by Peter Giglio
“We’re going to die.” He spun on her, eyes narrowing. “Do you get that, Cass? We aren’t playing house here. This...this apartment is our tomb, an icy fucking tomb.” He grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her, his face reddening. “This doesn’t end well—get that through your fucking head.” He pointed at the window with a tremulous finger. “Look outside, see for yourself.”
A lone tear slipped from her eye.
Heavy footfalls came from downstairs. In the distance, a woman screamed.
“Listen to that,” he said. “People are already turning on each other. It’s only a matter of time before—”
“At least we’ll die together.” She sobbed, clutching him as if he were a life preserver on a sinking ship.
He pulled away. “But I’m not ready to die, Cass. Not with you, not with anyone.”
“We have to...make the best of things,” she pleaded.
He shook his head.
Suddenly, there was pounding at the door.
Joe staggered into the living room. “What is it?” he bellowed, doing his best to sound threatening despite his weakened condition.
“Please, let me in,” a young girl—a child—begged.
At Joe’s back, Cass called out, “What is it, sweetie?”
“Do you know who it is?” Joe whispered.
“Sounds like Ruby Hernandez from 203. I babysat her a few times.”
“Now!” the girl pleaded. “She’s coming after me.”
Joe unlocked the deadbolt, pulled the door open, and Ruby rushed in.
Cowering by the base of the couch, the girl shouted, “Close the door!”
Gripping his gun, Joe stepped into the hallway. Dim, dust-filled rays of light bled through the blinds of a distant window. At the end of the hallway there stood a gray-haired woman in a dirty housedress.
“Sounded like someone was running through the hall,” she said in a coarse, accusatory tone.
“You haven’t been chasing after a child, have you?” Joe asked.
She shook her head, pointing down at his gun. “What the hell’s the gun for? You haven’t gone crazy or—”
Suddenly, an arm came around the corner of the hallway and wrapped around her throat. Another arm appeared, its hand splayed across the woman’s temple. With a quick twist and snap, the old woman’s body crumpled to the floor and began to twitch.
Her assailant emerged. It was another woman. Her head was angular to a freakish degree, and the way she moved was unnatural. She clumsily stepped over the dying woman, and then began limping toward him.
“Who the fuck are you?” he barked.
“It’s my mother,” Ruby called out. “Please, shut the door.”
Joe stole a glance into the apartment: Cass was cradling the terrified child. “You’re burning up, sweetie,” Cass soothed. “Don’t worry, Joe and I will take good care of you.”
Her mother. Joe shuddered. What the hell is going on here?
The woman was closer now, and he could see her features. She looked… No, it wasn’t possible!
She looked dead.
Her eyes were pallid, glazed over as if consumed by cataracts, and her skin was an ashen, ghastly shade of pale.
“What the fuck?” He leveled his gun in her direction and took aim.
The woman—the thing—moaned, deep and feral.
“Stop or I’ll shoot.” He had often fantasized about using the line. But now that he had, there was no luster to the realized dream, only terror. His breathing quickened. Swirling spots appeared before his eyes.
The thing didn’t stop. It advanced, arms held up and out in supplication.
Joe fired a warning shot above the woman’s head. The report rang through the corridor, the scent of cordite clearing his sinuses.
She dropped to her knees, clutching her ears, screaming. Had he hit her? Leading with his gun, he approached cautiously; the thing shrieked insanely.
Cassandra bolted into the hallway. “Joe, what did you—” Catching sight of the horror show, she ran back into the apartment.
Joe leveled the barrel of the gun at the woman’s head. “Start talking.”
A malevolent screech came from her gaping maw, her rancid halitosis of death burning his eyes.
Joe squeezed the trigger, stumbling from the recoil. Her forehead erupted into bone and blood. She toppled backward, mouth open, eyes wide. Like a bat out of hell, he raced back into the apartment as frantic footfalls echoed through the stairwell behind him, slammed the door, threw the dead-bolt, and slid down it, winded, his entire body slicked with sweat and his ears still ringing from gunshots.
Cass was holding the young girl and crying.
Joe got up and pushed a sideboard toward the doorway. “Help me, Cass.” He moaned.
Cass laid the little one on the sofa and joined him in the effort. They only stopped when the hutch blocked the door.
“She’s dead.” Cass whimpered.
Joe steadied himself against a wall, tremors coursing through his body. “I know... I shot her.”
“No... I mean Ruby. She’s dead.”
He glanced at the young girl and shrugged. He should have felt sorrow, he realized, but emotion was ebbing away, and he didn’t have the strength to reach for it. His pulse was slowing. Spots multiplied rapidly in front of his eyes.
He fainted.
* * * *
When the weather had started to take a turn for the apocalyptic, Geoff had calculated the distance between Lincoln and Memphis. Then, considering the MPG rating of his SUV, had figured he would need sixty-five gallons of gas for a two-way trip. So he’d purchased five fourteen-gallon portable gas-pumps, nearly wiping out his checking account. For filling the containers with gas, he had dipped into his savings.
A fierce wind rattled the garage-door against his back. He inspected the five red pumps, lined across the bed of his SUV, and prayed he would have a chance to use them.
Geoff routinely planned ahead. It was one of his obsessions. “You’re forcing it,” Ray would say. “Fantasizing fire when all you’ve got is ice.” Blocking out Ray’s voice, he focused on Amanda. She would need help. And nothing, not even Armageddon, could keep him from her.
He slammed the hatch and went back into the house.
When he stepped inside, the phone was ringing. He snatched the cordless handset from the kitchen counter.
“Honey?” It was his mother in Omaha.
“Hey, Mom.”
“How are you feeling? Not getting sick are you?”
“I’m fine, Mom. How about you?
“Fit as a fiddle.”
“And Dad?”
“Same as he ever was. Geoff I—”
“Look, Mom, can I...can I call you back later?”
“Yeah, sure, I just wanted to give you an update on Ray—”
“Bye.” Geoff hung up and heaved a sigh. The last thing he wanted to talk about was Ray, his convict brother. Four seconds later, the phone rang again. He hesitated a moment and then picked it up. “Mom, I’m busy right now.”
“I can call back later if it’s a bad time.”
It was Amanda. And the sad tone of her voice cut straight to the quick, bringing tears to his eyes. “No... uh... I always have time for you.”
“Dealing with your mother, huh?”
“Yeah, how’d you guess?”
Her laughter was weak and pained. He could tell she’d been crying. “Geoff, I...I’m a terrible person. I—”
“No you’re not, Amanda. You’re always your own worst critic, always—”
“Shut up, Geoff.” There was an edge to her voice now. “For once stop projecting and just...just listen. My parents haven’t answered the phone in days, and I’m freaking out, and... Geoff, are you still there?”
“Of course I am.”
“There was strange static on my line, I’m sorry. I didn’t tell them I was leaving, Geoff. I just...fuck...there’s so much I need to...”
“Amanda?”
No res
ponse.
“Amanda?”
Dial tone.
Geoff dialed her number. After a single ring, he heard an operator three-tone: Bu-du-boop. We’re sorry, but the wireless number you have dialed is temporarily out of service. Please try again later.
Without thinking, he grabbed his keys from a plastic rung on the side of the refrigerator, rushed to the garage, and pressed the button to lift the door. The overhead mechanism churned and whirred. But the door, frozen shut, didn’t respond.
“Goddamn it!” His pulse raced.
Spurred by instinct, he got behind the wheel of his SUV. He started it and, fingers splayed across the steering wheel, he revved the engine, and then shifted into reverse. With a jarring crash, the bumper slammed into the garage door, the gas containers in the back sloshing and teetering. One container fell with a thud, releasing the pungent odor of gas... The door held.
He pulled the SUV forward, got out, and wrenched open the hatch. Gasoline spilled from the fallen container. He righted it, found the cap, and punched it back on.
The three windows of the garage-door that normally let light in were obscured by snow. What would he have done had the door opened? He didn’t know. All he knew was that he needed to get to Amanda. “She doesn’t want you,” Ray’s voice sneered in his mind. “She’ll use you, bro.”
He dropped to his knees on the concrete floor. The impact was painful, but nowhere close to the ache in his heart.
* * * *
Shane sat on the couch and stared at Mother.
“You know what’cher doing’s the right thing.”
He glanced down at the revolver in his lap, and a wave of sorrow enveloped him. Other than the steady whisper of the high-powered generator coming from the cellar, the house was eerily silent.
Ginny and the kids must be sleeping. And the thought of them—their pale, sickly faces—made him quiver with fear. Except for occasional cries from Gracie, they’d been sleeping for an unnaturally long time.
“Let them sleep. They’ll be in the Dark One’s grip soon, Shaney.”
He looked up at her with moist eyes. “I can’t do it,” he muttered. “Not to Ginny and the kids.” He opened the chamber of the revolver and stared at six copper butts. Hands trembling, he shook the bullets into his palm.
“Load the gun.”
“No.”
“Do it!” she snarled.
He shook his head; her shadow fell over him.
“Look at me,” she said, her voice now calm and hypnotic.
Nervously, he met her eyes. “How can I do it?”
“The Lord has a plan for you, son. You are to become The Hunter.”
“How am I supposed to do that? I’m too stupid—”
“Hush with that foolish talk. You’ll cleanse the world of the Scourge, and stand tall in the Kingdom of Heaven, a Righteous Warrior. I didn’t raise no weakling now, did I?”
“No.”
“Good. The Lord abhors weaklings.”
“And then what?”
“Then you’ll rule the new world, of course.” She laughed.
“And what if I don’t want to rule the new world?”
“You will. But first, let Mother help you.” She sat beside him, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Everything’s gonna be all right.” She leaned into him, her mouth stretching wide—impossibly wide.
Staring into the pitch black abyss of her maw, he froze. She came closer, until the darkness engulfed him.
The sensation of falling.
He closed his eyes.
And when he opened them, Mother was nowhere to be seen.
He was consumed by sadness. “Mama,” he cried.
She didn’t respond.
“Mama!” he shouted.
She had always been with him. Now he was on his own. He opened his hand, glancing down at the bullets. As much as he didn’t want to do it, he knew what he had to do.
Mother was always right.
* * * *
She was awakened by the sound of scratching. She looked up, her neck stiff but not painful, and saw a tree branch scraping against the eave outside the bedroom window. She heard crying and instinctively knew it was time for the baby’s feeding. But her breasts, normally engorged with milk at a time like this, were more hollow than empty.
She scanned the ceiling. Everything was in monochrome, like old movies, only creepier. Shadows stood out in stark contrast to light, and everything fluttered unnaturally.
Hunger gnawed at her. She rose on one arm and saw the little boy—she couldn’t remember his name—standing by the baby’s crib. He seemed to leer through the bars in an unhealthy manner. The sight of him was disquieting, threatening. His mouth hung open and he grunted. Little fucking animal.
Her body sprang into action on its own. She pushed the boy aside violently, snatching her precious baby from the crib. She held the child, something within her screaming to feed, to feed on the baby...
No!
Battling the urge, she sat on the edge of the bed. Stroking the baby’s head, she strove for the use of a gentle hand. But something told her, despite the struggle, she was handling the child far too hard. She tried to say, “It’s all right, Mommy’s here.” But the only thing that came from her throat was a wet gurgle, making her aware that she wasn’t breathing.
The baby cried louder, terror in its eyes.
In the corner of the room, the boy rose, eyes pale. As shadows, cast by the tree outside, danced across his features, he broke into a string of short, angry snorts. His intent was clear; he wanted her baby.
The door shot open, and a short, homely man with a bushy beard stood in the doorway.
Part of her wanted to scream, but she hissed at the man instead. Placing the baby on the bed behind her—no, don’t leave the baby alone— she jerked upright, springing into an attack crouch. The man was food—she felt it deep within her core. Although she didn’t understand, she sensed she didn’t need to. She needed to eat: his flesh, blood, organs.
The man leveled a gun at her.
The baby’s screams intensified. Momentarily in charge of her faculties—at least on some dim level—she glanced backward, and saw the vile boy upon her infant. Like someone caught in a violent tug-of-war, her body flailed.
Tears streamed from the man’s eyes, the gun trembling in his hands.
She sneered at him, hunger rising.
Gracie—Yes, her name is Gracie!-—stopped screaming.
A bright blast of light.
Then, nothing.
* * * *
His mind beginning to settle, a rational thought slapped him hard: email! Why hadn’t he thought of it sooner? Assuming Amanda’s power was still on, and she wasn’t using dial-up or a DSL connection, it could be possible that she still had access to the internet.
Geoff ran into his home office, opened the web browser on his PC, and logged into his email account. And there it sat, like a gift on Christmas morning: one unread message from Amanda Herbert.
Time: 8:14 pm CDT
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: (no subject)
Geoff - Power is cutting in and out so I’ll be brief. Phones are dead; so’s Travis. I’ll explain later. Road conditions are impossible—don’t kill yourself trying to get to me—please! But do check in on my parents—below are links for directions to their house and mine. My parents live in a two-story townhouse like yours. My place is unit B in an old house divided into apartments—brick with large white columns outside. I regret leaving. I love you, and I understand if you don’t believe me. Love, A
He clicked on Reply.
Amanda,
I LOVE YOU, TOO! I’ll be there as soon as I can, and, of course, I’ll check in on your parents ASAP. I hope this message finds you safely. I don’t know or care who Travis was. Please know I’ll come. Please wait for me. No matter what, you HOLD ON TO HOPE!!
Love,
Geoff
>
He clicked Send, bolstered by validation. His preparations had not been in vain. “Fuck you, Ray,” he shouted. “She loves me.”
And now, sitting alone and waiting, as he’d done many times before, he didn’t feel alone. He smiled. Amanda was waiting for him, too.
Two hours of hopeful anxiety—dashed by the computer screen darkening save for a tiny luminescent spot in the center. A split second later this, too, had disappeared.
* * * *
October 31
Tears streaming down her face, Cass listened to U2’s “One” on her iPod to drown out the scratching and pounding at the door. She held Joe’s head in her lap, stroking his long hair, staring down at his lidded, lifeless eyes. One love…One blood…One life…
Unable to look at a dead child, she’d dragged Ruby’s body into the hallway. Moving the china hutch on her own hadn’t been an easy task. She knew it was Ruby at the door now, even though the child’s voice had been reduced to grunts and growls.
If the child could cheat death, maybe Joe could, too.
She sang along to calm her raging mind. Carry each other…
She’d met Joe at a dive bar. It had been late, and she’d had too much to drink. A burly grunt in a John Deere hat and overalls had been harassing her for over an hour, leering at her with bloodshot eyes. He slipped his hand inside her shirt and smiled.
“No.” She’d growled, slapping his hand away.
“Come on, baby. You write about romance; let’s make a little romance of our own.” His tongue shot out of his mouth, slithering across his chapped upper lip.
Earlier that night she’d talked to him politely, answering questions in only a mildly dismissive manner. He’d obviously taken it as a come-on.
When she’d gotten up to leave, the man responded by throwing his arms tightly around her waist, pulling her toward him. His face moved in on hers, his breath fetid. Strong, implacable arms tightened with such force that flashes of her dead body in a dumpster raced through her mind. Scanning the bar, she was terrified to find the place nearly empty. The bartender, her back turned to the scene, seemed to be in another world all together, yelling at someone through a cordless handset in her white-knuckled grip.
“One” had started playing on the jukebox.
And that’s when it happened.
In her mind, the memory replayed in slow motion: a finger tapped the John Deere-guy’s shoulder...he turned his head, a dumb expression on his sun-burnt face...a fist connected with his jaw...his eyes widened and his head rocked to the side, a tooth shooting from his mouth... he fell from his bar stool with a low, hollow groan, one hand raised skyward in a futile fist.