by Lee Dunter
Joe shoved the gun into Ryan’s arms and sprinted away. Albert gave Ryan a look that said, “You know you’ll regret this.”
You were right about the virus the first time, Ryan thought. Let’s hope you’re not right this time.
Ryan stood next to Cam and added his bullets to the cause, but it quickly became clear that the school was no longer theirs. The dead came in by the two’s, then threes, and Ryan knew with their limited ammo waiting for Joe would be the end of them.
“Cam, it’s no good. We got to get out of here.”
Cam looked up at him, sweat on his face. “You’ll hear no complaints from me.” They took off down the hall towards the back entrance. Even in the darkness, it was clear that the playground was empty. All were trying to get in through the front. Ryan was relieved to recall that these beasts, although seemingly ruthless and indestructible, were dumb as all hell. When the group reached the door, Ryan held it open for the others and watched the progress of the plague down the hall. Three zombies had broken over Cam’s barricade. Instead of pursuing the group, they stopped to feast on Ruben and Diesel. Ryan felt Pity for Ruben, but Diesel’s screams overpowered the pity with a satisfying sense of rage and justice.
“Take that, asshole,” he whispered, as one zombie bit Diesel’s bleeding crotch, and another scratched at his stomach.
Ryan checked the stairway one last time, hoping to see Joe descending, but Joe was not there. So Ryan left the familiarity and the danger of inside and followed the others out. Molly was already over the fence. Cam lifted Reginald to her and then hopped over in one graceless movement. Albert followed, then Ryan, who, after landing, turned and saw that Marge was still on the other side, failing at her attempts to lift herself over. Suddenly, four zombies, bloodied and screaming, broke through the door. Two were fresh, and they moved rapidly towards Marge.
“What are you doing?” Ryan yelled. “Jump over! Now!” He was hallway up the fence, bent over at the waist and reaching down towards her.
She lifted herself up, and Ryan grabbed her just as she fell back down. Oh fuck, Ryan thought, her weight nearly toppling him to the other side. She went up again and failed again. On the third attempt, Ryan managed to grab hold of her by the armpits and he heaved her to the top of the fence. He felt a sharp pain in his back and half jumped, half fell down. He put his hands on his lower back, trying to straighten himself out, as Marge attempted to come down the other side. Her pants snagged on the top of the fence.
“I’m stuck. I’m stuck. Help me. God help me.” She wiggled and jerked, but was unable to free herself.
The zombies were only feet away now.
“Shit! Shit! Shit” Ryan yelled. “Guys, help me!” He jerked his back straight, and a wave of pain shot through him. He reached up, grimacing, and tugged on her pants, but their entanglement deepened. Undead hands reached up and grabbed her. She kicked at them, holding two back, but one grabbed hold and bit her thigh.
“No!” she cried. “Please, God, no! Not me!” She punched the zombies in the head, but it continued to attack her leg.
“We can’t leave her like this!” Albert screamed. “Kyle gave his life to save her!”
“Well why don’t you fucking help me then?” Ryan yelled.
Cam pushed Ryan aside, causing another flare of pain, and he stuck the barrel of his rifle through one of the holes in the chain-link fence. The nozzle blasted the zombie’s head and Cam, screaming like a warrior, swung the gun to finish the other two.
Presently Ryan heard rapid gunshots from within the school, tiny fireflies visible but showing nothing of the scene within. The door swung open, and Joe stepped into the playground, his twin laid across his neck, the bag of guns strapped around his shoulder, a readied pistol in his hand. He charged the fence, gunning down all the zombies that had wandered into the playground.
“Get over that fence now,” Joe screamed.
He pushed up on Marge’s foot. She screamed from the pressure of the multiple bites on her legs, but she went over, crashing down on the ground. Ryan cringed as he heard a loud cracking snap.
Mrs. Bennet’s eyes went glassy. “Oh, oh my.” She passed out in the grass.
“Help me get my brother over,” Joe barked, but Ryan was paralyzed. Cam and Albert went to Joe’s aid. Both the twins and the bag of guns were over the fence before the next wave of undead slammed against it.
Joe slapped Ryan.
“What–what’s wrong with her?” Ryan asked.
“No clue,” Albert said. “It sounded like she broke something.”
“One of you pick her ass up, and let’s go!” Joe said.
Ryan squatted and tried to pick her up, but the pain in his back was too intense. Molly and Cam managed the task, placing her around Cam’s shoulders like a sack of flour. The zombies were filling the playground, and the fence swayed under their efforts.
Marge looked small, but Cam was shaking under her weight, his face tight with effort. Ryan thought they he could maybe carry her later, once his back loosened, but after one step, he knew he wouldn’t be able to. He set his mind to autopilot, fueled by an adrenaline rush, and set off into the night. One in front of the other, his legs moved, as much as an automated response as the blood delivering the oxygen needed for the movement. It was in this manner that he was led away from the school, the safe haven where so many had been lost. The virus had worked its way into the school, a biological machine that, either by design or incident, destroyed the world into which Ryan now sought refuge. The night swallowed the group, and the only hope they had was the cover of darkness.
Chapter 22
On the front porch of a colonial-styled log cabin, Ryan sat in a rocking chair with a glass of water between his legs, rocking back and forward, the chair squeaking beneath him. He took a sip of water and placed it back. From this spot he had just watched the sunrise. The subtle wind brought warm gusts of heat and the smell of fresh air, which was pleasantly sweet on this morning. He had already grown accustomed to the house’s oak smell, but the breeze seemed to liven it. Ryan stared out into the front yard, where there was nothing but lush rolling hills of green and the road that was paved through it.
It was on this porch that Ryan paid for all the times he should have wept, mourned, but hadn’t. He had found that, though seemingly necessary, holding his emotions in was not healthy. Now, the pain from every death bombarded him, and no matter how much he resisted, he could not stop the tears. So he wept, for Deborah and himself, for the loss of everything in his life that was precious; one virus took everything.
The cabin was a place of rest for the group, except for Marge, who upon first waking complained of pain all through her midsection. Her hip was swollen, and the bites on her leg were beginning to rot and smell. On the second day, she had stubbornly tried to stand, and immediately collapsed, which sent her into another frit of pain and tears.
“I’m fifty, not seventy,” she had complained, the first of many such complaints.
Albert had pulled Ryan aside and said he suspected her hip was broken.
Later that day, everything worsened: the fever deepened, her veins swelled with infection, and she could barely adjust herself on the bed without sharp pain. Albert made it clear that if the infection spread to her broken hip, and if it were left untreated, she could die. And even if they managed to fight off infection, they would have the broken hip to deal with.
“It’s funny,” Joe had said. “We fight off a couple of zombies and we forget how fucking fragile we are.” His smile was ironic and full of pain.
The next day they went to town for antibiotics, but when they returned, it was too late. Her fever was well above one hundred, and she had begun to hallucinate: she thought she were with her husband again, and they were bickering, a fight about Mr. Bennet promising not to run for governor. They shoved pills down her throat anyways. Ryan remembered when they were all gathered around Roe’s bed, where she lay naked to her underwear, her body looking old and fragile, every dro
p of her attraction drained from the sickness; her body radiated heat and the look of her leg alone told Ryan there was no point in trying anymore. She died on the fourth day. Ryan remembered staring down at her lifeless body, thinking that she couldn’t die on a couch in a country home of something that could be cured with basic medical care, after surviving everything she had been through.
We’re so fucking fragile.
Albert had turned to him. “And there goes another one.” He shook his head. “Maybe if we had the antibiotics a little earlier, but even then . . . maybe if she had the will to live, but who has that anymore?” The plague had broken Albert too.
On the porch, Ryan continued to rock, sipping his water. Thinking of Mrs. Bennet hurt, so he thought of other things.
The sun was almost full, and there was an orange glow in the sky showering the hills and reflecting off the early morning dew. The beauty seemed to intensify his gloom, for it was beyond him now. The world had changed, and they had not. He claimed none of it and knew nothing about it. It belonged to the infected, and in it they were free to ravage, kill, and destroy as they pleased–if such an emotion were possible for them. There had been evil in the world before, but there was always hope, always someone fighting for what was right, and it didn’t matter if good won, as long as it took a stand. What stand could they take against this?
Ryan wondered how much longer they would have to fight. A week? A month? A year? Would they meet the same end as the millions before them, or would they continue to fight until they withered away with a season’s flu? Ryan knew the answer: he couldn’t sit on the porch sipping water and watching the sunset forever. He didn’t know what the future held, but it wasn’t this–this life wouldn’t satisfy him before the outbreak, and it wouldn’t now. Eventually they would have to move on and fight again–for hope and for themselves.
But right now, this water tasted damn good.
Ryan went inside, taking the glass on the porch. Ryan understood why the twins had lived here. It was quiet and secluded, yet it was only an hour walk from town and a half-hour drive from Atlanta.
To the left of the front door was the living room. A 52” plasma television was mounted on the wall, and a single couch faced the television. It was the only furniture in the room. Cam and Albert were asleep in a pile of blankets on the ground. A blanket draped off the side of the couch where Ryan had slept the nights before. Down the hall in the kitchen, Molly was preparing pancakes for the third day in a row, using a skillet heated over a fire. Reginald and Molly had been sleeping in the upstairs guest bedroom, which was the largest bedroom in the house, but neither Joe nor Roe wanted it, preferring to sleep on the same floor. Roe’s bedroom door, adjacent to the living room, remained shut. No one had touched it since Marge had died.
Joe’s door was also shut. He spent his evenings behind that door and his days outside. Losing Roe, even in this new world, shattered Joe to pieces. His red and swollen eyes told of his pain; he used his words sparingly. Ryan didn’t know if Joe could beat depression after seeing his twin murdered like that.
At least he didn’t become a zombie, he thought, Deborah’s image in his mind’s eye.
The one time Joe had been present, almost immediately upon arrival to the cabin, he had explained to the group about Rick and the others. Rick was the owner of the gun store in Atlanta. Years ago, they had invited Rick over to the house for dinner and shooting, and, impressed with its size and solitude, Rick remembered its location and led the gang to the house after the outbreak. They were still there when Joe and Roe arrived. Joe recounted how Rick seemed different, no longer quiet and reserved, “Like there was an animal in his eyes I had never seen.” Joe said nothing more on the story, but Ryan didn’t need to hear the rest.
Ryan walked towards the kitchen and paused to look at the framed photos that lined that hallway. The first photo, crooked on the wall, contained a small boy standing on the front porch of this house, holding up a large fish and smiling. Next to him, his mother, a large woman with curly blonde hair, held a smaller fish. Ryan suspected this was Joe at around age six or seven. The next photo showed a boy with the exact same face, but this boy was dressed in a full suit and standing next to a piano. His father stood over him without a smile. Their life is seriously It Takes Two, Ryan thought. There were three photos with both boys in it, them holding fish in the first and a deer in the second. The third photo showed the two boys at a funeral, neither smiling, both too young. Ryan, feeling pity for the two small boys, walked into the kitchen
Humming a Taylor Swift song, Molly poured batter onto the skillet, the warm, sweet smell filling the kitchen. She wore the same clothes she had arrived in, but she somehow managed to clean all of the dirt and bodily fluids off. It was a good sight on this early morning.
Ryan sat down at the table. “Good morning.”
“Morning,” she said with a cheerful smile. “How’d you sleep?”
“Kind of shitty, but what’s new.”
Molly smiled as she flipped the pancake. “You should come up stairs and sleep with me. Little Reggie doesn’t even make a sound all night.” She blushed as she realized what she had just offered. “There’s pancakes on the plate over there. Help yourself.”
“I think I just might . . . the pancakes that is.” Molly burst into laughter. Ryan went to the counter, grabbed two pancakes and maple syrup, and carried them to the table. He folded his pancake like a piece of pizza and drizzled syrup into the crease. He bit into it, the sweet syrup gushing into his mouth.
“These are so great after eating out of cans and pop-tarts for so long.”
“Thanks. I’ve had a little while to practice now. Glad you’re a fan.”
I’m not falling for her, Ryan suddenly thought. He paused, testing the thought, wondering where it came from. It was in her response, he realized, the inflection of her voice more than the words themselves. She spoke so kindheartedly and sincere, so bashful and innocent–so unlike Deborah. Ryan could imagine what Deborah might have said: “I am just so glad you like it. You know I have been raised all my life to do nothing but cook and clean for a man.” Deborah, always joking and sarcastic, and Ryan loved that about her.
So what have I been feeling then? he wondered.
Molly flipped the pancake. “Is something wrong? You just went as pale as a ghost.”
Ryan looked up and stammered, “Ya, ya I’m fine.”
She smiled then nodded, and Ryan looked into her blue, radiant eyes. Warmth grew inside him.
That’s it. It’s her eyes. Ryan suddenly knew the truth: he didn’t love her; her eyes just reminded him of better times, times when a pair of eyes just like those were waiting for him every night, times when monsters were childhood stories and love was a grown up reality. Ryan’s eyes felt hot, and he fought back the tears, not wanting to cry in front of her. Sorry Deb, he thought. I’m not ready to let you go yet.
Ryan’s soul felt empty, and his life suddenly meaningless. His future, once full of Deborah, now seemed bleak with her gone. Worst of all, there was nothing he could do about it. And even if he could bring her back (again) to this world, it would stem from selfishness, not love. It was better not to be alive in these times, not to suffer the sights he’d seen and the emotions he’d felt.
I can hold on to her for a little while longer, he rationalized, but she’s not coming back.
The tears came after that thought. Molly put the spatula down, grabbed a pancake, and walked to the table. She sat across from Ryan. “You don’t look fine to me.”
He brushed his cheek. “It’s just all of this–all of this shit. It’s not fair. I don’t want it to be this way. I want things to be the way they were. We were happy, goddamn it–so happy.”
Molly stared in silence. Finally she said, “I bet you miss her a lot, don’t you?”
Ryan met her eyes, then looked away.
“Cam told me,” she said apologetically. “He–uh–well, he wanted to make sure I didn’t . . . try to make a move on
you.”
Ryan gave her a serious look, and then an uncontrollable fit of laughter came over him. At first Molly looked offended, but then she joined in. Ryan let out a long sigh. “Oh man. Cam. Under all of that quirkiness, he’s got such a heart.”
The sound of an approaching car suddenly roared through the house. Ryan tensed, listening, and when the engine shut off, Ryan jumped up, sending his chair crashing to the floor. He ran to the couch and reached under, grabbing the rifle. He ensured it was loaded and took a knee in the corner of the living room. There was the sound of footsteps on the wooden stairs, and Ryan shook with anticipation, looking down the scope and aiming at head level.
The door opened. Ryan caressed the trigger with his finger and held his breath. A tall figure walked in, face hidden by the shadow of the room.
“Whoa, whoa, watch where you’re pointing that thing,” came Joe’s familiar southern voice. Ryan exhaled in relief, lowering the gun.
“You scared the hell out of me. What were you doing out there so early? Did you sleep out there? And why didn’t you wake me so I could lock the door back.”
Joe stared at him blankly.
“And when the hell did we get a vehicle? I didn’t even know we had one.”
“You don’t. I do. And his name is Donny. He’s seen some better days, used to be my mom’s, but he gets the job done. Come on. I got something to show you.”
Perplexed, Ryan followed Joe out of the house towards the old ford pick-up. The green paint was barely still green. “Look, here.”
Lying in the bed of the truck was a medium sized male deer. The horns it once wore proud like a king were now a convenient handle for Joe to grab onto. He dragged the buck towards the edge of the bed.
“Help me out,” Joe said. “This is gonna be some good eating tonight. You know how to prepare deer?”
“Joe, do I look like I know how to prepare deer?”
“Nope, that’s why I asked. You’re about to find out.”
