Play Dead: How to care for your Zombie

by landau, marc

  ***

  Upstairs, Trevor notices an open door and wanders outside.

  ***

  Charlie puts the gun to the man's head.

  “Last words?”

  “Some guy paid me a hundred bucks to sit next to that sculpture. I don't know what any of this is about. I swear to God. Please don’t kill me.” The man sucks snot and blubbers.

  “Bullshit,” Sam says.

  “Look in my pocket. Please,” he begs.

  Charlie searches the man's pocket. She finds an index card and a hundred dollar bill. The card reads, S-I-T. W-A-I-T. She lowers the gun and starts untying the man.

  “What the hell are you doing?" Sam asks.

  She shows him the card.

  “That doesn’t prove anything,” he says.

  “You really think this is the guy?”

  Sam looks at the crying, snot sucking man. Pathetic, he thinks, then leans in and helps untie him.

  “What did he look like?" Charlie asks.

  “Big. Scary. I couldn't make out his face. He was wearing one of those surgical masks, or something. But his eyes… I didn’t even want the money. I was afraid of what he’d do if I said no.”

  ***

  Trevor wanders deeper into the woods, staring like a child at the night sky.

  ***

  Charlie and Sam finish untying the man.

  “What's your name?” Charlie asks.

  “Brian,” he replies.

  “Sorry you got into this mess, Brian,” says Charlie.

  “Can I go now?”

  Neither Charlie nor Sam offers any resistance, so Brian bolts for the stairs.

  “Hold on,” Charlie says, stopping Brian in his tracks.

  His eyes bulge, “I swear I won't tell anyone. I don't know what's going on here. I don’t care. I just want to go home.”

  “The man who paid you. I think he used you for bait. He wanted us to grab you so he could follow us back here,” she says.

  “Shit,” Sam says. “He’s probably out there right now.”

  “We have to get ready. He could be here any minute. I'll get Trevor,” Charlie says.

  She races upstairs and searches the house. There's no sign of him anywhere. Then she spots the open door.

  “Dammit,” she yells downstairs. “Trevor got out.”

  “He isn't in the house?" Sam calls back.

  “Back door’s open. Don’t worry. I’ll find him. You make sure the house is locked down,” she says, then rushes out the door.

  ***

  From a tree close by, the Brute watches Charlie follow Trevor's path into the woods.

  ***

  Inside the house, Sam and Brian lock all the doors and windows. They search for makeshift weapons. Brian scrambles into the kitchen and rifles through the drawers. He comes up with a cleaver and a rolling pin. Not bad.

  Sam pushes the couch in front of the door, shuts off all the lights, and goes to cover the living room window.

  The Brute moves towards the house with the baseball bat in hand. He checks the front door. It’s locked. He pushes on it anyway, and feels the weight of something heavy barricading it on the other side. Looking through a small pane of glass on the side, he sees a couch pushed against the door. He goes to the living room window.

  Sam’s hammering a broken shelf over the window frame.

  The Brute lifts the bat and smashes the glass.

  ***

  Charlie spots Trevor standing in an open patch of grass, staring at the moon. It looks likes he’s found a moment of peace. Is he smiling at the moon?

  “Trevor. Come on. This isn’t a good time for this.”

  He doesn't move, so Charlie grabs his hand. “Come on. We have to go help Sam.”

  That seems to snap Trevor out of it. He lets her pull him back towards the house, but it doesn’t stop him from star gazing as they go. His condition makes it slow going. Finally, they make it back. What should’ve taken a couple minutes probably takes almost a half hour.

  Inside the house, it’s a mess. A complete shambles. Sam and Brian are nowhere to be found. The house is empty. She knows the Brute has taken them. She has failed again. It takes all her energy not to fall down crying.

  Charlie hears a soft whimpering and wonders if she’s crying and doesn’t know it. The cries come again and this time she follows the sound to a corner of the living room, where a curtain covers an overturned chair. It could have wound up there in the mayhem, or someone might have put it there to hide under. Charlie peels back the fabric and finds Brian curled up in the fetal position, weeping.

  “Are you okay?" she asks.

  He tries to nod a “yes,” but it’s hard to tell if that’s what he means. His blubbering is making his head bobble up and down.

  “Where's Sam?”

  Brian sucks snot. “He took him.” It’s hard to understand between the gasps.“I thought he was going to kill me.”

  “It's okay now. You're safe.”

  Charlie's phone beeps. Another video has arrived. On the screen Sam is standing with a hood on. He's tied to a street sign and is holding an index card that reads, Bring brother. The video then pans up to the name of the street.

  “Dammit.” She mutters when she sees it.

  Charlie pockets the phone and asks Brian where he lives. Luckily, if you can call any of this luck, it’s in the direction she’s going.

  “Come on. I’ll take you home.”

  ***

  Brian gets out of the van, waves quickly, and scurries towards a four story red brick apartment building. Charlie kicks the van into gear and peels off as fast as the engine will take it.

  Once it’s out of sight, Brian walks away from the building and down the street. No way he wants her knowing where he lives. He makes the four block walk back to his studio apartment, crumples onto the brown ragged couch, and prays he never sees any of them again.

  Inside the van, Trevor breaks the heavy silence with an anguished moan.

  “Don't worry Trev. It's going to be okay. We won't let anything happen to Sam. Or you…Or, hopefully me.”

  Trevor moans again.

  The van stops in front of a pale yellow classically American house on Maplewood Lane. Charlie’s home. The place she grew up. A house full of happy memories until her mother died. Then, when it seemed life couldn’t get worse, the plague came. Her brother died there. Murdered by her father. She hasn’t been back since. Never wanted to see it again. I should’ve burned it down.

  “Stay here okay?" she says.

  Trevor moans a reply that could be anything, but Charlie pretends it means, Okay I’ll sit and wait and not do anything stupid. Probably too much to hope for, but what choice did she have? She could tie him to the steering wheel, but it might do more harm than good if they need to make a quick exit.

  Charlie gets out, goes inside the house, and immediately sees the Brute sitting at the dining room table. Family dinner. Just like the old days.

  Next to him, Sam’s tied to a chair, his head covered with a hood.

  “Sam! Are you okay?”

  He utters a muffled grumble from under the hood. It sends Charlie rushing to him, but before she can take more than few steps, the Brute lifts a gun. It stops her in her tracks.

  “Let me see your face.Take off the mask,” she says.

  The Brute doesn't respond.

  “Take off the damn mask!”

  Slowly, he removes it.

  Charlie’s mouth falls open and fails her for a long moment, then she forms the one word she can’t believe she’s actually going to utter.

  “Daddy?” She can’t stop a tear from forming.

  As she steps closer the shadows dissipate, and she sees he’s badly infected.

  Her father pulls out a few index cards and begins to mouth the words. His voice like gravel.

  “YOU. LEFT. ME.”

  ***

  In a flash Charlie remembers it all. Her father is standing in a field being a
ttacked by the infected. He begs, “Charlie. Let me be with your brother and mother.”

  There are too many for her to shoot them all. She can’t save her father. The best she can do is put an end his suffering.

  “Put me down!" he yells.

  Charlie tries to pull the trigger, but no matter how hard she tries, she can’t will her finger to move. Finally, she drops the gun to her side.

  “I'll come back. I'll find you Daddy. I'll train you. We’ll wait for the cure.”

  “Charlie. Don't. Please.”

  She walks away.

  “Charlie!" he screams as the infected ravish his flesh.

  She clasps her hands over her ears, but it doesn’t keep out the anguished cries of her father. She believes she will find and train him. She believes there will be a cure. But none of that makes it any easier to walk away. She wonders if she truly wants to save him or just wants him to suffer for what he did to Michael.

  ***

  A tear rolls down Charlie's face. “I tried so hard to find you.”

  Her father puts the gun down on the table and slides it towards her. “Do it.” His mouth quivers.

  “How can you talk?”

  His lips turn up into a thin smile. “Train – ing.”

  Alcot reaches over and pulls the hood off Sam. What she sees makes her eyes want to rip themselves from their sockets. Her stomach drops and she gags. How could her father do this?

  Sam’s infected.

  Her father pushes the gun closer.

  “Daddy. No.”

  ***

  Trevor flops out of the van and slowly stumbles towards the house. It only takes a few steps inside for him to see his brother sitting at the table riddled with infection. Trevor screams an inhuman noise and attacks Alcot like a rabid wolf.

  Alcot doesn’t flinch. He just aims the gun. Unlike Charlie, he’s got no problem putting a rabid animal down. He might even enjoy it. It looks like a small grin passes his lips. And then he pulls the trigger. The sound of the gunshot explodes across the room.

  Charlie jumps in front of Trevor and it all goes deafeningly silent. She looks down at her stomach. Watches as blood pours from her gut.

  “Char-lie,” Alcot moans.

  Was that an apology? She wonders as she falls to the ground. But before she can decide if it even matters, Trevor attacks Alcot again. Clawing wildy. Biting, scratching, tearing at his flesh.

  In the thick of battle, Alcot frees his hand and pulls the trigger twice. Two bullets pierce deep into Trever’s chest. He collapses to the floor, gushing black blood from the holes in his sternum. Alcot twists his lips into another pseudo grin, aims at Trevor’s head, and pulls the trigger again. Click. Click. It’s empty. Trevor crawls to Sam, takes his hand, and lays beside him wheezing.

  Charlie takes out her gun and puts it to her father's head. Alcot lets the remaining index cards fall from his hand, as he mouths his last words, “I- love - you.”

  “I love you too,” she says.

  He tries to smile again. It’s more of a grimace but makes the point. Charlie's going to do the right thing. Sweet relief is coming. She’s finally going to pull the trigger.

  ***

  In the morning, Charlie wakes up more groggy and disoriented than she’s ever been in her life. Her brain feels like it’s been soaked in mud. She tries to think but can’t string words together in her mind. Slowly, she gets to her feet and stumbles into the bathroom. Her gait worse than a skid row drunk. Somehow, she’s able to swing her arms up onto the sink, and with Herculean effort, she lifts her head. It feels like it weighs a thousand pounds. She looks in the mirror.

  She’s infected.

  Something in her virus addled brain shifts and she recalls what happened the night before at her old house. It’s clear, like a waking dream. This is what it’s like to be infected. Able to remember, but incapable of clear thought. She can’t form words, but can recall the past with clarity.

  She presses the gun to her father’s head and hears him struggle with his final words, “I- love - you.”

  “I love you too,” she replies.

  Her father grins. His daughter's finally going to do the right thing. Relief is coming.

  “Put-me-down,” he says.

  “You killed everyone I ever loved or cared about. You win. I can’t do this anymore. I’m going to go be with Michael and Mama,” she says.

  Charlie turns the barrel towards her own chest and pulls the trigger. She puts a bullet into her broken heart.

  “No!” Alcot screams.

  He crawls to her, cradles her in his arms, and watches as her life drains away.

  “Don't - Leave – Me,” he cries.

  “Goodbye daddy.”

  Alcot lets loose a savage cry. Years of pain and frustration echo against the walls. Shake the floors. He has worked too hard to accept this. He has done what Charlie wanted, trained himself for years. Hating every moment. It can’t end this way.

  The glint of an idea sparkles in Alcot’s eye. Without hesitation he bites into his own arm. Tears a piece of his flesh, gently kisses his dying daughter, and spits his infected skin into her mouth. He scoops her up like a sleeping toddler, and carries her away.

  He comes back, grabs Sam and Trevor by the legs, and drags them away, leaving a bloody trail behind, like red snail mucous.

  ***

  The memory fades and Charlie finds herself back in her house standing in front of a computer with her father standing by her side. Alcot takes his daughter's hand and presses “play” on a video icon. Then he shuffles away. The video that plays is an episode of Charlie’s show.

  “Hey everyone, Charlie Patterson here with another episode of “Working with the Virally Challenged.” Today we're going to talk about motor skills. Our goal? To use a simple implement. Like picking up a pencil.”

  On the screen Charlie lifts a pencil.

  “See, that wasn't so hard was it?" she says to the camera.

  The now infected Charlie slowly lifts a pencil off the table. It's much harder than it looks.

  “That's good. Now you can help your virally challenged friend tighten her grip by

  moving her arm forward a little. Go ahead. Give it a try.”

  Charlie leans her arm forward a little. The pencil snaps.

  Her dry, chapped lips try to mouth the word Dammit! But only a soft grunt comes out.

  She tries again to pick up the thin piece of yellow wood with her shaky fingers. This time gets some control. At least she’s able to hold the pencil. She tries to pick it up, but it slips out and rolls off the table. Charlie groans with frustration, as she bends over and tries again to grasp the implement that every second grader can easily use.

  She practices again. And again. And again. Day turns to night, and with the new moon comes a new ability. Charlie can hold a number two pencil. If she still knew how to think straight, she’d be proud of the accomplishment.

  Her stomach begins to churn, grumble and pang. Instinct moves her wobbly legs into the kitchen where she sees her father standing at the counter. Next to him, she notices a knife rack. Slowly, she shuffles over to it and uses her new found skills to wrap her fingers around one of the knives. She lifts the clear blade high and catches a reflection of her pale sickly skin. Her eyes begin to tear. Her veins start throbbing with angry heat. The blade strikes hard… into what looks like a human heart. Wet juicy blood squirts across the counter.

  Her father turns to her and forces his lips into a smile. It makes the heat in her veins go away. For whatever reason, it soothes her. She tries to return the smile, but the best she can muster is the lopsided smirk of a stroke victim.

  Preoccupied, she dices up the heart, and doesn’t notice her father opening the refrigerator. Inside, there are a multitude of human body parts. Hands. Feet. Organs. A head sits on the middle shelf staring back at him with dead eyes. It’s the cameraman. Her father grabs what looks like his kidney and shuts the door.

  He hands it to Charlie
, and oblivious of its origins, she takes it and resumes slicing. Slowly, so slowly, she slices it. It probably takes more than an hour, but no one knows what time is anymore. So, who cares? As they work, Charlie’s show plays in the background.

  “Thanks for watching another episode of ‘Working with the Virally Challenged.”

  Charlie haphazardly grasps chunks of kidney and plops them into a salad bowl. Next to her Alcot slices into what looks like a meatloaf, but is probably a lung. He takes the plate and walks through the kitchen door. Charlie awkwardly lifts the salad bowl and follows.

  “I hope you enjoyed learning some basic cooking techniques that can be shared with your virally challenged companion. As always, I look forward to hearing your feedback.”

  Charlie and her father shamble into the dining room where Sam and Trevor are sitting at the table, staring off into space. Maybe they’re remembering the past. The good old days.

  Charlie awkwardly puts the bowl on the table and sits next to Sam. He turns to her and contorts his dry, bloody lips into a smile. She touches his hand and groans softly.

  “This is Charlie Patterson…Remember, stay safe and secure until there's a cure. See you next time.”

  Author’s Note

  Thank you for reading Play Dead. I hope you enjoyed it.

  If you’re willing to write a review that would be awesome (and much appreciated.) Good, bad, or ugly. All feed back is appreciated and helps me figure out where to go next!