by DeWitt, Dan
They made it to the door, and Ethan had to turn his back on the zombies only a handful of yards away so he could push the counting man into the SUV. Rachel and Sister Ann helped, as Harold and Jason were in the far back seat with Trent between them. Ethan climbed in a shut the door as silently as he could. They weren't completely out of the woods yet, but they had a big, heavy ride with a full tank of gas. The zombies began to close around the SUV. A few got close enough to press their faces against the driver's side windows while some others circled around. Ethan studied them out of the corner of his eye; they were looking past him.
At what? Him?
Trent said what Ethan was thinking. "Why are they looking at this guy?"
"The Count? I don't care. I'm going to try and nudge through them." He put the SUV into low gear and started to push forward. The brush guard did an admirable impression of a cowcatcher. "I think we're good." Neither Ethan nor the man in the shotgun seat had put on their seatbelt, and an irritating beeping sound chastised them.
That was when The Count screamed and lunged across the front seat. Ethan instinctively threw a stiff arm into the man's forehead, but that only gave a temporary respite. He slipped it and came again. Ethan managed to get his right knee into the man's chest, but he no longer had control of the vehicle. It kept rolling forward toward the school. "Ah! Get it off me!!!"
Inside, The Count snarled and began to try to take a bite out of Ethan. Outside, the once-docile zombies exploded into a frenzy and launched themselves against the SUV. They pounded against the glass. Some even climbed on and tried to punch their way through the moonroof.
Rachel tried to hit The Count with her pipe, but she had no room to swing. "Gun! gun!" she yelled.
Harold leaned forward as far as he could. "I don't have the shot!"
Trent just kept yelling, "Kill it! kill it!"
"Give it to me then!" Rachel snatched the gun away and put it to the side of The Count's head. Before she could pull the trigger, the still-moving vehicle collided with the school. The impact was just jarring enough to make Rachel drop the gun on the front seat, under The Count. "Shit!" She reached over the seatback but had to yank back sharply as The Count got a mouthful of her shirtsleeve. Her head slammed into the window, and she was dazed.
"I can't get it!" Ethan yelled, still doing everything he could to avoid getting savaged by The Count.
"Kill it! Kill it! Kill it!"
The report of the pistol was as loud as a thunderclap in the enclosed space. The right side of The Count's head exploded all over the dashboard and windshield. Ethan kicked him away and he slumped against the passenger window. From the left side, he could have been sleeping. From the right, he had no face.
Ethan put the SUV in reverse. His pant leg got caught on the center console, so he floored it with his left. Everyone was thrown forward, including The Count, as they rocketed backward and through the crowd. Another gear change and acceleration and they were clear enough for Ethan to slow down a little and untangle himself.
When everyone's breathing returned to normal, Ethan said, "What. The. FUCK. Just happened?"
Rachel had completely regained her senses. "Oh my God, are you okay?"
"I'm fine, thanks to you."
"Me? I didn't do anything. I dropped the gun."
"Oh. Ann? Was it you? Ann?" Ethan got no answer. Instead of turning around to talk to her and taking his eyes off of the road, he readjusted the rearview mirror. She looked paler than usual. Ethan panned down and saw the gun still clenched tightly in her right hand. "Ann?" She still said nothing. "Rach? A little help here?"
She realized what had happened. She slid her hand over Sister Ann's and gently pried the gun loose. She handed it to Ethan who put the safety on and placed it in the center console. "Ann, are you okay?" She patted her hands rapidly as she spoke. "Come on, say something."
"Dear Lord," she finally said. "What am I becoming?"
"You're not becoming anything, Sister. You saved Ethan's life. You saved all of our lives."
"I murdered a man."
"That thing," Ethan interjected, "was not a man."
"Fuckin'-a right," Trent said from the back seat.
"Shut the fuck up, Trent. And why is he still with us?”
Harold took the cue and placed a piece of duct tape over Trent's protesting mouth. "I don't know. We're just doing what you told us."
"He'll have information," Sister Ann said, her voice faraway. "We might need it."
"Okay. We need to find a place to ask some questions. Any ideas? Anyone?"
"Oh, we're close to that general store!" Jason said. "We need to stock up anyway, right?"
"And I have an idea where we can go after that," Rachel added.
"Where?"
Rachel shut him down. "Not yet." She threw a subtle glance backwards that was meant only for Ethan. It meant, Not in front of him.
"Right. Store, it is. But first..." He pulled over to the side of the road and checked to make sure that they were alone. There were no zombies in sight. That didn't mean there weren't any near them, but he only needed a few seconds. He jumped out and ran around to the passenger door. He pulled it open and the dead man fell out with a muted thud on the pavement. He grabbed him by the wrists and dragged him to the edge of the woods, taking great care to avoid looking at the remains of the head. His eulogy consisted of, "Sorry, Count."
Then he was back in the SUV, heading to the store.
* * *
Ethan backed up to Chappy's General and Liquor. He and Rachel climbed out first to make sure there would be no surprises outside. The rest waited. They made a slow, deliberate circuit of the exterior with their flashlights off. Their adjusted vision was enough to see that there was no movement other than the swaying of the trees in the increasingly stiff breeze. Ethan had been an island kid all of his life, and he knew that those winds meant there was a storm coming. And why wouldn't there be a storm coming? It's all this movie is missing.
The two of them stayed close as they walked through the barn-style entry door. The tinkle of the bell overhead made them both jump. Ethan was afraid that they would have to deal with a clerk, a few customers, or maybe even Chappy himself, but they found nothing but evidence that people had been there recently. The shelves had been rummaged through, the liquor had been partially savaged, the cash register was open (and empty), and a few cartons of cigarettes lay on the counter. It wasn't any kind of organized raid; more likely, people just made impulse grabs when everything had kicked off.
When Ethan was satisfied that they had the place all to themselves, he waved everyone else inside. He told everyone to keep their flashlight use to a minimum so they wouldn't be too visible to any outsiders, specifically Trent's friends from the roof. Rachel, Jason, and Ann went to work grabbing food, water, and better flashlights, one of which Ethan took for himself. He and Harold escorted their captive to Chappy's office. They shoved him into the chair behind the desk. Harold went overboard with the duct tape, and Trent was going nowhere.
"Go help them, please, Harold," Ethan said. "I don't want to be here any longer than a few more minutes."
Harold was clearly reluctant to leave Ethan alone with Trent, and for multiple reasons. "Umm, are, are you sure?"
"I'm sure." Harold still hesitated. "It's fine. I promise."
Ethan shut the door behind Harold, then returned to Trent. Some clouds passed in front of the moon. A dim room was made even dimmer, and Ethan heard the first drops of rain spatter against the window. He turned on his flashlight and stood it up on end. "I'm not even going to ask you who or why. Just tell me where you're supposed to meet at 8:30."
"And if I do?"
"You first."
"Fuck you."
"You're really going to clam up? For the guys who left you to die at the school?"
"I don't give a shit about them. I just don't want to give you anything."
"Why not?"
"I was military intelligence. I'm not going to crack for some
punk kid. That's why. I will tell you one thing, though...we had all of those zombies confined to one place, according to plan. You had to go and put them some place we couldn't use. But the show must go on, right? All of those dead people in the gym? Your fault, not mine."
Ethan had already considered this, and had mostly made peace with it, though some guilt still gnawed at him, however undeserved it was. He nodded slightly. "Okay." More nods. "Okay. You know something, Trent? You were right about me." Ethan let that hang for a moment, and he could tell that Trent was curious. He waited the other man out.
"Right about what?"
"You told me that you thought I was bluffing in the church, that I wouldn't throw those two to the wolves. You were right. I wasn't going to leave without them."
"Hooray for me. So?"
"So, the reason is that it became us vs. them in a hurry. Humans against those things. I wasn't going to kill another human being. There really are so few of us left."
On the last syllable, Ethan raised his pistol and pressed the barrel to Trent's forehead. He pressed hard, and the metal dug into the flesh even as his head was pushed backwards and down over the chair back. "But you...you're not human."
"Wait, wait! Stop! I was bluffing! I wasn't military intelligence! I worked in the motor pool!" Ethan responded by pressing even harder. The angle constricted Trent's airway a great deal, and he struggled to breathe. "I'll tell you what you want to know!"
"We'll manage," Ethan said coldly. "Bye."
"Don't...!"
"Ethan," a soft voice said from the doorway. "Ethan, you don't need to do that. You don't want to do that."
Ethan turned his head slightly to see the rest of his diminished band of survivors in the doorway, Ann at the forefront. "Yeah, Ann, I think I do."
"No, you don't. We're all grieving for our friends. But this would be murder. That's not a step worth taking."
Ethan flexed his finger around the trigger and clenched his jaw. Do it...they'll forgive you, the spiteful part of his mind told him. Do it.
The rational part, however, forced him to turn his head and look at Rachel. What he saw in her face was fear. Whether it was for him or of him was irrelevant (he suspected it to be a bit of both). It wasn't a look he ever wanted to see again. He pulled the gun away from Trent's head. Instead, he drove his fist into Trent's mouth. "You are the luckiest motherfucker alive."
Trent, wisely, said nothing. He only breathed and looked anywhere but at another person.
"Are we loaded up?"
"Any more and someone will have to ride on the roof rack." Harold said. "We kind of anticipated that he wouldn't be accompanying us any longer."
Ethan walked out of the office and into the market area. It only took him a few seconds to find what he needed: bottled water, a bag of sliced white bread, and some dog bowls. When he got back to the office, he tore open the bread and poured the water into a bowl. He placed everything on the desk where Trent could reach it, even considering his limited movement.
Trent stammered something in gratitude, but Ethan cut him off with another punch. "Now you have a chance, which is more than you gave all of those people. Fuck you, and I hope you die screaming."
They all left the store and took up places in the SUV. Harold hadn't been exaggerating; food and other supplies were stacked, quite literally, to the roof in every spot that wouldn't be occupied by a survivor.
Just before Ethan turned the ignition key he asked, "Anyone have to pee?"
"Oh, I do," Jason said.
"I was kidding."
"Well, I'm not. Sorry."
"I'll come with you," Harold offered.
"That's not necessary, sweetie. I'm a big boy now. Two minutes."
Jason turned on his flashlight and headed back inside.
* * *
Jason really did have to go to the bathroom, but that wasn't the main reason that he went back inside. He walked into the bathroom and relieved himself. He heard Trent asking, "Is somebody there? Who's there?" over and over again. He zipped up, grabbed something off of the counter, and headed into the office.
Trent jumped when he walked through the door, probably thinking that Ethan had come back to finish the job. He physically and mentally relaxed when he saw who it was.
Jason knew that he didn't intimidate a guy like Trent. Truth is, he'd always been the intimidated one. Always. But Harold loved him, anyway. Loved him, protected him, stood up for him.
And this man had tried to kill him.
That wouldn't do.
"What the fuck do you want?" Trent asked, fully back into character.
"It's so quiet in here. I thought you could use some music to keep you company." He placed the battery powered radio and CD player on the far end of the desk. He popped in a Pavarotti CD that he'd lifted from the SUV and hit play. He listened for a few seconds. "Now this is nice." Outside, the rain intensified a bit, but a far-off thunderclap signified that the storm was moving elsewhere. Still, Jason turned it up louder.
Trent grew wary. "What are you doing? I don't need any music."
"Sure you do," Jason said, and he maxed the volume. The little boombox packed a wallop, and the high notes were ear-splitting.
"Turn that shit off!" Trent yelled over the tenor.
"Turn it off yourself," Jason yelled in return. He walked to the office's back door and turned the lock. "Some fresh air might do you some good, too."
Trent was confused until he saw the doorstop. Then his confusion turned into fear. "Don't do that. Please."
Jason mimed deafness. "Can't hear you! The music's too loud!" He opened the door as wide as it would allow and jammed the doorstop in.
The wind drove the rain a few feet into the office, but the elements weren't what had Trent worried. "Come on, those things might be out there!"
Jason looked at him quizzically. "You think?"
"No! Hey, quit playing around, you homo! Wait! I'm sorry I called you a homo!"
Jason ignored him. When he got back to the car, he jumped in quickly and slammed the door against both the rain and the music inside the office.
"What took you so long?" Harold asked.
"Number two," Jason said, his usually sheepish self.
Trent had just begun to loosen the bonds on his left arm when Chappy, who hadn't wandered far after all, returned to his store.
* * *
Mary-Lou's Drive-In and Bar-B-Q was mostly deserted (the survivors had to clean up a few random zombies who had strayed there, but the drive-in itself had been closed the night of the infection), and Rachel had known it. She was the only one who'd actually read the fliers for Casino Night at the school; it was both sponsored and catered by Mary-Lou's. It was remote. They could escape in, quite literally, any direction through the packed dirt lot. Food was, again, plentiful. The meat would no doubt be spoiled by now, but they had a ridiculous variety of snacks to choose from.
Once the entrances were secured...heavily...the group relaxed a bit.
* * *
Several weeks passed in relative comfort.
"Rachel, this was a real stroke of genius," Sister Ann said. "Wasn't it, Ethan?"
Ethan didn't respond right away, because he was staring at a stack of the informational fliers that would have been handed out to incoming vehicles. He thought that he might be forming an idea, but he didn't want to jump the gun, just in case he was wrong.
"Ethan?"
"Huh? Oh, yeah. It's a nice pull, babe. I'll be right back."
"Where are you going?"
"I want to move the truck closer to the door. Just in case we have to run. Again."
Rachel either bought his explanation or thought that he just wanted a few minutes alone, which was also true. "Oh. Okay."
He looked out every available window to make sure the coast was clear. When he got outside, he lifted his face to the sun and let it beat down on him a little. It reminded me of the basketball game with his father, and that seemed like years ago. He willed himself back to
the present and got in the driver's seat. He started it up and moved the truck where he wanted it, but not before he ran through the AM radio stations one by one.
He'd gotten the idea from the fliers. If you wanted to listen to the movie, you had to turn to AM 570, WZXQ. Harold had intercepted the transmission from Trent's cronies about meeting up at 830. What if that didn't refer to the time of the meeting, but the place? The last that Ethan knew, AM 830 was an unused frequency since the island station WJZZ folded.
What did it mean? Up to AM 810 (Your Favorite Swing!), it meant nothing. All of those stations were static, as he expected.
At 830, it meant everything. That frequency had no static. More than that, it had nothing. He turned up the radio as loud as it would go. He thought that maybe he could detect a faint pulse at a frequency at the edges of human hearing, but he wasn't sure. It could just be the blood pumping through his ears, for all he knew. What he was sure of was that every station on the dial, AM and FM, had static, save for AM 830. That couldn't be a coincidence.
Ethan wasn't sure exactly sure what he was going to do with this information, but he knew that, whatever it was, it would be tonight.
* * *
Rachel stirred a little as Ethan slid out of their "bed" on the floor behind the snack bar. He hesitated as her arm brushed lightly against his thigh, and waited until he was sure she was asleep again. He slid his sneakers on, grabbed a set of keys for one of the spare catering vans, and walked to the door and the silhouette looking out of the picture window.
The silhouette whirled around at the sound of footsteps behind him. "Ethan! You scared the crap out of me."
"Sorry."
"What are you doing up?"
"I have to check on something."
"Check on..." Jason noticed the keys in Ethan's hand. "Where are you going?" he almost yelled.
Ethan waved his hands downward. "Would you keep your voice down?"
"Where are you going?" Jason repeated in a stage whisper.
"Checking on a hunch."
"What hunch?"
