He rolled onto his stomach and pushed himself onto his knees and tested the pain in his ankles by sitting back on them. The pain in his right ankle made breath catch in his throat. He was cold. Frozen. He knelt there for a moment trying to slow his breathing and wait for the pain to pass when he noticed something peculiar.
There were no ashes in the fireplace itself nor any logs in the rack. Might he have slept so soundly that he never heard or felt the old man cleaning the remnants of last night's fire? That seemed odd as he had always been a light sleeper. Then he noticed a fine layer of dust covering everything suggesting its disuse.
Leaning against the right side of the fireplace was a walking stick with a leather thong looped through a hole near the top. He folded forward and crawled to retrieve it. He reached up and put a hand on the mantle and with the other using the stick as a cane he pushed himself up with a grunt. His left ankle was painful, but it could support his weight. His right ankle, however, had to be broken.
There was that shuffling again outside, and he was certain he saw someone move across the window. He moved toward the door in a slow lurch. He took a step with his left foot followed by a thunk of the walking stick against the wood floor. Then he gingerly touched the floor with his right foot and moved a short distance forward.
"Hello?" he called out to the old man, realizing he didn't know what his name was. He continued moving toward the door. "Hello?" There was no reply. He reached the door and pulled it open, taking little hops backward to do so and then pushed on the screen door. It opened with an eerie metallic creak, and he leaned against the door frame for support.
A figure stood, perhaps ten feet away. It wasn't the old man but seemed familiar somehow. He moved with an odd shuffle that reminded him of the old man, but this fellow had dark hair and clothes he recognized. "Hey?" he called out to the man as he took a step outside. He took another step stabbing the walking stick into the deck for support.
The man turned around and Turnello recognized him instantly. Raj. He was alive. He survived the fall too. Something was wrong. His color seemed gray. When he took a few steps toward Turnello, it became obvious there was a large chunk of his face missing. He let out a low moan and Turnello's heart nearly leapt out of his chest.
He dropped the walking stick and instinctively reached to his hip searching for the Glock. His hand found nothing, not even the holster. When he backpedaled away from Raj, his ankle could not take the weight and he crashed onto the deck.
The fall stunned him, and he shook his head trying to recover his senses. Raj shuffled a few more steps toward Turnello and let out a moan again. There were other moans from off the end of the deck and he saw the heads of other zombies milling around in the yard.
He flailed around trying to recover the walking stick while his heart hammered in his chest and his breath came in dry panicked gasps. He pushed himself to a seated position with his back against the wall and the stick held out in front of him with two hands, like a sword. He braced himself for an attack, realizing there was no way he could defend himself against all these things. Not with a broken ankle and no gun.
Things would get ugly very soon. It was so unfair to have prepared as much as he did, to have survived so much including a fall off a bridge, to now die at some old cabin with only a stick for defense.
He tried to stay focused and think of a way out. Instead, all he could think of was the feeling of teeth sinking into him and tearing away strips of his flesh. He prayed that he would bleed out into unconsciousness before they got very far.
Where was the old man? Did he have the misfortune of just such a fate? Where was his gun? Or at the very least, his holster. He could understand the gun coming loose but he'd secured the holster with his belt loops. How had Raj gotten here? How ironic to die at the hands of the man he had tried to save.
Raj drew nearer and was just a few feet away. His dead eyes did not seem to focus on anything. Turnello drew back the stick ready to strike. Could he crack his skull and do enough damage to stop him before Raj bit him? Probably not. He was in an awkward position with little leverage but had to try. He held his breath and braced himself.
Then Raj walked past him, shuffling to the other side of the deck. The end of the stick followed him. He waited for the attack, but Raj's movements seemed purposeless. A restless wandering without direction.
This baffled him. Every zombie he had encountered seemed to attack everyone in sight. Yet, Raj behaved as if he weren't even there. Might he have retained some memory of their friendship? Perhaps. But there were four or five others in the yard that had not even attempted to get to him. At least, not yet.
He rolled over onto his hands and knees. Using the wall and the walking stick for support, he got onto his feet. His ribs ached every time he took a breath, and he felt shaky inside. He should just get back in the cabin while he had the chance. Yet curiosity drew him farther out.
Instead of the safety of the cabin, he walked to the railing, making no attempt to hide. He looked down into the yard. Four zombies stood just feet away. Three men and one woman. They were wet and bloated like Raj. Bits of algae and other debris clung to their matted hair. Their skin was that now familiar gray-brown color. He recognized them from the bridge as memories of the previous days came back.
They had all gone off the bridge. Raj knocked off by a zombie and he had jumped in a last-ditch effort to escape. These four and possibly others had followed mindlessly after, grasping for a meal that seemed just out of their reach. It was a long fall. Over a hundred feet, yet they all survived. Not only survived but they all somehow wound up here.
He leaned against the wooden railing in the dull morning light listening to the drip of rainwater, trying to make sense of things. That was when he noticed the color of his hands didn't seem right. Perhaps it was the light, but his skin had a gray tinge. He realized that he had been through a lot in recent days and couldn't remember the last time he ate. This could certainly account for his complexion.
He couldn't understand why these things weren't trying to attack him, but it would probably be best not to press his luck. He should get inside before they decided they were hungry after all. Then came the question of the old man. Where was he? Maybe they weren't hungry because they had recently gotten him.
He peeked over the railing again and looked up and down. No sign of the man or his remains or even any blood. He stepped back and looked at the deck carefully. No red stains or any other signs. He stared down at his feet and shook his head in disbelief. Where did he go?
He hobbled to the screen door, pulled it open and stepped inside. He spun around and pushed the inner door closed and then moved back into the room. He hobbled only a few steps when he saw a figure seated in the rocking chair.
"Oh...I didn't notice...you there..." Turnello said.
The figure wore a familiar plaid wool shirt, faded and tattered sweat pants. A wool hat sat on its head. Strands of gray hair poked out from underneath it. Its arms dangled motionless over the arms of the chair. Another step closer. Turnello's eyes widened in disbelief.
The flesh of its face was a thin brown leather pulled tightly over the skull. Its eye sockets were an empty and endless black. Its mouth, open in either a gruesome scream or grin, showed hideous bleached white teeth that seemed ready to bite. Then he heard the old man's cackle.
He felt unable to breathe. Then let out an inarticulate shriek. Birds from nearby trees flew away. He backed away. Then tore open the door and took lurching steps out.
Wild-eyed and gasping, he moved as fast as the pain would allow. North and west. He needed to keep moving north and west. The cabin couldn't have been far from the bridge or the river. Cherry Ridge was north and west of that point. Forty or fifty miles in a straight line.
They were following him. Raj and the others. They kept their distance. Maybe because he moved much faster than they could even as hobbled as he was. Whenever he rested, he saw them in the distance. Or if they were not visible, he hea
rd them. Why were they following him? They had every opportunity to tear him to pieces at the cabin, yet they ignored him. Now they were following him.
He looked up at the overcast sky and a chill ran through his body. He wished he had taken the blanket with him. He wished he would have searched the cabin for anything useful. Instead, he flew as fast as he could from it in sheer terror. All he had were the clothes on his back and a walking stick. All that time and money spent on supplies, guns, and ammo. Now he had none of it. What a waste.
The whole encounter with that dead man must have been a hallucination created by the trauma of the fall and nearly drowning. He must have imagined it. What was the other option? Psychosis? He preferred not to think of that as a possibility. Wasn't there some kind of rule about crazy people not thinking they were crazy?
He crossed a road and saw houses in the distance about a hundred yards away. He should probably stay off roads and away from houses. He looked like hell and had zombies following him. Either thing could get him shot. How could he make it all the way to Cherry Ridge like this?
Then he had a thought and patted a bulge in his pocket. He reached in and pulled out a pill bottle. The label read Oxycodone. It was the bottle the man in the cabin had given him. The dead man.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Jim and the dogs get some rest - Morning Thurs Sep 5
Jim woke on Turnello's bed with two warm but smelly dogs. He was the most comfortable he'd felt in days. He felt so cozy, he didn't want to get up despite the smell. But none of that mattered because more than anything, he wanted to get home and find his daughter.
He pushed up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He turned to look at the dogs and both opened their eyes but didn't bother to pick their heads up as if to say, "I hope you're not expecting us to get up too." That made him smile, and he rubbed both of their heads. He got up with a sigh and looked around Turnello's home.
He walked into the kitchen and turned on the tap, but nothing came out. The house must have well water with an electric pump. His stove was also electric. Washing up with warm water or getting a hot meal wouldn't be in his near future. Come to think of it, there probably wouldn't be a hot meal or shower for the foreseeable future either.
Still, he needed to clean up and get new clothes. If it would be cold baths from now on, he may as well get used to it. He found several gallon jugs of drinking water. The thought of using drinking water to wash with made him hesitate, but he wanted to feel clean again even if it would only be for a short while.
He peeled off his filthy mish-mash of an outfit and left it in a pile on the floor. Grabbing the jug of water, he headed to the bathroom and got into the shower. He popped the top off and, with two hands, poured water onto himself. It made him wince and shiver, but he endured it for the sake of feeling clean. He soaped himself up including his hair and then poured the remaining water over himself trying to rinse off.
It didn't work well, and he had to settle on toweling off the remaining soap. It made him wonder just how many gallons of water did one need to shower normally. Using drinking water this way was foolish, and he'd have to come up with some other method or else he'd either become very dirty or very thirsty soon.
He looked through Turnello's dresser and closet. Underwear, socks, and T-shirts were no problem, but he couldn't fit into any of his regular pants. Thankfully, he found a pair of sweatpants that worked. With that out of the way, he moved on to the next most important thing he'd need for a road trip. Weapons.
Looking through the house, Jim found another closet that contained a gun safe. Unfortunately, he didn't know what the combination was, and he growled with frustration as he slammed the closet door shut. He walked to the bedroom and picked up his pistol from the nightstand and ejected the magazine. One bullet left and one in the chamber.
He brought the pistol closer to the light to examine the writing. The slide read Glock 17 9x19mm. Didn't Turnello own a Glock or two? If he couldn't find any more weapons, maybe he could find ammunition for this one, at least. He walked around the small cottage and noticed an alcove stacked with boxes he hadn't paid attention to before.
Pulling the boxes out, he discovered a treasure trove. He counted four cases of MREs, twelve-gallon jugs of water, a dozen boxes of 9mm ammo and several boxes of various shotgun shells. Bingo! He grabbed a box of the 9mm ammo and did a victory dance grunting, "Yes! Yes! Yes!" as if he had just scored a touchdown.
Both of the dogs’ heads perked up and looked at him concerned. "Don't worry. It's a good thing," he called out to them. That was all they needed to hear, and they put their heads down. He tore open the box and after popping the magazine out of the pistol, he jammed cartridges in until his thumbs hurt. He fit seventeen in total with the last few being difficult to push in.
With that out of the way, visions of food popped into his head. He walked into the kitchen. The table had plates with some stale bread, a few olives and dried pieces of cheese. The power had only been out for about two days so any food in the fridge would likely still be good except he had no way to cook any of it.
He pulled open the refrigerator door and peered inside. Turnello's refrigerator wasn't very large to begin with, and considering he had been a bachelor for quite a long time, it seemed to just contain condiments. He found a few slices of deli ham and cheese. There was also a jar of jelly. The rest wasn't anything he could make a meal of. In the freezer, he found a half dozen partly defrosted frozen dinners he couldn't cook. What a waste.
He took the ham and cheese, rolled slices of each together, and called the dogs over, hand feeding them while he searched through the cabinets. He grabbed a large bowl and filled it with water for the dogs. He found a large box of crackers and a container of peanut butter. Grabbing the jelly, a knife, and plate, he ate cracker after cracker until he was full, and the box and jars were nearly empty.
He spread the rest of the peanut butter and jelly on the plate and set it on the floor for the dogs and they licked it clean. Then they sat back and looked at him expectantly following every move of his hands lest they miss anything.
"What?" Jim said. "That's all you're getting. There isn't much here."
B.A. looked at the table and Tiny barked once.
Jim looked at the old bread and cheese on the table and then back at the dogs. He furrowed his brow. "You want old cheese?"
B.A. glanced at the table again and Tiny barked once more.
"Okay, suit yourself," Jim said, shrugging, and he picked up the plate and set it on the floor. B.A. crunched on the old bread as if it were a dog bone and Tiny ate the scraps of cheese.
Jim sat watching with amazement as the dogs ate the stale food when there was a knock on the door. He jumped out of his seat and searched for his pistol. The dogs’ heads snapped toward the door and Tiny let out a low growl. Jim's hand tightened around the grip of the pistol while he listened intently trying to decide what to do.
"Turnello?" an old woman's voice called.
Jim relaxed a little. "Just a minute," he said. It was obviously someone who knew Turnello. The dogs calmly walked toward the door and he followed them. He had to tug the door several times for it to open completely as the doorway was out of square and the bottom of the door scraped the ground. Jim stared at a gray-haired woman in her seventies wearing a sweater and knit pants. A pair of reading glasses hung from a cord around her neck.
"Sorry to bother you..." she began in an eastern European accent. Then her voice trailed off, and she took a step back. Her gaze dropped to the gun in Jim's hand and her eyes grew wide with fear. She took another step back and Jim recognized her as Turnello's landlady, but he couldn't remember her name.
Jim looked down at the gun in his hand and realized he was frightening her. He tucked it into the back of his sweatpants and put his hands up in front of him as if he were surrendering and tried to force something like a smile onto his face. "I'm sorry, didn't mean to scare you. I'm Turnello's friend Jim. We met once a while ago." Tiny s
nuck around Jim and sniffed her shoes, his tail wagging.
She looked down at the dog and back up at Jim. Her eyes narrowed and then seemed to relax. "Where is Turnello?"
Jim's smile collapsed and his features became slack. He blinked a few times and then looked down. "I found his truck abandoned on the bridge," he said, "and I brought it back here last night, hoping I'd find him here." He looked up and caught her eye.
Her face seemed to grow even more pale and her lips parted as if she wanted to say something, but there was a long pause. Then she whispered, "Oh no."
"I mean, I didn't find him at all anywhere between there and here, but he might still be out there somewhere," he said with no conviction.
"I see him leave yesterday, and I want tell him not be crazy and go out."
"Well, he probably wouldn't have listened. He could be stubborn sometimes."
"What happen out there? You have any idea?"
"I'm not sure, but it seems like there was a pretty bad earthquake and tsunami along the coast."
"Seem like earthquake but we not supposed to have those here."
Jim shrugged. "I came up here from Philadelphia, and I can tell you it's much worse down there. I saw it myself."
"You drive all the way from Philadelphia in this?"
"Well, first I walked. Then I drove some. Then I rode a motorcycle. It took two days." Jim left out a lot of the details like getting kidnapped by militant gay bikers and those zombies he came across, but he thought it for the best.
"My god." Her eyes grew wide and her hand flew to her heart. "Things much worse than I thought."
Jim nodded. "I don't know exactly what's going on, but I think it's widespread."
She bent over to pet Tiny who sat at her feet and waited patiently for some attention. Tiny wagged his tail excitedly in reply. "Nice doggie. You such a nice doggie. Yes. Yes, you are," she cooed. B.A., not wanting to miss out on the attention, squeezed by Jim in the doorway and limped over to Tiny.
A Bad Day (Book 2): A Bad Day Page 7
