This is it. My first zombie. I bite my lip, feeling a smile form against my will. I’m nervous, I can’t help it, but it’s for all the wrong reasons.
Louis moans, opening his red-shot eyes. He watches us for a time. Just watches. Frank goes to his son with a smile so open, I pity him.
“He’s fine, see? He’s not…”
Louis starts to laugh, then convulse, his body twisting madly. It takes us too long to notice it’s on purpose. A bone cracks: his left wrist. He’s out of the handcuffs, grabbing Frank by the arm, trying to sink his dark teeth into the man’s shoulder.
Roger speeds into action. I can’t move an inch. A shot rings out. Frank screams.
“Ah fuck,” I say.
“Language, Danny,” Ma touches my arm softly, tugging me away, while Frank falls down and tries to touch the dead body that was once his son.
The Last One Out II
November 23rd, Monday, 8 am
My companions lack any subtlety. They stare at me with toothy smiles and their hands on intimidating guns. I do not mind it; they have good reason to be curious and unimpressed. My two-piece brown suit and diminutive figure contrasts against their heavy armour, guns, and painted faces.
The truck bumps and jumps, shakes and jerks, and we with it. Not the smoothest ride I ever had the pleasure of enjoying, but if it takes me to my destination, I am willing to endure it.
“What’s in the briefcase?” the fellow in front of me asks. He wears a protective helmet decorated with skulls and bones. “What’s so important?”
I press the steel briefcase harder against my chest. “If I tell you, I am afraid I will have to kill you.”
The whole crew laughs. I let them think it is a funny joke. Why not?
“You’re paying us a lot of money,” he says, smiling. “I guess you can keep your secrets.”
“Thank you, my friend. Very courteous of you.”
He can have all my life savings if it guarantees my personal safety. I make no mention of money losing meaning in the current, and probably lasting, chaos.
“We aim to please. Name’s Skulls.”
“That’s a name?”
Again, the rest of the passengers laugh. Never knew I was so funny, perhaps I missed my calling by choosing to teach instead of performing stand-up comedy.
“That’s my war name. The old one was weak and deserves to be buried. What’s yours?”
He is clearly crazy, but who am I to judge? In such times, being a little crazy can save someone.
“I see. Well, I’m Professor Spencer. Alistair Spencer.”
“Fancy name,” a woman next to me says. Bright pink hair hides one of her eyes. “I think I heard it before. Are you famous? Did you invent something important?”
This time, I am the one who laughs. “Sadly no, my dear. I am merely a teacher, nothing glamorous.”
The truck stops, its brakes screaming. We almost fall over. Skulls taps at the window that separates us from the driver. “What’s the deal, Bunny?”
The window rolls down and a woman sticks her head out in order to speak to us. Strands of bleached blond hair escape a helmet decorated by a cartoon rabbit. I see a pattern forming here. “Can’t pass. G.I. Joes blew the bridge up.”
He nods, taking some time to gather a response. “Fuck. Okay, go around the river then.”
“Sure thing.”
The truck starts again, rocking us back and forth, and splashing water around. I wonder why the military would blow up a bridge. Perhaps the rumour that they retreated after bombing all major cities on the east coast, is true.
I turn to the pink-haired woman next to me, noticing a tattoo of a snake on her neck covered slightly by a necklace full of knick-knacks: tiny skulls and plastic teeth. At least, I hope they are plastic.
“I suppose your name is Snake or something similar?” I offer my hand.
“Close enough, it’s Cobra.” We shake hands. “Do you like it?” She lifts the necklace.
“Yes. Yes, it is quite… Interesting.” My eyes linger on the teeth.
“They’re fake, relax.” Cobra rolls her eyes and goes back to holding her rifle. “Just a bit of personality. To send a message.”
I nod, pretending to agree. Not that I particularly care if they wear questionable decorations, but the lack of a professional attire does not bode well for their discipline, which puts into question their capacity to keep me alive and the briefcase safe.
“So, have you met the Red Star?” She asks me, adjusting the hair to uncover the other eye.
“No. I am afraid not. Until this very second I didn’t even know Red Star was a man. I thought it was actually the name of your group.”
The crew laughs again. Ignorance has its comical moments, I understand, but this reaction begins to annoy me.
“You’re in for a treat then, Professor,” Skulls adds, straightening out himself on the seat. “He’s going to like you.”
“I hope so. I need his assistance crossing the country.”
This Red Star works, or perhaps, worked, with the same group responsible for my plane trip. Their instructions were vague about who, or what, their ally was: “The Red Star will wait for you outside the airport, but won’t wait long.”
The fact the man likes to be referred as “The” Red Star tells me a great deal about his vanity. My enthusiasm in meeting him decreases by the minute. The name suggests he is no mere gun for hire. Where there are ego and guns, extreme ideology usually follows.
“You fellows seem awfully calm about this whole thing. I’m sure your lovely guns give some semblance of security, yet the whole world is going out in flames. Are you not worried? Do you not have families out there?”
The five mercenaries around me trade looks. Cobra avoids gazing directly into my eyes. Skulls offers an explanation, albeit a strange half-measured one. “We are all family here. The only family.”
That settles it then, they are indeed a cult.
My question ruins any chance of further conversation and Cobra eyes me with suspicion for the remainder of the trip. After long hours of enduring cramps in my hands from holding the briefcase, Bunny stops the truck and lets us out of the back.
The Red Star chose to settle his base at a faraway farm. Besides a barn and house, we are surrounded by cornfields. The location gives me no comfort; the crops are too high, too perfect for hiding oncoming threats. The man has no concept of strategy, which could mean he’s either far more worried, or entertained, with the violent part of commanding a mercenary group.
Perhaps I am better off on my own.
Skulls accompanies me to the barn, while the others wait outside. The place hides no advanced headquarters, just a man with a red star painted on his bare back, milking a cow. For some reason, I would be less nervous around a soldier armed to the teeth.
“Here’s the professor.” Skulls indicates with a hand that I should move closer to the milker.
I do what he wants, but Red Star keeps at his task, sitting on a small stool, his back to us. At least the cow looks at me.
“Run into any trouble, Skulls?” His voice is hoarse and low.
“Nope. No trouble. The G.I. Joes abandoned everything, like you said,” Skulls says, then, when his leader gives him no answer, leaves the barn.
I am alone with a possible cult maniac. Wonderful. I wait until properly addressed. Leader of an armed guerrilla or not, I won’t suffer bad manners. As a firmly believer in Skinner’s theories, I make a point of rewarding only good behaviour.
The milking stops. He places a bucket full of it to his side, then stands. He is shorter and thinner than I expected.
“So tell me, Professor, how was your trip?” He cleans his hands against a bloodied apron.
“Which one?”
His face is painted with red strokes, covering a crooked nose. His haircut appears to come directly from the 80’s: a long mullet. Dear God, man. What a waste of good still-there hair.
“The one you paid me for.” He smil
es at me, showing a few broken teeth.
It takes me a few seconds to stop staring at his mullet. What can I say? As a bald man, I have strong opinions on the misuse of hair.
“Oh, yes. Very nice. A few bumps here and there, but overall I am a very satisfied customer.”
“Good. Good. Glad to hear.”
I nod, providing him with a smile. He swaggers towards me, so I take a step back, tightening my hold on the briefcase.
“My redcoat allies told me you got something really important in there.” He points at my only and most precious possession. “And that you need to deliver it into the right hands.” He circles me, while I say nothing. “Is it a cure?”
I raise an eyebrow. I expected a question about money instead. He is smarter than I suspected. “There is no cure.”
He stops to face me, betraying no disappointment at the news. “Really? No cure. Strange—considering who you are.”
“I am no one. I am only a lucky survivor, the last one your redcoat friends, as you call them, decided to save out of the goodness of their hearts.”
We face each other as Red Star shoots the corner of his lips upwards. “Okay. Maybe you’re not the guy I thought you were. If so, good for you. You fooled the Brits.”
“I spoke no lies to save myself, if that is what you are implying. Shall we discuss my trip north?”
Red Star wheezes out a laugh, placing a hand on my left shoulder, squeezing it slightly. “No need to get mad at me, Professor. I’m just asking you some harmless questions here. Can’t blame a guy for being curious. You sending me money for this trip months before all of this happens? A coincidence like that makes people wonder.”
The urge to roll my eyes almost wins against my better judgement. Harmless questions? Ha!
“That exact timing answers your doubts, my friend. How can I carry the cure for a disease that spread after I planned my trip?”
“If you are so unimportant, then why did they decide to save you, of all people? Don’t bullshit a bullshitter, Professor. Your little story has too many holes.”
Bloody hell.
“Perhaps. What does this matter to you? You have your money and I assure you, I carry no cure. I have no reason to lie about this.”
Red Star crosses his arms, giving me a nod. “What you have is no reason to trust me. Fine. I get that.” He moves to the cow and pets it. “I’m a man of my word, so I’ll take you up north.”
“Thank you.”
“But don’t you dare lie to me about anything else. Any secrets that endanger my family will piss me off. And I’m no good at holding back my anger.”
I nod. My past has no meaning anymore—nothing matters except this briefcase. He grabs the bucket, and signals me to follow him. As we leave the barn side-by-side, a thought crosses my mind.
“Is this your farm?”
“No.”
“Is the owner still alive?”
He looks at me out of the corner of his eyes, with an open smile. “Let me keep my secrets too, Professor.”
I have no answer for that.
The rest of his crew awaits us next to three trucks. More soldiers have come, adding up to almost thirty strong men and women, all armed and in uniform. Birds, carnivorous beasts, mythical creatures and all manner of intimidating symbols adorn their helmets and skin.
At the sight of Red Star, they all cheer, a reaction he returns with a mere wave of his hand. We go inside the house to the kitchen where a muscular man beats white flour and dough. The tattoo on his arms tells me his name is Axe.
“Morning, Tomahawk. Got some fresh milk for you,” Red Star says, placing the bucket on the counter.
My guess was close enough, I suppose. The smell of fresh bread makes me dizzy with hunger. I ate only two apples during the trip, since the truck’s movement made me afraid of vomiting.
“Now we’re talking,” the cook answers. “Can’t have bread without some butter.”
We leave Tomahawk and his delicious food behind, finding Skulls and Cobra in the dining room. She stands while he sits with two feet on the table. A map of the region covers the rest of it.
“I guess the Professor passed the test?” Cobra carries her gun over the shoulder and stands in front of the table. Red Star steps next to her.
“With flying colours.” He bends over the table with two hands on the wood. “Tell me what you got, Cobra.”
She sighs, narrowed eyes focused at me. Something tells me she was hoping I would fail. “Guess saying this is a bad idea won’t matter?” Cobra moves closer to the table and points at me. I suppose she means my presence.
“He’s not going to say anything to nobody. Why would he?” Skulls offers me a thumbs up while Cobra pushes his feet off the table with her hips to reach the map.
I force a smile to the man. The scarred woman marks a circle around a small town in the middle of a deep forest. Only a single road leads out of it.
“Redwood. A good few weeks from here, if things go smoothly. Closed off from almost every fucking thing. Loads of supplies but they don’t have enough guns to protect it. They offered a lot of cash for weapons.”
Red Star places a finger over the name of the town. He smiles. “I say we take it instead. Has potential.”
My mouth opens, and I move next to him. “I don’t understand… You need to take me north.”
The leader places a hand on my shoulder. “We will. Eventually. But what kind of general would I be without a real army?”
The Girl in the Mall II
November 30th, Tuesday, 6 pm
I didn’t think it was possible for malls to be this scary. The distant echoes, dark corners, constant dripping water, and the store mannequins staring at nothing—it all gives me the creeps.
Not that the outside is any better. I’m tired of running from house to house, climbing open windows, just for a chance of finding some canned beans to eat. Especially since most of the time what I find is dead people trying to eat me. After searching most of the houses in my neighborhood and coming up emptied-handed, I had to leave home behind.
I took my time, waiting until dread was the only thing left inside my stomach, but ended up going away after a week. I avoided anything that moved and was larger than a squirrel, keeping my head low and staying off the streets.
My goal was the town’s mall. I figured malls have all sorts of junk food that would last years. It had other things too: weapons, clothes, camping equipment… and shoes. My sneakers have more holes than Swiss cheese. I guess Mom’s decision to buy things at bargain prices didn’t work out so great.
I shake my head, trying to ignore the gaping hole in my heart. My eyes are dry. My tears are all gone after crying against Mrs. Patterson’s chest. She tried to make me feel better by patting my head, but it didn’t work. It took me hours to realize that crying wouldn’t change anything.
Shoes. I need new shoes.
I step inside the long building through a shattered glass door, being careful not to cut myself. Besides broken glass, there are dozens of objects scattered around inside, probably used to break the door. I tiptoe around them, and the deeper I move in, the darker it gets. Mrs. Patterson’s flashlight guides me through the mall’s damp corridors, and my eyes search for anything useful. A pet shop. Jewelry store. An arcade. All abandoned, with broken windows and merchandise spread all over the floor.
I stop in front of a candy shop. Nobody bothered to loot it. Guess I’m the only one with a sweet tooth.
Lollipops, gum, old candy-floss. Pass. I go straight for the chocolate bars. Before unwrapping, memories of Dad stop me. He always sneaked chocolate inside Mom’s grocery bag with a wink and smile at me. And she always pretended not to see it.
I rub a sleeve against my running nose, breathing deeply. The chocolate tastes bitter, salty, but I grab a few bars anyway, stashing them inside my backpack.
I climb the broken escalators to the second floor. The Converse Shoe store is cleared out, probably victim to real looters: people
actually looking for things to sell. I enter the place, passing over the counter and going to the back.
Yes! Jackpot!
Boxes upon boxes of shoes were left intact in the storage room. I close the door behind me, just to make sure, and start exploring. At the sight of the first cool pair, I take my own off quickly. My left foot isn’t even totally inside it when another model catches my eye.
Pink, green, blue. High, low, mid. Painted, illustrated or with sparkles. Expensive models I would have never even considered before. They’re all mine now, if I want.
I smile and start to open boxes, thinking of how Jennifer Walters would be so jealous if she knew. Who has the cooler sneakers now, huh, Jenny?
The thought stops me. Jenny’s probably dead. Her house was trashed worse than mine, the bloodstains on the walls didn’t exactly reassured me they left for the holidays.
I put the first pair on, pick a random one to go inside the backpack and leave without trying any others.
Next on my list is the food court. Junk food still counts as food and Mom isn’t here to lecture me.
I really wish she was.
I search every vendor and counter on the food court, ignoring the stench the best I can and looking over my shoulder every few seconds. There isn’t time to pick and choose, so I take some bags of chips, apples, a few granola bars and two bottled waters. Everything else smells bad, anyway.
Last part of the plan was to find someplace safe to sleep. Resting up in a tree or a roof wasn’t exactly comfortable, but it gave me peace of mind. Here, I need somewhere safe and well hidden. The only thing I can think of is the mall’s movie theater, especially its bathroom. The more doors between me and those things, the better.
I take the stairs down, back to the first floor. I’m almost at the movie theater when I hear voices. Normal voices.
Two men turn the corner, one of them holding a gun. I crouch behind a metal bench and duck my head.
At first, they talk in hushed voices. Things quickly go from bad to worse: I hear a punch, someone falling, and then a loud thud.
“Tell me where it is, old man. Do you want to die?” A man raises his voice, followed by a sound of a click. “Do you?”
Those Who Remain Page 7
