“I’d be cool with that,” said Kasey.
There were mutters of agreement between everyone. Miles kept silent and still appeared skeptical. “I still don’t know about this,” he said. “We’d be stealing a week or two from our rationings.”
“Come on, Miles,” said Lawrence, “this is just for one night, Thanksgiving night. I know you have your family to look after, but for one night, let’s have no apprehensions.”
“Yeah,” said France, “it’s for Thanksgiving, Dad.”
“Well, all right,” said Miles. “At least, maybe, my poop will be solid again that evening.”
“Maybe everyone’s poop will be solid again that evening.” Lawrence had a big smile. “There’ll be a lot of heavy poop buckets to empty this Thanksgiving.”
“Let’s hope Charlene doesn’t forget to empty hers out again.”
Miles and Lawrence shared a laugh.
“Hey,” said Charlene, glaring at Miles, and then at Lawrence. “I always empty my bucket. You guys are assholes.”
Ally
That night, Ally went out to the garage. It was dark and cold. Only the candle she held lit her way. There were the sounds of harsh rain pattering outside and the constant fist hammerings of the dead against the garage door. It was sturdy enough to hold, she knew, yet the banging still racked her nerves. With her body shaking and heart jumping, she willed herself to approach the garage door. She placed her free hand against it and felt the vibration of each slam that came. Two inches of wood separated her from those who could rip her apart so easily. The groans began, as though those things sensed her presence. The groans were of rage and suffering, and for a second, Ally pitied them. Do they still have souls?
Be brave, Alison, be brave, she told herself. She set the side of her head against the garage door, the growls and all the guttural jabbering were deafening to her left ear, and the frequent banging rattled her skull. If she were to see herself, she would think that she’d lost her mind. I won’t be afraid anymore. Her inner dialogue didn’t cure the rapidness of her heart or the wobbling of her legs.
She removed her head and hand from the garage door and slowly stepped backward until she reached the driver’s side door of Kyle’s red Mustang. She opened the car door, climbed in, and blew out the candle. She closed the door and set the candleholder in the cup-holder between the front seats. She planned to relight the candle with the lighter in her pocket later on. Inside the car, the groans and the banging sounded a distance away.
Minutes passed in darkness, Ally’s nerves settled, her legs had stopped shaking, and her heartbeat was normal now. The rhythmic sounds of rain relaxed her. The commotion from the dead quieted, only slightly. She thought about Joni. It was easy to love that little girl, because of her kindness and courage, for her ability to remain cheerful despite all that’s happened to her.
The entrance door to the garage opened. An orange glow of candlelight appeared to float in blackness. There was a silhouette at the doorway, hard to guess who it was. Ally hoped it was Lawrence coming to check on her. Maybe he’d sit in the car with her and talk with her a while. It’d be nice.
Ally flicked the car’s interior light open and waved a hand to whoever entered. The person walked over, and as the candle glow drew near, Ally saw that it was Tristan. Years ago, the sight of him would’ve irritated her. Tristan was inappropriate at times, childish even, and she only cared about him because Kyle grew up with him and loved him. Though, over recent months, Ally started to understand Tristan more. He was warmhearted and always wanted to be helpful to someone. She could picture him as a kindergartener disturbing the class with fart noises, but be the only kid in class organizing scattered crayons and paintbrushes for the teacher.
He blew out his light, opened the passenger’s side door, and sat in with Ally.
“Hey,” Ally greeted.
“Hey,” Tristan said, shutting the car door. “What are you doing here?” He placed his candle in the empty cup-holder.
Ally took a moment to think. She wasn’t sure why she was in Kyle’s car. “I guess I came here to…think.”
“This is your way of thinking? It’s dark and freezing here.”
“Everyone has their own way, I guess.”
“Yeah.” Tristan nodded. “I like to draw when I think.”
There were times when Tristan sat quietly for hours and drew. He had a talent for it and seemed to find solace sketching half-naked women with abnormally perfect curves. Charlene called it his “jerking off material.” Ally had thought that comment was harsh, especially when Tristan would keep to himself and draw, not bothering anyone.
“I’ve seen your drawings,” Ally said, “and I don’t wanna know what kind of things you think about.” Tristan chuckled at the joke, and Ally was glad to know she didn’t offend him. “Your drawings are good. You’re a real artist.”
“Thanks,” said Tristan. “Too bad that doesn’t matter now. You know, with all that’s going on.”
“It matters to you, doesn’t it? Otherwise, why would you still do it?”
“Yeah, you’re right.” Tristan sat back and crossed his arms. “So, what are you thinking about?” Sleaziness rose in his tone. “While you’re here all alone in the dark? Where no one can see what you’re doing? I wanna know.”
She had to laugh at his absurdness. She had grown used to it. “You’re sick.”
“I’m kidding.” He smiled. “Seriously, what’s on your mind?”
“I was thinking about Joni.”
“A good girl, isn’t she?”
“I’m glad she’s here.” Ally tucked her hands in the pockets of her hooded sweater. She faced Tristan and set her head down against the car seat. She was more comfortable around him than she thought. “I already love her. With her around, I feel braver and…I don’t know. I just feel better.”
“Earlier, I overheard Joni tell her mom that you’re her big sister now.”
Ally laughed, feeling both embarrassed and flattered. The thought warmed her. “She said that, huh? It was her idea.”
“Maybe you feel better with her here, because you actually feel like a big sister. You knew what it was like to have a good older brother, a real cool and loving older brother, and maybe you wanna pass that feeling on to her.”
It dawned on Ally. Tristan’s words made sense. She now realized why she sat in her brother’s car thinking about Joni. “Wow, you really do understand, Tristan.”
“He was a brother to me, too,” Tristan said, staring down at the dashboard. It was an absent, melancholic stare. “He’d always stick up for me, ever since elementary.”
Ally laid her hand atop of Tristan’s and brushed his skin with her thumb. “He was the best brother, huh?”
Tristan slid his fingers into Ally’s and leaned in. He pressed his lips against her mouth, catching Ally off guard. She pulled her head back and released her hand from his grasp.
“Tristan, don’t,” Ally said. “Please don’t do that to me.” She tried to sound gentle and tactful, as to not wound his feelings or his pride.
Tristan’s head darted forward, and again their lips met. Ally pulled back until her head touched the driver’s side window.
“I said don’t.” She now felt scared and angry, shocked at his sudden crass behavior.
“Come on, Ally,” Tristan whispered, “I’ve always loved you.” He got up to a knee and climbed onto her. He pushed his opened mouth against her cheek.
Ally felt his hand clasp her breast. “Tristan, stop it!” she shouted. She managed to lift her leg and throw a knee upward. Her knee caught his ribs. He grunted, and the hand at her breast loosened. She threw her knee again, fiercer this time, rage fueling her. The second strike met his gut.
A pitiable sound came out of Tristan, a cross between a yelp and moan. He retreated back to the passenger’s seat.
Ally continued her attack. With her raised foot, she kicked at him ruthlessly. Tristan had become monstrous and tried to victimize her. She felt an
insane need to make him suffer now. The sole of her shoe struck his neck, chest, and chin. Tristan made a feeble attempt to shield his face with his forearms, but she kept kicking and kicked at his arms and hands.
“Stop,” Tristan cried out. “Please, stop.”
“Don’t ever fucking touch me!” Ally screamed.
With great force, she launched her foot and booted him in the face. The impact made Tristan’s head slam against the passenger’s side window. He immediately covered his face with his hands, his fingers bearing small nicks and gashes. He wept, girlishly it sounded.
Ally stopped her assault and broke into tears. She opened the car door, climbed out, and in darkness, she hurried toward the house entrance.
Lawrence
Lawrence sat cross-legged on the carpet of the family room. His elbows rested on the coffee table in front of him, and in his grasp were four playing cards that added to twenty-six. Kasey and Charlene sat on the couch across from him, cards carelessly hanging from their fingers. The three played a friendly and meaningless game of blackjack. They played leisurely. There were no bets and nothing was at stake, not even the pride of winning. For most of the game, Lawrence and Kasey listened to Charlene talk.
“Don’t you guys wonder what happened to all the celebrities, musicians, and supermodels and stuff?” Charlene asked. She would sometimes ask questions and not await an answer. She usually answered herself. “I bet they all went somewhere safe like Antarctica, because it’s nearly population-less there. I doubt there are any zombie people around Antarctica.”
“Antarctica is way too cold to live at, girl,” said Kasey.
“Do you guys wanna know what I think?”
Lawrence folded his card hand and set it on the table. “No.”
Charlene didn’t hear him. “I think if all the movie stars and singers are over there, they can still make movies and music, but the problem is, it’ll only be for the people living in Antarctica.”
Lawrence gave up on having a conversation with Charlene. “Kasey, Charlene is right, we should move to Antarctica.”
Kasey also folded her cards. “I guess we better start packing.”
“I would’ve been a super brilliant inventor.” And with Charlene, a whole new subject just pops up out of nowhere. “Because I just have brilliant ideas, like, all the time.”
Lawrence sighed. “Really, Charlene?”
“You wanna know what I just thought up?”
“No.”
“I was thinking about designing a thermos to look exactly like an urn. So I could drink tomato soup out of it and be like, ‘This tomato soup is yummy,’ and then the Antarcticans around me will be like, ‘Hey, why are you eating out of someone’s urn? That’s like, kinda rude, ya know.’” Charlene started giggling.
“Dammit, Charlene,” Lawrence muttered quietly to himself, “I wanna punch you in the face.”
She kept going. “And I’ll tell them, ‘Hey, relax, it’s not someone’s urn. It’s just my new thermos, ya know.’” She giggled some more.
Lawrence caught a sudden surprised look on Kasey. He looked over his shoulder to see Ally enter the family room, sobbing. He got to his feet. “Ally, what happened?”
Ally fell against Lawrence, held his waist, and let out her tears on his shirt. “He fucking touched me,” she said.
Lawrence embraced her. He instantly felt a surge of anger. “Who? Who did this to you?” He still asked even though he knew it was Tristan.
“Tristan, he, he grabbed me and forced himself on me.”
Charlene threw her cards down and stood up. “That fucking asshole, molester!” She went to Ally and gently took her from Lawrence. “Did Tristan rape you? Because if he did, I’ll kill him. I swear to God.”
“No, he didn’t,” said Ally. “I was able to get away.”
“Where is that boy?” said Kasey. Lawrence saw her fists clench, and the muscles of her toned arms flexed and tightened. “I’m gonna beat his ass.”
Lawrence’s anger faded as quickly as it had come. He started to think. Would Tristan really do this? Ally would never lie about something like this.
Tristan slowly stepped to the doorway that divided the laundry room from the family room. His fingers were curled in his palms and his arms were pressed against his stomach. There was blood on the side of his lip and on his lower eyelid. He was hunched over, one eye was squinted and his cheek was a pre-bruise red. “Ally, I’m sorry,” Tristan mumbled. “I’m so sorry.”
“Uh-uh,” Kasey said, “sorry ain’t gonna cut it, motherfucker. If you did this in the old world, you’d be in motherfucking handcuffs. In this world now, we should toss your ass out the door. That’s all we gotta do, toss your ass out, where you’ll have other things to worry about other than a bad case of blue balls. You a nasty motherfucker. Can’t you do the decent thing like Lawrence and relieve yourself in the bathroom?”
“Yeah, Tristan,” said Lawrence, “can’t you do the decent thing like me and…” He shot a look at Kasey. “Hey.”
“Tristan’s tried to have sex with me, too,” said Charlene, “and I was only fifteen at the time. I was like, ‘eww, no way, hell no.’”
Tristan’s face went red as he started to cry. “Don’t you guys understand? We’re all gonna die in here. We won’t last another year—food won’t last another year. We’re gonna run out of food and die.”
Lawrence only stared at his longtime friend, who, at the moment, looked so weak and pathetic. “Tristan,” Lawrence said calmly, “when we started preparations for this house, everyone living here gathered whatever money they had and bought necessities like food and water and so forth. What did you buy, Tristan? You bought a fucking medieval sword! How much was that, seven-hundred, eight-hundred dollars? That money could’ve been used to buy more fucking food. Food, which you’re going banana-bonkers over right now.”
“I’m sorry for everything.” Tristan dropped to his bottom and curled up.
Ally gritted her teeth as she glared down at Tristan. “You’re a piece of shit, you know that? You should just fucking die.” She walked off quickly and ran up the stairs, crying.
“She’s right,” said Lawrence. “You might as well take that stupid fucking sword you have and perform shabuka with it.”
“Shabuka?” said Kasey
“What’s shabuka?” said Tristan.
“You know, when a disgraced samurai kneels down and stabs himself.” Lawrence glanced at Charlene.
“Don’t look at me,” Charlene said, “I’m Japanese and I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”
Tristan sniffled. “You mean seppuku?”
“Yeah, seppuku,” said Lawrence.
Charlene rolled her eyes. “God, you two are such nerds.”
For the first time, Lawrence felt hatred toward his best friend. “Tristan just seppuku yourself, okay? If all you’re gonna do is give up and die, then make it easy and quick and just fucking stab yourself.”
More tears poured out of Tristan. He cried like a little bitch.
It’s in the Past Now
Lawrence
When I was a kid, I was happy. Stupidly happy, yet happy nonetheless. I believed a lot in luck…
As a kid, my older brothers thought I was a nuisance and a would-be homo, so I played by myself a lot.
I had this obsession with finding “treasures” around my yard. I’d find nickels and pennies, bottle caps, paper clips, and foil gum wrappers lying around on the dirt. Anything that was shiny qualified as a treasure to me. Every time I found something shiny, I’d say to myself, “It’s my lucky day.”
One day, I found a small gleaming object in the weeds. It was green and shiny. It might’ve been an emerald or a jade, or one of those gems with weird names. I was a five-year-old at the time, and when I saw that gem, my first thought was, “Wow! I’m gonna be rich! I’m gonna be a zillionaire! My family will be happy with what I found! My family will finally like me.”
Hahahaha…I was a lonely kid.
I was lonely before I even knew what the word “lonely” meant.
I remembered how beautiful that green, shiny thing was, and how it sparkled in the sunlight. I went over to pick it up…
The fucking small, green, shiny thing stabbed me in the thumb. As it turned out, it was a glass shard from a busted beer bottle. I screamed and cried, and all my hopes of becoming a zillionaire vanished in an instant. My dad went over to me and said…
“What the hell are you crying about? Only faggots cry.”
I replied, “I thought I found a gem with a weird name. I thought I’d become a zillionaire. I thought it was my lucky day again.”
“That’s a load of shit, Lawrence. There’s no such thing as luck. If there were, it’s not gonna be lying out in the dirt. A person has to fight and suffer for their luck, they have to be brave enough to take what they want, and not be a crybaby like you. Do you understand? Yeah, you thought it was your “lucky day,” and that way of thinking bit your ass. Now stop fucking crying!”
Then my dad smacked me around for being a “little faggot.” You can’t smack a five-year-old around to make him stop crying—the kid’s only gonna cry more. That man was a bit illogical. Yeah, definitely illogical.
That was the only useful advice my dad gave me. A person has to fight.
Since that beer bottle shard in the thumb incident, I stopped searching for treasure, and “luck” merely became a word, a very stupid word. I stopped believing in luck. I stopped believing in a lot of things.
My housemates and I say the word “luck” quite often. But “luck” just means, glad to not be dead.
We’re not dead, but I know we will be soon if we keep waiting for luck.
This house isn’t safe.
5
Spanking it Doesn’t Help
Lawrence
Lawrence awoke to the chilled air of Thanksgiving morning. The rains went on and off for three days, no doubt it was a storm. Though it never snowed in the California Bay Area, the fall and winter seasons were still cruel and frosty. The house’s heater was unusable, as was the living room fireplace, seeing that there weren’t any logs or long branches lying around. Helena had once suggested burning pieces of cardboard in there, but no one in the house wanted to risk a fire hazard.
Flesh Ravenous (Book 1) Page 5
