by Tony Urban
So hungry.
He wondered when he’d last eaten. It must have been days because he felt as if he were starving. And the hunger grew and grew, a deep, unrelenting, insatiable need.
Emory could feel his humanity slipping away. There was less of him with each passing moment. All that remained was the hunger. He wanted - needed - to eat. It was all encompassing, all consuming. He had no more thoughts of himself. Of his friends. Of the disease. Every thought he had was the same. Eating.
He rose from the chair on limbs no longer hobbled by pain. Without arthritis to slow him down, he ran.
Wim trotted toward the clinic. Camp was empty at this time of night and that was a relief because he didn’t have time to be covert. Even if the Ark had been teeming with people, he doubted he’d care because Emory should have been out by now. He cursed himself for letting Emory go in alone, for taking all the risk upon himself.
The clinic was in view and Wim quickened his pace. He was thirty yards away when the door opened and a bit of light streamed out, silhouetting the tall man exiting the building. He thought it was Phillip. The long, rangy body had the cop’s quick, leaning forward gait. Like he was always in a hurry to get somewhere and be a prick.
Wim sidled up beside a construction trailer and watched the man approach.
“If you hurt Emory, so help me God, I’ll kill you.” He’d killed hundreds of zombies but never a person. And up until now he thought himself incapable. But the very notion of his best friend being hurt by that arrogant son of a bitch flipped a switch inside Wim and he was angrier than he’d ever been before.
He wished he’d have kept one of Delphine’s guns as he knew Phillip would be armed. He noticed a toolbox sitting beside the trailer and popped the lid. Inside were an assortment of wrenches, pliers, and hand tools. Wim settled on a screwdriver.
When he peeked around the corner of the trailer he saw Phillip was less than ten yards away. He wanted him gone so that he could continue forward and find his friend, but Phillip kept coming toward the trailer, toward him. Wim gripped the handle of the screwdriver tight in his right hand, in case he had to use it, then waited.
Pass on by, Phillip. Please, pass on by.
But he made a line straight at him. Like he knew he was there. Like he could smell him.
Wim backed away, around the corner, retreating until he neared the backside of the trailer. He could no longer see Phillip but that changed soon enough when the man appeared around the spot where Wim had been watching seconds earlier.
Only it wasn’t Phillip. In the moonlight, Wim could see the ebony skin and realized it was Emory. His nerves settled and he broke out in a wide grin.
“My gosh, you had me scared. I— “
Emory kept closing in. Quick. Quicker than Wim had ever seen him move before.
“Emory?”
His old friend was ten feet away. Five.
When he came within arm’s reach, Wim got a better look and he felt so sick he thought he might pass out. Emory’s eyes were clouded over and gray. His mouth hung open and his tongue sagged out like an overheated dog on a summer day.
This wasn’t fair. Emory was one of the best men Wim had ever known and he didn’t deserve this. No one did, but especially not him. He wanted to cry but there was no time for that.
Emory was on top of him. Wim held him back, one hand on the man’s shoulder, the other in the middle of his chest. His head bobbed at him, trying to get a bite, but Wim held him out of range.
“Who did this to you?”
At the sound of Wim’s voice, Emory cocked his head. His frantic attempts to attack slowed.
“Do you know me?” Wim asked.
Emory’s cloudy eyes stared at his face.
Does he remember? Somehow?
“Emory, it’s me. Wim.”
Whatever recognition Emory may or may not have had disappeared as his upper lip snarled and he bared his teeth. A low, menacing growl rumbled out of his throat and he pushed forward, straining to get him.
“Don’t do this. Please.”
Wim let himself be pushed back a step, then two. Emory kept fighting, if anything with renewed vigor. Wim had seen so much horror in the last half a year, but this was worse than all of it put together. And he knew he couldn’t take much more.
The next time Emory lunged for him, Wim took a step to the side and allowed the man to fall forward. Emory landed face down in the snow and when he crawled back to his knees the front of him was coated in white powder. It stood out in stark contrast to his ink-colored skin.
“I’m so sorry.” Wim raised the screwdriver and swung it downward. The tool connected with Emory’s skull just above his left ear. With a hard crack, the metal shaft sunk deep into his head. Wim jerked the handle back and forth twice and Emory went limp.
Wim pulled the screwdriver free and threw it into the snow. He grabbed his friend under the arms and raised him up. The now limp body sagged against Wim’s chest and Emory’s head lolled back and forth before settling down on his shoulder. Wim carried him like that, their faces inches apart, into the night.
Chapter Forty-Four
After leaving the old, black man to die, Doc returned to his cabin and attempted to sleep, an act which had proven to be a great chore in recent weeks. His mind never stopped churning. Between ideas for new experiments, and fear of what was happening outside the Ark, he felt like he was awake thirty hours a day. Resting was impossible, but a few barbiturates kept him dead to the world long enough to keep his body functioning.
Even with the pills, he woke early, well before dawn. He was anxious to see what had become of the man and check on his other creations. When he reentered the lab, the first thing he noticed was the sheet on the floor. It was more red than white and had soaked up so much blood that some had drained from it, onto the floor like an over saturated sponge. He looked up from the sheet to the bed and patient it should have been covering.
What he found both excited and disappointed him. His pregnant, human patient was no longer pregnant, nor human. Her belly, which earlier looked almost ready to burst, had done just that. Tendrils of pale flesh rained down over her torso, and as he followed them upward, he saw the gaping hole where her midsection had been. Now it was just a blackened chasm, void of her own organs, as well as the child she’d been carrying.
As Doc moved closer, the woman’s hand tried to claw at him but the straps held her at a safe distance. She groaned and growled, her teeth clicking together as she bit the air. He leaned in to examine her and realized the flesh hadn’t burst after all. It had been ripped apart. From the inside out.
“Congratulations, ma’am. You’re a mother. And it looks like you’ve given birth to a real fighter.”
But, where is it?
Doc crouched down beside the bed, looking under and around it. Nope, no baby here.
How far could it have gotten? It couldn’t be more than a few hours old, after all.
He followed the path of blood leading away from the mother. It was like tracking a slug that left a slimy trail in its wake, but after a few yards the blood, and the path, dried up.
Behind him, something metal fell and clattered against the floor. Doc jumped, then spun around and saw an instrument tray, which had been setting on a wheeled cart, had fallen. He rushed to the spot and dropped to his knees and saw nothing.
To his right came a gasp. He turned just in time to see the baby coming at him. It was light gray, the color of dirty dishwater, with black veins crisscrossing under its skin like a roadmap. It looked about a foot and a half in length and its belly was fat.
Not fat. Distended. Full of its mother’s flesh. It reminded Doc of a Thanksgiving turkey, ready to carve.
It moved more quickly than Doc could have ever imagined and was only inches away when he swooped out and grabbed it by the nape of its neck. Its eyes narrowed and its tiny palm lashed out. It uttered a squawking hiss, some strange amalgamation of a baby’s cry and a zombie’s growl.
“There, there, lit
tle one,” Doc said. “Nothing to be afraid of from me. I’d never dare hurt you.”
The creature again hissed and cried, its tiny arms flailing, its legs kicking.
Doc saw its lips were covered in blood with bits of dried intestines stuck to its cheeks like a macabre Papier-mâché mask. He couldn’t understand how it had done so much damage, especially in such a short amount of time.
He carried the infant to an examination table and laid it on its back. Then he took a speculum, inserted it into the infant’s mouth and pried it open. He gasped at the sight.
“My, oh my. You’re a special one indeed, aren’t you?”
What Doc saw in the infant’s mouth was a full set of tiny, sharp baby teeth. There were even scraps of tissue caught between them.
He held his finger in front of the newborn’s mouth. Its head darted up, its tiny jaws clicking together as it tried to catch his digit but ended up with nothing but air. He set the undead infant on an examination table and grabbed an assortment of instruments. This was going to be so much fun.
Doc was prouder of this little mutant than he’d been the day his own daughter had been born. And with any luck, in another eight and a half months, it would have a sibling because, as his latest tests had confirmed, the zombie that Phillip had inseminated was indeed pregnant.
For a man who’d spent most of his working life toiling away, unappreciated, for the pharmaceutical companies, this was even more proof that he was every bit the genius he believed himself to be. He half wished he could bring everyone who’d doubted him back from the dead so they could see his creations. On second thought, he’d rather they stay dead. Those who remained would know his greatness soon enough.
Chapter Forty-Five
Mitch – Wayne to those on the Ark – hated the cold, which meant he hated almost everything on the island. What kind of assholes build an end of the world compound in somewhere that has winters like this? Even wearing two pairs of sweatpants and a white parka so thick he looked like a Yeti, he felt like he was going to shiver to death. Could you die from shivering? He thought it certainly might be possible and he didn’t want to be the test case.
He picked up the pace as he plodded through the knee-deep snow, which dragged and grasped at his legs as he worked his way to the gate. He wished he’d have taken a snowmobile. Who gave a fuck whether he woke everyone up with the noise. Soon enough Saw’d be here and most of these dickholes would either be dead or bowing at his feet.
It was almost a mile to the gate and that gave him time to think. Maybe too much time. As excited as he was for Saw and the others to arrive, he was still pissed at what the Brit had done to his face. Why didn’t he carve up Lonnie or Denny like Christmas hams and send them here to get poked and prodded? Casper, he could understand, that bastard couldn’t make a friend if his life depended on it, but the other two would have been fine guinea pigs. So why did Saw put him through this ordeal?
He wondered if it was some sort of test. Maybe Saw was trying to find out if he could be trusted. But Mitch thought he’d proved that by ratting out Aben. He didn’t like to think about Aben and especially Prince. He missed the both of them. But Mitch was a good soldier and he knew that meant making hard decisions. And that should have proved his loyalty. So maybe this was all about trying to see if Mitch was tough enough. He knew the other men considered him a kid. Maybe Saw did too and this was the gauntlet he had to run to get his man card. After everything he’d been through, they better tell him he passed with flying fucking colors.
He was close enough to the gate to see it. And he saw Nestor’s truck idling beside it, the tailpipe spewing white steam.
Way to waste gas, dickface.
When Mitch was within twenty feet, Nestor rolled down the truck window and waved. He had a big smile plastered to his wide, dopey face.
“Heya Wayne. What are you doing all the way out here?”
Mitch crossed the last few feet and leaned against the door. He could feel the heat radiating out and tried to lean in to be closer to it.
“Doc told me to exercise. Said it would be good for my recovery. Stronger my body is, the better it is for my immune system.” He thought some of that might make sense, especially to this borderline retard.
“Well, if Doc said that, I’m sure he’s right.”
God, how stupid could these people be? “Think I can join you for a sec? My toes feel like ice cubes.”
“Sure thing. Climb on up.”
Mitch circled around the front of the truck and joined Nestor. The man tilted a thermos in his direction. “Coffee?”
“Thanks,” Mitch took a sip. It was so hot he thought it might blister his tongue but it chased away some of the cold. He held the thermos tight to his body, trying to absorb the heat from it.
“Face is looking pretty good, buddy.”
Mitch checked his reflection in the mirror on the visor. Nestor was lying. Even with the stitches gone, he looked like a patchwork quilt. Dark purple scars curved upward, starting at the corners of his mouth and ending just below his eyes. The one on the right side went askew and veered off toward his ear at the end. Saw couldn’t even make his mauling symmetrical.
“It’s getting there.”
“I’m real glad you pulled through, Wayne. You’re one of the good guys.”
Nestor fished through a paper sack at his feet and pulled out a plastic bowl. “Hardboiled egg? I got two.”
“Nah, that’s okay, Nestor. I’m still working up an appetite.”
“Okay then.”
Nestor cracked one of the eggs on the dashboard and peeled off the shell, meticulous as he tried to get every last piece off.
Mitch was glad he was distracted because that allowed him to pull the fork from his pocket unnoticed. Mitch had filched it from the mess hall earlier that week. He bent the two inner tines back and forth until they snapped off. Then, he scraped the outer tines against a brick for a few days until they were so sharp he could prick his finger just by tapping it against the tips.
Nestor had finished peeling the egg and he popped the whole thing into his mouth. As he chewed, he held the other out to Mitch.
“Sure, you don’t want it?” Tiny bits of partially masticated yellow and white egg spilled from his lips as he spoke through the mouthful of food.
“I’m good. Maybe Wim wants it though.”
Mitch pointed out the driver’s side window, feigning a wave. Nestor turned to look and, when he did, Mitch plunged the fork into the man’s throat.
Hot blood spurted from the wound, spraying the dash, the windshield, Mitch’s hand.
Nestor turned back to him, his eyes wide and confused. He opened his mouth.
“Way— “
Egg and blood tumbled out, preventing him from saying the name. Mitch watched the man as he choked and bled out. He didn’t struggle as much as Mitch had expected. In under a minute, it was over.
Mitch exited the truck, walked to the gate, and lifted the lever which held it closed. He tried to push it open, but the snow was too deep, too heavy. He thought he made a mistake in killing Nestor so soon. He should have made the dumbass open the gate first.
Mitch returned to the truck but went to the driver’s side this time. He opened the door and grabbed Nestor’s coat, pulling him out of the truck where he tumbled into the snow. Then Mitch took his place behind the steering wheel.
He put the truck in gear and turned it so it was facing the gate. Then he eased forward until the grill pressed against the wood. Slowly he crept forward, pushing the fifteen-foot-wide gate until it was the whole way open.
Mitch looked ahead, toward the vast, featureless sea of ice that lay ahead.
“I did my part, Saw. Now it’s your turn.”
Mitch turned the Chevy toward the Ark. He knew driving the truck back to camp might arouse some suspicion but didn’t feel like trudging through the snow again. Besides he’d just started to warm up and didn’t feel like getting cold all over again. And if they suspected anyth
ing, so what? Soon they’d all be dead anyway.
Chapter Forty-Six
The hollow, metallic crack of the trailer door slamming against the outside wall woke Ramey. She sat up in bed, reached across the mattress and realized she was alone. The bed was cool under her touch.
Where’d you go, Wim?
The door banged again. Closed, this time.
Ramey reached for the light switch but she still wasn’t used to sleeping in this room and couldn’t find it in the dark.
“Wim?” She pushed the covers off herself, the cold air hitting her legs and making them break out in goosebumps. She was already tired of winter and it had barely begun.
Wim hadn’t answered and that bothered her. She slid off the bed, pulling her nightshirt down as far as it would stretch, not that it did much to keep away the cold.
She was half way to the bedroom door when she heard the floor creek under heavy footsteps. She smiled, relieved.
“Come back to bed alre— “
A shadow filled the door frame but she immediately knew it was too slender to be Wim.
“I’ve been waiting to hear that for a long time.”
Phillip stepped into the room. Ramey could see his big, wolfish teeth gleaming in the moonlight.
“Get out of here,” she snapped. “Get out of our house.”
“Oh, Ramey, it’s not a house, it’s a trailer. I know you’re white trash but even you should understand the difference.”
She couldn’t believe her ears. Was he drunk? That was the only reason she could imagine him being so brazen.
“Get out right now. If you’re here when Wim gets back, he’ll beat the shit out of you and I won’t even think about stopping him.”
Instead of fleeing he moved closer to her. His breath hit her face. It smelled of tuna fish - his usual - but no alcohol. Somehow that made the situation more unnerving. Ramey realized her goosebumps now weren’t caused by the cold. They were caused by fear.
She glanced around the room, looking for something she could use as a weapon if it came to that. Pillows, sheets, a paperback novel. Even the lamp was only a few inches tall and weighed mere ounces. She hated that she’d grown so comfortable and complacent.
