Taking on the Dead

by Annie Walls

  “I haven’t heard that in a while,” I add. His eyebrows furrow together. “Sunshine is my middle name.” Sticking out my hand, I say, “Kansas City Sunshine Moore. Nice to meet you.” He shakes it, trying to hold back a smile. “You can laugh, I don’t care.”

  “Nah, I like it. It’s different.” I don’t bother telling him that only my dad called me Sunshine. I like hearing it again.

  “Well, I did bring you something to light up the room,” I say, and toss him my rolled up trade from Glinda.

  Catching it, he says, “Surprise, surprise.”

  “Pain management, for the hole in your ass and all.” After I toss him a lighter, he turns onto his side, and fires away.

  “A bunch a famished attacked a few minutes ago.”

  “I heard the shots. I figured it would start happening soon. It’s normal in the cold.”

  “It makes me want to leave, though.”

  He passes me the joint, “Why? They keep it under control.”

  I puff, and hesitate. “I lived by myself for four years so I wouldn’t attract zombies. It worked except for a loner every now and then.”

  He stares at me. “By yourself?”

  I want to be truthful with him, and feel ready to confide in someone. “Um, yeah. My dad was paranoid. We prepared for all types of disaster emergencies. He started an underground bunker underneath our house. I finished it, and lived there for four years. I came across some people in the woods one day not long ago, and helped them. I was happy to have company, but they turned out to be fallacious.” I force a laugh. “But they did pique my interest in what was happening in the outside world. They liked my place, so they tried kicking me out of it, held me at gunpoint, and implied they would eat me. So, I set my family home on fire and left.” I take a big hit, and pass it back to him. Mac is quiet and studies me. I don’t know if he wants me to keep talking or what, but the silence stretches out.

  “But, you’re sane,” he finally says.

  “What?”

  “If you were by yourself for that long, wouldn’t that have a major effect on a person’s mental capabilities?”

  I shrug, not knowing. He makes a good point.

  “That explains why you look at everything as if it were brand new. Hermit.” He tries to make light, elbowing me before running his tongue on the inside of his bottom lip in thought. “They wanted you to leave because of low count of zombies?”

  It takes a minute to process that he means Harley, Nadine, Bridget, and Kale. I make a mental note to lay off all substances from now on.

  I tell him my story. Not all of it – not Malachi – just about my mom and dad. Not in great detail, but Mac prompts me to talk about those days. It makes me respect him more. It also makes me want to tell him more.

  I talk about my neighbor Jim and about our secluded neighborhood, my routines, and how I had lived – it all comes tumbling out of my mouth. How Harley, Nadine, Bridget, and Kale were ultimately a bad mistake, but one I don’t regret. Expressing my lack of knowledge of the zombies adapting so well makes me flinch. I tell him everything that had happened with Kale, and how he made me realize that I didn’t want to hide anymore. That Kale told me about the zombies hoarding food, and how I wanted to find answers, and about Rudy saving my life more than once. It feels good.

  After it all comes out I sit there, and let out a big breath.

  By this time the joint has run out, and I’m super stoned. I look at him and giggle.

  “Kan, I don’t know what to say –”

  I interrupt, “You don’t have to say anything, I know how fucked up it is, but it feels good to get it out.” I shrug, and I’m glad I am stoned, because I know I would be feeling grief and guilt right now otherwise.

  “You’re incredible. You’ve never told anyone this?” I smile at the compliment, and shake my head.

  “I told Rudy about my parents. At the time, I was still coming to terms with not being by myself, and trying to trust him. I didn’t share anything else. Not that it’s come up, but he’s never asked. When I first got here, seeing all these people, I was shocked by what was going on, and how they acted and interacted with zombies.” I tell him seriously. He stares at me in a completely different way. “I didn’t want you to think differently of me.”

  He shakes his head, “No way. A person would have to be really strong willed to do what you did. Even at your age. How old were you?”

  “I was twenty when the outbreak happened. I owe it all to my dad. I was the only one that listened to him, really. At first I was just humoring him. Then came to the conclusion that the stuff he was trying to teach me might come in handy. I was just hiding away from it all, really.”

  “Nah, it was smart. Some nasty stuff went down for a while.” He swallows, remembering something I can’t see. Snapping out of it, he turns his flirty grin my way. “You sure you’ve been by yourself?”

  “Why would I lie about that?” I lightly punch him in the shoulder.

  He flinches, “I feel stiff.” I raise my eyebrows at him. He thinks about it for a minute, “I mean my shoulders. Probably because I’ve been laying around.”

  “Which one is it? Turn on your belly, and I’ll try to work it out.”

  He smiles, “Both.” Turning onto his stomach, I straddle his lower back, careful of his wound. I massage his neck and gradually work out to his shoulders.

  “I haven’t done this in a while, so tell me if it hurts.” He shakes his head and moans at the same time. Good shoulder and back muscles, from using his own body in resistance training, tense as my hands move over them. I laugh as he continues his grunts of pleasure. The curls on his head look really soft. My fingers flow through his hair as I massage his scalp, and weave through the curls, separating and fluffing them, straightening them to the ends, and when I let go, they spring back.

  “You’re going to make my hair look like an afro!” His protest is muffled by his face in the pillow.

  I laugh and continue massaging his shoulders, reluctantly abandoning his soft curls. “What about you, Mac? What’s your story?” My voice is a whisper, but it carries through the room.

  Stiffening for a moment, he relaxes and says, “Nothing like your story, but same as everyone else. I woke up one day with someone trying to eat me for breakfast.” Being vague, it’s either the truth, or he’s not ready to talk about it. I just laugh like he wants me to.

  At this moment, Rudy decides it would be a good time to make an appearance. He looks good, even beat up. The bow peeks over the top of his head. I can tell he’s sobered a bit, and when my eyes meet his, guilt swells in my chest. I’ve got nothing to feel guilty about as he studies our situation. Unable to read his facial expression, I climb off Mac.

  “Where did you go, Rudy? Famished were attacking, and I looked around and you were gone,” I say, addressing Rudy’s solemn look.

  “I went to the roofs with a couple of guys to help keep the famished at bay.”

  Rudy’s looking at Mac now, so I glance at him too. Back on his side, his hair has ten times the body it had before, and it does look like an afro. Rudy doesn’t say anything about seeing us like that, but Mac has no such reservations.

  “Sweet timing bro.” He’s smiling, but his tone screams sarcasm.

  Rudy just snorts a humorless laugh at him. “You do have your own room, you know?” He crosses the floor to get a jar of moonshine from his duffle.

  Mac shrugs, “How bad were they?”

  “Not that bad, yet.” Rudy swallows some of the moonshine. “You didn’t miss much. You were having a better time than I was.”

  Okay, time to go. “Hey guys,” Rudy looks in pain as much as Mac does. “For tonight, I’ll sleep in Mac’s room so we don’t have to move him. I’ll come check on both of you in the morning…” I glance at Mac, “You owe me a massage.”

  He cocks his brow in a way that says he’d be more than happy to oblige. My stomach lightens in a nervous jumble. I look at Rudy, “You okay? Do you need anything?�
��

  He smiles tightly, “I think I’m just going to get drunk with Mac and pass out.”

  Picking up my pack, I walk out on the two guys that I’ll be indebted to for life.

  Chapter 23

  Mac’s room looks really lonely. The working girls come to mind, and I quickly let go of the thought. I don’t want to know – not my business. I put all my essentials next to the untucked bed.

  The bedside table and chair, the only furniture in the room, sit neatly next to the bed. An electric heater sits next to the table, and on the table lay components of a radio he may have been trying to fix. Along one wall about twenty or so quivers hold arrows. Quivers are a traditional arrow holster, but they don’t hold many, the reason I don’t use one myself. Rudy doesn’t use one either, most likely for the same reason. My holster’s made from an old tin used for gifting a big bottle of wine in the old life. It fit twenty-five of my small arrows, no problem. I think Mac only used archery as a hobby. I’ve not seen him shoot an arrow yet, and he always carries a gun.

  Mac also stores a couple of long bows that look handmade. Long bows are the old style bows that were used for centuries. He definitely has skill, and an obvious love for the art of archery weaponry shows through.

  This little community has its ways of horrifying me. It has also helped me in so many ways. I don’t criticize them for how they live here, making a life, and I can’t help but think of my next move after the base. It’s probably not something to plan, because who really knows what will happen? All of my common sense tells me it’s stupid to try to push my luck, not to plan that far ahead.

  ***

  The next morning, I wake up ready to take on the day. First, I want to check on the guys. Eggs to cook would be a nice surprise, but my lack of money stops me. This situation needs to turn around fast.

  Mac and Rudy still sleep when I peek in the door. Rudy lies on top of a sleeping bag on the floor. I don’t want to wake them, so I go to the marketplace. It’s hustle and bustle this morning, as if everyone tries to keep busy and not think about the attacks last night. I don’t blame them. Mac’s spot’s empty, and I think about asking him if he wants me to sit here a few hours a day for him.

  I go to Linnie’s booth to see about helping her in the greenhouse. Turns out whatever she wants me to do will be ready to be done tomorrow. I guess she wants me to harvest something, but she doesn’t say.

  Reece occupies his booth, drawing on his arm with a tattoo gun. Now this guy is a dedicated tattoo artist. He looks at any kind of flesh as a canvas. I admire it for what it is, art.

  He spots me. “Hey little lady, what’s happening?”

  I shake my head, watching him shade in a tribal flame shooting up his arm.

  “That’s good.” I say, pointing to his arm. “What is the story you’re trying to tell?”

  He blinks at me with world-weary eyes, a blue-gray color. “It’s my journey of the past four years. I saved this arm for something special. Why not the living dead apocalypse?”

  Looking at his arm, grass and dirt start around his wrist, with zombies crawling out of graves beneath tombstones, like George Romero zombies. The pictures seep and fade into where the zombies chew and mash on bloody meat and bones. A blonde woman grips a two-barrel handgun, smoking from use. Skulls and bones sport licking flames of fire. In between the pictures and fire, a single tire tread indicates a motorcycle on a lone journey. The blonde must have been important to him. The pictures blend in a tale.

  “Awesome.” I say, while reading the patches on his biker vest. One says, “Ass, Gas, or Grass! Nobody rides for free.” The one I like says, “Flip yourself off. I’m busy.” A series of patches that look out of place catch my eye, “St. Castel’s Home for Boys Run, Detroit, MI.” He’s got one for every year leading up to the outbreak. This might be a clue into his old life.

  “You’re ready to get started?” he asks, breaking me out of my study. He means gun knowledge and target practicing.

  “Yeah, but I’m wondering if I could leave a sign-up sheet for the hot-wiring thing here, at your booth?”

  “I’ve already had people asking me about it. You’re more than welcome,” he says, bobbing his head. The beads on his goatee click together. He finishes up his work by dabbing blood, rubbing ointment on his arm, and then slipping out a sheet of paper for the sign-ups. “I’ve also been thinking. I’ll tell you gun knowledge, but as for target practicing, maybe we can help with the famished. That way, we won’t waste too many bullets. Just try not to miss a whole lot.” He chuckles, smiling at me – the first time I’ve seen a real smile from Reece.

  “Hey, no problem. That’s a good idea. I’ll be doing something constructive.” He starts unloading his arsenal from a duffel bag. Apparently, we’re starting right away.

  “First things first, have you ever shot a gun?” he asks. I swallow the lump in my throat, and just shake my head. He eyes me and sighs, probably knowing I’m lying. “All right, gun knowledge 101.” I let out the breath.

  We stand for a couple of hours, trying to figure out which gun fits me well. Being mainly about the grip, and how easily I slide and fire, it comes down to a Smith & Wesson M&P pistol, Browning Pro 9, or a Bersa Thunder 9. I easily handle them all, as they’re all easy to grip and slide. In the old life, I would have probably picked the Browning because it has a rail where you can attach a laser sight.

  In the end, I go with the Bersa Thunder 9 Ultra Compact 9 mm. Reece says Bersa Thunder’s one of the most underrated guns in the gun world. The Ultra compact one I pick is lightweight, reliable, and carries thirteen rounds, plus one in the chamber. Also, he has two of the guns.

  I might want a revolver as a backup, he tells me. Reece isn’t a big fan of Smith &Wesson, but for my lady wrists, I choose the S&M Centennial 642 Revolver, being light, compact, and stainless steel. What I really like – it’s hammerless, nothing to snag on. Downside, it only carries five rounds. Reece says its size deceives because it packs a sharp kick when firing. It’s powerful and gets the job done.

  I practice removing magazines and click them back in place. Reece shows me how to maintain them. It’s easier than I first thought. I can’t wait to fire one. Seeing my excitement, he laughs at me.

  “What other skills do you have besides hot-wiring cars?” His thick eyebrows rise. I fidget as I consider the question. He probably wants to know for payment reasons. “Mm hmm, I know something’s up with you. What do you know?”

  Since I’m seriously thinking about it to begin with, I decide he would be the perfect person to trust. “Fine, but you tell no one. My dad, before the outbreak, was a little batty. He made certain we could take care of and defend ourselves by whatever means necessary. We researched things that probably put us on some kind of FBI watch list. He bought books for reference.”

  His face is skeptical, “Anarchist’s Cookbook?”

  I snort, “That thing is over forty years old. It’s outdated and overrated.”

  He nods approvingly. “I thought about that, but never had the need for explosives, yet. It might be good to know.”

  “I also haven’t used the skills myself. There are huge risks of it backfiring on you.” I think about Harley and his merry band of cowards. “I wish I still had those books. I left them behind, but I have the basic knowledge.”

  “You think we can get some at a bookstore somewhere?”

  “Maybe. We might not be able to find the same ones I had, but there are hundreds of other resources, too.”

  He holds out his hand, “Done.” I shake it by way of agreement. “We’ll patrol tonight with Guido’s men. You need to learn how to shoot those guns. We’ll meet back here tomorrow, and I’ll go over the others.” He waves around at his arsenal. “It could come in handy if you ever get stuck in a situation where that’s all you have to use.”

  “Makes sense. I’ll see you tonight.” I tuck the revolver in my boot, and the pistols in my pants. Safety on. I need a holster of some kind, but it’s not a priority
at the moment. I throw the extra magazines in my pack. I feel like a gun locker. Reece nods, and I’m dismissed.

  My whole outlook on guns seems silly now, but the true test will be when I shoot one.

  ***

  I walk back to check on Rudy and Mac. Being afternoon, they should be awake by now. Having goals and some sort of schedule feels good. I do well with a routine. Standing in front of the door, I take a Bersa out of my pants, and slip the magazine out, so I won’t shoot by accident. I hold it in a traditional police officer stance, and kick the door open.

  “Freeze!” I yell, in a deep voice. Rudy and Mac jump about two feet in the air, even though they’re sitting down. I laugh, walking into the room. “I’ve always wanted to do that.”

  Mac chuckles a little nervously. Rudy says, “Ha. Hilarious.”

  “What?” I ask as I wag the gun around. “It’s not loaded.” I click the clip back into place, and stick it back into my jeans, taking a good look at them. Rudy obviously showered and shaved. His eye is swollen and bruised. Mac just looks tired.

  “I didn’t think you could get any sexier – then you come storming in with a semiautomatic pistol.” Mac says, as if it truly surprises him.

  “I’m learning the good stuff tomorrow.” I beam, “How is your ass feeling?”

  “I just changed the bandages, and it hurts.” He chases this comment with moonshine. No wonder he looks tired, but never being shot in my glutes, I wouldn’t know how much it hurt.

  Rudy waxes his bowstring, without a shirt, and it’s quite distracting. His hair hangs forward in a wavy fashion. Refusing to meet my eye, he’s really quiet. Well, more than usual, and I get the feeling I was a topic of conversation. Glancing at both of them, I ask, “What’s going on?” Mac glares at Rudy. I cross my arms.

  Rudy clears his throat, “Mac wants to help with the famished later. He’s getting restless.” His eyes follow his bow string as his neck colors a little. “He needs to wait at least a week.”

  I look at Mac, who still glares at Rudy, referring to something unsaid. “Fine, you don’t have to say anything. I don’t need you to.” His face softens as he looks at me, “I think I can get to my own room now.”