by Guy James
In Evan’s final glimmer of clarity, the name “Nicolas Flamel” flashed in his mind, and Evan realized his curiosity would never be satisfied.
Then the light winked out.
90
Sven quickly crouched and let the shotgun drop a short distance to the ground, mindful that it point away from Brian, Milt, and himself. Then he sprang forward toward Milt.
Sven grabbed hold of the fat man’s arm and began to pull backward.
From the corner of his eye, Sven saw Brian smashing at the clutching zombie arm with his baseball bat.
Milt’s womanish screams rang through the air as Brian beat at the hand and Sven tried to keep Milt from being pulled down into the cat food.
“Take the belt off,” Sven rasped, feeling the crackling of his damaged upper body. “Unhook that thing!”
“Never!” Milt screamed.
Milt screamed again.
Sven could barely believe that he was pulling with all of his strength, using his legs to brace himself, and yet he couldn’t pull Milt away from the zombie’s grip. The thing possessed inhuman strength.
Then Brian flung the bat down, apparently giving up. He began to back away, startling Sven. Was Brian giving up on Milt, leaving Sven to save the fat man by himself?
“What—” Sven began.
“Just hold on,” Brian said, “just hold on a few seconds.”
Sven kept pulling, trying not to wonder if Brian was abandoning him. He considered stepping around Milt to stomp on the undead arm, but decided against it. Brian’s blows hadn’t done any damage, and stepping around was a great way to get grabbed by the other, still hidden zombie hand.
Suddenly, Milts screams stopped, and he must have gathered himself, because he leaned backward, away from the cat food, and into Sven.
Sven lost his balance and fell, letting go of Milt, and hitting his head on a shelf behind him.
As he fell, Sven felt Ivan claw his way up over his shoulder and down his front, cat reflexes in full gear.
Sven rolled onto his side and out of the way just as Milt lurched backward and sat down, his backward movement pulling out the hidden zombie through a disintegrating screen of toppling cans. Sven’s relief in having avoided being crushed by Milt’s humongous backside quickly vanished, replaced by an enormous wave of revulsion that gripped the whole of his being.
Milt let out a shriek, and Sven thought he might have screamed too, if he could find his voice. The zombie was still holding Milt’s scabbard, and was now edging closer, crawling on its belly like a snake.
A hiss ripped through the air, and Sven glanced over to see Ivan deftly avoiding rolling cans of cat food, his eyes locked on the slithering zombie.
It wasn’t the slithering that bothered Sven. It wasn’t the ragged flesh of the zombie’s fingers, where its fingernails should have been. It was the zombie’s face, or rather what was left of it.
It was instantly apparent to Sven that the zombie had been trying to pick its way into the cans of cat food, with its teeth.
Teeth hung in splinters from the zombie’s bloody, open mouth, suspended by thin strings of gum. The skin around the mouth was cut and torn so badly that the face was barely recognizable as humanoid. Flesh hung in wet, bloody clumps from under the thing’s eyes, and even its forehead and scalp were hacked up.
Scraggly shards of aluminum and tin stuck out of the zombie from all over its face and hands, and were so thick with blood that they were difficult to differentiate from the zombie’s torn, hanging flesh. Wet cat food was all over the zombie’s head, shoulders, hands, and arms up to the elbow. The whole mess stank.
As gruesome as all of that was, Sven’s eyes kept flashing back to the teeth, and he found it next to impossible to look away. Even as his stomach began to heave, he couldn’t make himself turn away.
An inappropriate thought occurred to Sven at that moment—that he would never have been able to be a dentist, not if it involved seeing sights like that, even on an irregular basis.
Then his mind took it further. Sven imagined a rubber-gloved hand wielding a set of pliers, approaching the zombie’s mouth to tug its splintered teeth off their flimsy strings.
On the next heave, something long and black appeared in Sven’s field of vision, joining the bright swarm of stars, and jarring him away from the churn of his revolting stomach. Then there was a loud bang, and the zombie arm turned into a wet mash of pallid skin, rotten sinew, and bone fragments.
Sven looked back at the long black object and followed it up to find Brian holding the Benelli, his face grim with terror. Brian must have aimed the close range blast perfectly, sending all of the pellets on a destructive course toward the zombie and the cat food in which it lurked.
Grateful for having been shaken out of his dental daydream, he got up to Milt’s side and was about to help the man up when Milt scrambled to his feet, surprising Sven with the speed of his ascent. The man didn’t look capable of getting to his feet as fast as he did, and though Sven didn’t know why, that made him feel uncomfortable.
Once on his feet, Milt drew his sword from its scabbard, raised it up by the hilt, and stabbed downward, driving the point through the side of the zombie’s mangled face.
That didn’t stop the zombie, which continued wriggling its destroyed arm. Sven knew it was no time to get complacent, however, because pitiful though the thing now looked, it could still slither over for a bite, and that would be the end, assuming the bite carried the infection.
Pulling upward, Milt removed the sword from the zombie’s face, raising a flap of flash and dislodging several shards of tin, toppling a large gob of wet cat food, and flinging a shrimp upward.
Sven never realized that he had such an eye for details, but he now found himself transfixed by the fine points of the scene unfolding before him. The cat food element made it so surrealistically repulsive that he couldn’t help feeling awestruck by the improbability of it all.
Milt brought the sword down again, stabbing higher this time, and the point of the sword penetrated the zombie’s head somewhere behind its temple, though it was hard for Sven to tell exactly where, through the blood, cat food, and folds of hanging flesh. The frayed end of arm below the zombie’s elbow jerked up at the moment of the stab, then fell still.
Besides killing the thing, the stab seemed to speed up the flow of viscous ooze out of the zombie’s mouth, and over the splinters of teeth, and Sven found himself in an even deeper trance, watching the ooze and wondering if its flow would succeed in tearing off one of the toothy splinters.
“This one’s wet too,” Brian said, jolting Sven from his morbid reverie.
Sven looked away from the mess. “It was strong as hell. The ones we’ve seen so far, the baseball bat would’ve taken care of them…not so with this one.”
“I don’t like it.”
“Me neither.”
“Ahem,” Milt announced, “if you two could pay me some attention for a moment, the thing’s hand is still latched onto the scabbard of my wondrous sword. I require some assistance.”
Sven glanced at Milt, who was looking dolefully at the mangled zombie hand gripping his sheath. “It’s mostly bone. You can handle it. Come on Brian, let’s check the rest of this place out and get Jane and the kids inside.”
“How do you think it got in there?” Brian asked as he and Sven strode to the top of the aisle, Ivan padding alongside them.
Sven stopped. “I didn’t even think of that. Good question.”
“Obviously,” Milt called in an annoyed tone from behind them, “the zombie that I speared crawled into position from an unseen opening. I venture that you two cretins are standing quite close to it.”
Brian whirled on Milt. “Cretins? Excuse me? Cretins? We just saved your life you ungrateful ball of pudge!”
“It would seem that your memory is quite short-lived. I was the one to spear the wretched undead creature with my zombie slaying sword.”
“Yeah, but—”
“
Let it go,” Sven said, cutting Brian off. “We have bigger things to worry about. He’s right though.” Sven pointed to a makeshift tunnel through the bottom shelf of the pet food aisle that began at the end of the aisle. “The zombie must have crawled in through there.”
“Why would it burrow in there like that?” Brian asked.
Sven shook his head. “No idea, but we can talk about that later. Right now let’s—”
Sven’s alarm went off again, startling him.
“What pray tell is that?” Milt jeered. “Have we reached the appointed hour for your weight training?”
Sven bit his tongue and removed the watch. He deactivated the alarm and then turned it off so that it wouldn’t ring again. He put the watch down on a shelf next to a 15.4 pound bag of Evo Turkey & Chicken Dry Cat & Kitten Food.
Then, rethinking the placement of the watch, he grabbed it and jammed it into the crevice next to the Evo bag, so that it was out of sight.
“Come on,” Sven said to Brian, taking the shotgun from him and continuing to ignore Milt, “let’s get this over with.”
Sven and Brian did as diligent a check of the remainder of the Wegmans as they thought time would allow, and upon failing to find any more hidden zombies, they made their way back to the entrance.
As Sven felt heartened by Brian’s reassuring, optimistic presence, he was simultaneously discouraged by Milt’s. On balance, Sven wasn’t sure what the net effect of the new company was.
He knew that basing his actions on what happened in zombie movies was a poor substitute for carefully planning their survival, but he couldn’t stop himself from recalling the infighting and general deterioration of the human group that always took place in movies, as the group grew larger. The infighting always got people killed...
Sven, he told himself, that’s just what happens in the movies. It’s not real. We’ll figure out a way to get along, and it won’t be like the movies.
Feeling worse after his own mental pep talk, Sven still wished their group was smaller, more maneuverable. Mostly, he wished that Milt hadn’t joined them. The man’s size and personality were too big to be ignored.
91
Jane’s heart leapt up into her throat when she saw Sven emerge from the Wegmans sliding doors and begin to traverse the parking lot. Brian and Ivan were alongside Sven, and Milt was following close behind them.
The joy was short-lived, however, because Jane was certain that what had happened to Vicky was now happening to Evan. The similarities were too clear, too salient to be ignored. She was even starting to get whiffs of that smell, coming from Evan. She would bring the boy inside, of course, put him down somewhere, and then…and then…
“What’s happened?” Sven asked.
Jane looked up to see Sven standing next to her, clutching the Benelli in his trembling grip. The man looked more shaken than he had all day, and Milt and Brian didn’t look any better off. They all looked like they’d come out of some nightmare and were still blinking in terrified disbelief.
Sven seemed to be experiencing tremors, and Jane could see the trembling travel up and down his body in waves. He had the expression of a man who was trying not to vomit.
She looked down at the unconscious boy and tried, but failed, to stifle a shudder. His sallow skin had begun to emit a pale fluid that coalesced into a dreadful film, like the gelatinous membrane of a disgusting horror movie monster.
Jane blinked hard, feeling suddenly stifled by the moist, late afternoon air. “He just passed out…was asking for water, drank some, fell…I dunno, he just…”
Jane looked at Sven, hoping for some supportive gesture. Sven must have tried, because he gave a nod and his lips twitched upward, but if he was trying to smile, the expression never reached fruition.
“We’re good to go inside,” he said. “We’ll take the boy, and…make him comfortable as we can.”
Jane nodded, feeling the pressure of tears build behind her eyes.
There’ll be time for crying later, she told herself, now’s the time to get out of harm’s way.
Sven put the shotgun down and leaned over Evan. He began to scoop the boy up when Brian came up from behind him.
“Let me,” Brian said. “You look like you need to ease up on the heavy lifting…yeah, I’ve noticed you’re injured. I’ll get the kid. And besides, you’re pretty good with that thing. Mean kinda gun isn’t it?”
Sven let Brian take the boy away from him and straightened up. “Thanks. I got into a bit of trouble this morning, pulled a few muscles I think.’
Brian nodded, not seeming to strain at all as he held Evan in his arms. Jane was relieved that it wasn’t Sven holding the boy…not that Brian deserved any worse, of course, but she couldn’t watch that happen to Sven, couldn’t—
“I put it before you all that we leave the unfortunate boy behind,” Milt said. “In fact, to be quite frank, I insist upon it. We cannot bring that thing inside with us.” Milt pointed to Evan. “It is quite clear that he is on his way to becoming a human-devouring zombie. Therefore, he cannot remain a part of this tribe. Don’t you understand? This is not a camping trip, this is the zombie apocalypse!”
Sven’s mouth dropped open. “It’s just a cold. He’s had it for a few days.” Sven was stiff and tight-lipped. He gave Evan a once-over and turned away.
“It is obviously much more than a cold virus. Look at the exterior of his countenance! We need to be rid of him or he will pass the virus to us! Then we will all be infected, and all of our efforts will be for naught. It is so simple a concept I cannot fathom how it is that you people are incapable of understanding.”
Jane watched, feeling her body tense as Sven locked eyes with Milt.
“If the kid stays out here,” Sven said, “you stay with him.”
“You’re going to regret this,” Milt said, and began to trundle off toward the Wegmans entrance, snorting and harrumphing as he went.
Jane’s mouth felt unusually dry. She went over to Sven and pulled him aside. “What if he’s right?” she whispered. “What if…”
“I don’t know, but we can’t leave Evan out here.”
Jane looked around and saw that Lorie was eyeing her and Sven suspiciously. Jane was sure the girl could easily have guessed what they were discussing, anyone could have.
As if in answer to Jane’s thoughts, Brian walked over and said, “You’re not considering what he said, are you? Leaving the kid out here?”
Jane looked at him, feeling her mouth get even drier.
“No,” Sven said. “No.”
“Even if,” Brian said, “even if…we can’t…” He shrugged and turned away.
Jane understood the frustration. What could you do in a situation like this?
They’re all being so decent, Jane thought, except for the fat guy…but who’s right?
92
Jane felt oddly detached as she watched what was happening in front of her. It was as if she were floating several feet up above the parking lot, unfeelingly looking down at her own body and the bodies of the other survivors, as they went about a rehearsed repertoire of physical movements.
The air seemed to be thick with futility, with an inescapable conclusion, which, though it might be delayed, could never be avoided.
Jane watched with foreboding as Brian brought the unconscious Evan inside, Sven beside them. She followed, straining under the weight of the duffel bags from the car. She felt depressed and angry, though she was uncertain from where the anger was coming, and at whom she should direct it.
They entered the Wegmans and laid Evan down in the middle of the produce section, on the smallest sleeping bag from the gun shop, setting him up away from the supermarket’s multitude of refrigeration units.
When Jane was unable to rouse Evan for a drink of water and another fever pill, she resolved to check on the boy at regular intervals, but not to stay by his side. With each passing moment, she grew more sure that Milt was right, and that the boy would become dangerous at any mo
ment. Jane reflected on how long the boy had fought the disease off, keeping it from taking over his body long after everyone around them had already turned into zombies.
She said her mental goodbyes to the child and zipped him up into the sleeping bag as a final precaution. If he woke up as one of the infected, he would likely be unable to get out of the sleeping bag, or would at least alert the rest of them to his plight before he could do any damage. Then once he woke—the word “reanimated” occurred to Jane, and made her shiver—then they would…
She walked away from the boy and set up camp halfway up the row of checkout aisles, between the cash registers and an aisle containing magazines, paperbacks, and stationery. She set out the remaining sleeping bags for Lorie, Sven, and herself, and then began to check her munitions. The routine of the check dried her dampened spirits quickly and significantly, but the distraction was only momentary.
Jane jumped to her feet at once when she heard an irritating, scraping sound, overlaid by the sound of human retching. Then Sven and Brian appeared, pushing a dripping, overloaded shopping cart, scratching its wheels along the supermarket’s polished floor.
Jane watched with revulsion as Sven and Brian carted out the dead zombies. They tried to conceal their loads with makeshift tarps, but it was little use. Blood and the now familiar viscous liquid drizzled from underneath the cart, leaving a trail of putrid sludge, smattered at irregular intervals with gobbets of rotten flesh.
It was a gut-wrenching sight, made all the worse for Jane because when they were done, she put herself on cleanup detail, mopping up the trail of zombie pus, while she strained to control the bouts of dry heaving into her surgical mask. She mopped up to the entrance and threw the mop outside, giving one last look to the pile of dead undead—she didn’t know how to think of them yet.
They were so much like the zombies in the movies...whatever disease they had contracted stripped them so bare of their previous humanity that it was hard to see the creatures as people. Jane looked at the heap that had now grown to many times its initial size and felt as if she were sinking.
