After the Bite

by Lovato, David

  “You think they’d give up? Get lost, maybe?”

  “I think so.”

  Soon afterward, Chris’s car stopped in front of Andrew’s house. He killed the engine, and the two looked around, both speechless, both hoping any movement they saw was just the wind. After all, they hadn’t seen any signs of the boy’s family, other than the leg he had been carrying.

  “Well,” Andrew finally said after a silence that was made of both awkwardness and fear of what might be waiting, “thanks for the ride, I s’pose.”

  “What are you going to do?” Chris asked.

  “I think I’ll board up my doors and windows and wait for this thing to blow over.”

  “All right,” Chris said. “I guess I should probably do the same.”

  “All right, then,” Andrew said. It wasn’t quite a “good luck” or a “goodbye,” but it was the best farewell a Whitaker had given a Holmes in a long time. He got out of the car and walked up the steps to his porch, shotgun in hand, and disappeared inside the house. Chris started his car, and began driving down the road toward his own home. He spied the box on the way, still chained to the ground near the wrecked minivan and the dead boy.

  Chris parked on the road in front of his house and carefully made his way to the door. It was quiet out, save for the low breeze. There were clouds in the distance, and Chris wondered if it was going to rain. He reached the front door handle, and noticed that the door was open just a crack.

  His heart began racing. Had he left it open? He must have; in his haste to get out and go to town, he must have carelessly forgotten to close the door all the way.

  Chris carefully pushed the door open, and it creaked the whole way, destroying any element of secrecy he might’ve had. The lights were all off inside, but from the dim light coming through the door, he could see the bottom of his stairs and down the main hall. He couldn’t see into either of the rooms to the sides, but the light from the day illuminated his desk, specifically an old family portrait from shortly after the house had been built, one featuring relatives he’d never known except by legend, from a time now long forgotten. The picture, however, was not standing up, but had fallen backward, along with many other things from the desk, as though someone had bumped into it.

  “H-hello?” Chris called into the hopefully empty house. He listened, and didn’t hear anything except for the gently swaying door.

  Chris turned on the hallway light and saw a grim scene. Leading up the stairs was a trail of bloody footprints. Someone was definitely in his house.

  Chris went to the desk and retrieved a revolver, loaded it, and then headed carefully up the stairs.

  “Is someone up there?” he said. Again, he heard nothing. He carefully went up the stairs, each step giving him a better view of the upstairs hall, dim as it was, and still he saw nothing out of the ordinary: a few closed doors, another desk near the top of the stairs, and not much else.

  Chris reached the top of the stairs and turned on the light. The footprints led down the hall, fading more and more with each step, finally turning to nothing midway down it.

  “I know you’re in here!” Chris said, ready to use his weapon at any second.

  A very fat man suddenly broke through the door to Chris’s side, reaching through the hole he had created, tearing at Chris, trying to pull him closer. As Chris turned to face the man, the man’s flailing hands knocked the revolver from his, discharging it in the process (though the bullet flew off into nothing). Chris grabbed the desk to the side of the door and slid it sideways, blocking the door and the bottom half of the hole the man was reaching through.

  Chris reached for the revolver, but the man threw himself against the now considerably weaker door again, breaking it down and plowing into the desk, which slid forward and into Chris. The whole tangled mess of man, desk, and monster went rolling down the stairs.

  The next thing Chris new, he was gathering himself at the bottom of the stairs. The desk was on top of him, broken yet heavy enough to pin him down. The revolver was nowhere to be seen. Chris was in an immense amount of pain, not sure if anything had been broken, but hardly able to move at all.

  He was only a few feet from the door, the light of the day shining on him, throwing off his vision. Chris tried to move the desk, but couldn’t.

  The fat man’s head suddenly emerged from the top of the desk, snapping at Chris, who swiftly avoided by moving his head to the side as far as he could. He stretched his neck and remained just out of reach of the monster’s teeth.

  Chris guessed that the thing had been even more wounded than he had, for it just hung there, half of its body over the desk, its arms dangling useless and broken at its sides like old tree limbs, still able to move its head and neck but unable to get any closer to Chris.

  “Help!” Chris screamed as loudly as he could, but it was in vain. The most he could do was to lay there, head cocked to the side as far as possible (letting up even slightly moved his head too close to the monster’s), and try to call for help, though none would come.

  A few hours passed, and Chris was growing more sore, more tired. The thing seemed to be tired as well, and eventually it fell asleep. Chris, however, was afraid to. He did allow himself to relax his neck, causing nearly unbearable pain, but dared not fall asleep. If the thing stirred, he would quickly move his head back out of reach, which caused him great pain, but when all was clear, he’d once again relax.

  It was early morning when the thing woke up again and did not fall back asleep, and it had come all too soon for Chris. His neck hurt, and he felt like giving up.

  Then he heard the moans. An endless sea of groaning and shuffling of feet, growing louder and louder. The things from the town had followed them and had not gotten lost or given up. Chris prepared for the worst.

  The sounds grew closer and closer, and the very presence of others seemed to reignite the fire in the one near Chris, as it gnashed and thrashed about even more. Chris hoped the things would pass by his house, unaware of his plight and how helpless he was, but there was a considerable amount of daylight peeking into the house, revealing him trapped beneath the desk.

  But then a new sound came, one that was familiar and yet rare, one that had marked his salvation once before: the sound of a gunshot ringing across the plains. Then another. And another.

  Chris could see them now, the things moving about along the road, some ignoring the shots, others turning to look, spying something interesting, and turning to head toward it. The shots grew louder, and then he could see the crowd dispersing, falling to the ground, bleeding, dying. Then he saw Andrew, shotgun in hand, furiously firing and then reloading, thinning out the crowd.

  “Help!” Chris shouted. Andrew turned and seemed to see him, and worked his way toward the door.

  The first thing Andrew did was shoot the fat monstrosity atop the desk. It no longer moved for Chris, its dead eyes staring into his. Finally Chris allowed his neck muscles to rest.

  Andrew closed the door and began to move the desk off of Chris. As soon as his arms were free Chris helped, and soon he was able to crawl out from under the desk.

  “Thank you,” Chris said, barely able to move his neck, his arms and legs sore but not broken.

  “There’s a ton of ‘em out there!” Andrew said. “I’m running low on ammo. We should head for the barn. The thing’s old, but I bet it could withstand a tornado.”

  “I agree,” Chris said. He searched for his revolver and found it on one of the stairs, retrieved all of the ammo he could find, then the two made their way toward the Holmes barn. They passed within a few yards of the well and the chest on the way, and Chris instinctively looked to make sure it was still there, that Andrew hadn’t tapped into it, but then quickly returned his thoughts to the task at hand. He did it so quickly that he didn’t really register whether or not the chest remained untouched.

  The two entered the field, the tall grass preventing them from being able to see much.

  “Keep close toget
her!” Chris said.

  “Gotcha,” Andrew replied.

  A hand reached out of the wheat toward Chris. He fired in its direction and saw the hand drop to the ground. A few figures moved alongside the two in the field, sometimes reaching out for them, usually missing or being shot before they could connect. At one point, Andrew ran into one of the things, unable to have seen it, and nearly fell to the ground. He dropped his shotgun, and the thing attacked. Chris was able to shoot it in the chest, stopping it. It lunged again, but Chris fired again, and the thing was no more.

  Andrew retrieved his gun, and the two made their way to the barn, opened the doors, and entered. From the safety of the doorway, they killed any of the remaining monsters they could see, and then closed the doors.

  It was dark in the barn, but it was safe. The two looked around for anything useful.

  “How many shells you got left?” Chris asked. Andrew counted.

  “Seven.”

  “I have about sixteen rounds. We can’t stay here forever.”

  “We’ll just wait for the convention to move on, then,” Andrew said.

  But it soon became clear that things were only getting worse. The things pounded at the door and the walls, threw themselves into the barn, tried to get in. Chris and Andrew locked the front doors and waited.

  The inside of the barn consisted of two levels, separated by a wooden ladder, and around the barn were various tools and devices. The majority of the space was occupied by hay.

  “There aren’t any holes in this barn, are there?” Andrew asked. Chris was shocked.

  “I don’t know, actually,” he said. Andrew grunted.

  “Figures.”

  Then there was a noise. A pile of hay began to move. The two aimed their guns in the direction of the movement, but then there was more than one noise, more than one movement in the hay.

  “Damn it!” Andrew said. “The thing’s full’a holes!”

  “We’ll be safer on the upper level,” Chris said. The two made for the big wooden ladder as the creatures outside began to tear at the loose wood, widening the holes, and crawling through the hay into the barn. Andrew tried to knock the ladder down, but it was bolted in place and reinforced with steel.

  “Just keep them off the ladder!” Chris said.

  “Got it,” Andrew said. “Don’t shoot unless you have to, though.”

  Andrew grabbed a nearby pitchfork, and Chris reached for a broom. Whenever one of the creatures figured out how to work the ladder, it wouldn’t get very high before being knocked back down. This defense continued into the night.

  “They can’t keep this up forever, can they?” Chris asked. He was beyond tired, and very hungry.

  “I know we sure as hell can’t!” Andrew said. It was dark, but the cracks and holes in the roof let in just enough light to see shapeless forms moving about, just enough for the two to tell when one of the things was ascending the ladder. They had no idea how many of them had managed to get into the barn, or how long they’d stay there.

  “Andrew,” Chris finally said, breaking the eerie quiet that filled the place, as well as the monotony of the groans and the shuffling of feet.

  “Yeah?” Andrew said.

  “You saved my life. Twice.”

  “I may hate you, but that don’t mean I want you dead. Not on my hands, anyway.”

  “Thanks,” Chris said.

  “Yeah,” Andrew said. The defense continued on, and the two took turns, one sleeping, one guarding the ladder, until the barn began to get brighter as the sky above the holes in the roof grew lighter and the dawn finally came. The sleep shifts finally ended, and the two continued to watch the ladder together.

  “That box,” Andrew said after a while, “what the hell d’you think is in it?”

  “I don’t know,” Chris said. “I don’t know that it matters, now.”

  “I don’t know that it ever did,” Andrew said.

  Below, one of the creatures stumbled into a large gas barrel, spilling gasoline all over the bottom of the barn.

  “Shit,” Andrew said. “Better watch out for that. All this hay and old wood; this barn’d go up like a torch.”

  The gasoline smelled bad, but the two realized they preferred it to the smell of the creatures below, some of them injured and smelling of infection, many smelling of urine and defecation.

  A few hours passed, and it was getting late again. Andrew and Chris were feeling increasingly defeated as time went on.

  “I don’t think they’re going to leave,” Chris said.

  “Me neither,” Andrew replied.

  “The gasoline,” Chris said, “do you think we could use it? Maybe take them out with it?” Andrew chuckled.

  “We light that gasoline, and we seal ourselves in here, too,” he said.

  “Yeah,” Chris said, sounding disappointed, “I guess you’re right.”

  Another moment passed.

  “Unless…” Chris said.

  “Unless what?” Andrew said.

  “Unless we could get the door open. If the door wasn’t locked, if it was open, we could probably jump out through it, right past the fire.”

  “Yeah? Well it ain’t open, is it?”

  “No,” Chris said. But he didn’t sound disappointed.

  “Think we could reach it with the pitchfork?” Andrew asked, knowing very well that they couldn’t.

  “No,” Chris said. Then he jumped.

  He hit the ground and rolled, and the things didn’t seem to notice at first. It surprised them just as much as it had surprised Andrew. Chris quickly shoved his way to the door, the nearby things taking notice and reaching at him, scratching and pulling, but Chris continued on like a quarterback heading for the end zone, even after being bitten once, twice, again and again, finally reaching the gate and lifting the gigantic wooden bar, all of Andrew’s attempts to keep the things off of him from a distance with the pitchfork failing, and then the door was open and Chris was lying on the ground, revolver in hand, pointed at the barrel, and he pulled the trigger.

  There was a large blast, and Andrew was disoriented for just a moment. He sat up from where he discovered himself lying on the upper level of the barn, noticing the heat, fire everywhere below, the things burning to death but not seeming to notice, heading farther into the fire, a dying Chris on the dirt outside the barn, abandoned by the creatures, the fire spreading slowly toward him.

  Andrew jumped for the door, landing on the outermost edge of the flames, and rolled. His pants caught, but only a little, and he quickly patted the fire out. He grabbed Chris’s motionless body, dragged it as far as he could, past the creatures still in the field who were now rushing right past the two defenseless men and into the flames.

  “God damn you!” Andrew said. “I didn’t save your ass so you could go and die for me!”

  “I wish I would’ve known.” Chris struggled to get every word out, his eyes swiftly changing in ways Andrew couldn’t even comprehend, blood leaking from his many wounds, his revolver long forgotten. “How stupid we were.”

  Andrew finally set him down, sat down next to him, tears in his eyes.

  “You dumb bastard,” Andrew said, not to Chris, but to himself. Then his words returned to Chris. “I never hated you, did I? I couldn’t have. I never knew you.”

  “We lied,” Chris said. “We lied to ourselves. Told us the other was the enemy. We lied so well, I never even knew you were my best friend.”

  “I’m not worth it,” Andrew said, unable to hold back the tears now. “I’m not worth dying for.”

  “Of course you are,” Chris said. For just a moment, he became as aimless and as dazed as the creatures all around were, but then his eyes closed, and he ceased to move.

  By morning the barn had been reduced to ash, and the things inside it had as well, and much of the field continued to burn. Andrew had buried Chris near the well and erected a makeshift gravestone, carved out of wood:

  Here lies Chris Holmes, the only friend I ev
er had.

  He turned, then, to the box. For the first time, he saw it not as some vague obelisk, a great treasure that had been stolen from him without ever having been touched, but as a monster equal to those from the field, an accursed thing, an evil thing.

  What had been inside? What treasure did it hold, what evil thing was it that had torn so many men apart?

  He ripped the chains from it, no longer wanting what was inside but to know what it was, hoping somehow that it was worth the last few generations of hatred and stupidity. The rusted chains easily broke, and the lock also went with a few heavy strikes from the shovel Andrew had used to bury his friend. He opened the box, and then he understood everything.

  Inside there was no gold, there were no jewels. There was simply a small wooden frame, with a portrait inside, a portrait protected by a magnificently crafted frame and strong glass, a portrait similar to one he had had in his house for as long as he knew, only this one bigger, this one more complete. It was a portrait of two families, united as one, smiling, shaking hands after having completed their homes, a portrait made and then sealed away, the story kept from descendants, a surprise gift to future generations. On the back was an inscription, written in the same writing that was on the front of the box:

  “The Holmes family and the Whitaker family, united as one after the completion of a shared farmland property. To our future generations: We are as united as our land: One family.”

  And so Andrew took to the road, the beautiful treasure which so many had forgotten tucked in his bag along with a few food items and the last of his ammunition. He took a new name as well, given to himself by a family too hastily forgotten but now remembered and restored. Along that country road, Andrew Holmes-Whitaker left the middle of nowhere. A new life waited for him somewhere down that road, with the sun rising, the man ready to bear the weight of several generations of lives that should’ve been shared but were not, and only now could be.

  Grim is the Truth

  Day 908… It’s winter. God damn it. It’s fucking freezing!