lance’s injuries: Infected, infected, infected.

  “Let’s put some alcohol on those scratches,” Vince said.

  “Great idea, “ Lance laughed. “I’ll have a Jim and Coke!”

  17

  The next morning, Vince tottered downstairs to look for something to eat and found Lance in the den, painting on a cabinet door. It was about noon, judging by the angle of the light slanting in through the barricaded windows. Vince had just awakened and had a thumping headache. They had drunk the rest of their beer last night, then finished off all the hard liquor. They would have to make another supply run soon.

  Hung over, he hesitated before detouring into the den to see what his frat brother was doing. There was a part of him that really didn’t want to know. But in the end, he did. Frat brothers were supposed to be there for one another. No matter what.

  Lance had whitewashed one side of the cabinet door. He must have done it earlier that morning because it was dry enough to paint on top. He was painting with black paint now. Writing on the whitewashed surface of the cabinet door. So far he had written: WILL WOR.

  “Whatcha doin’, bro?” Vince asked, stepping behind the skinny guy and clapping him on the shoulder.

  “I’m making my D.L. bit,” Lance said, without turning to look at Vince.

  “What’s that mean?”

  Lance very carefully painted a K on the board.

  “My Die Laughing joke,” Lance said. “I’m infected. I think Brody did it when he scratched my face last night.”

  “Oh. Oh, man, I’m sorry.”

  “It’s no big deal,” Lance said, his face eerily calm. “I mean, we’re all going to die, right? Might as well get it over with.”

  Vince stood behind his friend, hands on his shoulders, and watched as Lance carefully painted an F, and then an O, and then an R.

  “It’s strange,” Lance said softly. “I thought I’d be a lot more scared. I thought I’d lose it. But I’m not really all that scared. I guess the worst part is wondering how and when. Now I know. I don’t have to wonder anymore. It’s very liberating.”

  “Is there anything I can do for you?” Vince asked.

  “Naw,” Lance said, painting a four inch tall B now. “Not unless you can cure someone of the Phage.”

  “Sorry, no can do,” Vince said.

  Lance chuckled. “I didn’t think so.”

  Steve came pounding down the stairs a few minutes later, yelling, “I hope nobody’s on the shitter! I got a twelve turd pileup on the corner of Colon and Sphincter!”

  “Hey, Steve!” Lance called, putting his paintbrush aside.

  “What is it, man?” Steve asked, standing in the doorway clutching his stomach. “Can it wait a few minutes?”

  Lance stood and turned his sign around.

  “What do you think?” Lance said, grinning crookedly. “Funny?”

  Steve read the sign, his face drooping. “Oh, man…” he said. For a moment, he forgot all about his clenching guts. He sighed, and then he smiled and nodded. “Yeah… yeah, that’s pretty funny.”

  Lance turned his sign around and looked at it one more time, head cocked critically to one side. “I thought so,” he said, looking strangely proud of himself.

  Vince chuckled, though he felt more like crying, but it was better to laugh than cry.

  The sign said: WILL WORK FOR BRAINS.

  “Fuck you, Death,” Lance murmured.

  18

  They drilled some holes in his signboard with a Phillips head screwdriver, twisting it back and forth to cut into the wood. After that, they used the wire from several wire clothes hangers to strap it around his neck and waist. It was very important for Lance that the sign last as long as possible. That’s why he had painted it when he was originally just going to write it in marker on a piece of cardboard, like Rudie’s INFECTED DON’T TOUCH sign. He hoped some random survivor might see him wandering past with the sign. A good, sturdy sign would improve the odds of that happening, he had said.

  They went outside on the front porch to sit for a while. It was another fine afternoon, the trees bare, the lawn bright with fallen leaves: red, brown, orange, yellow. The sky was clear but for some fluffy cumulus drifting on the horizon like ghost mountains. The street was empty, no deadheads in sight, but the three boys kept their eyes peeled, just in case.

  “Wish I had a beer,” Steve said, sitting with his chair cocked back and his
boots up on the bannister. “It’s a mighty fine day to sit out on the porch and drink a beer.”

  “Amen, brother,” Lance wheezed, hands hanging off the top corners of his sign.

  He looked like death eating a cracker. The infection was progressing rapidly for him. He’d never had much of an immune system, he had told them earlier. He was always sick as a kid-- ear infections, sinuses, colds and flus. He didn’t expect to fare much better against the Phage. And he wasn’t.

  “So what are you guys going to do after I’m gone?” Lance asked.

  Vince and Steve looked at him but didn’t answer.

  “You ought to light out,” Lance said. “Go, I don’t know, somewhere. Maybe you can find some other survivors. Find someplace safe.”

  Most of the frat brothers had abandoned the house when the Phage first showed up in Westland. They had fled in all directions, some of them headed for home, others headed for the mountains, the deserts, the wilderness, hoping they could find a safe haven. From the Phage. From the ravenous victims of the Phage. From their own panicked fellow survivors. That had been a terrible, violent, chaotic time, the streets full of howling revenants, black smoke always churning on the skyline, the air pierced day and night with the wail of emergency vehicle sirens, the popping popcorn sound of gunfire, the echoing screams of men and women falling prey to their diseased fellows. The rest of them had stayed in the frat house, thinking it was wiser to batten down the hatches and ride out the storm. A little over two dozen had stayed at Epsilon Omega house while the rest of their brothers fled. Now, just four weeks later, there was just the three of them. And soon there’d be only two.

  So much for battening down the hatches.

  Lance snorted, leering at his frat brothers, “I mean, how long do you think it’s going to be before the two of you start fucking each other in the ass?”

  Steve laughed so hard he nearly tipped his chair over.

  “Smart ass,” Vince chuckled.

  Smiling thoughtfully at the weightless white mountains drifting over the horizon, Lance nodded. “You know me,” he said softly. “Leave ‘em laughing.”

  19

  Just about sundown, Lance groaned, beads of sweat standing out on his brow. “I think it’s time,” he wheezed. “Care to do the honors, Rodeo?”

  “Sure,” Steve said, getting up from his chair. “You got it, buddy.”

  He pulled the duct tape out with a rasping sound.

  20

  That night, as they sat sober as Baptists in Vince’s room, trying to ignore the vast silence that had enveloped the world in heavy cotton batting, Steve said, “So what do you think it’s like? Being one of them, I mean.”

  Vince shrugged, staring into the flame of the candle sitting on his bedside table. It was their last candle. It had melted down to less than three inches, stood in a puddle of congealed wax on a saucer. They had started with a whole box of them, but there was just the one now, and it was nearly gone. They used the candles for one of the fraternity’s initiation rites—the one where they dressed as monks and paddled the pledges’ bare asses. Tomorrow, when they went on their supply run, they would have to look for some candles or lanterns or something. Or sit in the dark at night, and Vince certainly wasn’t ready to start doing that.

  “I don’t know,” Vince said finally.

  “Do you think, deep down inside, that you’re still you? That your mind is still in there? I heard that people in comas are still aware of what’s going on around them. My mom told me that. She was a nurse. She said you had to be careful what you said around them, ‘cause even if they couldn’t talk or move or anything, they could still hear you. They were still aware.”

  “I hope not,” Vince said. “I think that would be worse than just being dead. A lot worse.”

  Steve thought about it a moment and nodded. “Yeah. I guess sometimes dead is better.”

  21

  Vince dreamed that night of angels.

  Just like Mary’s dream, they told him to be patient. That he must hide himself and stay safe. They told him that he was important. That he was needed to repopulate the Earth, but there were so many in need of rescue, and so very few of them. Hide, stay safe, we’re coming, they told him. There were six of them, tall, thin, pale-skinned creatures, with great wings folded behind their backs. They were actually quite beautiful, except for the eyes. The black-in-black eyes. Mary had been right. They had shark eyes. Emotionless and aloof. Vince woke thinking he’d rather take his chances with the zombies.

  He swung his feet to the floor, sat cradling his head in his hands. He didn’t have a hangover this morning (for a change) but he still felt out-of-sorts. It was probably the Ativan. He had taken three 50 milligram tablets last night before he was able to drift to sleep. He had tried to go without them, didn’t want to become addicted, but every time he started to doze off, his arm or leg would spasm like he’d received an electric shock, startling him out of sleep.

  It was nerves, he knew. He was developing some sort of panic disorder. No great surprise there. His adrenals had been working in overdrive for weeks, constantly flooding his system with adrenaline. For the last seven days, he had been suffering random aches and pains, indigestion and diarrhea, bouts of depression and derealization. More disturbing, however, was the fact that he only had half a dozen of the antianxiety pills left. He was already addicted. Might as well admit it.

  Maybe we can raid a pharmacy today, he thought. Get us some dope.

  There was a Walgreens not too far from Epsilon Omega. It was further uptown than he wanted to go. There were a lot more deadheads uptown than in their neighborhood, but maybe some of them had wandered off by now. He and Steve could check, at least. It would be smart to stock up on antibiotics, pain killers, things of that nature.

  He rose, walked downstairs to use the shitter. He held onto the bannister as he descended the stairs. He was a little lightheaded this morning. His heart fluttered in his chest.

  Nerves, he told himself. Just nerves.

  Nerves could do all kinds of whacky, unpleasant things to your body. He knew. He was studying to be a psychologist.

  Had been, he reminded himself. Had been.

  The guys were using a five-gallon bucket to shit in. It sat in the bathroom next to the toilet. They had taken the seat off the toilet and put it on the bucket for comfort. Steve had called it hillbilly ingenuity. Without running water, anything they dropped in the toilet stayed in the toilet, but they could haul their shit outside if they used the bucket. It kept down the stink a little.

  Stomach cramping, Vince pushed his underwear to his ankles and sat. He saw a pack of Camels sitting on the sink nearby and thought, What the hell. The smokes had belonged to a frat brother named Marty Johnson. Marty was one of the Eos who had died on the supply run a couple weeks ago, when a herd of deadheads tore apart the van.

  Vince opened the hard pack and took out a cigarette. There was a lighter in there, too. He took that out, lit the cigarette, and blew a cloud of gray smoke across the bathroom. Smelled better than the bucket of shit he was squatting on.

  Smelled… pretty good, actually. And he liked the sudden, soothing buzz the tobacco smoke gave him.

  He wiped, then decided, reluctantly, he better empty their potty. It was half full. They let it get too full once and it had sloshed over the side when Lance tried to lug it outside.

  Still puffing on the Camel, Vince set the toilet seat aside and picked up the bucket by the metal handle. He hefted it out into the corridor, then stumbled down the hallway toward the back door, trying not to slosh any of the waste over the side.

  He butt bumped the door open, stepped outside.

  “Shit!” he hissed.

  It was cold outside. The temperature must have dropped overnight. Looked like their Indian summer was over. Rather than retreat inside and put some warmer clothing on, Vince trotted across the back lawn in his underwear, puffing his cigarette and shivering.

  The cold felt good, in a way. Purifyin
g. It cleared his head of the cobwebs the Ativan had spun in there, like spiders in an attic.

  He tipped the bucket over and emptied it against the back section of the privacy fence. There was already a rather large pile of human waste and coagulated toilet paper there, killing the grass.

  “I miss running water,” Vince said wistfully.

  Running water, electricity, TV, internet porn.

  Maybe, if he survived, if he could hold out long enough, humanity would regroup; they would find a cure for the Phage, or it would just run its course, and he might once again enjoy a life that included flushing toilets and microwave ovens, electric lights at night and downloadable fap flicks.

  Then he heard, faint with distance, the purr of a gas-powered engine.

  Intrigued, he set the bucket down and walked to the other side of the yard. He cocked his head beside the fence, listening. They knew there were other survivors. Mary had died because of them. Here was more proof that other people besides the Eos had managed to survive the Phage.

  Sounded like a motorcycle, he decided. More than one of them. And they were coming closer.

  Vince bent at the waist, putting his eye to one of the gaps in the fence. He listened as the motorcycles got closer and closer. They sounded like angry wasps in a jar at first, then a buzzing saw. A few minutes later, a motorcycle whooshed past on the street in front of the frat house. Riding on the bike was a heavyset man in a leather vest and pants. He had a bandana tied around his bicep, long gray hair streamed behind his head.

  He was there and gone in just a second, like a picture you might glimpse flipping through a textbook.

  Another bike passed a moment later. Then another. And another. Then four or five, riding side-by-side. They were the first living human beings, besides his frat brothers, that Vince had seen in two weeks.