by Brown, Tara
My hands don't ball.
My lips don't press together.
I don't feel a single ounce of hate for her because that’s not my truth anymore. I’m cured. I know it.
And so, I stand there as casually as I can, not for any reason beyond feeling casual. Cured and casual.
“Alive is alive, lady.” One of the military guys gives me a nod. “I don't care if he’s Hannibal Lecter, he ain’t Zeke.”
“But—”
“There are no rules anymore, no prisons and no hospitals and no government. We can’t be transporting prisoners and storing them. There’s nowhere for anyone to go or spare manpower to be watching them. If he’s made it this long and kept you alive, you should be kissing his boots.” The other military guy spits his words, disgusted maybe, “Criminally insane people don't keep you alive.”
“Are you seriously going to say that—”
“Enough of that,” the doctor cuts off her sputtering, clearly ignoring her. “There’s one more thing you should know, kid.” The doctor’s eyes narrow in on me. Not like he’s angry, but more regretful of what he’s about to say, “The robots were programmed to purge the world of sinners, make everyone face the ultimate judgment, their own memories. The bad people who have committed sins, as it were, die instantly. The good live on as zombies to spread the robots, through the bite. Someone set them loose on the population on purpose. The only thing we could do to help was install a self-destruction date. The programming that was in place was such that we couldn't make it shorter than seven days. The nanobots were meant to switch off after seven days, leaving the worthy alive and the unworthy dead. So that’s what we did. Every one of those robots is programmed to self-destruct instead of turn off. There’s no guarantee you’ll make it past the seventh day, just like there’s no guarantee the people will go back to normal after the bots switch off.”
“What?” I’m lost instantly.
“The seventh day they all die and kill their host.” His stare pierces me. “The reset you got from the programming glitch with the electrocution might work to stop that, in theory. But there’s no guarantee and I have no way of testing to see if it’s the truth. You understand?”
“Yeah.” I nod blankly, lost in the entirety of his words. "I may or may not die in a couple of days, with all the other zombies."
“Liam.” Grace steps closer to me, conflicted maybe on whether or not she wants to leave me to die alone.
Celia isn’t conflicted. She’s satisfied.
“Sorry, kid. Hope it works out the way I think it will and you’ll be fine. Never know. But we gotta go. I need to find my kids. You stay safe and take care of yourselves and hunker down. A few more days until the zombies all die. Then we need to come out of hiding and find each other again. Rebuild.” The doctor smiles, it’s how some of the better doctors at the hospitals smiled, fatherly. “Seriously though, stop traveling. Stay safe and wait it out. Don't bother with the coast.” He turns to Grace. “And if he dies, wait for the eighth day and then come to Laurel, Montana. There’s a ski mountain southwest of there. Come find us.”
“I’m still coming with you,” Celia says as if she has authority over them too.
He glances at Celia. “Fine.”
“Good.” She gives Lester a bossy look. “You need to come with me.”
“Liam,” he grunts.
She flinches but doesn't say anything else to Lester or me.
“Celia,” Grace starts.
“Take care of yourself. And if Liam dies, come and find us.” Celia gives Grace a quick hug and follows the men off as they wave at us and climb into a truck.
Grace spins and sighs. “They seem cool. You sure you don't want to go with them? Especially, if you’re going to—”
“I’m not spending the last hours of my life with a military doctor. I’ve spent almost my entire life with doctors. And if I don't die, I don't want to end up as some science experiment.” I brush past her and climb into the SUV. Lester gets in the backseat.
Grace eyes the truck, Celia, us, and the hotel all once more before climbing into the passenger side and closing the door. “Don't make me regret coming with you.” She says it to the window, but I know she’s talking to me.
I have no clue how to respond to that and I refuse to promise her anything. Even if I want to. For all we know I’ll be dead in three days. Not a lot of time to keep a promise.
Chapter Eight
I slip through the dark, listening and waiting for movement.
Nothing stirs or breathes. For half a second I swear I hear a heartbeat. Assuming it’s mine, I turn and motion my head at Grace and Lester who are waiting in the doorway. They follow me in, closing the door and locking it. The farmhouse is old and quiet, not even creaking in the soft breeze blowing outside.
In the moonlight, I hurry to the kitchen, searching for flashlights. I find candles instead, real beeswax candles. They look like whoever lives here dipped them. They’re not fancy but they’re thick and smell like my grandmother’s house.
A place I was never welcome.
Regardless, I like the smell. I even liked my grandmother. It wasn’t her fault she hated me.
I find an old lighter in the same drawer and light a candle, handing it to Grace. She steps forward with me as I take another candle and light it while walking.
We don’t make noises, we creep like this is how we are now. Five days and the world isn’t the only thing that’s different.
I don't get angry.
I don't feel rage.
I’m a bit numb to most things except Grace. I like Lester. He’s amusing and handy to have in a fight. But I feel something else for Grace. She makes light in me. She chose me. She believes in me. Despite doubting herself, she stays.
This has never happened to me before.
Grace grabs the handle of a door, twisting the knob silently as I peek in the other doors off the long, dark corridor. She pulls it open and pops her head in, closing the door again. “Broom closet.”
“Yeah, and that’s a tiny bathroom and the smallest bedroom I’ve ever seen.” I nod my head at the two doors.
Lester follows along, likely enjoying the fact we’re in a house and not an SUV. I think everything and nothing makes him happy. He’s so simple he doesn’t process emotions or thoughts.
“Just the basement left to check.” Grace’s eyes dart to mine.
“And then I’ll drive around and see about some more food.” I turn to the kitchen window facing the huge shed outside. “I bet this place has a generator. Seems like the sort of place that would be self-sufficient.”
“Oh probably. My dad’s place is like this.” She reveals the tiniest little clues. “He and my stepmom like to think that if they don’t make money, don’t owe money, don’t use power or get water from the city, and don’t buy their food, they don’t have to pay taxes.” She scoffs and walks to the door to the cellar.
“They have a point,” I offer, giving Lester a scowl. “Wait here.”
He grunts his yes grunt, something I can now differentiate from his few other responses: yes, no, Liam, Grace, hungry, smash, sleep. He doesn’t say much else.
Grace tries to go first down the stairs, but I slip into the dark and creepy stairwell before she can.
“What do you mean they have a point?” she grumbles.
“What?” I hurry down the stairs, more willing to face what’s down there than arguing with her.
“What do you mean, they have a point?” She’s relentless.
“Nothing, just if they can live on their own, neither taking or needing anything, why should they give?” I whisper it back, trying to listen to the dank space.
Nothing moves or breathes. I’ve gotten good at hearing, maybe better as my animal instincts come to life.
“They could still need doctors and modern medicine, and they did buy all that solar equipment, and no man is an island. We all have the duty of paying for the military and freedom. These people who think they’r
e better than the system and the government have no idea what they’re talking about. They are part of this country, all the good and the bad.”
“Okay.” I try not to listen to her as my eyes dart around the creepy basement. The candlelight shudders with our movements, my walking, and her yammering on.
“And if he doesn’t want to pay his taxes or be part of society, then he should go live on some shitty island where there’s no help. Where there’s only him and Rachel. No military. No vaccines. No markets or stores. No gas stations. You can’t benefit from the system and not chip in.”
“Who’s Rachel?” I glance back, annoyed with us both. Her for talking and me for following along so keenly.
“My stupid stepmom. She’s honestly like five years older than I am. We were in high school at the same time.”
“She spent a lot of time in high school?”
“What?”
“She’s five years older?” I turn my head back with a grin. “But was in high school with you?”
“Oh, no. We don’t have middle school in my town. Grade eight to twelve all go together in one school. I remember her being a senior when I was a freshman.”
“Weird.” I say it casually, much to my detriment.
“It’s much more than just weird. Who gets together with someone five years older than their kids?” She spins in a circle, sounding angrier than before, “And what’s the deal with this basement? Who doesn’t finish their basement in fifty years? This house is ancient.” Now she’s pissed at the owners of the old farmhouse. Girls are weird.
“I don’t know.” I move ahead through the rough framing and partial walls. There’s nothing down here but a crappy laundry area with a serious mildew stench and a door. I take careful steps toward the old door, listening.
“There’s probably little kids in there,” Grace whispers as if she’s chosen this second to be scared, finally. The annoyance at her father distracted her long enough to not really pay attention to where we are.
“It’s not an ideal spot to store people,” I whisper back. “The door swings out, they could lunge at you and attack. Easier to have a cell where you can see through the bars.”
“Liam.” Her tone warns.
“Yeah?” I turn back as I reach the door.
“You remember when I said you needed to keep your creepy in check?”
“Right.” I take a breath and prepare for the people to lunge out at me as I lift a hand to the cold knob.
I turn it slowly, feeling every click of the inner workings until the latch pulls back. My heart races as my brain contemplates this door and this basement and this zombie apocalypse.
The door creaks as I pull back, trying to catch any movements as the gap widens, but it’s so dark I can’t see anything.
“What’s there?” she asks and I jump.
“Shhhh.” I scowl, trying to slow my heart with calming breaths. “Jesus. You don’t talk loudly when someone’s opening a creepy basement door in an abandoned house.”
“You’re scared?” She smiles wide, too pleased by this revelation.
But she’s right.
I am afraid.
I can fear.
I can feel.
I know what’s going on in her head.
She’s telling herself I’m not so bad. I’m not so crazy if I’m scared too. She’s defending me. The sparkle in her eye suggests she’s enjoying me feeling.
“No,” I lie, protecting her from me. “I just had a flash of a thought as I opened the door. What if someone put their undead in here?”
Her smile dies with my heart. But I swore to her once that she was safe with me, and she always will be. For the first time in my life, I want to keep that promise. And if I die in two days and she feels something for me, that would hurt her. I don't want to hurt her.
The room is so much worse than anything I imagined. It’s a cellar, one that might have been intended for cold storage or wine. Instead, there’s every manner of disgusting behavior, not the kind I do. Not the kind I like. This is the kind I would cure the world from. The kind that people don’t always heal from. The kind that makes normal people into monsters. Monsters who aren't allowed at their favorite grandma’s house.
“Oh God.” She gasps behind me. Her breath hits the back of my arm.
“Don’t look.” I step back, closing the door.
“There was a camera.” Her words become ghosts, slivers of emotion her exhale carries. “Those pictures were taken here.” Her whisper cracks, revealing a touch of her despair.
“Stop!” I spin, lifting my hands before I really consider what I’m doing, and cup her face. I’m holding her, forcing her gaze to mine. “Don’t think about it. Whoever did that is dead. They’re a different kind of monster now. And those girls are gone too. Cleaned of whatever happened to them. They don’t remember it anymore.”
“Those pictures.” A single tear drips from one of her dark eyes.
“Go upstairs. I’ll take care of it.” I’m still holding her delicate face. I’m still touching her. It’s wrong and right and I don’t want it to end. But the voice inside me, the one that cares about her more than it wants to hurt her, makes my voice firmer, “Go.”
She blinks another tear and steps back, forcing her stare to focus on me and not the door.
“Pack whatever seems useful.” I try to sound less intense. I want her to stay calm.
“We’re leaving?” She loses the battle to hold my gaze and peeks back at the door.
“Yeah. We can’t stay in this house.”
“Okay.” She turns and leaves me with the shadows that are still cast on these walls, shadows burnt into them. I find something flammable, a stack of old magazines, and lean it against the wall, underneath the picture collection.
Using my candle, I light them up, loving the sensation of the fire starting. The girl in the picture, a small girl with big eyes and dark hair, stares up at me as the flames lick her face. I swear for half a second her smile grows, grateful for the cleansing that’s about to happen.
When I’m sure the house is lit, I turn and hurry up the stairs. The door to the basement is closed and for half a second I doubt her.
I doubt Grace.
As my hand reaches for the handle I wonder if it will turn or if I’ll burn to death in a haunted house by the fire I lit.
I might have done it to her, old me might have.
When the handle turns and the door opens and the giant moron in the kitchen grins at me, I’m surprised and relieved.
I don’t know what to do with anything I’m feeling. It’s all new.
Chapter Nine
Carrying in the last of the things we’ve stolen from the houses we’ve entered, we close up the old doors and windows. It’s another farmhouse with a small acreage and a well, but no creepy basement for torturing people.
“Where are we?” Grace asks as she glances out the windows before closing the blinds. She sounds sleepy from her nap.
“Cashmere,” I say. “I drove that Highway 97 for like an hour before I came upon anything that looked livable. This farm had the least undead near it.” I sigh. “We have a couple of days left to ride out. We should be safe here. I like how it looks.” I stare out the window with her before we close the blinds. The land is made up of orchards and rolling hills. “Not a terrible place to die. There’s fruit at least.”
“Liam.” She steps closer. “He said you might be fine.”
“Might.” A slow smile spreads across my face. “If anyone doesn’t deserve that might”—I stare into her eyes—“it’s me. I know that.”
“Don’t say that.” She sounds vulnerable. I take no pleasure in it. In fact, there’s something else in its stead. Discomfort.
“Have you ever seen my record, Grace?”
“No.” Her eyes stare into mine so deeply I almost look away. She’s trying to tell me something with her stare, but I don’t understand the words she isn’t saying.
“It’s bad,” I whisper the ne
xt part, I don’t know why. I’m not worried she would think bad things about me, I know she already does. There’s no way Celia didn’t warn her about me. The weird part is that now I’m worried because I don’t feel good about the things I’ve done. I feel something else. It’s not quite regret, but the pleasure of taking someone’s life, those someones in particular, is gone.
“I don’t care.” She says the worst thing she could. “You’re different now. I’m not scared of you.”
“You should be.” The answer is one I’ve said a million times. Maybe a hundred. Either way, it’s my go-to answer.
“Have you ever killed people on purpose?” She has a hint of humor in her voice.
“I have.”
“How many?”
“Seven.” I pause. “Twenty-three counting this week.”
“This week doesn’t count. That was self-defense.” She isn’t fazed by my seven. She’s even less fazed by my twenty-three.
“Have you ever killed someone you liked?” Her confidence and humor fade a little.
“Of course.” I can’t help but relive every second of memory that comes to that answer. “I’ve killed someone I loved.” I also lose my humor as the memories drown me.
“Why?” She steps closer. I don’t know why.
My stomach tightens as thoughts fill my head, none of them are normal for me. They’re foreign, as is lowering my face to hers and pressing my lips against her mouth. I want to kiss her, not kill her. I want to close my eyes and feel that. I suspect it’ll be like a release. The memory of her skin against my hands is still fresh, allowing me to visualize this well enough to torment myself.
“It’s a long story.” I don’t want to tell her. I want to kiss her. I don't want to die without kissing her. I take a step forward too, my insides churning with anxiety and stress.
She doesn’t back away.
She isn’t playing a game.
She’s serious.
Her eyes are glistening the way they stare up at me.
