She shakes her head and turns to go back into the darker areas of the house. The front door is rattling and glass breaks somewhere in the house and the sound of garbled speech and moans can be heard, but I don’t think they’re inside.
We have to climb over the corpses in the hallway. It’s a squishy, unpleasant thing, and I’m disturbed that I’m walking on the dead. Once I shared the common bond of humanity with them. Now? What are they? What are the shamblers? Do I still have some moral responsibility to them? Meemaw would say yes. Peepaw would say, shoot ’em dead if they’re trying to get you. And yes, they are trying to get me. And people I care for. Emily in Iraq, maybe. Lucy, definitely. And Gus. I’ve never met the boy, but I’m fascinated that there’s a child in the world that’s half this woman. What will he be like? Will he have her eyes? Her hair? Her brains and confidence?
I want to meet him because meeting him will bring me closer to understanding her.
Once we’re over the mound of the dead, I can see her face darken, worry for her child eroding her resolve. She’s not thinking the same things I am, but at least her mind is working again.
There’s a thump from below us, and Lucy gasps. It doesn’t sound good. Thumps, in my experience, mean shamblers.
“Downstairs,” she says, and she points at a door down a long hall. “Gus and Fred would’ve gone to the workroom. There are guns there. The safe.” There’s a wide opening on the left with a spill of light coming across the floorboards. The shadows aren’t moving, which makes me think that room, at least, is devoid of shamblers.
I go first, keeping my shotgun to my shoulder, ready to fire.
I pop around the corner like I’ve seen SWAT teams do on television, and realize the reason they do it that way is it’s better to get it over with. And it makes sense. My body wants to pop around the corner.
It’s a nice dining room, made nicer by the absence of walking dead.
“The stairs are farther down the hall.”
I retarget our front sector. I’m starting to think in television cop-show speak. Lucy’s standing off to the side with her pistol out. She falls in behind me as I move toward the door.
“This is the one.”
I open it quickly, like ripping off a Band-Aid or breaking up with a girlfriend.
The stairwell is dark. I hear another thump and some garbled moans. There’s a shambler down there, no doubt about it.
Lucy flips on her Maglite, spearing the long stairwell with the beam, and whispers, “At the bottom of the stairs, it turns left. There’s a long hallway running back underneath the house. There’s a storage room, a little gym and laundry, and the last door is the workroom. It’s got a safe. A gun cabinet. Fred had been reinforcing the doors and walls to make it a safe room. Just in case. It’s a nice neighborhood, if that meant anything anymore.”
“You’re telling me.”
I move down the stairs, holding the shotgun up with one hand and keeping my other hand on the rail. The carpet here is plush and springy, and I’m worried about my foothold.
When we reach the bottom, it’s pitch black except for Lucy’s wobbly flashlight beam. She’s really upset, if the steadiness of her hands is any indication.
The carpet is still springy, and we’re not making any noise.
I walk to the first door on the left, the one Lucy said is storage. I put my ear to it. Nothing.
I slowly turn the knob and then quickly push open the door. The flashlight beam jumps around the room, and I follow it as best I can. No shamblers.
We move to the next door. It’s open, and Lucy shines the light inside, and for a moment, my mind assembles images and I have the impression of a shambler walking on a treadmill. But then the flashlight beam pans around and I realize it’s just ironed shirts hanging from a pipe above an elliptical machine.
There’s a loud thump, and it’s obvious where it came from. The workroom.
We’re as quiet as possible, going down the hall. It’s become a habit, silence.
I go to the door and put my ear against it. There’s a weird deep moan, a garbled sound, and then the door, right against my ear, bangs. The deepness of the moan lets me know it’s a man. The shambler beats on the door, trying to get out.
I grab the door handle, look back at Lucy, who is pale faced and thin lipped, and turn the handle. It doesn’t budge. Locked.
“I’m gonna have to shoot the doorknob.”
“What?”
“How else are we gonna get in?”
She’s quiet for a long while. Then she says, “Okay. But do it at an angle so you don’t hit whoever’s inside.”
“Right. But it’s a shambler.”
“I don’t care. If it’s . . . Gus . . . I don’t want—” She wipes her eyes. “Maybe I can save him.”
I shake my head. “How?”
“A hospital. Maybe I can isolate the virus and—”
“Electricity. We don’t have it. There’s zombies everywhere. You think we’ll just be able to walk into the hospital?”
She shakes her head, and I’m getting anxious. The beating on the inside of the door is louder now.
But it’s her child and I understand what she’s feeling and I realize I wasn’t thinking about that so I say, “Okay. We’ll capture him, keep him safe until we can figure out what to do.”
She nods.
I stand back at an angle and pull the trigger. The doorknob disappears. Birdshot ricochets back and pings off my clear protective glasses. It’s a good thing I’ve forgotten to take them off.
I inspect the door. The doorknob is gone, but the locking mechanism is still in the hole, so I reach in to fiddle with it and it falls into the workroom. I shove on the door, but it still won’t budge.
“Lemme see the flashlight.”
She puts it in my hand, and I kneel and shine it through the hole. My heart stops. I jump backward. There’s a face right there in the space the doorknob occupied—milky eyes, mouth black and bloody and open in a snarl. The shambler isn’t a happy camper.
I stick the shotgun in the hole, and I’m about to pull the trigger when Lucy knocks me aside. I sprawl over, dropping the flashlight.
“Goddamn it, Luce. It ain’t alive. Whoever it is. And I don’t think there’s any others in there.”
“I can’t risk it. It might be Gus.”
“Well, why don’t you take a peek first? Will you be able to recognize him through the hole?”
She looks uncertain. For a moment, my heart rips itself from my chest and goes out to her; she looks so lost. I wish I could do something, anything, to make this situation better for her.
She dusts off her knees and kneels, pointing the flashlight in the hole.
Her shoulders start to shake, and I can see huge silent sobs wracking her body. She stands up and moves down the hall.
“Fred.” She’s crying now, truly crying. “It’s Fred.”
I don’t know what to do with myself. Part of me wants to jam the bore of the shotgun in the hole, and part of me wants to try to figure a way to save the man, for Lucy’s sake.
We both stay rooted in our own space in the dark hallway at the bottom of a big shambler-infested house in a shambler-infested city. Great plumes of radioactive smoke surround us. Now I’m positive those clouds were more mushroom clouds. And in this dark hallway, I feel very small and alone, especially since Lucy has succumbed to her fear, her shock. And her love. She’s succumbed to love. It’s her family at stake. My daughter is halfway around the world in Iraq, maybe fighting Al Qaeda, maybe fighting the undead. I feel a thin line of connection between Emily and me—the same feeling I would get when she’d stay with me, wear my shirt, and then when I put it on, her scent would linger and I’d feel her presence. I feel the thin connective tissue stretching away past the unseen horizon and right now . . . right now, I know she’s alive and I’m glad of it. And I’m doubly sad for Lucy.
“I don’t have to—” I say, dumbly, leaving the rest of the sentiment unspoken. Shoot hi
m.
She’s silent. I want to go hug her, and I’m ashamed, because when she said the shambler was Fred, my heart leaped and I was glad. Glad I still had her to myself. For a little bit longer. I shouldn’t feel that way, but I do.
“Go ahead.” She grips her arms like she’s cold. It’s impressive because she still has a pistol and the Maglite.
I approach her. I want to hug her, and I think about it. But as I get closer, she sticks out the flashlight and I take it.
“Are you gonna be okay with this?”
“No. How could I?”
I breathe through my mouth, like the big, dumb trucker I really am.
“Then I’m not gonna do it. I can’t have you hating me for the rest of my life. You’re the only doctor in town.” It’s my attempt at a joke. It doesn’t go over very well.
I kick the door. It squeaks. The shambler—it’s so much easier thinking of her husband as one of the nameless mass rather than someone Lucy loved—returns to banging on the inside of the workroom’s door. Groaning. Making weird sounds.
“What are you doing?” Lucy has turned.
I kick again. I used to be in shape. I’m a big guy, and not all of it is fat. I’m a crappy shot, but I still have some muscle. The doorjamb splinters. I can hear the shambler inside the room become almost mad with bloodlust. We must smell scrumptious to him.
“Knock-Out. Don’t. You don’t have to—”
I lash out with my foot, one last time. The door crashes open. Lucy brings up the light.
Everything happens so fast, I don’t know what I’m doing, but I’m doing it anyway.
The door folds inward and pops the shambler, knocking him back. I’ve got my hammer in hand and I’m moving into the room, toward the zombie—toward Fred. He’d been a medium-size man in life, rangy and athletic. But I outweigh him by fifty, maybe sixty pounds. I grab him by his neck and fall on top of him. He’s twisting his head, trying to bite my arms. His hands grab my hair and draw my face forward, toward his black, snapping mouth.
It’s like falling into a well.
I’m not really interested in becoming shambler-chow, so I raise my arm with the hammer and swipe his mouth with it. He’s gonna require major orthodontia now. I give him another swipe across the jaw, which cracks and loosens. I turn the hammer to the side and shove the handle deep, deep into his mouth. I use my weight to hold it there, like a bit in a horse’s mouth.
Then I hear Lucy screaming. She’s saying a name, over and over again. And to my surprise, it’s not Fred or Gus. The name she says is mine.
“Knock-Out!”
“Luce. Get some tape or something. If he keeps scratching like that, he’s gonna get through my jacket. Leave some nasty welts.”
“Fuck,” she says, half laughing. The kind of laugher you hear at funerals, too forced and a little crazy. “You’re a madman. Why the fuck didn’t—” She stops and shakes her head.
She opens her mouth and then closes it.
“Hey, Lucy. It’s kinda hard keeping him still. He ain’t settlin’ down. Can you find some tape or something?”
Wild-eyed, she turns and takes the Maglite off me and the shambler and goes to the worktable. I’m in the dark, holding the dead man now, and it’s not my most favorite thing I’ve ever done. The man’s flesh is dead—I guess—but he kicks and thrashes hard. I can feel his muscles bunch and contract beneath me, but slower than you’d think. Not like grappling with someone living, less frantic, but holy crow . . . so strong. His head twists and his body shifts, his face so near mine. The stench pours off him. Eau de Deadman. It’s all over me, the stink.
It’s hard to believe that this mouth has ever said Lucy’s name with love. That this diseased thing has kissed her. His hands scratching at me have caressed her.
He’s squirming. Squirming hard. At times I don’t think I’ll be able to keep control of him. His arms claw at the leather jacket.
He moans underneath me. We’re like a horrible parody of lovemaking. To think, it’s her husband I’ve held more tightly than her. Well, there was the shower. And the drainage ditch pipe, when we both caught fire. Ah. Good times.
I shove the hammer down harder. I hear something crack. It might be his spine. Maybe more dental work will be needed.
“These leather jackets were a good idea, Lucy,” I say to her back, a little breathlessly, like I’ve been running. “If I didn’t have it on, my arm would be shreds by now. Good thinking there.”
“Shut up, Knock-Out! Shut up! This is no time to joke!”
“I’m not joking . . . God, he’s strong, Luce.”
“I’m looking.”
“Hurry, please.”
I turn my attention back to Fred, the shambler with the strength of a million men. I’m having a hard time keeping my arms on the hammer. My palms become slick with sweat. I hear Lucy knocking things over, rummaging through the worktable drawers.
“I’m losing my grip, Lucy! Please.”
Suddenly, his face is bright again, and Lucy is standing over me, shining the light. His skin is blue green, and his mouth is open wider than any human mouth should open. It’s ripped at the corners, rough, ragged tears running toward his ears.
But there’s anger in his eyes. The dead man is furious at us. And I somehow feel like if we could figure out why he’s angry we could heal him. The rage on his face is even more frightening than the fact that the motherfucker wants to eat me.
The light holds on Fred’s face.
“Lucy! I don’t think I can hold him—”
The room flashes white, and a hole appears in Fred’s forehead. My ears ring from the noise of the gunshot. His hands loosen and fall away from my arms.
I don’t know if Lucy is crying or not. I flop off the corpse, onto my back, and take in big lungfuls of air. I’m happy just to lie here in the dark, next to the corpse of Lucy’s husband, and breathe. It’s all I can do.
The room lightens; Lucy’s lit a votive candle from the last house with a match. I can smell the sulfur of it. The scent comes through over the smell of her husband’s remains.
It’s gonna get real stinky in this house in the next couple of days.
Everything is quiet. The ringing in my ears dies, and I listen to Lucy sob and the house settle. Now I can see pipes and floor joists above me. It’s a very nice workroom if you ignore the dead man. A glass-faced gun cabinet lined with rifles and shotguns sits next to the workbench. Fred must’ve been a hunter. A big five-foot-tall safe with combination dial and metal handle stands in the corner. It’s got the word Pinkerton emblazoned on the front, under the handle, in old-timey script. It looks like a safe that movie bandits wearing bandanas blow up on trains: big, bulky, cast iron.
There are gold coins scattered around the floor. That’s bizarre. Dollar bills. Particle board.
“Do you have a cat?”
“What?”
“Hear that?” I sit up. “That scratching. You have a dog or cat?”
Lucy looks around wildly. Her eyes fix on the gold.
“Shhh. Don’t move,” I say.
Scrrtch. Scrrtch.
“The safe.”
Lucy jumps toward the cast-iron box, twists the dial backward and forward. She pushes down the handle and tugs the door open.
A boy falls forward onto the floor, followed by a shower of gold.
I’ve heard of Krugerrands before but never seen one. The safe was stuffed with them. And Gus.
The first thing he says is, “Who’s he?”
The boy is sweaty and weak. And stinks of urine. Golden shower, indeed.
“Knock-Out, honey. He saved me. Saved us.”
He looks at the remains of his father.
“Did he kill Dad?”
“No.” Short and flat, her words. Lucy the doctor, Super Lucy, is back.
The boy nods. He’s blond, a little pudgy, and has gray eyes. He looks happier now that he knows I haven’t murdered his already dead father. I guess happy is relative.
Lucy cra
dles him in her arms, rocking.
“How long have you been in there, Gus?”
The boy touches her face, turns her head, and sees the burned hair. His eyes go wide, and he looks at me. I think he’s beginning to realize that we’ve been through the shit-storm too.
“I don’t know. Since last night,” he says, voice not strong. But he doesn’t look like he’s gonna blubber either. He takes a breath, squares his shoulders, and says, “Dad and I were making lunch, when we hear this big boom, and the whole sky goes white. It’s like lightning, you know? But it lasts too long. At least that’s what Dad says. It’s like a lightning bolt got stuck in the sky and the white light kept going.” He swallows. “Can I have some water? There’s jugs of it over there.”
I look, and there are cardboard boxes full of gallon milk jugs. There’s maybe fifty or sixty in there. Lucy looks at me and says, “Avian flu.” She smiles sadly. “We were worried about a pandemic. We were just a little off. Every time we finished a jug of milk, we washed it, rinsed it, filled it with water, and brought it down here. Just in case.”
I grab a gallon jug and look around for a cup. I can’t find one, so I twist off the cap and bring the jug over to Gus. I tilt it up and let him drink. This seems to help.
“Hi, Gus. I’m Knock-Out. I sure am glad to meetcha.”
He smiles. I offer my hand, and he takes it and we shake, man to man. His stare is solid, steady, and unlike any child’s I’ve ever met before. He’s like his mother.
“Y’all store any food? ’Cause I’m starving.”
“There’s MREs and canned stuff back there,” Gus says. I want to ask him how he knows about MREs, but then again, he is Lucy’s son. And Fred’s. Fred might’ve turned into a ravenous murdering sonofabitch, but he seems like he was a formidable man before he took up shambling.
I dig in another box, pull out some brown glossy bags. There’s a can of Sterno in the box and a pan. I take it all out and move to sit at the workbench.
“So what happened after that, honey?” Lucy brushes Gus’s hair from his eyes. He blinks and moves his head away from her hand.
“We went outside, in the front yard, to look. Once the sky stopped its glow, we could see the big cloud. Daddy—”
This Dark Earth Page 9
