by T. W. Brown
He walked into the lab, trying not to let the stench curdle the chocolate in his stomach. He walked past all the bays. Each had contained an assortment of specimens. The last bay still had its curtain drawn. Taking a deep breath, then promptly choking on the sudden rush of stink that coated his throat like partially congealed shortening, he opened the curtain.
Walking over to the last uninfected specimen, Dr. Cox picked up the clipboard. He paused at all the monitoring devices and confirmed the readouts. Reaching over, he rolled the thumbwheel on the IV.
“Wake up,” he glanced at the chart and smirked, “Jane.”
The Jenifer-zombie stood on the gently rolling deck of the boat. Unaware of rain, unaware of wind, it simply stood. The transition from day to night meant nothing. The fact that there had been three others standing beside it for ten days went unnoticed. A wave had taken two yesterday morning. The other had fallen backwards down the open hatch. Its legs had broken in several places and now it simply lay on the carpeted deck in three inches of water. It’d had one arm torn off when it had tried to fight off the Jenifer-zombie while it was still human.
As the sun rose high in the sky, the Jenifer-zombie stood. Birds circled above, but would not swoop down. Even they sensed the wrongness of the greyish thing. It smelled like the carrion they would’ve normally fed on. But this was different.
Wrong.
The Jenifer-zombie stood as the hot orb sank into the arc of the horizon once more. Only, this time, that arc was jagged. Not the smooth line of the sea. This was the hotel-pocked vista of Miami. Under the dull glow of the moon, the boat ground into the sand. The Jenifer-zombie lurched forward and pitched over the side.
An hour later, a thin figure still resembling a small female staggered from the surf. Several times, the form was knocked over. But, eventually, its feet found the soft sand of the beach.
The Jenifer-zombie arrived in Florida to the notice of nothing more than an alligator that recognized it as something to avoid.
“Are you sure this will work?” Mackenzie climbed out of the cab of the old truck.
“Absolutely not.” Juan walked around and pulled the tarp back from the bed.
“Then remind me again why we’re doing it.”
“Because,” Juan looked at the large propane tank to ensure that the bundle of flares were still securely attached, “I don’t have a jackhammer.”
“If all you end up doing is starting a big fire—” Mackenzie unscrewed the caps on the two fifty-gallon drums that were full of kerosene.
“Then we have plenty of stuff on the boat and we can go someplace else,” Juan cut her off. He’d heard this same gripe at least ten times just on the two mile drive from the Simm’s farm to the bridge.
“This is the only way those things can get on the island,” Juan recalled seeing a few fall off a pier and quickly added, “at least in any big numbers.”
“Here comes my mom.” Mackenzie turned at the sound of the approaching engine. The tan Range Rover came to a stop in the dirt parking lot of the small grocery store. Margaret got out, leaving the driver’s side door ajar, and sprinted for the younger pair.
“This can’t be good at all,” Juan mumbled as he instinctively unshouldered his rifle.
“Boats!” Margaret yelled as she began running up the inclined road leading to the bridge.
“Are they landing near the farm?” Mackenzie asked before Juan could get the words out.
“No.” Margaret was laboring now, her breathing coming in gulps. “Too…big…like…cargo…ships!”
“Are they stopping?” Juan reshouldered the rifle. Whatever it was, he wouldn’t be shooting anything right this minute.
“They’re heading out!” she pointed the direction Juan figured must be west.
“So?” He was confused why she was in such a panic.
“If you blow that bridge now,” Margaret was looking at him that way she had that made him feel like he was back in school and just said two plus two was five, “they’ll see!”
“Somebody’s gonna see anyway,” Juan said and shrugged. “This baby’s gonna blow up and destroy a bridge.”
“But none of those things are around at the moment,” Margaret insisted. “Can’t we wait just twenty or thirty minutes?”
Juan looked at all the stuff in the back of the truck: kerosene, a propane tank, a long, white cylinder of nitrogen based fertilizer with the words “DANGER—CONTENTS UNDER PRESSURE—HIGHLY EXPLOSIVE!” a case of flares, and two sticks of dynamite that they’d found in a box in the office of the Fish and Wildlife outpost. Yep, this was gonna blow up big. He sighed and stuffed his hands in his pockets.
“Twenty minutes,” he growled.
The trio sat in the morning sunshine. Juan kept his eyes on the marina across the bridge on the mainland side. He was relatively confident that they’d cleared most of the threats from the island with the exception of any that had crossed in the past two days.
He saw two of those things walking around a big white building. It was like they were doing laps. After the second lap, he tapped Mackenzie on the shoulder and pointed them out.
“Zombie races?” Juan smiled.
“What?” Mackenzie looked where he was pointing. She saw two of those terrible creatures stumbling along. One had been a balding man in a business suit, the other a really fat man in coveralls.
“Just watch.” Juan folded his hands and waited.
They rounded a corner and disappeared from sight. After a couple of minutes, Mackenzie gave Juan a dubious glance. A moment later he nudged her with an elbow just hard enough to send her sliding off the bumper of the truck they’d been using as a bench.
“I bet Fatty wins the next lap,” Juan challenged.
“Puh-leez,” Mackenzie groaned. “Leisure Suit Sam’s gonna dust Fatty.”
“Loser washes the winner’s socks?” Juan countered.
“For a week!” Mackenzie stuck out her hand.
“Bump on it.” Juan shook his head and held out a clenched fist.
“Huh?”
“Nobody shakes on it no more.” Juan reached out with his left hand and closed her extended hand into a fist. Then, he brought his fist down on hers and guided hers up, then back down on his. “Bumped.”
“Kids,” Margaret sighed and rolled her eyes.
“C’mon, Fatty,” Juan started chanting.
Mackenzie joined in, urging her own zombie-racer to hurry. Finally, the two rounded the corner almost side-by-side.
“Second lightpole is the finish line,” Juan decided.
They continued to urge the zombies on. Margaret tried to pretend she wasn’t interested, but kept sneaking a peek as the zombies neared the finish line. Leisure Suit-zombie stopped suddenly and turned slowly, heading the other direction. Two steps later Fatty-zombie passed the pole, then also stopped.
“Damn cat!” Mackenzie spat. She spun on Juan. “Double or nothing. I bet your bomb doesn’t take out the bridge!”
“Mackenzie!” Margaret looked up, shocked.
“Bump on it!” Juan extended his fist.
“Bumped,” Mackenzie repeated the ritual Juan had just shown her.
Uncoiling the long fuse, Juan ran it down the tailgate of the truck. He waited until both women had reached the flat main road leading onto the island from the bridge. He pulled out his lighter and thumbed the wheel. The fuse began to spark and sputter. Juan turned and ran.
He waved at the women, not at all certain how big the explosion would be. For the first time in memory, neither tried to argue or protest. Both spun and sprinted towards the open lot.
KA-WHOSH!
Juan felt heat at his back. He also felt a wind seem to lift him just slightly, aiding his running speed with a steady push that felt like a giant, warm hand cupping the entire back of his body and shoving him along.
He reached the Rover, collapsing across the hood. He looked back towards the bridge. The reddish steel arching suppo
rt was a twisted mess jutting out of a black cloud. Several large pieces of concrete and steel rained down, much of it into the waters drifting by below. The hood of the truck crashed down several feet away, sticking into the dirt and standing straight up and down.
“Tight,” Juan whispered as he admired the destruction of his handiwork. A good portion of the center of the bridge was gone and both ends sagged down, bowing to the powers of gravity.
“Tight like a tiger.” Margaret slung an arm around Juan’s waist.
Mackenzie frowned, her gaze fixed on the dingy tube-socks pulled to just below the knee that Juan wore.
Diedre Smith patted the ground with the back of her shovel. An earthen rectangle stood out amidst the tall, green grass. There were two others just like it off to the right. Small makeshift crosses were stuck in the ground at the head of the other two.
“You always thought you were so damned smart,” she said to the large, empty yard. “Always knew what to do in every situation. Even figured out what was happening when dead people stopped stayin’ dead.”
She picked up the crudely fashioned cross made from her favorite spice rack and the cord from her iron, “But you wouldn’t listen to me when I told you that you shouldn’t go into town. I told you—”
Diedre sniffed. She’d promised herself that she was done crying. When her son James had come home from school saying that a group of crazy people had tried to jump him, she’d written it off as just another of his exaggerations. After all, isn’t that how Bill said he should be dealt with. How her “over-mothering” had weakened the boy’s ability to function as a “normal” boy.
That night, they’d been watching the terrible events on the news. Everybody except James who had uncharacteristically missed dinner. Then, James came into the living room. His skin was a sickly grey, and his eyes, they had that white film coating, and were bloodshot like he’d gotten himself stoned out of his mind, only the bloodshot appearance wasn’t exactly right because they weren’t red, they were shot with black. And then there was the smell.
James had looked from one person to the next like he was deciding. Then, he came for her, mouth open, arms reaching like all he wanted was a hug. And she’d actually taken a step towards her son until Bill pushed her back.
“He’s one of them,” Bill warned. “He’s a zombie.”
Well that was just plain ridiculous, Diedre had tried to argue. With Bill, with their daughter Janie who had run to hide behind her dad who—no surprise—had stepped in front of her as a human shield.
Diedre had tried to stop Bill when he’d grabbed the apple wood limb that was sitting in the firewood bin. She’d screamed and cursed him when he attacked her sweet baby. Called him a monster and any other name she could think of. In the end, though, Bill had been right. And really, hadn’t he always?
That night he’d tried to comfort her, but it seemed like he was mostly trying to justify his actions. He twisted and turned every word until he almost had her convinced that she had just beat their son to death with a piece of firewood. And, of course, Janie took his side. Naturally, the next few days until the power went out, the news only seemed to back up Bill’s assertion.
Their home was on an enormous hill that looked out over the valley below. The view was as spectacular as the price they’d paid for it. Their seclusion was a blessing since the cities and towns had turned into nightmarish pockets of Hell. Out in the country, the nearest neighbor a few miles away, they were much safer.
They’d owned no guns whatsoever, something they both actually agreed on. However, they had them now. Bill insisted and she’d agreed. Bill had called somebody and paid handsomely for a pair of .357 Magnums and a thousand rounds. He’d planned out a garden. Three weeks into it, he’d made a supply run, returning with all manner of food and drink.
The garden was going well. He’d even thought enough to bring a yellow rose bush to plant at the foot of James’ grave. He’d managed to produce some books that pointed out all the edible plants and even mushrooms known to be native to the area. Janie really took to the whole “gatherer” role and began making the daily trips to the nearby woods with a basket. Bill took to calling her his little Nature Princess. Then, one of those things got her. It was just a really bad scratch. Bill had heard the scream and ran to the rescue. That was the first time they’d used one of the guns he’d paid ten times the value for.
That night, he’d sat by his daughter’s side. She grew worse by the hour. Diedre had come in a few times, but Janie just stared at the ceiling, panting, sweating, and—Lord forgive her, but it was true—smelling worse. The last time Diedre looked in, she could see evidence of the dark, bloodshot symptom in her daughter’s eyes.
Just before sunrise, a scream jolted Diedre awake. She’d dozed off curled up in Bill’s favorite chair. There was a struggle upstairs, coming from Janie’s room. She raced up the stairs and could hear sobbing and what sounded like begging. She burst in the door to her daughter’s room and was immediately halted by the stench.
Bill was in a corner. Janie was in front of him, her back to the door, but Diedre knew what she would see even before her daughter turned at the sudden sound. The sickly discoloration. The white film, that would dampen what had been such dazzlingly pretty hazel eyes, shot full of black, squiggly lines. And blood. Bill was holding his left arm just above the wrist. In the low light of the lantern it looked like rivulets of black running to the elbow and dripping on the carpet.
Diedre had been struck by the most peculiar thought. She’d never actually seen Bill frightened. He was always so confident and even a bit brash. But in that moment, he was a sad, hurt, scared little boy. Janie had turned at the initial sound of the door being flung open, but now she returned her attention to her daddy. She reached out, but he easily pushed her back. Again and again this was repeated. He can’t do it, Diedre realized.
She ran to their bedroom and found the gun. She had never fired one, but how hard could it be? She checked for bullets and then returned to Janie’s room. Her husband, easily weighing twice that of her daughter, still stood in the corner. He continued to push Janie back each time she closed and tried to grab him. Diedre heard the strange moans and mewling noises of her daughter above the mournful sobs of her husband.
No, she reminded herself, just like Bill had said when James had turned into one of those things, that isn’t Janie anymore. Taking a deep breath, she walked up quickly, shoved the barrel of the gun against the temple of the thing that was no longer Janie, and pulled the trigger.
“No!” Bill had screamed.
Diedre had left them alone. He was hunched over, hugging the lifeless body of his little girl and rocking back and forth. Shoving the pistol in the pocket of her jeans, which were fitting much looser on her hips lately thank-you-very-much, she went down to the garage for the shovels. The sun was just rising.
Together, she and Bill had wrapped Janie’s head in a pink, frilly pillowcase. Then, they’d dressed her in her favorite dress. They went outside and dug the grave without a word. As they dug, they could hear them. Several of those creatures had come from nowhere and were gathering at the six-foot high wooden fence that surrounded the backyard. More were gathered out front up against the ornate four-foot high brick fence that surrounded the front of the property. It had missing bricks in the pattern of a “B” and “D” on either side of the gate that opened to their extra-wide driveway.
At some point, Bill had stopped digging Janie’s grave. He’d started on another one a few feet away. Still, once Janie’s was done, he’d climbed out of the other, scooped his daughter up in his arms, and laid her to rest. Diedre went and sat at the picnic table on the deck and watched as Bill covered their daughter. She’d looked into his eyes as he’d stood there, down in their daughter’s grave, and knew two things. One, he wanted to be the one to shovel the dirt back into that hole. And two, he was infected.
Bill’s eyes had actually been one of her favorite features. They cou
ld be serious and intense. They could sparkle with laughter. And they could look into her soul back when he used to concern himself every day with how she felt. At some point, he’d stopped seeing her with those eyes. Now, sitting on their picnic table, she realized that that made her sad. At that instant, she’d realized that she missed that look.
As the sun climbed high in the sky, Bill dug. Diedre continued to sit quietly at the picnic table. She could hear those things getting louder outside. It must’ve been the gunshots that brought them. Noise did seem to carry more these days. And, since they’d seen no more than a handful of those things up until now, the conclusion seemed logical. Until Janie, Bill had killed every single one with the same branch he’d killed James with. He said there was no need to waste bullets.
Diedre blinked. Where had Bill gone. At some point he’d finished digging. His shovel was jutting out of the pile of earth he’d excavated from the third grave.
“Bill?” Diedre yelled. The things on the other side of the fence moaned in response.
A hand came up from the ground. It was dirty. It was sickly pale, even through the coating of grime. It was Bill’s. Diedre picked up the gun from where she’d sat it on the picnic table. A second hand emerged. She walked down the steps towards the open hole in her backyard. A face rose, blank of recognition or emotion. Diedre brought the handgun up and gripped it with both hands. That face didn’t look anything like her Bill. Its mouth opened in a raspy groan. Those weren’t Bill’s eyes
Diedre fired.
