by Brown, TW
No, this scream was different. And everybody seemed to realize it. He didn’t remember seeing stories on the news earlier that night. Or any of the other stories that had been broadcast the four days previous. He only vaguely remembered that, for some reason, his precious Cubs had not been on the television at all.
Soon, the screams were coming from everywhere. Then, he’d seen the doctor. Only, he looked…wrong. One arm was all bloody, and he was sickly looking. And the eyes…they were gooey and bloodshot, but something about that was wrong, too. The blood looked black, which really stood out against the pus-like whiteness that coated the eyes.
The doctor had stepped into the room and stopped for a moment. The head moved in little jerks…like a bird’s. Then the doctor had come for him, mouth open, drooling. He remembered the smell that seemed to pour off the doctor much like the drool dripping from his mouth. Then, another person came in behind the doctor and that’s when the man really knew there was something terribly wrong.
This second person had been a woman. Not a doctor or nurse, she was wearing what was left of her hospital gown. Only she’d been ripped open at the belly. Strands and bits of her insides were still tumbling out of the horrid gash. Both of them came towards him, arms outstretched, mouths working.
They reached his chair, leaning in, oblivious to the man’s weak attempts to bat them away. He remembered hands, cold and sticky with blood, grasping his arms. Both leaned in and he felt mouths brush his skin, then…nothing. They stood and turned, walking out of the room and into the cacophony of screams echoing in the halls.
That scene would replay several more times over the coming days…weeks. The man had seen others fall to these… people? Were they still people? He didn’t know. His memory being what it was, he lost track. And sometimes it seemed like it was happening for the first time all over again.
Eventually, the screams stopped. The man, unable to get out of his wheelchair rolled around looking for anybody, familiar or otherwise. He was alone. Scared. Confused. He knew something was terribly wrong. Only, he couldn’t get what was left of his mind to clue him in on what it was.
And that is how he remained as the days turned to weeks. Sometimes he forgot everything and spent hours or even days re-experiencing the initial horror of the sights that filled the floor he remained trapped on. He was incapable of using stairs, and there would be no elevator coming. A fire on one of the lower floors which—fortunately or otherwise—burned itself out quickly, left the building without power on that first terrible night.
The man didn’t eat much, and, for the past several days he’d survived on cans of Ensure. The last of those cans was now empty and cast aside in a corner. Four of the dead who’d shared the floor with him all these days had wandered into the room, probably drawn by the sound of the can clattering on the dirty linoleum floor.
Every time he left the room, or made a noise, they came. They’re more forgetful than I am, the man mused. The worst part was when they touched him with their cold, dead hands. It used to be the smell, but he’d been stuck in this chair so long that he could no longer smell them over himself. Sometimes, when he shifted positions even a tiny bit, the sores and filth now keeping him welded to the chair would tear and send a wave of stench up to his nostrils that would make him gag or be physically ill.
This small group came, carelessly colliding with him and his wheelchair. But, as always, it was as if they were repulsed by the cancer that was eating at him from within. They leaned in close, and as he’d done hundreds of times before, the man shut his eyes and prepared for death to come in the form of teeth. As always, he was disappointed.
He watched them turn and leave. Angry and frustrated, he followed them, cursing and yelling, although even yelling, his voice was barely above what most people would consider conversational volume. More came, but in turn, each one eventually wandered away, paying little more attention to him than they did each other.
The man rolled to the window at the end of the long hallway. He passed the nurse’s station where one of those things was actually sitting at the desk with the receiver from the telephone in its dead hand, its mouth working slowly as if in conversation. As he rolled past, the creature rose, following him, pulling the phone’s handset free and falling in his wake as he rolled through the garbage-strewn hall. When he stopped, the thing came in close, its cold mouth brushing the side of his face like a perverse kiss. Then, it wandered away leaving the man alone at the window.
As the setting sun cast beautiful purple and orange streaks across Lake Michigan, the man winced. A pain bloomed in his chest, shooting down his left arm and turning his hand into a claw. The man’s heart usurped cancer’s hold and claimed his life. Just before his eyes glazed over in death, the man had one, final clear thought.
My name is Charles.
***
Mackenzie wiped the sweat from her eyes and took a moment to look at her hands. The blisters would eventually turn to hardened calluses. Eww, she thought. While never too much on being ‘girlie’, Mackenzie had managed to retain an outward appearance of femininity. That hadn’t been easy growing up on a farm.
She had no aversion to hard work, but there were plenty of jobs that didn’t leave one looking harsh and masculine. To that extent, Mackenzie had joined her school swim team. When she was awarded a scholarship and a place on the Oregon State swim team, her mother had been so proud. Until her dad got sick, neither parent missed a meet. So, Mackenzie had stayed trim and learned about running a business while minoring in agricultural studies.
Upon graduation she returned home, and within a year she’d restructured the family business. Things had gone so well that when two neighboring farms fell on hard times, she scooped them up and converted them to small plots that people could rent and farm themselves. It had been a huge success and she found all sorts of creative ways to part the wealthy city folk from their abundance of cash by offering classes on how to farm their plots as well as supplying them with all their gardening needs at a modestly marked-up price.
Things were really starting to go well when the world up and died…then got back up. So many horrible, unspeakable things had happened in such a short period that Mackenzie hadn’t really had time to process it all. Now, here she was building a fence around an island with her mom and a man she’d known for all of about three weeks.
“Hey!” Juan’s voice snapped her out of her reverie. “You gonna dig that hole, or stand there staring into space?”
“Bite me,” Mackenzie snorted and plunged the post-hole digger into the clay.
“No, but I know where you can go if that’s what turns you on.”
“Juan!” Margaret snapped.
“Sorry, ma’am.” Juan dropped his head and focused on holding the four-by-four in place as the older woman shoveled in some of the Kwik-Dry Koncrete mix from the nearby wheelbarrow.
“I swear,” Margaret Simms sighed over-dramatically, “you two should just kiss and get it over with.”
“Mother!”
“Margaret!”
The two gasped in unison, both making inadvertent eye-contact which only exacerbated their blushing. Just as fast, they returned to their current tasks with renewed vigor; Mackenzie driving her tool into the ground and depositing the contents in a pile beside the deepening hole, Juan tamping down on the concrete while making small adjustments on the pole to make it as straight as possible. Neither said another word or brought their eyes up from the ground for several minutes. Margaret smiled broadly as she glanced back and forth between the two who were making exaggerated attempts not to notice one another now.
Margaret wasn’t blind…or an idiot. It was especially obvious with Juan how he watched Mackenzie when she wasn’t looking. The big oaf looked at her with the most obvious set of puppy-dog eyes. It was so cute. And Mackenzie, her brand of flirting was the same as it had always been, act tough, but lure her intended target in with occasional feigned helplessness. This fence was the perfect example. Mackenz
ie knew full well how to set fencing. Yet, she’d had Juan show her each step. And today, she’d asked him to demonstrate how to dig the holes. Of course, that was after watching the poor boy struggle to hold his fork at dinner. His hands were an absolute mess.
The sound of Jade’s barking froze all three. Each looked up to see the big dog down at the water’s edge staring out into the river.
“Run!” Juan barked.
Together they ran for the cover of the trees and thick brush a little ways up the hill. They’d been planting the posts well back from the highest level that the tide could reach. Currently they were on a stretch that was like a small, level ledge between the trees that divided a marshy wetland from the beach.
“Jade! Come!” Margaret ordered.
The big dog gave one more bark, then turned and bounded up the beach and into the thick foliage where the three people were huddled together as they each unholstered one of the handguns they wore on their hips. The dog seemed to sense their nervousness and quickly quieted and crouched down as if it too were ready to spring into action.
“Is that—” Juan began.
“A yacht,” Mackenzie cut him off.
“Looks like one of those fancy dinner-cruise type ships,” Margaret whispered, “Look at all those windows, and, is that a chandelier in there?” she asked, handing the binoculars to Juan. He took them and, after a slight adjustment, took a look for himself.
“Tight,” Juan breathed. He’d never seen anything quite as fancy looking. After taking a long look at the windows, he scanned forward. “Weird,” he said, handing the binoculars to Mackenzie who’d started poking him in the ribs indicating she wanted a look, too.
“What’s weird?” Mackenzie took the binoculars.
“I only see three people,” Juan whispered. “Up in front of the…bridge.”
Mackenzie scanned forward. Sure enough, there were three men on the bridge. They all had guns. And, they all had binoculars turned in their direction!
A squat, broad-shouldered black man with long wavy hair that instantly reminded her of one of her favorite football players, Troy Polamalu, raised one hand. And waved!
***
“Donna!” Chad knelt beside the woman. The zombie that had bitten off her fingers lay on its back, a huge knife jutting out of its temple.
Tearing off his shirt, he wrapped it around the bloody stumps where her fingers used to be. Next, he grabbed a rag from nearby and wrapped it around the ugly gash where a section of her arm had been ripped by hungry teeth. Standing over him and Donna, Ronni continued to cry.
“Sweetie,” Chad looked up into the heartbreakingly sad face of his daughter, “I need you to find me a clean sheet from the box under my bed. Can you do that?”
The girl shook her head and moved towards her mother. She wanted to be held, she wanted to hold. Her mother was lying unconscious in what probably seemed like an ocean of blood to her. Chad needed her out of the way. Especially if Donna turned into one of those things.
“Ronni!” Chad snapped, angry at what he had to do. “Get me some clean sheets…NOW!”
The girl jumped back as if he’d hit her and turned awkwardly towards the cot that served as his bed. She pulled out a cardboard box and shoved things aside, searching for what he’d asked for. While she did, Chad did his best to clean away some of the blood with a pillowcase he snatched off of Donna’s and Ronni’s bed.
“Here, Dad,” a meek voice said at his back. Chad turned and saw the near blankness now on his little girl’s face. Shock, he thought. Good, maybe she’d forget or block out some of what she’d just witnessed.
“Thank you, Ronni.” Chad gripped her hands with one of his in a light squeeze before taking the powder-blue bed sheet. “Now keep a watch for any of those things while I take care of your mother.”
He turned back to the unconscious woman and, after tearing the sheet into several long but misshapen strips, he began cleaning her arms and face as best he could. A nearby bottle of water that was lying on its side came in handy. The whole time he could hear gunshots and more screams…and the low moan of the undead.
“Dad!” Ronni’s voice cut into his conscious. His head popped up and he craned his neck. Ronni was backing into the cubicle. Glancing down, his shotgun was still where he’d laid it down after dispatching the one zombie that had been attacking Donna.
The divider that separated their cubicle from all the others had about a four-inch gap at the bottom. Looking towards the front of the cubicle, he saw two sets of very small feet dragging their way towards where the entrance and the spot Ronni had been standing only seconds ago.
“It’s Patrick and Chelsea,” Ronni wailed.
Dammit, Chad thought as he grabbed the shotgun and rose to his feet. He glanced down once more at Donna. Her chest was still rising and falling, albeit slowly and very shallow. Then, reaching forward, he gripped Ronni’s shoulder and pulled her back, putting her behind him.
Standing gave him a moment to get a look around and better determine the severity of the situation. He saw a couple familiar faces, only now they were slack…dead. Their eyes advertised the fact that they had now become the enemy. Staying here was fast losing its appeal.
A tiny figure stepped into the opening that served as a doorway to their space and then stopped. It was Patrick. Blood soaked his entire left side and a large chunk was missing from that side of his neck. The head turned, at first just a slow rotation, then a short jerk. It reminded Chad of something that short-circuited and kept getting a jolt, then losing the juice. Dark blood—not black Chad decided, just very dark—oozed from the gaping wound. Its eyes seemed to twitch slightly, and while the irises were clouded over with a white film laced with traces of tiny, squiggly lines, he could tell the thing had focused on him. Its arms came up and the hands began opening and closing as it reached out like a child who wanted to be picked up and held.
Just then, Chelsea stepped into view and Chad felt something thick rise up in his throat as the smell hit him. Patrick’s twin sister was wearing nothing but a pair of green shorts that were almost entirely dark with blood. Her once suntanned skin was almost grey, and it made the starkness of the tan lines from her normal tank top stand out all the more. However, there was no tank top now. Her body had been ripped open, and flaps of skin hung loosely in places where she’d been feasted upon. Like her brother, Chelsea stopped and turned in the same jerky manner. Her blood-stained bare feet had come to rest on a strand of something that Chad guessed to be intestine. When she pivoted on that foot, a thick substance oozed out from the end as well as the sides that split open under pressure. The strand also took a partial wrap around that ankle and when she followed her brother, stepping into the opening of the cubicle, the strand began to unspool from the jagged hole in her belly.
“Jesus forgive me,” Chad breathed, then brought the shotgun up and fired.
The twins had been close enough together that the blast took most of Patrick’s head and a good portion of Chelsea’s. The recently-turned nine-year-old twins fell, Chelsea sprawling across her brother’s back. A muffled cry sounded behind Chad. He hated that she’d had to witness something so terrible.
He turned, swallowing the lump in his throat. Donna’s eyes were wide open. Instinctively, he brought the shotgun up. Ronni, seeing her dad bring his shotgun up towards her mother, dove into the woman’s arms that were raised as if to fend off a coming blow.
“Chad!” Donna managed through teeth clenched in pain.
“Daddy, no!” Ronni screamed.
Shaking his head, Chad lowered his weapon, but he couldn’t take his eyes off Donna’s. They looked bloodshot, as he’d seen them on occasion when Donna had gotten stoned back when they were dating. Only…they were wrong. They were bloodshot in black.
He didn’t have time to consider the situation. The handful of those things still up and mobile in the gymnasium had been joined by those who had fallen to their attacks. At that moment, the doors to the outside burst open and s
un poured in…along with Brett and a handful of others, brandishing weapons and eager to bash or blow open some zombie skulls.
***
JoJo stepped in from the bridge wing. “I’m certain I saw at least two people duck into those trees before that big dog turned and ran.”
“Okay,” Thad shrugged, “we can reasonably assume there are survivors here.”
“Could be some of my relatives.” Keith squeezed past JoJo and went out on the bridge to take a look for himself.
“Or,” JoJo called over his shoulder, “it could be some citizens who shoot first and ask questions later.”
“A bit late for cold feet, dude,” Thad scoffed.
“I’m just sayin’ we need to be ready for trouble.”
“Agreed,” Thad nodded, “but I don’t want to get into it with these people if we don’t need to.”
“Kill the engines!” Keith yelled.
Thad pushed the throttle all the way back and felt the turbines lessen and then cease. The vessel cruised along slowly. Keith began shouting instructions, having Thad turn in an easy one-hundred-eighty-degree arc inward, bringing them close to the shore while also killing their forward momentum. Finally, he gave the word for Thad to drop anchor. One by one he released first the port, then starboard aft anchors; then he repeated the process with the forward anchors after they’d come to a complete stop.
“I say we go ashore and look around,” Keith announced.
“Beats another day on this thing,” JoJo said, not hiding the eagerness in his voice.
The three men lowered the small motorboat that hung from a beam and tossed a rope ladder over the side. A few minutes later, they were motoring towards the now apparently empty sand beach.
“I love a good adventure,” Thad called over the sound of the puttering outboard motor.
