by Mark Tufo
“Kind of like the bells of Notre Dame.”
“Are you giving me shit, Gary?” I honestly asked because he was so dry in his delivery, I couldn’t tell. He shook his head vigorously. “But yeah, it kinda was like those bells, my head was splitting, my vision was blurry, I had to piss like a race horse, and my stomach felt like I had drunk a pint of bacon grease after eating chili dogs.”
“That doesn’t sound too good, Mike.” Gary said, starting to look a little green-tinged.
“Sorry, brother.” I had to remember Gary did not have the strongest stomach.
Go on, he motioned with one hand; he kept the other up close to his mouth.
So I ripped the door open, my gaze downward, expecting to yell at some little puissant about bothering grown-ups on their day off. What I got instead were two women and one man.”
“Were they selling vacuums?”
“What? What the hell would make you ask that?”
“I once bought a vacuum cleaner from a door-to-door salesman, one of the best vacuums I ever bought.”
“It wasn’t vacuums. Can I finish my story?” I asked him. But I think I had lost him for a few beats as he thought about his domicile super sucker. “So there they are at my door and this lady with a far-off stare and wild hair starts spouting about how I can survive the end of the world.”
“Did you listen? That sounds like some pretty good advice,” Gary said, coming back from the reverie of his vacuum experience.
“Who knew Jehovah Witnesses were so prophetic?” I said more as a statement.
“Jehovah’s? They’re like bedbugs--once you let them in your house, they’re damn near impossible to get rid of.”
“You sound like you’ve had personal experience.”
“I invited them in for coffee.”
“What the hell were you thinking? You just wanted to show them your new vacuum, I bet.” Gary bent his head slightly like I had hit the nail on the head. “How did you get rid of them?”
“It was getting late and one of them had to get ready for bed,” Gary replied.
“How long were they there?”
“Not very,” he said, avoiding the question.
“What does that mean exactly?”
“Fine, Mike,” Gary said, getting a little hostile. “They were there for close to twelve hours! I couldn’t get them to leave, I even started vacuuming so I didn’t have to hear them proselytizing. Did it for so damn long, I thought my arm was going to fall off.”
“Well, at least your carpet was clean.” What the hell else could I say?
“It was horrible,” Gary rued.
“Well, then maybe you’ll appreciate my story. I had no sooner opened the door when crazy lady number one started her spiel, then the second one tried to hand me a Watchtower. If I had had the presence of mind and knew who was at the door, I would have brought a lighter and burned the pamphlet as she held it. I started yelling at them, saying, ‘I’m an atheist! Do you want to talk about life free from religion?!’ They started to back up. I think the first lady might have actually even begun to cry a little bit, but what really put me on their ‘Do not solicit’ list was, as they were trying their best to get the hell out of there, I came out of my house and got all up in the man’s face. Reeking of booze, I screamed. ‘I’m one of the four horsemen, motherfucker! And if you don’t get the hell out of here, I’m going to ‘rapture’ your ass!’ They started screaming, running as fast as they could to their Ford Taurus.”
“Wow! Maybe you’d better hope the Big Man doesn’t favor their religion over every other, or you are screwed! And what’s with the Ford Taurus? Is that somehow relevant?”
“Not really. I just think that car is the preferred vehicle of religious zealots everywhere.”
“Mike, I’m kind of surprised you didn’t have a cabin in upstate Montana, all by yourself.”
“Would have, if I could have afforded it.” I stood up, feeling marginally better. I didn’t think God had anything specifically out against me, just mankind in general. Way better. Misery loves company.
Paul and BT were coming out of the house with a small cache of weapons. The pistol from the father’s hand was noticeably missing, which was fine with me. There was the 30-30 rifle with a beautiful Leopold scope, another damn .22 and a shotgun. My eyes grew wide, looking at the beauty.
“Twenty gauge,” BT said, deflating my spirits.
Twenty gauges were a blast to shoot, but anything bigger than a turkey and you’d have to be a foot away to kill it. Might as well be swinging a machete at that point.
“Damn, I was hoping for a little more,” I said, picking up the 30-30.
“There’s another room upstairs we didn’t check,” BT said.
“Master bedroom, most likely,” Paul added.
“You two both know there’d probably be more guns there, right?” I asked. BT and Paul shared a knowing glance. Of friggin’ course, they knew that. “Someone’s in the room?”
BT nodded. “My guess would be the mother.”
“Yeah? Why would this nightmare have any other kind of conclusion? I’m going in.”
“Why?” Gary asked me.
“This family deserves to be together.”
“You need a wingman?” BT asked.
“If I’m not out on my own in five, could you maybe pull me out? And I’ll take a bottle of Prozac, if you come across any,” I said, trying for levity. I think it came out more like a grumble mixed with a dose of grim determination.
“This isn’t necessary,” Paul said.
“You’re probably right, but if that zombie upstairs is somehow still holding onto a soul, I’d like to think that I’m putting her to peace and they can finally all be together.”
“Aren’t they already dead?” Gary asked. “They’re souls should already be gone.”
“I’m not dead,” I told Gary. He looked like he just swallowed a grapefruit. “Relax brother, I’m not mad. You would think not having a soul would be liberating,” I said. “I mean free from guilt, what more could a Catholic boy ask for?”
“I would appreciate you not talking like that,” Gary said, truly hurt.
“I’m the walking abomination, Gary. I’ll talk any goddamn way I want to!” I yelled at him.
“That ought to get you in his good graces,” he retorted hotly.
“My bad. Probably not going to make it through the pearly gates now!”
“I’ll send you to a neutral corner, Talbot, if you don’t shut the hell up. We all know this is a bad situation. You’re just making it worse!” BT yelled.
“Which Talbot are you talking about?” Gary asked as an aside.
“The other Talbot-hole!”
“That’s what I thought because he really kind of started it,” Gary said.
“Gary!” BT shouted, “You’re not making this any better either! You do realize you’re his older brother.”
“I’m good, I’m sorry,” Gary said, composing himself better and quicker than I was able to.
I had left the scene completely to go back into the house. BT or Paul had pulled the father totally into the crib room and shut the door. One more nightmare locked away tight. I looked up the staircase, wondering if salvation might lay up there. I had my doubts. All this talk of lost souls had me thinking as I ascended, about all those people that believed in past lives. Why would God reassign souls? Was there a finite number? But that would only make sense if there was a set number of people on the planet. There were way more people alive in 2010 than in say, Biblical times. And would God go green? I mean with the whole recycling thing? It just didn’t make much sense. To believe in reincarnation, you would have to accept one of two things: either only certain people got to get “used” souls or the vast majority of us running around didn’t have one. Or maybe there was a third alternative. Maybe the finite number of existing souls was divisible. That could explain why the whole world had become so corrupt and evil. As more of us were born, we each got less and less of
God’s essence.
Maybe this whole damn zombie-pocalypse was just a way for God to collect back his broken pieces to finally make them whole, something Humpty had never been able to accomplish. But if that were the case, wouldn’t those of us still around be feeling “wholer” or “holier”? How many soulless people had I come across since this all happened? How could anyone with any allegiance to the Big Man align himself with Eliza? The new root of all evil. My thoughts were flawed…Well, there’s something new and unusual. I was at the top of the stairs and I couldn’t even begin to remember how I got here.
The master bedroom was at the end of a hallway that wasn’t nearly long enough. I figured it was where I wanted to go because of the three doors up here, it was the only one not open.
I took a deep breath, and before I could engage my legs into moving, I heard Gary down at the bottom of the stairs.
“Wait, brother. I’ll come with you,” he said, taking the stairs two at a time.
I thanked him. This might singularly be the most difficult thing my brother had done to date and he was doing it for me.
“What are you waiting for?” he asked. “I said I’d come; I didn’t say I’d lead.”
I snorted, it was a little undignified, but he let it lapse. I could see the shadow play of someone moving in the gap between the door and the floor. Back and forth it moved rhythmically, at least it wasn’t banging up against the door, but we’d learn why in a few more seconds.
I slowly turned the doorknob. Gary’s rifle barrel was over my shoulder. At least, it was my right shoulder so I wouldn’t get hot brass in the face. As I pushed the door in, we both took a step backwards, weapons at the ready. We could hear groaning and moaning and the stink was excruciating, but there was no onward rush of zombies. The door stopped its inward movement about halfway through its cycle.
“I thought you were like super strong now?” Gary asked.
“You’re really giving me shit right now?”
He pushed his rifle past my head so that the barrel could be used to open the door the rest of the way.
Mrs. Dead Husband was straining against bonds Mr. Dead Husband must have put in place before he opted out. She was tied to the foot of her bed, which looked to be made of some stout oak. At least, we knew why she wasn’t eating us yet. Her hands were almost touching behind her back, she was pulling so tight on her bindings.
“Are those pantyhose tied to her?” Gary asked. “Didn’t know the things were so strong.”
Her head, which had been resting on her chest as she swayed back and forth, popped up much like her infant’s had. Her eyes almost had an intelligence to them. They looked predatory, not the mindless glaze of the undead. Her mouth gnashed in anguish at a food that was so close; the similarities to her baby were striking.
And then I crossed the bridge into insanity or at least my world had.
“Do me a wrong, you bringer of evil.”
Gary’s rifle erupted, but still the zombie’s words echoed in my head even as she dropped to the ground, dead.
“Did you hear that, Gary?” I fairly cried.
“Don’t know how I would have missed it. Even a .22 is pretty loud in a small room like this,” Gary shouted over the ringing in both of our ears.
“Not the shot, the zombie.”
“What about it?” Gary asked.
“She spoke.”
“No, she didn’t.”
“She did, as clear as you and I are talking.”
“Mike, I wouldn’t screw with you on this. She said nothing and then I blew her head off. What do you think she said?”
My thoughts were in a tailspin. I’ve always felt that I was a pace or two closer to the edge than most, but at least, I could usually recognize the precipice and step back at the appropriate time. Seems like I misjudged and slipped completely over. “She…I mean it said something like ‘Do wrong, you bringer of evil.’”
Gary had to step out of the room apparently to gather enough clean air to fuel his laughter.
“What the fuck is so funny!?” I yelled, following him out.
“You’re telling me that zombie was quoting a Black Sabbath tune? I find that to be funny as hell.”
“What?”
“That line, ‘Sing me a song you’re a singer. Do me a wrong, you’re a bringer of evil.’ That’s from Black Sabbath, I mean not the Ozzy-led band, but the Ronnie James Dio version. Still an awesome song though.”
“Gary, she spoke to me,” I said. Gary looked like he was about to brush me off. “So did the baby.” That got his attention.
“Part of the new and improved Mike?” he asked.
“I’ve got to believe when those psychics talked about communing with the dead, this wasn’t what they were talking about.”
“No wonder why Eliza is so pissed all the time,” Gary said, reflecting.
“That doesn’t really help.”
Gary gathered himself and walked back into the room. “I know, let’s see if this little trip was worth it.” Gary gave a wide berth to Mrs. Dead Husband and went into the huge walk-in closet. “There’s a safe!” Gary said, sticking his head back out.
“Great, maybe we’ll see who he willed his gold watch to,” I said, looking at the zombie’s feet, which were still twitching. It was creeping the hell out of me, but at least she wasn’t wishing she had some Dr. Scholl’s or something.
“Gun safe, Mike.” Gary said as if I were Gary Busey. Does that need any further explanation?
“I know, brother, I’m looking at it too.”
BT and Paul had come up the stairs after hearing the rifle shot.
“What’s going on?” BT asked, stepping past the dead zombie and further into the room.
“She was…” I started, but Gary cut me off.
“Found a safe!” he said louder than he needed to.
“How big?” Paul asked from the doorway of the now crowded room; especially since none of us wanted to be any closer to Twitchy than we had to be.
“I never noticed them twitching so much. Do they always do this?” BT asked, looking down at her legs.
“It’s not like we usually hang around to find out, but I don’t think so,” I said.
“Do you notice something strange about her head?” Paul asked, leaning a little over the body.
“Besides having a bullet in it?” came BT’s wise-ass remark.
Paul was leaning a little closer.
This seemed like one of those moments in a horror movie where something jumps out of somewhere and scares the hell out of all the watchers.
“Something’s wrong, man, don’t get any closer,” I told Paul.
He looked at me questioningly, but he did as I said. “Wait a second. I’ll show you.” Paul rooted around in the nightstand until he found something he could use. Ended up being a wooden ruler.
“You going all Catholic nun on us.?” Gary asked from the entrance to the closet. “You guys heard that I found a gun safe, right?”
“Two seconds,” Paul said handing his small rifle to BT. He straddled the dead zombie and extended his hand with the ruler as close as he dared. “Gut check time,” he mouthed, unwilling to suck up any air through his mouth. He moved a five-inch section of hair still attached to the shattered skull underneath. It slapped wetly against the top of her head as he turned it over.
“That’s gross Paul, is there a point to this?” BT asked.
“Look at how thick her skull is. I’m not one hundred percent sure, but I think the average skull is about a quarter-inch thick. Hers is at least double that.”
“Can they thicken their skulls?” BT asked, turning to me in alarm.
“Oh yeah, good first choice, BT, I’m the one with all the answers,” I told him.
“I don’t think she’s dead,” Paul said. “Damaged, for sure, but not dead. I think by the time the bullet got through this thick-ass skull, it ran out of steam.”
“I hate to get all obvious,” I said, donning my captain’s hat. (Get
it?)
BT finished her off. Once the smoke cleared, he spoke. “Any chance she’s some sort of anomaly, like a throwback to Cro-Magnon, you know?”
I was trying desperately to remember almost as quickly as I tried to forget how the scene with the baby unfolded. If I wasn’t over-thinking this, the baby was still moving after my first shot. I might have completely missed with my second shot, but the third shot hit home and the baby stopped moving. The fourth shot was mostly involuntary. I didn’t give a shit though. There was no way I was going back into that room to see if the baby’s skull was abnormally thick. Even if that were the case, it could just mean that genetically, Mom had passed that defect down to it.
“I don’t know for sure, but we’re going to have to keep this in mind, going forward. Let’s check out this safe and get out of here. The longer we stay, the more I wish we had all just gone to Maine and let the chips fall where they may.”
“The safe is open!” Gary said excitedly. “What’re the odds of that?”
“Pretty good,” Paul said from the far side of the room. He was looking out the window, keeping an eye on the street around us. “They were getting ready to leave and all.”
“Makes sense,” Gary said, continuing the conversation.
“Brother, just check out what’s inside,” I told him. I would have smacked him upside the forehead if BT hadn’t got past me and was now in my way.
“Damn!” Gary yelled.
“Grenades! Please tell me grenades!” I said, almost jumping up and down like a schoolgirl that found out the captain of the football team liked her.
“Yeah. Joe Homeowner in suburbia North Carolina has a secret stash of grenades. Get a hold of yourself, Talbot,” BT said. “Is it grenades?” BT asked Gary softly.
“Rossi Circuit Judge .45/410 revolver rifle!” Gary said as he held it over his head.
“Zombies could have on Kevlar helmets, it wouldn’t stop that thing,” I said.
