by landau, marc
“Okay, I’m ready,” he says.
Charlie meekly pulls her gun out. Aims it with a shaky hand.
“Don’t make the poor man suffer any longer Charlie,” Alcot urges.
Will looks to her with warm eyes and says, “It’s okay. I’m ready.”
Her hand shakes. Tears well up. She can’t — or won’t — pull the trigger.
“Do it!” Alcot barks.
A loud shot breaks the heavy silence, and Will slumps over dead. Stunned, Charlie turns and sees Michael holding the smoking gun.
“You were just making him suffer,” Michael says. “You can't hesitate. You have to —”
One of the infected that no one noticed lunges, rips its teeth into Michael's foot. He lets loose a scream that still haunts Charlie’s nightmares.
Alcot shoots. Blows its skull into bits and pieces. He bends on one knee and touches his son’s shoulder. “Michael?” he asks, eyes soft with concern.
“I'm okay. I'm okay,” Michael replies.
“I know I killed it,” Charlie says, unable accept the truth. She missed it.
“Well, you didn’t,” Alcot says. It takes all his energy not to slap her and scream that she just killed her brother.
“Don’t worry sis. I’m fine,” Michael says.
But he wasn’t fine. One of the infected had torn through his boot and they all knew it.
***
The pale yellow house would best be described as “Classically American.” The street could have been plucked from a Rockwell painting or a Jimmy Stewart movie. Maplewood Lane. Classically American. Except, of course, for the zombies.
Inside, Alcot sits at the thick wooden dinner table. The craftsman who made it probably never imagined it would need to survive a zombie apocalypse. Thank God it wasn’t made in China. Alcot dips a wooden spoon into a bowl and scoops a helping of Mac n' Cheese. He plops it on a plate then pushes it over to Charlie.
“Michael's favorite,” Alcot says.
Charlie smiles weakly as her father fills another plate and pushes it her way.
“I think your mother would've liked this,” he says.
“No, she wouldn't daddy,” Charlie replies.
Alcot takes a swig of gin. “Probably not.”
“You don't have to do this,” she says. “There are other options.”
Alcot’s lips turn to a smirk. “Other options?”
“There’s training now,” she replies.
Her father sneers, “Like a dog?” he takes another swig. “Charlie, if it ever comes down to it, you put me down like a dog, not train me like one.”
“But we don't know the potential of the —”
“Don't talk about potential. You need to do what's right!”
He takes a breath, steadies himself.
“I admire your hope Charlie. But don't use it as a crutch because you're too afraid to act.”Alcot picks up his gun. “You were afraid to end that man’s suffering. Now it’s come to this.”
Chained to the table, groaning and clawing, Michael pulls at the restraints. Green spittle sprays from pustules on his lips, and tongue. It’s only the soft blue in his eyes that reminds Charlie she’s looking at her brother.
“Only hope for Michael now is a place at his mother's table.” Alcot’s voice is cold, but he’s trying to hold back tears.
“Don't do this daddy.”
Alcot holds the gun close to Michael's head and whispers, “Son, if there's anything left of you in there…I love you.”
Michael growls and snaps at his father’s face.
“Daddy! Don't! Please! Let me work with him.” Charlie says, unable to control her tears.
“Charlotte. Sometimes, no matter what you wish for, there's nothing left to do but end the suffering.”
Charlie continues sobbing. Alcot is unmoved.
“Look at him. He’s like a rabid dog. He’d kill us if he could.”
Michael gnashes teeth, pulls hard against his shackles trying to break free.
“Even a dog can enjoy his favorite bone.” Alcot pokes at the cold bowl of mac and cheese.
“Your brother? He can't even enjoy his favorite last meal. You know what he wants to eat now don't you Charlie?”
“He’s sick. Let me help him!” Charlie yells. Her voice shaking with panic.
“Only God can help him now.”
Alcot puts his finger on the trigger.
“Don't you dare do it!” Charlie lunges for his weapon, but she can’t get up. She’s shackled to the chair next to her brother.
“Sorry Charlie,” Alcot says. His voice a mix of bittersweet sadness. “I can’t trust you to do the right thing.”
He takes a bite of the now cold, clammy, mac and cheese. “At least we had one last dinner together,” Alcot mutters. He gulps gin then raises the bottle for a toast, “To the way it used to be.”
“I'll never forgive you!" she yells.
“I know.”
Alcot looks at Charlie slumped in her chair, then at the monster who used to be his boy.
A tear rolls down his cheek.
He pulls the trigger.
***
The sound of screeching tires shatters her dream. Charlie’s eyes pop wide and suddenly she’s inside a van that’s careening off the road, barreling towards the woods.
“Charlie!” a terrified man holding a film camera in his lap screams.
She slams the brake and swerves back onto the road.
“Sorry. So sorry,” she says.
“Jesus freaking Christ Charlie,” the cameraman shouts.
“Sorry. Sorry.”
Still trying to catch his breath, the cameraman says, “I thought women crashed from fixing their makeup or texting. Not dozing off at the wheel.” He pulls out a small bottle and gives her an energy shot.
She gulps it. “Thanks.”
“You need to get some sleep soon. You’re no good to anyone dead.”
Charlie nods absentmindedly as she pulls the van into a stone driveway.
“You ready?" she asks.
He reviews the camera equipment with the precision of a soldier checking his service weapon.
“Good to go. You sure you’re awake?"
Charlie forces a smile, “If I was dreaming you wouldn't be so ugly.”
“Love you too,” he says, then blows her an air kiss.
Charlie straightens her shirt and checks her breath against her hand as she walks up the front steps of an unpretentious gray house. At the front door, she turns to the camera, and puts on her best TV smile.
“Hey guys, this is Charlie Patterson with episode nine, season two, of Working with the
Virally Challenged. Today we're visiting Mary Hanson.”
Charlie knocks on the door and slowly it opens revealing a fifty something, gray haired cherubic woman with kind but nervous eyes.
“Hi Mary. Nice to meet you.”
Mary takes a deep breath, relieved that help has arrived.
“Nice to meet you too. Come in.”
The inside of the house is quaint. Books, figurines, a flower patterned couch worn from use. On a long dining table sit several elaborate jigsaw puzzles. Mary comes out of the kitchen with two mugs of coffee. She hands one to Charlie and the other to the cameraman. They both thank her, then Charlie gets down to business.
“So tell me about your situation,” she says.
Mary touches her face, smoothes her dress, then clears her throat. She’s obviously uncomfortable being on camera.
“Well, it started about three months ago. That’s when I switched to the night shift. Jackson…My husband. He got really upset. He started breaking things and banging into the walls.”
Before Charlie can even reply there’s a sound. A scraping noise, followed by a loud grunt.
“It’s bad today. He’s acting up. I think he knows there’s company.”
Charlie gives Mary a warm glance.
“I’m sure he’s anxious because we’re here.”
Mary nods.
“I'm afraid if it keeps up he'll chew through the wall and run away. Maybe even hurt someone.
Charlie puts her hand gently on Mary’s arm.
“Don't worry, we'll do everything possible so that doesn't happen.”
Mary sighs with relief.
“He may be suffering from some separation issues,” Charlie says. “It’s pretty common when routines change. No one likes change. Right? We’re all creatures of habit.”
She instantly regretted using the term creature. Luckily, Mary didn’t seem to notice, or had let it slide.
“Can we go say hello?” Charlie asks.
The door to the basement is littered with locks. Looks to be about seven in total. No way whatever’s down there is getting through the door. Mary pulls a key ring out and carefully starts unlocking each one until finally the last one clicks open.
“Can you stay here?” Charlie asks. “It's better if I meet Jackson alone at first. I don't want him to get protective over you.”
Mary nods and stays behind as Charlie slowly moves down the steps. She hears scraping sounds gently echoing in the distance, sees a shadow shift near the corner.
“Hey, Jackson. That you?" she says softly. “Mary thought I could help out. Would that be okay?”
Scrape, scrape is Jackson’s only reply. She takes another step and from the shadows, a raging, growling man lunges at her. Charlie doesn't flinch. She's cool as a cuke. She’s used to working with the virally challenged and has seen it all before.
Jackson’s chains snap him back keeping him out of reach. Mary’s done a good job with the restraints. She’s created a safe environment to keep both him and others safe. He would probably never need to be sent to a place like the Cube.
“That's cool. I know it's upsetting to have someone new in your space,” Charlie says. “I promise. I'm just here to help.”
It seems to calm him a little, and the quick response makes Charlie more optimistic that he can control the impulses. Hopefully, he can sense she’s telling the truth.
Charlie turns towards the stairs.“Mary? Can you come down here?”
Mary approaches and Jackson starts making low grumbling noises. As if sensing his wife’s presence.
“Can you come stand quietly next to me?” Charlie asks.
Mary nods and moves closer so Jackson can see them side by side.
“That's great. Nice soothing energy,” Charlie says.
She takes a slow breath and extends her hand to Jackson. He tilts his head and looks at her like a dog who just heard a weird noise. She wonders if he’s confused, or curious. Maybe both. Then again, he could be thinking she looks like a tasty snack.
Jackson lifts his hand. Charlie takes it, and they gently shake.
“Nice to meet you Jackson,” she says with a warm smile.
Mary’s so overwhelmed she’s speechless.
“He seems like a very sweet man,” Charlie says.
Mary touches her hand to her heart. “He is.”
***
A documentary video plays. A young man with a serious expression asks,“What's it like to be infected?”
“The best analogy I can give is if you combine Parkinson's and Leprosy,” Charlie replies.
“Can the infected communicate?" he asks.
“We haven't yet come across anyone with language skills, but it's not out of the realm of possibility. They definitely can communicate nonverbally. It's a matter of degrees.”
“Do they feel?" he asks.
“As far as feelings go, that's subjective. Do you think they feel?”
***
In the thick of the woods a brute of a man lumbers aimlessly through the brush. In the distance he hears a woman’s voice. It stirs something and he begins moving towards it. His heavy feet plod towards a small log cabin.
Inside the house, the sounds of the woman blare from a TV that’s been left on too loud.
The Brute moves to the window and looks inside.
Playing on the TV is an episode of Charlie’s show, “Working with the Virally Challenged.” The Brute watches for a few moments, then is distracted by movement in the den where he spies a decrepit man shambling around, bumping into the walls. The Brute goes to the front door and checks the lock. It’s open. He steps inside.
The decrepit man wanders the cabin in a stupor. The Brute steps closer. He reaches for him. Touches his shoulder gently. The decrepit man turns and attacks. He's badly infected. The Brute easily knocks his attacker to the floor with one punch. Then casually stomps the sick man’s skull in.
He lumbers to the fridge and takes out a beer. Then goes into the living room and sits in the dirty, worn out recliner positioned directly in front of the TV. His thick fingers paw at the tab of the can. It takes several attempts to get a grip but finally he does. The can slowly peels open. His hand quivers as he lifts it to his lips and takes a sip. Beer drizzles down his chin as he leans back and watches Charlie’s show.
“Do meds really work?” Asks a pudgy construction worker as he takes another sloppy bite from an overstuffed meat sandwich of unknown origin. It could be ham. It could be a shoe’s insole.
“Yes. The current medical regimen halts the disease’s progression. That, combined with antipsychotic medication, such as haloperidol, ameliorates aggressive tendencies.”
The Brute finishes his beer, crushes the can, and throws it at the TV.
***
Charlie presses her thumb hard into the sweet spot at the base of Jackson’s skull.
“Rubbing this area can help calm him. It's near the medulla. Deals with basic survival functions. People call it the reptilian brain. We think it's hyperactive in the infected.
Rubbing it helps release some of the built up toxins. You have to press really hard.”
Charlie really digs in. It seems to work. Jackson looks like he's about to fall asleep.
“Everyone likes a good neck massage right?” she says.
“It's nice to see him look so peaceful,” Mary says.
Charlie stops massaging.“Now that he's calmer let's start to deal with this separation issue.” She speaks slowly to Jackson, like you do when talking to a child. “Jackson, Mary tells me you get upset when she goes to work.”
Jackson begins to get agitated.
“I think he understands you,” Mary says.
“Hard to say. But he’s responding. We don't really know what level of comprehension remains. Everyone’s different. I believe there's always some level of understanding. Even if it's deep down.”
She looks gently into Jackson’s eyes, “It's not your fault. Mary knows you're sick. She's here for you.”
Jackson looks at Mary’s compassionate expression, and it seems to calm him.
“Okay Jackson. Mary and I are going to go out for a little while. We'll be back soon.”
Mary’s eyes grow worried.
“It's okay. Act casual. Like it's no big deal,” Charlie says.
As they leave Jackson starts losing it.
***
The two women sit sipping coffee at the kitchen table trying to ignore the pounding and grunting coming from downstairs, but Mary's clearly worried.
“Should we…”
Charlie checks her watch.
“ Just another minute or so. He has to get used to you going and coming. It's important that he learns you'll always come back.”
Of course Mary will always come back.
“Why do you think he gets so upset?” Mary asks.
“Hard to say. Could be a lot of things,” Charlie says. “Could be a subconscious memory of the plague. He could just be afraid.”
Charlie checks her watch and sips coffee. “There was one infected man I worked with who got really upset every time his wife left. Turned out she was having an affair.”
“Well,” Mary replies, hackles raised. “Jackson knows there’s no way I’d ever do that to him,”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply anything
. I just meant people are complicated. Even the infected.”
Mary nods in agreement.
“He might even feel guilty that you're the caregiver now. Men and their egos.”
Both of the women smile at that one.
“You really think he can feel?” Mary asks.
Charlie shrugs. “It makes sense. The infected are still human.”
“God, it must be awful,” Mary replies with a tear in her eye.
Charlie checks her watch. “Okay, time to go back down. Greet him the way you usually do. Be friendly but not too friendly. You don't want to overexcite him. Let him know you're leaving. Then come back. You okay with that?”
Mary nods then heads back downstairs while Charlie speaks to the camera.
“I've got a good feeling about this. Mary's going to do whatever it takes and Jackson’s fairly high functioning. With Mary's support I think he can make the changes he needs to.”
Mary comes back upstairs.
“How'd it go?” Charlie asks.
“Better than I thought it would. I feel a little guilty leaving him again so soon.”
Jackson moans and pounds in the basement, but it's not as bad as before.
“That's totally normal. Just don’t give in. Let him self soothe.”
Mary tries to sit calmly but listening to her husband’s temper tantrum is hard. She badly wants to check on him.
“I feel like I have ants in my pants,” Mary says.
“Ants in your pants,” Charlie replies with a smile. “I haven’t heard that one in a really long time.”
They sit in awkward silence. Charlie can’t help but think Mary might explode if she has to sit listening to Jackson much longer. She spots several completed jigsaw puzzles and decides a change of topic might be a useful distraction.
“You have some incredible jigsaw puzzles.”
“Oh yes, thank you. We used to do them together. It started on a vacation in the Cape one summer when the power went out. We've been doing them since then. Jackson always tried to find the most elaborate ones.”
