COLD FAITH AND ZOMBIES

by Sean Thomas Fisher

  He let out a short booming laugh. “Well, I guess you got a point there!”

  “Hey by the way, Brock, you were awesome in Tombstone,” Dan said.

  Brock’s smile faded into befuddlement. “The what’s that now?”

  “Was Doc Holiday really that crazy?” Dan prodded, causing Wendy, and even Paul, to start cracking up.

  “What in tarnation is this boy talkin about?” he asked, looking to Wendy and Paul for help as a hawk screeched overhead.

  “You were awesome in Mask too!” Dan said. “Was Cher cool? What was she like?”

  Brock frowned and shook his head.

  Paul finally put him out of his misery. “He thinks you look like Sam Elliot, the actor.”

  Brock pondered upon it for a second and then looked at Dan. “You better lay off that dope, son. It’ll stunt your brain.”

  All three burst into laughter as Brock got up to go back inside.

  “He totally looks like him!” Dan said, laughing.

  “Hey Brock!” Paul said, stopping the cowboy in his tracks.

  He turned at the door, his blue moose mug looking tiny in his big hand. “Yeah?”

  “You and Cora get flu-shots this season?”

  His brow folded into creases. “Flu shots?”

  Paul nodded.

  “Hell no! Can’t stand needles. Besides, everyone I work with gets em and they always end up gettin sick anyhow. Why?”

  Paul shook his head. “Just wondering.”

  Brock peered at Paul a moment longer through inspecting slits. “You think it was flu shots?”

  Paul, Dan and Wendy traded glances, then looked back to Brock and shrugged.

  Brock raised his eyebrows, exhaled a waft of air that tickled his mustache and stepped through the French doors into the kitchen.

  The three sat there on the deck, each silently processing Brock’s response. So far, the flu shot theory was still alive, which was more than you could say for most everything else.

  “They are so nice,” Wendy gushed. “I should probably go and see if she needs any help,” she said, flashing Dan a mischievous grin and flicking her smoking butt out into the yard.

  Paul watched the smoke rise from the cigarette in the brown grass and thought of Sophia. Everything reminded him of her, even a smoking cigarette butt. Wendy’s lackadaisical littering would not have impressed her, not that Sophia had been a total green freak. More like a common sense green freak. “How hard is it to throw something away?” she would always say whenever they came across major deposits of fast food bags and wrappers in different parking lots. Sometimes, if it wasn’t too gross with ketchup and mustard, she would even pick it up and throw it away in a nearby trash can herself.

  “That girl’s going to catch this whole place on fire,” Dan said, staring at the smoking butt in the brown grass.

  Paul sipped his coffee.

  “So, how are you doin?” he softly asked Paul.

  Paul looked at him. “I’m doin.”

  “I think it’s great that Brock and Cora want to come with us.”

  Paul nodded. “They’re good people.”

  Dan watched the cows, some of which were grazing on the grass while others fed from four different troughs scattered about inside the enclosure.

  He turned back to Paul and took a deep breath. “Things are going to get better, dude. You know that don’t you? It’s just a matter of some time.”

  Paul grinned at him. “Is that all it is? Just a matter of time?”

  Dan dropped his gaze to his new running shoes beneath the glass table and then looked back up to Paul. “I need to know that you’ve got our backs though,” he sputtered.

  Paul’s eyes narrowed and swung over to Dan’s. “What?”

  “I said, I need to know that you’ve...”

  “Yeah, I heard ya the first time,” he scowled.

  “All I’m saying is that we are taking on more people again and I just want to make sure we’re all on the same page here.”

  Paul’s gaze sharpened. “Last time I checked, I was the one who almost got killed because you were busy practicing your golf swing with your little girlfriend there!”

  Dan’s face wrinkled. “Girlfriend?”

  Paul looked away.

  “She’s not my girlfriend and the last time I checked, I was the one who almost got killed when a little dead girl rolled up behind me at Kohl’s because we were all busy. That’s life today.”

  “Oh come on, Dan. You call that a comparison? I can’t tell if that smell of manure is coming from the cows or from you!”

  “The point is, you were the one who said we have to bounce back from stuff and bounce back in a hurry or we - are - all – dead.”

  Paul snorted and didn’t respond.

  Dan dropped his gaze back to his shoes, turning over what to say next in his mind.

  “Listen, I’m sorry about everything that has happened, I really am, but we gotta keep movin. We gotta get to that beach.”

  “And do what?” Paul shouted.

  Dan raised his arms. “I don’t know, Paul. Something. Anything,” he said, shrugging. “Anything but give up.”

  Paul drank his coffee and watched a white cat come drifting across the yard like a ghost. Suddenly, it dashed after something, froze with its paws firmly on the ground, then casually went on its way empty handed.

  Dan let out a long sigh. “We can’t give up.”

  “Yeah because I’d hate to miss out on risking my life every few hours just to get gas or something to eat,” Paul sneered.

  “Oh woe is you!” Dan said. “I got news for ya, Paul, it’s hit the fan for all of us and like it or not, we need you. Somebody called down the thunder and now there’s hardly anyone left to fight it! None of us asked for this to happen, but it did and we need you to get your head back in the game and leave the past in the past. For now anyway.”

  Paul drank some more coffee and watched two robins perform a springtime mating dance with fluttering hops around each other.

  “I don’t want to die and you may want to. I get that, but I don’t,” Dan whispered.

  Paul didn’t respond.

  “The only bright side to this whole thing,” Dan said, leaning back in his chair. “Is knowing that the terrorists are finally getting a good dose of their own medicine.”

  Paul grunted.

  “You thought they were a rag tag crew before! I can see Bin Laden now, running for his life from a bunch of his ravenous flesh-eating followers.”

  Paul looked from his mug to Dan.

  Dan met his eyes. “Riding a goat as fast as it will go.”

  Paul stared at him and tried to snuff out a blooming smile.

  Dan snorted and shook his head. “And here I thought going to the mall around Christmas time was bad.”

  Paul looked out over Brock’s land and turned back to Dan. “I got your back.”

  Dan looked at him and nodded. “I know you do, dude.”

  They sipped on their morning brew and soaked in the natural environment around them, satisfied they had reached a mutual agreement. Dan’s point was well taken, you either give up or you cowboy up, but you do not take your responsibilities lightly when you decide to press on. Not when other people’s lives are at stake. If Paul was going to give it a real go, he should give them everything he had in doing so. But he still didn’t feel like it. He felt like taking a nap and he just woke up.

  “I still can’t believe this is happening,” Dan said, admiring the Chevelle. “Stealing cars and having breakfast with cows in Texas. How did we get here, man?”

  Paul grinned. “Because Hell’s full, that’s how,” he said with a short laugh, cheering Dan with his mug and bringing it back for another sip.

  Dan didn’t return the cheer. He didn’t drink either, but swallowed like he had.

  “Boys!” Wendy said from the french doors. “Breakfast is ready, y’all!” she grinned, sticking her hips out and mimicking Cora.

  Paul took another dri
nk, got up and went down the deck’s wooden steps into the backyard. It sounded like Wendy was on vacation, having the time of her life. He shook his head and picked up the smoldering butt, randomly remembering Sophia telling him one time that people littered two billion cigarette butts a day across the face of the planet. Not anymore, he thought, going back up the stairs, past Dan and inside the house. He leaned around Cora and threw the butt away in the garbage under the sink, imagining a smile lifting the corners of Sophia’s beautiful lips. He could see her perfectly now.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  After a hearty breakfast of chocolate chip pancakes, water and Cokes, Dan and Paul followed Brock out behind the outbuilding where they pumped plenty of gas for both vehicles from a small tank he had used for the riding mower, weed whackers and his two ATV’s. With him and Cora’s mammoth 2009 white Chevy Suburban and the chunky V8 in the Chevelle, they would have to stop more frequently to siphon gas, doubling the workload, maybe even more.

  When they finished with the gas, the three kicked around a plan while taking a leak in the shade behind the outbuilding.

  “So we’ll pack up the cars today and head out in the morning then?” Brock said, zipping up with a slight hop.

  Paul stared at Jasper’s fresh grave with unfocused eyes.

  “Sounds like a plan to me,” Dan said.

  “Not gonna sound like much of one to Cora. She loves this house. Born and raised in this area. This is home,” he said, with his hands on his hips as he affectionately surveyed everything they had worked so hard for over the years.

  “Nowhere is home anymore,” Paul murmured.

  Brock stared at him, evaluating the statement. “For now, anyhow,” he said, taking off his hat and wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. “For now. Hey, y’all wanna see some guns?” he said, fanning himself with the hat.

  “Guns?” Dan said.

  “Come on, I’ll show ya,” he said, putting his hat back on and leading them inside.

  “There you are! I was about to get worried,” Cora slurred, swirling another drink around in a rocks glass.

  “Nothin to worry about here, sweetie,” Brock said, planting a big wet kiss on her forehead.

  Cora laughed. “You’d think I’d be used to that big ticklish Muppet on his face by now!”

  Wendy laughed with her. “How long’s he had that thing anyway?” she asked, sitting in the breakfast nook’s corner booth.

  “Ever since Magnum P.I. came on TV,” Cora said, flashing her pearly whites at Brock.

  “Yeah right!” he said, rinsing his hands off with some bottled water in the sink. “And if you believe that, I’ve got a bridge to sell ya!”

  Wendy squinted and opened her mouth. “What’s Magnum P.I.?”

  Brock and Cora looked at her and then burst out laughing.

  “Come on!” he said, waving for Dan and Paul to follow him through the nearby basement door.

  Downstairs, he unlocked a tall black safe residing in an office decorated with the skull of a long horn, tiny statues of horses and a framed poster of The Good, the Band and the Ugly, prominently displayed on the wall behind an enormous wooden desk supporting a teeny-weeny laptop.

  Dan’s eyes nearly popped out of his head when he saw all of the guns inside the safe. Handguns, shotguns, and enough ammunition to keep Lil Wayne happy. Even an M-16.

  “Got this from a guy who’s house I did some work on a few years back,” he said, ejecting the M-16’s long clip, showing them it was loaded and slamming it back in. “This will make a mess of things real quick, brother,” he said, taking aim at the Clint Eastwood poster.

  Dan’s jaw hung open. “Awesome!”

  “We’ll pack em all up tomorrow morning,” Brock said, putting the gun back in the safe and closing the door.

  “We should pack em today,” Paul said flatly. “Most of em anyway. Split em up in both cars in case we have to take off in just one for some reason.”

  Dan and Brock swapped looks.

  “Just in case,” Paul shrugged.

  “You make a good point, boss,” Brock said, shooting Paul a wink and grabbing two hefty, black nylon duffel bags from a closet in the room.

  After they filled both bags and put one inside each vehicle, Paul left Brock and Dan out in the sun-splashed driveway, where Brock was showing Dan how to work each piece of hardware in the better light. Back inside the house, Paul caught Cora fondly gazing at a picture of Chuck propped up on the fireplace mantel. She stared at it dreamily with a drink in her hand, not noticing Paul. He paused for a split second and continued on down the hall into one of the spare bedrooms.

  Gingerly, he closed the door until it lightly latched. He turned around and wiped sweat from his forehead. The room was a perfectly normal spare bedroom, but felt perfectly strange at the same time. He dropped his gun belt onto a gray arm chair, laid down on the bed and kicked his shoes off. All those guns. Was it even worth it to try anymore? What was Sophia’s favorite song? How much longer could he do this? Was this is family now? How many people had actually survived out there anyway? What about his brother? Sophia’s family? Dan’s family? What was her favorite song? He would have to go back to Des Moines and get some of their photo albums. That was all there was to it. He couldn’t see her face again. Why was God doing this?

  Two hours later, a gunshot jolted him from sleep.

  Spastically, he flung back the red bedspread and looked all around the room with dazed eyes. He snatched his gun belt from the chair and strapped it on.

  Wendy screamed when he stormed into the hallway and drew the weapon on her.

  He sighed and lowered it. “What’s going on?” he asked, with sleepy eyes.

  “I don’t know, I was in the bathroom,” she said nonplussed, still fastening her belt.

  He turned and ran down the hall. She followed as did the echoing sounds of clomping tennies on hardwood floors. They stopped in the living room, their chests rising. There was no sign of anyone so they bolted through the kitchen and flew out the French doors. The deck was empty. Down the steps and around the corner, they found everyone gathered around a little girl lying next to the Chevelle in the driveway. Paul and Wendy slowed their sprint to a snail’s pace.

  He squinted at the girl bathed in bright sunshine.

  Wendy threw her hands over mouth.

  Cora stood crying and shaking, her eyes fixed on the poor girl dressed in a blood-stained lavender dress. Paul glanced from what was left of her head to a purple tricycle turned over on its side next to her. The sunlight winked off its chrome fenders while a light breeze danced with the purple tassels coming out of one of the hand grips.

  “Lindsey Wagner,” Brock said gravely, holstering his behemoth .357. “Used to be anyhow.”

  “This isn’t right,” Cora murmured.

  Brock turned to Wendy and Paul. “I played poker with her dad. Cora was good friends with her mom.”

  Paul’s features twisted when he saw the dried claw marks running down one side of Lindsey’s face. The only side left. Paul looked to Dan, whose handgun was limply hanging at his side and guessed by the massive wound Brock had been the one to pull the trigger.

  “She was only five,” Cora sniveled.

  Brock gently wrapped a hairy arm around her and began ushering her back inside. “It’s all over,” he whispered along the way. “Everything’s gonna be fine.”

  “No - it’s - not!” she screamed, wrenching away from him and going right back to Lindsey. “She was just a beautiful little girl,” she said, wiping her nose and face with her bare hands. “Who would to do this to her?”

  For some reason she turned to Paul, as if maybe he had something to do with this. He shifted in his stance and looked back down to the little girl and swallowed. She looked like she had turned days ago.

  “You think flu shots did this?” Cora suddenly asked, sweeping her hand over Lindsey.

  His eyes jerked to hers. “I - I don’t know what did this, Cora,” he stammered.

>   “Well somebody better damn well find out because this is not right!” she roared, causing Wendy to jump.

  Dan and Paul swapped looks while Wendy and Cora’s hair rustled in the light breeze. They grew quiet for a moment. The beautiful, sunny day made everything seem impossible, like it was just another one of those perfect spring days to finally dust off the bike or throw on some shorts for the first time in months and nothing more. It would have seemed more real in gloomy weather.

  “What are you going to do about this, Brock?” Cora asked, not taking her eyes off Lindsey.

  “I’ll take care of it, why don’t you go back inside.”

  “That’s not what I meant!” she said.

  Brock flinched and returned a blank expression.

  “I mean, what are you going to do about this?” she yelled, waving her arms through the air around her.

  He sighed. “We’re workin on it, Cora,” he said, his tone growing heated.

  “Well, you better work faster, because this is unacceptable!”

  Brock sighed and took off his hat and scratched his head. “Let’s go back inside, honey. You don’t need to see this stuff.”

  “The hell I don’t! I need to know exactly what we’re up against here. And I need to know why!”

  Other than their neighbor, Ted Clark, Paul guessed she hadn’t seen much action up to this point.

  Brock moaned, at a loss for words, slapped his hat back on and rubbed his weather-beaten face.

  Seconds stretched like black tar. She wanted the impossible. There was nothing anyone could do. Besides, it was already too late.

  “Alright, I think you get the idea,” he finally said, attempting to take her inside once again. This time it took and Cora stumbled with him back to the house, tears pounding the pavement as they went. “I just don’t get it,” she said, just before they disappeared around the corner.

  Wendy, Dan and Paul inspected each other with solemn eyes. Paul wondered if every atrocity like this would slowly replace Sophia’s demise a little at a time, like it had with his mom. The memory of shooting her had already blurred with the memories of so many other more recent tragedies, it was sometimes difficult to pick just one.