In the Lone and Level Sands

by David Lovato

  “Roger!” Lou lifted himself as much as he could. If it made any difference, Max couldn’t tell. He pulled again, and Ortiz eventually came sliding out, shouting in pain. Blood trailed along the sand and grass behind him; a metal bar protruded from his side. Both of his legs were broken, one of his shin bones had escaped the skin.

  “Fuck!” Johns said. He kept firing. Max turned Ortiz over on his back. Max could see his pain.

  “Ortiz, don’t move.”

  “Didn’t plan on it,” Ortiz said. He was still clutching his pistol. He raised it and continued to fire at the zombies. He didn’t aim. He didn’t need to, the odds of him hitting something were pretty good.

  “We’ll get you out of here, you’re going to be okay,” Max said.

  “I’m going to die.” Ortiz stared up into the sky.

  “We have to stop the bleeding!” Max shouted. He raised his gun and fired at the zombies. Their bodies were piling up around the playground, but more kept coming.

  “Here!” Lou said. He slid his assault rifle as far as he could. Max leaned forward and grabbed it.

  “I still have mine!” he said.

  “It’s for me,” Ortiz said. Max thought he must be crazy, but Ortiz took it. He groaned as he struggled to sit up. Max helped him, propped him up against his body. The two joined Johns in firing into the crowd. The zombies drew closer and closer. Lou struggled to escape the wreckage of the slide.

  “Max,” Ortiz said. Max could barely hear him over the guns and the screaming and groaning of the oncoming horde.

  “Don’t talk, just shoot!”

  “Max… Just get out of here. This isn’t… This death isn’t for you. You’re too young for this.” His gun clicked. Max gave his own rifle to Ortiz, took Ortiz’s, reloaded, and continued to fire.

  “I’m not leaving you guys here,” Max said.

  “You’re no soldier, Max.”

  “The hell I’m not.”

  Lou had freed his top half, and was struggling to get the metal off of him. Ortiz ran out of ammo. Max switched guns again, and reloaded.

  A zombie dove for Johns. Lou shot it, and it fell to the ground. Lou crawled the rest of the way out and fell next to Johns. He rolled over, then sat up and went on shooting at the zombies with his pistol.

  “Do we have any flares?” Max said. Lou threw a flare to him. Max lit it and pointed it toward the zombies. It fired with a loud shriek, right past the group.

  “What the hell, Max?” Lou said. Then he saw what Max had done.

  The flare flew into the box of fireworks that the soldiers had placed on the playground. The box lit on fire.

  “Let’s go!” Max yelled. As carefully as he could, he lifted Ortiz. Ortiz no longer had the energy to cry out. Max tried not to brush against the leg with the compound fracture, but it was nearly impossible. Johns helped Lou up, then rushed to Max’s side and helped with Ortiz. They carried him backwards, and he fired into the zombies. The four soldiers moved away from the playground and the zombies, back into the field.

  The fireworks went off like an explosion. The nearby grass caught fire, as did a wooden swing set and a few of the closest zombies. The others began pushing their way toward the flames.

  The soldiers rushed toward the tree line, where they fell to the ground, exhausted. Fireworks of all kinds exploded, huge blasts of colored light and fire blew up all around. Some fired into the sky.

  The bodies started burning. The soldiers had to get back up and move farther away. They fired less often; most of the zombies were drawn to the fire, their own burning brethren.

  Ortiz and Lou were laid down as carefully as possible. The zombies gathered near the fires, and Max and Johns finished them with ease. After a few minutes, no more entered the park.

  The fireworks continued as Max and Johns returned to their brothers. Lou was smoking a cigarette. Ortiz lay on the grass, staring up at the colorful sky.

  More exhausted than he thought possible, Max collapsed to the ground by Ortiz. He rolled onto his back and watched the fireworks display with his family. Flowers of colored fire lit the night. Happy Independence Day.

  “We have to… Tourniquet… Blood,” Ortiz said. Max sat back up. Johns joined him at Ortiz’s side.

  “Let’s try to set it,” Max said. He felt stupid for getting distracted from Ortiz’s condition.

  “Roger,” Johns said.

  The last of the fireworks went off, and the flares were dying out. The sky and the world remained lit by a solitary red flare.

  “Max,” Ortiz said.

  “Don’t talk.”

  “You were right. There’s always tomorrow.”

  He reached his hand up, put it on Max’s face. Johns was getting some gauze out of a pack on Ortiz’s belt. Lou flicked his cigarette into the grass and dragged himself to Ortiz’s side.

  “Quit talking like that,” Max said. He could feel himself beginning to choke. He put his hand on Ortiz’s shoulder.

  “This is gonna hurt like hell,” Johns said. With a loud snap! he set Ortiz’s leg. Ortiz recoiled, but made no sound. Johns wrapped his leg the best he could.

  “What do we do about his side?” Lou said.

  “There’s nothing to do,” Ortiz said.

  “We’re not leaving you behind.”

  Max checked the wound. He got a good look at it for the first time. A thick piece of metal went through Ortiz, an end of it sticking out on each side. Blood poured out of it and onto the grass.

  “We have to get him back to the Humvee,” Max said. Ortiz grabbed him and pulled him close. He looked Max in the eyes and opened his mouth. No words came, so he shook his head. Tears began to stream down Max’s cheeks. “Don’t—don’t.”

  “Look, Max,” Ortiz said. He pointed to the bright red flare in the sky. It was falling back to earth, beginning to flicker. “It’s the sun.” His hand dropped back to the grass, and rested.

  Johns closed his eyes, breathed in heavily.

  “No,” Max said. Lou lit up another cigarette, inhaled deeply, then turned away. He blew a cloud of smoke. Pooling into the air, the flare turning it red, it looked like blood. “No, no, no!”

  Max screamed. He leaned forward and shook Ortiz. Ortiz didn’t move. Max wrapped his arms around him, pressed his face into Ortiz’s chest. He shut his eyes and cried as hard as he could.

  Behind him, in the sky, the last flare flickered out.

  ****

  Max sat in the middle seat of the Humvee. Lou and Johns put Ortiz’s body in the back, then got in. They sat there for a moment, silent. Nothing happened. Lou started the car, and Johns buckled his seatbelt. They pulled out of the park and headed down the road, leaving the field of bodies behind.

  The streets were empty. Lou looked at the radio. Max followed his gaze, saw the time. It was nearing midnight, and though it felt much later, Max thought he’d never sleep again. He thought of Nikki back at the base; the thought was the only thing in the world left to comfort him. Lou reached forward and turned on the radio.

  “—this time.”

  The Humvee screeched to a halt, the soldiers lurched forward. Max worried about Ortiz’s body in the back, which made his heart hurt all over again. He tore his thoughts away from there, back to the radio.

  “Did you hear that?” Lou said.

  “Yeah,” Johns replied, his eyes glued to the radio as though it would get up and dance around. “Yeah, I did.”

  “That was a voice. A human voice. A living, fucking, human being, on the radio!”

  They sat in the silence for a minute, and then a different voice came on, this one much clearer.

  “Yes, you heard right, folks. The radio waves are up and working again. That was a recording I pushed through from another station, and believe me, I was just as shocked as you. I don’t know if anyone is listening to this, but if there is anyone out there, I’m a local DJ here in South Carolina, and I just received a broadcast from an AM station. I’ll get more info to you as it comes, but know that the rad
io waves are working again, repeat, the airwaves are clear again.”

  The soldiers headed back to the base, their spirits lifted only somewhat from a great loss by a great, new hope. The clock struck midnight as the Humvee pulled to a stop inside the college grounds.

  69

  In the House in Bellingham

  Alan woke up sometime before four a.m. and decided to write in his notebook. He scratched the pen across the paper for ten minutes, filling up almost two pages. He wiped his teary eyes with the sleeve of his shirt, then hovered over the paper for nearly a half hour.

  It was a quarter until five in the morning, and the rain had long died out. Alan set his notebook and pen aside and looked out the window. The sun was beginning to come up. He saw faint silhouettes of trees.

  Alan realized he was thirsty. It was as if there were cotton balls shoved down his throat, filling his mouth. Alan sighed and went to the kitchen, where he filled a glass with water. He walked back down the hall, passed Martha’s bedroom and stopped, then turned back. He thought he’d peek in on her, make sure she was okay.

  When he saw blood, he screamed. It filled the room, the house. He saw Martha’s neck, the stab wound, the dried blood on her skin and the bedding. It was all over, and he saw the broken picture frame, and the bloody glass shard in her hand. Alan felt like his heart would explode.

  Everyone rushed into the room. Alan was sitting on the bed near Martha, looking down at her. He was crying. Everyone’s eyes widened.

  “What the hell happened?” Billy asked.

  “Mom! Wha—” Emily ran over to Martha, and screamed. Tears fell, and so did she, next to Martha on the bed. She grasped for the hand that wasn’t splattered in blood and squeezed it tightly, looking into Martha’s cold, listless eyes. They stared at the ceiling. The smile on Martha’s face made her cry even more.

  Emily turned to Alan. “What were you doing in here, Alan?”

  Phil looked at Emily with a sour look on his face. “You aren’t suggesting that… Alan did this?”

  “I want to know what the hell he was doing in here!”

  Alan only tilted his head up, watery-eyed. Emily’s eyebrows rose in anger, and she jumped at him. Billy lurched forward and grabbed her by the waist.

  “Em, stop! What the hell’s gotten into—”

  “He was in here! He—”

  “Emily! Honey, she took her life. Just look at the glass shard in her hand.”

  “She wouldn’t! She wouldn’t do such a thing!”

  “Mom, I know you don’t want to believe it,” Francine said, “but it was Grandma, not Alan. There’s no reason for Alan to do that. He helped us when we needed it.”

  “No! No, I can’t handle this.” Emily broke from Billy and collapsed near the bed, leaning back, her feet drawn up. She sobbed loudly. Billy sat beside her.

  “I’m sorry,” Billy said.

  Alan wiped his eyes. “I-I came in to check on her. That’s all. She was gone when I got here. I can’t believe it.” He covered his face with his hands. Emily only continued to sob.

  Francine found a washcloth and dampened it under a faucet, then wiped away as much of Martha’s blood as she could. Phil and Jesse stripped the bloody sheets in favor of cleaner ones from the linen closet down the hall. Finally, they covered Martha with a fresh blanket.

  ****

  It was nearly six in the morning before everyone returned to their rooms. Most felt too sad to sleep, but eventually they slept.

  Alan was the first to rise. Billy found him pacing the living room, burning tracks into the floor. “Alan, did you get enough sleep?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You sure?”

  “I woke up a while ago, couldn’t get back to sleep, so yeah. I’ve got as much sleep as I’m going to get.”

  “I want to apologize for Emily.”

  “It’s not your obligation.”

  “I’m still sorry she jumped to that conclusion. I’m sure she is, too.”

  “I understand. Thank you.”

  Billy nodded and headed for the kitchen. He rinsed out the coffee pot and filled the maker with clean, fresh water. “You drink coffee?”

  “I could take some, thanks.”

  Within the hour, everyone else had gotten up. Most of them drank coffee in silence. Soon, Alan got up from one of the couches and went to his room. When he got there, he slipped his shoes on, grabbed his car keys, and headed back out.

  “Alan, what’s going on?” Francine asked. Alan gave no response, and walked into the kitchen. Billy followed him. Alan filled his coffee cup with some water, then gulped it down.

  “What’s going on?” Billy said. “You have your car keys. What are you doing?”

  “You don’t need to leave us,” Francine said.

  “I’m not,” Alan replied. “There’s a hardware store in town.”

  “What in God’s name do you want to go to a hardware store for?” Billy said.

  “We need to respect the dead. We don’t have anything suitable to bury Martha in, and there’s wood at a hardware store. I’m going to get some and build Martha a casket.” When Emily heard Alan, she looked up. “She deserves to rest in peace.”

  “Alan?” Emily said.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m sorry for the way I acted. I think it’s great, what you’re doing. I can’t say how happy it makes me.”

  “I’m only doing what needs to be done.”

  “You shouldn’t go alone,” Phil said.

  “I don’t want to put anyone at risk. Besides, I want someone here to hold up the fort.”

  “I’ll go with you, Alan. That leaves plenty of people here if something goes wrong.” Alan stared at Phil for a few seconds, then nodded.

  “I want to go too,” Jesse said.

  “I don’t think I want to risk it, Jess. You’ve been through enough shit as it is.”

  Francine raised her hand halfway. “I’ll go, too.” She saw Emily’s eyes widen. “I’ll be fine, Mom.”

  “Just be careful, okay?” Emily said.

  “I will.” Francine gave her mother a hug.

  Emily sighed. “I sometimes forget you’re not a child anymore.”

  “Yeah,” Francine said. “Don’t worry, I’ll be careful.”

  Alan, Phil, and Francine gathered some of the weapons they’d taken from Wal-Mart. The three of them left the house.

  The 26th of June was a cool day compared to those spent in the stadium. The breeze felt nice as the trio headed to the car. There weren’t any signs of life on the hill; it was quiet except for the leaves in the trees. The gentle rustling was comforting. It made them feel less alone.

  ****

  “We’ll get the lumber, a hammer and some nails, and then get the hell out,” Alan said. He was driving. “That’s the plan.”

  “Sounds fine,” Phil replied.

  Zombies wandered the yards and sidewalks they passed. Most of them had nothing to do but wander. Others had meals. None of them tried to follow the car.

  Pretty soon a hardware store came into view. The sign out front was a giant hammer about to pound a nail into a horizontal board. Overlapping the board were big, green letters that spelled:

  Greg’s Hardware

  The sign was inviting, unlike the parking lot. There were two cars in it when the trio arrived. One was unharmed, minus some broken windows, dents on the front bumper, and some dings in the paint. Several meters away, the other car sat, mostly charred. Bodies were piled around it, charred as well.

  “How did that happen?” Francine asked.

  “Who knows?” Phil said.

  “Let’s get the stuff,” Alan said. Everyone climbed out of the car, quickly and quietly, and looked around, weapons in hand. Alan spotted a body on the ground, farther from the burnt car. It was the body of a policeman, and a gun was still in its hand. Alan took it, checked for ammo, cocked it, and tucked it into his pants.

  The three of them headed toward the front doors of the hardware store. Many
of the windows were smashed. Glass was strewn on the white pavement, near a vending machine. The light in the vending machine was on, which meant there was still power.

  Alan grabbed a cart. He tried to push it without making noise, but its front right wheel had a mild squeak to it. “All right. Phil, get us a couple hammers and some nails, please. Francine and I will start loading the lumber. Meet us back there?”

  “Okay, be right there,” Phil said. He broke from the group, shovel in hand, and headed into a nearby aisle. Francine and Alan headed for the lumber at the back of the store.

  “How much do we need?” Francine asked as she loaded the long, flat cart with wood.

  “I’m not sure. But it’s better to be safe than sorry.”

  Phil grabbed a hand basket and started loading it with hammers and nails. As he was finishing up, a zombie darted around the corner of the aisle. Phil turned too late, and the zombie grabbed him. He shouted for Alan and Francine, dropped his basket, and tried to push the zombie away, but the zombie sank its teeth into his arm. Phil screamed in pain.

  Alan and Francine left the cart and ran to Phil. Francine readied her hoe. When they came to a stop in the hammer aisle, Phil was already losing blood, and he almost fell as the zombie tried to bite him again.

  “Hold on, Phil!” Alan said. He pointed his gun at the zombie and pulled the trigger. Blood and brain matter splattered on the shelves, and the zombie fell to the ground, motionless. Phil fell to his knees, and Alan knelt by his side.

  “There’s more coming!” Francine said.

  “I know!” Alan replied. He ripped off part of his shirt and wrapped it tightly around Phil’s arm.

  “Oh… Jesse…” Phil said. “What is he going to do without his parents?”

  “Phil, don’t talk like that,” Alan said. Another zombie rounded the corner. It was smaller and faster, but no match for Alan’s gun. Another zombie came from the other side of the aisle, and Francine slammed her hoe into its head.