by Shana Festa
Chapter 14: We're Not in Kansas Anymore
"How the heck did they know where we were hiding?" puzzled Meg as we cleared the rooms on the upper level.
"Have you smelled us lately?" I retorted. I was confident that the room I'd checked was empty. It's not like the undead were hiding under the invisible bed. I pulled the door shut behind me and rejoined the others. We'd brought our meager possessions down from the attic on the first trip and put them by the stairs. Then we moved cautiously to ensure that nothing lay in wait in the hall or lurked on the top step.
"Okay, I'll give you that, but if I smelled as bad as they did," Meg said. She pointed to the five corpses Striker had skewered with the broom, "I don't know how I'd be able to smell anything else."
Jake kicked at the leg of the closest corpse, more like an aw shucks kind of kick than anything else.
Striker looked nonplussed by our banter and stood with his arms crossed, waiting for an opening in the conversation. "You done?"
I looked at him with an exaggerated expression of what the fuck that would rival any caricature and shook my head. "Oh, I'm sorry. Are we keeping you from something? Do you have a hot date? By all means, let's not keep you any longer." Daphne whined from behind me, still confined in the small bag. "Just hold it!" I demanded, instantly feeling bad for snapping at her.
She answered me with a string of barks, and it struck me as odd. It wasn't like her to bark like that anymore; in fact the only time's she'd made such a racket lately was when there were zombies nearby.
"Oh, shit!" I blurted, and spun around, bringing the crowbar up. There was nothing there but our bags. The dark mesh made it impossible to see the dog from this far away, but the bag was moving with her efforts to escape. Ready to scold her, I walked toward the bag, making it only a few feet before a mottled hand jutted out from behind the wall and snatched the dog carrier off the landing. I ran, knowing the others were on my heels, and rounded on the opening to the staircase. A zombie was ravaging the bag with its teeth and bony fingers trying to get past the material and to the prize inside. Daphne yelped as the uncoordinated hands pushed and pulled the flimsy bag in on her fragile body.
I screamed in sheer terror and reached out for her, not thinking. Someone grabbed me from behind and pulled me away right before the zombie chomped down on the air where my hand had been.
"Christ!" A male voice boomed in my ear. I was crazed, and definitely not thinking clearly enough to identify the speaker. The zombie went back to the bag with renewed effort and I heard the tear of fabric. Someone was still screaming—I think it might have been me—when I wiggled free of the hands holding me in place and lunged. I had enough foresight to extend my crowbar before catapulting at the zombie, and I'm pretty sure it was dead before my tumbling descent to the first floor began.
The shouts of my group were fading the farther I fell. I couldn't understand a single word uttered during the entire ordeal, but I definitely remember hitting every stair on the way down. Eighteen steps; each leaving their own mark on my bruised body. Nineteen if you count that final smack on the marble floor at the bottom. The zombie and dog bag took the trip with me, no doubt enduring the same bludgeoning. I made out vague images as I lie on the cold floor in pain. Feet running past me, zombies falling, the dog bag next to me, someone shaking me, someone crying, blackness.
* * *
It felt like someone was turning the volume up like a radio dial. At first I heard nothing, but voices soon came into focus. My head throbbed. No, that's not right. I was experiencing the worst pain of my life, and that's saying something considering my lifetime of clumsiness. I likened the ache in my head to one of those monkeys that clang symbols together over and over until someone goes insane. There was no way I was opening my eyes while the evil monkey clattered maniacally.
"She could have brain damage," I heard Meg say.
"I'm more worried about broken bones," countered Jake. "I didn't see anything obvious, but I don't want to move her in case she's damaged her spine."
Point for Jake, I thought, proud that he'd had the presence of mind to remember that very important piece of information. While they droned on, I tuned them out, trying to take stock of my physical self. I went down a list of my most important anatomy to see if I had any extreme pain, or worse, an absence of feeling altogether. Satisfied that I'd broken nothing obvious, I began to methodically move little bits at a time. A hand squeeze here. A foot twitch there. I didn't appear to have anything more than the aches and pains of any idiot who had just taken a nosedive down the stairs.
That damn monkey continued to play, and I came to terms with the fact that I was going to have to open my eyes sooner rather than later. The only thing I knew for sure was that this was not a Band-Aid moment; I was taking this nice and slow. My eyelids were heavy and it was a battle of wills, mine and the eyelids, to open. I managed to open the left eye just a smidge, and closed it as soon as the intruding sun stabbed my exposed orb with a thousand tiny shards of light.
I heard moaning, followed by the pressure of someone at my side. Jake's voice boomed like a loudspeaker next to my ear. "Emma, its Jake. I'm here, baby. Open your eyes."
Moaning again, louder this time. Why wasn't anyone killing the zombie making that wretched sound? More moaning, a long drawn out howl followed by a string of fuck. Hold up! I was the moaner. Giving it another shot, I opened one eye, fighting against the stabbing light, and followed it up with another. The sun was blinding at first, then the pain began to fade and I could make out Jake's form hovering over me.
"Hey," Jake said, smiling down at me. "Welcome back. How do you feel?"
I groaned up at him, "Did you get the license plate of the rhino that hit me?"
He gave a weak laugh, trying to figure out if I was joking with him or suffering a traumatic brain injury. "Can you move? Does anything feel broken?"
"Ugh, everything feels broken, but I think I'll live." I smiled back. The smile fell from my face when I remembered the dog carrier, and I turned my head in both directions searching for Daphne, causing the room to distort.
"Relax," urged Jake. "She's alive."
Two of the most beautiful words ever spoken, and I cried upon hearing them. I heard the whine of my dog and managed to wipe the tears out of my eyes. She was favoring one of her hind legs and hobbled over to me using the other three. Rolling onto my side to greet her, she got close to my face and sniffed me. She must have decided I was going to make it, because she got as close as she could manage and curled her body under my neck.
"Hi, baby," I cooed into her fur. "We're okay."
I waited until the room stopped moving like a fun-house mirror before trying to sit, and then had to wait again before standing. I leaned heavily on Jake for support and made it as far as the kitchen before throwing up. Meg held my hair out of my face while Jake kept me upright by wrapping his arms around my waist and interlocking his fingers.
When I was done, I leaned over the counter and rested my face on the cold granite. Striker bent over me, inspecting my face.
"You probably have a concussion," he diagnosed.
"You think?" I retorted, groaning from the pain my own voice caused.
He shook his head at me, looking annoyed. "Do you always have to answer questions like an asshole?"
"Yes," I replied. "Yes I do."
To Striker's credit, he let me recuperate longer than expected. Meg insisted on taking Daphne, and it was a testament to how lousy I felt that I didn't put up a fight. Not to mention, a whole thirty minutes to shake off my head injury before attempting to get back on the bike. I was able to walk on my own, which was a good sign, but when I swung my leg over the bike the world went topsy-turvy.
"Nope, not gonna happen," I declared. You're only as slow as your weakest link, and I was currently holding that title. It wasn't so bad, actually. The day was cool, but not cold, and the sun felt like a warm massage on my shoulders. It was a miracle that my sunglasses hadn't broken in my fall, and I may h
ave cried a little when I opened my bag to find them still intact.
"Whoa," marveled Meg. We came to the end of the residential area and crossed through a small courtyard overgrown with wildflowers. I shared Meg's sentiment, the small patch of foliage was breathtaking, and completely out of place. A light gust of wind carried with it the scent of fresh flowers, and I closed my eyes, breathing in deeply.
The unmistakable grousing of an undead close by interrupted our brief moment of serenity, and I reopened my eyes to find two of them approaching from the side. I cocked my head and tried to make sense of the couple and pulled my sunglasses up on top of my head.
"Huh," I questioned. "How is it these two are still together?"
"It's kind of gross and adorable at the same time," agreed Meg.
The zombies, a man and woman I guessed to be in their fifties, were dressed in matching clothes. I don't mean just wearing the same colors, I mean identically dressed. They each wore a pair of khaki shorts and light green polo shirts complete with the little alligator emblem on the chest. The shorts had to have been commercially starched because the crisp creasing down the front of them was perfectly intact. Both zombies still wore visors that matched the color of their shorts. The only difference being that the female zombie's visor hung around her neck and the male's had managed to turn sideways, reminding me of a rapper for some reason.
"Golfers," said Striker, as if that one word explained everything.
"Do you think they maintain any memories?" asked Jake. "I mean, like, are they still together because they want to be?"
"Doubtful," Striker replied, striding forward to greet our suburban friends. "More likely, we've been the only source of entertainment here in quite some time, and they've just been standing around waiting for something to stimulate them."
With two quick slices, the undead couple fell. Compared to those stuck in cars or the bottom of the ocean, they lucked out in spades with a pretty sweet final resting place. As time passed, the wildflowers would continue to grow and cover their bodies.
We remained there for a bit. To the casual onlooker, it would probably appear as if we were paying our respects to the dead couple. But really, we were mourning Vinny and the Daltons. Each of us retreated into our own minds and came to terms with our loss. Between last night and this morning, there just hadn't been time, and it snuck up on us. Even Striker seemed deep inside his own thoughts.
* * *
"We need to cut through that brush and get over the stone wall," Striker informed us.
"Where will that put us?" Jake asked him.
"On University Parkway."
I felt my blood pressure spike at the memory of our last visit to University Parkway. We'd killed the Nissan and ran for the Laundromat, where we spent a very uncomfortable day stuffed into dryers while the undead stared in at me like I was the main attraction at the aquarium. I was not looking forward to going back there.
Jake mirrored my sentiment, except unlike my inner dialog, he chose to express his disdain vocally. "Fuck me," he said pointedly.
Ignoring our grimaces, Striker continued, "We go left and cross 41and dead end into the estates at Bay Shore Road." He was in military mode. I didn't need to ask if he'd been military; it was something I knew from the first moment I'd laid eyes on him. All he needed now was a stick and some rocks and I guarantee he would be laying out a map on the ground.
"Hold up, what estates?" I asked.
"The Ringling Estates," he replied, like that answered my question. I rolled my eyes and huffed loudly to show my annoyance.
"Does not compute. More data required," I said, using my best mechanical voice and jerking my arms in front of me like a robot.
He looked put out again, which pissed me off more than I'd like to admit. Some people hold a special place in your heart, but Striker, he held a special place under my skin. Like a fucking rash. I felt the strong urge to gouge out his eyeballs, but went with my patented sneer instead.
"Like a hundred years ago, the Ringling circus guy moved to Sarasota and bought up a bunch of land. He built the Ca' d'Zan mansion and a huge museum for all the crap he collected. It's called The Ringling Estates. There's been a lot more added, and it's a little community of attractions that was open to the public."
"Okay," I replied, satisfied, and a little shocked by his informative response.
"As I was saying," he sniped back at me. "We'll enter through the gate on Bay Shore and head straight, past the circus museum and follow the road all the way to the mansion. Asylum posts sentries at the mansion gate, and there is a stone wall around the entire place, all the way back to the water. So the only point of entry is that gate."
"What about the rest of the grounds?" asked Jake.
"They keep it pretty clear of deaders from what I've seen, but I wouldn't let your guard down. The estate is surrounded by trees but no fence or wall to keep anything out. I don't know how many of the buildings they've cleared. I've run into their people a few times out scavenging, and from what I hear, if you want to stay there, you need to contribute. There are no free rides at Asylum."
When he said the last sentence, it was almost like a veil of darkness had dropped, shrouding his features. It more than a little concerned me, and another stab of fear wrenched my gut.
"What aren't you telling us?" I asked.
Striker held my gaze long enough to make me squirm with discomfort. "Just be careful," he replied, not willing to open up in the slightest. "Remember safety is just an illusion, and never let your guard down."
Thanks, Captain Cryptic, I thought. My inner snark quieted when he began moving toward the decorative wall. I say decorative because, while very pretty, it was only three-feet high and didn't look to be too effective at keeping out the riff-raff. I swung my legs easily over the barrier and stood in a weedy space between it and a wall of trees that spanned as far as the eye could see in either direction. He and Jake transferred the bikes to the cramped space, leaving us little room to maneuver
When Striker hefted his weapons, Jake, Meg, and I followed suit with BB, Spike, and The Penetrator. I noticed Jake had replaced his screwdriver with Vinny's Ka-Bar, the one he'd extracted from the zombie, and I wasn't sure if it was born of sentimentality or if he just considered it a better weapon.
"This close to the estates, the undead aren't usually heavy, but stay alert. They'll never stop gravitating to where the food is," Striker whispered.
Without words, he motioned for Jake to pull back the greenery and slipped through first, scouting for undead in the immediate vicinity. After only a few seconds, he stuck his hand through and waved us forward. I followed Meg, stopping only to look at Jake as I passed. He looked to be holding up as well as could be expected after losing his brother, but there was a glint to his eyes that hadn't been there before. Something wild. He blinked, and when his eyes reopened, it was gone. Had it ever been there? Or was I just being hyper vigilant? I stuck that question into the mental note for later bin and continued through the brush, with Jake following after pushing the bikes.
The street looked the same as it had the last time. Cars had been pushed aside to leave space for a single vehicle to pass and the road was littered with debris, presumably items dropped by people at some point in the last few months. The familiarity of the scene did nothing to calm my nerves.
One big difference, and one I was content in noticing, was the lack of dead faces pressed against the shop windows. So the scenery had been downgraded from creepy to just plain eerie.
A lone zombie stood on the sidewalk across from us, immobile until our presence alerted it that food was nearby, and it moved in a straight line in our direction. Taking the path of least resistance halted its forward progression when its way was blocked by a car. If it had any deductive reasoning, it would have walked another few feet to the small opening between vehicles. Instead it stood there, bouncing its rotund belly against the passenger door of the beat-up Honda Civic and reached for us longingly.
"What are you doing?" I asked Striker, who walked toward the zombie with intent.
"Getting rid of it."
"Why?" I asked. "It can't get to us."
He kept walking and replied over his shoulder, "It will follow us."
I chastised myself a bit for not having the foresight to realize that tidbit of information. He was right. It was a now or later kind of situation. The wall of trees behind us made me uneasy, and I couldn't stop envisioning a dead hand reaching through and grabbing me. The thought made my skin crawl, and I instinctively moved forward. We followed Striker into the street and waited. Jake made to follow him, but I laid my hand on his forearm gently to hold him back.
The undead's milky eyes tracked Striker's approach and it shifted its efforts in the big man's direction. When Striker crossed through the opening and onto the sidewalk, it turned and walked toward him, meeting a quick death at the end of his blade. He wiped the machete on the zombie's shirt and returned to where we stood.
"How's your head?" Meg asked with concern.
"I'm going to have a fuck-all of a headache for a few days, but I don't feel sick or disoriented anymore," I told her.
"Small favors," she commented. Daphne took the opportunity to grumble her displeasure from inside the bag around Meg's shoulder and I noticed, for the first time, the strain that extra weight was putting on the tiny girl.
"Here, let me take the little stinker back," I offered, taking the carrier and slinging its strap across my chest.
"Ready?" Striker asked, and he moved before any of us could answer.
I felt like Dorothy following the yellow brick road. Only instead of Oz, we were apparently headed to the circus. We even had Toto. I looked down at the damaged bag, barely intact enough to zip halfway and did a little internal movie quoting. We're not in Kansas anymore, Daph.
Chapter 15: My Dog's A Racist
