Zombies! (Episode 7): Conflicts of Interest

by Ivan Turner

  "Arrick?" Heron called into the darkness. "Arrick?"

  There was no response. He was long gone.

  Going to Shawn's side, Heron began to inspect his wounds. There was blood leaking from the bandages around his middle. Heron took off his jacket and wrapped it around the him. The he pulled out his phone and began to call for help. He was in the middle of the call when Shawn tapped him on the shoulder. At first, he waved him away, but there was urgency in Shawn's motions and he looked to see the boy looking over his shoulder. Turning quickly, he saw shadows in the distance. They were maybe forty feet away, shambling right toward them. There were a lot of them.

  Heron put his phone away. No one would get to them in time. First he went to Marcus. The man was still breathing.

  "Can you walk, Shawn?"

  Shawn didn't answer right away.

  "I can't carry both of you," Heron said urgently.

  "Then leave him," Shawn said back, with venom.

  Unsatisfied with that answer, Heron lifted Marcus into a fireman's carry.

  "I said leave him!" Shawn shouted.

  Straightening up as best he could, Heron held one elbow out to Shawn. "Hang onto me."

  "We'll never outrun them," Shawn answered dejectedly.

  "Just hang on." Forgetting the danger for a moment, Heron's addled brain realized just how embarrassing it would be if he couldn't outrun a group of zombies.

  Shawn grabbed hold of Heron's elbow and they began to move away. The going was slow as it was, but Shawn kept looking back and losing his balance.

  "Come on, come on," Heron coaxed.

  "What about Mr. Arrick?" Arrick had run off in that direction. He'd run straight into the zombie army.

  "We can't help him," said Heron.

  They began to pick up the pace after that, Heron laboring with Marcus' dead weight. Shawn's legs were weak after his extended period of inactivity. He wasn't really walking, more stumbling or lurching. He looked like one of the undead himself.

  A few more steps and the zombies were close enough to smell. This time it was Heron who looked back. The undead were right on top of them. Well, it was just a couple. Those who were less damaged moved faster than the pack and had broken away. Another minute and they'd be close enough to touch.

  "Damn it," Heron muttered, then shouted, "God damn it!"

  He tossed Shawn a few paces ahead of him and ordered him to keep going. Then he dropped Marcus to the ground and drew his gun. If he used one bullet per zombie, he might have enough. But he'd have to load the spare clip from his jacket in order to do that and he wasn't sure he'd have the time. He took down the two closest with two shots. As they dropped to the ground, he thought of Linda. Poor Linda with her written plea. Were any of these zombies like her? Were they special in some way?

  They weren't afraid of guns. That, at least was certain. A few more came into range and he fired on them. One got close enough to reach out and touch him. Panicking, Heron misfired. The bullet took the zombie in the shoulder, knocking it backwards. It gave him enough time to take aim and fire at the head.

  I didn't count the shots, Heron suddenly realized. He tried to play it over in his mind. Did he have one bullet left or five? Either way, he didn't have options. The next wave was big, ten at least. He pulled out the old cartridge and slipped in the one from his jacket. If he had the opportunity, he would return to the old one. He was betting that he wouldn't have the opportunity.

  "Lieutenant?" came a distant voice. Another cop? Too good to be true.

  "Here!" cried Heron. "Hurry!" He started firing again.

  From behind him, he heard rushing footsteps. Three officers came up beside him and began firing at the zombies with their rifles. Before long, there wasn't even one still standing. Heron sank to his knees, breathing heavily.

  "Are you all right?" one of the officers asked.

  Heron shook his head. He was tired and weak and frightened out of his mind. All he wanted was to be in his home and in his bed, curled up next to Alicia. Even if she hated him, it would be a far far better place for him.

  ***

  CULPH went to the first office he could find and began rooting around inside. There was a locker that held a pair of baggy jeans and a hooded sweatshirt. They were both a little bit big but they would do. He stripped off his light pants quickly and redressed himself. He still needed money and was determined to find some. If it was in a safe, he'd be out of luck. He didn't have the time or the expertise to go safecracking. When he finished tearing apart that office, he went on to the next. This was Marcus' office and he found just what he was looking for. Inside one of the deep desk drawers was a strongbox. When he shook it he heard the sound of paper being jostled around. Bingo. There wasn't time to pick the lock or search for a key so he just took it. As he came out of the room, he came face to face with Greg Smith. Smith was moving carefully along the upper walk with a handgun held out in front of him. When Culph appeared, he immediately trained his gun on him.

  "How you doing, Greg?" Culph said.

  "Frank," Smith answered. "You okay?"

  Culph nodded. "Just need to go is all."

  "I'm afraid I can't let you do that."

  Culph had to hand it to the man. He was as calm as can be. Smith was a good cop. He was honest. He was a family man. He didn't shy away in the face of confrontation. Culph respected that. "Don't make me hurt you, Greg."

  "Are you trying to intimidate me? You should know that's not going to work."

  With one hand, Culph threw the strongbox. Smith was too well trained to fire his gun wildly, but he couldn't avoid the box without sacrificing his aim and his concentration. Culph used the advantage wisely. He came in underneath Smith's gun and delivered two punches to the man's unprotected belly. To his credit, Smith didn't drop his gun but Culph was larger and stronger and was able to just take the weapon away. Having removed the threat, Culph backed off quickly and started for the stairs.

  Smith took two steps toward him before Culph raised the gun. "Don't test me, Greg."

  From Smith's perspective, Culph was a murderer without boundaries. So he froze in place, petrified at the thought of his wife and children having to go on without him. In truth, if he would have charged Culph, it would have been a fist fight rather than a shooting. Whatever had driven Culph to beat Rose and kill Wilma was missing from him at that moment. He could no more have fired on Smith than he could have allowed Heron to be eaten by those zombies earlier. But it served him better that Smith didn't know that. Backpeddling all the way to the stairs, Culph kept the gun trained on his former colleague. Once there, he turned and took them two at a time. Smith didn't even bother to pursue.

  ***

  IT was difficult for Melissa to drag Peter out of the bleachers and down onto the floor. Those few men who hadn’t panicked and ran when the zombies started attacking looked at her queerly but not a one of them interfered. Better for them. She had a taser and she wasn’t afraid to use it. She grabbed Peter by the arms so that he wouldn’t bang his head on the way down. At one point, she caught his foot on one of the bleacher benches and winced as it seemed to turn the wrong way. But he didn’t move. How could he? He was tased into oblivion. She hoped she hadn’t overdone it. She needed him awake for what was to come next. If he wasn’t awake. Well… This was her best opportunity and she was damned well going to make the most of it.

  The floor of the arena was littered with bodies. A couple of zombies were floating around, feasting on the freshly killed. The air was thick with the smell of blood. With all of the living people having evacuated the place, the cold air had started to seep in and she could see the steam rising off of the entrails of the dead. It was thoroughly revolting, but Melissa was past the point of squeamishness. One zombie got a little too close and a little too curious and she shoved the taser into its ruined face. The thing's arms and legs went useless and it jerked as if on a tether. When she pulled it away and it collapsed to the floor, she spat on it. Melissa was so consumed by hate that
nothing would stand in her way. The hate was all she had left and she would nurture it and protect it until it was a force all its own.

  Ideally, she’d have liked to drag Peter into the ring. It was a good spot where she could lay him but there were a couple of problems. The first was the locked cage. None of the dead men around looked as if they had been workers at the warehouse so she didn’t figure to find a key. The second was the three zombie competitors still inside. Sure, two of them were incapacitated, but that didn’t preclude them as obstacles. Still, she admired St. Francis’ work.

  So the ring was out.

  Clearing away the chairs from the front few rows, she made a nice open area. And she didn’t just clear away the chairs. She tossed them and screamed as she did it. Breathing heavily, hair a mess, she turned back to Peter. He was beginning to moan. That was good, but she’d have to hurry. She didn’t want him fully awake until she’d gotten everything set up. Quickly looking around, she spotted the perfect specimen. Just killed, not yet turned. She smiled an evil smile. After all this time, Melissa Benford would have her revenge.

  ***

  What brought John Arrick’s mind back into focus was a sharp pain in the right side of his back. He cried out and lost his footing, tumbling forward and skinning both of his knees and the palms of his hands. The pain in his back disappeared and he got to his feet. As soon as he put one leg in front of the other, his back cried out in agony once again. When he grabbed it with his hand, he felt a slick wetness there. Tracing back the last few moments in his head, he realized that he’d been shot.

  He’d been shot.

  He tried to take a deep breath to calm himself but that sent a fresh wave of torture shooting through his entire middle. He coughed once and tasted something thick and metallic. Not saliva but blood. He’d coughed up blood. Thinking to get help from the policeman, Heron, he tried to turn around, but he’d lost his bearings. It was a dark and wide open space and there was no way for him to know which way was which. The warehouse was on one side of him, or in front, or behind. He couldn’t tell. He was dizzy and something was drizzling out of the corners of his mouth.

  All at once, he became aware of the sounds of footsteps. There were people here. Maybe they could help him. There was a funny smell to them, but it didn’t smell bad. Just funny.

  Grabbing the first of the people (there were an awful lot of them), he pulled her face close. “Please help me. I’ve been shot.”

  She didn’t respond. There was something wrong with her mouth. Her lips were all swollen. Or maybe that was just his perception. At first she tried to keep walking, but he held on as tightly as he could. Finally, she’d had enough of him and shoved him away. His grip fell away and he stumbled into another person, pleading for help as he did. The second person shoved him away as well. In fact, every person with whom he came into contact brushed past him either gently or forcibly. When the last of them had passed, he was left standing on his own in the open space watching their retreating forms.

  “Won’t anyone help me?” he shouted. Actually, he thought he was shouting, but he was barely whispering. His lung had been punctured and he could hardly draw air to speak. “What’s wrong with you people?”

  He stood there for a moment, swaying on his feet. Then he went to his knees, the thoughts in his head turning fuzzy from loss of blood.

  God damned Americans, he thought. They only think about themselves.

  “Oh, God, I’m sorry…” he mouthed, barely any sound coming from his throat now. “I’m sorry, dad. I’m sorry, mum.”

  He fell forward onto his elbows and spit a wad of phlegm and blood onto the ground. “Malcolm,” he gurgled. “Tell me that you forgive me. Forgive me, Malcolm. I’ve failed you.” But somehow he knew that, though Malcolm might mourn him, he would never forgive him.

  And so it was a fitting death for John Arrick, who, let’s be honest, was living on borrowed time anyway. As his last breaths issued forth with less and less push, he saw the white light of thoughtlessness and simply died there on the dirty ground…all by himself.

  ***

  Awareness came rushing back to Peter. He’d had some notion of being dragged and bumped around, but he hadn’t been able to focus, nor could he move his arms and legs. Now, though, he was beginning to feel the sensation coming back. Still, the shock seemed to have sapped his strength. He felt as if the weight of an entire person was on top of him.

  “Coming around?” he heard Melissa ask him from far away.

  “What?” he muttered. “Did you shock me?”

  “Mmm hmm,” she confirmed.

  He tried to sit up but found that that perceived oppressive weight was more than just perception. There was a body on top of him. An actual body. When he turned his head, he found himself looking into its dead eyes. Panicking, he tried to push it away, but his muscles were still experiencing spasms from the effects of the taser and he couldn’t muster the strength. The man on top of him was heavy and Peter couldn’t budge him.

  “Melissa, what are you doing?”

  “You killed my son,” she said matter of factly.

  “What?” It was starting to dawn on him. “Jason was suffering.”

  “Don’t you say his name!” she screamed at him. “You don’t get to say his name.”

  All of a sudden, the fingers on the hand on the body on Peter began to wriggle. Peter struggled harder. “It’s infected. Melissa, this is a zombie.”

  She was nodding. He couldn’t get a good view of her but he could see that she was just casually nodding. And she was checking her fingernails. She was sitting comfortably in a chair nodding and checking her fingernails. Then she yawned. She fucking yawned!

  “Please, Melissa, please,” he begged. “I was only trying to help. Really. There wasn’t anything else to do. I’m sorry. God, I’m so sorry.”

  It moaned. It moaned in his face. Its breath was so foul. So sickeningly foul!

  “Yeah,” she said to him. “I’ll bet your sorry now. I bet you’ll be even more sorry in a couple of minutes.”

  “What do you want from me? What can I do? Jas…Your son was going to die anyway. He was going to become one of those things and I saved him from that. I saved him from that!”

  "When I set that fire, I thought they'd trace it back to you for sure," she said absently. "I was really depressed when that didn't work out and that poor fireman was killed. That's your fault, you know."

  "What?" he cried. "What are you talking about?"

  She grinned. "But this is so much better, Peter. So much better."

  Peter could feel the muscles in the zombie coming to life. Soon it would move. Soon it would…

  Pulling the taser from her bag, she began to play with it in her hands. “I could save you, though. I could shock the zombie. What would you give me to do that?”

  “Yes,” Peter cried, suddenly remembering the feeling of his breakdown months before. “Please, Melissa. I’ll do anything.”

  She looked at him and smiled. And at the same time, the zombie came fully awake and took a small bite out of his neck. Melissa jumped forward and hit the zombie with the taser and then hit it again. And then again. It began to spasm uncontrollably and it took a lot for her to drag it off of Peter. He scrambled to his feet, tripping and falling twice before using a chair as leverage enough to come up. Then he reached for his neck and his hand came away bloody.

  “Oops,” Melissa said sweetly. “Was I too late?”

  “No,” he muttered in denial as opposed to an answer to her question. All he could think about was the disease. The sickness. The death. The rebirth. He would be one of them. He was going to be one of them! “No!”