“Fine with me, then you can stop wasting my bullets,” Jack said and smiled. She saw his lip curl beneath his bushy beard again.
When they got to the car, she hugged him, her arms wrapping around his mid-section, her face briefly resting on his ribs. He then took her in one fluid motion and twirled her around. She laughed and then walked over to the passenger side.
They got into the car that still smelled of his cigar he had smoked earlier, mixed with a stale air freshener hanging in the rearview mirror that still gave off a distant scent of pine trees. Jack sure loved his cigars, she thought to herself as she opened the window. Then the car started. It was a strong smell, definitely an acquired taste. She stuck to cigarettes and smoking them wasn’t even for the taste anymore. It was an eighteen-year-old habit that had become second nature.
“So,” Jack said as his hand went to the shifter, “you got the address where we need to go?”
“Yeah…I guess,” Jill said trying to remember who that the little torn off piece of paper with a poorly scribbled address on it. She didn’t recall ever handling it personally but that didn’t matter because between the two of them, she was the forgetful one.
“You guess?”
“I mean, I know I put it somewhere.” She opened the glove compartment box and started rummaging through a fat stack of documents, from old parking tickets to various empty and full envelopes. “I’m pretty sure I put it…here. I believe I did.” Her heart started to race for a moment, cold sweat washing over her as she tried to remember the damned address or where the hell she had put it.
“Well guessing really doesn’t help us. Check your pocket.”
She closed the glove box, leaned back and shoved her hand in her pocket. No, there was nothing there. “No, I’m telling—”
“Alright, I was just kidding around, I have it.” He looked at her and then cracked a smile.
“God, I hate it when you do this!” She hit him in the shoulder and sat back. Sure, she was way too gullible and he took advantage of it at any chance he got. “Is your sole purpose in life to annoy me?”
“C’mon you have to admit, that was pretty funny.”
“You know what? Going to have to disagree. You almost gave me a heart attack. You know how much I hate when you do that. I seriously thought I lost it.”
“It’s alright. I have it. Here, look…” He fished the little dirty slip out of his pocket and flashed it in front of her face, then put it back.
“Just drive, damn it.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Jack said and put the car in drive.
The old engine kicked and transmission acted up again, making all sorts of clinking sounds as they turned and drove down the street, leaving the nature walk behind.
“Man, I can’t wait to get us a new car. This’ll take a shit real soon, I can feel it.”
“Well I don’t see why we can’t get some new wheels. It’s not like we can’t afford it now.”
“One step at a time, lady,” Jack said as he put his sunglasses to shield his eyes from the blinding sun.
“Oh-hey, make sure we stop by at our place before we go and get this done. I want to change into something … that fits what we’re about to do, you know? I want to look cool.” She thought of her corset she wore last Halloween and all the compliments she got on it. Her breasts looked good in it, she thought. Tight and firm. She thought of putting on some makeup too, to really accent the look she was going for. Nothing flashy or anything, just some shadow and eye liner. She smiled as she imagined this perfect picture of herself.
“We’ll be late. I really wasn’t planning on making any extra stops.”
“It’ll be quick, I promise. I have something in mind for you too.”
“Like what? You mean in terms of clothes or…”
“Yeah, something cool to fit the part. I mean, if we’re going to be paid professional killers, we have to look like it, you know what I’m saying. Like, when people say dress for the job you want, not the one you have.”
“Oh, fine,” Jack said as he sighed in defeat. “Let’s go home and see what you have in mind. But I swear, this better go fast!”
“It will.” Jill smiled content.
CHAPTER TWO
Becky never thought of herself as a great cook, but she got by. She came from a large Italian family that just looked for excuses to gather together for functions and eat dozens of delicious foods. She would always get recipes and try to make the exact same thing. Sometimes it came out right, sometimes it didn’t, but what mattered to her the most is that she kept that tradition of cooking and crafting in the kitchen, no matter what the outcome was. Her first memory of an attempt at dinner was in her freshman year of college when she set a potato on fire in a microwave.
But now she was light-years ahead in skill and technique. Well, at least her brother Tom thought so.
She was putting the last of the spaghetti in Alfredo sauce into two bowls when she heard her brother call her from the dining room.
“Hey, Beck?” Tom called.
“Yeah?” she said as she grabbed the bowls and walked out of the kitchen. Tom had been staring at Nigel, who stood propped up in the corner next to a floor lamp. Nigel was a prop, a burnt vampire corpse with a gray thin mustache and some scruff, made by a friend of hers who did such things for local horror movies. She thought it was the coolest thing in the world and when the opportunity presented itself to acquire it, she did just that.
“Why are you so fucking weird?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” she said and set the food on the table. “Here, eat.”
“Well, what the hell is up with this guy? He’s so creepy?”
“Oh, you mean my Nigel? Seriously? Creepy? I think he looks awesome.”
“You have to be kidding! I don’t know anyone who would have this shit in their house. I don’t know how you can walk around at night with this thing just standing here.” Tom sat down and pulled the serving of pasta closer to him.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about, man,” Becky said and sat herself.
“Yeah, I do. I feel him staring at me; and he’s not even looking at me. If that’s not unsettling enough to you, then sister, there is something wrong with you.”
“Oh shut up,” Becky said and dug into her food. It wasn’t that bad. It was rather tasty: pasta cooked just perfectly, a light sprinkling of cheese on top and the sauce. “Like you don’t do weird shit. I wouldn’t talk if I were you.”
“Whatever,” Tom said as he twirled the pasta around his fork, shoved it into his mouth, and then washed it down with some ice tea.
Becky got up and turned on the television. The PlayStation 4 was already running. She selected the YouTube icon and turned on her favorite podcast. It was this guy, who all her friends said looked like a younger Eli Roth and she didn’t deny that comparison. He was weird alright, with his foreign accent and all, but he was funny regardless. He talked about politics in a comical, sarcastic way, always going back to just how stupid people were and how far the society has regressed. His last two podcasts about the election were rather heated and it was very evident that he was a big Trump critic. His latest episode was a ten-minute rant on what a big idiot and hypocrite the Donald was. Perhaps it was somewhat harsh, but she enjoyed it.
“Seriously?” Tom said with his mouth full. “This guy?”
“What’s wrong with him?”
“The guy is an absolute moron.”
“Why do you say that?” She couldn’t wait to hear some self-righteous, anti-liberal excuse her brother would come up with. Tom sure wasn’t a huge fan of Clinton’s opposition, but he was definitely a hardline conservative. How this was possible, it was an utter mystery to Becky.
“Well he’s annoying, first off. All he talks about is Trump this, Trump that. Secondly, what the hell is up with his hair? He’s got it shaved on one side and…then combed over on the other side. What the fuck is that?”
“I think he’s cute,” Becky repl
ied with a smirk on her warm, round face.
“I bet you do,” Tom said as he shoved more food in his mouth.
“And you just don’t like him because you don’t agree with his views. He’s talking about something relevant, something that’s happening right now. So what if he puts his own spin on it? I think that just makes it that much better and funnier.” She wiped the corner of her mouth with a napkin and pushed a few loose strands of her curly brown hair behind her ear.
“He’s stupid,” Tom nearly grunted and continued to eat. “He should talk about something else other than politics so he doesn’t sound like a complete tool.”
“So you don’t care about politics all of a sudden; or the election? He’s talking about who our next president is going to be, and you’re telling me you don’t care?”
“Who cares? Whoever gets elected, it’s not like much will change. It will be the same shit all over again.”
Tom could be such a child sometimes, Becky thought as she gulped her ice tea. It was a delicious cranberry one in a big jug, her favorite. She smacked her lips and said, “Well who do you think should be president then?”
“Like I said, it doesn’t matter to me. For all I care some magical creature can just come up and rule the world.” Tom cleaned his bowl and looked up at his sister. “Can I have some more?”
“Yeah, sure,” Becky said and smiled. “Mom and dad don’t feed you anymore?”
“They do, I just haven’t been home all day,” Tom replied and cleared his throat.
“We’re still going out for a run tomorrow, right?” she said from the kitchen as she loaded her brother’s bowl again.
“Do we have to?” Tom sighed pleadingly.
“Yes we do,” Becky said and carried out another serving for the starving Tom and set it on the table in front of him. “By the way I’ll take it as a compliment that you like the food I made.”
“Of course, I do,” he said and dug in. “It’s the best pasta I’ve had in a long time.”
“Well, thank you,” she said and ruffled her brother’s dirty blonde hair. “And to get back to the topic of us running tomorrow: yes, we are going.”
“I really don’t feel like doing it, not tomorrow at least,” Tom protested and leaned back in his chair like a child that’s about to throw a temper tantrum. It always made Becky smile, but for all the wrong reasons. She knew he did this on purpose most of the time, to make her laugh or shake her head at him.
“Too bad, we’re going. We must stay in shape. But then again, maybe you don’t want to go because I’ll just leave you behind again because, as we both know, I’m faster than you.”
“Oh, those are the fighting words,” Tom said, now clearly riled up. One thing Tom hated was to be challenged, much like his political arguing had showed earlier. “Is that an offer to a race? We’re not talking about a simple run anymore: this is war.”
“You can think of it however you want, and if it’s a race you want, you got it then.”
“Alright, where are we going?”
“You ever heard of Love Canal?”
Tom thought for a moment, scratched his chin – which sported a blonde scruff – and shook his head. “Sounds familiar…”
“It’s that old toxic waste site,” Becky said. “Where they had that entire cleanup project about twelve, no, thirteen years ago, remember? It was all over the news...”
“Oh, yeah, that. I remember. And you want to go and run there? Why?” There was confusion on Tom’s face, and it looked like all the other times when he was brewing something smart to say and Becky was just waiting for it.
“Why not? It’s nice and quiet, no cars passing, no people looking on,” Becky said.
It was nice out so it was pointless to go to the gym and use the treadmill when you could enjoy nice weather. Early September was usually unpredictable, when it could rain one day and then be nice the next day, or even go through three different seasons all in a matter of hours. But she didn’t complain as it was pretty stable as of late, and warm too.
“So the fact that it was a toxic dump for years means nothing to you?” he asked and shot her his standard are you serious look.
“Oh, c’mon,” Becky scoffed and made a face telling her brother that there was nothing to worry about. “They finished cleaning the place up twelve years ago, it’s not like this happened last week or something.”
“Well, why don’t we just go to Chernobyl or something like that? Might as well while we’re at it. We can visit all the toxic and or irradiated places around the world. We can sprout an extra pinky too, join a carnival and be a premiere freak show act. I see it now, the headline would read: ‘Toxic Jogging Siblings.’” And this was the smartass Tom she knew, the Tom that irritated her to no end, who made stupid jokes that only a fifth grader would find somewhat funny. Most of the time he did this just to get a reaction out of her, and she did her best not to give in.
This time, she just looked at him dismissively and said, “Great, yeah we can do that. Anyways, just get ready to get your ass beaten tomorrow.”
“Don’t be so sure of yourself. I may pull a last second upset,” Tom said and finished the last of his ice tea.
“I’ll believe it when I see it.” She got up, took the empty bowls and dropped them into the sink.
CHAPTER THREE
Phyllis and Bob had been married for seventeen years and now it looked like it had come to an end. ‘Seventeen years isn’t that long, not by a long shot,’ Bob thought as he looked at his wife across the messy living room. She was on the couch, an old crocheted blanket covering her all the way up to her chin.
That damned tumor in her brain just wouldn’t give up and now it had beaten her to the ground. They had visited all the best specialists in the area, got second and third diagnosis, three rounds of chemo later and the thing just wouldn’t quit. It would go away and it’d be gone for a couple of months at a time, and then it would come back swinging.
She withered down to nothing.
The beautiful Phyllis that he had known for so many years was now but a distant memory, taken by this grotesque skeleton that was down to her last days, perhaps even hours. Her breaths were long and labored. The glasses didn’t help anymore and she wouldn’t see him again unless he gave her a pair of binoculars. Now and then she mustered enough energy to lift her arm and caress his scruffy face for a brief moment, and that’s all that it could last. Bob would then take her hand and feel it cold against his face as he continued to hold it to his cheek.
There was no warmth left in her.
Bob wondered if he should just end her life, help her slip into unconsciousness and rest in permanent sleep. He’d be doing her a favor, because living like she had been was no life at all. He thought about it hard, spent countless nights lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to figure out the best solution or the best possible way to end her suffering. And every time he came to the conclusion that he should just help her die. Yet, he stopped himself short because the image he saw of himself in his mind– killing his own wife – sent chills down his spine, no matter how merciful the act.
So, he let her live on, day in and day out, hoping she would finally exhale her last breath. What he loved about her the most was her stubbornness, her will to fight. She wasn’t going to let some damned disease come and take her away. She was a firm believer that the body would fight until the time would come. He had to give her credit for that, for she was a strong, determined woman.
She coughed weakly and sighed. Bob walked over to her and felt her forehead. It was still cold. He leaned down and gave her a soft, long kiss. Then, he walked back to the window and moved the curtain aside just a little to see a military truck pass by. It roared down the street, the sound of it growing distant as it moved further down. It disappeared when it made a right turn toward the dump.
‘Those sons o’ bitches are at it again,’ Bob thought as he finished the last of his cigarette. And yes, it was a damn dump. No matter how hard
and inconspicuous they tried to make their testing facility, it was still just that: a place they used for the cleanup of toxic waste turned into a lab for testing dead bodies. You can’t dress up a turd and call it something else. It was still a stinking turd.
These military trucks came at least once a month and after some thinking and digging, Bob realized that they were there to dispose of the dead. What else could it be? If the facility was there for testing the effects of the chemicals and the bodies of the deceased, it would fill up pretty quick, so then these trucks would come to do this bidding. And by the looks of them, they weren’t the regular military vehicles. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say soldiers in them were actually mercenaries. Of course they were; the government wouldn’t risk getting their men on this shit detail. Bob knew everything, or at least he thought he did.
Most of his information came from far-right wing news portals and blogs that embellished the stories to no end, making them borderline conspiracy theories. People needed solid shit-in-your-pants news, with writers and reporters getting right into the very dirt of it all. And that was that the government was out to get people, to spy on them, to collect their information.
‘Why do they have to spy on good American citizens,’ Bob thought?
Every time he watched CNN and MSNBC and all other Muslim-loving and jihad promoting news stations he felt like he was being watched. He knew what they were doing; they were all too concerned with each other’s feelings that they forgot what America was all about. They forgot the good hardworking Americans who gave their lives so immigrants could tear everything down.
And now were they going to spy on him? Were they going to take his guns away?
He wasn’t going to let that happen, oh, no; not without a bloody fight he wasn’t.
He thought of his stash under the floorboards. Sure, he had permits for all his pistols, but there was something extra under there, a few heavier pieces that packed a bigger punch than an ordinary handgun. There was an M4 there, as well as an AK47 and a sniper rifle. How else would he defend himself if that Muslim-loving Obama finally got down to doing what he intended to do in the first place? And that was to bring ISIS onto American soil.
Rise of the Dead Page 2
