by Tim Waggoner
He’d even considered going down and letting them have him, purposefully allowing himself to become infected. At least that way the three of them would be together. But he knew from his time on the job that if a human body was savaged badly enough by deaders—especially if the heart and brain were damaged, or for that matter, devoured completely—it wouldn’t return to life. He’d thought about opening the basement door and then committing suicide elsewhere in the house, maybe by slitting his wrists so his body would remain intact. But once he changed, how could he be assured that he’d remember his wife and son in the basement—and if he did, that he’d still want to join them? More likely he’d try to get outside and go hunt for live meat. And even if by some miracle he found his way to the basement, there would be no one to bring them food. They wouldn’t starve, but they would remain hungry. Forever.
No, there was no way they could be together again, not as a family. He could keep Emily and Bobbie trapped in the basement and feed them like animals, but that was all. It would have to do.
He turned off the flashlight, closed the panel and latched it. There was enough meat on the dog to keep them busy—and quiet—for a while, maybe all the way until morning. That was good. He didn’t think he could stand to listen to their plaintive, lonely keening anymore tonight.
* * *
The next morning he biked to the city building to find out whether they were going to send Smoky Joe out again. He hoped Joe was going to stay in the garage; he didn’t feel like dealing with any deaders today. But no such luck. The hunting squads had been especially busy last night, and during their patrol, they’d counted a half dozen more bodies put out by townsfolk for Joe to pick up.
Kenny was already there, looking a bit more nervous than usual, but Robert was in too much of a funk to care why, so he didn’t ask. They fired Joe up and chugged out of the garage and headed for the first house on the list the hunters had given them. They had an easy morning of it. The first two deaders they stopped for had been killed by whoever put them out—one by a bullet through the brain, another by a brick or a large rock to the head—and they had no problem tossing them into Joe’s furnace.
The third stop was different. Not because of the deader; she was inanimate, too, and so petite either of them could have carried her one-handed to the truck. No, the problem occurred when Kenny, who had been silent all morning, finally decided to speak.
“We’re partners, right?”
They stood behind Joe, watching the petite woman burn. She was so tiny, Robert didn’t think it would take long for her to fall away to ash.
“We work together, if that’s what you mean,” he replied, not taking his eyes off the flames.
“Yeah, right, but I mean we look out for each other and stuff. You know, like you wouldn’t let a deader take a bite out of me, and I wouldn’t let one get at you. Right?”
Robert nodded, wondering where Kenny was going with this. “Sure.”
“Well, see, the thing is, I got a problem.”
Robert glanced sideways at him. Kenny had taken his gloves off and tucked them in the pockets of his coveralls. He had his mask off, too, and beads of sweat had erupted on his forehead, were beginning to trickle down the sides of his face. Maybe the sweat was due to the heat from Joe’s furnace, but Robert didn’t think so. Kenny was trembling all over, but his hands were the worst. They were vibrating so fast they actually blurred a little.
“You probably heard that my girlfriend Went Bad and I…took care of her.”
Robert didn’t say anything, but he turned to face Kenny.
“I had to do it, right? I mean, I know that’s what she would’ve wanted me to do, but afterward…shit, I kept having these dreams, you know? Really fucked-up ones. So I started drinking.” A nervous chuckle. “I mean, I always drank. Who doesn’t, right? But I started in big-time, mostly at night, so I could sleep. If I drink enough, I don’t dream.”
Kenny fell silent and they watched the flames for a time. Robert decided to let the man continue in his own time.
“I hate this job. Hate it like fucking poison, but it pays well. Damn well ought to, shit we have to do. I mean, who the hell in their right mind would do this kind of work?” A pause. “No offense.”
Robert nodded for him to go on.
“Five ration slips a week is pretty good pay these days. I mean, it’s more than just about anyone else gets, except for the hunters and the doctor at the city building.”
“But five slips aren’t enough for you anymore, are they?”
Kenny shook his head. “I guess my body’s soaked up too much alcohol for it to work on me the same way. That, or maybe the shiners aren’t making their stuff as strong as they used to. I use most of my slips for booze, hardly eat much anymore, but I can’t seem to get drunk enough to get to sleep. Even when I do, I hardly ever sleep through the night. Those dreams…”
“Why are you telling me this?” Robert asked softly.
Kenny shrugged, a little too nonchalantly, Robert thought.
“I figure you might be able to help me.” A nervous smile. “I know about your secret. I mean, you don’t have to be a fuckin’ genius to put it together. Your wife and kid never leave the house…half the time you can’t remember how old your boy is… They’re deaders, ain’t they? And you’ve got them stashed in your house somewhere. The garage, maybe, or the basement. Because you’re just like all these poor sonsofbitches.” He made a sweeping gesture to take in the neighborhood. “You can’t stand to say goodbye to your loved ones either. The only difference is, you’re around deaders all the time, and you ain’t afraid of them. You know how to handle them, so while no one else has the balls to keep their family members once they’ve Gone Bad, you do.”
Kenny stopped, a smug expression on his face, as if he were proud of his deductive prowess.
Robert felt a cold twisting in his gut, but he worked to keep his voice level. “So you know. What are you going to do about it?”
“Nothing, partner. Not as long as you give me three of your ration slips every week. Otherwise, I’ll tell the hunting squad about Emily and little Bobbie, and they’ll be over at your house before you can finish singing the first stanza of ‘Smoky Joe.’”
Robert said nothing.
“Look, I know this makes me a real prick, but I can’t help it, man. I need those slips! I gotta get me some sleep!”
A few more seconds went by before Robert finally said, “All right.”
“Really? You mean it?” Kenny sounded surprised, as if he hadn’t expected his threat to work.
“Yes. But make it two slips a week.”
“Uh-uh, no way.” He sounded emboldened now. “It’s three or bye-bye family.”
“All right. Three. But I don’t have any on me. You’ll have to wait until we get paid.”
“That’s only a couple more days. I can wait. But if you stiff me, you’ll regret it.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll pay. Now let’s get back to work. We have at least two more stops to make today, and if we don’t keep burning deaders, neither one of us is going to get paid.”
Kenny smirked. His expression was easy for Robert to read: he figured he had his partner by the balls now, and he was no longer low man on this team. “What do you mean, we? I’ll ride along, but I ain’t getting out. I’m never gonna touch another fuckin’ deader as long as I live. You do the burnin’ from now on, got it?”
“Got it. Now let’s go.”
Another smirk, and Kenny turned and started heading for Joe’s cab—and that’s when Robert punched him in the back of the neck. Kenny collapsed like a marionette whose strings had been severed, and once he was down, it was an easy matter for Robert to keep him there. He was, after all, thin and weak from malnutrition. Robert clamped his hands around Kenny’s neck and squeezed. Kenny kicked his feet and slapped his hands on the asphalt, but Robert kept squeezing until his partner’s struggles lessened and finally stopped altogether.
When it was finished, he cli
mbed off Kenny’s corpse and stood looking down at it.
Robert wasn’t worried that any of the residents of this neighborhood had seen, and even if they had, who would they report it to? There were no police anymore. Just the hunting squads—and pick-up men like him. Of course, he’d have to make up a story for his bosses at the city building. He supposed he could always tell them Kenny had said he’d had enough of the job and quit in the middle of today’s route, but if no one ever saw him again, they might get suspicious. No, better to say that Kenny got careless, let a deader bite him, and had to be put down. He wouldn’t be the first pick-up man that had ended up that way. That decided, the only thing left to do was feed Kenny’s body to Joe.
Robert bent down, intending to do just that, but as he reached toward Kenny, he hesitated. It seemed an awful waste to just toss him into the fire. He could still be…useful.
* * *
Robert walked into the kitchen, a heavy plastic bag clutched in his hand. Their keening was especially loud today; it had been almost a week since he had last fed them.
“Hold on, it’s coming.”
He got the flashlight and opened the basement door panel, taking his usual step back and waiting a moment before stepping forward again and shining the light inside. There was Emily, hands clawing the air, and little Bobbie, wailing and writhing on the floor behind her. But now there was a third one in the basement, much fresher than the other two and wearing a pair of coveralls. He stared up at the light with a blank, unseeing gaze, his mouth opening and closing hungrily.
Robert smiled. “I really appreciate you helping me out like this, partner. It means a lot to me.”
The male moaned, as if in response to Robert’s words, but he knew the thing was just hungry. He lifted his find—a possum that he’d managed to hit while out in Joe earlier that day—and stuffed it through the opening. The possum struck the floor, and Emily and Kenny fell on it like starving dogs.
Bobbie screamed for his share, and this time it was Kenny who took a mouthful over to the baby, feeding the boy with a gentle kiss.
Robert felt no jealousy. Not only had he provided food for his wife and child, he’d found a way to be down there with them, if only through a surrogate. Still, they were truly a family again, in every way, and that was all that mattered.
Robert watched them for a while longer, then he closed the panel and put the flashlight away. Time for bed; he had to get up early for work tomorrow. Not only did he have a new partner to break in, he had a family to feed.
BROKEN GLASS AND GASOLINE
“There he goes again!”
Susan sat in the easy chair, the upper half of her body twisted around so she could look over her shoulder and out the window. It was dusk, but there was still more than enough light to see by. A car—painted a blue so dark it almost appeared black—came flying down their street, going well over the twenty mile per hour speed limit. It was doing forty, maybe forty-five, Susan guessed. She didn’t recognize the make and model, but it was a sleek, sporty vehicle that looked something like a cross between a Camaro and a Jaguar. Whatever it was, she knew it didn’t belong to anyone in her neighborhood. No one around there could afford a car that nice.
“Brian, hurry up or you’ll miss it!” She didn’t turn around to look at her husband, who was sitting on the couch watching soccer on ESPN2. She didn’t want to take her eyes off the car, almost as if she were afraid it might vanish if she did.
“Miss what?” Bored reflex, no real meaning behind the words. She doubted he’d even looked away from the pretty colors on the screen.
The sound of the car’s engine grew louder, but it wasn’t a regular engine sound—no rumbling, no hum of acceleration. It was more like the kind of sound fingernails made scratching on a chalkboard, or like the sharp point of a knife etching a line in glass. Maybe it’s one of those gas/electric hybrid cars, she thought. She’d heard of them, though she’d never seen one. Whatever it was, it made a damn annoying sound. It set her teeth on edge and sent a cold wave rippling down her spine.
Then the car was in front of their house, flashing past in a blur of blue-black. She strained to make out the driver’s features, but the windows must have been tinted, making the interior of the car appear to be filled with solid, dense shadow. She did see what looked like a face through the window in the rear passenger’s side, though. Small, pale oval surrounded by darkness (a child’s face?), hint of blonde hair, a suggestion of indistinct features—eyes, nose, mouth. Looking this way, looking right at Susan, locking gazes with her for a split second, perhaps even less as fast as the car was traveling, and then the blue-black vehicle was past their house, running the stop sign at the end of the street, turning left without signaling.
The sound of that weird engine hung in the air for a few seconds more—crawling deep into her ears like ants with sharp little feet—but soon it too died away.
“Did you hear me? I said, miss what?”
Now she did turn around, and sure enough, Brian was still facing the TV.
“That car,” she said, trying to keep the irritation she felt out of her voice. “The one I’ve been telling you about.”
A shaving cream commercial came on, breaking the mystic hold the television had on her husband’s attention. He turned to look at her, frowning. “You mean the one that’s been going through the neighborhood too fast?”
Houston, we have communication! “Yes. It just went by again, still going way too fast.”
Brian made a noncommittal grunting noise and turned back to look at the TV. A beer commercial was on now, one that featured silicon-enhanced women in string bikinis.
“Brian, forget those bimbos. We’re talking here.” Despite her efforts, a strident tone crept into her voice. Cookie lifted her head, ears raised, and looked at Susan. The dachshund was curled up on a blanket next to the entertainment center where she’d been dozing, but the little dog was exquisitely sensitive to her owners’ moods, and the tone in Susan’s voice had alarmed her.
“It’s all right, girl,” she said in a soft, soothing voice, as if she were speaking to a child. “Everything’s okay. Mommy and Daddy are just talking.”
That took Brian’s attention away from the boobs on the TV. “I really wish you wouldn’t say things like that. I like Cookie just fine, but I’m not her daddy.”
He barely tolerated the dog, but Susan didn’t want to get into that right now. “I know you think I’m too worried about this car, but it’s really a problem. Not only do we live on a narrow street, but people park their cars alongside the curb. A driver wouldn’t be able to see a kid run out from behind one of those cars, especially if he was driving too fast. And kids play out in the street all the time, and people let their dogs and cats run loose. It’s only a matter of time before an animal—or worse, a child—gets hit.”
Brian let out a sigh that said, I’m not going to get to watch the rest of the match, am I? He picked up the remote off the coffee table and turned the TV off.
“Susie, I know car safety is a big thing with you, and that’s perfectly understandable. But I don’t know what you think we can do about this guy.”
She hated it when he called her Susie; it made her feel patronized. Worse, Brian was a high school teacher—only a substitute teacher at the moment, but he was looking for a full-time position—and he had a tendency to go into lecture mode whenever he wanted to make a point. Like now.
“A lot of people use our street as a short cut,” he continued. “You can get off Frazier, go down our street, and get onto Smithville, avoiding three traffic lights and saving close to five minutes. Hell, we’ve done it before.”
“Yeah, but we didn’t tear down the street doing more than twice the speed limit.”
Another sigh, this one saying, Why am I bothering to argue? I know I’m not going to win. In response, Cookie got off her blanket and trotted over to the couch. She jumped up, front paws on the cushion, and looked up hopefully at Brian, wagging her tail. His lips tighten
ed in irritation, but he reached down and scratched the top of her head.
“All right, the guy’s a jerk, I agree. But I’ll say it again: I don’t know what we can do about it.”
Numbers flashed through Susan’s mind. She was a bank teller, had always been good at math, had always found numbers reassuring, comforting, and solid. Something a person could get their hands on and really work with. She’d run across these numbers while surfing the Internet the previous night.
6,356,000 accidents. 3.2 million injuries. 41,821 killed. Car accident statistics for the previous year.
She wanted to offer them as evidence to Brian, to make him take her more seriously, but she knew what he’d think: that she was obsessing over this car, to the point where she was searching the Internet for accident information. And maybe he’d be right.
She made little kissy sounds to call Cookie over to her. The dog came happily, tail whipping back and forth through the air. Cookie rolled over and displayed her belly to Susan, who leaned down and rubbed it.
“I don’t know what we can do. But we have to do something.”
Brian looked at her, eyes full of love and pity, but that was even worse than his sighing.
She rubbed Cookie’s belly harder. “Nevermind. It’s just me. I’ll get over it.”
Brian opened his mouth as if he was going to say something, but then he closed it, nodded once, and turned the TV back on and lost himself once more in the soccer match.
Susan continued to rub the dog’s belly, numbers swirling around in her mind. 6,356,000…3.2 million… 41,821…
* * *
Susan sat behind the wheel of their Honda Civic, concentrating on breathing evenly. It was dark out, but the porch light splashed the driveway with just enough illumination to see by. There were no streetlights here. It was an older neighborhood, narrow road lined with small houses, most without garages. She’d thought it quaint when they first moved here, but she’d since come to view it as a lower middle-class dump—the kind of neighborhood where dirty-faced children played in the street, and unshaven men walked around shirtless, exposing snail-flesh beer bellies to the world. Where people hung out on the front porch drinking booze, playing music too loudly, and getting into shouting arguments. She couldn’t wait to move.
