Pray To Stay Dead

by Cole, Mason James

  “Okay,” Misty said. “You should stand up. Come for a walk.”

  “What?” Tasgal asked, leaning forward.

  “On the television, they were saying, they said that people who had been bitten should keep as active as possible.”

  “Bullshit,” he said.

  She shook inside but held to it. “Something about blood flow. I’m... I’m just telling you what they said.”

  He sighed. “Yeah, I know. Bastards’ll say anything to try and keep you in line and not asking questions,” but he got up anyway. “Well, I do have to take a piss,” he said. His voice was slurred. He was groggy and weak, and maybe still a little drunk, and if they were careful they’d get through this. “Got to change this bandage.”

  He rose, arms outstretched, and Misty stepped close, offered to steady him.

  “I’m okay,” he said, seeming to get his bearings. “Thanks.”

  He took a step away from the couch, leaving his gun behind. Misty held her breath. This was going to work. Tasgal took another step toward the hall, and stopped, looking back at his gun. Dammit.

  “Okay,” Misty said, stepping into the hall, away from Tasgal. Crate emerged from the shadows and leveled his rifle at Tasgal’s face.

  “Leave the gun where it is,” he said.

  Tasgal froze, mouth open. He wavered in place, blinked his eyes. “Whu,” he said.

  “Get on your knees,” Crate said. Misty lingered behind him, biting her lip, her heart hammering. “I’m serious, Eric. Get down on your knees and don’t go for the gun, or I’ll kill you.”

  Something clarified slightly in Tasgal and he went into officer mode. “Let’s be calm, sure we can talk about—”

  “You’re bit, Eric,” Misty said.

  “TV says you’re going to become one of those things,” Crate said. That also wasn’t entirely true. Different people had said different things, but who could be trusted? “There’s no helping it. I’d probably be doing you a favor, shooting you, but you never know. They might find a cure.”

  “I’m a police officer, Crate,” Tasgal said, holding his hands at chest level, palms outward. His fingers shook. He took two small steps toward Crate, who backed into Misty. “You’re breaking the law.”

  “I’m protecting myself,” Crate said. “You might be dangerous.”

  “Then why don’t you let me get in my car and leave?” Tasgal said, starting to sway from side to side. “I’ll drive on out of here. Just… jus…”

  “Get on your knees, boy,” Crate said. “I’m about to shoot you.”

  “Hurts,” Tasgal said. “I really need to use the bathroom.”

  “Let him,” Misty said, moving past Crate and toward the couch. “Don’t move.”

  “Don’t move,” Crate said. “I will shoot you.”

  Misty seized the gun from the couch and stepped backward, away from Tasgal. She looked down at the gun and found that she hated the feel of it in her hands. Not knowing what to do with it, she slid it into her waistband and stepped into the hall.

  “Bathroom is that way,” she said, looking to her left. “Come on, Crate.”

  Crate backed out of the living room, gave Tasgal enough room to creep by and work his way to the bathroom.

  “Three minutes,” Crate said.

  Tasgal closed the door behind him.

  Crate turned to Misty, his bushy eyebrows drawn together. “You think he can get out the window?”

  “Not without making a racket,” she said. The window was behind the toilet, and was covered by a rack of shelves cluttered with shampoo bottles, cream, and other assorted bathroom items. “Tape’s in the washroom.”

  Misty stepped into the store. Stacy was on her third beer. Nixon was no longer on the television. Yet again, the news was showing footage of reanimated corpses. A head connected to a horribly mutilated torso by little more than a strand of gristle looked around, its jaw silently working.

  “This is horrible,” Stacy said. “Goddess must be angry.”

  “She’s fucking furious,” Misty said, picking up one of the chairs.

  “What are you doing?” Stacy asked, her words running together like sand.

  “Changing a light bulb,” Misty said, opening the door and stepping into the back. She heard the toilet running. Crate was gone. She brought the chair into the living room, placed it before the television.

  Tasgal stood just outside the bathroom, leaning against the wall, and for a second Misty thought that he was dead. “Hurts,” he said, peeled himself from the wall, and took a step toward her.

  “Now,” she said, touching the gun awkwardly jutting from the waistband of her pants.

  “Now, now.” Crate appeared at her side, handed her a thick roll of duct tape. “You’ll shoot your stupid self in the twat,” he said, sliding the gun from her waistband and into one of his baggy front pockets.

  “On your knees,” Crate said, pointing the rifle at Tasgal’s chest. When the young cop didn’t react, Crate cocked the rifle and raised his eyebrows.

  Tasgal knelt, assuming the position. He placed his hands behind his head, wincing.

  “We’re not going to hurt you,” Crate said. “I promise, Eric. This is just for our safety. You understand, right?”

  Tasgal stared at them.

  “Here,” Crate said, passing a clean face-cloth to Misty. She looked at it, looked up at him, confused. Crate pointed to his own mouth. “Gag.”

  “Oh,” Misty said, eyeing Crate.

  “What?”

  “Why the hell are you making him get down on his knees, Crate?” She threw a thumb over her shoulder. “I can tape him to that chair from here.”

  “Aw, fine,” Crate snapped, making a face.

  “I’m sorry,” Misty said, looking at Tasgal. He leaned against the wall. “We need you to stand up, okay?”

  “This isn’t right,” Tasgal said. He looked tired and confused, but there was something else, now, just underneath the pain and exhaustion: anger. “You shouldn’t do this.”

  “We have to,” Misty said, giving Eric Tasgal a smile that felt like dirt on her lips. The kid was dying, and they were treating him like an enemy. She looked at Crate. “Do we?”

  “What?”

  “Do we have to do this?”

  “Oh, come on, Misty.” Crate rolled his eyes. “You said it yourself. We can’t watch him twenty-four hours a day. We have to sleep and we have to watch the place.”

  “And we can’t throw him out,” She said, looking back and forth between Crate and Eric, who climbed to his feet.

  “Right,” Crate said, looking at Tasgal. “So for now we tie you up. If help shows up, or something, we’ll let you go, okay?”

  “Enough talk,” Misty said, wanting to be done with it.

  “Yeah,” Crate said. “Enough talk. Let’s go.”

  Outside, Bilbo Baggins piped up.

  “Ah, hell,” Crate said. “More of them.”

  “Nothing we can do about it now,” she said.

  Tasgal leaned against the wall. Beads of sweat glistened on his forehead.

  “Come on,” Misty said, and Tasgal’s legs curled beneath him. He slid down the wall. His head lolled toward Misty and Crate. He glowered at them, shivering.

  “Get up,” Crate added, poking at the air with his rifle.

  “Not going anywhere,” Tasgal said, and closed his eyes.

  “Okay,” Crate said. “What are we going to do now?”

  Misty pushed the barrel of the rifle toward the floor. She opened her mouth to speak. Out front, someone hammered on the glass door leading into the store. Misty heard Stacy yelp once, and then the hammering resumed.

  “Shit,” Misty said, looking at Crate. “Let’s go.”

  “What abou—”

  “He’s not going anywhere.”

  She stepped into the store and almost slammed into Stacy, who was walking toward the back door. Her eyes were bulging out of her sockets, her mouth was open, working like a fish sucking air, and Misty t
hought she looked like a person whose equanimity was definitely shot all to hell.

  “There’s someone outside,” Stacy said. “I think it could be them.”

  “Them who?” Crate asked, stepping toward the door.

  “The dead.”

  “I don’t think they knock,” Misty said, following Crate. She looked back at Stacy, who inched toward the door leading into the back. “Stay out here.”

  “Misty?” Someone said from the other side of the door—a man, by the sound of it, though Misty could not tell who. “You in there?”

  “Yeah,” Misty shouted back. “Wait a second.”

  Crate unlocked the door and then stepped back, raising the rifle. By now, Misty realized, his wiry old arms must be tired. “It’s open,” he said. “Come in.”

  The door opened and Jeff Karlatos popped his head in. He saw the gun and fell to his knees upon the threshold, his hands held up before him.

  “God,” he said. “It’s me, Jeff, I—”

  “Okay,” Misty said, once more pushing the barrel of Crate’s rifle toward the ground. “I’m sorry, Jeff.” She helped him up, though he didn’t need it. “We’re all a little jumpy.”

  Crate grunted something and shuffled over to the table, where Stacy had returned to her beer.

  “God, yeah,” Jeff said. He was in his early thirties, skinny except for a soft pot-belly, and half bald. Toss in the Coke-bottle glasses, and you had yourself a perpetually single guy. He worked for the phone company in Beistle, but came by at least once a month for a roast beef sandwich with sour cream and onion potato chips. This summed up Misty’s knowledge of him. “Have you heard yet?”

  “Heard?” Misty said. She looked back at Crate, who was sitting across from Stacy and staring at her tits. “What happened?”

  Before he could answer, the sound of a rattling muffler zipped by, moving northward. Another car followed it.

  “They gassed Beistle.”

  “What?” Misty said, cold with fear. Crate pushed away from the table. His eyes were bloodshot, and Misty noticed for the first time that he was pale. He was crashing. “Who?”

  “The Army, I guess. About thirty minutes ago. A helicopter.”

  “I heard the chopper,” Crate said.

  “It passed over town. Circled it. We went out into the street and watched, thinking maybe they were dropping supplies, but no. It was a gas of some kind. Looked yellow, but it was hard to tell.”

  “Jesus,” Crate said.

  “You know what it is?” Misty asked.

  “No,” Crate said, shaking his head. “But I’m sure it isn’t good.”

  “I saw something on TV about that,” Stacy said. Her eyes were still saucers, and she no longer sounded drunk. “Just before coming over here. Reports about a gas being tested on the dead in some places.”

  “Yeah,” Jeff said, jittery and impatient. “Right here.”

  “What did it do?”

  “Look, man, I got in my car and peeled out. I wasn’t the only one.” As if to prove his point, more vehicles raced past the store. “Hey, I’m getting the hell out of here. The wind’s blowing east, mostly, so you should be all right. I just wanted to let you know and to see if you could sell me some food.”

  Misty looked over at the deli case, and for the first time Charlie’s earlier complaints made sense. “Of course,” she said, and made her way to the deli.

  “Thanks. Just a little something to tide me over until I get where I’m going.”

  “Where is that?” Crate asked, rising from the table and walking toward them.

  “North?” Jeff shrugged.

  “I’ll make you a sandwich,” she said.

  “Thanks,” Jeff said.

  Crate peeked through the blinds and then stepped out of the store. Jingle jangle.

  Jeff stood before he counter and watched television. Cronkite was pressing a Defense Department official for confirmation on reports that Soviet nuclear subs were in place along both coasts as well as in the Gulf of Mexico, that one of them had actually made it nearly one hundred miles up the Mississippi River before being intercepted and escorted back into international waters.

  The sliced meat would not last, so she made two heaping roast beef sandwiches, as well as a turkey and Swiss on French bread.

  “Insane, huh?” Stacy said. Misty looked up in time to see Jeff look from the TV and toward Stacy, who sat holding her fourth beer, if Misty’s tally was good.

  “Yeah,” Jeff said, sounding as stiff and awkward as he looked. “Insane.”

  They fell silent. Finishing the last of the sandwiches, Misty saw Jeff shoot a few glances back at Stacy, and she hoped that he’d get over his shyness and keep talking, if only so she could see his face when Stacy opened her mouth and told him about her husband’s spirit speaking to her from within her crystal or some shit.

  There would be no small favors: even in the face of the collapse of civilization, Jeff was too ill-equipped to talk to a pretty girl. And Stacy was too lost in her beer to care. More so, she was clearly terrified. It took a lot to keep her quiet.

  Misty bagged the sandwiches, grabbed a second bag, and on the way to the counter tossed in a can of baked beans and a can of Vienna sausage, as well as a large sack of chips.

  “Oh,” Jeff said, taking the bags. “I can’t buy all of this.”

  “Take it, Jeff.”

  Either he was slow or he was faking it. He made a show of realizing what she meant, and then thanked her. He shot another glance at Stacy, and Misty wondered if he’d ever been with a woman. On the television, the Manhattan skyline spit flames into the night sky. Misty figured that if Jeff hadn’t gotten any yet, he probably wasn’t going to.

  “You got an ice chest?” She asked.

  “In the trunk,” Jeff said, holding the bags of food to his chest. “It’s empty.”

  “Get a bag of ice and get moving.”

  He did.

  “I think I can smell something on the air,” Crate said, locking the door. Tongue lolling and tail wagging, Bilbo Baggins seemed to be trying to trip him. “Taste it maybe. Could just be my imagination.”

  “There’s no saying it would even have a smell,” Misty said. “Don’t they add something to propane to make it smell like that?”

  “If it’s one of Uncle Sam’s home brews, it could probably smell like a burger and fries if they wanted it to.”

  “We should stay in for awhile.”

  “Wind’s still blowing east,” Crate said.

  “We should move his car,” Misty said.

  Crate scratched his cheek and grunted.

  “Someone could come looking for him.”

  “Well, then, he was here for a little while today, and then he went out into the woods because someone was yelling for help.” Crate looked pleased. “Never came back.”

  “Yeah, okay,” Misty said. “That’s fine, but people see a cop car and they see help.”

  Crate laughed: a brief, low rattle. “You and me, we know different people.”

  It made her smile. Sometimes the old man wasn’t half bad. She stretched with a yawn. “You know what I mean. It’s like a beacon.”

  “Oh,” Crate said. “So now you want to start turning folks away.”

  Her smile broke. She allowed herself to look at the TV, which showed a throng of corpses stumbling around the parking lot of what appeared to be a hospital, then back to Crate, who seemed to be expecting an answer.

  She squeezed her hands together. “I don’t think we have much of a choice.”

  “Yep,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “We need to get the lights off in here, and I should go out and shoot out the big light.”

  “Fuck, Crate.”

  “What?”

  “Shoot out the big light?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You can turn it off at the breaker box, you lunatic.”

  “Oh,” he said, grinning. “Yeah. But first, we have to finish things up.”

  In the bedroom, Charlie snor
ed. Tasgal was fast asleep when they’d left him, his face pressed to the carpet. No longer clammy and cold, he burned with fever.

  “We should shoot him,” Crate said.

  “We’re not going to shoot him.”

  “We wouldn’t be shooting him, Mis. I would.”

  “You’re not shooting him,” she said. “Not now you’re not. If you have to later, then you have to, but not now. Maybe there will be a vaccine or something.”

  “You never know,” Crate said. There was not an ounce of hope in his voice.

  “Right,” Misty said.

  She dropped to her knees and bound Tasgal’s ankles with tape.

  “We should move him,” Crate said. “Get him out of here. God, we could be infected already, keeping him in here.”

  “Then there isn’t much point in moving him, is there?”

  “You know what I mean, woman,” Crate said, looking down at her, frowning. “We can’t keep untying him every time he has to take a piss, and eventually he’s gonna shit his pants. You want to deal with that?”

  Misty stared at Crate.

  “I’m not wiping his ass,” he said.

  “Dammit, Crate, what do you want me to do?”

  “He’s gonna die, and then he’s going to wake up or whatever it is they do. He’s already dead. He needs to be put out of his misery.”

  “We’ll move him.”

  Crate stared at her, frowning deeply, his bushy eyebrows drawing together. He clutched his rifle, the forefinger of his right hand less than an inch from the trigger, the skin over his knuckles taught. She thought he was going to do it, anyway, just pump a round into the back of Tasgal’s head and be done with it—and what could she possibly do then?

  But he didn’t shoot Tasgal. He listened to her, as he always did, head down, like an old dog long broken.

  “Okay,” he said, the tension going out of his withered old frame. He seemed to melt a little. “My place?”

  “Yeah,” she said. “Your place.”

  Crate’s place was a small one-room apartment out back—little more than four walls, a roof, a bed, a fridge, and a window with a rattling window unit. It had started as a shed, and Crate had gradually converted it to a more livable environment, a place where, he said, he could go when they weren’t getting along, where he could read in peace while she watched her soap operas and her game shows. Eventually the place became his place, and she slept alone.