by Brian Keene
Which was exactly what they did—quickly sliding two of the steel drums in front of the door. Both were full. Mike didn’t know what of, because the labels were faded, but they were heavy. It took all he and Bryan had to move them. He was pretty sure the door would hold. When they finished, Mike and Bryan hunkered down behind the air compressor.
And now here they were.
“Where did you get that, anyway?” Mike whispers.
Bryan tilts the bottle toward the chair by the door. “Over there, under the chair. I guess some of the clerks were partying when they were out here on their smoke break. I’ll tell you, Pennsylvania sucks. If this was a convenience store in Nashville, I could have snagged a six pack of beer before we came out here. But you can’t buy beer in the store in this state.”
“Yeah, Pennsylvania sucks for sure.”
“You lived here all your life?”
Mike nods.
“What do you do?”
“For fun? Watch the tire fires on Saturday night. Seduce young Amish girls. Go to tractor pulls.”
Bryan stares at him, obviously confused.
“I’m kidding,” Mike says. “No, I make movies.”
“What, like one of those guys on YouTube?”
“Exactly like one of those guys on YouTube. I’ve got my own channel.”
“Oh yeah? Are you any good?”
Mike shrugs. “Well, not to brag, but I’ve got over ten-thousand subscribers. And I make a little money from it. Not enough to quit my job at the pizza place, but enough so that I don’t struggle with the bills every month. I’m hoping that sooner or later, it leads to bigger work.”
“Wouldn’t you have a better chance if you moved to Los Angeles?”
“Yeah, probably.”
“Then why are you still here?”
Mike sighs. He’s about to explain to Bryan about his mother’s fight with cancer, and how even though he has two brothers in the area, he doesn’t want to leave her. But before he can do this, he hears a scuffling sound in the alley. He glances at Bryan in terror. The older man remains still as a statue, the bottle half-raised to his lips. His eyes are wide with panic. The sound draws closer—stealthy, hurried footsteps.
Bryan quietly puts the bottle down on the concrete. His expression is grim and his eyes are alert.
The footsteps draw nearer.
Mike peers over the edge of the retaining wall, and sees an Asian man dressed in burned, dirty clothes and clutching a hunting rifle. Much of the hair on his head and arms has been singed, as well. If the stranger is in pain, he gives no indication. He seems focused instead on his surroundings, his gaze darting warily from building to building, and shadow to shadow.
Bryan sidles up next to Mike and tugs his arm. “He’s not naked. Think he’s normal?”
Mike can tell that his fellow survivor is trying to whisper, but the whiskey is obviously impacting him. His voice carries, and the Asian man squawks in fright. He stumbles to a halt, frantically glancing around, waving the rifle back and forth. Mike then realizes that he can’t see them.
“It’s okay,” he calls. “We’re not like them. Don’t shoot. You’re safe.”
The man squints in their direction, not lowering his weapon. “Where are you?”
“Over here, behind the store. Are you okay? You look… burned.”
“I’m just singed. They set my house on fire. I almost didn’t make it out, because they were tossing people off the roof of the church, and I live next door to it. But then they were having trouble hoisting this kid up, and I…”
He makes a desperate sort of whine. Mike sees his throat working, as if he’s choking down a sob.
“Do you know what’s happening?” Mike asks.
“A bunch of people went crazy and started killing everybody.”
“Well, yeah. We know that.”
“Then why did you ask?”
“I don’t know,” Mike explains. “I thought you might have some news. An explanation. Our phones don’t have any signal.”
“Neither does mine,” the man confirms. “The National Guard has a perimeter set up in Dallastown. Supposedly it’s right on the town limits. I’m heading there now.”
“How do you know that?” Mike asks.
“I heard it on the police scanner before I lost power.”
“You’re welcome to hide in here with us instead,” Bryan offers. “If they have a perimeter set up, then it stands to reason they’ll sort things out soon. Might be less risky to just lay low.”
The man shakes his head. “No offense, but for all I know, you could be like the rest of them. I’ll take my chances getting there.”
“If we were like them,” Bryan reasons, “we would have killed you already.”
The man hesitates for a moment, and then seems to make up his mind. “Even still, I’m better off by myself. Good luck to you.”
“Wait,” Mike pleads. “Neither one of us are from around here. How far is Dallastown?”
The man shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe two miles. You head down this alley until you get to the Rite-Aid and Hardees. Then you head up Main Street maybe another mile. Or, if there’s too many of these…people in the streets, you could cut across the field behind the grocery store, instead. That’s up behind the Rite-Aid. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got to go.”
“Hold on,” Mike calls.
“I’ve answered your questions. I’m leaving.”
“But…”
The man raises the gun and points it at the sound of their voices. “No more. Please…”
Mike starts to speak again, but Bryan reaches out and squeezes his shoulder hard. When Mike turns to him, Bryan shakes his head no. When they turn back, the man hurries down the alley and vanishes into the darkness. They wait until the sound of his footsteps fade. Then they duck back down behind the equipment and ductwork, and speak in hushed whispers.
“What do you think?” Mike asks.
Bryan takes another sip of bourbon. “About what?”
“About what that guy said. The National Guard. Do you think we should try for the perimeter?”
“How are we going to get there without our cars? I’m not crazy about walking around in the dark. We don’t know this town. If one of them sees us, or if we take a wrong turn…”
“Maybe we could get our cars untangled, and take one of them. He said Main Street runs into Dallastown. Well, that’s Main Street out in front of the store. It’s right there. All we have to do is get a car free and floor it.”
“Yeah, and you know how much noise and commotion we’d make, getting the cars free of each other? Our bumpers are entwined. It would be like ringing the dinner bell for these freaks.”
“I don’t think they’re zombies.”
Bryan shrugs. “You know what I mean.”
They fall into silence after that. Mike shifts back and forth, stretching his aching muscles and joints. Mosquitoes buzz his ears and face, but he’s afraid to slap at them—worried someone might hear the noise. He isn’t sure how long they wait there, but it’s long enough that a half dozen crazies scamper by. Five of them proceed down the alley. All of them are carrying weapons and clearly hunting. The sixth passes within feet of their hiding place, just on the other side of the chain link fence. Mike’s heart races in terror when the crazed woman stops in front of the gate. She peers into the enclosure, but apparently doesn’t see them. He holds his breath until she moves on.
“Fuck.” Mike exhales when she’s gone. “I thought she’d spotted us for sure.”
“Me, too,” Bryan agrees, taking another swig from the bottle.
“I changed my mind,” Mike says. “Let me get some of that, if you don’t mind?”
Shrugging, Bryan hands him the bottle. Mike wipes the rim with his hand and then lifts it to his lips. He shudders, grimacing as the bourbon burns his throat.
“Jesus,” he chokes. “That’s like drinking smoke and tree bark. I think I’ll stick with beer.”
Bryan n
ods, his expression solemn. “That was always my drink of choice.”
“I shouldn’t drink beer at all,” Mike responds. “All the weight I’ve put on recently makes my t-shirts fit like sausage skins.”
Bryan chuckles. “You’re young. You can lose that easy. Wait until you’re my age. The pounds are harder to take off.”
Mike hands him back the bottle, noticing as he does that Bryan’s hands are shaking. He is about to ask the older man if he’s okay, when they hear more shuffling footsteps in the alley. The two of them tiptoe back to the retaining wall and peer out over the side, expecting to see more naked people.
Instead, they see a group of fully-clothed people, none of whom look the least bit insane. Bizarrely, all of them are wet. Their garments cling to them, dripping water. A middle-aged Hispanic man leads them. He is followed by an old black man who looks tired, a tall and pretty girl about Mike’s age, another pretty redhead holding the hand of a little kid, and a guy who reminds Mike of the character Badger from the television show Breaking Bad—the only difference is his head is shaved down to stubble. All of them carry an assortment of makeshift weapons. Even the little boy. Clubs, pipes, lengths of two-by-fours. Only one of them—the television lookalike—has a gun. All of them glance around furtively, before creeping forward a few more steps.
“What do you think?” Bryan whispers.
Mike notices that he’s slurring his words slightly.
“I think they’re like us,” he says. “They’re not naked, and they look scared.”
“You sure about that?”
Mike shakes his head. The alcohol on Bryan’s breath is strong. He wonders what the man’s tolerance level is.
“Well, only one way to find out.” Bryan stands up, weaving on his feet.
Panicked, Mike grabs Bryan’s shirttail. “What are you doing? Are you drunk?”
Bryan pushes his hand away. “No, I told you before—I’m legendary.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
Still swaying, Bryan yells, “Hello!”
Which is when the guy with the gun spins to face them and squeezes the trigger.
Twenty-One - Terri, Caleb, Stephanie, Grady, Shaggy, The Exit, Bryan, and Mike: Speedy Stop Convenience Store, 282 Main Street
Terri is thinking about Sam, and how much he reminded her of her father, and wondering why she’s grieving for this man she barely knew. How is that possible? And yet, grieve she does, right up until a voice shouts out a greeting from somewhere to her left. The group stumbles to a frightened halt. Caleb squeezes her hand. Terri squeezes back, trying to figure out where they can run to. A second later, Shaggy fires Grady’s pistol. The shot seems extremely loud, and the muzzle flash leaves spots floating in her vision.
“Come on, motherfuckers,” Shaggy yells, stalking toward the darkness.
“Shaggy…” Grady reaches for his arm, but the younger man pulls away.
The gunshot echoes, then fades. Shaggy points the gun toward a chain link fence. The interior behind the fence is concealed in deep shadows.
“Caleb,” she whispers, “you stay behind me.”
He nods as she guides him into position.
“Don’t waste your ammunition,” Mendez warns.
“Hold on,” the voice calls. “We’re not like the others. Don’t shoot!”
Terri frowns. The speaker’s words are slurred slightly, as if he’s drunk.
“That’s right,” a second voice calls. “Please, don’t hurt us. My friend…he’s not thinking straight. He’s a little buzzed.”
“I’m thinking fine,” the first voice counters. “And that gunshot sobered me up. I told you they were like us.”
“Yeah, well then why did they just try to shoot us?”
“Because you scared us,” Stephanie explains. “Shaggy, put the gun down.”
“Fuck that. I’ve had it with this shit. I’ll shoot every motherfucker we see.”
Terri notices that Shaggy is standing taut, as if all of his muscles have turned to steel. However, despite his posture, Shaggy’s body seems to vibrate.
He’s having a breakdown, she thinks. He’s ready to snap.
“I mean it,” he growls, “I’m gonna start shooting every fucking person we see.”
“If you start doing that,” Mendez says quietly, “then I’ll have to assume you’re turning into one of them. We don’t want that to happen, right Shaggy?”
His tone is mild, even placating, but Terri still detects a hint of menace beneath his words. Mr. Mendez gives her the creeps. He has all night long. She doesn’t know why. Indeed, she barely knows him. She doesn’t even know his first name, or which apartment he lived in. But there’s something about the man that gives her bad vibes. She wanted to jump out of her skin when he helped Caleb into the swimming pool earlier, and carried the boy on his shoulders, but she allowed both to happen—chalking her unease up to nothing more than nerves over the situation at hand. But now, she’s not so sure it is just nerves. The way he’s watching Shaggy only solidifies her feeling of uneasiness about the man. Then she realizes something else. Mendez doesn’t blink. He stares at Shaggy the way a snake would study its prey—cold, emotionless…and unblinking.
Terri is pretty sure Tick Tock has that same sort of stare. She wonders if whatever has happened to drive their antagonists crazy is now happening to Mendez. And if so, could it happen to them rest of the, as well?
“Shaggy.” Grady shuffles up beside him and gently touches his arm. “Lower the gun, son. Please?”
All of the tension seems to drain from Shaggy’s posture. Without turning to look at Grady, he lowers the weapon and sighs. For some reason, the sound makes Terri feel sad.
Mendez steps toward the fence. “Who are you?”
“My name’s Mike. My friend is Bryan. Don’t fucking shoot us, okay?”
“Is there anyone else with you?” Mendez asks.
Before the hidden men can answer, a cry goes up from a nearby house. All of them jump, visibly startled. Terri recognizes the sound. She’s been hearing it all night.
“They must have heard the gunshot,” Stephanie says.
“Quick,” Mike shouts from the shadows. “Hide in here. Come over to the gate!”
Terri watches as the others all glance at each other. Then, Mendez leads them forward, around the chain link fence and a retaining wall, until they reach a gate. She peers into the darkness but can’t see anything. Then, a young man in a black t-shirt and shorts emerges from the shadows on the other side of the gate. He sort of reminds Terri of Randy. Then she remembers that Randy is dead, and is suddenly overcome with guilt that she hasn’t grieved for him more this evening. Maybe it’s the stress of the situation. Maybe she just hasn’t had time to grieve. But if so, then why did she feel so sad about Sam—someone whom she’d just met?
The stranger opens the gate and urgently waves them inside. Terri guides Caleb in front of her, feeling how tense and frightened he is. She wonders what long-term effect this will have on her son, and her heart breaks even more.
“It’s going to be okay, baby.”
Sure it is, she thinks. I’ve been telling him that all night, but it’s not okay. If anything, things are proceeding to get worse. I’m lying to him. Yeah, it’s to keep him calm and ease his fears, but still…I’m lying. What if they get in here? What if they find us and we can’t escape? The last thing I did was lie to my son…
“I’m Mike,” the young man says. “This way. Hurry.”
He motions toward a cluster of metal ducts. Kneeling between them is an older man with graying hair dressed in a Hawaiian shirt. An empty bottle of liquor lies at his feet. Terri supposes he must be the aforementioned Bryan.
They all crouch down and press close together in a tight knot. Terri smells alcohol on both Mike and Bryan. And despite their dip in the swimming pool, she smells underarms and sweat and smoke from herself and her neighbors. She desperately wants a shower. And a hot tea. But mostly a shower. She kisses Caleb on to
p of his head. The boy’s hair also smells like smoke, but beneath that she still smells her son—that intimate scent she’s known since she first held him in her arms. It’s the smell of his pillow and his clothes. It lingers, and gives her hope.
Her breath catches in her throat as footsteps pound down the alley. Simultaneously, a great commotion breaks out in front of the store. Although they can’t see their pursuers, they hear the now all-too-familiar growls and laughter and cries. Glass shatters, and there are a series of loud booms as somebody begins striking something metal. Someone snarls on the other side of the retaining wall, and Terri gives Caleb’s hand a reassuring squeeze. His skin feels very cold, and when he squeezes back, she can barely feel it.
A group of hunters emerge from the alley and cut around to the front of the store. Terri catches glimpses of them as they pass by the fence—naked and bloody, clutching weapons, hair askew, eyes alight with a maniacal combination of fury and glee. One of them carries a severed head, swinging it back and forth like a handbag. Around the throat of another dangles a necklace of penises and ears, crudely fashioned from a length of baling twine. There is no rhyme or reason to their numbers, no common denominator among those who make up their ranks, other than their nudity and predilection for slaughter. Black, white, brown, young, old, handicapped or in perfect health—the crazies don’t discriminate. Apparently their ranks are open to all, and if what she’s seen so far tonight is any indication, they offer the same courtesy to their targets. She wonders about their methods—about what drives their need to destroy and slaughter. Why are they engaged in such wholesale destruction?
Because they’re crazy, she thinks. Crazy people don’t need a reason to do the things they do. They do it because they’re crazy. Or, at least, that’s how we see them. I wonder how they see themselves. Do they perceive themselves as crazy?
