“We can't show Charlotte this Dad. We can't. She knows a lot of them.”
“I know. I know. You know what that means.”
“Yeah. Should we clean it now?”
“Well, let's go back and tell them. I'll tell her. Tomorrow, we can come back and clean it up. At least we know we can take this, that this can be our new home.”
“Yeah, I think it will work Dad. Just so sad.”
“I miss my mom. I wish she were here. I wish I knew what happened to her.”
Lena and Dad look at Lisa, not knowing what to say.
“Thank you for getting me, for saving me. And you too Lena, for having your Dad come get me.”
“I think your mom would be proud of you, happy for you now. I mean, at least that, well, we have a chance to rebuild,” Dad tries to say.
“Yeah, I think this would be a good place to start over. It seems like we can live here, lots of room.”
“After we clean it,” Lena sighs.
They head back through the playground to the fence. Charlotte is on the roof, hidden. She waves. Charlotte is eating a small something, a dog biscuit perhaps.
Dad doesn't feel very hungry. They get to the fence. It looks clear. They open it and walk back to the house, quietly, on the cloudy gray day.
They get to the back. Charlotte comes to see them as they take off their armor quietly.
“Dad?”
“Yes?”
“I want to bury them.”
“Bury who?”
“My friends at school. I want to bury them in the grass. And pray over them. Can we do that?”
“Uh, so you know there were a lot of them, that they were all turned?” Tears swell.
“Yes, I guess it's okay. I know it's just zombies. I just know that Jesus said he takes all the children and I want to bury them so they can go to Jesus.”
“Well, I don't know if you need to bury them.”
“Dad, please.”
“No, we can't bury them. But we can pray over them, okay. We can put them together, burn them.”
“Dad!”
“No, I mean it! Burn them, but also pray over them. They'll all be together. We'll do that. Their ashes will return to the Earth, clean, ashes to ashes, dust to dust... that's what we're made of. We'll return their bodies to the Earth. Their souls are already free.”
“I want to help.”
“Okay, but let's just wait a bit. It's a lot of work. We'll do it though, okay? But we gotta figure it out. And we'll have a really good service for them too. Okay?”
“Okay, praise Jesus!”
“Praise Jesus.”
25. Caught
In the attic at night, his wife hugs him.
“I think this is it. I think we can move everything over there, and live there. I can go out and scavenge. We can fight zombies along the chain link fence. We can help people we find and bring them there too. And with electricity, we can use the power tools and start creating a better life. Maybe even connect back together with others.”
They talk of the school, of people, any people! The girls are watching a movie quietly on the blu-ray. They are lying so close to each other. Their cheeks are touching, lit by the small screen.
“We can have movie nights.”
In the attic, separated by a sheet, the girls have their own space. Dad and his wife are in their corner. Mom and the girls have made a real home of their attic. It is a homage to all the ingenuity of women. It is something men can not do, or see as being irrelevant, but once done, means so much. With the fear of zombies lurking everywhere in the city, in the dark, hunting humans, they still relax with their home comforts.
“If this is it, and we are going to build there, you have to go get Cory and Sally and their family.”
“Who?”
“Our pastor and his family!”
“Oh, sorry, wasn't thinking about them. There's just no way, no way they could have survived till now.”
“Honey, you have to go and see. And if they are alive, bring them back.”
“They live pretty far. I don't want to leave you. It's a bit of drive and through zombie infested Hollywood and East Hollywood. We're talking millions of zombies! That's probably where The Horde is and the streets are smaller and likely jam-packed with cars. Even if I find them, I'd have to take what, four, or five trips to get them here? And fast! And through all those zombies, that's insane.”
“Are you going to be the one who comforts others in their time of need, when we bring them to the school? -- Are you?”
Dad is racing through the city. In his armored suit, he weaves his motorcycle through cars, onto sidewalks, past storefronts, through alleys and parking lots, avoiding the swell of zombie groups chasing after him, or besieging some apartment complex or shopping center with survivors. He sees pockets of survivors on rooftops, staring down at him, waving in hope, then saddened as he passes.
He sees survivors with barricades and security grills protecting them. But how long can they hold out? Can they come out and fight like he does? He doubts it. He hasn’t seen anyone on the streets, traveling or moving about like him. He is racing through, haphazardly, yet well protected and fully capable of taking on ravaging zombies. It is not the case for most citizens still alive.
He would have to get back to those he passed along the way. He finally gets to the pastor's neighborhood. There are only a few zombies scattered along lawns and down neighborhood streets. It is still urban but further out from the density of Hollywood. The area is more residential with a few businesses on corners. He decides to try the gathering method. He drives around in circles, gathering up the zombies to follow him, to clear them from the area. He drives off, getting them to chase him, then he guns it to lose them, and comes back around to the cleared area.
He quietly parks outside the pastor's gated home. That's a good sign. The gate is intact, all around. He has to sneak through a neighbor's yard and climb over the stonewall to get inside the gate. He falls over, but with the steel armor, things like that are less painful, just more embarrassing. That is if anyone were watching. He hopes his pastor and wife, whom he jokes with incessantly, aren't watching his befuddlement. He wonders why he is bothering with such thoughts at a time like this.
He goes to the back door and knocks. No one answers. The house looks intact with no damaged windows. The back door is a flimsy small door. He kicks it open. He walks in and stops to listen. His sword is out. He points it ahead of him. He doesn't bother with his shield, having left it on the bike. The hallway is too narrow for swooping sword swings. His gauntlet fist is ready for such tight quarters. He steps heavily through in his steel armor and helm. No sound.
“Cory? Hello?”
He waits for the inevitable zombie charge. He realizes his apprehension is from the thought of having to kill one of Cory's children, or Cory, or his wife.
No one comes. It is silent, dusty, grey.
He walks past the bedrooms. Their doors are closed. He sticks with the open areas, the kitchen and dining room. Sheets are hung to cover the large glass windows in front. The kitchen has much of its food eaten with dishes piled up, and many open cans and boxes and water bottles. They were here. The smell isn't bad like sewage and death, just a little pungent and stuffy.
He goes back to the bedrooms. He opens one of the kid's bedroom doors, steps in enough to look into the closets. With all the clutter and his helmet vision, he has a difficult time discerning in the non-lit rooms if any children are hiding quietly.
“Anybody here? It's Lena's Dad. Remember me? Charlotte's Dad? Remember? Hello? I'm just wearing my medieval armor. It's okay.”
No one answers. His ears ring from the silent hum in the air. His breathing echoes and tings through the helmet's metal openings.
He gets to the back bedroom, the master bedroom, and walks in to see the big bed and their wonderful widescreen TV. He remembers telling them he'll have to lower his tithing at church, seeing their little luxuries. He then notices, a
s his eyes adjust through his helm, that the room is cluttered with clothes on the bed. There are lots of clothes, strangely laid out, as if ready to wear, or not. He can't tell. The blanket and sheet and pillows are spread as if someone was sleeping or lying there, and their clothes were just laid out for them. Cory's signature worn style jeans and his wife's simple fashion clothing and the kids, the four youngest, their clothes all seemed there, in little laid out sets, as if hugging each other. But where are they? He did not know. Perhaps they ran off or were saved by somebody. There isn't any sign of zombies attacking the house. He can not say what happened. However, he feels nothing bad happened.
He decides he spent enough time looking for them. As he turns to leave the room, he remembers that Cory had two medieval swords. One was a prop from a famous medieval movie used by some Scottish warlord or savior. It was made to be a real sword. He gets a little excited. The other sword is just the standard medieval sword.
He goes out to the garage, which is Cory's office, where the sword sits on display. He finds the garage door down but not locked. He screeches it open. It's kind of loud, but he does it anyway. He hopes the horde he led away has not returned.
He goes in. It is dark and quiet. Next to him, against the wall, are the two swords. He picks up one. He can't remember which is which. He swings one hard against the office couch. It feels good. It feels right. It cuts into the cushions and wooden frames and holds well. He takes both of them.
He drives back home, reconnecting with the small horde he led astray. When they lost him, they followed in the last direction they saw him for awhile, then slowed, and began to spread again. The outskirts of the group see him. He wonders if they remember him. Regardless, they bark and growl and chase after him. He drives by, swinging his Scottish blade. A head roles as he races through them.
As he drives closer to home, he sees the clouds darkening and flashes of lightning arc across the sky. It is strange because the lightning flashes are but split seconds and yet, the light is amazing. The glow and aura amidst the clouds lasts and lasts. He is dumbfounded by how bright the sudden grayness has become. He can feel the chill of air, the smell of rain, and that fresh ion sensory overload. But the light, the glow of the clouds far above bring from within his soul a surge of fear and panic. He looks up, wondering at the glowing aura deep within the thick cumulus clouds. Could this be the end? Could the military be shooting off bombs or is it a nuclear explosion? The thought swells within his mind, beating his heart. He forgets about the zombies, standing still, stupefied. He only fears this vast glowing aura all around him.
Is it a nuclear flash or burn, yet to arrive any second, to rush a wave of instant and intense heat, burning everything in its wake? He rides head down, dangerously fast, past wandering zombies. There were many dead humans, all eaten away, and now all he sees is their clothes tattered and rolling in the gutters and streets. He is frantic to get back to his family, to be with them in the end, when whomever far away has decided that Los Angeles was not worth saving, but only obliterating.
He looks up. The clouds seem to roll out and down, getting closer. The glow from within emanates in a ghastly aura. He drives up to fifty or sixty miles in some spots, then slows enough to whip around a crashed car or group of standing zombies. They seem to be mostly staring, perhaps blinded or confused by the light.
He gets back to the streets near his home, to the familiarity of the jammed Hollywood area. There are less zombies there it seems. He parks in front this time, worried as the whole place is lit in this white glow, rays of light are bursting down onto the streets creating rainbows here and there.
He opens the gate, rushes to the back, and looks for his family. They are not in the back. He pulls off his helmet, and still in armor, rushes into the house. They are not in the kitchen. Rondo is in the bedroom, cowering in the corner. Dad casually pets him with his gauntlet hand. He goes to hatchway and calls up in whispers. The glow from outside pulsates through the boarded up windows.
In his gut he feels so alone. He has to remove his armor to fit into the attic. He is frantic, unbuckling. He is shaking. What an aggravated mess. The breast harness feels like a straight jacket he can't seem to remove. He finally gets it off and throws it on the bed. He hurriedly removes his leg pieces, his pads, and his boots. He is shaking all over. Rondo quivers too. Why? Dad feels an overwhelming sense of loneliness. Rays of light flash like spider webs from the windows from all directions. He doesn't understand the light. He doesn't understand anything but the desire to be with his wife, his children, and even Lisa.
The sound of him frantically breathing and tugging at each piece stuck on each sweaty limb and his repetitive exhale of 'dear God, dear God' is all he can sense in this cold, dark, thunderous world.
In his sweaty shirt and shorts, he climbs up the ladder. They are not there. He swirls about on his knees, looking into the dark corners, frantic at the silence. He then realizes the sheet at the front is slowly swaying like a flag before a storm. The light from outside, like a beacon or light tower, breaks in. It's ebbing and flowing with the movement of the sheet. He bear crawls frantically over there and sees, for a brief comforting second, his wife's elbow beyond the sheet. It is draped with Charlotte's hair as they are holding each other, sitting low. Lena and Lisa are sitting there holding each other, looking up to the sky. He pokes his head out as they are looking into the misty fireworks beyond the clouds.
He folds under to sit around his wife, to hug them, for all eternity. To hold them in love, committed, forever.
“It's so beautiful,” his wife sighs.
“Dad, look at all the angels,” Charlotte says.
Dad looks up, blinks, and sees flashes amidst the glowing light. The flashes cast waves of shadows. It seems there are many things or figures amidst the clouds. The lights flashing far above refract in their glow, revealing the bulbous multitude of shapes. The silhouettes concentrate in various areas within the clouds like a vast, multi-tiered silent choir.
“Yeah honey, it's beautiful,” Dad says, sweating in the chilly humid air, looking more at his family in the brilliant glow, than at the epic spectacle above. “Lena, you and Lisa okay?”
“Yeah Dad. It's God.”
“What?”
“It's God up there, Jesus and all the people.”
“Well,” Dad looks up to the clouds. He has no doubts of God or Jesus and this strangely silent, low rumble of thunder. The strange global lighting enigma does not seem to sway him either way. He feels its warmth, not in temperature but in solitude, quietness, as if the whole world were standing still, even the zombies.
His mind flashes back to the clothes on the bed at his pastor's home, and the clothes in the streets. He remembers the scattered remnants of zombies, all standing very still, looking upward. He remembers – tears swell in his eyes. He covers his face, digging into his wife's small shoulder and neck and hair. He cries hugging her tight. She responds, setting her head back to his, hugging him and still hugging Charlotte, who hugs back.
Lena and Lisa look up, feeling a strength of youth and hope, as they see truth and glory before them. They hug, knowing what they see makes sense. All this horror, on such an epic scale, is the pangs of tribulation. They see angels and saints in the aura of the clouds. In the grey darkness, the clouds are back lit, by the setting sun dropping below the curve of the Earth, receding from them. The light seems behind the dark greyness of the cold clouds. The aura is lit so beautifully, framed by dark clouds. And within them, Dad can see in the eyes and pointing of his daughters, the host of angels singing. He can see what they see, looking up, beyond the swell of his tears.
Dad softens his cry, his hug, and is able to look up again, wiping furtively at his tears. He sees, even hundreds of miles away with his old tired eyes, the silhouettes or the glows or the emanations, he can't tell and doesn't care. “Why, why don't they take us too?”
Charlotte looks at Dad with a smile, “It's okay Daddy. They will or maybe they won't.”
“But why? Why not?”
“Because Daddy, they need you.”
“What?”
“Down here, they still need you,” Charlotte says.
Dad, in reddened face and tears, looks weird at his little daughter with the big thick hair.
“It doesn't matter Daddy. All that matters is that we get to see Jesus,” Charlotte points and smiles.
“What?”
“There!”
“That's right honey. It's Jesus,” his wife says, kissing Charlotte’s hair.
It's a brightness that Dad sees. He can't tell if that's what they are referring to, a brightness blasting a mix of rays, like the sun. Those rays bounce off the white clouds, making the whole thing seem holy. He can't tell. His tears seem to blur the light, enhancing it with reflections and refractions. He looks away from the bright light, holding his wife as they shudder.
26. Thou Shalt Not Murder
It has been raining for days. The glory of God, even in the accounts of the Bible, were quickly forgotten by the Israelites, and today, even so by the rest of us. Men want creature comforts when men feel dull pangs and cold shivers. They tend to see the miraculous, then, yawning, need a cup of coffee.
The electricity from the solar panels is very low, a few flickering ebb and flows of a light bulb in the attic. The girls lay around, pondering what they have seen. They cuddle in blankets, warming themselves. A cold mist comes through the bed sheet windows. Dad ties some left over cabinet doors to the opening. They somewhat cover the opening and at least keep the gusts of air from sweeping through. It's a shoddy job.
Charlotte is the only chipper one. She prays constantly, starting her meal of one scoop of dog food and some packaged treat. She prays whenever they are together, or just with mom, or separately with Lena and Lisa. She is serious in her prayers. Dad is warmed by her amazing determination to let God and the family know how much they need him. Dad is renewed by her faith.
Knight of the Dead (Book 1): Knight of the Dead Page 23