“Damn, that’s an ugly-looking foot!” Chagrined, Joe assessed the swollen, discolored appendage. “Oh yeah, oh yeah! I broke something there...Fuck.”
He lifted it up and brought it to rest on a nearby shelf, a bolt of pain shot up his leg and he gasped with fresh misery. He hoped that if he kept it elevated, the swelling would go down enough so he could bandage it, no need to ice it, God knows it was cold enough. Most of the toes tingled unpleasantly and he couldn’t feel the smallest one anymore.
From the corner of his eye, he saw a shadow fall on the sidewalk. “Awww, shit, not again.” He sat still and tense. If they didn’t see him move, they’d move on. The new visitor shambled into view, he looked confused and tentative. A young guy, he had probably been on a career track of sorts, and probably attractive. He still had a full head of hair, and a name tag pinned to a cheap red polyester vest he wore over a once-white shirt read ‘Gene’ under the dirt and the grime. A smart-watch graced his wrist, he looked like a junior manager of a retail store, who had been homeless for months, without the benefits of shelter. Worse yet he had run into the business end of a chainsaw that had carved off a large chunks off his body. His dull opaque eyes briefly settled on Joe, who raised his beer to him.
“Gene, buddy, you look stupid, and really, really dead,” Joe whispered to the man, “and I hate to tell you this, but chicks ain't gonna dig you no more.”
Gene didn't hear or just didn’t take offence, and moved along with no visible rancor as he staggered past the entrance doors until he was out of sight, Joe released a moan of relief and leaned back in the chair. He drained the second beer in a few giant swallows, closed his eyes sighing with satisfaction and let his shoulders slump as the alcohol finally worked its magic and smoothed some of the edges off his fears. He tried inhaling and exhaling in deep, slow rhythms to dial back the tension a bit more. But deep breathing be damned, a soft noise made his heart jump into his throat and he nearly fell off his chair.
“Gene, you motherfucker,” whispered Joe.
The man had doubled back, and was now at the door, looking at him, his hands splayed flat on the door’s top glass pane. The eyes that had seemed dull and unfocused were now staring directly at him, and froze Joe in his chair, not moving or dropping eye contact. Minutes passed before the dead man let his hand slide away and started a slow turn, away from the door. Keep going, Gene, just move on, move along. Go, go, go, Joe thought, mentally trying to rush the dead man away.
“Nothing to see here...Move ‘long,” he muttered under his breath, and it looked like Gene was on board with that line of thought, but in a sharp second the man pivoted back and fell on the door, slamming the palms of his hands flat on the glass pane, rattling the door and making Joe jump and nearly fall off the chair.
And Gene kept doing that, on and on and on.
With his good leg, Joe quietly navigated the wheeled chair backward, into the dark end of the store, there he hoped out of sight would be out of mind. But the angry slaps didn’t stop.
----------
Serena had sat down in a plush seat in the TV room with no intention of staying for long. It was the most lived in and comfortable room in the house and she hated it, seemed to her that they cared more for that TV than they cared for anything else. The shows they watched were normally super slutty or super boring.
Homework would have been better, she had planned to stay fifteen minutes then go her room and read a book. Then she had started watching and it all turned upside down.
“Some of this stuff could be scary, okay? Just close your eyes if you get scared.” Said the mother who wasn’t her mother.
“Don’t coddle her, kid’s gotta grow up.” Said the father who wasn’t her father.
“Ok but give me two minutes. I want to see what’s behind the building. Hold up.” Said the boy who was her brother and she had felt her heart jump and come alive at the sight and sound of the boy on the screen.
Righteous splits up
“Dad, wait.”
Scott Pine stopped in his tracks. Frustrated, he turned to look at his son. Carson pointed at his mother and sister, they were no longer keeping up. Fifty feet behind, Amber sat on a low stone wall as Tessa knelt by her side and held her mother’s hand in hers.
“Mom is tired. She can’t keep up; she needs to rest.”
Scott nodded and walked back to his wife and daughter. Carson went to his mother and sat down next to her, offering her his water canteen. She smiled at him and took a large drink before returning it to him.
“I wish that was a hot mocha,” Amber said.
From the corner of his eye, Scott could see their cameraman standing at the edges and silently recording. Damn if he didn’t feel judged. Hell, he was being judged. God’s was the only that mattered, he was a believer, but he wasn’t a fool, he had been aware of the social media comments about himself and his family before the game even started.
And some of them were right vicious. Some openly wished him dead and saw him as a stupid right wing religious fanatic, and some thought the sun and God’s will shone out of his ass and fawned over him. Some dumbasses that considered themselves liberals had him down as a misogynist, racist, bible-thumping asshole, and the right-wing fucktards thought he was on their side and were rooting for him to beat his kids, wife and liberals every so often for good measure.
Scott was disgusted with the whole lot of them. They didn’t understand, at all. When he found his savior at the Sonrise Church, he found community — respite from mindless drudgery, the recreational drugs, the occasional fights and an aimless life. There he had found people who welcomed him as family, had cherished his company and had given him respect.
There he found Amber, and with her he had fathered two beautiful children. He had been happy. But with that joy, he also assumed the responsibilities of a man.
He worked hard to provide for his family, and made all the decisions for them as a unit, to ensure their health and wellbeing. He took two full time jobs when Amber got sick to pay the hospital bills. Believe you me, he thought, plenty of pressure comes with being a man, and I don’t need any extra.
“Okay, we take a break, but we have to get going soon. The day is burning.” Hands on hips, he turned and looked toward their destination. “We want that second flag today, and to find shelter for the night. At this pace, we're not going to make it today.”
“Let’s split up,” Carson suggested, “You and me go for the flag. Mom and Tessa can rest here for a while.”
Scott thought about it and nodded his head. “Okay, that's not a bad idea. Let’s go.”
“But Scott...” Amber’s voice was weak, tinged with fear and concern.
“But nothing, honey. Look, there's nobody here. You’ll be fine. Rest up and we’ll get the prizes and double back for you, and then we can find a place here and settle for the night. Tomorrow one more flag, then the last one and we are out of here.” He pointed at Tessa. “It’s okay. Tessa will stay with you.”
“She's only fifteen!”
Scott got on his knees in front of her and placed his hands on hers. Lord, they were so cold and clammy, he cringed inside, he’d have to hurry. “You're holding us up, honey, we can’t have that if we're going to win this, and we need to win this.”
Tessa reassured her mother, “It’s okay mom. I could use a break, too and I’m fifteen, I’m not a baby.”
“I've made my decision.” Scott said, as he got up and walked away, gesturing for Carson to follow.
The cameraman’s shot trailed the two figures as they ran off down the street, until they became small and then disappeared at the turn of a corner. Ian took a quick look at the time stamp displayed on his camera; almost two in the afternoon. He looked up a the sky, it was a dull lead colored curtain and he imagined feeling its thickness and density as though it carried a harsher grav
ity that wanted to push him into the ground. The sensation brought along a few seconds of dizziness and fear, to stop thinking about it he redirected his attention to the two team members left behind. So did Tom, who called in on their headsets, while on screens worldwide, his likeness re-appeared in the corner inset over the two contestants.
“Amber, Tessa. How do you feel about being left behind? What will you do if they don’t come back?”
----------
Carson was ahead of his father, and every so often he’d look back.
The old man is keeping up, he thought, and picked up the pace. He ran two more blocks when he first started to hear a soft ping, then slowed down to a cautions walk and honed in on the sound. The closer he got the louder the call sounded, he turned a corner and then, he was no longer alone. The returned began to crowd the street, first only one or two at the periphery, but he could see their numbers multiply ahead. Carson turned to get his father, but the old man had caught up and was right behind him, flush-faced and breathing hard.
“Right where it’s supposed to be. Let’s take a closer look,” Scott urged.
With vigilance and care, they got as close as possible, hid behind the abandoned cars and trucks. Only the top of the flag was visible behind the swarm of the returned.
“We gotta get them out of there,” Carson whispered.
“Yeah. We need a distraction.” Scott looked thoughtfully at the abandoned cars “I'm going to have them follow me. Get the bag and the flag, then run back to your mother. I’ll catch up to you.”
“I thought we were supposed to go inside.”
“I guess they chickened out and just dropped it,” his father shrugged, “This whole thing feels pretty rushed, this works out better for us.”
He looked around and pointed his son to a store with an open door. Gretzel Photography, a sign in the window boasted of help for all your photographic needs.
“Get in there. Close the door. Don’t get out until those things are out of the way.”
Scott turned and took off without a second look, he expected his son’s obedience. He ran down the street and after he gave himself some distance, he tried to open the doors of several cars before deciding to slam the baseball bat into the right front window of a dust-covered, 1960 Thunderbird, a collector’s item that must have been some driver’s dream before this town went down the tubes.
The alarm blared. “Battery is okay,” he muttered and he got in, hotwired the car and broke the steering lock. No longer a common skill, but one he made sure to pick up in time for the show. He drove the car into the street just as some of the first of the dead crowd lurched within bumper-touching distance. Off he went at a funeral march pace, with the alarm wailing and horn honking, the old Thunderbird played a loud and discordant concert that enticed the insensate crowd into following.
He kept the car going at a crawl, giving them time to catch up, once they were close enough that they could touch the trunk, he picked up the pace. Just enough to put a couple of feet distance from them, then slowed it down again. The gruesome procession took shape and momentum; soon enough the ping of the flag beacon wasn’t even a memory for his followers.
Carson kept still and quiet in the small office unit, until he saw the tail end of the crowd that followed his father turn a far intersection. The few that were left were not going anywhere. He exited the building and ran along the sidewalk, close to the wall. As he crossed a small alley two between buildings, a strong hand, low to the pavement, reached out and clamped onto his ankle, and sent him flying. Surprised and unbalanced he landed painfully on his hands and forearms, tearing off skin, slammed a knee into curb and screamed in pain. Clumsy he fought to get up against the pull and weight that fought to keep him on the ground, and was dragging him toward the alley. He managed to turn himself around and scrambled onto his ass, to face his attacker.
White as a sheet, doing a poor imitation of a crab, a legless woman dragged herself hand over hand, using his leg as a rope to get closer to him. She looked at him like he was her everything, with panicked grunts Carson flailed and fought until he was free to kick her in the face. With each kick something broke: teeth sheared off, the nose went flat then morphed to a seeping smear of mangled cartilage and flesh until it tore off. Finally, the face caved in and she stopped moving. With yelps of horror and disgust, Carson got up, adrenaline pumping, and breathing hard he ran limping for the flag.
The backpack, that was easy, but again, the damn flag—why’d they have to glue it to the pole? Wasn’t this all hard enough? He wondered, as he yanked at it and struggled to free it, new arrivals closed in, moving faster than before. They always seemed to cope better when in groups. And they were eager now: motivated by his presence, his movements, or his beating heart. Dull and damaged though they might be, the eyes looked attentive and wanting in the slack faces.
“Mindless my ass, get lost you freaks! What’d I ever do to you?” Carson yelled.
Two more of these things, a man and a woman, walked out of the alley where he’d first been attacked and quickly honed in on him. The ever-present loud pinging from the flag post was calling them in and driving him nuts. Jesus Christ! The flag’s pole was metal, no way he could break it off and run, and the damn flag just wouldn’t give. His thoughts switched to a desperate loud loop that screamed through his brain as he fought to tear the flag off the pole. God help me, God help me, God help ME!
The dead men were now in touching distance, while the woman lagged far behind. He let go of the flag and retreated. He danced on his feet like a boxer in the ring, eluding them and sidestepping them as they reached for him. The medkit would have a scalpel or scissors, he thought, and danced more space between himself and the dead things, bought a bit of precious time and space to look into it and every few seconds he looked up and around, ensuring his pursuers weren’t getting too close. Franticly he rifled through the medkit. There! Scissors. Cheap-ass kid-safe scissors, but still scissors. He side-stepped two of his insistent pursuers then realized he was still holding the prize backpack, and wondered if it might hold something better. He wrenched it open, yanking at the zippers: protein bars, keys, a map, and…a gun?
Yes, a gun!
Thank God, a gun! He fished it out, aimed at the closest dead man, and pulled the trigger. A clean click sounded as the hammer fell on an empty chamber.
Carson’s jaw dropped and he moaned in disbelief, bullets! He needed the bullets, but it was too late. The time it took for him to grasp the gun, aim, and shoot, had brought one of the men in contact range and the other close behind. The dead man did not hesitate and grasped Carson’s outstretched hand that was still pointing the gun with ice cold hands that felt like claws. Carson screamed, but before he could even begin to struggle, a man sprinted past him and attacked the turned.
The butt end of the Bo made a solid breaking sound as it impacted the dead man’s skull caving it in. The thing let go of Carson and fell to the ground. Fast and agile, Lew spun around, used his weight and momentum, and with the force of his torque he swung his Bo into the side head of the second man. An awful and powerful hit whose sound made Carson cringe; the man fell to the ground but it was still moving, still looking at him. Lew flipped the Bo and thrusted his weapon at the man’s temple. It sunk in.
His rescuer put a foot on the man’s head and pulled the staff from the skull, it came out with a sucking sound that nearly brought vomit to Carson’s lips.
Lew then raised the Bo again and was about to lunge forward and attack the third turned, the woman in the hospital uniform. The raggedy and dirty woman with the fearful eyes stopped and held her hands up, as in surrender. In her left hand she held an ID card, its front facing out for Lew to see: Anjali Aluri, CDC. Her lips moved, with great effort, but she managed to speak.
“Please.” The words came out sounding as though they were covered in gravel and dust. “Help? Ple
ase.”
----------
They all stood gaping at the woman as she wavered on her feet.
“Jesus Christ,” Lew said as he lowered the Bo. “Did you hear that?”
“Yeah,” Emma replied, “I’ll get the flag.”
Keeping an eye on the new arrival, whose hands were still held up in surrender, Emma went to the flag and cut it down, then gleefully threw the beacon to the ground and stomped the plastic and circuits into silent oblivion.
Race the Dead (Book 1): The Last Flag Page 8
