by Mike Staton
As his breath slowed and his side ceased aching, Percival made his way down the hallway toward the second set of stairs. Though the house was thoroughly looted, he hoped to find something to use to help staunch the bleeding. Maybe, with a healthy dose of luck, he’d come across a full medical kit.
That made him laugh, which in turn made him grimace in pain. He decided that gut shots hurt and sucked. Though they didn’t suck as much as lung shots.
The stairs leading to the second floor looked just as daunting as the set he had already tackled. And while his legs burned, especially the spot Proxies had kicked, he knew he could do it. He reached out, gripped the railing, and set into slowly steadily climbing the stairs.
He topped the stairs on his hand and knees. He kept a death grip on the computer, using his injured hand to crawl the last couple of stairs to the top. He was vaguely aware of the red trail he’d started to leave behind him once more as his wound leaked droplets behind him. He coughed and clutched his side in pain.
After a few frantic gasps, heaves, and coughs, Percival struggled once more to his feet and staggered down the hall and into the bathroom.
He dropped heavily onto the toilet and pulled a flashlight out. He turned it on and reached up to pull the door of the medicine cabinet open. Empty bottles greeted him and his frustration mounted. He set the computer down and reached forward to pull himself back to standing by gripping the edge of the sink.
Frustration and anger built within Percival like a boiler without a release valve. He yanked empty bottles of Tylenol and Advil and even a clear bottle of what had once been filled with aspirin and heaved them to the ground with the sound of dull plastic thunks. He was about to do the same with a container of dental floss when he checked his anger. He could use that to stitch himself closed. It wouldn’t help with the pain, or with cleaning the wound out, but it would close him up. He sucked in a deep breath, closed his eyes as a burning pain shot through the bullet wound, and settled the floss onto the edge of the sink.
If the looters hadn’t been all that concerned with dental hygiene, and not many were these days, maybe they’d left other items behind. He bent with a groan of pain. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to stand straight again. He sucked in air until the pain subsided to a manageable level and pulled the cabinet door beneath the sink open.
Beneath the sink was an unhealthy dose of cobwebs, bathroom cleaners, an unopened toothbrush package and a bottle of mouthwash. He scooped the brush and mouthwash up and set them on the sink beside the dental floss. Now all he needed was a needle and he could get to work.
He forced himself straight and closed the medicine cabinet door. He stared at the stranger in the mirror for longer than he should have. His face was grimy, dirty, and streaked with tears, blood, and sweat. His hair’d grown longer than he liked, and he looked gaunt and strained. Percival didn’t recognize the disheveled man who looked back at him. He looked years beyond his mere twenty-two.
His lip quivered. He didn’t want to shove a needle through himself. He didn’t want to stagger forward into the unknown. He didn’t want to continue. He saw the despair beneath the grime that covered him. He dropped his head.
But he knew strength lay there as well. Sarah had seen it in him. She’d seen it even when he didn’t feel it. She drew the best out of him.
He’d lost her, yes. But that didn’t mean he could lose himself in losing her. He looked up and stared into his eyes reflected back at him in the mirror.
“Get the fuck up. Man up. You’re not weak. You’re a survivor. You can beat this. You can continue to be strong for her. She can continue… She continues to live so long as you remember her. Don’t do to her this disservice of giving up now you asshole. Don’t you ever give up. She knew the risks coming out on this mission and did it anyways. She knew it was important to you. To the community.
“And you have to get back to them. Tell them about the military. Tell them about Roy Joy and Carlos and Morrbid… About your brave companions. About her. She deserves to be remembered.” He stared a moment longer and could see the strength she saw in him. It hid beneath his hurt, his pain, but it was there. He drew a shaky breath and pushed away from the sink and left the bathroom.
He stumbled down the hall to the bedroom. It was still in shambles, and dimly lit from the sunlight coming through the window. He must have been out for at least a few hours since the sun was up and bright in the sky. He shook himself and moved to searching the room.
The process was time consuming and painful. He could feel himself getting weaker with every passing minute. He fought off the feeling that he should sleep vehemently with every new location he searched.
He had a feeling that if he did give into his bodily urge to lay down and pass out now, he’d not ever wake up again. And, given his new resolve, that was simply not acceptable.
In the end, it took him nearly an hour to locate a needle. He staggered back to the bathroom with it and a bundle of clothes in hand. He set up on the edge of the bathroom sink, precariously balanced as he stripped to the waist. It hurt to peel his blood caked shirt off. Bits of it stuck to his wound and he carefully picked them out. He discarded the shirt and set to the grisly task of cleaning the bullet hole.
He uncapped the mouthwash, carefully set the cap aside where he was unlikely to bump it at all, and filled it with mouthwash. He dropped the needle in and picked up a shirt he’d grabbed from the bedroom. He splashed a generous amount of the mouthwash onto his side, hissing in pain before roughly scrubbing the blood away with the shirt. He discarded it and opened the toothbrush package.
He dunked the toothbrush into the mouthwash. He took several deep breaths, tucked a bit of wadded up shirt into his mouth and bit down. He closed his eyes and applied the toothbrush to his wound, both the entry and exit. He bit the shirt harder and cried as his motions ripped lightning bolts of red hot pain. He finished and dropped the toothbrush into the sink, sagging against the wall next to the medicine cabinet. He gasped for breath, knowing that stitching himself up was likely to be just as bad.
He slowly pushed himself away from the wall with a whimper. His side was bleeding a little more freely now, but at least it was clean of all debris. Mouthwash wasn’t ideal, but at least it wasn’t dirty water or spit. He swallowed hard, knowing that thinking about his supplies was just delaying the inevitable.
He took several deep, painful breaths and picked the needle from the cap of mouthwash. He stared at the needle. It seemed both too big and too small all at the same time. He wished for his medical kit from his duffel bag. He wished Karl was still here to stitch him up.
He wished Sarah was still there to kiss it and make it all better.
Tears slipped out of his eyes, blurring his vision and making it all the harder to thread the needle with dental floss. It took him less time than he expected given his shaky hands and blurry vision. Taking a few deep breaths, he set to stitching the bullet hole closed. He doubled back on the stitches, not holding back on his cries of pain as he pushed the white hot needle through his flesh and drew ice cold dental floss tight.
It wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t neat. It hurt like hell frosted over on a bright afternoon night. But as the sunlight in the hallway dimmed, Percival tied off the last stitch in his backside.
He didn’t know if he’d survive the wound in the long run, but did feel far more confident about it being closed than open. He bound the wound with makeshift bandages cut from clothes he’d looted from the bedroom and saved the last shirt and pants to change into.
He got the shirt on before passing out again.
Chapter 22
Dreams floated through his mind. Dreams of the campus. Dreams of Sarah. Dreams of Karl. Dreams of naked Sarah. Dreams of the time before the outbreak.
It’s how he knew that he hadn’t slipped into the wintry embrasure of death while he was passed out on the bathroom floor of the looted house. He wasn’t surprised when he came to. He agonized over the loss of Sarah as his final drea
m before waking had been holding her. Nothing more or less.
With the waking world came all the aches and pains associated with his battered body. He felt a ravenous hunger grip his stomach and his mouth felt as though it were stuffed to overflowing with cotton. He felt weak and shaky, and lacked anything of substance to fix either of his physical ailments.
While he ached all over and was, or at least felt like he was, starving and dying of thirst, his wounds didn’t feel as though they were killing him any longer. He slowly, and with great effort, pulled himself into a seated position, and claimed the flashlight from the floor. He was surprised to see that it was still alight. He directed it at his side and slowly stripped the red makeshift bandage off. He winced as it pulled at the stitches slightly.
The wound below was red, puffy, and sore. But it didn’t leak any puss and he couldn’t smell any offensive odors coming from it. He gathered one of the discarded shirts, cut it apart with his pilfered pocket knife, and rebandaged the wound.
A handful of minutes passed as he changed pants slowly and redonned his boots and leather jacket. He missed his gloves and helmet, but could do without them for a few days. With the Humvee, he hoped the Humvee was still an option, he could get back to campus in just a couple of days. And that was if the roads were as horribly congested as he remembered them being.
He pulled himself up and tucked the mouthwash and dental floss, with the needle, into a pocket. He picked up the computer and walked, albeit slowly, out of the bathroom.
*
Percival’s trip downstairs took a while. He hurt and ached and hungered. He was weak, but determined. The horde outside was passive and heavily weighted on the side of the backyard rather than the street. The street also held its own dangers in the form of hiding places.
The back of his mind nagged him to be wary of the military unit operating in the area might still be lurking nearby ready to shoot him. A part of him didn’t care. If they shot him, he might get to immediately rejoin Sarah and his other lost friends.
The stronger part of him drove him to, despite the aches and complaints of his body, to move through the front door and crouch to make himself a smaller target. Zombies may not use their eyes, relying instead on smell and sound, but humans did.
The mess and maze of cars obstructing his view held danger and safety, all at the same time. He tracked along the street, slowly and painfully until he’d made it out of the suburb. He even managed to escape with firing only a single shot from his pistol. The beast hadn’t even had the opportunity to utter a feeding moan.
Percival felt more secure leaving the suburb behind for the forest ahead. The zombies were harder to see, but so was he there. He hadn’t expected to fear man more than monster, nor to lose so many people to his fellow man.
Or to exterminate so many as well. He still felt guilty over a few of the people he’d killed, and regretted every loss of life. With humanity on the verge of extinction, they’d need everyone possible alive.
The sun was setting when he reached the Humvee. Percival pulled the rear door open, glad to find that the vehicle hadn’t been looted in the brief time it had sat partially hidden off the side of the road. He slowly crawled into it and took out water, rations, and restocked his weaponry.
He crawled into the backseat, gorging himself on his supplies, and passing out once again as the sun dipped beneath the tree line.
He woke to silence and darkness. He hadn’t realized just how much he missed the sounds of other people until they weren’t present. He cried softly in the darkness, rocking himself in the backseat until he worked it out of his system. He checked his wounds.
The bruises he’d sustained had faded from angry purple, black, and blue to sickly yellow and browns. His bullet wound remained red and puffy and hot to the touch, but hadn’t begun bleeding once more.
He was slowly on the mend, despite looking as though he’d been through hell and back. In some sense, he had. If only his emotional wounds would heal just as quickly as his physical wounds did.
Percival ate without enjoyment and sucked down two bottles of water before crawling into the front seat. He dug the key out of his jacket and plugged it into the ignition. The Humvee grunted and growled for a few seconds before the engine turned over to his relief. He let his forehead sag against the steering column. He’d been lucky, or fate enjoyed toying with him, so far. His encounters with zombies following his brush with the military had been brief and unexciting despite his injured nature.
The fact the military hadn’t bothered searching the basement more thoroughly for him had also been a stroke of luck. If only his lucky streak had begun a matter of minutes sooner, perhaps Sarah’d still be alive.
He let out a slow, low breath and put the Humvee in gear. It was time to head home, he decided. No more searching, no more running, no more looking for survivors. He had enough reconnaissance to tell everyone back at the college.
He had possibly enough information to turn them from idealistic college students and faculty who wanted to rebuild the world to paranoid survivalists who didn’t trust every person who came by immediately.
He severely wished it weren’t so.
Chapter 23
The Humvee rolled along the back roads of Tennessee. It wove around abandoned cars and skirted past more mundane roadblocks. It plowed over the occasional zombie while dodging roving hordes that would undoubtedly impede its progress.
Once a day it pulled off whatever road it traveled and parked. Its throaty growl silenced for a few hours as its sole occupant rested and recovered, preparing for the next long leg of the journey. Weaving through the forest paths and backwater towns extended the trip into nearly two weeks rather than a scant handful of days, but the payoff was the complete avoidance of any human interaction and two more gas stations with diesel and gasoline deposits.
These were carefully marked upon a AAA map of Tennessee. He noted that these carefully in red ink. The map bore several marks across it. Some towns were crossed off the map entirely, while others had notations of supplies that were found.
Knoxville bore a multi-circled and scratched through X and bold words: ‘DO NOT ENTER.’ The single notation there had worn through the map itself.
Percival tucked the map away. He was less than a day’s drive and the weather was looking nasty. If he pressed himself he could make it before the next sunset. He could make it home and spread the word.
His adventure into the devastated and destroyed world beyond the comfortable confines of the campus had gotten results. Near four hundred people would have supplies for the winter thanks to the expedition.
Even if it meant that not everyone from the expedition came back. Percival forced that line of thoughts out of his head. The track always ended in tears and a near desire to not return at all. He missed his companions. He longed for their conversation and distractions. He longed for Sarah’s fingers on him.
But it was thoughts of her that kept him going; kept him strong. He stared out at the endless trees and hills. He climbed into the Humvee, cracked a fresh bottle of water open and pulled back onto the road. He drove in silence for more hours than he wanted to contemplate, catching glimpses of slate gray sky overhead between the skies.
He lost himself to the drive and idle thoughts. He knew how the campus community would take the news of the loss of life. They were a close-knit group now and everyone knew everything. He knew Nadia had a thing before she approached him because someone else had passed on the news. He hadn’t thought of her in weeks, and it hurt him to realize that. She’d been the first person he’d lost and his hope to bring everyone home with him died with her.
Maybe it was his naïve ideality to think he’d be able to bring anyone home with him. He’d been responsible for them as the leader of the expedition and he took responsibility for their deaths.
He’d replayed each decision over in his head. How he might have been different or changed the situation. The loss of life would hit the community hard.
But the information he’d gathered, on not just the supply caches but the state of the world was nearly invaluable. A handful of deaths, most of them swift, would prevent the slow starvation of hundreds of people. The information he’d gathered that they needed to be more cautious around people would also be invaluable. The military couldn’t be trusted.
And there was the computer he’d swiped from the military in his frantic escape. He hadn’t been able to access it. He’d tried and found that the damned battery was already dead. But the tech guys would have cables to plug into it. It would be charged and broken into and all the secrets it contained would be revealed.
Maybe they had a vaccine or a cure. Maybe they had a way to control the hordes of zombies. Or, hell, maybe they simply knew where the bloody virus had come from. Almost everyone Percival knew or had met had a different idea as to where it originated and what caused it to spread so fast.
He didn’t know about origin, but had a feeling that flu shots were to blame for the spread. Everyone he’d spoken to hadn’t had a flu shot the year of the outbreak. Then again, it could have been a coincidence.
That military computer might well hold the answer for the curious.
He kept Sarah’s memory on the edge of his thoughts. It was bittersweet. He missed her terribly, and the decision he regretted most was the one that got her and Carlos killed. But it was the memory of her strength and absolute belief in him that kept him going. The belief that he’d make it back and tell everyone else about what they’d seen and done.
Mostly about what they’d seen. It was her borrowed strength that brought him to the last hill south of Prosperity Wells. He saw the smoke from there.
A thick, bulbous, black and gray column that stretched from a little north of the tiny downtown into the gray sky. A little north of downtown Prosperity Wells was Brown College. The place he’d called home when the shit hit the fan.
The rest of the town looked unremarkable. Like so many other small towns he’d traversed. Prosperity Wells had a smattering of one and two story buildings clustered near the college campus with a couple of three and four story office buildings marking the ‘downtown’ area.
