Chivalry Is Dead

by Bennie Newsome

  Two days later, Anthony couldn’t walk anymore. We’d taken shelter inside an abandoned bus depot, starting a fire to keep Anthony as comfortable as possible. He’d drifted in and out of lucidity, shivering uncontrollably as his feverish body radiated waves of heat. When he’d slipped into unconsciousness, we’d examined the festering wound; the stench emanating from the fetid lesion was overpowering. Ron pointed out several ugly red lines spreading up his leg. “Infection,” Ron noted grimly. “If it spreads to his heart, he’s a goner.”

  Neither of us wanted to be the one who brought up the horrible possibility of leaving our friend behind. Even though I knew that bringing Anthony with us would only slow us down, I couldn’t help but get angry with Ron when he eventually broached the subject. Despite my better judgment, I argued bitterly against the idea, and Ron eventually relented.

  We found a wheelchair in the bus depot, and set off the next morning taking turns pushing our debilitated friend in front of us. There was no question that Anthony had become a burden. Although the wheelchair was collapsible and light weight, it didn’t roll easily over rocky terrain. So when our path eventually intersected with Route 6, we decided to follow it west, rationalizing that being able to roll the wheelchair on asphalt outweighed the increased risk of running into walkers on the main road.

  Anthony’s condition seemed to worsen by the hour. We were expending a lot of calories pushing the wheelchair, and I began to question whether it was worth the effort. Neither of us spoke while resting by the campfire that night, the unspoken topic looming ominously in the silence between us. Eventually, Ron busied himself taking inventory of our remaining provisions. I could tell from the deflated look on his face that we were nearly out of food.

  Our luck took a turn for the worse when we came across an accident scene yesterday afternoon while traveling along an elevated section of Route 6. We tried to go around the tangled mess of vehicles by moving to the furthest portion of the median, but when we passed the twisted wreckage of a school bus, we discovered that there were walkers trapped inside.

  The zombies became frenzied, attempting to claw their way out of the bus to get at us. We hurried past, knowing that if we put enough distance between ourselves and the bus, we’d be out of sight before they broke free, but we’d only made it a short distance down the road when the sound of breaking glass reached our ears.

  I looked back, seeing a dozen walkers lurching toward us, their forms distorted by the shimmering heat rising from the asphalt. We needed to get off the road and find cover—fast. We ran down the next exit ramp, passing underneath an overhead road sign that informed us we were traveling in the direction of Waco. We began to pick up speed as the exit ramp banked downward, but before the road leveled out, we came across another cluster of crashed vehicles, blocking our path. We slowed down, reluctant to approach the wreckage. If there were walkers down there, we’d be boxed in.

  Our only option was to go over the side and jump to the ground—and we had to act fast. Ron lifted Anthony out of the chair, which I tossed over the guardrail. I quickly lowered myself over the side, hanging down before dropping the remaining six feet to the ground. Ron dangled our comatose friend over the side, lowering him as far as he could toward my outstretched hands. Even from below, I could hear the walkers approaching.

  “Grab hold of him,” Ron barked. “They’re almost here!”

  My fingers had no sooner touched Anthony’s feet when Ron let go, dropping him on top of me, the air whooshing painfully out of my lungs when I took the brunt of the fall. I shoved Anthony aside and looked up in time to see Ron hurdle the guardrail above. He landed awkwardly, letting out a howl of pain as one leg bent unnaturally beneath him. I ran to him, and was startled to see that his knee has already ballooned to the size of a grapefruit.

  “Can you walk?” I asked, knowing that we had only seconds to act before the walkers found their way down the embankment.

  “I’ll manage,” Ron grimaced, his face ashen. “Get the wheelchair!”

  I scrambled toward where I’d thrown the wheelchair, hands shaking as I struggled to lock it into the unfolded position. I cringed noticing that one of the wheels was damaged from the fall. I bent to lift Anthony, feeling each of the fifty pounds he outweighed me by in my back when I hauled him into the chair. Ignoring the painful twinge, I helped Ron to his feet, allowing him to lean heavily against the wheelchair as we set off across the barren terrain, leaving the highway behind.

  As if the landscape itself wasn’t enough of an impediment, the wheelchair was much harder to roll now that it had a bent wheel. Ron’s injury slowed us down even more, and when I glanced backwards to see if we’d gotten away, I spotted three walkers following us in the distance.

  Anxiety rippled through my over-stimulated nerves. The biggest advantage we had over the walkers—speed—had gone away. And with Ron barely able to stand, I was the only one fit enough to push the wheelchair. I knew that I wouldn’t be able to maintain this pace long; I was already exhausted. Unlike us, walkers never tired or slowed down, so it would only be a matter of time before they overtook us. Unless we ditched them somehow or found somewhere to take cover, we were just delaying the inevitable.

  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. Oblivio
us, 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 y’all 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 starreturned 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 about 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—consid-ered this question briefly before yawning. “Keep him comfort-able…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, recogni
zing 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.

  ***