“You put up a decent fight, though,” she says to me, putting her hand on my shoulder. “I’ll give you that much. You did a hell of a lot better than I did.”
“I did wrong by you,” I confess to her. “I should have made you go.”
“I wouldn’t have,” she tells me. “You killed a lot of people, Charlie. But I don’t think you did it because you loved me. I don’t think you did it because you were my friend either and you felt some need to avenge me. I think you did it because someone took something from you. I think you’re a fucking selfish bastard. I think you’ve always been a selfish bastard.”
“Probably,” I nod to her. “But they’re dead because they killed you. Two sides of the same coin.”
“To you,” she answers coldly. “God didn’t let Moses into the Promised Land either, Charlie. God marched him right up to the border of Jerusalem and let him get a good, long, hard look at it before he took Moses away. Eighty years of fighting for the Promised Land and God just ripped him away before he could taste his sweet, sweet victory. How does it feel right now, Moses? You feel like God’s taking away your Promised Land?”
“Kind of.” I hate her. I don’t know what she is, but she’s nothing but a bitch right now.
“Remember that Jewish kid in your Survey of Global Religions class?” she asks me.
I nod.
“Remember when he told the Professor that Moses couldn’t get into the Promised Land because he had sinned too much?” Lindsay says. “Fuck, now that I think about it. A lot of those Bible people got their shit taken away just before they got to the good part. Have you sinned too much, Charlie? Is there too much blood on your hands—oops, I mean, hand—to let you into your Promised Land?”
“Go to hell,” I snarl at her.
“I’m probably already there, Charlie,” she says, leaning in to give me a kiss. I try to resist it, to push her away, but I’m too weak and there’s a part of me that wants to taste her lips, to feel her tongue again against my own. She stops just millimeters away from my lips and whispers to me. “I’ll save you a seat, Charlie.”
My whole body twitches and my eyes peel open. I am leaning against the tire of the truck with my legs sticking out in the road. I don’t remember falling asleep, but as I look around for Lindsay, I realize that there’s no one there, and there never was. My hand is laying in something cold and I look over to see that it’s sitting in a pool of vomit. I feel a chill running down my spine as I look at the vomit. It’s pink and brown from the meatball marinara that I had for breakfast or dinner, or whatever, earlier, but it’s laced with ribbons of dark scarlet and my entire mouth tastes of blood. At the center of the puddle of vomit sits a pool of blood, like a pink and red eye staring up at the pale blue sky.
Pushing myself up, I can begin to feel myself panicking. I’m dying. Either from the bullet or from the emergency surgery that I had to perform on myself, I’m bleeding internally. Not only am I bleeding internally, but it’s in my stomach, which frightens me even more. I doubt that they’ll have a medical professional with them, but all I can think about is that I need to get to the girls. I need to get to them and I need to tell them that I love them. I need to hug them one last time. I am not a Moses. I am not going to let God take me before I get to my Promised Land. I’m not going to push back the veil and see once and for all, what is after death.
I hope that it’s nothingness. I hope that there is no afterlife, no hell or heaven. I want to cease to exist, to be released from the chains of emotions or suffering. I sure don’t believe in rebirth or reincarnation. If that were the case, then there would be a hell of a lot more people and animals wandering around the earth. Right now, I figure I’m one of the few remaining humans smart enough to beg for death. No, there has to be an afterlife elsewhere or nothing at all. I want nothingness. I want life to be nothing more than a series of random, chaotic events. I don’t want to suffer anymore and I don’t want to endure all of this. I want to be free, forever.
Taking off my shirt, I grimace against the pain before unscrewing the cap and listening to the loud hiss as steam jets out all around my hands. I must not have been out long. I jump at the sound, but I keep twisting until the cap is off. The water hisses as I pour it into the radiator, but I keep pouring it until I’m confident that it’ll get me the rest of the way. Screwing the cap back on, I drop the gallon of water without realizing it. It just slips from my fingers and crashes against the road, spilling out its remnants while I watch helplessly. I’m losing my grip on everything. Pulling down the hood, I walk around the truck and climb into the cab, looking out the window for a moment and seeing Tiffany on the road.
She’s standing in her yellow and white summer dress that she used to wear in college with her hair being tossed softly in the breeze. She looks at me with her arctic blue eyes, the kind of color and intensity that made me always think of glaciers when I first saw her. She smiles sweetly, without showing her teeth. She stands there in her pumps, one leg tucked back behind the other like she’s a pageant participant. She always stood like that and I had been so captivated by her unimaginable grace and posture. She carried herself with such distinguished regality that I couldn’t help myself looking at her. When I close my eyes and I drift off into death, it’s her that I want to see. I know that she’s in heaven, waiting for me. If heaven is real and I’m wrong, then I know that I’ll be with her. But if Lindsay is right, I know that I’ll be stuck in hell for eternity, away from my angelic love. God, I miss her. She holds out her slender, left hand, her engagement and wedding rings sparkling in the sunlight. I no longer have my wedding ring. I’ve lost it with everything else. I don’t even have the hand to put it on.
“Not yet, baby.” I turn the keys in the ignition.
I drive as quickly as I can. This turns into a reckless cluster fuck as I smash into cars I’m trying to avoid and take out mailboxes, light posts, and even fences. Everything is blurry and wavy. When I look over to the passenger seat, I see Tiffany sitting there. The smile on her face scares me. I know that she’s calling to me. No, I don’t know that! She’s not real, damn it! She’s just my imagination torturing me here at the end. Looking back at the road, I swerve, trying to avoid another car.
That’s when I see someone. I slow the truck to a stop and stare out the window at them. They’re wearing dark clothes that weren’t originally that way, it’s the weather that’s turned them dark. I count three of them. They’re standing in the middle of the road next to a minivan that has a flat tire and I can’t help but feel like I’ve been here before. I blink and try to clear out the haze and the blurry vision. I try to make sense of what I’m looking at. Are they real or am I just imagining them too?
I remember the last time I saw this. It felt like ages ago and it had been the most horrifying moment of my life, but in hindsight, it was just a blip on the radar. I remember kneeling over her in the middle of the road, sobbing while I looked at her body. She had been the first person I killed, but she was just the tip of the iceberg. So many more had died in the wake of my first kill, and the second came only minutes afterwards when I found the boy dead in the road. I look out the window at the three waving at me, talking to each other, but their words are lost over the roar of the engine. I try to remember why I stopped for them.
Why should I care? I’m Moses and I’m on my way to the Promised Land. God is trying to rob me of my final reward and these assholes are trying the same trick that I’ve experienced a hundred times before. The one that had stood out in the front pulls down a bandana from over his face and I see the short beard that he’s been taking care of. He looks at the others and shouts something before taking a step toward me. I watch him walking. He’s well fed and not injured. Everything about this is setting off red lights.
Why did their van stop in the middle of the road? Why are three men traveling in a minivan? Surely they would have found something better. Why can’t one of them change a flat tire? Why are they well fed? Why are they uninjured? Wha
t the fuck are they doing all the way out here? I look at the man approaching me. No, I’m not having this. Fool me once. I’ve been a sucker one too many times. I put the truck in gear and feel the vehicle launch forward.
The man tries to step out of the way, but I smash the front of the truck right into him, plowing him over and charging at the other two who quickly flee the area, but only after I take out the minivan, crumpling it and throwing it aside as I press the truck to its limits. I can hear knocking on the back of the truck where bullets are hitting the sides. I don’t care, it doesn’t mean a thing to me. I keep driving, putting this tiny little speck on the map behind me. They can bury their friends and think about that sucker they almost had. As for me, I keep pushing toward that Promised Land.
I only stop when I pass over a bridge and look at the glorious sign that reads: A1A.
Chapter Fifteen
I pass by a place that looks like dolphins have thrown up all over it, or a giant loveable dolphin exploded into a billion different dolphins and plastered its little pieces all over the displays, signs, and attractions. In great big words, it has MARINELAND written over the entrance, but I barely notice it. The parking lot is mostly empty and there’s not a single person to be seen in the dilapidated, abandoned place. This place has seen a year of hurricanes, storms, and hell that hasn’t been touched by the concerned hands of men. It all looks like it’s gone to hell. I want to just drive past it, but I have to stop. I pull over toward the side of the road, smashing into a convertible that is brimming with trash and debris that has been caught in it over the year.
Throwing open the door, I stumble onto the sidewalk, past a tipped over shopping cart, and tangle my fingers into the chain link fence before I bend over and vomit all over the pale brown sidewalk. Long, gooey strands of blood and phlegm hang from my lips as I look at the rest of it pooling at my feet. I’m breathing heavily, coughing and choking on the phlegmy blood, trying to get it all out before I strangle myself on it. I look at the blood, the red veil of death. I’m not going to make it. This is the end. I know that I’ve thought this a million times, but I don’t see myself surviving this one. This one is the genuine article. This one is the final hurrah. This is the grand finale.
Looking up, I stare at the amusement park where a blue dolphin is jumping into the air with a grin so large that it makes me want to punch it off of his bottle-nosed face. I never liked dolphins or the stupid boardwalk resorts that plague the east coast. I could handle the west coast. The west coast has a little more decency for their beaches, none of this attraction crap.
Tiffany and I went to Cannon Beach in Oregon a long time ago, driving from Seattle down to San Diego. It had been a fantastic trip. We rented a car in Seattle after flying in. It had been a red convertible, more money that we should have spent on it, but I had just published my first book and it was time to enjoy each other for a while. I remember stopping in Cannon Beach and the two of us ate clam chowder on the deck of this beautiful little restaurant overlooking the sterling beach and the deep, royal waters of the Pacific. The Oregon waters were freezing, but damn they were beautiful. I remember wanting to buy a house there so that we could eat saltwater taffy and clam chowder for the rest of our days, watching tourists and laughing at how annoying they were.
“Those were good days,” I whisper to the abandoned dolphin. He looks at me with his ridiculous fiberglass eyes. He doesn’t give a shit. Just like me, everyone has abandoned him. The only difference is that he can’t move.
Behind him, the gray, dark waters of the Atlantic roll. It’s poisoned. It’s dying just like the rest of the world. I see what I think is a whole pod of whales on the shore, their skin hanging over the bones, everything else rotting away. But the water, that is still there. No matter what happens to us, the waters still endure. They will always endure. I look at the waters and feel a sense of envy for them, eternal and emotionless, the aquatic stoic. Lindsay got me thinking, or I got me thinking, not sure what it is. But if God is real, I hope that he’s like the ocean. I hope that he doesn’t hate us and he doesn’t love us. I hope that he just is. Like the ocean, I hope that he ebbs and flows, letting us do our little thing, ignoring us because we are insignificant.
I turn around and head for the truck, passing Tiffany, reaching out for her ghost but not feeling her. My God, I want to feel her embrace again. I want to hug her and cry into her shoulder, gleeful and so happy to finally get the rest that I so desperately want. She looks at me with her emotional eyes, pleading with me to give in. I want to, so badly. I want to give in, but not yet. I can’t give in. If there’s a chance that I can survive, then I’m going to have to take it, for the girls. Always for the girls.
The engine is still rumbling and I step on the gas, shoving the convertible along for a little while before hitting another car and letting it rip off and slide down the side of the truck. I keep on the A1A for a while, driving slower and taking in the sights. I’m shaking. I’m not sure if it’s from the shock or the excitement that I’m finally so close. Maybe it’s both, and I’m fine with that. I’m going to see my girls and I am so ready for it. I am so ready to hold them again and to kiss them. I’m ready to have my moment of victory. I’m ready to have my Promised Land.
It isn’t long until I see the house I’m looking for. It’s tucked back off the road, perched atop a sandy hill that was probably green with long grass once upon a time. It’s blocky and built three stories high. At first I’m not sure that it’s a house. It looks like a very modern, futuristic conglomeration of buildings stuffed together. All the blocks are painted a different color. One is dark brown, another is red, and the third is dark blue. It’s such a strange configuration, but the first floor looks like it’s entirely surrounded by windows. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever seen. All around the building, there are fortifications that I can see from the road. They’ve been hard at work in their time out here. It looks like they’ve built an entire palisade around the hill. There are bodies speared on some of the wooden and metal poles. Zombies.
I pull in on the gravel and sandy path that leads up toward the hill and beyond it, the water, looking to see if there is anyone there. The long grass surrounding the overlook and the hill has withered and died a long time ago. Nothing decorates the lawn but rock, sand, and trash. There’s a gate that they’ve built to keep outsiders at bay, but it’s open, which makes me nervous. Are they still here?
Continuing through the gate, I pass a Jeep and two pickups before I stop on an overlook that stares directly out over the ocean, and I feel a sense of pride. I’m here. I made it. My hand is trembling on the steering wheel before I kill the engine and watch the ocean for a second. My girls are just a few more steps away. Reaching up, I wipe the blood from my lips. God, I hope that there’s a doctor. I want to see them, to be with them, I want to have them for a little while longer. I want to survive and see what they do in the coming world. For the first time, I have the opportunity to really live, rather than just survive, and I want it so badly. I look up the concrete and wooden steps hewn into the hill and feel a sense of terror.
It’s now or never. I slowly reach for the door handle and push open the gate to the fence, feeling the cold air washing off the ocean. The house is up on a hill that looks mostly like a sand dune, but obviously it isn’t. It’s something that looks incredibly modern, but given the current circumstances of the world falling apart and the beach being cluttered with debris and muck, it looks pretty terrible. But I do have confidence that once upon a time, this house was a very fancy, well to do place. Most of the walls look like windows and there’s nothing cozy about it, like all the other houses that I’ve been passing. I step out onto the gravel and sand, looking out at the ocean.
Even as it is right now, a dingy gray and brown, it’s still one of the most beautiful things that I’ve ever seen. A ship has run aground up the beach, but there’s something open and pristine about this area. It makes me want to stop and watch the sun rise tomorrow. It makes me wan
t to have faith that the good old days might come back. For all its murky hideousness, it makes me think of Jason and his beautiful fiancée. They were the people to trust in. Not them specifically, since I murdered them, but people like them. There was hope in tomorrow and the ocean reminds me of that. It has been here for hundreds of millions of years, yet it endures. This is just a sad chapter in our history, but brighter days will come. The ocean gives me faith in that. I know that there’s hope to still be had. My hand is trembling and I can feel my head quivering from the shock.
My body is a mess. I’ve really done it now. I slowly close the door and take in a deep breath of sea air. There are footprints everywhere and the house looks pretty heavily fortified. They’re still here, or at least they were a while ago. I’m not sure that there’s anyone here at the moment. I was expecting the house to look so different. It’s hard for me to wrap my head around it.
“Stop right there,” the watchman shouts. The steps wind back and forth up the hill to the wooden deck where the man is standing with his rifle pointed straight at me, center mass. It’s the kind of shot that will put another bullet in me that I won’t get up from. I won’t be able to pull that one out of me with some pliers and a spoon. Whoever he is, he’s armed well. He’s got riot gear that he must have stripped from one of the military outfits, either a convoy or at one of the refugee encampments. I suppose it doesn’t matter where he got the gear, all that matters is that he has it and I’m not sure he’s the kind of guy that my girls would be associating themselves with, especially now.
I hold up my hand and stump. “My name is Charles Duwain,” I shout up at the watchman.
“I don’t give a shit, asshole!” the watchman shouts back.
Another man appears next to him. This man looks like he’s wearing SWAT tactical equipment and I’m afraid that I have stumbled into the wrong compound. Part of me wants to call up and ask them if there’s a house full of college students just down the beach a little ways, maybe they’re neighbors. I decide that remaining silent is probably the best move I can make right now.
LEFT ALIVE (Zombie series Box Set): Books 1-6 of the Post-apocalyptic zombie action and adventure series Page 48
