by Jeremy Dyson
"So you weren't a chef,” he says. He opens a drawer and glances and pushes some utensils around. “I bet you were an accountant or something like that."
"No, but you're not far off,” I say. “I'm a statistician. Or was, I guess."
"Like batting averages and stuff?” he asks.
"Anything with probabilities," I say, not wanting to get into a confusing explanation. “I make predictions based on statistical analysis."
"Sounds pretty boring," he says. “No offense.”
"It can be,” I shrug. I’m used to that reaction.
"Would have been helpful if someone could have predicted this shit,” he muses.
"I'm pretty sure people did predict this kind of thing. They have for the last fifty years. It was a cultural premonition of sorts."
"So what, those people saw this coming?” Quentin locates a large kitchen knife in a drawer and removes it and sets it on the counter, then opens the walk-in refrigerator and disappears inside.
"Well, sort of,” I say.
“You mind holding the light?” he asks and hands me the flashlight. I direct the beam while he shuffles around some boxes on the shelves, inspecting their labels.
“It's like someone writing about a plane crashing into a skyscraper before it happens,” I continue. “It's just a story to the writer, but then it really happens."
"But that's just a coincidence," he says.
“Right,” I agree.
He stops searching through the contents of the fridge and scratches his scalp. “You lost me, man,” he sighs.
“A long time ago, I read this book,” I explain. “The author researched a history of cultural premonitions and then theorized that perhaps when enough people start to think that a specific kind of disaster will happen, inevitably it does happen."
Quentin grabs a couple more racks of ribs from the fridge while he considers this then shakes his head. He moves through the doorway and sets them down on the prep table. “Are you saying, we like, created this, or something?” he asks.
"We don't know that. We only know we created the concept of walking dead bodies that go around and eat people a long time ago. Then one day, seemingly without explanation, they are suddenly real."
"Sounds like some bullshit to me," he says as he moves back into the walk-in fridge. I follow him with the flashlight beam as he searches the racks of meats and produce.
"Me too, but I've always been a skeptic about everything,” I admit. “Now, I’m not so sure, though. I see there are these things out there that defy any reasonable explanation. Dead bodies aren’t supposed to get up and walk around. It's not possible according to science. But, nevertheless, it is happening. So we, at least, have to accept that we don't understand as much as we thought.”
Quentin lifts a big cardboard box from the shelf and carries it out on his shoulder and sets it down beside the ribs. He slices open the packing tape on the box with the kitchen knife, then sets it down and retrieves his beer.
“It don’t really matter,” Quentin says finally. “No point in wondering why things are the way they are, man. You’ll just go crazy doing that now.” He leans against the fridge and drinks the rest of the bottle down. Quentin’s dark eyes consider me, and then he shakes his head. He sets his beer down and resumes opening the box on the counter. “Premonitions,” he laughs. “You think too much, man. For real.”
For the first time that I can remember, I don’t see the point in trying to figure out the answer. Even if I can explain what was happening and why, it wouldn’t change anything. The sudden feeling makes me feel helpless and uncomfortable. I look around for something to do but have no idea how to help Quentin cook without a stove or even a microwave. Nothing works anymore. “I’m going to see if they need help with the barricades,” I tell him as I head toward the hallway.
“It’s cool,” he says as he lights a burner for the catering trays. “I got this.”
At the rear doors, I find Chet and Devin have already stacked tons of heavy boxes in front of the loading bay door. If I didn’t already know there was an exit there, I would have guess there was one behind the wall of cardboard. It doesn't seem possible that the undead could force their way inside. Getting back out might not be a possibility, but surely we can wait it out until they starve, freeze in the harsh Chicago winter, or rot away. I wonder how long that would take.
"Think we got it blocked pretty good," says Chet. "Nothing's getting in."
Looking at the barricade, I let out a long sigh as though I’d been holding my breath for more than a day. We will all be safe here for a little while. Maybe even for a long time. I can let my guard down for a bit, for now. With that realization, I suddenly feel very drained. I didn't sleep more than two or three hours last night. The stress and lack of sleep are finally catching up to me. The flashlight flickers and then goes black.
“Got some more batteries back in the lunchroom,” he says.
“What happens when we use them all?” I wonder.
"We can use some of the propane torches they got around here for the show," says Chet.
"Good idea," I agree. “Thanks again for taking us in.”
"It's nothing, really. Not like this place is ours. We just work here. Besides, it would get pretty lonely here with just the two of us."
I can suddenly smell the aroma of cooked meat drifting in from the kitchen. "Quentin is getting some food together. We haven't had a real meal since this started. Hope you don’t mind.”
"I could eat a horse right now," says Chet. "I was kind of afraid to raid the kitchen yesterday in case this blew over. That's probably not going to happen."
"I am going to see about rounding our group up. How about you get those torches, and we'll meet back in the arena," I say. "You can get to know the rest of our group a bit better."
In the break room, I find Danielle whispering quietly beside Melanie. “Some studies suggest that patients who aren't conscious can still pick up the conversations around them,” Danielle says. “A lot of doctors believe it helps recovery too. Keep her company for me for a minute."
Danielle leaves the break room, and I'm sitting alone with the girl. I try to think of something that I could say, but I can't. Finally, I manage to say, "I've got a little girl, too."
I don't even know this child, so I try to close my eyes and imagine what I would say to Abby if I could. "I wish you were never left all alone out there in this chaos. I want to make everything better, but I can't."
I open my eyes, wanting to believe I am going to look down and see Abby there, but it isn't Abby. Just some kid I don't really know. Then I realize the thing that I am thinking about the most right now is what would I do if she opens her eyes right now, but isn't alive anymore. I put my hand on her chest and feel the slowed thudding of a heartbeat like the seconds of a clock counting down to zero. I wonder if Danielle was thinking the same thing and that was why she wanted me to stay with her. Suddenly her body starts to convulse. She tilts her head back, and her teeth start chattering. Her eyes roll back in her skull. I use my body to prevent her from falling off the couch, but I am afraid to touch her. She is coming back. Or, this is some kind of seizure.
"Danielle!" I yell.
I reach behind my back for the gun stowed in my waistband. I grip the handle and flip the safety off as I stand up, and then point it down at the girl's face. Her convulsing movements lose some intensity, then slow to nothing more than erratic twitches. After what seems like forever, she finally becomes still.
I call to Danielle again, not taking my eye off the girl. Feeling my palm slick with sweat around the handle of the gun, I wait to see her move or open her eyes or something.
"What happened?" asks Danielle as she comes back into the room. She is staring at me, wondering why I am pointing the gun at the girl who looks just the same as when she left her now. I hear footsteps in the hallway. Devin and Chet appear in the doorway behind Danielle.
"I don't know," I say. "She was having a seizure or
something."
Without waiting to hear more, Danielle hurries to the couch, reaching her fingers to her neck to check the girl for a pulse.
"She's okay," Danielle says. She looks at me still standing there with the gun. "Please put that thing away."
I flip the safety and tuck the gun in the back of my waistband. "I thought she might be gone, or was coming back. I was so close to pulling the trigger."
"It's okay now," says Danielle. "Just relax, I'll take it from here."
"Maybe we should restrain her," I suggest. "Just in case."
"I don't know if that's a good idea. She shouldn't be restrained if she is having seizures."
"But what if she doesn't make it, and turns into one of those things," I say.
"If she has a brain injury already, I'm not even sure she could come back."
It makes sense, but she could still move her limbs during that seizure, so I wasn't so sure I believed it.
"We just need to make sure someone keeps an eye on her," says Danielle. "We need to do that anyway."
"Alright," I say. "But you should take a break and eat something. Quentin made some real food. I'll keep an eye on her."
Danielle looked at me uncertainly. I'm guessing she is a little uneasy about finding me so close to shooting a little girl that was still alive. "You need to eat, too. Go ahead, I can wait until later."
"I can stay with her." I turn to look at Devin. "My little sister has epilepsy," he says. "So I know what to do if it happens again."
"I'll help keep an eye on her too," says Chet. "Just need to turn the horses out in the arena first. They been cooped up for almost two days now."
"Thanks," says Danielle. "Just call if you need anything."
I take the gun back out from my waistband, flip the safety off, and set it on the table. "You know what you have to do if you need it?" I ask Devin.
He looks at the gun fearfully but nods his head.
I reach into the duffel from the security office, fish around through some batteries and junk food until I find the other Glock in the bottom of the bag and stow it in the back waistband. "Don't touch it unless you need it," I say.
"I can handle myself," he says firmly. He shoots me a look to tell me he definitely is not as much of a kid as I think he is.
Eight
"I wonder where they went off to," I say to Danielle. We sit in the arena, watching Chet lead the horses out by the dim glow of the flashlight.
"Joey is probably off playing with a sword somewhere,” Danielle muses. “And Dom just seems like she is glad to have some space. I don't think she likes any of us very much."
Three horses that Chet had lead out so far trot around the sand floor of the arena. They toss their heads back and prance around, glad to be free finally from the stalls. Danielle pours herself a glass of red wine and watches them move. We glimpse each horse only for a brief moment as it eclipses the beam of light then vanishes again into the darkness.
"I used to love horses," she says. She sets the bottle down and takes a sip from her glass. "That one there," she pointed at one of the horses. "He reminds me a little of one of the horses we had back in Pennsylvania."
"You had horses?" I ask.
"My family used to raise them. Then times got tough, and they had to sell them all."
"Did you ride?"
"Sure," she says. "Wouldn't be much point in having them if I didn't ride them."
"So, why don't you love them anymore?" I ask.
"Because I don't have any to love," she says. "But I guess now I can have any of these."
"I used to love horses, too," I say. "Well, betting on them anyway."
"Was that why you were at the track yesterday?"
"No, I was heading to give a lecture in the city."
"A lecture? About what?"
"About betting on horses."
"Really?" she laughs, not at all taking me serious now.
"Really," I say. I go on to explain about my book and about how I used statistical probabilities to bet on horse races.
"I didn't know they taught classes on gambling at college," she says. "And to think I was wasting my money trying to become a successful doctor when I could have learned how to do something like that instead."
"Seems like my skills won't have much value now, though, given the state of things," I say. For a second, I had been able to forget about all the horrific things going on outside. I was enjoying just talking normally to another human being. But there is no evading the current situation for very long. No matter what we may try to talk about, it always leads the conversation back to the death of everything that mattered to us, and the rise of the dead.
"Looks like I might have to find a new line of work," I say, trying not to totally kill our brief illusion of normality. I take a sip from my glass of wine. Then I realize there is no telling how long we'll have to live, and I take another long drink and empty the glass. I pour another for myself and fill up Danielle's glass.
For a long moment, we just sit watching the horses. For all the time I had spent around them, betting on them, studying their best times and whatnot, this might be the most I've ever really enjoyed looking at them.
"Maybe I'll raise horses," I say.
Danielle smiles and takes a sip of her wine.
"Alright," says Quentin. He steps down the stairs carrying an enormous tray of ribs. "Who's ready for some real food?"
"Finally," teases Danielle. "I could eat a horse."
Joey trails in behind him carrying a big tray with giant roasted chicken drumsticks and wings. He now has a sword sheathed at his belt that clangs on each step as he moves down the stairs. Then Dom appears behind him with some golden herb-roasted potatoes and a stack of plates. Joey plops down on the seat next to me while Dom joins Quentin in the row in front of us. All the seats face the arena, so the three of us in the back are facing the back of their heads.
"We wondered where you two were hiding," I say to Dom and Joey. "Glad Quentin found someone that isn't as inept in the kitchen as me."
"Pssht," Quentin laughs. "They didn't help with shit. I just passed them in the hall on my way with the ribs and told them to bring the rest."
I look at Joey, but he is too busy smiling at the back of Dom's head to even notice me. Then I study Dom, and I realize her blonde hair seems a bit messier than it had been awhile ago. She is trying to ignore Joey. She takes a bite of her potato and sighs. It seems like she can feel him staring at her intently.
It doesn't take me very long to put it together. Something definitely happened between these two while they were off in the building somewhere. Joey nudges my arm with his elbow, then jerks his head at Dom. He mimes a few sexual thrusts in her direction and grins.
Danielle, watching this from the other side of me, laughs so hard she sprays a mouthful of wine on Quentin.
"What the hell!" Quentin jolts upright.
"What is he doing?" Dom asks me. Then her eyes dart to Joey, who sits there smirking and about to burst. "Shut up," she tells him. She turns back around and fiddles with some of the food on her plate.
"I'm really sorry," Danielle apologizes to Quentin.
Quentin looks at Joey, and then Dom. He sits down and grabs up a napkin and wipes at the wine on his arms and neck.
We all resume our meal quietly except Joey. After a minute or so he mumbles, "I banged the lesbian."
Dom drops her leg of roasted chicken on the plate with a thud and buries her face in her palms. No one dares laugh until Quentin with a big mouthful of chicken begins to chuckle, and shakes his head.
"Idiot," says Dom. She turns around to face Joey. "I'm clearly not a lesbian."
"Not anymore," he smiles.
"Ugh," she glances around at the rest of us. "Go ahead laugh it up. If I'm going to die here, I am at least getting a little before I go."
"Little?" says Quentin but before anyone can begin to laugh, we hear screaming and then the sound of the gun going bang, bang, bang.
I p
ush my chair back from the table and hurry up the stairs. I remove the gun from my waistband and flip off the safety as we run down the hall. Quentin holds the flashlight and scans the hallway as we race back to the break room. The employee lounge is dark and empty. The emergency light has shut off. Devin and Melanie are both gone. By the glow of the flashlight, we can see some drops of blood on the floor trailing out toward the hall.
"What the fuck happened?" asks Quentin. He follows the blood with the flashlight, then shines it around the empty hallway in the opposite direction from which we approached.
"It's Melanie," I say.
To make things worse, the beam of the flashlight dims, then flickers. Quentin shakes it, and the light comes back for a moment before we are submerged in total blackness.
"Where are the batteries?" I ask. Someone bumps into me, I can't even guess who, that's how dark it is with no windows in this place.
"I left them in the duffel bag over here," says Dom. She trips over a piece of furniture, and it crashes loudly on the tile floor. "Damn it, I can't see a thing."
Another scream echoes from farther off in the building.
"Did you find it?" I ask Dom.
"No," she whispers. "The fucking bag isn't here."
"Are you sure?"
"No, I can't see shit," she says. "It's not where I left it."
We hear a hoarse moan coming from the other direction in the hall now.
"Keep looking," I say. "We have to try and help them out there. Dom, keep this door shut unless you are absolutely sure it's safe to let anyone in, even one of us." I stop when I hear another noise in the hall.
"The horses," says Danielle. “They’re loose.”
The clomping of hooves on the tile floor gets louder and louder as the horse rushes past the doorway. I can hear the heavy, deep breathing as it passes.
