This was a race I couldn’t win, not encumbered by two traveling companions who were deadweight. My perspective on abandoning my friends, an unconscionable thought mere days before, had shifted dramatically now that death was rapidly approaching.
When the walkers closed to within 100 yards, I made up my mind to make a break for it. Anthony was practically dead already, and Ron…well, Ron would have to understand that it was every man for himself. I was just about to blurt out an abrupt apology when the sharp sound of a ringing bell captured our attention. I cupped a hand to my eyes, scanning the vast, uneven plain to locate where the sound was coming from. It was Ron who spotted Coffey first. “There!” he shouted, pointing west, in the direction of the setting sun.
I squinted to block out the harsh sunlight and it took a minute to locate what Anthony was pointing to. A man…standing at the gated entrance to a facility surrounded by high barbed wire fences…frantically ringing a large bell and waving his arms to get our attention, beckoning for us to come toward the facility.
Although I couldn’t make out what the man was shouting from this distance, his intent was perfectly clear. I turned the wheelchair in that direction and started to run, knowing that we had to make it inside that fence before the walkers caught up to us. The wheelchair bounced precariously as I sped across the rocky terrain, nearly capsizing several times as we raced toward the compound. Behind us, the snarling vocalizations of the walkers grew steadily louder as they drew closer.
As we approached the fence, I got my first look at our rescuer, who sure didn’t look the part. He was a shortly portly man with greasy, unkempt hair and dingy clothes. His piggish face was covered in grime, and the tattered flannel shirt he wore barely covered the pot belly that jiggled as he hopped up and down, imploring us to hurry. I put my head down and barreled forward, catapulting us through the open gate an instant before he slammed it shut, locking it behind us. I faltered, causing the wobbly wheelchair to collapse sideways, toppling Anthony and Ron to the dirt. They would have to wait.
I spun to face the fence, uncertain about whether the barrier would keep the walkers at bay. The cramp in my side made it nearly impossible to speak, but I forced myself to talk in between painful gasps. “The fence…will it…keep them out?”
“Its ‘lectric,” the man replied in a thick southern drawl, flashing an uneven, decayed smile while letting me in on that secret. “The juice fries ‘em…they don’t like that.”
Despite his confidence, I took a step backwards when the zombies reached the fence. One that looked like it’d been dead for weeks greedily extended a mangled arm through the intertwined chain links, but hastily withdrew it a moment later amidst a crackling buzz of electricity—the faint smell of charred flesh indicating that the fence had done its job. Oblivious, several others gripped the fence trying to find a way through, but were similarly deterred by the surging current. I had no idea why the walking dead might be affected by electricity, but in truth I didn’t care. We were safe…at least for the time being.
I helped Ron stand, supporting him to take weight off of his injured leg. We faced our rescuer, neither of us speaking for several long moments. Finally, I extended a hand toward the man, still trying to catch my breath. “You saved our lives…if we hadn’t happened past here...”
He made no reply, eyeballing the three of us suspiciously. “Who are y’all—and what are you doing out here?”
“I’m Guillory,” I responded, letting the hand he’d refused to shake drop to my side. “This here’s Ron, and that’s Anthony. We came from Houston…”
“Houston?” he interrupted, not bothering to conceal his churlish incredulity. “How’d ya’ll get way out here?”
“Walked,” Ron answered, providing no elaboration. “What is this place?”
“Power station. My name’s Coffey…Lester Coffey.” Over the next ten minutes, we exchanged stories. After hearing about our journey from Houston, Coffey proceeded to tell us his story. Before the blight, he’d been a maintenance man for the power company who’d elected to stay put and wait things out behind the safety of the electric fence when the dead starred returning to life. His coworkers had chosen to leave the station one by one, until only he remained. He’d been by himself for weeks, and hadn’t seen anyone—living, anyway—until we’d unexpectedly happened by. He frowned when I interrupted to ask what had become of his coworkers.
He shrugged his shoulders noncommittally, gesturing toward the walkers lurking outside of the fence. “Food for worms, I guess. Ain’t safe with them out there.” He hitched a thumb towards Anthony, changing the subject. “What’s wrong with him?”
“He’s sick,” Ron replied, again providing no elaboration. “Can we bring him into one of those buildings…get him out of the sun?
Coffey scratched his chin, before making a decision. “Shed’s over yonder. Follow me.”
He led us across the courtyard to a brick shed situated near the center of the compound. He unfastened the chain locking the door and stepped aside so that we could carry Anthony inside. The building had no windows, the only light inside coming from several dancing fingers of light poking through gaps in the building’s roof. Although the stagnant air within the shed was practically stifling, being out of direct sunlight for the first time in days felt soothing,
“This the only building I got big enough for the three of y’all,” he informed us.
I looked around, taking in our surroundings. Compared to some of the places we’d been forced to hole up in since fleeing Houston, this was practically a luxury hotel. But when I turned again to face Coffey, I was surprised to see that he was fixated upon the pack slung over my shoulder. He licked his lips nervously, grimacing as his stomach rumbled loud enough for Ron and I to hear. “Y’all got any food?”
I gripped the handle of my pack tighter, making no reply. It was Ron who finally broke the tension. “Just a few crumbs. Barely enough to keep us going.”
Coffey’s face darkened, but before he could reply Anthony let out a shriek and began to convulse.
“Hold his arms down,” Ron shouted, turning his attention toward Coffey while I tried to get Anthony’s flailing limbs under control. “You have any medical supplies?”
Coffey stared at him for several moments, as if trying to decide what to do before finally responding. “There’s a first aid kit in the office.”
“Bring it,” Ron instructed. “And clean water, if you have any.”
Coffey returned a few minutes later, carrying the first aid kit, some rags, and a dirty jug filled with water. I pulled off Anthony’s shoe, and gagged from the smell emanating from the festering wound. Ron cursed under his breath, burying his face in his arm to block the smell. Even Coffey was affected by the stench, lifting the collar of his shirt to cover his nose. Using the water I brought, I did my best to clean the wound, feeling disheartened by the green pus oozing from the infected lesion. I wrapped Anthony’s foot in gauze, implicitly knowing that it was too little too late before rummaging through the first aid kit for anything to dull the pain of Ron’s injury.
“How’s the knee?”
“Not good—pretty sure I tore ligaments.”
I pulled a bottle of aspirin from the first aid kit, tapped out a few tablets into my hand and handed them over to Ron. He swallowed them dry, forcing them down his parched throat. I doubted whether they would afford much comfort, but hopefully they’d dull the pain from his injured, swollen knee.
I’d momentarily forgotten about Coffey, and I jumped when I realized that he was standing directly over my shoulder, staring at Ron’s injured leg. “He ain’t goin’ nowhere on that bad wheel. Y’all can stick around long as you need. I could use the company.”
All at once, I was overcome by fatigue. The cumulative effects of stress coupled with days of non-stop walking and poor nutrition had finally taken its toll. Although I was grateful to Coffey for providing shelter, I wanted to be rid of him so that I could sleep. “Thanks. We’ll think ab
out it.”
Coffey’s face twitched, and I sensed that my abruptness might have offended him somehow. But when Anthony let out a moan, his body tightening in a series of involuntary spasms before again going limp, my weary thoughts shifted from our strange benefactor’s disposition to how long my friend might have left to live.
“I’ll leave y’all be then,” Coffey mumbled, shuffling toward the exit. “I’ll be in the building next door if you need anything.”
He shut the door behind him, and I exhaled loudly, allowing my tension to finally decompress. “Christ,” Ron complained, grimacing in pain. “I thought he’d never leave.”
“Quiet,” I shot back, unsure whether Coffey might still be in earshot. I stared at Anthony, recognizing that there was nothing else I could do to help him. “What now?”
Ron—who looked every bit as ragged as I felt—considered this question briefly before yawning. “Keep him comfortable…and pray.”
***
When the sun finally set, shrouding the interior of the shed in darkness, I could feel myself drifting toward sleep. Ron lay nearby, dozing fitfully in the uncomfortable heat. I shook my head, trying to chase away my drowsiness so that I could stand vigil over our dying friend, but it wasn’t long before I finally succumbed to exhaustion.
I dreamt of a grand holiday feast, surrounded by family and friends. I lost myself in the dream, blissfully allowing my troubles in the real world to temporarily ebb away.
My fiancée—who I hadn’t seen nor spoken since the day I’d left for Houston—was seated next to me, and I was overcome with relief to see that she was still alive. But when I placed my hand on top of hers, I was troubled by how cold her skin felt. I pulled it away, and recoiled when I saw that her hand was mottled and decaying. Her putrefied, dead eyes locked with mine while she gnashed her teeth in greedy anticipation of the meal she was about to consume…
Across the table, Ron began to scream.
Deep in the throes of the nightmare, I didn’t realize right away that Ron’s scream wasn’t originating from my dream. I sat up, disoriented and unable to remember where I was. A hulking form loomed above me—and only sheer instinct enabled me to defend myself when it attacked. I rolled to the side to evade the walker’s clumsy lunge, wedging my forearm against its neck to keep the voracious creature from biting my face. Although it was nearly pitch black in the shed, my assailant was at such close quarters that I was able to make out who it was despite the gloom: Anthony.
My adrenaline-fueled mind put together the pieces of what was happening even as I struggled to fend off the attack. Anthony must have died in his sleep…reawakening as the living dead while we slept...if it hadn’t been for Ron’s shouts of warning…
I let out a howl of terror when my arms began to buckle, recognizing that I wouldn’t be able to hold off the monster for much longer. But an instant before my strength gave out, Coffey appeared out of nowhere—burying a butcher knife deep into Anthony’s skull. The zombie stiffened, slumping sideways off of me as the gruesome head trauma caused its brain to finally stop functioning.
I gaped at Coffey, thunderstruck by what had just happened. He stared back unflinchingly, his narrow eyes gleaming with excitement in the sparse moonlight filtering through the cracks in the shed’s roof. “Either one of you boys get bit?”
I could barely hear him over the thundering pulse of my own heartbeat surging through my temples. I couldn’t move, unable to tear my eyes away from the sight of the knife embedded in Anthony’s head. Coffey’s snarling voice finally snapped me out of this paralysis. “Something wrong with you, boy? I asked if you got bit!”
I looked over at Ron, confirming that he was all right while I struggled to put together words. “No…we’re…we’re both all right.”
Coffey’s scrutinized us with skepticism before reaching down to wrench the butcher knife from Anthony’s head. “Y’all stay put—I’ll drag him outta here,” he mumbled. “Stash him somewhere until morning. We can deal with him then.” Before I could protest, Coffey grabbed the corpse by the ankles and dragged it out of the shed. Before disappearing into the night, he paused at the doorway to deliver an oddly cryptic message: “Sleep tight.”
Neither Ron nor I replied. The eerie stillness of the quiet shed felt surreal given what we’d just experienced. I trembled so violently that I couldn’t sleep for hours.
***
I emerged from slumber this morning like a man blindly feeling his way through a dense bank of fog, the horrific attack replaying over and over again in my head like a film stuck on an endless loop. The shed was heavy with a peculiar odor that I hadn’t noticed before; it smelled like death.
I’d had enough of this place. The thought of spending even one more minute in the shed after what had happened the night before made me feel claustrophobic. I wasn’t sure whether Ron could walk in his condition, but there was only one way to find out. I shook his arm gently until he finally woke up. “We need to get out of here,” I declared, gesturing toward his swollen knee. “Can you travel?”
“I’ll manage.”
“Good,” I replied. “Let’s give Anthony a proper burial and get the hell out of here.”
I went to the shed’s door, absently thinking about how best to fashion a makeshift crutch for Ron, and was surprised to discover that it was locked. Shouting angrily, I jammed my shoulder against the door in an attempt to force it open, but it wouldn’t budge.
“What’s wrong?” Ron asked.
“Son of a bitch locked us in.” I pounded on the door with my fist, hollering to get Coffey’s attention, but eventually gave up when there was no response from outside. I peered through the keyhole, which afforded a limited view of the area in front of the shed, but Coffey was nowhere to be seen. There was a small, horizontal hatch at the bottom of the door that looked like a mail slot, but the opening was only a few inches high—far too small to fit through, even in my emaciated condition. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath to prevent my anxiety from boiling over. There had to be some other way out of the shed—I just needed to find it.
But I began to feel desperate when my search came up empty. Despite its shabby appearance, the building we were trapped inside was sturdy; the only way out was through the locked door. I wondered whether Coffey had locked is inside as a safety precaution to ensure that we weren’t infected, or if there was some ulterior motive behind his actions.
I positioned myself at the keyhole again, trying to catch a glimpse of what was happening outside of the shed. I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw that Anthony’s body was lying in the dirt only a few feet away from the shed. When Coffey finally emerged from the adjacent building, I began to rattle the door, shouting for him to let us out. Ignoring the racket, he tied a rope around the corpse’s ankles and dragged it beyond my field of view.
Ron’s face grew taut after I quickly described what I’d seen. “I knew there was something off about that whacko,” I exclaimed. “What do we do now?”
“We wait.” Burning nervous energy seemed pointless, so I followed his lead and sat down on the floor, waiting for Coffey to come let us out. It was only morning, but my tattered shirt was already saturated with sweat from the uncomfortable temperature inside the shed.
By afternoon, my tongue was swollen from dehydration. Ron was in even worse shape, having to endure the pain of his injury on top of thirst. The only way to cope with the heat was to sit still. Just when it seemed as though the air itself inside the shed might catch fire from the heat, the smell of something burning reached my nostrils. My mouth began to water involuntarily as the aroma became more distinct. “Do you smell that?” I grumbled, feeling an unusual sensation within my churning stomach. “What is it?”
“Meat,” Ron explained, meeting my gaze with troubled eyes. “He’s cooking Anthony.”
I was too astonished to respond. I tried to wrap my mind around this grisly idea, but when it finally sunk in my stomach went sour and I vomited a trail of sticky, clear
liquid—which was all that remained in my empty stomach. I wiped my mouth on my sleeve and buried my face against my knees to block out the delectable smell of cooking meat.
***
Two days later, we were both too dehydrated to move. Night and day intertwined, our discomfort worsening as we waited to see what Coffey had planned for us. The heat was unbearable, so I lay on the dirt floor, praying for this nightmare to end.
A loud creak from the locked door caused me to stir, and I cracked open an eye just in time to see the small hatch at the bottom of the door push inward as a tray slid through the opening. I sat up, fixated by the contents of the tray: a paper plate containing several small strips of dried meat and a jug filled with dirty water.
I lifted the jug to my lips and slurped greedily. Although the water smelled foul, I’d never tasted anything quite so delicious. I had to stop myself from downing the entire jug in a few gulps, and reluctantly carried what remained over to Ron. He had trouble lifting his head, so I had to help him drink. Taking turns, we quickly emptied the jug, but neither one of us touched the meat Coffey left for us.
***
That night, neither of us could sleep. Lying next to me on the floor, Ron stared at the ceiling deep in thought. “He’s starving us…waiting ‘til we’re too weak to fight back.”
“Then why bring us food?”
He paused thoughtfully before replying: “He needs to keep us alive until he’s through eating Anthony.”
It took a moment for this horrible implication to sink in. Ron shifted onto his side, his face badly frightened. “I’m the weakest, so I’ll be the one he targets. Promise me that you’ll help me fight…that you won’t just leave me to die.”
I swallowed hard, grimacing at the prickly sensation signifying the return of my thirst, before croaking out a disingenuous assurance.
***
Coffey returned two days later. I was practically delirious with thirst, and had to struggle to stand when I heard the sound of the door being unlocked, savoring the rush of cold air that blew through the enclosure when the door opened. Coffey loomed menacingly in the doorway, blocking the way out. His filthy clothes were covered by a plastic apron; protective goggles shielded his sunken pig-eyes. “You son of a bitch,” I wheezed. “Let us out of here…”
Undead War (Dead Guns Press) Page 11
