by Kirk Allmond
“Oh, fuck off,” she replied.
----
Marshall quietly approached the door to the house where he had spent so many years of his life. The doorframe was riddled with nail-holes, although there were no boards there now. He slowly reached for the doorknob, then paused, afraid of what he would find inside.
“Dude. Just open the door,” he said aloud to himself.
He twisted the knob. The door was locked. Marshall couldn’t make himself break it in, even though he easily could have just pushed in the door. This was his home for so long that he just couldn’t do it out of respect for his memories. Instead, he walked back down the gray-painted wooden walkway that led to the front door. Around the house and to the left was the door to the two-car garage. Just past the garage was the old woodpile, much reduced from where it normally would be. Marshall took that as a good sign. It meant that his father had been heating the house. He must have been alive recently.
Marshall lifted the very first log on the pile, the last one that would have been burned. Underneath it, he found one of those BrookStone hide-a-key rocks that everyone had. Inside, where it had always been, was the key to the front door.
Now armed with the key, it was easy to gain access to the house. Inside the dim entryway, he took in the old familiar smell of the house. It didn’t smell like rotten flesh or like rotten garbage—just the smell of wood-smoke and family. The way a house should smell. Marshall thought back to all the cold winter evenings they’d spent huddled in the living room around the wood stove, watching old 80’s action flicks. His father would watch any movie that had guns and explosions repeatedly. Most of the time, he didn’t even remember that he’d seen that movie twelve times before.
The living room was down three steps from the foyer. It was perfectly kept with nothing out of place. Marylin’s knitting was on the coffee table, and her spinning wheel was in its normal place. That was a bad sign; they’d left quickly. She would never have left a knitting project, finished or otherwise.
Marshall walked into the kitchen and was astonished to find his father’s dog Harley lying on the kitchen floor. His tail thumped against the floor twice at the sight of a familiar face. He was so thin that Marshall could see his ribs through his fur. An empty fifty-pound bag of dog food was on the floor, and the dog door to the garage was open.
Marshall rushed to Harley’s side, shrugging off his backpack. He put his hand on the dog’s head reassuringly while he unzipped his backpack. He pulled out a can of ravioli and pulled the ring to open them.
“Here ya go, buddy. It’s not much, but it’s something for your belly. High in fat, good protein, some carbs. Perfect puppy survival food!” Marshall said, rubbing Harley’s head vigorously.
The dog methodically ate every molecule of food in the can and laid his head back on the floor. His tail slowly thumped against the linoleum floor, still lacking the strength to get up. Marshall was starting to worry now. He couldn’t think of anything in the world that would cause his dad to leave the dog behind. Harley was Victor Senior’s best friend; they were inseparable.
Marshall walked over to the door to the garage to see if the car and truck were inside. When he opened the door, the smell of feces assaulted his nose. Harley had been going out the dog door to the garage to go to the bathroom. The truck was gone, but Marylin’s gray BMW convertible was parked in the garage where it always had been.
Marshall was starting to get frantic now. He ran out of the kitchen, across the living room to the master bedroom, where he finally found the answer he was looking for. On the bed, a large spiral-bound notebook held a record of Victor Senior’s life after the apocalypse. Marshall skipped to the last entry; written on the inside of the back cover, there was a note.
Dear Marshall or Victor,
If you’re reading this, I am most likely dead. I last spoke to Victor on or around May 24th. I haven’t heard anything except the news said this all started up in Maryland and Pennsylvania. I spoke to Marshall on the day of the outbreak, and he said he was going to head up to his mother’s house, that he was meeting Victor there.
Boys, I spoke to your little brother on the day all this went down. He called me to tell me he’d been bitten trying to get from his truck to his garage. He said to tell you both that he loved you very much. He killed himself before he turned into one of these crazies.
Marylin and I holed up here for the first six weeks of this mess. We used up all of our stocked food, including the hiking supplies. We were forced to go scavenging for food. For the next two months, we were able to live on the supplies we found in our neighbors’ houses, but eventually that dried up as well. It was early September when Marylin was shot outside of a gas station. They shot her, my beautiful Marylin, because they said that gas station was their territory. They didn’t say much after that; I shot them all in the head. Marylin is buried out in the back yard. If you find my body or, worse, find me one of these things, please bury me next to her and say a few words so I can join her in Heaven.
All three of my boys have been my greatest accomplishment. I am so proud of every one of you and the men that you’ve become.
Victor, you are the best father I’ve ever known. Take care of that amazing little boy. Max is the most important reason to live. I hope I got to see him one more time and tell him how much I love him before you read this.
Always remember your last name,
Dad
Marshall took the notebook and walked out of the master bedroom, back into the living room towards the front door, when he heard a loud bang and everything went black.
Chapter 28
Fort McPherson
"Fuck, you shot me," groaned Marshall as he rolled over on the floor. "That really hurt. What the hell are you shooting, Dad?"
"How are you alive? That was a hand-loaded fifty-caliber action express, except I added an extra ten grains of powder," said Victor Senior. "I have eight more of them in this gun. If you're one of them, you better start talking." He'd aged a lot since Marshall had seen him last, but the heavy chrome Desert Eagle pistol in his hand didn't shake a bit. Their father had always been a powerful man; all of the Tookes were taller than average and built solidly. Since the outbreak, he'd lost a lot of weight, and the last of the dark brown had faded out of his hair. Even six months after the outbreak, he looked like he'd just had a haircut. For most of Marshall's life, his father had worn his hair parted and combed back, as most businessmen did. When he retired ten years ago, the now sixty-four-year-old Tookes had taken to a much lower maintenance “high and tight.” Today, the sides of his head were shaved up to his temples, and the top was perfectly flat. He was wearing khaki cargo pants with a crease down the front, a white t-shirt, and a teal blue polo the exact color of the ocean in the Florida Keys. "And when did you get so damn big, son?"
"I'm not one of them. Vic and I are immune to the zombies. We were passing through Atlanta on the way to California, so I came to look for you. When I read the notebook you left, I thought you were dead! I was heading back to the kitchen to grab Harley and go meet back up with Vic and Max," Marshall said in a rush. Taking another huge bullet from point-blank range was not something he was looking forward to.
The elder Tookes lowered his gun and hugged his son tightly. "I thought I'd lost you all," he said. When he pulled away, there were tears in Victor's eyes. "I'm sorry, son. I was out looking for some food for Harley and me. When I got back and saw the truck at the top of the driveway and the door open, I thought you were one of them. I thought you were one of the gang that shot Marylin. When you came around the corner, your size threw me off. I squeezed off that round at point blank, and there's not even a mark on your head."
"Dad, I'm different now. Victor's different. We were bitten, but we're immune to the parasite that turns most people into zombies. What it did do was make me bigger and stronger, and it made Vic different too. He is even smarter now. Dad, he figured out how to operate every system on a diesel-electric locomotive in on
e evening. You know how he always knew what people were looking for? Now it's like he can read minds or something."
"Max is alive still? And okay?"
"He's fine. He's so smart, Dad. Wait until you see him. Time is short though. I only have a couple hours left to get back to the train. We need to leave soon."
"Marshall, this is my home. I think I'm going to stay here, with Marylin."
"There's life out there. It's hard, but there is life. Your children and grandchild need you. We have food and shelter and security up at Mom's," Marshall said. He considered his next words very carefully. The old man was stubborn; Marshall knew that. "Dad, the only thing here is death. You and Harley look like you're about to starve. What happened to my father the fighter? Get your ass up. We're leaving."
Victor seemed a little taken aback but considered Marshall's words closely. Marshall whistled and heard Harley scramble up from the floor in the kitchen. The old dog came limping into the living room and stood next to Marshall, tail wagging. Victor looked at his best friend and muttered, "Damn dog. Did he feed you? You always did think with your belly," as he walked towards his bedroom. After a few steps, he called back to Marshall, "Let me get some stuff together. I need five minutes."
Marshall sat down on the steps up to the foyer. Harley lay on the parquet floor next to him and laid his head on Marshall's lap, as if presenting himself to be petted. Marshall happily obliged. The two of them sat there for close to ten minutes while Victor packed up some essentials. Marshall used the time to reminisce about Thanksgiving in this house, when the whole family would get together. One of the hallmarks of a Tookes’ family event was all of the laughter. His little brother's name was Robert Tookes, but the family had always called him Bubba. Bubba Tookes was six-foot-five and four hundred pounds. He was a big man, but he had an even bigger heart. Now he was dead by his own hand, instead of succumbing to The Infection. Never again would the family sit around that huge dining room table and laugh for hours after a holiday meal. Never again would the three brothers cut eyes at each other as their father told the same story for the ninety-first time.
Victor struggled out of his bedroom holding two large black duffle bags, both obviously heavy. One of them dragged on the carpet as he walked. Marshall immediately recognized the contents. There were eight rifle barrels sticking out of the end of one of the bags. "Damn, Dad. That's a lot of rifles."
"The other one is pistols and ammo. Every time I cleaned a house out of food, I grabbed all the guns and ammunition," he replied. "Hang on; I have a few more bags."
"Dad, we have all the guns you could want. Why not leave some of them here?"
"Those are my guns, Marshall. Why don't you leave your arm here? I'll be right back."
The next trip had three more duffle bags. "This one," said Victor shaking the smallest one, "is just clothes."
Both Marshall and Victor grinned. Marshall picked up the four bags of weapons with one hand and slung them over his shoulder. "After you, Pop," he said.
The two Tookes and Harley walked up the hill to the gigantic truck. Marshall lightly tossed the bags into the back, and Victor helped the dog up in the back seat of the truck before they climbed up either side of the cab. "Where are we meeting Vic?"
"Fort McPherson. Vic was sure there is something we need there. We were hoping that at least we could pick up some extra ammunition for the fifty-cal chain guns."
"Oh. We had better hurry. Fort McPherson is where Atlanta's quarantine was headquartered. We're in a bit of a bind, too. The only passable road leads us through Legion territory. They're the sons of bitches that shot Marylin. I've been killing them for months now every time they come up to the Roswell exit. They've blocked off every other road south except the highway."
"How blocked? I shouldn't have any trouble moving a couple of cars," said Marshall, patting the steering wheel of the dump truck-sized pickup.
"They've been digging trenches across the roads."
"Shit. All right, hope you've got those guns loaded. If we get in a fight, stay behind me. If they start firing, get as tight in to me as you can. Have you seen what we're heading into or have any idea how many of 'em there are?"
"I've been down as far as the Norcross exit. I ran into a dozen of them there and let one escape. All I know about them is that they are cocky and they don't ask questions; they just start shooting. I don't know how many men they have. I've taken out forty-six of them. Might be ten of them left or could be two hundred. I just don't know."
"They're between me and my little brother. Guess we're going to find out," Marshall said as he turned the big truck left onto the southbound on-ramp of Highway 400 and gunned the accelerator. "Keep your eyes open; we're a big yellow target." He pushed the truck up past eighty. He knew from a dozen years here that this highway used to be called he Georgia Autobahn for a reason. It was long, straight, and flat the whole thirty miles to Atlanta. The truck's 360 horsepower engine easily pushed the brand new behemoth up over one hundred miles per hour.
"Marshall, how fast are you gonna drive this thing?"
"Until I hit the rev limiter. Stay down and keep your seatbelt buckled. I know I can't outrun a radio, but maybe I can outrun their ability to get ready for us. Hit seek on the CB and see if we can hear something. At least we'll know if they spot us."
Miles ticked by without incident. Marshall kept the truck at a hundred ten miles per hour, the point at which the on-board computer stopped the engine from turning any faster. The highway had been completely cleared of wrecks, and all four southbound lanes were wide open as the duo rocketed down the road.
-----
Leo bent down and put her hands on Tookes and Renee first. "I'll be right back, John. I can't carry all four of us. I brought you an extra magazine just in case," she said, tossing John a full magazine for one of his Glock pistols.
John drew the gun, ejected the spent magazine, and caught the full one inside the handle of the gun in one swift motion. He caught the empty magazine with his other hand and then brought that same hand up to tap the full magazine home inside the grip of the pistol. "Thanks, Leo. See you in a second," he said and knelt down, looking in every direction at once. When he was sure the park was clear of any undead, he nodded to Leo, and the three of them disappeared.
John heightened his senses. He mostly acquired his targets by movement. His vision widened, and with just a slight turn of his head, he could see all the way around him. All of the color drained out, and the world went slightly fuzzy. After only a few seconds, ripples appeared, like a stone hitting a still pond, at the north edge of the park. He turned his head, and like a zoom lens on a camera, he focused in on the target. Color returned to the area disturbed by the ripples. A mile and a half away at the edge of the park, the disturbance was caused by an orange tabby cat walking out of the bushes and down the sidewalk. With a laugh, John relaxed his trigger finger. His vision reverted to the de-saturated blur, and he waited for the next bit of movement.
His vision returned to normal when Leo appeared beside him. He stood up with her hand on his shoulder, and the two of them disappeared, reappearing milliseconds later inside the train beside Tookes. The burned man was laying on a table in the dining car, and Reggie Walton, the train's aged conductor, was standing beside him. The old man was picking at the burned plastic embedded in his back.
Reggie was speaking when John and Leo appeared. "I know, Master Tookes, Sir. I'm the closest thing to a doctor we have on this train, and someone has to remove that hunk of plastic."
"Reggie, I'm fine. I'll heal up in no time," Tookes groaned.
"I know you heal quickly; that is what I am worried about, sir. My worry is that you might heal with a piece of your undershirt still inside you. That will fester and make you sick, sir. The world needs you strong."
"Vic, it has to come off," said Leo. "Mr. Walton's right."
"Fuck, all right. Do it. How far away is Max? I don't want him to hear me scream, and I'm not sure I'm going to be able to
hold it in," said Tookes.
Reggie reached into his back pocket, pulled out an old worn leather wallet, and bent down to the edge of the table. "Bite down on this, sir. It'll help you stay quiet. I'll be fast," he said, putting the wallet in Tookes' mouth.
"Master Hazard, I'm going to need a couple bottles of water and a clean shirt for Mister Tookes."
"On the way," said John.
"All right. Miss, please get that shoulder. Mister Tookes, bear down. This is going to hurt. On my mark, young miss, pull downward forcefully. Do not stop until it is removed. Can you do that?"
"I'll do my best," Leo said and dug her fingertips between the blackened jacket and Victor's flesh. His skin gave way and began to peel as she pushed her way under the plastic. He let out a muffled groan, clenching his fists tightly. It was strange seeing him like this, moaning and in pain. He was so strong that she almost couldn't bear to see him this way. Victor was their hope. Had she ever seen him cry? Leo honestly wasn't sure. She thought about her feelings for him and how much pain he had caused her recently. Had he even noticed her or been remotely aware of her presence? They had spent nights together, sharing a bed, and yet he acted as if nothing had happened between them. Everything had been different since that night they rescued Max from the religious zealots. Other than to give orders, he had barely said a single word to her. Why was he ignoring her? It wasn't intentional, was it? Of course not, she chided herself. He has a lot on his mind. It's understandable. She tried to pull herself back together in an attempt to do what she had to. To do what he needed her to do.
