Seven Days Dead

by Christopher Johnson

  “Three quarters of a tank, I think. Everything’s in Hebrew.”

  “Yeah, it’s three quarters. That should be good, but I guess we’ll see. I’m going to go back and talk to Omar, see if he knows where there is a gas station around with diesel. We’ll figure out how to get it into the bus later.”

  They traveled along a stretch of empty road until hitting the town of Alon, which thankfully they skirted only the periphery of. The road bent sharply around to the right and was outside the town, but a few of the dead that were still in there ran out toward them when they heard the bus coming. The armored transport barely noticed them as they careened off the front and sides, painting the bus in the many shades of human blood in various stages of decay. The scene replayed itself at Mitspe Yeriho, and again at Beit HaArava, though with some of the deceased residents of the city of Jericho bolstering their numbers while that city burned in the background.

  The sight of Jericho smoldering and in ruins saddened the group. Here, Jesus healed the blind and Zacchaeus repented under Jesus’ gaze. The fig tree where he had climbed to see the Sheppard was certainly among the kindling. Here, Joshua brought down the walls with the help of God, now the damned had done it once more with fire and teeth. Such history, such poetry as the lessons of that city, all gone and perhaps none would survive to remember them.

  Picking up speed after he rounded the turn from Route 1 to Route 90, John watched the city speed by in colors of ash and flame. If there were any survivors secreted away in the buildings they would never learn of it, driving past as fast as John felt was safe, undead that had left the city proper and ran through the fields periodically bouncing from the sides or off the front bumper of the bus. Before long they had left the fallow fields and burning city behind and once again entered into the desert, the hope of salvation on all their minds.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Once more the open sands of the desert spread out before them. John drove with Christine in the seat just behind him. Tal was in the seat directly across the aisle, pouring over the map. Omar and Nasir sat in the two seats behind Tal, heads bowed in silence, and Isabella was all the way in the back, still staring into oblivion. All of them were dirty and grimy, the windblown soil and sand of the desert marking their clothes in swaths of brown and yellow, as well as the various shades of effluvia left behind from their contact with the undead. The only sound was the rumble of the bus’ engine, a constant counterpoint to the fractious thoughts flooding through their minds.

  Strange , thought Tal. The desert has always been a death sentence. No water, no shade, the sun a sure killer with the benefit of time. But now, with death having taken up residence in the towns and cities, the desert now means life. The lack of food for the undead pushes them into the populated areas, and out here is our only hope for survival. How have things gotten so backwards?

  They passed a few towns along the way, Na’ama, Uja e-Tahta and more besides, thankfully all abandoned. The dead in these towns almost certainly burned through their living populations quickly, the survivors probably heading to bigger cities if they were able. Of course that concentrated the food in one spot so the dead inevitably would have followed in whatever circumspect route they would take, tracking sounds and smells, until they could feast again. It wasn’t a good thought when Tal considered having to go through Damascus. In the distance, Tal could see a small herd of the sturdy gazelle that populate these plains and could survive in large part to the Jordan River. The river had become the group’s constant companion along the right hand side of the road since passing the city of Jericho.

  “At least they made it.” He said to himself.

  The sides of route 90 were mostly clear, though at one point near Marj Na’je they had to slow to almost a crawl to navigate a cluster of wrecked automobiles. They were all empty, at least of survivors anyway, a few held the remains of those not fast enough to escape, or where an impact made escape impossible. As the bus slowly navigated the wreckage, the group sat stock still and silent, gazing upon the detritus with all the emotional response of a squad of battle tested veterans.

  It’s a far cry from where we started , thought Tal. How much more are we going to lose of ourselves before this is done?

  “Nasir.”

  The boy turned his head in surprise. Isabella stood there, a hand on the seat backs to either side, effectively blocking Nasir from any route of escape. His first thought was that she was there to deliver another punch; his very presence seemed to enrage her whenever she snapped out of her fugue long enough to notice. Her eyes were different this time, though, and her face seemed more like the girl he’d avoided back at Faran than the emotionless automaton she’d become after Ben’s death. Almost like she had made some hugely important decision, which he hoped was not violently directed at himself.

  “I wanted to say…I’m sorry. For hitting you. And blaming you. My father did what he did to save you, because it was the right and righteous thing to do. Who am I to put so little value on your life, or the sacrifice my father made? I hope you will forgive me.”

  “There is nothing to forgive” he said, still in shock at the complete turnaround. “I am sorry for…offending? No. Upsetting, you. You’re father was brave. I live because of him. I will try…to be…worthy.”

  Isabella gave him a slight nod and walked back to her seat. She stared out the window in a much more intent manner, as though she had not quite fully, but mostly, come back to herself.

  “Well…” Christine said to T al, after the exchange, “that’s certainly good news. It looks like she’s going to be alright, huh?”

  “Maybe”, he replied, wondering if that niggling feeling in the back of his brain was just him being overly wary.

  Tal took stock of the sun and saw that it had passed midday some time ago, and figured that they should find a place to take a rest and hash out their plan for the night. They had passed the wreckage of the cars a quarter of an hour ago, and he had seen no other signs of life, or unlife, in that span of time, and the

  surrounding desert was about as empty as you’d have expected it to be.

  “John, next chance you see a promising spot, let’s pull over. I need a minute with you, Christine and Omar. We have maybe 7-8 hours until its dark. Assuming we don’t have any problems at Beit She’an, or any of the other towns between here and there, that puts us right at Damascus as night is falling, and that’s bad news.”

  “Beit She’an? Sounds familiar,

  somehow.” John replied.

  “1 Samuel. King Saul’s body was hung from the walls.”

  “Ah, yes. That’s right. So that’s the next big town? Alright, I’ll pull over as soon as I see a spot.

  They drove a few more minutes until John saw a white archway off to the left hand side, directly across from a brown sign that read “Brosh Habiq’a”. The only other thing in sight was a white, one story building with a covered porch.

  “How’s that?” he asked, stopping the bus just before the turn.

  “Hang a sec.” he said, scanning the road and the hills for any sign of threat. “Yeah, that’ll do. Let’s get to that building and see if there’s anything left inside. We’ll get a plan together and head out after a few. Leave the engine running; we’re far enough from anything that we shouldn’t have any issues. If they come, we’ll see them from a mile away.”

  John stopped the bus in front of the white building, behind which a small picturesque little village was hidden. The tiny buildings appeared to be houses, but the place lacked the sense of permanence found in the other settlements, and that was saying a lot in the West Bank. Still, it was cozy, and small; and out here small probably meant that it wasn’t worth it for the undead to hang around. Tal and Christine exited first and cleared the building while everyone else waited in the dirt and sand outside, weapons gripped in case the need for violence presented itself. Christine reappeared from inside and, with a wave in, proclaimed the structure safe.

  Tal already had the map
spread out on a wide, utilitarian looking table. The building itself was almost free of any furniture; there were a few chairs one might expect to find in an office building, two desks with computers, and a mini refrigerator which Omar examined to find only condiments and a few unopened cans of soda. He shared out the warm sodas to Nasir and Isabella, and stowed the last one for later.

  “Omar, take a look here. Sdei Trumot looks like our best chance at gas before Beit She’an. It’s not too far to the Sea of Galilee after that, and I don’t want to be caught on the back roads of Al Qunaitra running on fumes.”

  “Why do we not cross here?” Omar pointed at the juncture of 71 and 90 and traced his way across toward the M5.

  “We’d have to swing south again just to avoid Irbid. Damascus is going to be hard enough going, I’m not taking us through what used to be a city of a million plus people first. God knows how many undead are in there, the state of the roads, or anything. It’s faster to follow this road to 98 and then up to Al Qunaitra, through the back roads and pick up 7 to Damascus. Then we jump on the M5 and get up into Turkey.”

  Omar looked at the map and thought for a moment.

  “We should avoid Damascus altogether, if we can. Take 7 to 1 here,” he pointed to just before Damascus and traced a road through Lebanon. “This means more small towns, yes, and maybe a good sized coastal city or three, but nothing like the kind of trouble Damascus will be.”

  “We will need to find another spot to gas up” added John. “We’ve only been in the bus for about an hour and a half, already we’re at a half tank or so. That thing eats gas like crazy; no way are we getting to Turkey on just one full tank.”

  “Yeah. Shit. Ok, we try to avoid Damascus, then. If I’m honest, I was twitching thinking about having to go through there. But once we are out of Israel, I’m not going to be familiar with where a gas station is. Omar, I’m assuming you won’t either?”

  Omar nodded his confirmation.

  “Ok. We get on 7 at Al Qunaitra, over to 1, and then back roads along the coast to Turkey. Gas as we can find it. There’s got to be a length of hose around here somewhere. Maybe we can use that to siphon gas from a station’s tank and fill a can or something. Omar, Christine, Nasir, go up the road, into the little village, and see if there’s anything you can find, hose or gas can wise please. John and Isabella, with me around here.”

  The group split up and began to look around. The interior of the building was sparse and took only a few moments to rummage through. Not finding anything of use, but seeing there was a structure close by that looked like it may have been a gas court at one time, Tal, John, and Isabella started over towards it when Isabella once more shocked Tal.

  “I’d like a gun.” She said.

  “Beg your pardon?”

  “I’d like a gun, Tal. Please.”

  “I’m not sure that is a great idea, Isabella” he replied. “You’ve never used one before, I take it, and you’ve…ah…been under a lot of stress lately.”

  “It’s the end of the world, Tal. Are you going to tell me this is ‘just another day in the life of…’?”

  “Well…no…but…”

  “Look,” she said, stopping dead in the road and looking Tal square in his eye, “I watched my father die from those things. I saw Father Alexius fall, and I’ve been face to face with more than one of those things. I saw everything between Jerusalem and here. I don’t want to die like that. I don’t want to be…eaten.”

  “John…back me up?”

  “I don’t know, Tal,” John said, appraising Isabella, “it’s not like she doesn’t have a point. And an extra hand on a pistol could be a big help when we get to some of those bigger cities.”

  “Yes. Right now, I’m just luggage. You are all carrying my weight and I am useless in a fight. Give me a gun; I know what I have to do.”

  Tal, looked from John to Isabella with mild disbelief. Yesterday this girl’s father had died and she’d gone comatose. Now she was asking for a gun, and John was favoring the idea. Worst of all, Tal couldn’t fault the logic of either of them. This was a numbers game, pure and simple. They had more bodies, but two bullets beats one body any day of the week. And the more people that had guns filled with bullets, the better all their chances of survival. And since he’d met her, what 7? 8? days ago, this girl had changed a lot. Hell, they all had. Fact was, there was far less reason not to give her one, than to hand one over. So, he reached behind his back and drew out the Jericho. Maybe it wasn’t fair to give her this one, but with only eleven rounds, it had the least ammo for her to do anything reckless with; and truth be told, he would be glad to be rid of it.

  “Fine. You won’t do anything stupid, like shoot Nasir, right?” She nodded that she wouldn’t. “Let me show you how it works.”

  Tal showed her how to remove the magazine, load rounds into it, chamber a round, where the safety was and how to use it, and finally when to shoot. He looked at her, trying to ease his mind as he extended the weapon towards her, but her eyes told him nothing so he released it into her hand. She took the pistol and looked it over with naked relief.

  “Thank you. And…I’m sorry.” The words were barely out of her mouth, before she had chambered a round, flicked off the safety, and had the barrel placed firmly against the underside of her own chin. “I told you. I won’t die like that.”

  John and Tal stood frozen for half a second, and then moved in unison to try and stop Isabella. He might have yelled for her to stop, in hindsight he’d never really be sure, but it didn’t matter. That look of relief was still on her face when she pulled the trigger, her head snapping back with the impact of the bullet, a red ribbon arcing through the air behind her. She was dead before she hit the ground, the corners of her lips hinting at a beatific smile like the kind a sleeping person in the midst of a pleasant dream might have.

  Both men slid to her sides on their knees. Tal wrapped her body with his arms and simply looking at her, closed eyes.

  She said she didn’t want to die like they did. She said she was useless. I should have known. Maybe I did know, something was wrong, I just didn’t think she’d do this. I didn’t want to believe. If I’d cared more about her than about how she could help keep the rest of us alive, this wouldn’t have happened. She’d be alive. I wouldn’t have failed Ben. I wouldn’t be failing Ahmed.

  “Tal. Tal. Let her go, Tal. She’s gone. Tal? Tal!” John was shouting now. His hands were gripping Tal’s wrists, which Tal had just noticed were shaking uncontrollably. And that he was weeping. Gently, as if he didn’t want to disturb her rest, he laid her head back onto the ground; her black hair disappearing, strand by strand, into the folds of a slowly widening crimson pillow.

  The others had returned, a length of hose over Omar’s shoulder and Christine carrying a twenty liter bucket. John was already telling them what had happened, while Tal simply knelt next to Isabella’s body. He closed his eyes and said a short prayer for her, the first he’d said in many years, and arranged her hands over her stomach. The Jericho had fallen to her far side, perhaps a foot from where her hand had come to rest before he moved it. He retrieved it and flicked the safety back on. Now he had one more reason to detest the gun, and yet still he couldn’t abandon it since to do so would be to throw away something that could still save the rest of their lives. Nor could he give it to anyone else now; he’d begun to wonder if it was cursed, if it had somehow absorbed all the dark tasks of the man who owned it or the agency that had given it. Perhaps this gun was his cross to bear, as they say.

  10.

  “Back on the bus. We need to keep moving” he said before getting up and hiding the act of wiping clear his tears with one hand, by dusting off his knees with the other and turning toward the still running bus.

  Chapter Fifteen

  They all boarded the bus in silence, but not until after they’d moved her body into the little white building. Nasir had insisted they not leave her in the dirt, and carried her inside himself. After folding he
r hands again over her stomach, each person saying a quick prayer for her in their own way and language, they filed onto the bus again. Tal sat in the first seat behind John and to the side, and as the rest got on, they patted or squeezed his shoulder in sympathy. Christine wrapped her arms around John from her seat directly behind him, and it was obvious that he was trying to avoid crying over his part in the tragedy of Isabella. After a moment, he patted Christine’s hands and leaned forward to shut the bus door, and Christine replaced the fire extinguisher. Still in silence, he put the bus in gear and in moments Brosh Habiq’a began to fade in the distance.

  The bus passed a few small settlements, much of the buildings hidden behind the low ridges common in this part of the valley. There were more of the undead roving about in the area than they had seen before, some in groups of between five and fifteen or so, some simply alone. Those close enough to the bus to register movement would charge the vehicle,

  reminiscent to what a dog might do in a cartoon when the postman’s truck rolled by; those at more of a distance could hear the motor, but without seeing exactly where the noise came from, they were sent into a directionless frenzy. Any of the creatures that actually made it to the bus would bounce off harmlessly or fall before the fortified bus’s wheels.

  Tel alBeida rolled past them, it’s once vibrant fields laying untended but for the occasional roving undead. One was even still dragging a hoe behind itself, and Tal found himself wondering if the thing was even basically aware that it was dead.

  Probably not, he thought. What passes through their minds but the need to eat?

  The road began to widen and the barbed wire fence of the 1949 Armistice Line, basically a holdover from the Arab-Israeli War of 1948, slowly materialized out of the hazy desert air. The line wasn’t supposed to be much of anything really; it didn’t mark territorial boundaries, it didn’t settle who deserved to live or govern any of the land in the West Bank, all it did was give a front to the war; as though it hadn’t had enough of those. Even if it was supposed to be a line that armies wouldn’t cross, all it ended up being was a spot for a fence and a political firebrand to wave around when either side violated the Armistice’ terms. Which both sides did, frequently. Still, seeing it totally devoid of guards, with the section of fence to the left of the road irrevocably damaged by a minivan having plowed into it, struck Tal and Omar especially hard. Of the remainder of the survivors, only these two had really known the Armistice Line in any way deeper than a history lesson or an international news blurb. This place was as much a part of their shared heritage as Jerusalem or the Prophets ever were. This was the ruination of a landmark in their shared cultural memory; and while it was not a happy memory, it was a memory that perhaps they were the last two people alive to share.