by Bryan Way
“I wasn’t finished!” He shouts. “You don’t listen. You don’t ask for opinions. You don’t care who gets killed. A month from now we might be out of clean water and fresh food, but you’ve gotta have your computer…”
“Shut up!” I shout back. “Throwing Jules at me ‘cause you’ve got nothin’ else… that is such a fucking terrible thing to do… and I am so tired of your bullshit…”
“And I’m not tired of yours…!?”
“Go ahead, read me the next entry from the vagabond’s almanac…”
“You don’t know a damn thing about it… being here is the best I’ve eaten in months… so what if you had to lose some of that baby fat…”
He reaches out and pinches my right side. Before I can think, both of my hands come out and slam into his chest, forcing him back as he tries to fend me off.
“Don’t you touch me Rich, don’t you fucking touch me!”
“Or else what?”
“I will shove seven years of martial arts so far up your ass you’ll be using my black belt for a tongue… what’s your problem? You jealous? Been too long since you touched a kid…?”
Rich draws his right arm back, and as it comes in, I block it away with my left forearm, grab his throat, and force him down on the table. I let go immediately and step back, breathing the fire out of my lungs. “Next time you throw a punch I’m not gonna stop.” I pick up the rifle and the bore light. “Now you’re gonna act tough?” Rich asks, leaning back. I stare into him. “I don’t have to act tough, Rich.” I sit down and go back to cleaning.
“I see. Well, don’t bother watching your back… I’ll bow before you when I walk into a room…”
“Rich… you wanna talk about the computers, sit down… otherwise, lay off.”
“Well… I just hope you learn your lesson.”
“You wanna teach me?”
“The foolish and the dead never change their opinions.”
He turns and walks toward the hall. “James Lowell, if you were wondering.” I wasn’t. An apology crosses my mind as he walks toward the door, but I opt against it. He came in here looking for a fight and got one. If he wants to talk about it like an adult, I’ll be willing. But I’m not changing my mind. Once I finish cleaning the Winchester, I take on Anderson’s rifle. I check the watch I gleaned from our last mall raid shortly before Anderson walks in the room: 5:27. Anderson only needs to glance at me before realizing that something just happened.
“Everything alright?” He starts.
“Don’t worry about it. Ready for the cemetery?”
“Yep.”
Anderson lifts his rifle off the table, checks it, and heads toward the back exit. “Anyone know we’re going?” I ask. “Just told Karen, her radio’s on.” He replies. I pick up my rifle, check the breach, and follow him through the door.
We exit the cafeteria and walk through the small crack between the bus blocking us in and the crushed brick of the pool’s exterior wall, just a few feet from where I saw Chris get cut in two by a sedan. We found his better half crawling around while cleaning out the back yard two months back, so he and several other former band members got tossed in the pool together. We didn’t see a point in moving the car. “So… what just happened?” Anderson asks, pulling me back from a precipice of thought. I shake my head in acquiescence, trying to summarize my encounter with the other third of the leadership group succinctly.
“Just Rich. I swear I’m gonna kill him.”
“That bad?”
“He pinched my side…” I demonstrate on myself. “Like that… and I lost it.”
“You hurt him?”
“Just his pride.”
“Wanna take his leadership?”
“Karen’s next in line…” I start. We previously decided this and developed a series of checks and balances to ensure her protection, as she’s far and away the most important one to the group. “…that wouldn’t be so bad… just so long as you’re not after my head too.”
“Well, I’m most qualified to lead, so why not?”
His laugh huffs out in a cloud of ice crystals. I avoid his eyes as I consider what Melody said concerning people joking about things they really mean. I look around the parking lot and admire the job we did cleaning the corpses out of the back lot while I wait for the awkward moment to pass. The next thing I know we’re at the cemetery gate; Anderson simply pulls one of his karabiners off the chains, unravels them, and rests them on the ground. The first step inside yields an awful sensation that can only be described by the smell of a musty attic and the feeling of being watched in a dark room. Anderson casually pulls the rifle off his shoulder while staring into the trees.
“Huh…” He starts.
“What?”
“Didn’t notice that before.”
He motions to the dirt in front of us, which features the tread marks of several hundred pairs of shoes, creating a ditch a full foot deeper than the ground at the gate.
“Can’t imagine how they’d get the leverage to get out…” He offers.
“The chain was broken in three places… it’d almost rusted through…”
“Yeah…”
A wind goes through the cemetery, filling the barren stretch with a chorus of clashing branches and the rustling of the few leaves remaining on the trees. I don’t need to ask Anderson if he feels the same thing I do. “There.” He says with a shiver, pointing to a headstone with a small pile of dirt in front of it. We crouch next to the muddy, leaf-laden mound, staring down a thin hole that stretches into the darkness beneath.
“Clawed out of the goddamn grave. Unbelievable.” Anderson says.
“Wish we could get a look at the coffin.”
“You wanna shove yourself down there?”
“Absolutely not.” I mutter, looking at the trees again. “Figure they probably kick the dirt down as they’re coming up?”
“New graves must be easier to claw through… looser dirt, not as much decay…”
“What’s your point?”
“This guy died in 2001.” Anderson murmurs. “Maybe… I dunno…”
“What?”
“Grave vaults…”
“I don’t know what that is…” I start.
“They put coffins in vaults… made of concrete or metal… y’know, so the coffins don’t rot, buckle, and make sinkholes… what if they did that so the dead can’t come back?”
“Are you suggesting they didn’t use them in this cemetery?”
“Dunno.”
“Yeah, well… I heard… the first tombstones were rocks put over burial plots to prevent the dead from returning.”
When the wind dies down, I focus on a bizarre humming.
“You hear that?” I ask.
“No…”
“Shh…”
He listens for a moment, then stands up and points to the left. We walk through several rows of headstones before we see an arm sticking limply out of the ground. “What the…?!” Anderson babbles as he jumps back. We take a few steps closer to find that a corpse in a filthy tuxedo has managed to get his head and part of his left shoulder out of the dirt. I bend down to look in his eyes, and to my surprise, the desiccated sockets open. His wrist flutters toward me as a groan emerges from his nose. I look up at his headstone: Frederick Evors, 1945-2002.
“Fred… poor bastard.” I mutter.
“Got another…”
Anderson points to a headstone two rows down where a pair of hands have just barely made it through the grass. He pokes the palm with the end of his rifle. They don’t move, having been frozen in effigy.
“Worn out…” I mutter.
“Huh?”
“He wore out… I guess I always assumed Zombies don’t heal… he was so decomposed…”
“She.” He points to the name on the headstone.
“…she was so decomposed… they’ll all rot into dust.”
“Hope so… but they only need to bite one person to succeed… seen enough?”
“…and knowing is half the battle.”
“You know me too well.”
We both stand up and start toward the gate, but I stop just as we get close to the exit. “There it is again…” I say softly; when the air is still, a distinct rumbling buzz echoes in the background. The source is nearly impossible to place because it sounds as though it’s all around us; there’s no rhythm or tempo, which only makes it more unsettling. Finally, Anderson’s eyes go wide. “They’re clawing at the coffins…” He whispers. The image of a bony hand scraping at the torn cushioning of a casket leaks into my mind just before Anderson makes his way to the exit. His next statement confirms that he is inclined to forget this.
“Should we put Fred out of his misery?”
“Let him rot. I’d rather not waste the bullet.” I reply.
“You know what’s awesome?”
“Cremation.”
“I… what?” He sputters.
“Well… if we’d all been cremated at death… this never would’ve happened. Sorry… you were saying?”
“Guns. Say what you will about this country, but I guarantee we’re handling this better than anyone else ‘cause everyone’s got guns. Unconquerable.”
“Thank the founding fathers for their fear of an oppressive government… they certainly weren’t thinking about this.”
“How do you know?”
I smile back at him. “I guess I don’t.” Once the gate has been sealed, we walk quietly back to the cafeteria. “Oh shit.” I say once I get inside.
“What?”
“Forgot to clean Mursak’s gun.”
“Want me to do it?” Anderson asks.
“Nah, I got it.”
Anderson shrugs and heads to the hallway as I sit quietly at the table and go to work on Mursak’s rifle. Looking around at the silent cafeteria, I’m reminded of the 700 some-odd lunches I had in here, generally sitting at a table of no less than four and no more than eight. If there were politics surrounding who sat at what table and which of them were granted a higher social status, I was ignorant of such a system. After indulging myself in this moment of nostalgia, I return my attention to Mursak’s bore before a red flash in the hallway distracts me.
A moment later, Melody pokes her heart-shaped face around the furthest doorway, favoring me with a broad smile as she removes her earbuds. Lean and compact beneath her taut jogging outfit, she saunters toward me while using her sleeve to wipe the sweat off her brow. “Sleep okay?” She asks as she draws near. “Well enough.” As she sits across from me, I notice the natural light-brown in her ponytail chasing away the faded bleach at the end.
“…did you… write something?”
“Yeah… journal entry.”
“Bangin’…”
I shrug and go back to cleaning.
“So… what’s up?” She asks. “You goin’ out?”
“Yeah… me, Anderson, and Sak.”
“Why?”
“Supply run… get a look at the area, you know…”
“…and get your computers?”
God dammit.
“Friggin’ Rich…” I say.
“Karen told me…”
“She say anything else?”
“Not really… believe me, we have plenty more to talk about than you idiots.” She says, smirking.
“Ouch.”
“Still, he’s gotta be the center of attention when he’s pissed off… what’s that word you used…?” She asks.
“Histrionics.”
“Sounds like a fuckin’… math history class.”
We both chuckle.
“…you really want your computer that bad?”
“I guess so… I mean… all my writing, music, games, videos…”
“Porn?”
I look up to find her giving me a devious grin.
“Why not?” I reply. “And my keyboard. Cellphone too.”
“Oh, good… I’m tired of your mom callin’ me.”
“She usually calls Karen…?”
“Yeah, sometimes she calls if she gets her voicemail.”
“You ever…?”
“Fuck no… that’s, like, the last conversation I wanna have.”
We’re both quiet. I restrain my urge to ask her why as I apply a few drops of oil to a cloth for the metal on Mursak’s rifle.
“I didn’t know you played anything.” Melody continues.
“Huh?”
“Keyboard?”
“Oh yeah… I’m not great. I mostly just copy off Rick Wright.”
“Who?” She asks.
“Keyboardist for Pink Floyd.”
“That’s what’s up… I love that ‘we don’t need no education.’”
“Another Brick in the Wall Part Two.”
“Whatever.”
I glance at Melody, who seems to be dreaming up another stab at irritating small-talk. As I am wont to do in moments like these, I think about our most pressing concerns, like finding renewable sources of food, staving off insanity, keeping reserves of clean water, combating illness, and fighting off the horde. The last concern usually occupies the most brain power, as I worry enough of the undead will realize we’re in here to make this situation the nightmare it has always promised to be.
“So…” Melody starts. “Hittin’ up an electronics store, huh?”
“Why not, right?”
“Gettin’ any CDs?”
“Hadn’t occurred to me… we might as well…”
“Think you could pick up Christmas with the Mormon Tabernacle Choir?” She asks.
“Uh, sure…”
“The one from ’93.”
“Yeah, no problem.”
“Want me to come with?”
“Nah, that’s okay…” I start. “But, you know, while you’re here… maybe you could figure out what’s eating Helen?”
“Just Anderson.”
“Gah!” I chortle. “You think so?”
“Maybe. He’s into her.”
“You don’t think she’s into him?”
“Remember all that shit Althea was saying? I get it. Helen likes to be in control… and he’s into that.”
“Huh.” I’m not sure I agree. “Well, if you can talk to her… I guess… see what you can find out.”
“Sure.”
I’m nearly certain we’ve finished by the time I start wiping down the stock on Mursak’s rifle.
“Been sleepin’ okay?” She asks.
“Yeah… good enough… you?”
“Yeah… I’m not used to sharing a bed… or sleeping in my clothes.”
“Oh…” I mutter, trying and failing to shake that image. “Well, we’ll get our own rooms soon enough.”
“Bangin’. Well, break’s over…”
“Yeah, ditto.”
I’m not sure if she’s intentionally shaking her hips as she walks out of the cafeteria, but I certainly notice. After finally finishing Mursak’s rifle, I retreat to room 218 and store it in preparation for tomorrow. I consider going to my bag of tricks and pulling out the old police belt and katana, but I opt against it, instead taking a walk to the courtyard. As I wander out under the breezeway to the large opening where the marching band’s warm-up arcs used to congregate, I look favorably upon our apple trees and hope they survive the winter. We’ve yet to see the season’s first snow, but it must not be too far off.
I take a seat on a bench near the concrete barrier sealing the exit and stare into the damp, mushy cairn of dead leaves pressed against it, having been raked there to save our grass from certain doom. Reflecting on the seasons leaves me hoping that I survive long enough to witness the herald of spring and summer insects, as the familiarity of their songs could nullify the moans of a thousand Zombies. My bucolic fantasy is shattered by the din of child crying out in glee, followed by someone trying to silence her. I look toward the breezeway just as Elena runs out of its shadow with Karen in tow.
“Hey girl!” I say with a placid smile. “Hi!” Elena replies. Karen comes over and sits with me on the bench as her laughter invites handsome wrinkles around her eyes and nose. Elena throws herself into the leaves with abandon, her curly blond locks flying as she shouts ‘Watch this, watch this!’ We oblige.
“How’s our little one holding up?”
“It’s amazin’ how quick they recover.” Karen sighs.
“We should be so lucky.”
We watch Elena swat two handfuls of leaves through the air.
“She’s a sweetheart though.” Karen continues.
“Seems like you’re having fun.”
“I’d rather be out here with her than in there with Rob.”
She sounds slightly amused, but her smile flattens the moment she remembers why I’m not laughing.
“How’s he holding up?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.
“Better’n the last time you saw him… one day at a time, y’know. He talks about you.”
“Oh, what’s he got to say?”
“Jeff…”
She puts her hand on my knee and stares at me. I don’t return her glare. “Watch this, watch this!” Elena shouts. We watch her thrash around in the leaves, then get up and throw them. Both of us smile.
“He pointed a gun at me and pulled the trigger.”
“He was on drugs…” Karen suggests.
“That makes it better?”
“No, it doesn’t…”
We continue to watch Elena in silence. I can feel the thoughts racing through Karen’s head, but she stays quiet and takes a deep breath before continuing. “Pretend I’m not here… pretend you could pick what happens to him. What would you do?” I’d kill him, but she doesn’t need to hear that. “I think you wanna get rid of ‘im. But then you wouldn’t be any better…” My scoff cuts her off mid-sentence.
