by Shana Festa
"Emma?" whispered Meg from behind me. We'd faced away from each other to cover every angle. Her voice startled me from my thoughts and I flinched.
"Mmm-hmm?" I asked.
"You saw it, too. Right?"
I sighed and closed my eyes for a moment, snapping them open when I remembered I needed to pay attention to my surroundings. "Yeah, Meggy, I saw it."
"He's changing," she sniffled. "I don't think he'll ever be the same after that. Oh, God, I don't think I'll ever be the same after that."
"Me, too, sweetie. He just needs some time to digest everything." Even as I spoke the words, I knew they were lies. My husband would not likely ever be the man I married again.
"Yeah," she murmured without conviction.
My scalp prickled, the tell-tale sign the something wasn't right. My intuition had never failed me, and I searched the immediate area for danger. I heard the soft rustle of grass snapping under footfalls, almost imperceptible at first, but growing in intensity with each second that ticked by. "We've got company," I whispered to Meg.
I raised BB in the direction of the sound and tensed for action. A booted foot stepped from beyond the corner, and I ran at it, howling like a rabid animal. I swung the crowbar at the head as it came into view, realizing too late that the intruder was Striker. Once again displaying creepy ninja skills, he caught hold of the steel shaft inches before it impacted with his skull and held it in place.
I felt my face go red from embarrassment and pursed my lips into a tight circle. I'm pretty sure I mumbled out something resembling an oops and he just shook his head, looking slightly amused and annoyed at the same time.
"Oops?" He questioned, one eyebrow raised. "You should really practice your technique for sneaking up on someone."
If it was even possible, that one eyebrow seemed to rise higher. Fuck, I really wanted to punch him in that little bushy patch of hair. Or maybe I'd just grab it and pull.
"It's clear," he reported, seeing my eyes travel to the new speckles of black goo on his tee shirt.
"Where's Jake?" I asked, my belly tight with anxiety.
"Inside. He's watching the back door in case our presence drew any looky-loos."
It was my turn to raise an eyebrow at his colorful use of words. "Really? Looky-loos? You've barely said two words since I've met you, and you pull that shit out of your ass?"
He shrugged and looked to Meg standing behind me. "Before we go inside, we should talk."
Meg came up beside me and bumped into the dog carrier. Daphne rattled the side of the bag, reminding us she was still along for the ride.
"Tomorrow I'll get you all to Asylum. You already know I'm not staying, and I won't be there to keep an eye on your man. That boy's got something going on inside."
I bristled at his choice of words; calling Jake a boy. If anything, Striker was probably Jake's junior.
He continued, oblivious to my inner dialog. "He's walking the tightrope of mental stability right now. I don't think it will take much to push him over the brink."
"Got it," I chafed, pushing past him to get to my husband. He grabbed my arm, halting my progression, and I snatched it from his grip. "Get off me!"
The asshole had the nerve to look confused by my reaction. Really? You've just insulted my husband and called him crazy in the same sentence, I thought. Of course, I'd just basically had the same conversation with Meg, but Striker wasn't family.
Not acknowledging my barb, he pointed to the front door, "In the front."
I spun on my heel and stalked past Meg, who incidentally, was also looking at Striker like he was an ant she wanted to crush beneath her shoe.
* * *
The house was spectacular, so much so that calling it a mere house was an insult. Our steps echoed on the marble floor and bounced off the empty walls. There was no sign of any personal touches, not even a single piece of furniture. This palace of a home had been empty before the zombies and would likely remain that way forever.
Knowing this, I still felt compelled to check the cabinets, refrigerator, and pantry shelves for consumables. Predictably, I struck out everywhere but the pantry. A half-full case of supermarket-brand bottled water graced the center pantry shelf. I pulled open the bi-fold doors to reveal the heavenly liquid, envisioning the harmonious tenor of voices one would expect to hear as the pearly gates parted. Then I thought to myself, you are such a goober. Leaning just outside the pantry was a large wooden broom, the only thing in the vacant home not a fixture.
I found Jake standing by an open sliding door next to a wall made entirely of glass overlooking a large backyard with the biggest pool I'd ever seen. Remembering the pool of the last house we'd commandeered, I shuddered to think what horrors a pool this size would hold.
When I wrapped my arms around him and nuzzled my head into the crook of his neck, he responded by tilting his down and covered my arms with his.
"Come back to me, baby," I whispered. "I need you to be okay."
I felt more than heard his sigh, and he turned around to engulf me in his arms. He kissed my forehead and his lips lingered on my skin before he pulled back and peered down at me.
"I'm trying," he admitted. "I feel so empty. No, that's not exactly right. I feel hollow…and angry."
"Me too."
We stood together long enough that when I pulled away from him the shadows had shifted up the wall. Night was coming. Meg was bent over the kitchen counter, her eyes closed and head resting on her hands. The image reminded me of her sleeping on the card table inside the shipping container earlier that morning. Jesus, was that only this morning?
Striker cleared his throat to get our attention. "There's some broken glass doors on the ground floor. And I don't know about you guys, but that wall of glass behind you doesn't fill me with a sense of security."
"We could lock ourselves in one of the rooms upstairs," suggested Meg.
Giving it only a moment's consideration, Striker nixed the idea. "You saw what they did back at the apartment. If they get in and manage to climb the stairs, we'd be trapped with only a twenty-foot drop for escape."
"What about the attic? A big place like this must have a huge storage space up there." Jake's suggestion filled me with relief. Not only because it was a brilliant idea, but that he was thinking clearly enough to offer an idea at all.
"Smart thinking, Rossi," praised Striker. "Let's go see what's up there." He looked between me and Meg, like he wanted to make sure we were on board with the plan. Just when I think I have him pegged, he throws another random quirk at me, and I end up back at square one, trying to figure this strange man out.
"Meg, come out back with me and keep an eye out so I can let the dog out for a few minutes."
"Be careful," urged Jake.
"Ditto," I replied, leaving him with a kiss on the lips before walking out the door with my sister-in-law.
Daphne was liberated from the small confines of the bag and made good use of her legs, zipping around the lawn. Even though I believed she'd never run off, she was still a dog. After seeing her charge the zombie back there, I was nervous she would do it again. I didn't want to call out to her lest the sound be heard by any nearby undead, so I bent down and splayed open my hands in her direction after she'd finished her poop dance. A smile formed as I watched the tiny dog dart back to me with her tongue out.
"Pee-ew," I said to her after scooping her up. "You're a stinky dog." She licked my face in response. Apparently, she was okay with being stinky. Me though? Not so much. A shower would be added to the list of things to do if we survived another day. Meg gave a small laugh at me, making my smile grow to include a warm spot in my tummy. The tiny sound indicated that she was keeping it together, and that was music to my ears. One less person to worry about.
Without electricity, furniture, or food, the home was pretty boring. There was absolutely nothing to do, and it was still too early to hide ourselves away in the attic for the night. Striker had found the broom and was using his machete t
o shave the end into a sharp tip. Daphne was having a fit, lunging and growling at the bristled broom head that Striker discarded in the corner. I lay flat on my back on the marble floor, looking up at the high ceiling while Jake and Meg sat with their backs against the wall in silence.
I rolled onto my side and propped my head up on the palm of my hand. "What exactly are you doing?" I asked Striker.
"What does it look like I'm doing?" he retorted, not bothering to look up or stop his whittling.
"It looks like you're about to join the cast of Lord of the Flies," I replied.
That got his attention, and he finally looked up at me, confused. The machete hung suspended in place, ready to take another swipe at the handle.
"You know, the movie where the boys go all tribal on a deserted island? Start killing each other and turn into animals."
"Nope."
"Oh, for fuck sake, just tell me what you're doing," I snapped.
"I'm sharpening the tip of a broom into a spear. Unless you want to see if there's a movie playing and have a night out on the town." A joke! Did he just crack a fucking joke?
The broom handle ended up coming in handy when we finally made for the attic. The sun had set and we couldn't see outside anymore, leaving me jittery. Striker used the handle to snag the access string and pulled down the stairs. Musty, old, air hit my nose the moment my head breached the entrance of the dark space. I flipped my flashlight on and swept the area before continuing up.
This was the difference between the one-percenters and us average folk. In my house, the attic was a tiny area with enough space to crawl on the beams. And there was no floor at all, just lines of insulation between the exposed beams. Rich folk, though, their attics were the size of bonus rooms. The only thing keeping this classified as an attic was the ceiling access hatch. Other than that, the room had a sub-floor and finished walls. There was even a window on the far end and, lucky for us, it opened to let in fresh air.
Try as I might, I just couldn't stop my brain from working overtime. It kept analyzing our current circumstances. We'd started that morning with eight, and now we ended it with four. We'd watched half of our group die in the course of a single day. The worst part, besides the obvious loss of people we cared about, was that we'd had to kill them with our own hands. What does it say about the world when murdering your loved one is the only acceptable option?
I looked over at Striker's sleeping form. The moonlight from the small window illuminated the hot space just enough so that I could see the steady rise and fall of his breathing, but not enough to make out his features. For all I know, he could have been staring back at me. Was I really mad at him for what he said about Jake? Or was I mad that he was abandoning us? I couldn't decide, and what's more, I didn't know why I even cared if he stayed.
Jake had fallen asleep fairly quickly after I gave him a protein bar. Of course, the fact that I'd crushed a Xanax and mushed it into the gooey center of the bar probably helped. I wasn't afraid he'd taste the bitter powder because the bar tasted like shit to begin with. I considered doing the same with Meg, but all things considered, she was holding herself together pretty well.
I punched my backpack in an effort to shift the contents enough to make it a softer pillow, but that was just useless, and all it did was cause Daphne to stir. More than anything, I wanted to let loose with a scream. Sometimes the only cure for frustration is a full-on tantrum. Not wanting to wake the dead, literally, I settled for walking to the window and leaning my face against the cold pane. Soon enough, tears streamed down my cheeks, transferring to the glass and leaving trails in the dust.
* * *
The smell of something rotten stirred me awake. My back was stiff from having fallen asleep sitting up against the wall under the window. I blinked a few times to clear my hazy vision, and I saw that Striker was still lying on the floor, but now he was staring at me. Meg and Jake had yet to wake. I wrinkled my nose from the suffocating stench and pulled the band of my tee shirt up in an attempt to filter it out.
Stretching my muscles, I whispered to Striker, "They're in the house, aren't they?"
He nodded back at me.
Meg rolled over, grumbling about the hard floor. "What time is it?"
"Time to do some housecleaning," I replied in a flat voice. I just couldn't approach the morning with zeal knowing it was about to start with zombies.
Jake rolled onto his back, flopping his hand on the floor and groaning. He looked at me with an expression of accusation. "You roofied me, didn't you?"
I held up my hands and smiled nervously, revealing way too many teeth. "Guilty," I admitted in a sing-song tone, hoping it would lessen the blowup we were likely to have.
"That's just wrong," he said, fighting the lingering sedation while trying to sit up. He looked over to Striker and huffed. "You see what I'm working with?"
I exhaled an anxious giggle, the others joining in. Maybe Jake wasn't as lost as I thought. Maybe all he needed was a good night's sleep.
Striker hefted the broom, newly sharpened spearhead facing the floor, and approached the hatch. "Bet your glad I went all William Golding yesterday, aren't you?"
My jaw dropped. Not only did the shit know what Lord of the Flies was, he was familiar enough with it to know the author's name. That weasel!
"Better close that mouth before you catch some flies," he said, smiling at his pun. I was speechless, so I responded the only logical way I could think. I flipped him the bird, causing him to brandish another grin of pride my way.
Jake stood by the hatch, ready to lower it on Striker's word, and I scrambled to get Daphne into the carrier, despite her growing protests, before they opened it. Striker assumed his position, flat on his stomach, and Jake pushed down the door to reveal the milling corpses below. Five disgusting faces turned up to us at once, and we made an ew sound of revulsion from our perch. We'd all crowded the little opening in the floor to see what awaited us, and judging by everyone's response, we pretty much wished we hadn't.
Gripping the wooden shaft with two hands, Striker began making stabbing motions into the upturned faces. Each time the sharpened tip slid through flesh it made a slurping sound, followed by a second slurp and a clunk as the now-dead zombie hit the tiled floor. Slurp, slurp, clunk sounded three times before Striker swore.
One of the zombie's reaching hands connected with the lowered hatch and caught between the lowest rungs of the attached ladder. When he pulled his arm back, the latch holding the ladder in place broke and the rungs lowered to the ground, taking the zombie with it. The awkward movement of the undead combined with the motion of the hatch messed with Striker's aim and the broom missed its head and embedded in its shoulder. When the offending undead fell, Striker lost his grip on the weapon and now it and the zombie were on the floor, the creature impaled through its abdomen beneath the bottom step. It may have been down, but it certainly was not out. It continued to reach for us and snapped its jaws while the remaining undead began to claw his way up the ladder.
There was a bone-splitting crunch as the very large male zombie stepped on the face of the other, effectively making our job that much easier. This guy looked like he'd enjoyed a lifetime of steroids before being infected and now resembled an undead linebacker going for the quarterback. If there was any question, I should clarify that Striker was the quarterback. Fritz—the zombie just felt like a Fritz to me—had him locked in his sights and was making good progress on the ladder.
"Shit!" exclaimed Striker, finding his machete sheath empty. He began to scramble back from the opening but was too slow. Fritz reached his meaty hand up and caught his shirt. Striker slid forward under its grasp, and I ran to his legs and pulled. From my position at Striker's feet, I couldn't see down the hole, but I definitely saw when Fritz's head breached the opening and got in biting range.
"Pull!" I shrieked to Meg, who'd joined me at Striker's feet. Even with both of us working in tandem, we were no match for the huge man's strength and his legs were j
erked out of my grip, sending me sprawling on my ass.
An angry cry erupted from Jake as he brought something down on Fritz's head. Vinny's Ka-Bar was buried to the hilt, pommel sticking straight up. With its grip now slack, Striker was able to pull himself back from the opening and stopped when he met resistance. I was smushed between him and the wall, and I don't think he even noticed.
"Uh," I said. "Is it stuck on something?" I meant the zombie, not the knife. Its head was still in the opening, which was baffling because I expected it to fall. It was either suspended in mid-air or it was still alive. Well, dead-alive. Un-alive? Fuck it. Now wasn't the time to be straining my brain with this stuff.
Jake's hand was still wrapped around the handle of the knife, and he looked as dumbfounded as I felt. "What the fuck?" he said, more to himself than the rest of us. The proximity of his voice caught the attention of the stoic zombie and its head swiveled in Jake's direction. The knife remained immobile under Jake's hand, and when the seemingly disembodied, bowling ball-sized head turned, it spun on the blade, increasing the effectiveness of the weapon.
We all watched in awe, shocked that the monster was still animated after so much damage to its brain. The color drained from Jake's face when the zombie moaned and raised its hand to grab him. The hand stopped in mid-air, like it had struck an invisible wall, and in an instant, the zombie dropped from view. When I say an instant, I mean that literally. It reminded me of an old-time cartoon, drawn on paper, the ones you flip through fast to see the animation. Almost like someone had torn out a few pages and the previous image just disappeared. We crowded the opening again, peering down at the mess below us.
Feeling the need to state the obvious, I commented without looking away from the pile of corpses. "That was the weirdest thing I have ever seen."
Jake still held the knife in the same spot the zombie's head had just been, and it wasn't lost on me that he regarded the weapon with sadness, remembering who it really belonged to.
