He feels sad. There is an emptiness outside as it drizzles. Something has changed. He feels they have left him. The choir has left. He feels his family is left behind, here, in this hell. Are they in hell? Is this it, forever and ever? Are they condemned to this cold dreary world, abandoned forever?
The drizzle is off and on. The smell of the ionized air mingles with the putrid smell of ichor and death. Dad hopes the rain is washing away the filmy dust and the grease of gore, the splatters everywhere on streets, sidewalks, in the cars and on the browning lawns.
Dad wonders what zombie senses are like in the rain. He ponders going out and killing zombies. Perhaps the rain dulls or confuses their senses. It's a thought on his mind, but his body feels nothing, no desire or energy to go, to fight, to continue on. After the departure of Jesus, of so many good souls, what does it matter now?
As the dreary day passes, he is down in the kitchen. His wife has not come down to work on armor, but lies around with the girls upstairs. They come down for food and bodily functions. It is a dreary soulless empty time, one that Dad can't seem to shake off. The weight is not heavy, but empty, as if hope and determination have left. The feeling seems to drown Dad as he stands there looking at his armor. He sees no purpose in it.
He stands out in the rain, to let it wash the grime off his body. He stands in underwear in the back as the rain drips. It does feel good and such a good idea, if only to keep away the emptiness for a moment. The cool rain in the middle of this day refreshes his stunned body and stunned soul.
“God, please, do not forsake my family. Please Jesus, do not leave them here to die. Please forgive me. Please take them too. Don't leave us here to suffer. Are we not worthy, God?” Dad did not realize he would pray out loud in the rain. The cool of the spattering rain keeps his emotional build up from burning his eyes and face, his body, and his heartbeat. It cools him, the cool droplets splattering on his face, collecting and running down in rivulets, carrying his body heat in tiny beads of negatively charged molecules.
“God please, help me. Help me to save my family. I thought I was a good Christian. I thought I was. I know I didn't do enough. I know I didn't help enough people. I didn't before all this and now, I'm so, I was and am a coward. Please God, I was just afraid and I'm so afraid now.” He drops to his knees on the cold wet brick.
“I believe in Jesus. I believe in him and his death for us and his resurrection and believe it to be true that he has come again, now and forever. I mean, I know he has or will. I'm so scared. Did he come and leave us? Please take Charlotte and Lena and Lisa and my wife. Leave me, but please take them. Oh God, please? Please?”
In utter fear, he lies upon the drizzled brick in the backyard. The rain splatters on his face, his fists and body. He lies drenched in the afternoon showers. It is so very dark, the dense grey rain clouds and the loss of everything he knows. He can not go on feeling this emptiness he has never felt before, to know he is still here, after all he has believed in, in Christ. Why are his daughters here to endure more horrific suffering? He can not believe this. He can not believe God did not take them. He can not believe they are still here. He must end their suffering. He must end this. He can not allow the sun to return with another day of zombies raging around to hunt and torture and devour his family.
He stands up in the rain. He grits his teeth. Suddenly, he can hear across the city a million echoes. It becomes louder and heavier. The clouds pour vast, heavy droplets. They hit off leaves, cars, rooftops, and bricks. His sobbing and sniffling is drowned out. He shudders and goes back inside, into the shelter of a cold damp house. He hears the pattering of rain outside and nothing from the attic.
He takes a blade. He can not allow this to continue. He can not allow them to suffer anymore. He stumbles along, shivering, dripping wet, with blade in hand. Rondo looks up from his spot in the corner. He is in a dark shadow. Dad stares for a moment, blade in hand. Rondo lowers his head in boredom to sleep.
He takes the ladder up, awkwardly now. He has gone up plenty of times before with food, with buckets, with water bottles, and with sheets and bags. Now with a blade, it seems so new and awkward and heavy.
He goes up. Lisa and Lena are lying in blankets, as if sick, just dozing lightly. His wife is praying, reading her Bible, hoping – though emptiness is all around them. He doesn't see Charlotte. It doesn't matter. He will eventually. He has to end this. He has to end their suffering. He can not let them live here, where there is nothing but pain and death. If God won't take them, then he will send them to God. They accepted Jesus as their savior. There is no way HE won't accept them.
Dad crawls to his wife. His blade is in his hand. She looks up casually, sadly, but knows immediately and cringes away from him.
“No honey, NO!” She is much more able to move away in the low tight attic then he can crawl to her. He lifts up the blade, pointing it at her. It is very light in his hand. It quivers and shakes, yet it feels so heavy to him.
Lena and Lisa wake. They are closer now than his wife. He turns to them, drenched, with red eyes and quivering lips.
“No honey, do not hurt them! Do not hurt them!”
“Dad!?” Lena moves back slowly. She is in a terrible nightmare where she is running but the beast is still catching up. Yet, this is not a nightmare. She can't move fast. Lisa however crawls along, then pulls at Lena. But her weight is more than expected, more in these tight low beams with cluttered sheets and pillows and boxes. “Dad, what are you doing?” Her tears and sadness are immediate.
Dad slowly, not on all fours but on three, moves awkwardly towards her, pointing his blade at her. He tries to say something, comforting, something to the affect that he loves her so much, but the blubbering voice that comes out is dark and guttural, growling something foreign and ancient.
He shudders at his own voice. Lena and Lisa, grabbing her, are frozen in terror. His wife, a statue in the corner, reaches out in utter loss. Her face, wrinkled, looks older now, as if dead, in a coffin, with glistening eyes.
Dad is upon Lena. He is able to swing the blade down, as efficiently and deadly within these confines as he has done hundreds of times outside. The blade, Lena knows, can turn and come down upon her head, instantly.
“Dad! Put the knife down!”
Dad blinks, unsure of where that echoes from.
“Dad! I'm warning you!”
Dad blinks again, water drops trap on his eyelashes. He sees flickers of light, a shadow. He looks towards the opening at the front. The small dark shadow, he's finally able to discern, is Charlotte. She is sitting huddled and has her 22 aimed at him. He is unsure. His blade turns just a bit, but is still leveled. He raises his hand to cover the light streaming in so he can see.
A loud crack and Dad feels a piercing pain rip through his hand. The blade twirls with a broke handle. He screams and rolls cupping his quivering hand. There's a hole through his hand. He shudders as blood bubbles from it.
Lena grabs the blade with the broken handle and shuffles away with Lisa. His wife hurries to him, hugging him.
He stays in his fetal position crying and cowering, gritting his teeth. He can not look at his wife. He angles his face as she tries to pull it up, to pull up the hand. He screams inside his own cover, ashamed and paranoid.
“Honey, I forgive you. I forgive you! Let me see your hand. It's okay. I know why you did it! I know why! I know you love us! I know, but we are going to stick together now, no matter what happens, even if God left us here! It's okay. We all want to be together. I know you wanted us to go to God. I know you do. Its okay. I love you. I love you so much. I love you. I love you. I love you. Shhh! Let me see your hand.”
She pulls it up. There is a hole in the middle of his hand. It is quivering in shocked pain. It is completely red with blood and a rivulet of blood streams from both sides.
“Lena, hand me the first aid box.”
Lena in tears scrambles over and shuffles through boxes unsure but finds it. Charlotte, slightly bent, wal
ks over with her 22 in hand. Lisa crouches near Charlotte, to protect her and hold off the crazed killer Dad. She might need to give Charlotte enough time for another shot.
His wife quickly cleans the wound, pours rubbing alcohol on the wound, and presses new gauze to both sides. Lena wraps it tight with tape. Dad cries but keeps his face covered by his other hand. He is in such shame and shock. He must hide in his dark facade.
Lena looks at her mother. They share a look. It is of adulthood, of womanhood, and of mankind. They nod. Lena looks down at her father. He is weak. She has just aged many years. She shuffles back to Lisa and Charlotte. They sit together. His wife holds him, and dries his nearly naked body. She puts him in bedsheets and holds him for hours, cradling him. He sleeps a long silent sleep.
He awakens to their giggling. He sees them, smiles, but catches himself as they look. He stops smiling and looks at them with glass eyes. They look for a moment, a glance, then look back as they play Uno. Charlotte has the best 'Uno' voice, extending it in all manner of syllables and musical beats and tones. “Uuuu-uu-uuu-noo-oooOOHHH!”
His wife comes up from the bottom with food. They eat more dog food with added cookies. Steam comes from the bowls. She must have heated them in the microwave with some water.
As they sit silent near their once crazed father, his wife breaks the silence, “Honey, we want you to get more food. Cookies, chips, sweets, anything.”
He nods, slowly eating his crumbly cookie.
“Dad, it's okay,” Lena says.
Dad looks up at her.
“It's okay Dad. I forgive you,” she says. “As long as you don't try that crap again.”
He grimaces.
“You can't go killing us. Killing is a sin. It's not your choice when God wants us to go.”
Dad looks down.
“It's not your choice.”
Charlotte speaks, “If God wants us to go, he'll take us. If he wants us to stay, then we should stay.”
Dad sighs.
“Probably because of you Dad,” Charlotte says. “God wants us to stay and fight.”
Dad blinks.
“Because you can fight. And you taught us how to fight all those zees,” Charlotte proudly says.
“I don't think God needs me to fight zombies,” Dad says.
“Well, he's not done down here,” Charlotte shrugs.
Dad can not believe she is more stubborn than him, and on an epic apocalyptic scale. He decides he is really really hungry for some new junk food. But his hand hurts horrifically. Thanks, Charlotte, he thinks. Then he realizes, no really, thanks Charlotte.
“Hey Charlotte.”
“Yeah Dad?”
“That was a great shot.”
She thumbs up.
27. A Family Outing
A week later, his hand is healing well though there is still a scab and great pain deep within. Yet when he holds his sword firmly, the pain diffuses. He now really wants to go to the store. They all do. Charlotte reminds him she still wants to pray for her friends at the school. He says they will. He promises but right now, after all that has happened, it's time for a little fun.
“Some donuts or cookies?” Charlotte asks.
“Yeah, all of the above!” Dad smiles. “I'm sure all that junk food is the best anyway. All those preservatives will keep them fresh!”
It has been sunny for a few days. Green plants have poked through the dry foliage. It is the same bright beautiful sun. The streets seem cleaner, fresher, and no zombies are spotted. Charlotte thinks she saw some, but when the others looked, beyond the buildings, they did not see what she saw.
Dad armors up. With additional wrapping on his hand, the pain, still pounding, doesn't paralyze him with utter shock. It's bearable.
“There's barely a scar!” his wife notes.
He heads down the driveway. Charlotte and mother are on the roof with the 22s. Lena and Lisa, fully armored, are waiting behind the gate with halberds ready.
He clanks his shield and sword. Ouch, his hand hurts. But he gets used to it. He's just stiff. He waits. He looks both ways. No zombies. The streets look cleaner. There are areas along the gutters where the cars blocked the water flow and now there is a build-up of grey matter. But the blood and gore and splatters are gone. He sees small mounds of soil with greenery sprouting. He thinks God is not done here yet. He wonders and feels a sense of hope.
He steps out, still nothing. He clanks his shield and sword again. The pain, expected in his hand, is manageable. He looks both ways again. He doesn't see any zombies coming. Nothing is happening. He shakes off a feeling. The motorcycle is there. It's definitely weathered. He shouldn't have left it out there.
He turns to his family. “I'm going to ride around a bit and see. You all stay here.”
“Okay, but if you can stop by the store, get us some donuts!” Charlotte chimes in.
“Ahhh, I want to go,” Lena says.
“Me too, come on.” Lisa hops excitedly. The girls giggle.
“No, no, just wait. Look, I'll just go for a quick spin, then see,” Dad mounts the bike. Its seat, with a rip, has soaked in rain water. He squeezes it out with his weight. The coolness of the water seeps into his crotch.
“Is that pee?”
Everyone giggles.
Dad starts the bike and takes off slowly, driving down the street, peering back and forth, gunning the gas. He doesn't see anything. He drives a bit further along. There is buildup from the rains, of clothes, junk, and mud. Weeds are beginning to sprout in odd places, especially around decaying cars. He drives to the liquor store on the corner and decides to grab some packaged pastries. It's easy enough. He looks around the corner at the jammed cars in the parking lot. There are no zombies. Are they really gone?
He gets off his bike and walks through shattered glass. Parts of the store look looted, but unsuccessfully. There are bags and piles of loot with smeared blood stains. The shattered glass has let in a lot of debris. The place is a mess. But junk food can survive all of that, in their factory wrapped, preservative induced mummified cocoons.
He opens a pack of Twinkies and eats one. His mouth explodes with tastes and sweets surging his nerve endings. He gets dizzy from the sudden rush of flavors. He then sees a zombie, hobbling along, slow and stiff outside.
He didn't realize how heavy that one slow and pathetic zombie would hit his heart. Within a split second, he realizes he almost had hope of a new beginning, of rejoicing and God and family and a new life. It was going to be a new world, a new Jerusalem to rebuild. But this stiff old zombie walking along destroys that in an instant. It brings crashing down his utter realization of depression, anxiety, fear, and hopelessness.
He pulls his sword out. The zombie, up a ways on the street, suddenly notices the movement and comes alive. It shambles quickly at him, barking in a hoarse lackluster way. Dad walks up, sword raised. The zombie gets close. Dad swings viciously, quickly and hacks the zombie. It drops, still grabbing. Dad slices its hands off. It flails with stubs, hissing through whitened rotted skin. Dad ends it.
He looks up. Another zombie comes searching down his way, its endorphins exploding with the thought of prey. It scrambles towards him very fast. Dad lowers his blade as the zombie runs at him. He lets the zombie skewer itself. Dad twists the blade, cracking its spine and contorting it. Dad kicks it off the sword then finishes it on the ground.
“Damn it! Damn it!!!” he paces about. He returns to the liquor store. He fills his bag with more treats. He thrusts them in violently. The crinkle of plastic is loud. His movements are rushed: survival, fast, hectic. He gets back on the bike and drives back home.
He parks. The girls are waiting. He walks up with the bag of treats.
“Dad, I wanted to go!” Lena says.
“Yeah, whatever. Damn it!” Dad says and pushes past them.
“What's wrong?” his wife calls down from the roof, following him to the back, from their attic perch.
She climbs down the ladder at that back o
f the house. Charlotte follows. Lena and Lisa follow Dad back too.
Dad takes off his armor, in furtive, frustrated movements. “Did you close the front gate?”
Lena and Lisa pour out the treats: packaged donuts, rolls, pastries, puffs, and chips.
“Lena, did you close the front gate!?”
“Yes, yes, gosh.”
Charlotte races down the ladder, huffing, “I get some too. You gotta share.”
“What's wrong honey?” his wife implores.
“I saw more zombies. They're still there, here.”
“It's okay. It's okay.”
“It's not okay. It's not. I want this to end. I want to get back to our lives.”
“This is our lives. We are together. It's amazing. Look at them. We are alive, honey. This is it. You have to accept it.”
“Oh, God. “
“Dad, have a twinkie. It's your favorite!” Charlotte holds one up for him. He doesn't have the heart to tell her he already had one. He smiles, longing for a day that this was business as usual. He takes it. Lena and Lisa have already opened and shared several. His wife takes the more healthy granola bar. He never knew he put it in there.
“Mom as usual,” the girls giggle.
The wife lifts it as a trophy.
Dad shakes it off. Business as usual. This is it.
“We forgot to pray!” Charlotte says, sitting at the picnic table with her little spread of small pastry pieces. Lena and Lisa respectfully stop chomping and put their hands together. “Dear God, thank you for our Daddy, for his safe return. God, thank you that we are together and happy and safe. Thank you for this food and please help my Daddy. Help us so we can help others. In Jesus name, amen.”
“Amen.”
They eat.
“Okay girls, eat and we'll go back out there, any who want to go. There doesn't seem to be that many.”
“Are you sure?” his wife asks.
“Ooh, can I go!?” Charlotte asks.
Dad is actually unsure. He looks at his wife. She looks sad, teary eyed at him. She is actually unsure as well. Charlotte seems so innocent and willing and able and blessed.
Knight of the Dead (Book 1): Knight of the Dead Page 24