by Ann Christy
Charlie grins at me, which is entirely inappropriate given the circumstances, and says, “We go carefully.”
There’s a break in the flow of deaders after a while, and we take advantage of that to scoot to the next overhang, hugging the buildings as we go and keeping our steps as light as those of a cat. A single deader notices us and shifts direction, but one very impressive swipe of Gregory’s sharp machete separates its head from its body and the problem is solved. While I wish I could smash the head and render it dead, we don’t have the luxury of time at the moment. I settle for trying not to look at its moving jaws as it lies on the ground like a rotten vegetable.
This leap-frogging of doorways works for us. We follow the gap in the deaders as it moves up the street. A few more require dispatching before we make it to the block where the post office is, but overall, I’d call it a success if I wasn’t afraid to jinx us by doing such a foolish thing.
We huddle in the shadow of the inset door to a bakery, now nothing more than smashed shelving and broken glass cases. All of us are sweating like we’ve been running a marathon and it isn’t just from the heat. It’s fear sweat. Charlie has gone pale around the patches of heat-induced red on his cheeks, and his eyes are widened in fear. The grating sound of Gregory grinding his teeth is loud at each doorway we stop in.
For all of us, this number of deaders is bringing back the memories we carry of the private hell each of us experienced when this horror began. I’d taken for granted how much those feelings had faded, not realizing the extent of my forgetting. Now, I’m reminded.
The post office faces the block perpendicular to our location, which means a corner. My hope is that the call of that thudding boom is enough to keep the deaders streaming down the streets on each side of us and that none of them will stray from the path.
Gregory huffs in two deep, fast breaths and nods at each of us. Charlie nods back and edges forward a little to cover him, his crossbow at the ready. Out of habit, I take the other position, facing back the way we came and scanning the street for any deaders noticing us.
The little gap in the deaders is even with us now, so this is the time to go or else we’ll be stuck for who knows how long.
“On me,” Gregory whispers, stepping lightly out from under the overhang. With Charlie to his left and me so close to the back of him, we’re almost a single unit.
It’s no more than thirty feet to the corner. The open spaces where sheet glass once lured passersby to gaze at the carbs on display don’t feel like much cover to me. A deader, the kind that can’t really move anymore because it’s missing most of its legs, reaches up from the inside of the bakery as we pass. The little leathery hand brushes my thigh as we step past and I have to bite my lip to keep from screeching or smashing at the hand. The touch is strangely gentle, almost intimate, and it really freaks me out.
At the corner, Gregory pokes his head around quickly then jerks it back. He nods, more to himself than to us, and then does it again.
“Two deaders hung up on a car and a pile of them around a bench, but those look inactive. The ones at the car seem to be trying to join the others, but can’t. We’ll have to worry about those,” Gregory whispers, his voice a little scratchy and his face bathed in sweat.
“And the other block?” Charlie asks. He means the street that runs along the other side of the block. These are city blocks, but it’s an old city and that means that they’re smaller than those in a more modern city. It’s an easy sightline.
“There are a couple of cars for cover, but the street is pretty clear. Post office is smack dab in the middle of the block,” Gregory answers, keeping his voice low.
“Could be worse,” I say and wink when Charlie levels a look at me. “Let’s move. The gap is closing.”
It’s true. The gap we’ve been hop-scotching up the street is moving past us, and a clump of about five deaders is back a hundred feet or so. That’s too close given that I can see a steady stream of more behind that group by no more than another fifty feet. They’re not thick on the ground, but even fifteen deaders looks like a lot when all you’ve got is three shooters.
Keeping to our same positions, we turn the corner and crouch a little while we all get a look. There are two deaders hung up on a car just as Gregory said, both of them straining in little surges of movement toward the direction of the thudding sound. And there’s a rather large and messy pile of them around one of the cast iron benches. Unfortunately, it’s between us and the post office. And the location of the post office is obvious, even after more than four years. The tattered remains of a flag still dangle from a flagpole angling out and upward over the door.
“Go,” I urge. No plan is going to get us through this quickly.
“Hold,” Gregory says, sighting down his crossbow.
He must be timing those surges of motion, because between two surges his bolt looses with a thunk-thwang that sounds very loud to my ears. He loads another bolt in a few quick moves and then does the same with the other deader. Both are pretty good shots, because both heads drop out of sight behind the car.
“Go!” Gregory hisses.
I don’t let grass grow under my feet. We run, keeping to the balls of our feet to lower the noise, but it still sounds loud to me. The last pane of the bakery’s window is intact and I catch a glimpse of our reflection as we speed past. It’s a shock really. We look dangerous.
Next to the bakery is a tiny yarn shop and I have a momentary thought that we have to go through it before we leave. Yarn is one thing we could really use. Gloria would love it if I brought her a few skeins of bright wool.
The deaders around the bench barely react as we pass and I think most of them are really dead, a few obviously smashed heads topping the pile. Whoever made those fires was definitely here, because those are freshly dead. There are still hints of moist, grayish-pink inside the sharp shards of skull on one of them. I point toward it with my crossbow and Charlie nods, seeing what I’m seeing.
At the post office, Gregory touches the old-fashioned push latch on the door as Charlie and I crowd in close, decreasing our profile. He doesn’t depress it yet, instead looking inside through the glass. The larger window is spider-webbed with cracks, but the glass is intact. It has the look of glass like in cars or banks, so maybe it’s bulletproof or something. Either way, the post office is closed up tight.
“Clear,” Gregory says, then adds, “But we go in ready.”
Without further delay, Gregory depresses the tarnished brass latch and we enter the post office. It’s a small office, so there isn’t much to clear, but we do it by the book. Rows of postal boxes line the walls of the room and a bunch of old mailing envelopes lays scattered on the floor. Footprints in the dust tell me there have been others here recently and I feel a surge of excitement in my chest at the purposeful way the prints run through the room.
Humans. Humans with purpose and intention. But is the intention good or bad?
The glass door at the other end leads into the post office customer service area. I can see the little stanchions that used to keep the customers in their proper line as they snaked their way up to the counter.
“There’s no line today,” Charlie whispers and I hold back a nervous giggle.
Gregory steps toward the glass door and tosses back at us, “But the mail is so unreliable these days.”
It’s not funny enough to make us laugh on a normal day, but this isn’t a normal day and I have to repress another giggle that wants to bubble up from inside. Charlie snorts.
We’re able to clear the customer area by looking through the glass it’s so small. Beyond the big counter where the postal workers once stood, there’s a dark space of a size we can’t guess, but once I see the big pieces of cardboard made from torn up mailing boxes and the writing on it, I don’t care much.
Gregory opens the door and we all walk in, crossbows lowering and our eyes on the cardboard.
“Well, that explains it,” Gregory says, laying his crossb
ow on the counter.
And it does explain a lot. This isn’t a sign as much as a note, and one that has been added to a couple of times if the changed handwriting and different colored marker are any indication. I read it again, letting the words soak in like a cool bath on a hot night.
Hello! We’re here from the hospital. There are nine of us. We’re looking for Charlie or Veronica or anyone from their group. Someone will check this office every other day so please wait!
We aren’t hostile. We’re going to clear some of the deadheads because there are so many. Watch out! They’ll be moving. Stay away from the college. Hope we meet up soon. We have a lot of news! Tom Sharpe
Sadly, I can see where the word ten has been crossed out and replaced with a nine, meaning they’ve already lost one member to our city somehow. Still, nine people is an amazing number. It’s more than we have now and I can’t imagine more than doubling our population all at once. If they are who they say they are, that is.
“Wow,” Charlie says.
“Bit of an understatement about the deaders moving,” Gregory responds, still facing the sheets of cardboard and the uneven writing on them.
“I might have chosen a place a little less central if they knew the deaders would be moving like this,” I add.
“That must be what the thudding is,” Charlie says. He taps absently at his crossbow for a moment, his fingernails making a little click click noise that draws my eyes. Then he gives a start as something clicks in his memory and says, “You know those legless deaders at the military complex? I bet this is how they got them all to come. Drew them in with thudding like they’re doing now, I mean.”
Gregory nods absently, but only looks back toward the bright light outside. I know what he’s thinking. He’s considering the whole ‘every other day’ situation.
“Well, nothing to be done about it now. What do we do? Do we wait?” I ask.
“If they came today, then they won’t be here for two days, but if they were here yesterday, someone should come tomorrow,” Charlie says.
“And the day isn’t over yet, either. Maybe they’ll come today,” I add.
If we go by votes, I think Charlie and I will both vote to stay. I’m not sure what Gregory will vote, but I can tell he doesn’t like the idea of sitting still inside a building with deaders rolling past in the numbers they are.
“Gregory?” I prompt.
He shakes his head, breaking whatever train of thought captured him while he stared outside. All he has to do is look at us and he knows what we want.
“Fine. We’ll stay here,” he says, but it’s said very grudgingly.
“You think there might be a pen here?” I ask, dropping my crossbow on the counter and hopping up to swing my legs over to the other side.
“What for?” Gregory asks. He reaches out and grabs the back waistband of my jeans before I can jump down on the other side and says, “We need to clear it first. Just in case.”
I wait while they maneuver up onto the counter and jump down, weapons up and ready to clear the back of the post office. Before we step into the dim interior, I answer Gregory’s question. “I want to write a letter too. You know, if we have to go before they get here.”
“Ah,” Charlie says, then he turns and winks at me. “You never write me letters.”
I feel the flush starting up in my cheeks and it gets worse when Gregory rolls his eyes and makes kissy noises. Humor is definitely called for or else they’ll tease me all night.
“How do you know? Like Gregory said, the mail is pretty unreliable nowadays. I may have sent you a dozen Dear John letters by now.”
“Touché,” Gregory says, and slaps Charlie on the back. “This is why you never tangle with a girl that’s smarter than you are.”
I slide up to take my position to the rear left and Charlie stands right next to me, ready to clear on the right when we cross the threshold. At Gregory’s signal, we all click on the penlights on our crossbows. We’re ready.
There’ll be no chit-chat once we start clearing, so I take the opportunity to get in one last shot. Elbowing Charlie to get his attention, I say, “In your case, that means you shouldn’t tangle with any girls at all.”
It takes him a second, but when he gets it, he smiles at me, not at all offended. Yeah, best boyfriend for the end of the world…ever.
Today - Two for Two
My morning watch is almost over, the heat already rising to an almost unbearable level even though the sun has been up for less than two hours. I saw the signal smoke during the pre-dawn twilight just as promised, so I know that Tom’s group is still okay and on the move, working on another sector of the city.
Having those people is like suddenly realizing you’re not actually alone on a deserted island. They don’t stick around much, dedicated as they are to this odd eradication plan of theirs, but they always come back. Their smoke signals in the morning make it a lot easier to wake up for the pre-dawn watch.
Once it gets too hot, we secure the watch. No one in their right mind would be out in the heat. And with us going about our daily business, whoever is on laundry duty can keep an eye on the front, while whoever is in the garden can watch the back.
Just as I’m wondering if time has slowed of its own accord, Charlie pops his head out of the open warehouse door below my feet, and calls out, “Time for morning rounds!”
I scramble down the ladder and into the blessed shade of the office in record time. Even though I know intellectually that it’s probably almost as hot inside, the feeling of shade makes it seem almost cool. I pound down the stairs, making a heck of a racket in my boots as I do. Charlie hands me a bottle of water that actually feels cool to the touch.
“Whoa!” I say, but don’t pause to listen to any answers. Instead, I tip the bottle and drink like a camel at an oasis.
Charlie laughs and pushes the end of the bottle downward to stop my glugging. He says, “You’re gonna puke and I won’t clean it up.”
“At least I haven’t had breakfast yet,” I retort and grin at him.
“Uh, that’s just nasty,” he says, pushing my arm down so I don’t start drinking again.
“How did you get it cold?” I ask, feeling the heavenly sensation of coolness against my palms.
“It’s really not that cool at all, but it’s from the pit. We put a water barrel down there and boom, it got cool after a while. I guess that pit works.”
“Heck, yeah, it does. How deep did it finally go?” I ask.
“Ten feet. Then we gave up. The ground is as hard as a rock down there,” he says, showing me his palms. The red bulges along the top of his palms look painfully close to blisters to me.
“Ah, poor baby,” I say, kissing my fingers, then touching his palms with those same fingers.
“Really? That’s all I get?” he teases.
I shake my head and give him a quick peck on the cheek. “But that’s all you get. We’ve got work to do and it’s too hot.”
“Aww,” he says, a sly look coming over his face. “I brought you water. Might as well kiss me.”
I don’t kiss him, but I do give him a punch on the arm. But not too hard of a punch.
As we walk toward the door and then to the warehouse where the in-betweeners and former in-betweeners are housed, I ask, “Anything new?”
Just like that our carefree morning is over and we’re down to business. Charlie’s smile is replaced by a look of concern and he seems unwilling to answer me. That must mean that Carson is worse.
“Spit it out.”
I can’t help that it comes out more like a huff than a simple sentence. I really don’t want to hear more bad news about Tiny. He’s been awake for four days and he’s swelling up like a balloon. He hasn’t gone to the bathroom and I think it’s killing him. And he knows it.
“Yeah, well, he’s been yelling again. He keeps saying it hurts and he wants someone to fix it. Same stuff as before,” Charlie confirms.
“And the other guy, Tanner?�
�� I ask. I can hear Carson now, even this far from the warehouse. We gagged him, but we have to take it off to let him drink and talk to him, so he must be having one of those breaks right now.
“That guy!” Charlie exclaims, as if there’s really no collection of words in his arsenal that will encompass what he thinks of him. “He’s still groggy as all get out. Stupid like. He’s totally bat-shit crazy too. He keeps saying there are bugs on him and on us. And the language! But he’s been sleeping lately, so at least he’s less annoying.”
Tanner woke up the night following Carson’s wake-up, but he was another kettle of fish altogether from Tiny. He makes almost no sense when he talks and half the time, I can't figure out who he’s talking to. He’s also completely uncoordinated. When I hand him something to grasp in his left hand, his right hand rises. Completely weird wiring mix-up inside is my guess. But, unlike Tiny, his insides seem to be working. We even had to get his name from Carson. He can’t even understand simple commands or requests.
Carson’s voice disappears, so he must be gagged again, and we enter the warehouse just in time to see Savannah carry a basin out of the cage while Matt covers her. She sees us and I can hear the exasperated sigh from where I am it’s so loud. It’s also very expressive.
“Uh oh,” Charlie mutters. I agree.
“What’s up?” I ask, trying for a light tone, ignoring the sigh and the sour look on Savannah’s face.
“Your little guy is what’s up!” Savanna exclaims, her voice overflowing with irritation and impatience. She hands the basin off to Matt and says, “Thanks for coming.”
Matt nods at her, then shoots us a look that tells me we’re really in for it. She waits for Matt to walk out the other side of the warehouse before she lays into us, but lay into us she does.
“This is enough! Seriously. I know we all agreed, but no one ever agreed to do this forever. We know the stuff works because both of them woke up, so let’s just chalk that one up to victory and move along. Gloria has a right to see this finished!”
I let her finish and am ready to make some short, smart remark in response, but I stop before the words trip out of my mouth. It’s not enough to point out that I’m not done and she’ll need to suck it up because that’s what we agreed to do. I need to remind her of what all this labor means. She needs to remember what we might gain by doing this work, no matter how distasteful.