Balance

by Peter Giglio

  Speaking to the group, pacing around the front of the training room as he often did, he’d noticed her gaze, following him wherever he moved. Others showed the same signs of boredom he’d seen in hundreds of new employees.

  “Come on everyone,” he’d cajoled them. “I feel like I’m bearing witness to a zombie apocalypse here.” That had earned him a few laughs, but not hers. Instead, she cracked a winning grin that seemed to say, “I’m yours.” Then, chin rested in upturned palms, she leaned forward, eyes piercing him with greater intensity.

  After class was over, she approached. “I’m Amanda.”

  “Yeah, I know, you’re gonna be on my team.”

  She wasn’t great looking, not in the traditional sense, but there was a special quality about her, something he couldn’t put his finger on. Was it that she paid attention to him? No, he didn’t think so. It was an immediate sense she was a kindred spirit; it was in her eyes, indefinable.

  “Do you like zombie movies?” she had asked.

  “Yeah, I do. I like horror movies in general; have over a thousand of them in my collection at home.”

  “Awesome. That why you made the joke about zombies?”

  “No. Funny story, actually. I compiled a research study two months ago where we surveyed two thousand people between the ages of twenty and twenty-nine. We asked them what their greatest fear was. Twenty-six percent of them said it was a zombie apocalypse.”

  She’d laughed. “They were pulling your leg.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. That would mean over five hundred people were pulling our legs. That sounds more like a conspiracy than a joke. The good news is the client we compiled the research for is a Hollywood studio, so if you like zombie movies you’re bound to get more.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Thirty-three.”

  “That’s why you don’t understand.”

  He’d laughed. “Maybe. Or maybe it’s why I do understand.”

  “I like you, Geoff.”

  “Yeah, I like you, too, Amanda.”

  “I normally don’t like people. I just wanted to put that out there.”

  “Then...I feel special.”

  “You are. But don’t let your head swell.”

  “Thanks.”

  “See you around.”

  “Whether you want to or not.”

  And now, he wondered if there was any significance to the poll. Twenty-six percent: more than global climate change, more than terrorism, more than the struggling economy. It hadn’t seemed right to him then, and it seemed even weirder now.

  Mankind had been polluting the earth for years. Was the earth...claiming payback? Was that the right word? Could a planet be sentient?

  He didn’t know. But he knew The October Blast hadn’t been a new Ice Age. He knew that an Ice Age had lasted years, not just a month. The temperature gauge on his dashboard read eighty-nine degrees.

  No. Something else was going on. Zombies weren’t exactly natural. But did that mean they weren’t part of nature’s plan?

  Fuck, had the planet read the minds of youth? Or had youth read the mind of the planet?

  Alongside the highway, a long procession shambled. As he sped past, their heads turned to scrutinize him, their argentine eyes highway reflectors in the high beams. A thick wall of fog began to roll in, but he maintained his speed, not wanting to give another zombie the chance to lunge through the shattered passenger window.

  No matter what they had in mind, zombies won’t be polluting the planet anytime soon.

  And, suddenly, his theory didn’t seem so crazy.

  * * * *

  He would let her become.

  He picked meat off the cat’s hind leg and slowly chewed it to keep his vision clear and colored, and the beast within from taking control.

  He would let her become: not because he loved her, but because he would need her. She was dead on the couch now, but she would be back soon. She wouldn’t take long; she never kept him waiting. She would become, and then they could leave.

  And he would let her become: he needed a shield if bullets started to fly; he needed someone to watch his back when he couldn’t; someone to jump in front of things to save him without a moment’s hesitation. He could let her do that.

  Bottom line: he had to get to Cherry. And then, once he and Cherry were reunited, all bets were off. The couch-corpse, or whatever her fucking name was, could do whatever she liked if she hadn’t been destroyed by then.

  But for now, he would be patient.

  Outside, breathers were walking and talking; he could hear them through the screen door of the patio. They were scared. And scared people meant guns. He pulled the gun out of his jeans and held it in front of his face. His digits were not as cooperative as they used to be, but after some struggle, the handle was in his grip, his finger tightening on the trigger.

  He wasn’t like the others of his kind; he was a breed apart; he had a gun, too.

  Her eyes shot open.

  Hot damn! Time to roll!

  * * * *

  His movements were sublime: the way he listened before turning a corner; the way he crept even though his body was stiff; the way he led her by the hand into the safety of shadows.

  Wisps of mist rose from the moist ground like smoke-serpents, making the air dense, and her flesh wet. In the distance, two breathers heaved bodies of her kind into a dumpster.

  He motioned for her to hang back; her low growl uncontrollable, she knew he couldn’t risk detection by having her join the kill. She needed to feed, hunger burning deep. But she was sure he would provide.

  He snuck behind a tree next to the dumpster, the shadow of his form flickering in the fog-drenched moonlight.

  “Do you think there are any more around here?” asked one breather.

  “I don’t know,” said the other. “They might be slow and stupid, but we still have to be careful. We need to—”

  A blast from his gun dropped one of them to the ground. The other knelt by his companion’s side, crying.

  She covered her ears and closed her eyes, the echo of the gunshot ringing through her head. She could hear her lover wail and knew the blast was effecting him the same way. When she opened her eyes, her lover’s gun was leveled at the crying man’s head. She steadied herself for another shot and then it came. Sonic waves of head-splitting torture made her shriek in agony.

  A pained look on his face, he motioned for her to approach.

  It was dinnertime.

  As they fed, she could feel her body calming, and the echoes of gunshots receding. The shadows of the night faded away; the world became bright and colorful. Happy in that moment, she sensed her someday had finally arrived.

  She smiled at him. He sneered. Her happiness was marred by gloom. The night still burned bright, but she wasn’t part of it. She was disposable: the other woman.

  After a while, they loaded meat into the cab of his truck. He supervised her movements with grunts and growls. She complied with every command.

  Soon she was sitting next to him in the truck, gnawing on a dismembered arm while he figured out the controls. One of his hands was splayed awkwardly on the steering wheel, the other on the shifter. The grinding of gears told her that he was having trouble, but she continued to chew contentedly, not expressing frustration. Finally, he managed to get them out of the parking lot and after a few wrong turns, onto the highway.

  He had a hard time maintaining control of the truck, and their progress was slow. But she knew he would get them wherever they were going. She hoped it would be California, but couldn’t for the life of her remember why.

  * * * *

  It was clear to Tyson and Drew that Darrell was their leader. More than ten years older than them, Darrell had seen a lot and knew more about the world than they did.

  “Boys,” Darrell said, “what we’ve got here’s a situation.”

  They listened intently, sensing this was a bad time to interrupt. Darrell was unpredictable, prone to fi
ts of rage given the slightest—often imagined—provocation.

  “Drew, you still got them road flares?”

  Drew nodded.

  Darrell snatched his shotgun from atop a stack of Soldier of Fortune magazines and cradled it against his barrel chest.

  “What you got in mind?” Tyson asked.

  Drew shot Tyson a fearful glance, mouthing the words, Shut up.

  “Ain’t I got the right to—” Tyson started.

  “Shut the fuck up,” Darrell bellowed, “both of you.” He stood, most of his face obscured by shadows. But, in dim light from the lantern, they could make out a thin sliver of a smile.

  An evil smile, Drew thought.

  “You boys have seen Mad Max, right?”

  They nodded.

  “Well, what we’ve got is a real Mad Max kinda situation on our hands. Problem is, we ain’t got no gas, and we ain’t got no pussy.”

  “Don’t recall Max doing much fucking,” Tyson said.

  Drew slapped Tyson across the back of the head, pointing at Darrell with his free hand. “Listen,” he whispered.

  “Boys, what I got in mind is a little road block. We got guns. We got survival instincts. And it’s high time we had a little fun. World’s gone to shit, and if we don’t take a stand, we might as well wait for the creepers to come and get us. Drew, how many creepers you take down today?”

  Drew held up six fingers.

  “How ’bout you Tyson?”

  “Two.”

  “We’re already kickin’ ass for the good of Mankind, and all we got to show for it is a pile of rotting creepers, some dirty-ass water, and big, swinging dicks with nothin’ to stick ’em in. We’re in charge now.” Darrell pumped his shotgun. “Who’s with me?”

  Tyson and Drew were too scared to cop out. As much as they hated to admit it, streetwise Darrell had kept them alive. He knew how to hunt. He knew how to survive. They’d be lost without him.

  Drew ran to his trailer and grabbed his road flares.

  Tyson salvaged a few boards from behind Darrell’s house and, using tar for paint, fashioned a crude sign.

  Within an hour of Darrell’s idea, they’d staked out a spot on Missouri-60.

  “Drew,” Darrell said, “you watch the woods for creepers. Tyson... You listening boy?”

  Tyson was planting his sign into the soft shoulder of the road. “What?”

  “Boy, that sign looks about as ugly as your mama on Easter Sunday.”

  Tyson, the one who’d shot his mother in the head when she turned, looked like he might cry.

  “You’ve got road duty,” Darrell said.

  “What’s road duty?”

  “Stand in the middle of the road and wave your gun, get assholes to stop and such. Think you can handle that?”

  Two headlights were cutting a swathe through the fog. Tyson stepped into the road.

  “Now aim your gun at them,” Darrell said.

  Tyson could tell that it was a large truck, moving in serpentine patterns. He leveled his handgun, his arms trembling with fear. “They’re all over the place,” he muttered.

  “You’re doing fine, boy,” Darrell shouted.

  “Don’t you think we should put the flares down first? Fog’s getting thick,” Drew said.

  “You gonna keep an eye on the woods, or second guess me all night?” Darrell snapped.

  Tyson aimed into the air and fired. But the truck didn’t slow. Silver beams sliced through the haze, sweeping the night. He leveled his gun and shot at the grille of the truck. Sparks arced from metal. But the truck didn’t slow.

  “Put one through the windshield, Tyson,” Darrell bellowed. “They’ll stop for you then.”

  Tyson aimed for the windshield, squeezed the trigger, and missed. The truck was close now. In the moonlit mist, he glimpsed the driver and froze with fear. The ghostly visage behind the wheel could be only one thing.

  “Zombie,” he muttered.

  “What the fuck?” boomed Darrell.

  “Zombie,” Tyson shouted. Summoning the strength to move, he started for the shoulder, but was too late. He was splotched to the front of the truck, where most of his mangled corpse would adhere for another twenty miles.

  * * * *

  The very air was burnt.

  He pulled into the long driveway that led to the house, his hackles rising. Tall trees lining the winding trail were scorched and blackened. As his house came into view in the high beams, he emitted a low, fearful groan. The house, like the trees, was charred. The roof was gone, as was much of the structure...including the garage.

  He stopped the rig, climbed out, and slogged to the space where the garage had stood. There, amongst the detritus of his house, he found Cherry: black, blistered, dead.

  He threw his head back and howled into the night, his hand caressing across her rough, wounded body. Etched in ash on her back window was a perplexing message: EVE. Peering through the space in the V, he glimpsed a blackened skeleton that seemed to be curled up in the backseat.

  Something touched his shoulder. He spun and saw the couch-corpse trying to smile ingratiatingly and look pretty, but her face was disgusting. She needed to back off if she didn’t want to get hurt. There was no way she could understand what he was going through. How could she? She was only a woman. He turned his back on her and started blindly toward the woods. He knew he needed to get away, yet couldn’t abide the thought of driving the truck another mile. Grinding gears and the roar of an inferior engine were too much pain to handle. He wasn’t the driver he used to be, but Cherry would have taken care of that for him. Unlike the eighteen-wheeler, Cherry did her share of the work when it came to the open road.

  Squelching footfalls behind him told him that the couch-corpse was following. Dumb bitch. He couldn’t stop her. If she wanted to follow, fuck it, he would let her. He might still need her anyway.

  He stopped. Reaching down the front of his pants, he grabbed his tiny and flaccid penis. Despite the stench from his shit-filled pants, he stroked his cock. He tried to focus his mind on erotic images, but his manhood didn’t respond. It was dead. He pulled the gun from his belt and tried to grip it, but that was useless, too. His fingers had stiffened and wouldn’t wrap around the handle. He grunted. Fingers stiff, cock limp, Cherry burnt to a crisp: he was in hell. As much as it pained him to realize it, he wasn’t a breed apart. He was one of them now, one of the shambling masses, driven by insatiable hunger.

  The couch-corpse moaned. The exposed muscle and nerve endings of her neck looked like road-kill in the moonlight. No wonder I can’t get a boner. He tried to laugh, but all he managed was a high-pitched shriek. That was okay, humor was far from what he wanted to express.

  He was hungry again, despite his recent feeding. His body ached and his head screamed. He regretted not stopping to eat the three men that had shot at the grille of his cab-over, although running one of them down had been fun. The bones from the dumpster kill had been picked clean. New flesh was needed. The couch-corpse had been dead too long to eat, which was a shame; it would have been nice to kill two birds with one stone.

  Glancing at the trees around him, the space between them murky with fog, he remembered the wilderness had been filled with life. What kind of life, he couldn’t remember. But instinct told him it was the right place to hunt.

  Chapter Three

  November 1

  The house was surrounded, her blood infected. Shadows played across the bathroom floor, footfalls swished outside. It was only a matter of time before they made it in; a matter of time before they discovered her flesh. At least if they eat me, it may keep me from coming back as one of them.

  Amanda sent a heartfelt thought to Geoff through the ether: I’m sorry. Please don’t come for me. Save yourself. I love you.

  The water was cold. Her life spilled out in clouds of darkness from the deep slashes in her wrists. The thought of being eaten alive terrified her more than the possibility of reanimation.

  This was her way out; he
r only way...

  * * * *

  “Out!” the redneck demanded. “Get the fuck outta the car now, or I’m gonna blow your fuckin’ head off.”

  A line of road flares cut through the shadowy night, illuminating a crude, handpainted sign that read, “ ZOMBIE CHECKPOINT.” One redneck eyed the gas containers in the back while the one at Geoff’s passenger-side window, a big mother-fucker, held a shotgun across his chest. Glaring contemptuously at Geoff, the oaf’s face was pink in the unearthly glow of the flares. “Are you listening to me?”

  “I told you,” Geoff said. “I’m not a zombie, I’m not infected, and—”

  “We’ll be the judges of that, boy,” the skinny redneck, much younger than his companion, called out from the back of Geoff’s SUV.

  “What gives you the authority to do this?” Geoff asked.

  The hefty redneck laughed. “Authority? There ain’t no more fuckin’ authority in the world.” Aiming the shotgun at Geoff, he bellowed, “Now get out. We’ve already had enough trouble for one night, and we ain’t looking for no more.”

  Geoff held up his hands. “Okay,” he said in a calm, defeated voice. “Give me just a—”

  “Now!” screamed the man with the gun.

  “Have him unlatch the back,” said the young redneck.

  The monster turned to his partner, a look of contempt on his face, and...

  Geoff jammed his foot on the accelerator, clutching the wheel, his knuckles white. The back passengerside window exploded in a thunderous blast and a spray of glass. He steered around a flare, breath and pulse a rataplan of chaos in his head. Another shot rang out; a dull, harmless sounding zing from the back bumper. Watching the line of flares shrink in his rearview mirror, he inspected his body for wounds. Albeit showered in pebbles of glass, he wasn’t hit. He breathed a sigh of relief, and felt a semblance of normalcy—like he might not die of a heart attack at any second—return.

  Rural Missouri hadn’t been a fun place to travel when the world was alive; go figure now. No more stops, even if the fuckers were brandishing guns. The remainder of his trip would cover areas with low-population density, meaning less chance of zombie contact. Redneck nut-jobs he wasn’t as sure about. Wondering which was worse, he couldn’t land on a definite answer. He only knew one thing—