She practiced flicking the safety on and off.
“Like that?”
“Yep.”
He stepped back, unbelted the holster. He took the belt off and put it around her waist, arms reaching around her, fastening it from behind. She was grateful she couldn’t blush. With the holster belted around her, he stepped to her side and took the gun from her hand. He slid it into the holster.
“All right now, let’s practice drawing and cocking it.” He came around to her left and pushed his cowboy hat back on his head. “Pretend that coffee can is Chomper.”
“No bullets?” she asked.
“Not yet.”
She was just teasing him. She eyed the coffee can, imagining it was the feral dog that had trapped her in the Chevy. She tried to draw but forgot to unsnap the little tab that secured the pistol in its holster and jerked the belt up into her ribs. The pistol flopped back down against her thigh, slipping from her fingers.
Perry laughed.
“I didn’t even see you latch that little strap there.”
“Try again.”
On her second try she dropped the gun on the pavement. Perry winced but did not comment as she stooped to pick it up.
“Don’t laugh,” she said, pointing the gun at him.
Perry ducked back instinctively, though he knew the gun wasn’t loaded.
“What? Why are you bobbing around like that?” she said, swinging the pistol to and fro.
“I hope you’re messing with me,” he laughed, putting his hand out and pushing the barrel of the pistol away from his face.
She smiled and holstered the gun. She was messing with him a little.
“Draw!” Perry shouted.
Third time was the charm. She cleared the pistol from its holster, flicked the safety, cocked it and aimed. “Pew-pew-pew!” she cried, pretending to pull the trigger.
“Good job,” he said and then he adjusted her hands and showed her how to aim.
An hour later, he trusted her with live rounds. He moved around behind her, told her to take her time, aim carefully and fire off one shot. “We have to be sparing,” he said. “I’ve only got a couple clips of ammo for the nine millimeter.”
She was fairly sure she could hit the can. It was big, and it was not very far away. Confidently, she cocked the pistol and took aim.
The recoil shocked her, and the report of the gunshot made her ears throb in pain. The bullet struck the pavement about two feet to the right of the can, throwing a spark into the air before whining off into the distance.
“What did I do wrong?” she asked.
“You moved your whole hand when you squeezed the trigger. Try again. Concentrate on moving just your trigger finger. And don’t close your eyes when you fire.”
“Okay.”
The spark leapt up from the left side of the can, only six inches away this time.
“I think the sights are off or something,” she said, lowering the pistol.
Perry stepped forward, took the gun from her hand, aimed and fired. He barely even looked at his target.
The can flew into the air with a clang!, spinning like a dervish.
“Showoff,” Soma said as he handed the Smith & Wesson back to her.
“Practice, that’s all,” he said. He jogged away to right the can. “Don’t shoot me!”
She missed the next shot, but hit her target on the fourth attempt. She missed the fifth, but hit the can consistently after that, even when Perry moved it further away. “You’re getting pretty good,” he said as he jogged back from righting the can for her again. “I’d almost say you were a natural.”
“Almost,” she said.
He shrugged apologetically. “Almost. Let’s squeeze off a few more rounds and call it a day.”
She nodded. He slipped around behind her, put his hands on her shoulders. She raised the gun, aimed… but before she could pull the trigger, the bushes on the far side of the road shook. A soft moan arose from the underbrush.
In an instant, Perry was around her, pushing the pistol down with his right hand. He put himself between her and the trembling bushes.
“Perry--?”
“Quiet,” he hissed.
A moment later, a deadhead in ragged clothing spilled from the bushes and into the ditch. The zombie fell gracelessly, face-first, then clambered up into the road. He was stocky, his skin blue-tinged and riddled with big, bloodless sores.
“Hand me the gun,” Perry whispered from the side of his mouth. “Don’t make any sudden moves.”
She passed him the Smith & Wesson.
“Back slowly to the gate,” he said. “Don’t talk.”
Soma moved to obey him and Perry followed, eyes riveted to the deadhead tottering down the road toward them. He held the gun at his side, the muscles in his arm tense.
The deadhead was middle-aged when it died. It had dark hair and a receding hairline. Weepy, cataract eyes twitched to follow as Perry and Soma withdrew. It opened its mouth and gurgled, and viscous black goo dribbled from its bottom lip. It held its wavering arms out before it as it stumbled toward them, fingers curling and uncurling.
“The gunshots must have attracted it,” Perry whispered. “It won’t attack us unless it’s starved.”
Soma nodded. The gate was still about ten yards away. She continued to walk backwards, shoes grating in the gravel at the verge of the road.
The zombie groaned, head tilted to one side. It shambled forward a little more rapidly, and Perry raised the gun and aimed it at the dead man’s forehead.
Quick as a rattler, the zombie’s hand shot up and seized Perry’s wrist. Soma almost cried out and Perry twisted his head around to scowl at her. Lips pressed tightly together, he nodded at the gate, directing her to continue her retreat.
As she continued to back toward the privacy fence, she watched Perry slowly reach up and transfer the pistol to his other hand. The deadhead sniffed at Perry’s forearm as he leveled the Smith & Wesson at the creature’s temple.
The deadhead pushed Perry’s arm away with a look of disgust. It croaked in Perry’s face as if to scold him, then limped away.
Perry backed slowly, gun aimed at the creature, until he stood beside Soma.
“Guess it wasn’t hungry,” he murmured.
The zombie wandered aimlessly up the highway, moaning quietly. After a few minutes, its zigzagging path carried it from the road into the woods again. They heard dry leaves and branches crunching beneath its feet as it vanished into the forest.
“That was my landlord,” Perry said. “Old man MacDonnell. He wasn’t much friendlier when he was alive.”
They went inside.
22
Jake and his girlfriend Tracy arrived that evening as the sun beat a ruddy path to the horizon. Perry consulted his clock when he heard the distant hum of the young man’s truck. Perry had a wind-up clock in his bedroom, she had discovered, which he set according to the radio broadcasts coming out of Peoria. It was 7:05 PM. “It’s probably Jake,” he said, but he went for his rifle anyway.
Better safe than sorry.
Perry went to the living room window and peered through the curtain as Soma waited anxiously nearby. Their confrontation with the house’s previous owner had set her nerves on edge and she was already nervous of the journey ahead. The cumulative stress was making her very jumpy.
They were leaving out in the morning. It hadn’t seemed real before, but it was getting more real by the moment. Tomorrow at sunrise, they would venture into the unknown in search of her lost family. No telling what dangers lay in wait for them. She had caught herself chewing her nails several times that evening.
The hum of the truck’s engine got louder and louder. Perry dropped the curtain. “Yep, that’s Jake,” he said. “That loud muffler is going to get him killed one of these days. Killed for good.”
They walked into the backyard as the truck pulled into the driveway, muffler snarling. Jake parked and jumped from the cab. He waved, grabbed a wheel
chair from the bed of the truck, unfolded it and helped Tracy from the passenger seat. He grabbed a couple duffle bags and threw them in his girlfriend’s lap, then wheeled her toward the gate.
“Hi!” Tracy called brightly. “We made it!”
“There was a small herd by the grade school,” Jake said. “At least twenty deadheads.”
“They follow you?” Perry asked, squinting east.
“Nah,” Jake said, opening the gate and pushing Tracy into the back yard. “We parked and waited until they passed. That’s what took us so long to get here.”
“You need to change out the muffler on that piece of shit you call a truck,” Perry said, leading them back toward the house. “All it does is draw deaders.”
“Yes, mother,” Jake said sarcastically.
“How are you, Soma?” Tracy asked as they walked (and rolled) to the kitchen door, ignoring the male repartee.
“Good,” Soma said. She liked Tracy. She was a very cheerful person. “Perry taught me how to shoot.”
“Really?” Tracy said. She looked back at Jake accusingly. “I wish Jake would teach me how to shoot. If I’d known how to use a gun I might still have my legs.”
“You try shooting a gun now you’re just going to roll backwards,” Jake replied. He was teasing her, but Soma thought it was cruel.
Tracy seemed to take no offense. “I’ll set the brakes, moron.”
“I’ll teach you when we get back,” Perry told her. “Jake doesn’t want to do it because he can’t hit the side of a barn. He just doesn’t want you to know what a crap shot he is.”
“Hey, I’ve been practicing,” Jake objected.
“Uh huh.”
Inside, Jake opened one of the duffel bags and produced a large plastic bowl full of deer meat. “I brought dinner,” he said proudly. He had shot a deer that morning, he said, spent most of the day dressing the animal. He told them in breathless detail how he had killed the animal. The short version was this: he had awakened, saw a deer cropping grass in the back yard, grabbed his rifle and shot it from the back porch in his underwear. His version was longer, though, and a lot more dramatic. Perry slapped him on the arm after the telling and said, “We’ll make a real man of you yet!” If Jake were a puppy, he would have wagged his tail.
Jake insisted they eat immediately. Perry set out plates and fetched a knife to carve the meat while Soma lit the candles in the center of the table. It wasn’t dark yet, but the light was failing.
“How romantic,” Tracy said, candlelight flickering in her eyes.
Soma sat. Jake placed a large slab of bloody meat on the plate in front of her. Soma grimaced as the smell wafted up to her nose, not because it was detestable but because her reaction to it was so powerful. The hunger leapt up in her at the smell, twisting her stomach into knots. She fisted her hands in her lap and tried to maintain her dignity as Jake served Tracy, Perry and then himself.
“Dig in, everyone,” Perry said.
Soma looked at the meat bleeding on her plate. Experimentally, she tried to resist the hunger a little longer. Silver needles of pain threaded their way through her limbs. Her entire body began to ache, and a throbbing, almost sexual want began to pry at the mortar of her self-control.
Tracy attacked her raw steak with an animalist snarl. Fingers bloody, she brought the meat to her mouth with her hands and ripped off a chunk with her teeth.
Across the table, Perry gnawed at his steak with a moist groaning sound, teeth gnashing. His face was blank but for an expression of orgasmic pleasure, eyes rolled back in their sockets so that only the whites showed. There was no sign of conscious thought in his face, just pure animal pleasure, which Soma found both terrible and seductive.
Snorting and grunting, Jake ate messily. The meat kept falling out his fleshless cheek. He grabbed the wads of chewed flesh when they fell from his grinding teeth and stuffed them greedily back in his mouth.
The pain was almost unbearable now. The hunger was maddening. Soma held onto her crumbling self-control with all her might, thinking, I can do this. I can resist it.
The next thing she knew she was blinking her eyes, swimming up out of the red haze, belly full, body tingling with nourishment. She had failed, could not even remember the moment she had surrendered to it. Her fingers were tacky with dried blood. The taste of it was in her mouth, and there was meat stuck in her teeth.
Surprise, then despair and self-recrimination.
How could she trust herself around her daughter, her family, when she couldn’t even resist a hunk of deer meat?
I’ll practice. I’ll get better at it.
But did she have time? They were leaving in the morning.
Perry had risen, was passing moist cloths around the table: zombie etiquette. Soma took a towelette with a murmured thank you and washed the blood from her fingers and mouth. There was blood dried under her nails. She scrubbed harder.
“Out, out, damned spot,” Jake said, and she looked at him, hurt.
Perry noted her agitation. “Let’s go out on the back porch and enjoy the sunset,” he suggested.
It was a good suggestion, and a good sunset. They sat on the back porch chatting as the sun sank from sight beyond the rugged hills, listening to the crickets warm up for the evening symphony in the grassy orchestra pit of the lawn. It was a beautiful early summer night, fireflies blinking, a cool breeze combing through the treetops, making the leaves rustle and the boughs creak. Perry lit a bamboo Tiki torch and a cigarette and leaned up against the side of the house beside Soma’s seat, arms crossed, guarding her against Jake’s abrasive wit. They chatted until well after dark, and it was nice, it was almost like being alive again, the sight of their wounds and withered flesh softened by the torch’s amber glow.
Bedtime was awkward. Perry gave his bed to their guests, carrying a pillow and blanket to the couch. Soma was tempted to invite him into her bed. There was no reason not to, she told herself. They couldn’t have sex. Besides, she was married. She wouldn’t have sex with him even if they could. Yet she hesitated. It felt like a betrayal of her marriage vows to sleep beside another man, to even contemplate it. She supposed it was because she was developing feelings for her host, feelings that were much stronger than she was comfortable examining right now. And yet she could not be a wife to Nandi, even if he were alive, even if she could learn to control her hunger, resist the terrible red haze. But what if her family was like her now? The thinking dead? They could be together then, but then where would that leave Perry?
She wrestled with her confusion while Perry said good night to Jake and Tracy. He headed down the hall toward the living room, bare feet swishing. Almost too late, Soma stamped down on her reticence and went to the doorway.
“Perry?”
He turned back. He was dressed in a white t-shirt and pinstriped pajama bottoms, tall, broad-shouldered, slim and handsome. “Yes?”
“Why don’t you lie down with me tonight? The bed is big enough. There’s no need for you to sleep on the couch.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah,” she said, shaking her head. “I probably won’t even be able to sleep tonight. I’m too nervous.”
His lips crooked. “What are you nervous about?”
“About tomorrow, silly,” she said. “The trip.”
He ducked into the living room, grabbed his pillow, returned. “Now there ain’t no need to be nervous,” he said, striding toward her. “We’re going to look out for each other. And we’re going to be really careful.” He stopped in front of her, looking down. “I won’t let anything bad happen to you.”
She searched his eyes. They were pale, almost silvered by the Phage, and set deep in their sockets, but the expression in them soothed her frayed nerves. He meant what he said.
“Okay,” she said, nodding hesitantly. Then she smiled, and said more firmly. “Okay.”
“So,” he said loudly, moving to the bed. “Which side do you like?”
“The left,” she answered.
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“Good,” he said, flopping down exaggeratedly. “I always sleep on the right side.”
His easy grin put her a little more at ease and she walked to the bed and sat on the edge of it.
He continued to talk as she sat with her back to him: “Rae and I tried switching sides a few times when we were still married, but I could not for the life of me go to sleep on the left. We always had to switch back.” He didn’t sound like Nandi, but he felt a little like Nandi, and that made it hard to relax, to lie back beside him. She couldn’t stop wondering where her husband was, what he was doing that very moment. Did he still live? Had he found someone new? Was he happy, sad, or just content? Would he be angry if he knew what she was doing right now, that she was preparing to sleep with a man she had just met a couple days ago, even if sex was a physical impossibility for them? Or was he dead? Were they all dead?
“Nandi was like that, too,” she said. She said it as she turned and lay back on her pillow, looking Perry in the eyes. She was curious to see his reaction when she spoke her husband’s name; if he was jealous, annoyed, ashamed.
He just smiled at her. The only emotion in his eyes was curiosity.
She sighed inwardly. She was behaving as if Perry were a living man, as if he had a living’s man’s endocrine system to fuel his jealous. He didn’t and he wasn’t. She was being overly sensitive, as usual.
She said: “I don’t think Nandi and I ever switched sides. Not the whole time we were married. I wanted to try it a couple times, just for fun, but he wouldn’t budge. He was a very stubborn man.”
Perry laughed, looking up at the ceiling. “I hope I get to meet him,” he said.
Soma nodded, looking up at the ceiling next to Perry.
“I hope you do, too.”
23
They talked for a while in the dark, after Perry blew out the candles. She was frightened at first that it would be awkward, lying beside him, but the complete absence of sexual tension soon put her at ease. When some part of his body unintentionally brushed against her, his flesh was cold and strangely rigid, not at all like a living man’s flesh. He didn’t crowd her or try to snuggle her, just laid in the dark and talked about his wife, his family, his boyhood growing up in the high country of Southern Illinois. He didn’t talk about the journey that lay ahead of them and that was good, because she really didn’t want to think about the dangers that crouched in wait for them Out There, in the unknown. He just talked of the past, shared funny anecdotes and played those comforting games Do You Remember That and What Do You Miss the Most?
Soma (The Fearlanders) Page 14
