by Jason Offutt
“A peach tree,” he said. “I know how much you like peaches. I picked six Walmart bags full. Some of them aren’t quite ripe yet. I’ll bring them over tomorrow night.”
She threw her arms around Walter’s neck and jumped into his embrace, wrapping her legs around his waist. “Thank you, baby. You’re keeping me sane.” She kissed him again, then pulled back, dropping her bare feet to the kitchen linoleum, her arms still around his neck. “Do you have to go? I want to wake up next to you.”
And that’s when Lazarus chains me up next to Mac without my shirt. Walter kissed her again and grabbed the doorknob. “I want that, too, but we all have jobs. You tend the garden; I tend the Gate.” He pecked her on the nose. “But you get back to sleep.” He opened the door; the sound of frogs from Nelson Creek too damned Disney for his taste. “You know I’ll be back.”
Walter turned to leave, but Lacy grabbed his arm. “I don’t want Lazarus,” she said. “I want you.”
He nodded. “I know. It won’t be long.” Walter stepped out the kitchen door into the darkness and clicked it shut behind him.
Maple Street ran in front of Lacy’s house, the lane once well-lit by mercury vapor lamps that still sat atop light poles, a uniform gray in the moonlight. Uniform save for the deep black shadows cast by homes and foliage. Walter carried the hammer he’d crushed the little girl’s skull with; there were no guns in Mayday, except for the hunting parties and the guards at the gate. Lazarus had seen to that. He wanted Mayday to be Beaver Cleaver’s hometown, nothing but friendly smiles and school dances. That’s why Walter stayed. Oh, who am I kidding? I stayed for Lacy. He had twenty-five minutes to go home, change and–
A scrape, a shoe scuffing on asphalt, whipped Walter around, his grip tight on the hammer handle. A figure, tall and lean, stood in the street, teetering unsteadily on its thin legs, waving like tall grass in a slight breeze. That was no man. There were zombies here, Walter knew, for Lazarus’ grand plan, but they were locked up in the Field. Only one was allowed to roam free, Lazarus’ pet, Jeremy. Walter adjusted his grip, the heft of the 16-ounce Stanley clawed hammer felt good in his hand. Come on, charge me. Walter wanted to plant the head of the yellow-handled hammer into the temple of that monster, but he knew Jeremy wouldn’t charge him. The zombie was harmless as long as Walter wore one of the special shirts everyone in town wore, a one-foot-square tanned patch of skin sewn into the back. Zombie skin. Zombies don’t attack their own.
***
The summer heat started early at the Gate. Walter sat on a picnic table under the bushy canopy of a tulip poplar with a bottle of Aquafina between his boots, sweat pooled under his arms. Gil Haply sat in a lawn chair, scooping rocks off the gravel parking lot and tossing them over at the peeling paint on the walls of the abandoned of the Dairy Rite outside the fence. The burger and shake shack, open since the 1950s, closed in 1994, the building dwindling into a heaping rot ever since. Gil’s rocks thudding off the boards the only sound in the early morning.
“Stop it, Gil,” Walter said. He hadn’t gotten much sleep. The feel of Lacy’s skin against his still tingled. His mind wasn’t at the Gate; his mind was on Maple Street.
“How long you think this is going to go on?” Gil asked.
Walter unscrewed the cap on his water bottle. A lot of people in town were secretive, a lot of people were down right strange, Gil was neither. Walter never had to guess what Gil was thinking; he always said what was on his mind. Walter liked that. “What do you mean?”
Gil scooped up another rock and held it. “The end of the world? I miss shit, man. Like television and running water. I miss Chick-Fil-A. I know they just served chicken sandwiches, but I like chicken sandwiches.”
Just the thought of a basket of waffle fries sent Walter’s stomach rumbling. “I don’t know, Gil. They figured out what caused the zombies before everything went south, if there’s any government left, I suppose they’re just trying to clean everything up.”
Gil tossed another rock at the Dairy Rite. It thudded off the sagging roof and rolled off in front of the window teenage carhops once picked up their food to take to the cars on trays that fitted to the rolled down window. Walter had grown up in Mayday. His dad used to take him to the Dairy Rite for root beer in frosty glass mugs, sometimes the carhop would bring it over to the station wagon with a scoop of vanilla ice cream floating on the top. Now all the carhops, grown and married to locals, were probably dead, or worse, they were like Jeremy.
“You think the government is still around?”
Walter took a drink of warm water and screwed on the cap. “I don’t know that either, but I do know planes are still flying. I’ve seen contrails and I know they’re not taking gamblers to Vegas. They have to be government planes.”
“Well, if Army trucks don’t come in here and swoop us up soon...” Gil paused and looked around, then turned back toward Walter. When he spoke again, his voice was barely above a whisper. “Don’t tell no one, but I think I’m going to head out. What Tim is doing with those people who come in here scares the shit out of me. I don’t want any part of it.”
Tim? Walter smiled. “You don’t like to call him Lazarus?”
Gil laughed. “Makes him sound like an asshole.” He nodded; the grin quickly disappeared. “He is an asshole. A crazy asshole people follow. Those are the scariest kind. I’ll give it about a week, then I’m gone.”
God, that sounded good. “Where will you go?”
The summer heat sent a line of sweat running down Gil’s face. He wiped it off with the sleeve of his T-shirt. “West, probably. Some place with no people. No people, no zombies.”
Out West. No people, no zombies, no Lazarus. Just him and Gil and Lacy. That sounded great. Walter stared at Gil, the young man’s shaggy blonde head made him look like a beach bum more than a farm kid. These words coming from anyone else in this little town would have scared him because it would have been a test. A test of loyalty to Lazarus. But this was Gil Haply. He’d had a few beers with Gil down at the Do Drop one night and watched Gil take a dump on Lazarus’ front lawn on the way home. Jeremy stood by the front door, watching. He trusted Gil more than he trusted Lacy and he trusted Lacy a lot.
“I can get a truck. There are five we use for hunting parties. I can get the keys. They’re always gassed up and ready. Rifles are already in the gun rack, boxes of bullets behind the seats.” Walter stopped. This was dangerous talk. He looked around, but no one was there. “I’m in.”
Gil nodded. “Let’s give it a week.” He stood and adjusted his Kentucky Wildcat ball cap. “Boss man just turned off Main Street and headed this way with his puppy dog.”
The half-empty water bottle crinkled in Walter’s grip. “A week?”
Gil nodded. “That’ll give us time to collect supplies from the Apple Mart without Ted Simpson getting all suspicious.”
Yep. Walter liked Gil a lot.
***
Before the world fell, Walter worked as a reporter for the Tri-County Courier in Carson. He hadn’t gone to college in state; he wanted to get out of Kentucky, away from his parents, away from all the people in high school who’d get stuck in Mayday forever. He wanted to leave, more than anything he just wanted to leave. SIU in Carbondale, Illinois, sounded great. Four years later, he was back in Mayday. At least he worked out of town.
“Good morning, gentlemen.” Lazarus stopped at the picnic table; Jeremy stood behind him, softly groaning. “Any excitement at the Gate?”
Walter wanted to knock that man down, strip off his shirt and just see how fast his pet zombie could tear off his face. “Nope,” Gil said. “I think the deer are getting smart. They’re shying away from here. I might have plugged too many of them from this chair.”
“I’m not interested in deer, Gil,” Lazarus said, patting his belly. “Walter here shot me a cow. That’s what I want. Mmm. I think I’ll have Gwenny cook me up some steak and eggs for breakfast. You boys want anything?”
Walter shook his head. “I’m n
ot hungry, thanks.”
Gil pulled a bag of beef jerky and a packet of peanuts out of a pocket in his cargo shorts. “I’m good.”
Lazarus hiked up his belt that had begun to crawl down to reveal a plumber’s crack. “Suit yourself,” he said and turned to go. “Just remember, this fine food won’t last forever. One day we’ll be eating nuts and berries.”
Walter wrote the first newspaper article on Tim Hardy, the man who survived Ophiocordon. He just went by Tim then. Once the story hit the Associated Press wire, The New York Times featured him on the front page and all the major news networks wanted to talk to the plastic factory worker, he decided he was better than a Tim. When they boarded up the town, Lazarus told Walter this was all because of him and gave him a job on the Gate. Something cushy for a new friend and Walter had thanked him. That was before Walter realized he wanted Lazarus dead.
Jeremy stood under the shade of the tulip poplar tree for an uncomfortably long time, swaying as he looked through the fence toward the Great Outside. Gil tossed a piece of gravel. It thumped off Jeremy’s bony chest; the glassy-eyed thing didn’t flinch.
“What are you looking at, butthead?” Gil said. Jeremy turned and followed Lazarus.
Walter watched them until they disappeared into the high school. Lazarus had to check on his botany project, the zombie-making machine he had built in the gym. The thought of those poor people Lazarus force-fed Ophiocordon and lashed to tables to lie and wait for their chests to explode – goddamnit.
“Do we really have to wait a week?”
Gil picked up another piece of gravel and chucked it toward the Dairy Rite. It hit the faded glass sign, ‘Dairy Rite. Home of the Riteburger.’ The glass shattered and crashed to the gravel lot. “No,” he said. “We do not. We’ll just pick up what we need along the way. We’re hunters, right?”
Good. Fuck Mayday. Fuck Lazarus. Fuck Jeremy. Freedom. Sure, the Outside was dangerous, but Walter knew what kind of danger was out there and he’d survived it. “Yeah, we’re hunters. Let’s leave tonight.”
“We got company, dude,” Gil said and fell back into his chair.
Walter turned. Oh, my God. Lacy. Lacy Tomlinson walked toward them, her hair tied in a ponytail. She carried a paper lunch sack. His eyes shot to the high school, the sun glinting off the bank of windows blinded him from seeing inside the building. Lazarus could be there, staring at him, holding a rifle against his meaty chest, Walter in the gun sight. What the hell are you doing, Lacy?
She walked slowly toward him, her head turning left and right as she looked to see if anyone was watching. Yeah, babe. I’m sure somebody is. She still wore the jean shorts Walter had his hands down just a few hours ago. She’d changed her shirt, though. She now wore a loose white peasant shirt, a green canvas satchel with gardening tools hung from her right shoulder, Lacy’s brown ponytail bouncing behind her. She’d washed her hair, Walter could tell. Oh, God, I want to smell that hair. His chest pounded as she came closer.
“Hi,” she said softly, her eyes on the ground. Gil had turned his chair toward the Dairy Rite and sat quietly, throwing rocks at the building.
Walter rose to his feet. He wanted to rush to her and crush her next to him, but he stood next to the picnic table, his bottle of water in his hand. “Hey,” he said. “Can I help you with something?”
She looked up, her beautiful face flush and pink. “I’m looking for Cal Miller,” she said, her voice wavering as she held a paper lunch sack out of her satchel and handed it to Walter. “You seen him?”
Cal Miller? Cal was the Ag teacher at the high school before the Falling. What did she want with Cal? “No. No, I haven’t,” he said, setting the bag on the table, never taking his eyes off Lacy. “What do you need Cal for?”
Her eyes, her deep brown eyes, stared into Walter’s, a nervous smile brushed her lips. He had to have this woman. They had to leave town together, to get away from Mayday, away from that fat fuck Lazarus. Everything would be better if they could just leave. Goddamnit, Gil. Your idea better work.
“I think I’ve got some aphids on the sweet corn. I’d like to have him come take a look at it.” She slid her hands into the front pocket of her shorts and mouthed, ‘I love you.’ “If you see him, send him over.”
Lacy coming to him was dangerous. Even if Lazarus didn’t see them together, people might and people talk; people loyal to the man who didn’t die. She turned and walked toward the back of the high school, toward the garden on the football field. “You bet,” Walter called after her. “You bet I will.” He sat on the bench and picked up the brown paper lunch sack, just like the sacks his mother used to send with him to Mayday Elementary, with a sandwich, an apple and a juice box. The word, ‘Tonight’ was written across the bag with a Sharpie in clean cursive. You bet your ass tonight. Mom never left a message like that for Walter on his lunch sack, thank God. He reached in and pulled out a peanut butter and jelly sandwich on homemade bread. I love you, too, babe. He watched until she rounded the corner of the building and went out of sight.
“That was stupid,” Gil said, chucking another rock at the Dairy Rite. It dinged off the hood of Telly O’Leery’s Olds Delta 88 that died in front of the building in 1995 and he just left it there.
“What do you mean?”
He turned his chair back to face Walter, scooting it in the gravel instead of standing up. “That girl wasn’t here for Cal Miller. She was here for you.”
Walter opened his mouth to protest, but Gil cut him off.
“What is this, fucking junior high? It was obvious.” Gil took off his cap and rolled the bill in his hands. “That’s one of Tim’s squeezes, you know? He’ll have you killed.”
Killed. Walter’s throat grew tight. We have to be more careful. “But nobody knows.”
Gil pulled the hat back down over his blonde curls, his face more serious than Walter had ever seen it. “I do now,” he said. “I’m not going to say nothing, but one more screw up like that and somebody’s going to know. Then somebody’s going to tell the big man and you’ll find yourself chained to a barbell in Timmy’s science project.”
His science project; turning people into zombies so he can take over the world. “I want her to come with us.”
Gil nodded. “I’m cool with that. She got a friend?”
***
The sandwich tasted delicious. There are things in this world that are a constant. The morning, the evening. The stars, gravity. Summer, spring, fall, winter. But if winter disappeared for a time, the first snowfall would be the most glorious day of the year. As Walter bit into that peanut butter and jelly sandwich, Peter Pan creamy and Welsh’s Strawberry Spread, it was the most delicious food he’d had in months. Walter almost choked on the last bite when he saw Lazarus and Ken Gundy walking toward the gate.
“Shit, dude,” Gil mumbled.
“Everything’s fine,” Walter said, although his hands shook. He stuffed them in the pockets of his Levi blue jeans. “There’s a reason for this.”
“No shit.”
Lazarus and Ken marched across the clean-cut lawn of the high school, Jeremy far behind them. They went past the bleachers that surrounded the Corral and onto the grass that backed up to the parking lot of the Dairy Rite, where teenagers for decades sat on the graffiti-carved picnic table where Walter’s Aquafina bottle sat. The paper sack with the word ‘Tonight’ rested in Walter’s right front pocket where he used to keep his car keys. Lazarus and Ken stopped under the shade of the tulip poplar.
“It’s getting hot out here, boys,” Lazarus said, sweat running down his red, plump face. “Your shift’s about up. Gwenny’s got a fresh brewed pitcher of sweet tea all iced down. Might do you good.”
Gil nodded once. “That sounds fine.”
Lazarus smiled; his smile faded as he turned to Walter. “Ted Barrett was out on his morning walk today and said he saw Lacy down here,” Lazarus said, his voice flat. “She was supposed to be at the garden. What business did she have at the Gate?”
Lazarus’ hand smoothed back his hair and stopped at his neck, his fingers kneading something underneath the fat. “She knows Cal’s down at the Whistlestop for his morning coffee. He is every day.” He crossed his arms across his chest. “He’s there right now, in fact. Just saw him. He was working on an omelet stuffed with chili. Ever had one of those? It’s delicious.”
“I haven’t,” Walter said. His wobbling knees threatened to drop him onto the gravel. He leaned one hand on the picnic table and turned to Ken. “My shift’s up. You here to relieve me?”
Ken took a step forward, but Lazarus slapped a meaty arm across his chest. “No. Why don’t you go with Ken to take the Carlsoners over to the Field. They’ve turned.”
***
Walter and Ken Gundy walked toward the Field, Walter pulling the Carlsoners behind him, a rope tied around the neck of each like he was walking dogs. They stood in the Green House, chained to barbells, just moaning, their faces blank and Ken dropped a slipknot lasso over each one of their heads. The McKenneys, the mom and the dad, lay on their death beds, spent fungus stalks hanging lifeless toward the floor. Walter wanted to vomit.
A tall wooden fence blocked the baseball field from view, the backstop and light poles the only thing visible from the street. Everybody, even newcomers, could walk freely in Mayday, but they weren’t allowed to see the Field. Only the loyal citizens of Mayday knew what was behind that fence and it made Walter wonder where humanity had gone. He sure knew it hadn’t gone into Ken Gundy.
Ken pulled out a key from a chain that hung inside his shirt and inserted it into the padlock that kept the Field private. “There’s poles free on the infield,” Ken said. “Take them there.” He swung open the gate and Walter walked through, pulling his pack of zombies behind him. The field’s chain link fence, lined with fat, black birds, ended ten yards past third base; Walter slowly walked the freshly turned monsters toward the opening, their eyes still clear, still human. One crow turned to watch as he shuffled toward the opening, its black eyes followed Walter like it knew something. Crows were smart. Maybe it did. He winced when the demon bird cawed, the sound shrill in the quiet morning. Those fucking things were everywhere.
