“Which bathroom, Cathy? Upstairs, or the one off the kitchen?” All the units were built on the same basic floor plan, which included a powder room and a coat closet off the kitchen, just inside the garage door.
“The kitchen one! Downstairs! Oh God, oh God!”
By now several other neighbors were outside, most carrying weapons of various sorts.
“Okay Cathy, here’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to get a ladder and get you out, and then I’m going to get your daughter. These people are going to stay with you, and I’ll be back in two minutes. Okay?”
He looked around at the others. “Stay here,” he said. “We’ll be right back.” He motioned to Manny to follow him. He used his garage code to open the door. Manny looked around at all the boxes he had stacked in his garage. Half the floor was covered in supplies stocked higher than a man’s head. The wall on the left side was lined with four large heavy-duty shelving units, and each unit was stacked with rows of propane tanks
“What’s all this?” Manny gawped.
“Never mind what it is,” the old man said curtly, cursing himself for letting anyone see his stash. “Grab that ladder, the tall one.” When he bought the place, he’d had big storage racks hung from the garage ceiling, so he could keep the floor clear, and had purchased a twelve-foot step ladder to access them. He grabbed a black plastic case from a shelf, and one of several long orange outdoor extension cords that hung from the wall. “Let’s go.”
Manny carried the ladder down the street and set it up against the front of Cathy’s place, and climbed up while people down below held onto it. He helped Cathy out of her bedroom window and onto the garage’s short roof, and then onto the ladder. She climbed down carefully, trying hard not to cry, and Manny followed her.
Meanwhile, the old man plugged the extension cord into the outside outlet by the front door, and unrolled it to the front of the garage. He opened the plastic case and took out a Black and Decker reciprocating saw. He pulled a big jack knife out of his pocket and jammed it through the garage door about chest height. He saw Cathy standing by with a puzzled look on her face. “Starter hole,” he said. “We’re hunting zombies.” He fired up the reciprocating saw and cut a rough six-inch circular hole in the door. At one point, the saw bucked in his hand and splattered grayish flesh in the cut. “Oops. Found one!” he said.
As soon as the piece dropped clear, an Infected pressed its face against the hole, its teeth gnashing. He stepped back a pace, pulled out the big Colt and shot it through the open mouth. The face disappeared.
“Yeah, I was afraid of that,” he said, shaking his head. He looked at Cathy, who looked back at him fearfully. “Oh, don’t worry,” he told her. “We’ll get your daughter out. What’s her name? I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten.”
“Allison. Her name is Allison.” The old man could hear the trembling in her voice.
“That’s right, Allison. Cathy, we’ll get Allison out, no problem. I thought that if the Infected weren’t in your garage we could go in that way, and then break through the drywall to get her out. Now it’ll just take a few minutes longer.” Another Infected stuck its head through the hole and he shot that one too. “Now we’ll play Whack-A-Mole for a little while…”
He bent toward the hole, and yelled, “Allison! We’re coming for you, sweetheart.” He heard a muffled reply. “If you can hear me, I want you to lie on the floor. There’s gonna be a few bullets flying around, and I don’t want you to get hurt.”
He waited a minute or two and when nothing happened, he leaned toward the hole and started singing in his best Slim Whitman yodel, “When I’m calling You-oo-oo-oo, oo-oo-ooo, will you answer Too-oo-oo-oo, oo-oo-ooo…” He looked at Cathy. “‘Indian Love Song.’ Zombies love ‘Indian Love Song.’”
She looked confused.
He shrugged and continued his song. “That means I offer my love to you, to be your own. If you re—” An Infected smashed its face into the hole, snapping its jaws and missing him by inches. He shot it and it tumbled away. Two more Infected stuck their heads in the hole in rapid succession and he shot them both.
“Music critics,” he said. “So Cathy, how many kids were in your house last night?”
“I don’t really know. I went to bed around ten, and I know they were coming and going for a while after.”
“All right, I’m in no hurry.” He kept up the serenade, singing straight into the hole, sliding from “Indian Love Song” to “Waiting for a Train” complete with yodeling. He coaxed one more to the hole, and shot it, and recommenced his serenade. He had a surprisingly good baritone voice, too. “He’s in the jailhouse now, he’s in the jailhouse now, yo-Dee-oh-layhee…”
After five more minutes, when no more Infected showed themselves, he stopped. “Well, I guess that should do it.” He turned around and was surprised to find several dozen people standing behind him. It looked like the whole neighborhood had turned out. They started clapping, and he blushed and grinned, doffed an imaginary hat, and gave them a quick bow. “Thanks, folks.” He smiled. “I’ll be here Tuesdays and Thursdays all month. Be sure to tip your waitress.” Even Cathy smiled.
“All right, now comes the fun part.” He moved around to the front door. Manny and several of the other men with guns followed him. At the door he turned to them and said, “I’m going in first to clear it.”
Manny said, “No Owen, let me.” A couple of the other men said the same thing. He put his hand on Manny’s shoulder. “Son, I’m seventy, and I don’t have any kids depending on me. We’ll do this my way.” Manny nodded, reluctantly.
The front door, fortunately, was unlocked, so he opened it and stepped inside. “Wow. Stinks in here. Like zombies.” He flipped on the light switch and lit up the big two story foyer. He kept his back toward the window wall and made his way around the sofa, gun raised. He sidestepped into the galley kitchen, keeping a wary eye on the open basement door, and exhaled. Empty. He switched on the big overhead light. Relaxing, he stepped over to the powder room door and opened it. “Okay, Allis—” he started to say, when a big Infected lurched out of the bathroom and bit him hard on the shoulder, sinking his teeth in deep around his collarbone. The force of the attack drove them both across the narrow hall into the coat closet door opposite. He got his left hand up behind its head and grabbed its hair just as the thing let go and tried to shift its bite to his throat. They struggled for a moment as the thing tried to reach his jugular, and then he brought the .45 up, shoved it into its mouth and pulled the trigger. The blast sent several bone fragments into his left wrist as the thing’s skull and brains painted the bathroom wall behind it.
“Son of a bitch!” he yelled. He heard a tapping noise directly behind him and spun, gun raised. Someone was in the closet. “Who’s in there?” he hollered.
A tiny fearful voice said, “It’s Allison!”
“Oh, sweetheart, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.” He shook his head. His wrist burned and his shoulder throbbed. “Stay there another minute. I need to check the garage, and then we’ll get you out.” He entered the garage and checked around both cars. Other than a pile of dead Infected by the hole he cut, it was empty. He went back inside the house, triggering the garage door opener as he did. He opened the closet door and Allison stood there, her face streaked with tears. She looked down at the Infected on the floor, and started to wail. Then she saw the bite on Owen’s neck. “Oh no…”
“Come on, honey, let’s get you out. Your mom’s right outside.” He took her by the elbow and gently pulled her out of the closet and pushed her toward the garage. “Do you know if anyone else is hiding anywhere?”
She shook her head sadly. “I don’t know. I, I… don’t think so.” Her shoulders were heaving. She staggered down the three steps into the garage, and then ran to Cathy who waited outside. She passed Manny on his way in.
“Owen! Oh, man! You’re bit! Oh my God,
man! I’m so sorry!”
“Yeah, I got careless. I still need to check the rest of the house. Wait here. No arguments!”
The upstairs and the basement were clear, with no more Infected, and no one hiding in the closets. In one of the bedrooms upstairs there lay a naked girl who had been attacked and partially eaten. It looked as though someone had tossed buckets of blood around the room. The old man figured the outbreak had started here with her bed mate, whoever that was, turning while she slept and attacking and killing her before she could scream. Or maybe she had screamed and it took a while for someone to check on her, because someone had apparently opened the door, which let loose whatever lurked inside. A pool of drying blood stained the carpet outside the bedroom door.
The basement was a jumble of couches and sleeping bags, all splashed with blood, and there were two more bodies down there, in worse shape than the one upstairs. The Infected must have found its way down here and began biting. Other people turned, and those that were left were a meal for the Infecteds. The room stank of undead and the coppery scent of blood. What a horror it must have been for the kids down there.
He came outside and holstered his weapon, and as he did, he noticed people backing away from him. Manny stepped up and said, “Owen, my God, I’m so sorry...” He shrugged and headed back to his house.
The dogs were practically bouncing off the walls when he walked in. He took all three outside for a few minutes. Then he headed upstairs.
He locked himself in the bedroom, stripped and went into the bathroom. In the unlikely event he didn’t turn into a zombie himself, he sure didn’t want to die of an infection from whatever bacteria the thing still had in its mouth. He found a bottle of hydrogen peroxide under the sink, and set it in the shower stall. He took a quick shower and washed away the blood and brain matter, and when he finished he poured the peroxide over his collarbone. The pain drove him to his knees and made him howl like a dog as the peroxide bubbled in the wound. When he could finally stand again, he poured more on the punctures on his wrist. He writhed and swore until the pain faded, dried himself and then he went to the sink and pulled a medical kit from under the vanity.
He took out a few gauze bandages, stacked them over the oozing bite and carefully taped them on. He pulled out a pair of good medical tweezers, turned on the light of a large magnifying lens and swung it over his wrist.
Gingerly, he probed each puncture until he found the piece of bone that made it, and carefully pulled it out, which took a lot of concentration and more than a little cursing. It was a procedure he was familiar with. The Day I Got Shot to Shit had left dozens of slivers of shrapnel in his body, and over the years they would sometimes work themselves to the surface. At first he’d gone into the VA each time to have them removed, but the wait to get in was often a long one, and it interfered with his painting and his travels. Eventually he’d started taking them out himself, carefully slicing the skin and probing for the bits of metal. His body sported over a dozen tiny scars, especially on his left side, but they were barely noticeable around all his much bigger ones.
He finished, taped some gauze to his wrist and washed his hands. He retrieved an old towel from the linen cabinet, pulled back his covers, laid the towel down to catch any bleeding, and sat on the edge of the bed. He pulled his phone out of his pants and tried to call Evan. The call wouldn’t go through. He sent a text to Evan, Jack and Dan, and hoped the phones would come back on soon so they would receive it. “Got bit,” it said. “Time to see if I’m immune. If you don’t hear from me in twelve hours, come get the dogs and the supplies. I love you all.” He washed down three Amoxicillin and a couple ibuprofen, laid down on the bed and said a quick prayer. “Not my will, but Thine be done. Oh Lord.”
It’s been a pretty good life, all things considered, he thought. It was still dark outside. He wondered if he’d ever see another sunrise.
Epilogue
South Elgin, Illinois
September 9th
The old man woke up groggily to furious barking. All three dogs were going nuts downstairs. He lay still for a moment with his eyes closed, and then the shock of what had happened a few hours earlier hit him. Bit! He thought. I’ve been bit!
He drew his hands out from under the covers, frowning and bunching his muscles in anticipation of bad news, and opened his eyes. A wave of relief swept over him when he saw that they were free of any blue tint. He padded into the bathroom and stood in front of the mirror with no small amount of trepidation, and gingerly tugged the bandage off the bite wound on his shoulder. It looked red around the edges, but he peered close and couldn’t see any trace of the blue there either. Immune! Thank you, God!
The dogs were still barking. He pulled on his clothes, stepped into his shoes, and buckled his .45 around his waist.
Voices rose from right outside, apparently down on his driveway. No wonder Willow and the Boys were barking. He heard some laughter and discussion and a loud scraping noise. He stood still and listened for a minute, and then heard the sound of his garage door underneath him rolling up on its tracks. Damn! he thought. They’re in the garage!
Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
“The Second Coming” by William Butler Yeats
Want to read more about the Old Man?
Remember when Evan and Owen were walking away from their near-execution in the woods of Pike County? Evan, amazed at how quickly the gunfight went down, mentioned to Owen the “thing in New Mexico.” (You didn’t think I’d just leave that dangling, did you?)
Visit my website at WilliamHarrisonAuthor.com and sign up for my newsletter, and you’ll receive a free short story called “Incident in New Mexico.” It’s 1991, and Owen receives a desperate phone call from an old flame. It’s a story about love, guns, and blood-spattered walls!
The Old Man & the End of the World | Book 1 | Things Fall Apart Page 30
