Cleaver

by McCloud, Wes

  “Gypsy! Hey!” I keep yelling as I scramble to get up. But she’s too fast and disappears into the tall grass beyond the house. I quickly realized I had bigger things to worry about. Four more sick people come stumbling round the house and Jeff is losing it. He’s barking and snarling while I’m fumbling the gun up to a bead. Two more shots make two more heads vaporize as I start marching forward with a confidence that had to be inspired by the growing anger I was feeling. Anger spawned from sickening dread. I kicked the next one in the chest and knock it down, blowing its head into pieces as it tried to get up. I whip the gun up to take out what I hope is the last threat, but I hesitate…It’s a girl. She couldn’t have been more than seven years old. Pretty sure she was from the house up the hill. She waved at me one day from the yard as I was coming home from work. I wanted to hug her, tell her she was going to be okay, but there was no humanity left in her bloodshot eyes. In the split second before I pulled the trigger, I thought about all the things she hadn’t done. The life she hadn’t got to live. Her first car. Her prom. Her high school graduation. Kids. Grandkids. Nothing.

  “I’m sorry.” It was all I could say right before that gun kicked me in the shoulder for the sixth time in my entire life. I was sick to my stomach. This wasn’t real. This couldn’t be real.

  I spent an hour trying to find Gypsy, but I didn’t even as much as hear that dog. She was long gone. She was so tiny, far removed from the wolves of her ancestry. I knew she just wasn’t going to make it out there. And I felt responsible for that. But there was just nothing I could do. Running around the countryside trying to find a dog that obviously didn’t want to be found was no doubt suicide. I just wanted to go home before I had to execute another kid.

  I got home and sat on the porch with my gas mask pulled down, just staring out through the field. I couldn’t help but think about how serene it was, the way the breeze caressed the tall grass. I shook my head in the thoughts that if a person had just been dropped here, they’d have no idea that seven dead people were rotting on the property across the street. I started watching the ants going about their business on the sidewalk and I distinctly remember envying them. I was coldly reminded of how much nature really didn’t need us. If we all died today, those ants wouldn’t even notice. They’d just keep collecting food and digging holes. Just like the meadow lark would still sing and the bobcat would still hunt. Let’s face it, they were probably better off without us. We butchered, raped, and maimed mother nature over and over all in the name of “progress”. If humans weren’t the scourge of the earth, I didn’t know what was…but now wasn’t the time for self-loathing. I had things to think about. Plans to consider. Quite frankly, I had no idea what I was going to do. I had no idea how far this had spread. Was it just this town? The county? The state? The country? The earth? It was impossible to tell. Even if I’d wanted to indulge in electronics, there were obviously no communications now. And then the thought remerged - Was I immune in the face of all this? I was starting to feel like Robert Neville, the last man on earth. I don’t think that was a good thing.

  Sleep came and went on the darkness of the porch. But mostly went. Even when it did come, my dreams were filled with the thoughts of killing people. Bashing Ted’s head in was at the forefront, only in the dream he was alive, not the crazed infected thing I’d slayed. He was there, smiling at me at the mailbox, going about the latest viral thing on Facebook and then I’d just bury a metal rod in his head.

  I heard Jeff growl at one point. Well, at least I think I did. It was one of the moments where you wake up thinking you heard something but maybe you didn’t. And since he eyeballed me like I was an asshole, I probably didn’t.

  I watched the sunrise for the second time since I was a teenager. I ate what I could, but my stomach was still in knots with the events from the previous days. I fired the generator back up and tried busying myself in the depths of the pole barn; fiddling once again with metalwork, trying desperately to go back to my place of ignorance. But all I kept seeing were the faces of the dead, especially the one that was seven years old. I had had enough. I had to go back over there and do something. I wasn’t sure quite what. I started up the old tractor of grandad’s and headed back to Ted’s house. It probably wasn’t the best idea considering you could hear that thing puttering over a mile away. The rig had a backhoe attachment…I was planning on digging a mass grave and burying them all. It just seemed like the right thing to do. Or maybe I was just doing it so I could sleep better. Jeff was perched in my lap. Smiling face and tongue hanging in the breeze. I pulled the tractor into the drive and shut it down…something was off. I knew it. Jeff knew it. I peered ahead to see an empty wheelbarrow knocked over, some twenty feet from where I’d left it, Ted’s headless body was gone. I almost just turned the tractor back over and went home…but I couldn’t. I rounded the house with Jeff; the bodies of the five slain were missing as well. The only thing that still remained was their brain and skull matter peppering the grass. If it hadn’t been for that, I would’ve thought it all to have been a delusion of my mind. Who or what the hell would’ve drug these folks off? You ever get those chills that are just so overwhelming that they literally bring tears to your eyes? It’s like even your damn face is getting goosebumps, and that’s causing your eyes to water. Jeff is letting out these little whines and I can only imagine he’s experiencing the dog version of what I just mentioned. I don’t want to, but I have to see. I walk back round and there’s a black blood trail leading out the back door and down the steps. It disappears about a pace into the grass. I didn’t even have to go inside to know she was gone too. Were the dead feeding on the dead? Jesus, was I calling them that now? Shit. Not even the thought of possibly finding Phillis’s recipe for those white chip macadamia cookies was going to make me reenter that house. I turned round and left. I didn’t think it was even possible for me to be more riled by the thoughts of having to kill people, but this had topped it. Something was big enough and strong enough to drag those bodies away last night and it sure as hell wasn’t Gypsy. Quite honestly, a person was the only thing I could think of, most animals even close to being big enough around here would have just fed on the bodies where they laid. But why would anyone drag them off? The whole situation had me thinking about the fact that I had only been able to locate one gun, and said gun only had about two dozen shells left. Of course there was the one Phillis had accidentally ended herself with, but I wasn’t touching that one. It was staying right where it was.

  When I got back to the house I go into crazy mode once again, ripping apart every closet and shoe box and shopping bag I can find. I swear grandad had more guns somewhere. I’d seen the man shoot them on countless occasions. In the end, I found jackshit. Maybe he’d sold them in the years before he passed. So I had to come with the terms that I had a shotgun with less than twenty-four rounds and a sawed-off dog to protect me. After those shells were gone, that gun was going to make a nice paperweight. A centerpiece I could place over my mangled corpse.

  I went back to metalworking. Because that’s what I did now. It had apparently become my version of the goddamn fidget spinner. Keeping me busy and my mind somewhere else, trying to ignore the fact that a mutant creature was lurking in the shadows, dragging away the bodies of the dead to thatch a nest of corpses together to lay its eggs in. Yeah, that’s one of the “logical” scenarios I’d come up with. And I wondered why I had trouble sleeping… Anyway, while I was toiling away at useless “art” that I couldn’t get a methhead to carry to the scrapyard, an idea hit me. If I need a weapon, why don’t I just make one. One that won’t run out of bullets. A sword…yes. A sword. I dug through the endless mounds of junk surrounding me with some odd, newfound sense of joy. I find a three inch wide by about four feet long flat piece of metal. Perfect. I find some pipe for a handle and make a notch into it. I bolt and weld it to the flat stock and then go to grinding both sides of the metal to a razor’s edge. I worked on this thing for a couple days straight, barely taking
breaks to eat or drink. I was obsessed. When I finally finish it, it ain’t pretty, but it’s mean looking. I left it squared off on the end. This thing was for hacking. As you can imagine, it was heavy. Not too bad, but it was no Samurai sword. No this thing was made for Barbarian’s to split people in two, and I couldn’t have been more proud of my handywork. Lucky for me, I had actually paid attention to Michealcthulu videos. And if you don’t know who Michealcthulu was, your YouTube game was off. So now I had a weapon that required no rearming. But I needed a way to carry it, I wasn’t gonna drag this thing behind me like a caveman. I fashioned a sheath and strap harness system, this was harder than actually making the sword, but I did it. The sword kind of released like shit, but I wasn’t going to remake the thing, I almost committed suicide the first time around from the frustration.

  I spent a few days swinging it around and practicing with it, to the utter chagrin of my lower back. This thing would split logs like an axe. It would do nicely. I named the sword Orion because you have to name a sword, right? King Arthur had Excalibur, Gandolf had Glamdring, and now I had Orion. I named it after the constellation of the hunter, and if I’m being honest, my favorite Metallica song. So now I was a gun toting, sword wielding maniac in a post-apocalyptic world. All I needed now was a bald eagle perched on my shoulder and an American flag for a cape. But I’d settle for a gasmask. Yes, that gasmask. I had some weird obsession with it. I’d almost compare it to a kid and his blankie at this point. I had no idea why I kept donning that thing every time I went out. Maybe I thought it gave me a different persona. Like when I slipped it on I was someone else. Someone who wasn’t scared to death that he wouldn’t see tomorrow; That he wouldn’t be eaten alive. I was Batman. I was Mask Man, okay that didn’t have much of ring to it. I guess, really, the mask was a crutch, it let me better deal with things. Like when I used to wear sunglasses all the time because I didn’t like looking people directly in the eye when I talked to them. Yeah, it was something like that. But the mask could be better…stronger…meaner…it had to match my sword swinging alter-ego. I started digging through the garage and found a skull in the corner in an empty bucket of drywall mud. Don’t worry, it wasn’t a human skull, my granddad was a Presbyterian not a serial killer. It was a goat skull…I think. Where the man got that thing I’ll never know. He hunted but I don’t recall there being an open season on goats. He probably traded a pair of camo coveralls for it or something. The point was, it had horns, and I started thinking, damn those horns would look rad on this gasmask. So I went to the utterly useless task of sawing off the horns and attaching them to the mask. I used a section of the outer shell of an old motorcycle helmet I found and screwed the horns into it and riveted it into the straps of the mask. I pull the whole mess down over my face and look at myself in the mirror. I look ridiculous, but strangely badass at the same time. It was an intimidating look. I know I wouldn’t want a stranger coming at me with a sword wearing a mask with devil horns. Hopefully if I did run into any people that weren’t infected and weren’t nice, they’d run from me before they found out I was a royal pussy. I felt like it was good tactic. So I had to listen to Jeff bark at the “new” mask for another half hour. I sat there and read for a bit in the lawn chair while wearing it, letting him get it out his grievances till he finally realized it was me.

  SEÑORITA AKITA

  The next few days I keep practicing with Orion. Splitting

  logs, slicing off small tree limbs in the woods, and air fighting infected folks that weren’t there. It brought back memories of when I was younger, pretending I was a Jedi Knight, using a old broom handle as my Lightsaber. After a bit, there was this sick part of me that was actually looking forward to trying this thing on one of them. But none came. I saw no hair nor rotting flesh of one since the incident at Ted’s. Things were quiet…too damn quiet. And then one afternoon a familiar sound emerges over the hills. It was cut from the loins of the same horrific rumble on the day the death-powder rained down. Only it was a symphony of one. And there it stood, low in the sky, even lower than the last time I had seen one. The dual prop chopper cut a line from the north, headed straight towards the property…but something was off. The droning roar of the beast started to wane into a gasping wheeze as I watched one of the props cut out to barely a turn. The steel bird went into a dizzying spin and began losing altitude at a terrifying rate. Within the next second, the other prop cut out and joined its twin in the afterlife. The rig spun right back round and once again headed south. In an eerie silence it glided right over top of where Jeff and I stood frozen in a state of absolute awe. Together we watched it as it peacefully flew over the field and right into the trees, kissing its own shadow as it met the ground, dispersing a sound I couldn’t even begin to describe. It touched down over three-hundred yards away but still shook the ground beneath me as it split the treeline in half and buried deep into the woods beyond the far fence line. In the next moment, everything was as dead silent as it had ever been. I stood there for at least ten minutes, I think, trying to process what had just happened. I have to admit I was scared. Were there people inside? And if so, were they the enemy? If my theories on the dust were anywhere near correct, then the answer had to be yes. But then again, maybe they needed help…but what help was I going to be? I shook my head of it all, well, as best I could as I walked back to the house and grabbed the shotgun and the sword. I threw the gas mask back on, for intimidation purposes more than anything at this point. I locked Jeff in the house, he wasn’t happy about it, but I wasn’t taking chances on this one. I jumped the fence and cut a beeline for the riddled path through the forest the chopper had sliced. I don’t quite remember what was going on in my head that whole trip, but it was nothing but anxiety. I had killed these creature people ( I still didn’t want to call them zombies ) but the thought of having to kill a normal person was a path I wasn’t ready to traverse.

  The closer I came to the crash sight, the more I realized that the bird had seemed to do more damage to the trees than the other way round. I fully expected the wings the props spun upon to be ripped right off, but they were still intact from where I could see at that moment. The crash path was in shambles; twisted and mangled wood I’d only seen the likes of when a straight-line wind had ripped the backside of the county through the state forest some years back. It put me in perfect mind of that. I remembered I recorded it and posted a video to Facebook. It got 46 likes. Go me. I’m not sure if it was the forest playing tricks on me, but there was a presumed size of the airborne beast I had in my head and it was much smaller than the behemoth that lay at rest not but twenty paces away now. This thing was like nothing I’d ever seen before. It was like one of those tiltrotor choppers but on steroids.

  My steps slow and my heartrate begins to elevate as does my breathing which begins to slightly fog the mask I’m wearing. Still I don’t remove it, I just keep a steady pace, albeit slow. I’m staring at the ass end of it now, and it has a rear cargo hold door big enough to drive a tank into. The door is shut, so I have to find another way in. I make my way to the presumed driver’s side…do these things have a driver’s side? Probably not. I have the gun drawn up, ready to blow a hole in something, but praying I don’t have to. There’s no sound, not even a goddamn bird flapping it’s wings. Wasn’t there supposed to be some kind of noise? Some stereotypical severed wires buzzing or smoke pluming into the air like in the movies. At this point, I’m listening for a radio, a mayday signal, S.O.S., anything. Nothing. I count to three and rip the door open, pointing my gun high. All those countless hours of playing Call of Duty had prepared me for this moment…Jesus I was pathetic. My frantic gun pointing slowly dies off as it sets in that there’s no immediate danger, not that I can see anyway. I carefully climb up into the vessel and my paranoia goes apeshit. I start picturing scenarios straight out of movies and video games, like someone jumping on my back and shoving a knife into my brain stem. Or special forces soldiers surrounding me with fully automatics pointed at my face, ch
est, and dick. None of that happens. I make my way into the cockpit and pull the door aside and right then and there I find out why no one was there to greet me, nice or otherwise. There’s two people in there. I admit I raised the gun for a split second, shitting myself a little in the process. But the two are slumped over in their chairs, and they ain’t sleeping. Both have huge gunshot holes in their heads. My fear elevates once again as I picture someone went AWOL and blew their brains out and they’re still in here, or worse yet, back at my house.

  I pull my mask up on top of my head and take the time to better assess the situation. The presumed co-pilot has a huge hole on the side of his face and the other guy has the back of his head gone and a gun is in his lap. I’ve watch enough crime drama to assume the guy with the back of his head missing, shot his buddy in the head then turned the gun on himself. At least that’s what I was telling myself so I can breathe once again. Now whether this happened before the crash or after is something that I puzzle over for quite some time because, let’s face it, it does make a difference…I think. If the pilot pulled this stunt before the crash, it tells me he was sick of what he was seeing, what they were doing, and he stopped it. He dies as an unsung hero. If it happened after, it makes me think they had a protocol to follow, you crash, you die so no one can ask you questions. Right? So that makes him a company man. I guess the co-pilot wasn’t in on that one. The next thing I do is take the pilot’s gun. Hey, after seeing what happened the other day, I’m making sure I have as many as possible. I know, I know, I didn’t take Phillis’s gun, but I knew her, I didn’t know this guy. So in addition to feeling like a murderer, I am now a thief; but for some reason, I’m okay with that. I don’t even have that new gun in my hand for ten seconds when I have it pointed at a sound coming from near the back of the cargo hold. It’s a quick little noise, maybe a shuffling. Godddamn I hoped it wasn’t a shuffling. Gun pointed, bead taken, I walk slowly out into the hold, waiting for it to happen again, hoping it wouldn’t. But it did. A shuffle. A whine. A yip. A yip? For a moment I think Jeff somehow got loose and followed me all the way back here. I drop the gun down and walk onwards. I even call his name, but he doesn’t come running like I expected. I’m beyond confused, but as my eyes adjust, I get handed the sight of a heavily armored crate. It’s about four feet tall, garnished in dark, military hues with bars on the front, like a miniature prison cell. There’s a white, stenciled name painted across the top of what appears to be a door. “CBW-086” A whining emerges once again from the belly of the crate. I drop to my knees and put away the gun. My gaze is greeted by two concerned eyes, staring out through the bars. It’s a dog.