by catt dahman
“Three. Technically,” Solly said.
“Hot damn. I have enough for a few hours.”
“And those would potentially infect six in three hours, and you get how that would expand to many, but over their…well, not lifetime…but zombiehood; then, you get a further expansion,” Ron mused.
“So, while you can look at the math that way and have variables, taking out the needed number can also change the whole works. Taking out a big, normal one would pay off theoretically more than taking out a little old lady zed that has been torn up. Although by a strange chance, the old woman might get ten people and the big zed might fall off of a roof, smack his head, and be out of the chase.”
This time they all looked at Ron with perplexed faces.
“You are smart, Ron,” Candy said, making him smile proudly.
“Then why aren’t we running right now while there may be a better ratio of infected and uninfected?” Doc asked, “I mean, I don’t have to outrun all of them…just all of you, or I mean, all of the other ones who are uninfected?”
“You wouldn’t help people?”
“Yes, but I am talking numbers.”
“Stop then; it’s making you look bad.”
Alex nodded. “Agreed. But he’s also right; we need to go now or wait for that lull, but since we are locked in here with them, the lull means we face all five hundred.”
Evvie made the choice for them. “We rest and hydrate, and then, we go to face the five hundred, no variables and no other points to consider. At least then, we know what we are facing, and we can destroy all we find.”
4
Little Girl Lost
“So while everyone complains about this, the world is on hold? The garbage hasn’t been picked up in days,” complained Dad who was so angry, “the sound of those damned flies is about to make me stab my own ears. No one cares about responsibility.”
“Do something else. Watch television.”
“So I can see more reports overseas? Bunch of third world countries over populated and packed in places like rats, and their trash isn’t being picked up either, no wonder they’re sick.”
“It’s this virus….”
“Hon, do you really think that a virus is doing this? I grant you it could be cholera or something else in those rat-breeding places, but I assure you that no people are going into comas all over the world, a few maybe. And I can say with total confidence that none are waking up as people-eating monsters.”
“Then why does the television keep showing that and telling us to prepare ourselves for that?” the girl asked.
“It’s the same as Hurricane Katrina. Since then, people go rabid when a storm approaches, news reporters tell people to prepare or get out, scaring people. That way, the motel businesses make money, and so do the oil companies with gasoline use, and everyone’s buying crap at Wal-Mart. It’s all about the money.
And then most of the time, nothing bad happens, but those owners made the money, anyway, and their assets are covered.”
“Okay, but you have to admit that those updates are real; people are sick, and Red is sweeping the globe,” Mom said.
“Reporters took a few pictures of a few events, the bad ones. They did that after that hurricane, showed a few bad events or actions that garnered pity for those stupid people who built a city on land below sea level and expected the city not to flood. Idiots.
Then, they sat and waited until the water was up to their necks to get to higher ground; a bunch of people again packed like rats and breeding there, leaving their garbage outside and not picking it up. They all had a bunch of shacks and lean-to houses, not real ones,” he suddenly sighed, “we are talking about now and not back then. I am saying that this is all hype.”
“It looks real. And how do you explain the hospitals spokesperson saying the hospitals are closed?“I say they aren’t really; it’s a way to keep the pretend patients away. The hospitals should take the few who are really sick. In a week, those people will be just fine, saying a few got sick, everyone panicked, and then the hospitals will beg for money to help. I doubt more than a few get it over here,” he said as he smiled smugly. “I know how these things work.”
Mom looked at him suspiciously. “Diane says all of her family is sick, but she doesn’t have it. Down the street, Karen says both of their neighbors have it.”
“A few from this area and none in the next; it evens out. We’re fine. Do we look sick with that? Reporters overdo it, and then people look okay after it’s over.”
“It isn’t as if we have even seen anyone really sick except on television,” Mom said.
“There you go.”
“And we know those movie places can do all kinds of fake blood and computer graphics; you can’t tell what’s real or fake anymore; it looks so real.”
“Exactly,” Dad said.
“Unless we get sick, then I guess there is no need to worry. The whole idea of zombies is such a cliché anyway.”
“It’s a sign of the times.”
The girl looked out the window as she had done a lot over the past forty-eight hours. “No one is out washing cars or driving; kids aren’t playing.” She didn’t add that it was way too quiet. Their telephones didn’t ring, either.
“Although they are buying into this, I would think you are too smart for that.”
The girl cringed. It wasn’t a compliment when Mom or Dad said anything along the lines of her being smart; it was a barbed reminder that she was adopted, and her siblings were born of them. They liked her more before they had their own, real children who were just of average intelligence. “Can we just prepare a little, in case?”
“Oh, you want to buy guns and run around playing military and horde water?” Dad sneered.
“No,” she said. But yes, it would be good to have a gun or two if events went badly, and she thought they would.
“They are all going crazy, and we are not that stupid. Guns are for criminals. Well adjusted people can work things out.”
The girl wondered if the police thought of that. When they met with a crazed spree killer, maybe they shouldn’t shoot him but rather just work it out. She sighed, not able to understand how anyone could be so blinded by his own judgment, instead of thinking logically.
She didn’t want to be slapped for some reason, so she kept her thoughts to herself. Mom and Dad both had quick tempers with her because she was the oldest, and they expected her to act correctly. She didn’t feel sorry for herself, but one word of encouragement would have gone a long way with her and would have made her feel great about herself, but kind words were rare, and mostly, she just seemed to aggravate them.
“Mommmmmmm.” Only Tracie could stretch a word out that long. “Mike’s nose is bloody all over.”
Mom gave Dad a scared look and ran to the boy’s room where the child sat with his nose gushing, soaking his shirt. She grabbed him to hold him close. No one but the girl noticed Tracie giving the little boy a threatening glance and looking well satisfied and smug; it was possible she slugged him in the face for some minor infraction. She liked to hit people or pinch or scratch when Mom and Dad weren’t looking.
“Lean his head back,” Dad yelled.
“Forward with pressure,” the girl said, and they ignored her.
In a little while, the bleeding stopped, and Mom was able to clean him up, tuck him into bed, and promise that as soon as she changed blouses, she would bring him some iced tea.
Dad didn’t say anything, but he rolled his eyes as she ordered him to stay in bed the rest of the day. He sat with him, despite Tracie’s begging and whining for him to play with her.
“Later, Tracie, he’s not feeling well.”
Tracie cried and pouted, then, after a particularly loud screaming event, announced, “My head hurts,” Tracie whined as she said it, falling onto the floor as if she were too weak to stand.
“Oh, my God,” Mom whispered.
“It’s just a reaction to all of this; no one is sick,”
Dad said, but he also had the frown line between his eyebrows. “She is tired from that temper tantrum.”
Mom was worried. “Maybe she was feeling bad, and that’s why she’s so agitated today. Get her in bed and fluff her pillows.” Dad complied with a sigh.
Tracie began screaming for stories to be read to her, but Mom was busy running back and forth with soup, tea, popsicles, and pudding, while Dad ducked into his study no doubt to smoke, or to look at the Internet, or to work.
“Go see to her,” Mom ordered the girl.
“What do you need, Tracie?”
“I want my circle crown and my tiara. Put it on me so I look like a princess in bed,” Tracie demanded.
“Just rest, okay? You don’t need crowns in bed.”
“Mommmmmmm.”
The girl sighed and began trying to fix the two crowns to suit the child as Tracie stared into the hand mirror, demanding her hair be brushed this way and then that, up and then down, straight and then in ringlets.
“Now read The Wild Things to me, and read it like you like it, not like you hate reading it.” She lay back and then screeched, “You didn’t show me the start picture, Mommmmmm.”
“Hannah, can you please just read it right and not upset her? I just need you to do this one thing for me. Why can’t you ever be nice to her? She’s little. Your jealousy is getting very old very fast.” Mom set a gladiola down and went to the next room.
Hannah wasn’t jealous. She just got tired of the two little ones throwing fits to get their way and their parents catering to their every whim while no one even noticed Hannah and her straight A’s or abilities in sports or anything else she did.
“And I am a princess angel,” Tracie cooed.
“Whatever.”
“Don’t upset me,” Tracie admonished, “now read.”
The twelve-year-old girl began to read. She stifled a yelp as Tracie dug her nails into Hannah’s arm.
“Don’t read it so fast.”
“Don’t dig into my arm, or I won’t read at all. Stop being so mean.”
“Mommmmmmm, she called me names.”
“I said she was being mean for scratching me.”
“Stop. Now. I told you to read a damned book to her. Her head hurts,” Mom yelled. “You can be the solution, or else you’re a part of the problem.”
“I’m Switzerland, neutral. Tracie is being a brat like always,” said as Hannah choked off as Tracie pinched her, “you brat!”
Hannah didn’t know how Mom moved so fast, but Hannah was suddenly jerked up off the edge of the bed and felt a stinging slap across her face.
“Not in my house, Missy.”
Hannah didn’t bother to show her the scratches and the pinch marks since the last time; she was accused of doing the damage herself to blame Tracie. She was said to be using histrionics and that she needed a reality check. Whatever.
Hannah had scars up her arms from Tracie’s attacks, which were laughed off and ignored.
Hannah sat down and read even if Tracie didn’t listen to the story but just grinned smugly.
In the hallway so they could hear, Dad said, “Either knock off this shit, or I am going to a motel to stay until all of you know how to be quiet.” Everyone was quiet after that. If Dad left, Mom would certainly make Hannah pay for it in spades.
On her computer, Hannah watched more news reports but didn’t tell anyone her opinion. On a few sites, she was able to research the infection, and after using a few of the links, she understood the basic theory.
When the infection was reported in New York, Dad said it was because all of the ‘pizza eaters’ were packed like rats and had garbage everywhere. He wasn’t surprised because they all ‘went to theatres and ate Chinese food’, which made no sense either because he had just said they ate pizza.
Hannah didn’t bother to tell him he was thinking of New Jersey and the pizza issue.
Miami, according to Dad, was reporting cases because of the ‘Cuban exiles, pedophiles, and old people who were also packed like rats and didn’t have their immunizations, were dirty and perverted, and who spread the disease at bingo parlors or at beauty shops that sold blue hair rinse’.
Reports from Mexico and the areas close came in because of the ‘gun toting chili and bean eaters’, Dad said. Of course, all of the Californians were packed together with ‘gays and hippies who never took out the trash because they hugged trees’.
The whole state of Louisiana was a ‘swamp that housed blacks in shacks and gumbo eaters’. The rest of the US was thus explained by their eating habits and always focused on the garbage being left to pile up, without an explanation of how a tiny town in Wyoming would be infected. Maybe they sneaked out to eat pizza or beans or dye their hair blue or to hug a tree.
No logic.
Mom sent Dad out for supplies and then used the Benadryl and cough medicines to keep the two youngest asleep; she swore they had fevers and might have the virus. Neither had any symptoms of anything but spoiled ‘bratism.’
Endless batches of applesauce, soups, and pudding were made and carted to the rooms only to be ignored by the children because they were too full to eat anymore.
The next day, the mail still was not running nor was the garbage being collected, and every single store was closed as people stayed home. No one went to parks or drove anywhere; either they hid from the infection or tended to those who were ill, or they were infected themselves.
On television, channels were running the usual junk, and the few that had news reports were all repetitive. Dad was livid with what he said was hype.
The Internet was the same. Hannah was raised with this kind of technology; thus, it was the most telling for Hannah; if no one were posting opinions and blogs, photos, theories, and videos, then it was very real.
“We need to be ready. The kids are okay. It’s allergies at most, but according to the news reports…the CDC and reporters….” Hannah began.
“It’s propaganda.”
Hannah wondered why he didn’t think the screams they heard an hour before were real, or why he ignored the gunshots they heard thirty minutes ago.
“Can’t we try to protect ourselves a little? I’m scared now.”
“Think of someone besides yourself,” Mom snapped, “you have always been so selfish.”
“And to show you that this is all bullshit, you and I are going for a walk in the morning, bright and early, so I can show you how silly you are. Fear is for cowards.”
“And get eaten?” Hannah felt another stinging slap.
“Don’t wise ass your father.”
“Those things are out there attacking people….”
“Those things are just sick people.”
“Sick ones who bite and infect others. Zombies.”
Mom popped her face again. “Stop that.”
Hannah rubbed at her cheek. She was smart, but it didn’t take a rocket genius to know that walking around the block and greeting zombies was not an intelligent plan of action.
If she argued, there would be another slap and maybe much more, and then one way or another, she would be going right around the block with her father, either on her own two feet or being pulled along the concrete sidewalk, skinning her shins. She shut her mouth for good.
He was going to take her out to prove his point and get them both bitten and maybe eaten alive. Her life was now on the line.
As soon as her parents went to sleep, Hannah, a mistress of stealth and planning, gathered water, food, candles, matches, and flashlights and moved the items into her room. She made a stack of possible weapons. If her parents came in and saw this, she would be beaten badly enough that she would have no chance at all against other attackers.
They seldom even glanced at her room though. Hannah ran back to the kitchen, went to the garage, and then to the refrigerator. She drank deeply.
“What are you doing?” Mom stood, already angry, staring at Hannah. The girl held the final item she wanted to gather and a Pepsi; was
she in trouble for the first item or for sneaking a soda in the middle of the night?
“Those things are going to be everywhere. Don’t you think we should prepare, and then if it doesn’t happen, it’s okay, but if it does, then we protect the little ones?” She tried a new tactic.
“You are as crazy as your real mother,” Mom snapped in fury, “you are just using this for your usual drama and to hurt the babies. You are so damned jealous of them that you resort to this? What is wrong with you?” Mom snagged Hannah’s hair and yanked her toward the kitchen’s doorway.
To wake up Dad and tell him?
The Pepsi flew out of her hand and spilled, fizzing all over the floor and cabinets. Any hope went away as the clean room suddenly became a mess with the sticky liquid all over. Mom’s eyes went feral as she saw the mess.
She smashed Hannah’s face onto the counter, making her head hurt. Instinctively, Hannah pushed back to get her breath, and Mom slipped on the Pepsi and fell. The loathing and anger that Hannah saw in the woman’s face made the girl feel sick.
“You need to learn some manners,” was all that Mom said, and it chilled Hannah to the bone. She felt all worry and fear leave her like a balloon expelling air. Lighter than she had felt in years, Hannah smiled, raised the axe she still held, and slammed it down into her mother’s chest.
The scream didn’t escape but only coming out as a squeaking sound. Hannah wasn’t thinking of anything but how good it felt to finally get the kitchen very dirty and messy. She raised axe again and slammed it home in her mother’s shoulder. Blood painted the room red in splatters and splashes. It took five more chops and four misses until the head raggedly separated from the body, hanging by muscles and flesh, but finished.
“How dramatic, huh?” she said to the empty room.
She was tired from lifting and swinging the axe but forced herself to move on. After a few drinks from a fresh Pepsi, she caught her breath and set the can on the table outside her parents’ bedroom.
If she didn’t get him, he would kill her for this. With stealth, she took her new weapon and slipped into the room where her father lay on his back, snoring noisily. She knew anatomy; if she went about this the wrong way, he would not only survive, but also he would probably be fine enough to catch her and kill her. It wasn’t like in the movies where things looked so easy to do.
