As similar as they appeared, they were very different. Annalise was filled with humor and compassion, whereas Tobias tended to be snarky and serious. She took things lightly, not letting much bother her while he tended to be hot headed. He suffered no affronts to his sister and fists would fly when someone dared to make a rude comment about her unusual appearance.
They arrived at the polar bear enclosure where Popsicle and Daisy were tussling over an old tractor tire. The cooler fall temperatures made the bears more active. They were rescue animals who’d been at Piedmont many years. As orphaned cubs in Greenland with a knack for raiding garbage cans and showing no fear of man, authorities were concerned that as they grew they could become dangerous. Not wanting to put them down, inquiries were made to different animal sanctuaries and Piedmont was quick to take them.
Popsicle was an impressive 1200 pounds and ten feet long from nose to tail, although during the cold Iowa winters he and Daisy both would gain another fifty or sixty pounds as the frigid weather was more suited to their natural habitats.
Daisy, at 750 pounds and seven and half feet long, was no slouch in the size department either. She slid effortlessly into the pool and swam to the other end, climbed out chewing on a fish and gave a huge shake, spraying the delighted twins with water.
Their enclosure featured a swimming pool that the staff kept stocked with live fish and an icemaker purchased from a defunct commercial fishing operation. It dumped a steady stream of ice directly into the pool during the warmer months.
Annalise and Tobias chose to do their study on the polar bears because sometime in the past they thought their ancestors had probably fought with and against, or maybe even worshipped the mighty giants.
Tobias’s youthful mind conjured images of their ancestors charging into battle astride the magnificent beasts, swords and battle axes clenched in the fists of the Northmen, the riders and their mounts one in mind and purpose as they raided the frozen country in search of honor, riches and glory. He wasn’t sure if people actually rode polar bears, but he liked the thought of it.
The twins dreamed of working side by side studying the effects of global warming. Maybe winning the Nobel Prize for their work. After high school they would attend college together, move right into research and when each found their respective mates, they would all live under one roof. They had it all planned out.
The twins watched as Popsicle rose to his hind legs, ears perked and fur rising along his back. Daisy lowered herself and rumbled a deep growl as the light breeze brought a smell to their sensitive nostrils that signaled danger.
Screams of agony drifted on the breeze, snapping each of the twins from their daydreaming. Tobias raised an eyebrow and Annalise responded with an almost imperceptible nod. The pair took off at a dead run, their long legs eating up the distance as they headed for the sanctuary entrance.
7
Murray
Murray Sanders stopped his wheelchair in front of the haunted mansion. Halloween was still a month away but the staff were already decorating the visitors’ center in preparation. It was an old rambling house, its Victorian architecture giving it an appropriately spooky vibe as the starting point for the haunted hayride. He approved of the grinning pumpkins and ghosts in the upstairs windows. Vampires, werewolves, zombies and chainsaw wielding maniacs thrilled him to no end. Even before his accident, he spent a lot of time staying up late watching every scary movie he could find and slaying monsters by the thousands with his Xbox controller. He was a huge fan of movies and spouted pop culture references whenever he was excited or nervous, though most of his quips went over people’s heads.
Most of his old friends didn’t come around anymore to see him; it was just too awkward for everyone. When he took the dare on his bicycle to jump the homemade ramp at the bottom of the hill, they all cheered him on. None of them saw the van that took away all of the feeling in his lower body until it was too late. The driver sped away in a panic instead of stopping and calling an ambulance. He was never caught, never had to stand trial, never apologized to the boy he had crippled. Murray knew it was his own fault as much as the drivers’, he shouldn’t have been in the street, but he couldn’t help but feel bitter that no one ran to help him. That he had been alone and afraid for what seemed like a long time.
When the van hit him all of his friends ran away. They were all young and scared and pedaled home to tell parents as fast as they could. He didn’t blame them; they didn’t know any better. They didn’t think to run up to the nearest house and pound on the door. What did kids know about spinal injuries? They didn’t know you were supposed to lay still and not move. They thought they were doing the right thing, riding away to get help as fast as they could. He was worried about a car coming and running over him and his instincts told him to get off the road. He had been able to crawl to the sidewalk before the first grownup noticed him but by then the damage had been done. He hadn’t felt the bones grating against his spinal cord and finally severing it as he struggled up the curb.
After the accident, he simply gave up. He lost all interest in gaming and the movies that he loved. He refused to see anyone and barely ate. He sat in his room and listened to the other kids running and playing. The sound of skateboard wheels on asphalt or the hum of bicycle tires drove him further into himself.
He was smart, almost gifted, and had an aptitude for all things mechanical. The bicycle ramp at the bottom of Cedar Hill road, the one that was supposed to send you flying through the air but land softly on an incline, had been his design. He could do three-digit multiplication in his head, he understood Algebra and he’d dreamed of becoming an engineer before his life changed. His parents tried to treat him just like before the accident, to pretend it was just an inconvenience to be overcome and not the end of the world. What did they know? They weren’t the ones trapped in a chair. He heard his mother cry when she thought he was asleep and he saw the crumpled-up wads of paper in the trash where his father had been trying to find ways to pay the high costs of his medical bills. He knew he was useless and a drain on everyone around him.
Bitter and angry with the world, he watched in disgust as the volunteers installed a wheel chair ramp on the front of his house. They might as well hang a glowing neon sign in the yard: HELPLESS CRIPPLE LIVES HERE.
He resented them for their pity. He wanted to run them off, curse them and show them he didn’t need their help but running was no longer an option.
No one was able to break through the wall he’d built around himself. He refused to do therapy. What was the point? He fell behind in his classes, even the ones he used to ace without a problem. He used any excuse he could to get out of going to school where he heard the whispers and people made way for his wheelchair like it was contagious. Nobody knew what to say to him and he didn’t make it easy for them. Finally, everyone stopped trying and he was fine with that. He hated the world, the world hated him back and that was just the way it was.
He continued his mental and physical descent until the day his dad wheeled him into the van modified for his wheelchair. His father ignored Murray’s grumbling and questions about being dragged from his self-imposed prison. Murray’s sour attitude was answered with silence as the van carried him somewhere he’d never been.
When they arrived at the YMCA Murray complained and tried to argue that he didn’t want to go. He didn’t need to attend yet another program for cripples. His dad ignored his protests and wheeled him inside.
Rows of folding chairs had been set up in the gymnasium facing a man in a wheelchair wearing an Army t-shirt. His arms were corded in heavy muscle as he rolled his chair back and forth across the hardwood floors of the basketball court and he had a little brown monkey sitting on one shoulder.
He saw other people in wheelchairs like his own and a lot of them were military veterans. They had stumps of legs sticking out where IED’s had brutally amputated them. Others, like him, whole, but broken.
The man introduced himself as Sergeant
Walker, grinned at the irony, and began speaking. Murray went from morose to riveted. The Sergeant told the crowd about putting a gun his own mouth, ready to end his life after the incident that paralyzed him. He told them how he’d given up hope for a productive life. Murray hung on every word and knew exactly what he was talking about. He felt the same way. But this guy had gotten past it, he was a real beast. He wasn’t letting the chair own him. He owned the chair. It was a tool to keep him in life, not out of it. He’d lost the use of his legs, but his mind was as powerful as the massive arms he flexed at the crowd. He told them how he competed in wheelchair races, climbed mountains and entered body building contests. The whole time his little monkey capered and fetched him different things he wanted to show them. The little fellow dragged over a white board for him to draw on. Fetched a golden trophy his basketball team had won in the State championship. He picked up a marker he’d dropped and even put money in a soda machine and brought back a diet coke.
“I haven’t been able to teach him to read,” the soldier lamented. “He still can’t bring me an Orange soda when I want one.”
He was pursuing his PhD. He’d even been in an Ironman competition, completing the swimming portion with just his arms to move him through the water. He’d come in last place but that didn’t matter he said. He had been on the field and he had given it his all. He finished his presentation with the little monkey putting on a Teddy Roosevelt hat and smiling his toothy smile as Sergeant Walker quoted the twenty sixth president.
“It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.”
Everyone was inspired by his story and Murray fell in love with the monkey.
As his testimony wrapped up Murray impatiently waited his turn to speak with the man. A renewed Murray refused to let his father push his chair when they left, he would propel himself. No more feeling sorry for himself, he vowed. His father whispered a silent prayer of gratitude for the wounded vet who finally got through to his son when everyone else had failed. He didn’t mind a bit when he handed over his Visa card to pay for the workout gear Murray picked out at the fitness store.
Murray had asked his parents about getting a capuchin monkey as a service animal to help him and he’d been working towards it for nearly a year. They had agreed if he got his grades up, if he learned everything there was to know about them and he raised the money himself to buy one. They weren’t cheap.
He’d buckled down and brought his grades up, that was the easy part. He’d joined Mr. Baynard’s animal studies group to learn about them and had started crafting clever articulated wooden monkeys to sell on Etsy. He had nearly five thousand dollars saved up and soon they could start seriously shopping for one. Murray pumped iron. When the new school year started, he added biology classes to his workload. He held his head up when he rolled down the hallways in his school. He made amends with old friends and added new ones. He owned this chair; it would never own him again. His body ached and his muscles strained from the intensity of his workouts. His skinny arms doubled in size and his belief in himself grew with his muscles.
His father changed the smooth street tires out for some with off road treads and the dirt paths and gravel trails around the town park became his training course.
His dream was to take his interest in mechanical engineering and infuse it with the study of starfish and lizards that regenerated their lost or damaged limbs. He would figure out how to apply that to his damaged spine either through biological or mechanical means and get out of this chair. He’d give his advancements to the world, make sure that people like the soldier who’d changed his life would get the chance to be whole again. He’d be like Wolverine, regenerating from traumatic injuries and righting wrongs wherever he found them.
Moving past the haunted house, he rolled onward to the monkey cages. Piedmont had four of them in residence. They were wonderful animals that never ceased to cheer him up. He envied the way they moved, their speed and agility he could never come close to even if he wasn’t sentenced to life in this wheelchair. Soon he would have one for himself. There were programs that lent the little creatures to incapacitated people but he wanted one of his own, not one he would have to give back whenever they wanted. It was worth the wait, maybe by spring he would have enough money if his sales were good. Who knows, maybe he could get it a little outfit and be an organ grinder, maybe go to children’s hospitals or something. Maybe get a YouTube channel and raise money for charities. The future wasn’t what he’d planned but it didn’t look half bad from where he was sitting.
He watched them scamper back and forth across the bamboo monkey bars, chittering at each other as they played a game of tag. China, Sage, Elmo and Ernie were nearly everyone’s favorite animals and he knew he wouldn’t have much time to study them before the crowds of little kids showed up.
He watched them play, long limbs and tails swinging them across the pen and sketched their faces, noting how each was different. They never missed a hand or foothold. Never faltered, the enclosure mapped so thoroughly in their brains they could do it blind. He laughed at their high-speed pursuit and tried to capture some of it with his phone.
The small simians scampered for the safety of their nest as a scream pierced the air, followed by more screams. Their chatter stopped as they pushed each other in an attempt to get deeper inside to hide in the shadows.
Murray spun his chair in the direction of the gate. Special effects for the haunted house, he wondered? It made sense, but they were too real, too desperate and pain filled for that he quickly decided.
Praying it wasn’t one of his friends in danger or hurt, he put his dirt track practice to use and propelled toward the yells and shouts, now joined by the sound of squealing tires and honking horns.
8
Donny
Donny Lin skirted the edges of the park, sticking to the shadows and the less traveled places, avoiding any staff that might have questions for him. He knew he’d been seen a few times, no more than a fleeting glance, but if he wasn’t careful, eventually someone would figure out that he was not paying the gate admission every day. Once the crowds arrived, it was easy to blend in and become invisible. He made his way towards the modern ‘outhouses’ at the back of the park to take care of his morning business. He kept away from the main bathrooms near the gates, too many staff were there and there weren’t enough people yet where he could hide in plain sight. He couldn’t let anyone find out that he was living there because then the authorities would be called. He had a secret spot in the hayloft of the barn in the petting zoo where he could sleep. He had a little niche carved out in the very back and it wouldn’t be discovered until hundreds of bales were used first. He figured he had until early spring before they got to the back of the loft. He wasn’t proud of it but there were storerooms of supplies and no one would miss cans of food or a little fresh meat intended for the animals. There were always plenty of leftover people food too. At the end of the day, the concession stands and little restaurant tossed their unsold food in the dumpster and garbage truck only came twice a week.
If he had choices, this wasn’t where he would have chosen to be but it was better than being in the foster care system. He was too young to get a job and start living a sort of normal life so he was in a holding pattern for a few more years. He’d been bounced around through the system since he was an infant with no idea where he c
ame from or who he really was. Nobody wanted to adopt the half Asian boy who couldn’t speak. Most people treated him as if he were mentally disabled instead of mute. Nothing could be further from the truth; he’d just never had a chance at being a normal kid. He didn’t know who his father was and all he knew about his mother was that she’d been Chinese.
There was no way was he ever going back, he’d sleep in a dumpster with the rats before he let another adult sneak in his room late at night like his last foster dad. Being mute and unwanted, he’d always been a target of bullies and perverts looking for an easy victim. The night his foster dad came for him, he had busted his nose with a solid kick, grabbed his few belongings and ran. He drifted through different towns, ate from dumpsters behind restaurants, shop lifted when he had no choice and kept on the move. He was invisible to grownups as long as he didn’t look dirty and they didn’t see him during school hours. He avoided the big cities and the predators that lurked there. He took clothes from Goodwill bins, walked into birthday parties at Chuck e Cheeses and ate his fill, paid attention to church billboards and their advertisements of potluck dinners. Winter was coming and he really should be heading south but he liked this place. He’d found it by accident but it had everything he needed. The barn was warm, the food was plentiful and he had the run of the place at night. There were no cameras and the one old man who was the security guard never left the house once he closed the gates.
The Feral Children [A Zombie Road Tale] Box Set | Books 1-3 Page 4
