by landau, marc
“Is it going to hurt much?”
“I'm sorry. I don't know.”
“Can you do me a favor?” she asks.
“Sure.”
“Make sure Henry gets to my mother?”
“Of course.”
The woman recounts her mother’s contact info.“Promise me.”
“I promise.”
Henry comes over and licks the woman’s face. “He's a good boy.” She hugs him hard, as tears roll down her cheek. “Is there anything you can do to help me?”
Charlie’s eyes give her the answer she needs. There’s nothing anyone can do.
The surreal silence is broken by the angry crack of gunshots. Two bullets rip into the woman’s stomach. She drops onto her back, gurgling weakly. Blood oozing from the nickel sized holes.
Charlie spins around to see where the shots came from. In front of her, the Brute holds the gun in one hand, a baseball bat in the other. She wonders why he didn’t shoot her. Maybe because murdering the infected isn’t a crime, but killing the “living” is. Before he can change his mind, Charlie lunges at his thick torso with her stun gun. She’s not fast enough. The Brute cracks her wrist with the bat, knocking the stun gun from her hand. He thumps the bat into her gut sending the air out of her body. She buckles to her knees sucking wind. The Brute turns to Randy. Points the gun.
Charlie’s able to belch a scream, “No!”
He fires two more rounds. A double headshot. Randy’s gone.
Hot angry tears burn Charlie’s face. She musters what little she has left and tries to attack again. Her noble but weak effort get her the thick end of the bat to her skull. It goes black.
***
Charlie wakes to the feeling of warm wet sloppy saliva on her forehead. She opens her eyes and sees Henry panting and licking her face. It almost makes her smile, until she sees Randy lying dead in a bloody mess. The woman is gone.
Charlie struggles to get to her feet. She slips her arms underneath Randy and with effort scoops him up. Slowly she moves back to his house with Henry following behind. Before she can get to the door Elliot rushes out, takes his son, and collapses sobbing with him in his arms. She tries to comfort Elliot but knows there’s nothing she can do. She leaves him with his sorrow, dreading her next stop. Dropping the dog off and giving the woman’s mother the bad news. She’s so sick of giving people bad news. When is this going to end?
***
Documentary video plays. A nurse sits on a bench trying to light a cigarette.
“Do you think they’ll ever find a cure?" she asks, more worried about getting the cigarette lit than about the question.
“…I don’t know,” Charlie replies.
***
Charlie stumbles out of a random dive bar, at least four drinks over the limit. She takes out her phone and dials a number.
“Hey there mister cameraman. I can’t do this crap anymore. We had a good run. You’re fired.”
She hangs up, wobbles to the van, gets inside, and starts it up. She pulls out of the lot, clearly a danger to herself and anyone else on the road.
The van swerves, and in the back, the large pile of blankets jostles exposing the arm of the Brute and the leg of the woman in the purple sweats beneath the fabric. Carefully, he reaches for a blanket and covers them both.
Charlie knocks on a door. It’s late, and she’s knocking much too loudly. Drunks don’t seem to hear very well, or care what time it is. The door creeps open, and a half sleeping Sam stands in front of her. “Charlie?”
“I um…shouldn’t be driving,” she slurs, then wobbles and almost falls to the floor.
“You should come in,” Sam says.
“No, no I’m fi—”
Sam takes her arm. “Come on in.”
He leads her in and plops her down on the couch. “I'll make some coffee,” he says, as he walks into the kitchen.
“I shouldn't have…I didn't mean to…”
Sam ignores the drunken rambling and takes out a bag of ground coffee beans. A few minutes later he brings her a fresh cup. “Here you go. Just how you…”
Charlie's snoring on the couch.
“…like it.” Sam smiles, gets a blanket, and covers her up.
***
The Brute opens the back of the van door and steps out. He leans inside and wraps his thick fingers around the ankles of the woman from the woods. Then pulls her out and drags her towards the trees at the back of the house.
***
Morning comes, and Charlie’s eyes open into puffy slits. Is there a hippo sitting on her head? At least there’s a little good news. Sam’s the first thing she sees. A quick look at her phone shows a message from the cameraman. She can’t deal with that at the moment. Besides, it’s safer for him if he’s out of her life.
“Quite a night you had. I’m not going to mention that you definitely shouldn’t have been driving,” Sam says. “You could’ve called. I would’ve come get you.” He hands her some fresh orange juice.
“I'm really sorry about this. I’m a bit of a mess.”
“You hungry?”
She nods a “yes.” Her stomach gurgles in agreement.
Sam goes to the kitchen and quickly returns with a morning meal worthy of a bed and breakfast. A plate of eggs, toast, and sausage made to look like a smiley face. Eggs for eyes. Sausage for the smile. Funny, she gets a kids’ meal.
“Thanks.” She tries to smile, but her face hurts too much.
“Trev used to like the smiley face. Maybe he still does. Least I hope so.”
She sips OJ. “Mmmm. Fresh squeezed, I’m impressed.”
“I know, I'm kind of caretakery,” Sam says.
“It's what families do. Good families anyway.”
“Am I allowed to ask what made you knock on my door at two am?”
Charlie looks out the window at her van sitting in the driveway. Does it look different? Is the back door open a little?
“Sorry. I was pretty drunk.”
“Did something happen?”
“Someone killed one of my clients.”
“I’m sorry. Did the authorities —”
Charlie waves him off. “They don’t care.”
Sam sips coffee, then it hits him. “You didn't come here for a drunken booty call. You came to protect us.”
There's no reply. He's right of course. No need to say it.
“Is Trev safe?” he asks.
She doesn’t answer quickly enough.
“Is he safe, Charlie?!”
“It’s okay. He’s safe.”
“You’re sure?”
“I promise I won’t let anything happen.”
Finally, he calms down and tries to lighten the mood. “So, you’re sure it wasn’t a booty call?" he says with a slight smile.
It was, but Charlie’s not about to admit it. Hopefully her cheeks won’t turn red and give her away. Trying to get off the topic she says,“The important thing is we’re safe.”
The door bursts open and the Brute charges in, baseball bat in hand. He swings wildly. Smashes lamps, furniture. A rhino in a china shop. Just misses Sam’s head.
“Get Trevor out of here,” Charlie commands.
“I'm not leaving you.”
The Brute’s powerful, but he’s slow and lumbering. Easy to avoid. But if he makes contact — squished like a bug.
“Get Trevor somewhere safe. Now!” Charlie yells.
Instead, Sam jumps up and charges into the big man. It doesn’t do much good. The Brute steamrolls him backwards and halfway through the living room wall.
Charlie runs at them, puts a sharp elbow to the Brute’s thick tree truck of a throat. The first shot doesn’t do much, but the second hits the target, his Adam’s apple. Another three quick chops makes him gag, clutch his throat, and drop to his knees. He’s down, but not even close to out.
Trevor ambles into the room like it’s just a normal day. Whatever that is for the virally challenged. He gazes at the ceiling, seem
ingly fascinated by spackle. The infected do seem to like staring at things. Then his eyes move over to his injured brother laying against the wall. Next, he looks to the man who did it. Trevor utters a pained wail, and attacks the Brute.
“Trevor, get out of here!" Sam yells.
Trevor doesn't listen, or can’t. He just keeps raging.
Charlie uses the momentary distraction to kick the Brute's spine, making him roar in agony. He ditches the bat, reaches for his gun, and aims at the closest target, Trevor.
Sam grabs the bat and smashes the Brute’s shoulder. The gun goes off. Two shots. One hits Trevor in the arm. Just a flesh wound. The other just misses braining him. Sam swings the bat again, cracking it hard on the Brute's neck.
“You almost killed my brother!" Sam screams, smashing him over and over, until the big Brute finally stops moving.
“Let's turn him over, see who this son of a bitch is,” Sam says.
“We need to tie him up first,” Charlie calls back.
Trevor groans loudly and Sam turns to soothe him. “It's okay. It's okay.”
“Rub the back of his neck hard with your thumb,” Charlie says, while scanning the house for something to tie the Brute up with.
“Rub his what?”
“The back of his neck. It'll help calm him,” she says.
The Brute slowly comes to and reaches for the bloody bat.
Sam presses his thumb hard into Trevor's neck.
“This actually works. It's like an off button,” Sam says with relief.
The Brute pops up swinging wildly.
“This thing’s like the God damn Terminator,” Sam says. Then he does the only thing he can. He scoops up Trevor and runs. Charlie follows close behind. They race to the van, jump in, and drive away. In the rearview mirror they see the Brute standing at the door, the bat dangling at his side dripping red rivulets.
After driving just a few hundred yards, Charlie presses the brakes, pulling the van to a sharp stop.
“What the hell are you doing?" Sam yells, as he watches her jump out of the driver’s side door.
“I’m going to finish this.”
“Finish this? Are you crazy?”
“Get somewhere safe with Trevor,” she says. “Go. Please. I need to do this.”
Reluctantly, Sam shifts the van into gear and slowly drives away.
Charlie takes out her gun. Her real gun. Good thing she always keeps it close, in the glove compartment, just in case. Not the safest place but convenient. A habit from back during the plague. She’s never had to use it before. The stun gun has always gotten the job done. This time it’s different. This time she’s ready to pull the trigger.
The Brute trudges out of the doorway, the bat gripped tight, ready to go. Charlie doesn’t hesitate. She raises the weapon and shoots.
He continues coming at her like nothing happened. As if she was firing blanks. How did they all miss? Before she can get off another shot, the Brute punches her hard in the side with his thick paw. Her legs turn to noodles, and she collapses to the pavement. The Brute lifts a leg and stomps down hard. Charlie rolls away a split second before her head is squashed like a watermelon with a hammer. He reaches down for her and she kicks him hard in the gut. She gets to her feet and follows it up by plunging her elbow into his spine. He spins, facing her, then smacks her hard with his giant hand. It sends her flying backwards into the wall. It feels like she was hit by a shovel.
Charlie shakes it off best she can, forces herself back to her feet, and wipes the blood from her lip. Her eyes go cold. She’s ready to die. The two stand off. Stare each other down. Western gunfighters at high noon.
Charlie attacks. The Brute swings for the fences. She ducks beneath the bat and feels the air woosh by. If it had connected, she’d be with her brother on the other side. Charlie makes her fist a rock and strikes the Brute hard multiple times in the kidney. He drops the bat. She rolls and reaches for the wood. Grabs it and begins pounding away at him. She aims for the weak spots. A crack at the knees. Another in his groin. It softens him up. He covers his family jewels, and it leaves his skull wide open. Just what she had hoped for. She reels back and strikes his exposed head. The Brute drops to the ground. Anyone else, it probably would’ve killed. Charlie keeps flailing wildly, until he stops moving. She lifts the bat for the kill shot, but can't or won’t bring herself to do it. She drops the bat, stumbles away wobbling on shaky legs, then collapses.
***
The van cruises back down the driveway and stops next to Charlie. Sam gets out, drags her into the van and pulls away.
When she awakens, she’s in a room she doesn’t recognize. Sam’s cleaning her wounds.
“Where are we?" she asks.
“The Bat Cave,” he replies with a grin as he puts gauze on a cut. “It's my parents' getaway pad. We used to come here a lot as kids.”
Charlie looks around. The place is quaint. She could imagine coming here for the summer or weekends with her family. Her mom used to like to…She immediately forces the memory away. Remembering her mother is too much. She’s not ready. She might never be.
Charlie sits up and sips a glass of water Sam thoughtfully has at the ready. This guy takes care of everything. It’s nice to be taken care of, she thinks. Don’t get used to it.
“How's Trevor?”
“He's doing fine. I put him in his room. He likes it here. Hopefully, it reminds him of when we were little. We had some good times here.” Sam finishes cleaning her injuries. “Good as new.”
“Thanks,” she says, trying to stuff down her desire to hold him.
“You should get some rest now,” he says.
“No time for that. I have to stop him before he hurts anyone else.” She tries to stand but falls back to the couch.
“And how do you plan on doing that when you can barely stand?”
***
At the base of a tree, the Brute sits next to the woman in purple sweat pants that he shot multiple times the prior night. She's quivering, ravaged with infection. She tries to speak, but only moans and drools. He stares at the sick woman for a good long moment. Then he cradles her lovingly.
***
Charlie sits up on the couch scribbling wildly on a pad of paper. Her phone buzzes and she checks the caller ID. It’s yet another message from the cameraman. She ignores it and puts the phone back into her pocket.
“Journaling?" Sam asks.
“It helps me think.”
“About what?”
“A way to stop that crazy bastard.”
“Any luck?”
She shows him the pad. It's full of gibberish.
“Why don't you take a break?”
“I can't. I have to put an end to this. I have to figure something…” She tries to keep writing but her head’s still too woozy.
“You should lie down for a little.” He helps her lean back on the couch. She’s too weak to fight him. She closes her eyes, and drifts off to sleep.
***
The Brute gently caresses the infected woman.
***
Charlie, Sam, and Trevor sit looking through photographs that Sam found tucked away in the drawer where his parents kept keepsakes. The “family drawer.”
Their mom would always make everyone hot chocolate, and they’d sit and review their lives. Vacations, baseball games, learning to ride a bike. It was usually pretty boring. Kids don’t like listening to parents recount the same stories for the hundredth time, but she loved it so much it was worth suffering through. Plus, the hot chocolate was always great.
Trevor groans softly and puts his hand on a picture.
“This one?" Sam asks as he picks it up.
It's an image of Trevor, Sam, and their parents all with huge smiles at Disneyland.
“They used to do this dorky parent thing and take us to a national monument or amusement park every summer. Of course, Disneyland was Trev's favorite. He peed his pants on Space Mountain.”
Trevor grunts
.
“Did you just laugh?" Sam asks.
“Or, he’s telling you to shut up because you’re embarrassing him,” Charlie replies with a grin.
“What was your favorite place to go?" she nudges him. “World’s biggest ball of yarn?”
Sam’s face turns somber, and she knew somehow she just put her foot in her mouth.
“I always wanted to see the Grand Canyon. But the year we were going to go, the plague came instead.”
Charlie gently slides her fingers into his. They hold hands and sit quietly as he flips through the pages of happy memories from before the plague. The only picture she has of her family is sitting on her kitchen table She wishes she had it with her so she could share it with them.
***
The Brute gently presses his lips to the woman’s forehead. He kisses her. Then plunges his thumbs completely and directly into her eyes.
***
Charlie, Sam, and Trevor sit casually watching a comedy. Family movie night. “I promise there’s nothing violent…like Bugs Bunny,” Sam says.
It makes Charlie smile and Trevor grunt what might be another laugh.
***
The silence of the woods is broken by the squishing and popping of thick fingers writhing deep into the infected woman's skull.
***
Charlie slurps hot cocoa from a spoon. “Mmm. I think it's good to go.” She dips the spoon into the mug, then blows gently, and puts it to Trevor's lips. “Be careful it's hot.”
