I poked the knife blade in and pulled down the flap.
The placenta was intact. I saw the sack moving like a bag full of kittens, and I poked through that and gave it one big slice.
The rotter baby came sliding out of the black-green muck inside, its fingers clawing, its little, disgusting mouth gnashing.
“See this abomination?” I said, looking at Punch.
He nodded, then turned quickly and gave up the last meal he’d eaten. I waited. It was hard the first time. Maybe every time. I thought of Jennifer on that pool table in Concord, and not for the first or last time.
“Okay,” I said. “That’s enough.” I jammed the knife into the fetus’ skull and gave it one twist. I withdrew the blade, wiped it on the nasty clothes of the red-eye, and stood.
“One more thing to take notice of, Punch.”
Punch wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “What’s that?” he asked, his voice shaky.
“Her hair,” I said. “Besides the crimson eyes, look for the hair. It’ll look almost nice. Like it was shampooed recently. Not sure why.”
“You need to explain this, Flex,” he said. “But let’s drive a bit more and find a place to lay your friend to rest.”
I nodded. “Yeah.” Another wave of sadness hit me. I’d lost track of the miles we’d driven and how far we had yet to go.
I thought of my son and Gem. No more fucking distractions and no more delays. If anyone tried to stop me again I’d shoot first and never bother to ask questions.
I had only stopped to kill the road walkers because of where I suspected they were headed. It was lucky we took out the red-eye, because she would only broadcast out to others. From here on out, if a gunshot or the roof-mounted AK weren’t sufficient, they would have to walk on. If they made it all the way to Whitmire, well, my people would take ‘em out there.
They were and are good, capable defenders.
And I needed the antitoxin.
*****
Bug stood at the window. The wind and pounding rain had died down again, but even when it gusted past 40 miles an hour, it hadn’t seemed to slow the advancing rotters much, if at all. He turned back toward us.
“Ever since I got on that helicopter, this shit is what I worried about,” said Bug. “I didn’t want to bring this shitstorm down on your heads.”
Hemp got up and walked to the window, Isis in his arms. She had taken to him, which I didn’t find strange. Hemp was funny with children and babies, and he seemed to drop right down to their levels, baby talk and all. He looked through the window with Bug.
“I’ve got some ideas,” he said, bouncing Isis in his arms. She laughed, all of her adult-sized teeth showing, and brought her face to his. I think she playfully kissed him on the mouth. Hemp nuzzled her with his nose, and at that moment, I couldn’t wait for their child to be born.
I don’t know if I ever explained fully about Isis. If you read Dave Gammon’s chronicle, then you already know this. I was fascinated as I read just exactly how this child figured into the rescue of everyone, but I had to give credit where it was due, and that meant to everyone. They had done some insane shit that I can’t say I’d have ever agreed to.
Anyway, back to Isis. Her mother, who died in childbirth, was eight months pregnant when she was exposed to the eye vapor of a pregnant, female zombie – in other words, a red-eye.
As a result – and I mentioned it earlier – Isis doesn’t sleep. Not ever. She’ll sit or lie down, almost in a meditative trance, but she doesn’t close her eyes.
Her eyes are red, just like the eyes of the red-eyes themselves, but she’s not a zombie. Not even close.
Isis refuses to eat anything other than meat. If given a spoonful of food containing vegetables and meat, she’ll use her adult-sized teeth as some sort of straining mechanism, and spit out all but the meat.
She talks. She doesn’t babble or coo. She provides input to the subject at hand or says hello. No goo goo shit for her. She is perhaps 13 months old, and can construct full sentences.
Since I learned of this ability, I’d been waiting for her to say something that freaked me out.
Last, but definitely not least, she is what we’ve been referring to as a siren. She is a siren to the zombies, and her mere presence calls them; beckons them to where she is. Hemp, because of information provided by Dave and Serena from their trip, believes there’s way more to this than we know right now. Hemp thinks that Isis may have defenses that she hasn’t even figured out yet.
Hemp also believes that Isis carries with her almost supernatural intelligence and he suspects that every ability she has is by some alternative design.
I believe him. He’s the damned scientist, after all. The thing that’s kind of put me on edge is Hemp’s belief that Isis will either say or do something that changes our lives forever, and he’s fairly certain that she will instinctively know when to share this.
This is a bit strange coming from a man of science. I suppose the whole corpse reanimation thing has given him reason to re-think the puzzle pieces of life and how they all fit together.
Hemp and Bug kept looking out of the window, and now Isis was, too. I got up and went over to see for myself.
“We’ve got a break, huh?” I said, squeezing between them and putting my hand on the back of Isis’ head.
She smiled at me. “Hi, Gemina,” she said.
“Hi, Isis,” I said, ice running down by spine.
There were two reasons for the ice, but since I’ll get into the next one in a moment, let me explain the first reason now.
Isis’ voice is baby-like, but not baby-ish. Imagine – and if you’ve never met her, then I realize it’s impossible – a baby speaking in its own high-pitched voice, but clearly annunciating, as she had just said my name. Now imagine that she can not only speak, but she can listen and understand not only the words you speak in return, but tones, undertones, sarcasm, emotion, and the rest. The whole gamut. Once you can swallow all that, then you can begin to understand how eerily uncanny it is to have a conversation with an infant that you’re not certain isn’t smarter than you.
I learned a lot over those next few moments.
Hemp turned a half-turn and looked at Isis, then me. “This is the first day you’ve met this little one,” he said. “I never heard anyone say your actual name.”
“It’s why I have chills right now,” I said. “I never did. Nobody calls me that, and for good reason.”
“Isis Gammon,” said the child, smiling. She turned to look out the window and her little finger jutted out, pointing. “The mothers are here for me,” she said, matter-of-factly, holding out her arms to me in the universal baby language for Take me!
I say that knowing that Isis could simply have said the words. Hemp nodded and gave her over. I looked at her. “How did you know my name, Isis?” I asked.
“Gemina Cardoza,” she said, with perfect pronunciation. It is how I would have said it in my head.
“I need to sit down,” I said. I carried Isis to the couch and sat beside Charlie.
“This is weird,” said Charlie.
Bug was staring. “She’s never talked this much,” he said. “And only once or twice about stuff she shouldn’t have known.”
“Weirder than weird,” said Dave. “Isis, you do know stuff, don’t you?” he said, smiling.
“I just do,” she said, putting her hands out like, “Oh, well!” Her big-toothed smile was infectious, and we all caught it, smiling ourselves.
“I’m afraid to ask her how Tony and Flex are doing,” I said. “Afraid of –”
“Anthony is gone,” said Isis, cutting me off. “I’m sorry.”
All of our smiles, including Isis’, disappeared.
Hemp and Bug turned from the window and both walked quickly back to where we sat.
“Isis!” said Bug. “You don’t say stuff like that!”
“It’s real, daddy,” she said. “Anthony is dead. Not by the mothers or the hungerers.”
Tears welled up in my eyes, and now Serena was wide awake. I suppose she had just been resting her eyelids. When Charlie and Dave found her, she had been living in ZFZ-4, or Zombie-Free-Zone #4 in Shelburne, Vermont, where Tony Mallette ran the shelter.
Serena got out of the recliner and moved quickly to where I sat with Isis on my lap. “Isis,” Serena said, kneeling in front of me and taking the child gently by the arms. Isis returned Serena’s concerned gaze with an expression that spoke of compassion and understanding that should have been no part of her emotional depth at such a young age.
“Arrow,” she said. “He died quickly. You worry about suffering.” She reached up and took one of Serena’s hands and squeezed it in her tiny ones. “He never knew pain,” she said.
“I can’t do this,” I said. I couldn’t sit and listen to a child speak of things she couldn’t know. She might see it all in her little mind, but I was without the ability to put all the little pieces together and determine whether what she said was either good or bad news.
Clearly what she’d said about Tony was horrible news. “I think I need to go outside and clear my head in between these storms,” I said.
Isis turned suddenly to Gem and said, “Wait, Gem.”
I cried harder. I believed her. I couldn’t stop my next words. “Isis,” I sobbed. “Is Flex alright? Is he alive?”
Isis’ mouth turned upward into a smile, but she did not part her lips and expose her teeth. She nodded. “Flex is with Punch,” she said. “Safe. Killed one mother who almost hurt Flex. Killed hungerers.”
“Hungerers,” said Hemp. “Isis, is that what you call them? The ones outside?”
“The hungerers,” she said. “They follow.”
“Then the mothers can only be what we call the red-eyes,” said Hemp.
“What’s a punch,” I asked. “Isis, what is punch?”
“A man,” she answered.
“A good man?” I asked.
“Like Flex,” said Isis.
I let out a sigh and let my eyes close. I didn’t know what to believe. I remembered what we’ve all said a thousand times. Kids say the darndest things.
Isis turned away from Serena and clutched my shirt as she moved her mouth up to my ear to say, “It is real.”
Her voice was a whisper, and each word that left her lips and drifted into my consciousness felt true and undeniable. “Flex and Punch will bury Anthony,” she said. “But the angry follow.”
The angry. I didn’t want to ask Isis to whom she referred to as the angry.
Isis wrapped her little arms tightly around my neck and squeezed me. She spoke once more, her tiny voice innocent, but clear and unwavering. The infant, red-eyed Isis was as convincing as any psychic who delivered her prognostications with such resolve that you dared not disbelieve them.
“No more telling now,” she whispered. “Flex is safe. Punch is a good man. Sadness only for Anthony.”
I broke down then. When I did, we all did. We had no doubt that what Isis had shared with us was true.
And we all knew what Tony Mallette had done for us.
Dave held Serena, whose tears came in a flood.
Our hearts weighed like stones.
*****
We had the small, collapsible military shovels in the Land Cruiser that were handy for snuffing out campfires and performing other tasks. They could be useful for occasionally severing the gnashing heads of zombies, though I’d never used them for that yet. Together, using this equipment, Punch and I dug a three foot deep grave for my friend.
We’d found a spot down a gravel side road that was easy to miss. In fact, we’d missed it at first and had to turn around. Punch thought it would be unlikely the Buckfield people would head that way if they were still in pursuit, which he was fairly certain they were.
“That’s good enough,” I said, looking at the three-foot deep hole near the bank of a small, clear-running creek. There were no trees there, so we encountered no roots. I had a blanket in back of the Land Cruiser, so Punch and I wrapped him in it.
The rain was still falling but it was much lighter, dripping off the highest branches of the trees and falling in large, crystalline drops.
Tony’s body lay on the wet ground beside what would be his final resting place. I looked at the cylindrical bundle, my fingers playing over the gold cornicello he had worn. He once told me it was to ward off the evil eye, believed by Italians to harm nursing mothers and their babies, bearing fruit trees, milking animals, and the sperm of men – the forces of generation.
I had initially chosen a gold medallion that Tony always wore with the likeness of St. Christopher molded into it, accompanied by the words, St. Christopher, Protect Us.
I changed my mind just as we prepared to wrap him in the blanket. Instead, I took the cornicello.
St. Christopher had failed Tony Mallette, just as I had. The good saint and I had screwed the pooch on that task.
But we still had Charlie and Hemp and their forthcoming baby to think of, not to mention our infant son and the other children yet to be conceived. If we were going to put any stock in superstition or religion after what had happened to Tony, I figured I’d just as soon put all my chips on the power of a gold, horn-shaped talisman and its ability to ward off the evil that would most likely affect the thing that all of us would soon care about the most: The crucial repopulation of this planet.
I closed my eyes. I don’t know what Punch intended by it, but I heard him step away from me as I spoke. After all, he didn’t know me and maybe he was just giving me privacy he thought I’d appreciate.
“Tony, you were a good man,” I began. “A real good man. You were a strange motherfucker, I’ll grant you that. You freely helped my friends and me in Vermont, and you never made us feel like it was an inconvenience for you – not even a small one. In Concord, you came along when we needed you most and least expected you, and you helped whenever anyone asked. Almost like St. Christopher sent you himself. Who knows? Maybe he did.”
I paused a moment. Another strong breeze worried the higher branches of the soaring trees, and shook a thousand gathering raindrops on our heads. Before long, the wind picked up enough to swirl even the wet leaves at our feet. I closed my eyes again and went on.
“When I knew I was coming on this trip, I didn’t want anybody else along. I didn’t want anyone holdin’ me back by draggin’ ass. You didn’t. You wanted to do your share, and it got you killed. And while this might not be in accordance with your apparent Catholicism, I will see your death, my friend, and raise it as many as necessary to protect the rest of your family. Us. All of us were your family, Tony.”
I was finished. I didn’t say Amen because I wasn’t talking to God. I was giving thanks and talking directly to Tony Mallette. If what he believed was true, he caught every word.
I turned and nodded to Punch, who leaned down and lifted one end of the bundle that was Tony Mallette’s body. I took the other end, and we laid him gently in the hole.
Punch grabbed the shovels, gave one to me, and started filling in the grave. After two scoops, he said, “Nice, Flex. I’m sure he knew what a good friend you were.”
I didn’t answer right away. I waited until Tony’s body was beneath a full layer of dirt, then said, “I could’ve been a better friend. Just a little more effort and I’d have been the kind of friend he needed. He’d still be alive.”
Even as I said it, I knew that if Punch had been in Afghanistan, he’d seen his own share of Hell long before it became widespread.
We finished the burial in another fifteen minutes and kicked leaves around the hole to hide the obvious, freshly-disturbed soil. I’m not sure why; I just didn’t want anyone rooting around, no matter what it was they sought.
We got back to the Land Cruiser and checked the map. Based on the small, unnamed road, and the proximity to the creek, we figured out that we were less than an hour’s drive from my destination.
I geared up for it, mentally.
**
***
Rachel and Lola had slept through the worst of the on-again-off-again storms, showing us all just how tired they were. Nelson had ridden his scooter over, and he was now fully equipped with a Daewoo like Flex’s.
“Holy shit there’s a lot of rotters around,” he said, toeing his kickstand down. He’d found the scooter in a shed at his new digs, and there was no convincing him to leave it there. It was like he was home again. This one even had double pegs so he could tote Rachel on the back, who admittedly, wouldn’t add much weight. Once there, he peeked in on Rachel and Lola before coming outside to help us.
We rechecked the windows, and despite the fact that we hadn’t had much over forty mile per hour gusts, we were still relieved to see they held so far.
Hemp came back from the field in the golf cart with Bug. “We pushed the bundled fencing together and doubled the baling wire,” he said. “Even went around several of them. I think they’re safe enough.”
Bug stood beside him, drenched to the bone again. “Took out another six rotters, too,” he said, shaking his head. “Be honest. What kind of numbers were you lookin’ at before we got here?”
I decided to oblige him. “Four a day was a lot.”
“It’s like they were following us in the chopper,” said Nelson. He shrugged. “Maybe they were.”
“We adapt,” said Hemp. “Isis may yet have some abilities we’re unaware of. It seems likely that even she doesn’t fully know what she’ll be able to do.”
“You gonna train my kid like a puppy?” asked Bug. He wore a wry smile.
“It’s actually an excellent analogy,” said Hemp. “She, like a puppy, may very well have abilities she’s not aware of. She’s certainly smart enough that if we suggest something, she could put it to test. If she understands and tries, she can tell us her thoughts.”
Dead Hunger VI_The Gathering Storm Page 11
