“I don’t really go to church except weddings sometimes. I think I’ve got a better grasp on God though, and especially on faith...at least my faith. I just don’t like to talk about faith because it seems so personal and private to me. As for this church getting to me? No, not really. It’s just another empty fucking building. I’d say it has more to do with our company than anything else.”
“There you go again,” joked Meghan.
Art, still standing at the top of the stairs, asked, “Anything?”
Jerry didn’t even bother to look at him. Meghan shook her head but didn’t say a word.
The three of them went back to the front doors and opened them unknowingly into a group of four awaiting zombies on the front steps of the church. Two of the monsters were little girls whose skin had greyed and whose eyes had yellowed but were still wearing matching pink pajamas. They lunged at Jerry and Meghan, who were both in front of Art.
Jerry was able to use his rifle to hold off the two in front of him. Using his rifle stock like a staff, he struck the little girl in front of him squarely in the face hard enough to shatter several of her brittle front teeth. Her head jolted back, sending her into the camouflage-clad soldier behind. Tangled and off balance, the two toppled onto one another and struggled to get back to their feet.
Meghan, meanwhile, had been surprised into a backward stumble. She was nearly on her back with the two zombies in front of her trying to follow her down. She screamed and instinctively raised her arm to fend them off, knowing full well that her exposed skin presented a very tempting and ripe target for the chomping mouths coming at her. She couldn’t think; her fear was paralyzing her wits. She closed her eyes and just hoped that it would be over quickly.
Then she heard a distinctly metallic thud and she was being pulled free. She opened her eyes and saw Art getting ready to swing the heavy crowbar in his hand again. The little girl who had been almost upon her was now rolling back down the stairs to the street in front of the church. Her limbs flailed uncontrollably like the plastic arms of a soft, life-sized doll discarded by its owner.
Both Jerry and Meghan paused and looked up at Art who was brandishing the black crowbar like Arthur wielding Excalibur. The three remaining ghouls were not so distracted, though all three were teetering back on their heels giving Jerry and Meghan a window to recover.
Meghan hopped to her feet and Jerry pulled the pistol from the holster on his hip. He squeezed off three quick shots, all of which struck the two monsters directly in front of him. The remaining little girl with the now jagged front teeth caught one of the bullets in the head, taking off her right ear and much of the right side of her face and head, but didn’t accomplish its intended goal of destroying her brain. All three bullets struck the man behind her and caused him to stumble down the steps behind him. Unsteadily and awkwardly, he rose back to his feet and started back up the steps.
Jerry kicked the mutilated little girl still in front of him and sent her head over heels back into the man at the bottom of the stairs. As she rolled down, they could hear her grunt and growl, sounds that were decidedly not human but definitely disconcerting.
He raised the pistol for another shot at the final beast that was still near them and inching steadily closer to Meghan. This time, the gunshot tore off the top half of his head and propelled him into the front yard of the church.
With just a second to spare, Meghan asked, “Now what? Do we need to find another way out?”
Jumping down onto the lawn himself as he spoke, Jerry said, “No. We just need to stay away from these two and get back to the house before we run into any more of them.”
Meghan didn’t need to hear anything more. She joined Jerry down near the lifeless and now motionless corpse he’d dispatched. Art wasn’t sure. He felt like if they were holding the upper hand and could kill these two, then maybe they should. It would just mean two fewer of those things out there and that seemed to be a good thing to him. He was just as flustered as the other two, but hitting that thing with his crowbar had given him a jolt of confidence and power that was making it difficult for him to want to retreat. He hadn’t really been a part of the melee out at the park and hadn’t been able to experience enjoying such an advantage when facing the undead. The scales always seemed tilted away from them and it was more about surviving than it was fighting.
It was fairly intoxicating. He wondered if this was how soldiers felt after their first taste of combat. You’re taught about right and wrong and where taking another human falls on that continuum. It’s one of those primal laws that were fairly consistently adhered to by most civilizations. Yet, there he was; able to crush skulls with reckless abandon. No regret. No fear of reprisal. No consequences.
He was about to say they should attack when Meghan shouted, “Look!” and pointed. In the street now and a couple blocks away, a crowd of staggering and hungry beasts was starting to move toward them.
Jerry grabbed Meghan’s arm and shouted, “C’mon. We gotta go! Now!”
Meghan said over her shoulder, “Art?”
“Right behind you,” he said as all the bravado in his veins retreated.
They ran hard and fast, climbing a couple of fences along the way to put something more than just distance between themselves and the monsters now pursuing them.
They made it back to the house without encountering any more undead predators, but their arrival caused a stir. It had been literally days since any of them had seen any of the fiends, even from a distance.
When their breathing had calmed enough to answer questions, Evelyn asked them, “So they’re still out there?”
Jerry nodded slowly and apologetically. “We’re still not alone.” To which both Meghan and Art nodded but realized that Jerry’s pronouncement was enough.
Evelyn, already appearing healthier than when she had emerged from the bus, lamented, “I was so hoping that everything that had happened had all been a dream and I was finally awake again. It’s just too bad. I really was starting to believe that it was all going to be okay.”
Chapter 42
Art dropped his pack on the floor and took a generous drink from the glass of lemonade. He stepped away, not even remotely aware Danny had moved twice out of his way, once to avoid being stepped on and once to not have the dropped day pack hit him on the head. He was just inside a door and reading a comic book. He was hoping to stay out of the way and felt like he had more or less succeeded until Art came home.
Danny was glad that Jerry and Meghan were back. He liked both of them and felt especially close to and appreciative of Jerry for saving his and Jules' lives. He didn’t hear all of the recounting of the latest expedition out into the surrounding area but didn’t feel like he was missing out on much either. Sometimes he was interested to hear about new finds or good hauls of supplies, but he didn’t really want to hear about more of those things and about having to get moving again. He instead chose to remain in his reading position in the bedroom doorway.
He looked over at Art’s pack and realized that it was open. Danny immediately spotted the little handgun. He knew not to touch them, but no one ever told him that he couldn’t admire them. He reached into the bag and moved the big, black flashlight out of the way so that he could better see the pistol. It looked like something that he might see in a spy movie or a new Tom Clancy video game.
Art stepped up out of nowhere and grabbed up the bag. “Whatcha lookin’ at?”
Danny said honestly, “Your pistol. It’s pretty cool. I just saw it and was lookin’ at it. I didn’t touch it, I promise. I was just lookin’. Honest.”
Art tilted his head to one side, sizing up the youth. Satisfied that he’d gotten the answer he wanted, he walked away without a word.
By that time, completely distracted and unable to concentrate on reading, Danny got up and went in search of either Jerry or Neil. They were like the cool uncles that kids at family reunions sought out. The two men were on the front porch talking. When Danny appeared,
they paused for a moment to acknowledge him but then continued, using ‘he’, ‘him’, and ‘her’ instead of names. Danny knew about whom they were speaking because Jerry was just recounting in more detail the findings and goings on of the latest expedition into the surrounding area.
After ranting for a few more minutes, Jerry waited for Neil to respond. Neil nodded his head in agreement with whatever observation Jerry had made. “He’s a tough one. I’ll give you that. Not quite sure what’s going on with him.”
Jerry answered, “I don’t like him one bit. And the way that he’s been acting toward Meghan...it’s just not right. I mean you guys aren’t married or anything but everyone knows... Hell, he’s out back with her and having her tell the story of his heroics right now. What a tool. The prick didn’t bring his flashlight and sent us down into the dark without him. Before we left, just like before anyone leaves, everyone is supposed to make sure they have everything that we’re going to need and that includes a flashlight. He said he had it and then when he needed it, he suddenly was without one. And then if we would have run into any trouble, he would have been safe from all of it. Coward.”
Neil shook his head and corrected, “I don’t know if coward is as fitting as opportunist really.”
Danny couldn’t resist, “You mean Art? Don’t you?”
Jerry and Neil looked over at Danny, trying to decide whether or not they should confirm his assumptions. Neil said, “Danny, I don’t know if it’s good that you’re listening to this. Jerry is just trying to vent a little....”
Danny blurted out, “He had a flashlight with him.”
Jerry, surprised and looking more seriously at Danny asked, “He what?”
Danny answered after looking over his shoulder, “Yeah. Just now, when he threw his bag down, I saw his flashlight in his bag.”
Neil wanted clarification. “Are you absolutely sure?”
“Yeah. When he threw down his bag on the floor, it was unzipped and I could see in it.”
Jerry shook his head and looked at Neil, “That son of a....”
Neil wasn’t done yet. “Could it have been anything else?”
“No. I saw his gun and wanted to see it better but didn’t want to touch it. I know the rules. The flashlight was in the way, so I reached in and moved it. It’s definitely a flashlight.”
Again, Jerry said, “Son of a....”
Neil said, “Thanks, Danny. Once again you’ve come through for us.” He touched Danny’s shoulder and squeezed it gently.
And with that simple gesture, Danny again felt as connected and as important as he ever had in his short life. This was a definite departure from his experiences over the past several days. Ever since Art’s tirade back at the old man’s house and his referring to Danny and Jules as encumbrances, Danny had just felt on guard and especially sensitive to any and all comments about either Jules or himself. Who could blame him?
He was worried about their status as excess baggage for most of the others in the group and now, with the new people and their needs, there was even more of a risk that they could get lost in the proverbial shuffle.
It was an awful lot for a ten-year-old to have on his plate. It was probably just as well that he didn’t fully understand all of it or the possibilities would have likely completely overwhelmed his young mind. Children weren’t intended to deal in such horrific absolutes. There was no allowance for playful mirth, the true magical motor of childhood wonder, when survival was at the core of your every action and thought.
The connections he was making with the adults in the group and the responsibilities he was assuming for Jules were the most outward signs of his fading juvenile sensibilities. To Neil, although he was proud of the little guy, it was tragic what he’d had to experience and endure and how it was affecting him.
Neil was reminded of the African Boy Soldiers who were forcibly drafted and trained to fight for the various warlords of that continent. National Geographic, Time Magazine, or maybe it was Sally Struthers, did a story about the child soldiers of Sierra Leone or Rwanda or possibly Sudan. He just remembered the distant, gaunt expressions of those little boys, all about Danny’s age, who were wearing green military uniforms and toting black military firearms in the photos. The pictures hadn’t meant much to him at the time of reading, probably in a dentist or Division of Motor Vehicles office, because the faces all seemed so foreign and so different. That was all changing though; Danny was changing. He was unfortunately becoming their own boy soldier. Neil wondered if there was ever any going back.
Jerry asked, “So now what? What do we do?”
Neil wasn’t entirely certain what his next step should be. If they were to confront him, Art could just deny it all and then get even more sly in his deceptions. He might also find ways to threaten Danny and Jules, and Neil would not let that happen. They needed to find some way to expose Art definitively to the others in a very public fashion so that he couldn’t deny it or weasel out of it.
“This just seems like the plot line of some bad reality TV show or something,” Jerry commented disgustedly.
Neil replied, “Yeah, but getting voted off of this island means a helluva lot more than just missing out on the cash prize at the end of the show.”
Chapter 43
How long had it been since he’d slept? The thought occurred to Malachi randomly and then was gone. His days were becoming a blur of fear and torment. He wasn’t sure when he’d eaten last but the growling protests coming from his abdomen suggested that he’d stopped eating about the same time that he stopped sleeping.
Maybe he was becoming one of those things and the others just weren’t willing to tell him. That was probably why they largely left him to himself, although he’d seen them out of the corner of his eye watching him and spying on him. Was he destined to butcher and kill and destroy like the unholy beasts stalking the streets of Anchorage?
What about his eternal soul? Would it be allowed inside the Gates if it was damned on earth? Eternal damnation? Was that really to be his fate? The fear added a sharp edge to the malaise and dulled senses of his cloudy existence but that was all. The fear was as hot and real as watching a fireplace video on a television screen. It was there, but if you didn’t keep your eye on it, it was as if it just went away.
If only he could say the same about the specter of his father who appeared and reappeared seemingly at will and always with the same insults, the accusations, and the same threats. Malachi, on some level, understood that these appearances weren’t real, but that realization was fleeting, pushed aside forcefully by the toxic mix of paranoia, psychosis, and exhaustion. He was finding it exceedingly difficult to be certain of anything.
“Why are you so sad, Mal?”
Was the voice in the dark garage real, or was it just in his head? The only light in the garage was coming from the small window on the door leading to the backyard. With the settling darkness outside, however, the light filtering in did little more than cast a grey pall over everything that hadn’t already been consumed by the encroaching darkness; not even enough light to cast any definitive shadows.
Malachi was sitting on an empty five-gallon bucket with his back to a corner. He pressed his shoulders into the corner and scanned the garage for anyone or anything. He thought he saw something move across the window but he couldn’t be sure. Oh God! Had those things found them?
He reached to his hip holster and unsnapped it. He was starting to rise when he heard, “What do you see, Mal? You still afraid of the dark?”
He looked over to his left and felt the cold, nauseating chill start at the nape of his neck and spill down his spine. His father, like a menacing gargoyle, was perched precariously atop a paint can sitting on the garage workbench. The old shade smiled at him and was all at once coming at him.
Malachi lowered his head into his hands, warming his face with his hot, deep breaths.
“Look at me when I’m talking to you, boy.”
“I’m not a boy anymore.”
“You talkin’ back, boy? You need me to teach you a lesson again?” The hazy apparition reached out to him and Malachi recoiled almost involuntarily, hitting his face against the garage door and the metal tracks that guided the wheels for raising and lowering the door.
He could still feel the ghost reaching out to him, so he leaned even further, falling over into a stack of yard tools. The metal and wood hoes, rakes, shovels, and even a posthole digger fell on top of him with quite a clatter.
His father was gone, but his echoing laughter remained.
Just seconds later, the inside garage door was flung open and the darkness was flooded with several bright beams of light and some loud voices. “What is it?” “Did they get in here?” “What do you see?”
“It’s only me,” Malachi said apologetically. “I’m in here.”
Dr. Caldwell’s disembodied voice said, “Malachi? Where are you?”
Malachi finally freed himself from the tangle of tools and stood up. “I’m over here. Just tripped is all.”
Dr. Caldwell’s voice was now full of empathy and concern, “Malachi, you’re bleeding. You okay?”
“I think so. I’m not...I mean, I don’t...”
“It’s okay, Malachi. Why don’t you come inside and let me see about stopping the bleeding a little.”
“No, I’ll be okay.”
“Malachi, I think you should get a look at it yourself then. You’re bleeding pretty good. At least come inside and wash up a little.”
Malachi let himself be led back inside where the doctor tended to the cuts on his face, his temple, and the side of his head. He also had a sizable welt on the top of his head where something had obviously hit him.
Containment (Alaskan Undead Apocalypse Book 2) Page 24