Containment

by Sean Schubert

  The joke wasn’t lost on Malachi. He even managed to crack a smile for a second. He said with some very welcome amusement, “Kinda like the moose in the woods, huh?”

  Dr. Caldwell smiled and said in feigned protest, “Are you still giving me grief about that?”

  “Nah. But it still kinda cracks me up is all.”

  “Well I’m glad that I can be of entertainment to someone.”

  “Doc,” Malachi asked, “if something were to happen to me, you know, like maybe I got the sickness that made those other people turn into what they are, would you level with me and tell me?”

  “I guess I’m not following you, Malachi. Do you mean, if you got bitten or something, would I tell you about it?”

  “Forget it. Never mind.”

  “Malachi, you’re not sick, but I think you should try to eat and maybe even get some uninterrupted sleep.”

  At first Malachi didn’t answer. He just shook his head. He was having the hardest time finding his voice. He forced out the tiniest of sounds that barely escaped his chest, “I can’t. I’m too...afraid.”

  Dr. Caldwell straightened himself up and tried to reassure the man, who was clearly struggling with something. “We will watch out for you. Those things won’t be able to get to you. You should get some rest so that when the fight does come, you’ll be able to fight back.”

  “I can’t. It’s not that simple.”

  “We’re here for you, Malachi. Let us help.”

  Desperate now, Malachi pleaded, “But you can’t protect me from him. He can wait. He’s as patient as eternal time. He wants me.”

  “You’ll never be alone. You’ll be safe.”

  “Nothing’s safe from him.”

  “Malachi, at first I thought you were talking God or Jesus. Now, I’m not so sure. This would at least be a different version of either of them than I’ve ever known. Even Old Testament God in all his wrath and vengeance, and death from above wasn’t as bad as all that.”

  “He’s no God and Jesus wouldn’t have him.”

  “Who then, Malachi? Who is it who is so threatening to you?”

  The conversation, if it could be called one, was over. At that point, waiting for a response from Malachi was like waiting for a winning number to be called on the Powerball Lotto or the elusive and infamous check in the mail; sure there’s always that outside chance that it’ll come but it’s probably not worth anticipating.

  Dr. Caldwell waited a second or two longer and then said, “Come with me, Malachi. Come up and get a bite to eat.”

  Malachi hesitantly followed Dr. Caldwell up the stairs. If Dr. Caldwell could get some food into his belly, maybe he could coax him into some rest too. The psychosis, dormant while they were moving, was returning in earnest and Malachi’s exhaustion was only feeding it.

  When the two men were back upstairs, Dr. Caldwell found a place to sit in the living room.

  Neil asked him quietly, “How we doin’?”

  Dr. Caldwell shook his head and admitted honestly, “I don’t really know. I think it’s important that he gets some rest and nourishment. I would have referred him to a mental health specialist long ago.”

  Emma got up from her spot on the couch and left the room. She still wasn’t willing to entertain discussions about the police officer, especially if it led to showing him any sort of compassion. He’d tried to rape her and that was a fact. The rest of it was merely speculation and she had neither the stomach nor the tolerance to speculate when it came to him.

  Still, she no longer felt threatened by him the way she had when they were first on the run from the hospital. That seemed so long ago; a lifetime ago, and getting further and further away with each dawn. She looked at herself and tried to remember the woman that she was. Her fingernails, once finely sculpted and manicured, were broken and worn and held the dirt of a refugee under them. Her clothes too were dirty and stained, and probably smelled awful, though she had largely become desensitized to such things. She didn’t have a mirror but she didn’t need one to be able to imagine the tired lines on her face or the grime that was settling there. She felt like a different person living in a different time.

  She wandered out onto the back deck and watched Art, Dave, Meghan, Gerald, Evelyn, and little Jules talking out in the fenced yard like it was just another normal autumn barbecue. She couldn’t hear them. They all seemed to be smiling and carrying on, though, neither of which interested her. She just stood against the railing and looked up at the sky, whose grey hue and cool disposition resembled the skin of the undead. It wasn’t raining at the moment, but the suggestion was still in the air, which left moist, cool kisses on the skin.

  Back in the living room, Neil looked at Jerry and Dr. Caldwell and asked, “So what do we do now? The zekes know that we’re here, or at least are still around if they don’t know our exact location yet. There’s no way we can stay here much longer and not risk getting trapped again.”

  Dr. Caldwell looked over at Malachi sitting at the dining room table and eating his soup. “Seems like we’ve had this discussion before under similar circumstances.”

  Jerry lamented, “Yeah, but then we had a car as a way out. We’re on foot now.”

  “All the more reason that we put together a plan before we get found out,” Neil said.

  Chapter 44

  Meghan rose earlier than anyone else. She rolled away from Neil’s arms and stood quietly, hoping not to disturb any of the others sleeping nearby, and wandered out onto the back deck into the cool morning air.

  Once outside, she found that she had risen before the sun. To the east, above the silent, hulking Chugach Range, the smoldering embers of the waking sun were just starting to cast a grayish purple glow behind the peaks. Like paint spilled on the canvas of the sky, the dull luminescence gradually spread itself up and out, crowding the dark purple bruise of the night out of reach.

  “Beautiful,” she whispered.

  The voice behind asking, “What was that?” caused her to jump a little. Art smiled and asked again, “What’d you say?”

  Meghan turned back to continue watching the growing hints of dawn and replied, “I said that, despite all that’s happened and all we’ve lost, something as beautiful as this could still happen. If the sun keeps coming back day after day, then maybe there’s a chance for all of us.”

  “Unless the sun just doesn’t care or maybe it’s just doing it out of habit–doesn’t know any better and so just keeps doing its job day in and day out. I’ve known lots of people who did that in the past.” Sensing that perhaps he was causing her to withdraw, Art corrected course. “I think I like your take on it better. It’s more poetic and hopeful, both things that I’ve come to admire about you.”

  Still standing behind her, he placed his hand on her shoulder and rubbed it gently. When she didn’t stop him or recoil from his touch, he let his other hand move to her other shoulder. He then proceeded to massage her shoulders, neck, and upper back in wide, searching circles.

  Still looking away from him at the mountains, Meghan asked, “If we’re all gone and there are none of us left to see it, will sunrises still be as beautiful?”

  “Of course they will be.”

  She turned suddenly and looked at him with her piercing blue eyes. “How? If there’s no one here to see, then how? And why? What would it matter if the sun never showed its face again and everything around us simply withered and died and the earth just became a lifeless rock like the moon?” She shook her head and held back the tears, though the sorrow was finding it easy to stamp itself across her face. “I’m sorry. I guess I was lost in the moment. I...”

  Art cut her off by kissing her fully on the mouth. At first, she didn’t do anything but accept his mouth against hers. He was warm against the still cool air of the morning. Not seconds later, she pushed him away and moved to the other side of the deck. She didn’t speak or even look at him.

  He whispered, “Sorry. I just...I guess I...sorry.”

  Sti
ll not looking at him she said, “It’s okay. I guess I was sending out some confusing messages wasn’t I? It’s just that in the past few weeks, I’ve...we’ve been through an awful lot and I guess I’m as mixed up as I’ve ever been.”

  “You don’t have to apologize. I probably stepped over the line.”

  “No you didn’t. It’s just better that it doesn’t go any further than that. Okay?”

  “I’ll do my best but I can’t promise anything. You’re just special to me and sometimes it’s hard not to express it. Can this be our little secret?”

  “Yeah. In fact, it’s probably better that this just stays between the two of us.”

  “Can’t argue with that.”

  With that said, Meghan went back inside to find something to satisfy the growing hunger building in her stomach, leaving Art on the deck to himself.

  When he was alone, he couldn’t help but smile. He did like Meghan and hoped that, perhaps when all of this was over, somehow they would find a way to be together. If it worked out that way, he wouldn’t complain a bit. She was lovely in both appearance and spirit, but the reality was that there were hundreds, thousands, and maybe even more women who fit that description. If it didn’t work out with Meghan in the end, he was certain that he could find someone. For the time being though, he was pretty sure that he could count on her to be a friendly voice for him when he couldn’t be there to represent himself in discussions.

  Chapter 45

  Still no sleep. Can’t. He won’t let me. No peace. Only rage; only fear. Why does he hate me? Why won’t he let me sleep? I’m his son. Pain in my stomach. Is that him? Is he there cutting me from within? Have to stop it. Have to stop him. Need peace. Need sleep.

  Mother, where are you? Why don’t you protect your little Malachi from him anymore? Where have you gone? Am I forsaken? Have you turned your back on me for good? Have I not paid for my sins? Is there no redemption?

  God, help me. Give me strength. I don’t think I can do this anymore; not alone. Give me a sign. Show me the way. Is it blood you want? Please. Storm is rising, threatening. No end in sight. No rest. No hope. Can’t keep this up. Won’t keep this up.

  If I’m to go to Hell, he’s coming with me....

  Chapter 46

  Art and Dave wandered away from the others, who were distracting themselves in the fenced back yard and enjoying a brief respite from the damp autumn weather. Seeking privacy from prying eyes and listening ears, the two men stepped inside the back door that led into the garage.

  “There’s more talk about moving on again,” Dave said. “What are we gonna do about it? It just doesn’t make sense to me that we’d leave this place only to go searching for another.”

  “Who’s talking about leaving?”

  “The three guys who are always talking about what the rest of us are going to do. Who do you think?”

  “When? Did they bring it up with you?”

  Dave shot Art an incredulous look and wrinkled his brow with doubt. “No. D’you think they’d actually involve me? Those guys would no more have me around when they talk as they would you. It’s definitely us and them, even if they don’t know it yet. And right now, they’re in charge and I don’t see how we are going to change that. I mean, what happens to all of us if they’re wrong and we leave anyway. What are we going to do?”

  Art paused and peered out the window at the group in the yard. The little boy and girl were chasing each other around while the adults watched. Emma and Meghan were sharing a bottle of water. Art was pleased to see that Meghan wasn’t standing in Neil’s shadow as she normally was. Maybe she was re-evaluating the nature of their relationship, especially in consideration of how it affected Art’s relationship with her. Because they shared a secret now, he felt like he held some sway over her.

  He asked Dave, “Why does gold have value?”

  Confused and doubting whether he heard it correctly or not, Dave asked, “Why does what have what?”

  “...gold have value?”

  “I would typically bite and ask why but what does the question have to do with anything?”

  “It’s not that profound really. Gold has value because people have arbitrarily assigned value to it. I think there might be valuations that cause the value to fluctuate from time to time, but really that just determines the degree of value at the moment.

  “Some time long ago, probably before recorded history, some guy had this rock with a little bit of sparkle to it that he cleaned up, heated in his fire, banged into shape with another rock, and then rubbed and polished to a shimmer. Someone else saw his shiny, shaped rock and decided they wanted one too. And then the guy who found that first hunk and knew where more of it could be had became the first gold merchant.

  “It’s a soft metal that is easy to shape and never rusts or tarnishes. But really that’s about all gold has to offer.”

  Dave laughed a humorless hack of a chuckle. Shaking his head and starting to question his own judgment in people, he asked, “Is there any other worthless information you’d like to pass along?”

  “You’re missing my point.”

  “Apparently.”

  Still looking out the window on the door, Art said, “The only reason Neil and his co-stooges are in charge is because the others have let them be. We just have to offer a better alternative. You know, give ‘em platinum when the other guy offers gold. At least make them feel like you’ve got platinum, whether you’ve got it or not.”

  “So what’re you gonna do?”

  Art shushed him and looked into the darker corners of the garage. “I think there’s someone there,” he whispered.

  “Who?”

  Not seeing anything specific but feeling less than alone, Art said, “Probably that crazy fucking cop.”

  In the garage’s darkest corner, furthest from the slither of light fighting desperately for its shrinking foothold on the wall, Officer Malachi Ivanoff was rousing from a senseless stupor; or, more to the point, he was shifting from one flavor of senseless stupor to another.

  He looked up and saw, just inside the door, a pair of glowing wraiths clacking their fangs together as they whispered curses between one another. Their bottom thirds shrouded in shadows, the menacing figures seemed to float like bad dreams waiting to pounce on their hapless victim. He immediately knew that his father had sent them. He’d sent them for him, and they were conspiring and deciding how best to steal his soul and flee back to the dark pit with him in tow.

  He tried to shrink himself into the same tiny ball that he became when he was a little boy and wanted to be unnoticed or forgotten. Sometimes it worked well enough that he wouldn’t get new bruises to cover those that he’d received the day previous.

  It didn’t work this time, though, because when he tried, the glimmering translucent spirits heard him. He stood as still as he could, but they looked right at him, right through him. Like electrified, milky white opals, the beings’ eyes cast about in the darkness fixing on him with predatory intent. One of the spirits barked some curse at Malachi in his demon tongue, the voice cold and poisonous.

  Malachi bowed his head and held his breath. In a fleeting lucid moment, he doubted that any of it could be real. He tried to convince himself that there was no such thing as monsters but that conventional wisdom and the past reassurances of his mother were both nullified by the monstrous terror that lurked and waited for them all throughout Anchorage. Still, those creatures who had hunted them incessantly for weeks now, those zombies, were once men and women but had been driven to their current state by an infection.

  Were there monsters now? That question, that doubt, melted away the last vestiges of his tenuous hold on reality. When he looked back up, he clearly saw monsters. They were two phantoms that had emerged from the depths of Hell to perform his father’s bidding.

  His eyes adjusting to the scant light, Art thought he could make out the shape of someone sitting in the corner but he wasn’t entirely sure who it was. He asked into the darknes
s, “Malachi, is that you?” There was no response but he did think that he could hear breathing. The hair on the back of his neck and arms stood on end. To Dave he said, “I think we need to get out of here and carry on somewhere else.”

  Dave asked, “D’you think he heard us?”

  Art shook his head and said dismissively, “Who the Hell’s going to listen to him anyway? He’s off his nut.”

  Dave agreed and turned to make his way out behind Art, but in doing so he nudged a pile of cans stacked atop a couple of boxes and the whole heap tumbled down with a crash.

  On the heels of the ruckus, the deafening, echoing, raging reports from Malachi’s sidearm caused both men to jump. The first couple of shots went wild, but then the police officer’s aim found its mark. Dave screamed as bullets struck him in the chest, shoulder, and neck. He was flung lifelessly against the garage wall, and then crashed to the floor violently.

  Malachi didn’t stop shooting. He continued to fire his pistol until there were no more bullets to shoot. After he’d pulled his trigger a handful of times with no result, he returned the handgun to his holster and waited for a second. The stillness was surprising; the smoke from the discharged bullets forming a lingering, nose-stinging cloud.

  They were men and not specters as he had thought. And now those men were on the floor in spreading pools of thick crimson that were seeping from their bodies. At once, Malachi knew what he’d done. He’d broken a cardinal sin of both his faith and his profession. He’d killed in cold blood. He’d taken lives that were not his for the taking. He also knew that his shooting would likely draw the attention of the creatures from which they were all hiding. He’d endangered all of them.

  With his mind still taunting him, he ran through the house, found one of the new M4 assault rifles, and then bolted out the front door.

  Everyone else, still in the backyard but now planted firmly on their faces following the sounds of gunshots from the garage, heard Malachi run down the street yelling at the top of his voice. He wasn’t making any sense, just noise. His voice became fainter and fainter as the distance grew. Shortly thereafter, his voice was replaced with the rat-a-tat of the M4. Even the gunshots, however, seemed to be coming from farther and farther away with each passing breath.