by Brent Abell
The empty convention center seemed like a ghost itself. Dead silence filled the center and George found it un-nerving. A few sun rays peeked through the overcast sky and filtered into the center through large, dirty and broken skylights. Throughout the hall, George heard the steady drip of water from the damaged roof and skylights. The drips kept a steady cadence and he wondered if the ghosts kept up with the passage of time from it. The carpet smelled musty and damp. A few bones littered the recessed corners and they sat waiting for somebody to save them. One body sat perched in an armchair with a bullet hole prominently in its skull. The body sat leaning back and a dark spot colored the wall behind it. George wondered if it was a suicide or not. He gave the area around the body a quick inspection, but didn’t find a gun.
George surveyed the main concourse and let the emptiness fill him. The memories of bringing Trent to comic conventions at the center flooded through his mind and he choked up. Closing his eyes, he imagined the throngs of people rushing from panel to panel or pushing through to reach the exhibit hall. He pictured Trent in a Spider-Man costume staring at the other costumed fans filing by.
He felt a tug at his leg and he opened his clenched hand. Trent’s memory took hold of his thumb and George smiled. The center was full of ghosts, but some he didn’t mind. He opened his eyes and glanced down at his empty hand. Trent’s form faded away leaving only the memories again.
The doors he’d entered were on the second level and he climbed down the still escalators to the first floor where the food court was located. When he reached the bottom of the escalators, he found more of the same. Bodies were strewn about and the tables and chairs were all turned over. Most of the bodies wore clothes riddled with bullet holes and rips from stabbings. The tell-tale signs of man’s self-centered cravings for survival surrounded him. A few tables standing up-right had bodies draped over them. One decaying body had her blouse ripped away and a filthy pair of blue bikini panties dangling from her ankle.
“Mother fuckers,” George whispered.
He looked around and found a jacket balled up in the corner and he picked it up. Gently, he covered up the corpse to give her more dignity in her death than what she had in those last moments of her life. George wanted to close her eye lids, but they’d already been torn away and her eye balls had melted away long ago. He wondered if the dried puddles under her head were from her eyes and if the dark streaks on her peeling cheeks were from tears mixed with mascara. Her skin appeared to be paper-thin and he thought if he touched her, she’d fall apart. He closed what remained of her eye lids and he felt the skin tear like paper. He pulled his fingers away and, whispering a prayer, covered her up with the jacket.
It failed to cover all of her, but it was better than nothing.
Having done his good deed for the day, George turned his attention back to the food vendors. He strolled by and studied the menus. Most of them had typical fare such as burgers and pizza. One had Chinese food and another had gourmet hot dogs, but he saw the scorch marks on the front counters where fires had burned in the kitchens. The ones that survived the fires had been trashed. The equipment was overturned and it looked like a tornado had touched down. He found the potato chip racks empty and the drinks were all gone from the coolers.
The pizza vendor looked like it had sustained the least damage and he climbed over the counter to get a better look. On the other side, he found more of the same and none of it made it feel like it was his lucky day. A cough built deep in his chest and, when he unleashed it, he fell to knees. Red dots speckled his hands again and he wiped them on his shirt. More and more, he was doing it and dark red stains formed down his chest. He wondered if Harry had figured it out the times he’d coughed and connected the dots to the letter he had spoken about with him.
Even in the zombie apocalypse, he couldn’t tell anyone about his terminal cancer. Instead, he walked the world alone. He was dying, but today he was alive. George didn’t know for how much longer, but he had seen the sun rise once again.
Continuing around the pizza vendor, he got on his hands and knees and looked under every rack, every counter, and every decayed body. Finally, under the remains of a person in a black uniform and apron, he found three packets of parmesan cheese sprinkles. They were the type of thing you opened and poured out on a slice of pizza or some breadsticks, but to him they were manna sent from the heavens.
“Oh. My. God.”
George shoved the body aside and gathered up the last packets on the face of the Earth. They weren’t the MREs he’d finished a few days before or his last ones Rendell had stolen from him, but they were something he could put in his belly and try to feel like he’d been to a buffet and eaten till his stomach was ready to burst open.
He missed going to those types of places with Sally and Trent.
Rolling over and sitting up, George opened the first foil packet and dumped the coarse, white powder down his dry throat. The texture made him want to throw it back up, but he didn’t have enough in his stomach to eject the sand-like substance from his body. What little moisture he’d built up in his mouth dried out as the powder sucked it all out of him. Still, it tasted good and when his stomach settled down, he opened up another packet and forced it down his gullet.
His stomach hurt from the retching and he stood up. He grabbed his gut and winced from the pain the dry powder had caused. Quickly, he went back into the kitchen area and glanced around for anything containing water. If he thought there’d be water in the toilet, he’d go and drink from it. He wondered if there was something in the kitchen he could use to slake his thirst. Ovens were open and the freezer doors were standing ajar inviting him to step inside. The rank stench of the rotten food still permeated the air and he gagged on the smell. After all the corpses and all the death he’d smelled, the freezer was the worst thing he’d smelled so far.
Inside, the shelves were covered with black and dark green blobs of shapeless matter. What had once been cheese and pepperoni had been magically transformed by heat and humidity into dark foreboding shapes of terror. He pictured the creature in The Blob. George backed away, afraid it would begin to pulsate and move toward him. In his mind, he pictured it oozing out from the walk-in and attempting to eat him. Not that there was as much of him to eat presently. He tugged on his pants and figured he’d need to find a smaller size in short order. Between the cancer and the lack of food over the last week, he was losing his pants with each step he took.
He knew death was coming for him, but he also thought, if he looked at himself in a mirror, he’d appear as the Reaper himself. George was a dead man walking in a dead world. He wondered if he’d find another live human being again.
If he did, he wondered if he’d have to kill them too.
“Maybe I am the Reaper,” he said to the empty pizza kitchen.
No one answered back and the convention center remained silent. George walked out of the kitchen and exited the counter area, back out into the lobby. He looked up and down the corridor, but didn’t see another vendor that looked promising. His shoulders drooped down in disappointment and he began to wander the halls looking for anything he could use.
***
The last rays from the Florida sun cast their last shadows on the floor in the main hallway. George sat on a bench next to the escalators and stared up at them. A flock of birds flew over the skylights and he allowed himself a small smile. Seeing the wildlife still flourish in man’s decline made him happy.
We’ve taken enough from this planet, George thought and waved at the birds. As if on cue, the birds called out into the dusk and circled overhead one last time before they swooped around and headed north.
Before George knew it, night fell.
The hard bench wasn’t the most comfortable thing he’d ever tried to sleep on, so he didn’t slip into sleep easily. He tossed and turned as much as he could with his legs folded up so he could fit his whole body on the bench. The twinge of his left leg’s calf was the last straw. He slowly unfo
lded his legs and sat up. George grimaced at the pain from the blood flow returning to his leg muscles. The tingling he felt faded away and he relaxed. Sleepiness still tugged at his eyes and he wanted to close them, but knowing how many bodies filled the convention center un-nerved him. He been around plenty of bodies before, but this time he pictured himself trapped in a tomb.
The skeletons and the bodies exhibiting various stages of decay reminded him of a trip with Sally to New Orleans. She had always loved old cemeteries and they had toured a few of them even though he really hadn’t wanted to. He’d seen enough death on his deployment and the idea of being surrounded, willingly, by the dead didn’t appeal to him. Still, he loved Sally and would have done anything she wanted if he knew he could watch her face brighten up when she smiled.
George pictured her decaying face with the bullet hole he had placed in it with love and felt tears form in the corners of his eyes. His hand dropped to the gun in his belt and he pulled it out. Looking over the sleek black weapon, he ran his fingers like a gentle lover over the barrel. The metal felt cool in the night’s humidity and he brought it up to his forehead. It cooled him and he ran it down his nose and placed the barrel in his mouth.
George closed his eyes and hesitated.
You don’t want to do that.
George heard the voice and slid the barrel out from between his lips. “Harry?”
In the spirit!
“I killed you.”
Maybe, you didn’t kill all of me.
“I watched you die in my arms.”
Well, I‘m going to tell you now, I’m not here to watch you die.
“Why not?”
Are you seriously going to tell me you aren’t going to get to St. Augustine? After all the bullshit you’ve been through? If you bail on this, I’ll be pissed… and so will Sally.
George felt anger rise in him. “Don’t you ever fucking bring her up again.” His voice echoed in the dark convention center and it reminded him of a cave.
Do you think she’d want you to abandon all hope of finding Trent? Is that what you think she’d want is to have you blow your fucking brains out all over the convention center and call it a life?
“I’m dying anyway, so what’s the fucking point?”
The point is there are others out there and Trent may be among them.
“How do you know so much?”
Honestly, I don’t know. I mean, I’m just a figment of your tired imagination.
“So, I’m not really having this conversation?”
You are, but not with the ghost me.
“Oh, well that makes this even worse.”
How so?
“I don't know, maybe because now I’m having crazy conversations with imaginary dead people in my head.”
You’re surrounded by dead people. Some walk and some don’t, but you’re still in a world of shit, George. Don’t give up! Go find others. You are a shitty person when you’re alone.
“I’m a shitty person when I’m not alone.”
True, but don’t be so hard on yourself. I have to go now, but don’t stay here too long or it’ll be your tomb.
“Thanks,” George replied but never received a response from Harry.
He held the gun down in his lap and studied it. The fact he had nerve enough to place it between his teeth horrified him. He’d never considered suicide a practical solution to anything and here he was, only a quick reaction in a moment of weakness from ending his life. He hated even more to admit the Harry voice in his head was right about everything. George debated how much his mind had played tricks on him and how much was Harry’s ghost.
When George lay back down on the hard bench, he curled up and, within moments, he fell fast asleep.
***
The sun had yet to rise when a noise startled George from his slumber. He snapped awake and grabbed his gun in a flash. Overhead, the sky began to lighten and he heard something hit the floor on the lower level again. Silently, he stood up and moved around behind the escalator.
Between the up and down side, George had a good vantage point to watch the large concourse. He waited for what seemed to him to be an eternity before he heard something again. This time, the noise was barely audible and he strained to hear it. It sounded hollow and it barely echoed in the hall. One thing he knew for sure, it was getting closer.
George estimated another five minutes passed without hearing or seeing anything else. His arm burned from holding the gun at the ready the whole time. The weakness in his arm caused it to have small tremors and he glanced down at the gun lightly shaking in his grasp. He kept his eyes glued in front of him, but he lowered the gun and let his arm rest at his side.
Above, the sun continued to rise and more light filtered in through the skylights. In the shadows, he thought he saw movement, but, the closer he watched the spot, nothing else caught his eye. His knees ached from squatting down for cover and he almost sat down when a small glint of light reflected off something in front of him.
The flash was very quick and he almost missed it. He held his breath and cautiously brought the gun back up. His elbow knocked the potted plastic plant next to him and it hit against the escalator. The glint moved from side-to-side quickly and closed the gap between the shadows and his position.
“Hello?” a voice called out.
George remained silent and kept the gun pointed at the last place he had seen the reflection.
“Is someone there? Is someone alive?”
The voice sounded afraid. George knew it was a woman, but he couldn’t place the age from her voice. He also didn’t know what kind of weapon she was packing.
“Are you here alone?” George asked. It was against his better judgment, but he needed to figure out what he was up against.
“Yes and no.”
“Really, you can’t be both. Now, tell me which one it is,” Gorge called out.
“Alone. And you?”
“Same.”
“Truce?”
George lowered his gun. “Truce.”
He stood and walked out from behind the escalator. His hand gripped the gun tighter and tighter as he moved out into the open. Part of him hoped the person was a legitimately nice person, but another small part of him hoped they’d shoot him.
Out of the shadows, a petite woman walked with her hands raised above her head. She wore a backwards ball cap and a pair of filthy jeans with large holes in the knees. Long brown hair hung out from the cap and spilled out over her shoulders. The white tee shirt she sported was smeared with dark brown stains he figured were dried blood. He had enough of those stains covering his self. George figured everyone still alive wore the color as a new fashion statement.
“I’m Nora,” the woman said. She stopped in the light and lowered her hands.
George felt his hand loosen its hold on the gun and he put it back in his belt. “I’m George, pleased to meet you.”
“You here looking for some grub too?”
“Well, if by grub you mean parmesan cheese packets, then ya, I found some grub,’ George replied.
“You’re doing better than me then,” Nora smiled.
Both of them seemed more at ease and relaxed. George sat back down on the bench and sighed. Nora walked over and sat next to him. For a few minutes, the two survivors sat in silence. One was happy to have found another living person and the other was afraid of losing another person who would be relying on them.
George extended his hand and smiled. Nora took hold of it and shook it. Her grip surprised George and he gave her a playful squeeze in return.
“Are you flirting with me?” Nora inquired. She gave him a wry smile and it lit up the hallway.
“No, I’m just happy to find another person,” George said. He felt like he was being disingenuous. He was happy, on some level, he had found another living person, but he dreaded the responsibility and inevitable heartache that would follow when something bad happened to them.
“Me, too. I haven’t seen
anyone since I broke off from a group that pretty much wanted to commit suicide and head south.”
“Why south?” George asked. Harry had mentioned the whole south thing, but he needed to hear it from other sources.
“I’ve seen them move that way. It reminded me of the birds back home when winter got close; they’d all turn tail and fly south where it’d be warmer. I didn’t blame them; I wouldn’t want my tail feathers freezing off in a snow storm,” Nora explained.
“Where are you from then?”
“Indiana, but believe me, I liked it here better. Well, until the whole zombie thing,” Nora laughed.
“Ocean, sun, and beaches?”
“No parents, nice tan, and Milton Mouse.”
“Sounds like you were fine before this shit happened,” George snorted.
Nora fell silent and her smile faded away. “It was until Marty tried to kill me.”
George didn’t answer. He wasn’t sure how he could answer her. Sally had tried to kill him and he knew how it felt to have to end her life. He could only imagine the hell Nora had been through.
“Sorry, I kind of killed the mood,” Nora apologized.
“Don’t be sorry; we’ve all done things we’re not proud of.”
Nora looked at George and he could see the wetness in the corners of her eyes. “I stuck a knife in his eye. I tried to stab him when he attacked me, but he kept coming back until I shoved it in his eye”
She began to sob and George put his arm around her. “Shh, hush now. I understand.”
“I don’t even know you and here I am putting this on you,” she sniffled.
The wall George had begun to build around himself, after Harry died, crumbled. He held her tighter and let her tears flow onto his shoulder. Inside, he cried with her.
What the hell is wrong with me? George thought.
