Upright Beasts

by Lincoln Michel

  Tracy climbed down the ladder and went inside. Byrd was rubbing sunscreen up and down his arms.

  “Tim and I can take care of him later. It’ll be a bonding experience.” Byrd swung an arm around Tim’s neck and gave him a noogie.

  Charlotte came out of the bathroom in a neon-green bikini with Band-Aids on her shoulder. “I thought we could take a dip in the lake. It’s more like a pond I guess, but it has a zip line my dad strung up when we were kids. I know, I know. Hashtag tomboy, hashtag redneck. It’s fun though!”

  “That sounds nice,” Tracy said uneasily.

  “I was hoping to get some work done,” Tim said. Tim had been insisting on working on his novel, or pretending to as far as Tracy could tell, even on vacation.

  “Work in the shade, dummy,” Byrd said.

  Charlotte picked at her shoulder. “That asshole’s fingers were disgusting. I’d like to think that even if I was undead, I’d practice some basic hygiene.”

  Tracy and Charlotte raced across the pond and pulled themselves onto the far dock.

  “I’m going to get a little sun on my boobs now that we’re away from those awful boys.” Charlotte arched her back to slide off her top.

  Tracy looked out the side of her eyes. Charlotte’s nipples were red and enormous. Tracy wondered if babies had nipple preferences. If she ever decided to have a baby, would it find her nipples too small to suckle?

  The sun was making Tracy sleepy. Bloated white clouds lumbered about overhead.

  “I’d love to just live out here in nature, surrounded by trees and birds,” Charlotte sighed.

  “Why not do it?” Tracy said. “I’m glad my parents raised me with woods around.”

  Charlotte sat up. “Oh, I meant, like, rhetorically. I’m not raising my kid away from civilization to be a cultureless hillbilly. No offense.”

  Across the pond, Byrd and Tim were tossing a football around. Back in high school, Byrd had been the star quarterback, Charlotte was a cheerleader, and Tim had been the second-string punter—at least until he injured his knee junior year. Tracy didn’t join the group until she started dating Tim in college, and she still felt like something of an outsider.

  Charlotte drummed her belly and hummed a Beyoncé song. Tracy closed her eyes and tried to imagine the warmth of the sun sinking through her skin and cooking her evenly all the way through.

  “I think the goal of life is more life,” Charlotte said suddenly and philosophically. “When are you and Tim going to get started on that?”

  “We haven’t really talked about it.” Tracy had always been told you would see anything you were thinking about in the clouds, but none of them looked like babies just then.

  “When our mothers were young, you could just pop them out whenever. But with the cost of help and private schools, you really have to plan these days.” Charlotte rolled over onto her stomach. Her scratched-up shoulder was a few inches from Tracy’s face. Most of the Band-Aids had fallen off in the water. There was a shiny yellow sheen developing over the wound. A small dragonfly alighted on it, and Tracy shooed it away.

  “Ah, listen to me,” Charlotte said. “If I turn into one of those mommy bloggers who always blabbers mindlessly about her kid, promise me you’ll shoot me in the face.”

  “Should I bring a knife or something?”

  “This baby ought to do her,” Byrd said, patting the shotgun.

  They waved good-bye to Tracy and Charlotte, who were sipping margaritas—one virgin, one double tequila—out of jam jars on the porch.

  “You boys be careful,” Charlotte said.

  “If that tequila’s gone when we get back, I’m going to be pissed,” Byrd said with a smile.

  The road to the cabin was made of dusty gravel, and their feet crunched as they walked along. The sun was dipping behind the blue mountains, and nighttime creatures were awaking with chirps and growls. It was a little chilly, and Tim wished he had brought a jacket.

  “This reminds me of the first time my dad took me hunting,” Byrd said. “He didn’t even tell me ahead of time, just woke me up at night and handed me face paint. I think I was eight years old. It was goose season. When we fired on them, hundreds flew into the air, and their wings and squawks were so loud I was too scared to be excited. In fact, I think I peed a little in my camo pants.” Byrd swung the shotgun around in front of him. “Still, there’s something about that first kill.”

  “I never went hunting,” Tim said.

  “Oh, right. I always forget your mother’s a vegetarian.”

  “Vegan. But sometimes at the beach my father would secretly give me a crab hook. I tried to cook one with a lighter and threw up all over the pier. I guess that’s pretty similar.”

  “Not at all, bro. Crabs don’t scream.”

  They were coming around the bend near the old barn. Tim could hear a resigned groan above the crickets and hoots of owls. Byrd placed the shotgun gently in Tim’s hands. “Here,” he said in a fatherly tone. “I want you to do it.”

  Tim’s father had managed a hedge fund and never understood Tim’s love of sports. “Son,” he’d said once, “you’re in your prime education-maximizing period. What’s your ROI if you get injured?” When Tim did get injured, snapping his ACL like an old rubber band, his father brought a stack of investment guides to his hospital bed.

  Byrd and Tim walked off the road and onto the dirt path that led around the barn. Only the very last curve of the sun was left above the hills. Tim was surprised at how heavy a shotgun could be. He saw a pale bluish head rocking back and forth beyond the bushes. The man was standing in a pile of rotted firewood and barbed wire that he must have wrapped himself in trying to escape. His eyes were so sunken we could barely see them.

  “He looks kind of sad,” Tim said. “Maybe we should try to help him?”

  “You can’t help anyone who doesn’t want to help themselves, especially when their brain has been eaten away by an undead plague.”

  As they came closer, the man started shaking. His jaw was unhinged, and a frothy yellow liquid dripped down his chin. He stretched one arm toward them. Flaps of skin were hanging off of it and shaking slightly in the wind.

  “You have the safety on.” Byrd reached over and pushed a button on the side of the gun.

  The only time Tim had ever used a gun was at summer camp, and that was a .22 and soda cans. He pushed the butt into his shoulder like his counselor had taught him and squeezed the trigger.

  The dead man’s hand transformed into red confetti, and a large hole appeared in his upper chest. The shotgun popped out of Tim’s hands.

  “The brain!” Byrd yelled. Flecks of blood and blue skin covered his whole body. “You were supposed to shoot him in the fucking brain!”

  The man was spinning now, digging himself deeper into the wires, one arm flapping around like a tetherball.

  “Sorry, I told you I’ve never done this before.”

  Byrd bent down and picked up the shotgun. “Hey,” he said. “Sorry I yelled. It’s just that Charlotte bought me this polo for my birthday, and she already complains I don’t wear it enough.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Nah, forget it. I’m just tense with the baby and everything.” Byrd took the gun and fired the other shell into the head, which erupted backwards against the barn. “Let’s go wash up and watch a movie with the gals.”

  Byrd and Charlotte were getting married in November, a few months before the baby was due. Byrd had borrowed enough money from his parents to buy a ring with two silver dolphins twirling around a giant diamond. Charlotte had always loved dolphins and had two of them leaping over a heart tattooed on her left thigh. Everyone knew Byrd and Charlotte were bound to tie the knot one of these days; the baby had only sped things up.

  Tim wondered what it meant that he and Tracy were out here celebrating Charlotte and Byrd’s baby and wedding. Did Byrd and Charlotte think they should get married too? Tim and Tracy had been dating for three years, but somehow marriage seemed like a
stopping point. Tracy was still in law school, and Tim was draining his trust fund trying to finish his novel.

  And what did Tracy think? Tim never knew anymore. They still had fun in public, but when their apartment door closed, it was nothing but fights or silence. Sometimes he got so angry he just wanted to scream at her. It felt like the two of them were just stumbling along, unsure of where they were going or why.

  “Well, shit. Would you look at that?”

  The four friends were eating penne arrabbiata on the porch. They all looked where Byrd was pointing. Out beyond the small vegetable garden, they saw a hunched-over man. He knocked over the chicken wire fence and slowly trudged through the small garden, emerging with tomato vines wrapped around his right leg.

  “What the hell?” Byrd said with a mouth half-full of noodles. “Those were heirloom.”

  “Get inside!” Tracy yelled, jumping out of her seat.

  “Hold on a sec,” Byrd said. “We shouldn’t have to have our meal ruined just because he failed to stay alive.”

  The man didn’t seem to be paying any attention to his surroundings. He was moving in a general direction, but constantly bumping into the sides of trees, chairs, and other objects in the yard. He gave a loud groan, righted himself, and moved onward.

  “Look, he’s not even coming at us.”

  Indeed, the man’s trajectory was past the house on the other side from the porch. The sight of him made Tracy shudder. His skin was purple in the evening light. There were small red marks all over his legs, as if he’d been nipped by squirrels.

  “Do you need any help?” Tracy called out.

  The man didn’t seem to register her words and stumbled out of view in his slow, sad gait.

  The friends sat quietly for a bit, then resumed eating their food. Merle Haggard was playing on the portable speakers. Byrd screwed open another bottle of wine.

  “I’d like to propose a toast,” Byrd said. “To good friends, good eating, and no clients boring us with all their problems.”

  “Amen to that,” Tracy said.

  “And to the two of you,” Tim said. “Soon to be three!” Charlotte didn’t say anything. She was slouched in her chair with sweat staining the upper half of her yellow blouse. Tracy thought she looked drunk, even though she hadn’t had any wine.

  “Do you need some water, Charlotte?” Tracy said.

  Charlotte leaned forward and vomited blood across the picnic table.

  Over the next few days they saw five more of them. They seemed like they had been normal people before the disease. Some had glasses and sun hats on. One was only a little kid, who kept bumping into the sliding glass doors of the porch. Tracy swatted at his face with a broom until he moved off through the woods. Another got her hand stuck in the crook of a split tree trunk and stayed there all evening, groaning. In the morning, Tim found a torn-off hand covered in ants.

  Other than that, the undead just slowly walked on through. They didn’t seem to have any place in particular to get to, but they were getting there nonetheless.

  “We have to call a hospital, Byrd!” Tracy said. She was standing outside of Byrd and Charlotte’s room. Tim was sitting on the couch, Googling information on zombism. He found a long list of symptoms on WebMD, but the treatments were all unsubstantiated or involved decapitation.

  “Goddamnit, I said I’m taking care of it.”

  Loud thumps came from the room. Tracy frowned at Tim. The disease was spreading exponentially, and the whole state was overwhelmed. Even if the police came, Tim thought they’d probably just shoot Charlotte from the passenger window and drive off again.

  A few minutes later, Byrd slid out of the bedroom door. He locked it behind him.

  “Okay, under control,” Byrd said. He gave Tracy and Tim a thin smile. His clothes were disheveled and his hair was matted with gray goo. “Hey, what do you guys want to do? Take a hike or a swim maybe?”

  “I think we need to deal with this situation,” Tracy said.

  “I’m not going to be micromanaged on this, Tracy.”

  “Well, I think we should have a vote. Right, Tim?”

  Byrd punched the wall several times.

  “God fucking Christ shit!” he said. “She’s tied up to the damn support beam! She isn’t going anywhere. We are not taking a vote on whether Charlotte’s head gets blown off or not!”

  Tim was worried about Tracy. Byrd marched around the house like nothing was going on, but Tracy barely left the guest room. When she did, it was with a kitchen knife and wild eyes. At night, they could hear moans from the room next-door. Tracy would cry, and Tim didn’t know what to do. She would grab him and kiss him and force him quickly inside her before he was even hard, crying the whole time.

  Tracy tiptoed back into the room.

  “Grab your bag and let’s go!” she whispered.

  “Huh?” Tim said, slowly opening his eyes. “I thought we were leaving on Saturday?”

  “I stole Byrd’s car keys. Do you want to get out of this death trap or not?”

  Tim was sitting up now. He scratched his head and walked into the bathroom to urinate. “How will we get Charlotte in the car?” he said.

  “That thing isn’t Charlotte, and we aren’t bringing it.”

  “But she’s your BFF.”

  Tracy had to keep shushing Tim as they walked through the house.

  “Huffington Post said it was safer in remote locations.”

  “Not if your remote location already has one growling in the bedroom next to yours!”

  Tracy drove slowly up the road, hoping not to wake Byrd.

  Tim reached over and fiddled with the radio. The only station that came on had a Christian preacher singing a hymn about the end times. Tracy pushed the rubber power button off.

  The top of the driveway was blocked by a car crash.

  “There’s got to be a way around it,” Tracy said. She turned on the high beams to get a better look. That’s when she noticed the bodies in the car. She turned the headlights off. She started to cry, and after a minute, Tim put a hand on her neck and rubbed the soft hairs there. He stopped when he heard a dog barking.

  “Oh my god, there’s a dog trapped in there.”

  “Can dogs be zombies?” Tim said. He started to open the passenger door. The dog’s barks got louder. They heard the sound of an oncoming car and loud whoops.

  “What the hell is going on anymore?” Tracy said.

  There were two loud blasts from sawed-off shotguns as a group of screaming men in hunting gear drove by. The bodies in the car started to thrash around. They seemed to be trapped in their seat belts.

  “One more pass, boys!”

  The tires screeched and roared by as three men braced in the back of a pickup truck let loose another volley of gunfire. All of the windows of the crashed cars erupted, and something soft and wet landed on the windshield of Byrd’s car.

  “Holy shit!” Tim said.

  Tracy watched as the right side of the dog’s face slid down the windshield, one large eye seeming to scan the length of her body.

  She put the car in reverse and backed down the driveway.

  The internet went down and three days later the TV. The landline had been giving them nothing but a monotone beep for over a week. Tracy took the radio into her and Tim’s room and listened to it every night for news. Mostly they got static, but every two hours the hiss would dry up for one of two prerecorded announcements. The first urged calm and recommended various home treatments if licensed medical practitioners could not be reached. The second message urged calm and two bullets from no farther than twenty feet away to any victim’s cerebral cortex.

  Tim stumbled on Byrd in the hammock by the woodshed. He was swinging sadly with one foot on the ground.

  “I thought there might be some canned goods in the shed.”

  “This was the first place.” Byrd sniffled. He moved his legs for Tim to sit down.

  “What?” Tim said.

  “Sophomore year, when
we all came up here for spring break instead of going to Florida with everyone else. When you guys were watching old slasher movies, Charlotte and I sneaked out here and drank a bottle of Ketel One. When she pulled her shirt off, her breasts looked like . . . Christ. What the fuck are we going to do, man?”

  They sat there swinging. Even though he was a writer, or trying to be, Tim didn’t know what to say. He tried to think about what his coach would tell them after a big loss. “Sometimes things look bad, and they might even be bad, but the important thing is to pick yourself up and get ready for the next play that life throws at you,” he said.

  Byrd cocked his head at Tim. The wind was warm and rattled the ripe leaves above their heads. In the distance, something moaned.

  “What in the shit fuck does that mean?”

  “Hi, Tracy.”

  “Oh god!” Tracy jumped back against the laundry machine. She had been searching for a flashlight since the power had blinked off that morning.

  “Do you ever wonder what love is?” Byrd said. He had dark bags under his eyes, and his clothes were dirty and filled with rips and holes.

  “I have a knife,” Tracy said.

  “Is love doing whatever you can do to synergize with someone? Is it giving up your own self to be what they need you to be?” Byrd was looking past Tracy at the rows of chemicals and tools. His shoulders were slumped, and he scratched at his neck with one long fingernail. “Coach always said love was sacrifice. He was talking about football, but is it the same thing with people?”

  Tracy felt the terrible sadness that had been living in her for weeks rise up into her face. “I don’t know, Byrd,” she said. “I don’t know anything anymore.”

  Byrd jiggled the doorknob and shouted, “Hey, the door is locked.”

  Tim opened the door, then sat back on the bed with Tracy.

  Byrd was wearing a dress shirt and a tie, and his blond hair was greased up and combed back. He looked as if he hadn’t slept in days. His skin was covered in scabs.