Those Lazy Sundays: A Novel of the Undead

by Thomas North

  Jack got up and went into the hall, then into the bathroom, where he pulled up the blinds. Rain drops were still rolling down the glass, making the view blurry, but he could see into the front yard of the house now, where Phil's SUV was still parked. A few people roamed aimlessly in the yard, their sopping clothes hanging off of them, raindrops dripping off of their matted and wet hair. He counted eight that he could see.

  He heard Kate come into the room behind him.

  "Sorry, you need to use the bathroom?" he asked.

  She shook her head. "No, just wanted to see what you were up to. Also wanted to give Phil some privacy. Trying to call his wife, I think."

  "Yeah, that's why I left too." He gestured toward the window. "They're still out there. Counted eight of them outside, just walking around in the rain, like they don't have a care in the world. I don't get how they can just be out there all night like that."

  Kate shook her head. "I don't think anyone gets it right now. Hey˗" she paused, thinking, then leaned in, and said with a whisper, "Phil seems like he's getting worse. Like, really sick. I mean right now he seems a little better but..."

  Jack looked at her, not quite getting what she meant. "Yeah, I know what you mean. He was hurt pretty badly. He might have an infection or something. Hopefully if he rests enough˗"

  "No, I mean..." Kate whispered, interrupting. "Well I don't know, but I mean, what if he caught something from the guy who bit him. Like... what all those people had."

  Jack breathed in deeply, thinking.

  "God I hope not."

  "But what if he has it?" Kate asked.

  "I guess we can't get him to a hospital," Jack said. "The only thing we can do is watch him. We just... have to be careful. If he gets sick like that, he could be dangerous..."

  He trailed off, and their eyes met in a split-second of communication.

  He turned back toward the window. A girl with short brown hair and dressed in a pink jacket and jeans, who didn't look older than twelve or thirteen, staggered forward into the arms of a gruff looking man dressed in a pair of overalls and work boots, whose left side was gashed open, as if a large animal had taken a bite out of him. The man put his hands on the girl's shoulders and seemed to regard her for a moment, and then shoved her away and continued wandering around the front yard.

  "Some of these people, I just... I don't get how they're still alive. I mean, that one guy who chased us by the road, his neck looked like it was snapped in half."

  He shook his head.

  "Maybe they're so sick they don't feel any pain," Kate suggested. "Just, like, completely in a trance. Something like that. They said something like that on CNN."

  "I guess so," Jack said, still thinking. "But even then, they'd still die normally, right? I mean, whether or not they're sick, their bodies should still die?"

  "I suppose so," Kate replied. "But it's not like we're doctors. I bet a lot of their injuries just look worse than they are."

  "But look at that guy," Jack said, pointing to the man in the overalls. "It looks like the left half of his body was ripped off.”

  Kate saw what he was talking about, and grimaced. It looked gross, and painful.

  "And one of those guys you˗" he paused, then swallowed.

  "I shot," Kate finished.

  "Y-yeah," Jack said. "One of those guys, I mean I swear Kate. You shot his dick off and he didn't even flinch. I don't care how much pain tolerance you have, guys don't keep walking when that happens. Then you shot him right in the heart and he still didn't die."

  "He did die," she said, her voice cracking slightly.

  "Yeah, after you hit him in the h˗" he caught himself before he finished. "I just meant that..." he stopped.” I don't know what I mean. It's crazy."

  "It's crazy either way," Kate said. She turned around and walked out of the bathroom and back into the hall. Jack took one more look out the window and watched another person, this one a heavyset woman in a pair of stretch pants and a tank top that wasn't doing much of a job of containing her stomach or other considerably sized parts. But it was her face, not her generously proportioned mid-section that caught his eye. Much like the overalled man's side, this woman's face was half gone. The skin along her cheek and half her forehead had been ripped off, and her mouth gaped like a black pit, a few sharp fragments of teeth and a slimy, partial tongue all that remained.

  Jack gagged and put the blinds back down.

  "Looks worse than they are," he thought, and shook his head. No way.

  He went back into the hallway. He could hear Phil in the bedroom, a newfound vigor in his voice. He'd finally gotten through to someone in his family.

  Kate was sitting in one of the chairs, facing the furniture stacked in front of the door. She wiped her cheeks on the sleeve of her shirt when she heard him coming, but Jack could see that they were wet. He sat down next to her and put a hand on her shoulder, an awkward gesture that she shook off.

  "Kate, I'm sorry. What I said back there, it was stupid. You know, you saved our˗"

  "Jack, I'm fine," she said. "Sarah and I already had this conversation. I'm not mad at you, just at myself. This is a stupid time to be crying, in this kind of situation. I feel like a complete wimp."

  Jack almost let out a laugh. "Kate, Jesus, you're the one who saved our ass˗"

  "Like I said, I already had this conversation with Sarah," Kate cut in.

  Jack nodded. "Sorry."

  Without saying anything, he wrapped his arms around her in a warm embrace. He sat there for a few moments, hugging her.

  "Jack?" Kate said, her face just a few inches from his ear. "Thanks. I think I feel better."

  Jack let go and smiled. "See? Just took a hug."

  Kate nodded slightly. "Yeah, sort of."

  "Sort of?"

  "Yeah," Kate replied. "You just made me realize that I'm nowhere near the biggest wimp here."

  9

  SARAH SCREAMED. BRENT’S head smacked into the brick wall to the right of the door, and he went limp. His loose body slid out of the clutches of his assailant, a short, muscular, bowling ball of a man who reminded Sarah of the principal in Back to the Future, and fell to the ground in a heap, the shotgun landing beneath him. The man looked stunned for a moment at his own success, and then set on Brent again.

  Sarah rushed out of the door and grabbed the man around the neck from behind, putting him in a quasi-headlock. She was taller than him but not nearly as strong. She tried to use her height as leverage, and leaned back, pulling the man off of Brent, at least momentarily.

  Kyle stepped into the alley as well and stopped, trying to figure out how to help. Brent was lying on the ground, and Sarah was holding his assailant back, though it looked like she wouldn't be able to hold him for much longer. The man jerked his body back and forth violently, snarling and drooling, trying to wrest himself from Sarah's grip.

  Kyle looked around for something to use as a weapon, glancing back into the storage room and at Mary, who looked bewildered by the entire scene. He spotted a long police flashlight on one of the shelves. He remembered seeing a police officer use one as a weapon on an episode of Cops, so he grabbed it and hurried back. He held the flashlight by the bottom of the handle and swung it at the man, who jerked to the side just as the bulb end of the light was about to come down on his head. The light glanced off his ear, and missed Sarah's face by little more than an inch. Kyle swung it again, and this time struck a solid blow to the man's forehead. A third swing was again just another glancing blow that didn't cause any damage.

  He wound up for a fourth try, but just as he did, the man broke free from Sarah and shot forward. He stumbled over Brent and fell crossways on top of him. Not knowing what else to do, Kyle pig-piled on top of both of them, diving onto the back of the sick man. He grabbed him around the neck from behind just like Sarah had, and tried to roll him off of Brent. Sarah stepped in and grabbed the man's legs and together they muscled him off of their unconscious friend. Sarah wrapped the man's leg
s with both arms, trying to prevent him from getting any leverage on Kyle, who was still hanging onto him tightly.

  "Mary! Go get something to he˗" Sarah began, but stopped when she looked over her shoulder into the doorway. Mary was gone.

  "Mary!" Sarah screamed, hoping to get her attention.

  Sarah turned back towards the man, who seemed to have an endless supply of energy, and tried to figure out what to do. She could let go and try to find something to tie the man up with, but she had a feeling that Kyle wouldn't be able to hang on much longer than she had.

  She looked desperately back at the door to the police station, and her heart jumped. A towering figure was walking ploddingly through the storage room towards the exit, his dark police uniform making him look almost like a ghost in the shadowy building.

  Mike Williamson stepped out of the police station and into the alley. He was clearly in pain when he moved, and his body looked different: stiff, uncoordinated, almost like he'd just learned to walk for the first time.

  "Let go," he said to Sarah, who immediately complied, and nearly got kicked in the head for her trouble.

  Mike grabbed the man's legs with one swooping motion, and wrapping them in one thick arm.

  "Let go," he said to Kyle, who hesitantly let his grip loosen, fearful that the man might spin around and take a bite out of his face once he let him go.

  But Mike Williamson didn't let that happen. As soon as Kyle released his grip, Mike set one giant boot down on the man's neck, pinning him to the ground. Kyle slipped away, glancing around to make sure no one else had discovered them in the alley, then slipped into the storage room, where Mary was watching from just inside the building. She put an arm around him, and they both looked outside.

  "What're you going to do with him?" Sarah asked, but her question was already answered when Mike drew his pistol.

  "Mike, you can't just, um... shoot that guy! He's defenseless!" Sarah protested. Mike ignored her and fired a shot in the man's head. The man twitched, and went still.

  "Oh god," Sarah groaned. Kyle and Mary both looked away. Sarah stared at Mike Williamson, shocked. He'd just put a bullet in the head of an unarmed, helpless man. A violent one who had just tried to kill them, she knew, but also a sick one. A sick one that they'd already subdued.

  Mike knelt beside his brother and started to pull him up.

  "I can probably carry him, but it would be a lot easier if one of you helped me," he said.

  Sarah shook off her initial shock and helped him get his brother up by the shoulders, and then upright, his dead weight making it feel like he weighed a ton. Sarah eyed Mike warily as they dragged Brent back into the police station, and set him down on the floor, bracing his head with the same rolled up rain jacket that Sarah had used the night before.

  "Just keep an eye on him. Looks like he just got a concussion," Mike said. "He should regain consciousness before long. Just be careful he doesn't choke if he throws up."

  Sarah nodded, and neither she nor Kyle or Mary, said anything. Mike lumbered his way back to the cell and collapsed onto the cot, which creaked onerously, Sarah again eying him the whole time.

  "You still don't get it, do you?" he said, lifting his head off of the pillow when he realized he was being stared at.

  "I get that you killed a sick, unarmed man for no reason," Sarah said.

  "You can't kill someone who's already dead," he replied.

  Sarah, Mary and Kyle exchanged glances. Sarah shook her head, and looked back at Mike, who had just laid his head back on the pillow, and was falling into a deep sleep.

  "DAMN IT," BOB Bartolo cursed, taking a comb to his hair for the umpteenth time. He'd spent the last five hours sleeping on a couch in one of the offices, and when he woke up, his hair was standing up like a troll doll. He'd been careful to hang his shirt and suit jacket so they'd stay in reasonably good shape over night, but his hair, obviously, wasn't something he could do much about. It was times like that when he wished that he had a toupee, like he kept encouraging Harold Tomassi to get instead of that ridiculous comb-over he always wore.

  But nope, he'd been a lucky one; through 54 years, he'd kept all of his hair. And now it could be his career undoing if he didn't get it under control. He tried the spray bottle one more time, getting a nice damp mist on it and then trying to comb it again. And again, it popped back up.

  He checked his watch. Ten minutes until he was due back on the air.

  "Screw it," he said out loud. He took the small bottle of gel from beside the sink, squeezed a generous portion of it into his hand, and slathered it on his head. He hated gel - it made him feel like someone had dumped a bucket of grease on his head ˗ but it would do the job for now.

  He had to look good. The major networks, including CNN, ABC World News, and Fox, had already shown shots of him on national television, and he'd been interviewed by Brian Williams of NBC Nightly News. With the Feds urging the networks to keep reporters out of the area for fear of spreading whatever disease was running rampant, the networks had to rely on the local stations and newspapers for a feed, of which there were only a couple each in Vermont, New Hampshire and Maine. This was the opportunity of a lifetime for him, a chance to be the comforting face through Vermont's biggest crisis, possibly ever. A chance to get some national, maybe even international, exposure.

  He looked at himself in the mirror. His hair looked better ˗ it was all down at least ˗ though not by much. On the other hand, he thought, it did give him something of a rugged look, a look that told viewers that he was suffering right alongside them, working through the night, not leaving them regardless of the conditions.

  Bob smiled to himself in the mirror. Good. It was good. He left the bathroom and went into the office where he'd been sleeping. He put on his shirt, buttoned it, put on his tie, and grabbed his jacket. He put one arm through a sleeve, and then stopped.

  The spotless jacket. The tie. It didn't fit. It was too polished for the situation. He took the jacket off and put it back on the hanger, then pulled his tie off as well. He walked back into the bathroom and looked at himself in the mirror.

  He still didn't look quite right. He thought about it for a few moments, then realized what it was. He unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled up his sleeves to just below the elbow, then looked at himself again.

  Now he looked right.

  He walked out of the bathroom with a bounce in his step. His co-anchor was already at the desk when he arrived, and she gave him a once over.

  "You're going on like that?" she asked. Her slacks and blouse looked slightly wrinkled, and her long blond hair was meticulously placed but looked slightly greasy, but anything else she'd covered up with makeup. He hadn't even bothered to shave.

  "Yep!" he said, and flashed her a smile. He took his place next to her and read through the notes in front of him. His smile faded as he read.

  "Wow," he said, his voice flat. "Only twenty percent of the National Guard has been able to report. That's..."

  "That's not surprising," came a voice from behind one of the cameras. Eric Schneider, one of their cameramen, stepped out from behind it. He had curly, shoulder-length hair and wore a pair of spectacles, which made him look like an old hippie, even though he was, for some reason (as everyone who ever talked to him learned) an arch Republican. He pointed away from the set towards the hallway.

  "You looked outside lately?" he asked.

  "No," Bob replied. "We got time?"

  "We're on in about twenty seconds," Eric replied. "But next time you get the chance, go up to the second or third floor and take a look." The first-floor windows had been boarded up the day before when the first person had come crashing through them. At that time, they'd had a couple of police officers to help them. Those cops had since been recalled, and they'd been left with their one guard as the only security for the station to supplement the boards and assorted other objects being used to block the doors and windows.

  "You two ready?"

  They both nodded,
and looked towards the camera.

  Good evening everybody, I'm Bob Bartolo.

  And I'm Elizabeth Etherton.

  A special thanks to Harold Tomassi for filling in on the day shift and keeping all of our viewers informed during this second day of crisis. Rest assured, Elizabeth and I will be staying with you throughout the night, just as we did last night, until this crisis ends... which hopefully will be soon. And on that topic, a top story that we've been tracking is that Major General Mike Dunfrey, the commander of the Vermont National Guard, has confirmed that over sixteen hours after the governor gave a mobilization order, only about four hundred Guardsmen, or about twenty percent of the force, have been able to report for duty. We'll be following this throughout the night, because I believe we're seeing that they will be badly needed to help with the security situation across the state.

  That's right Bob. But they have told us that they have begun setting up shelters with the troops that have been able to report. Now, guidance from the government is still to stay in your own homes or other safe places as long as you have the means to do so. But if for any reason you cannot remain where you are, these shelters, secured and protected by police or National Guard, are a second place you can go. We've just begun getting the locations in, and will be listing them at the bottom of the screen in just a few minutes. Again, I need to reiterate that right now, you should stay where you are if it is secure, and you are able to do so. Bob, if someone does have to move to one of these shelters, what advice do we have for people on the best way to get there safely?

  We've talked to State Police officials, and here's what they've told us: first, do not, I repeat, do not attempt to get anywhere on foot. The situation is just too dangerous, both due to the violent behavior of the people who are afflicted with this illness, and the possibility of being exposed to this virus or bacteria, if that is indeed what is causing this. If you must leave, get into a vehicle as soon as possible, lock the doors, and get moving as fast as possible. Go straight to your destination. Do not under any circumstances leave your vehicle, or stop to assist anyone. I know that last part sounds harsh, but it is necessary for your safety. If you do see someone who you think needs assistance, try to get through to 9-11 on your cell phone if you can.