by Guy James
Sven was becoming exasperated. “I don’t see that the burning is having any effect. Where’s Randy?”
“You are quite incorrect. Several have already crumpled in the flames. It is just a matter of expanding the incineration. They are quite dry and crumbly it seems, eager to be consumed by fire…on their way to the netherworld perhaps.” Milt picked up a piece of firewood and began to douse its end with lighter fluid.
“Answer my question.”
“You see,” Milt began, gesticulating and accidentally pouring lighter fluid on his slippers, “improvised incendiary devices are not solely the province of uneducated, mustachioed guerilla fighters and rampaging mercenaries, improvised—”
Unable to listen any more, Sven struck Milt across the face with the butt of the Benelli. “For the last time, where the hell is Randy?”
Milt recoiled, putting a hand to his face. “Very well, if you must resort to such barbaric rudeness. As I have already informed you, he has left the building. He is gone—gone to the zombie horde of which he is now a member…or perhaps he was just a late night snack, I couldn’t really tell in the gloom—that was before I began to light them up, you see.”
Brian stepped forward. “So Randy just walked off, into the night. That’s what you’re telling us?”
Milt began to respond, but Sven didn’t hear him, because Sven was now enthralled by another object he had spied by Milt’s feet.
“He was up here,” Sven said, cutting off whatever Brian and Milt were saying to each other, “Randy was up here.”
Sven pointed to the pack of cigarettes that was in danger of being crushed under Milt’s stretched and apparently-resilient slippers.
“Those are his cigarettes.” Sven turned to Milt. “You don’t smoke, do you?”
Milt turned red. “I most certainly do not, even if I considered taking up the filthy habit, my asthma would not allow it.”
“So he was up here,” Brian said. “Why? You said he left.”
“So he did.”
Brian brandished the baseball bat. “By his own free will? What is it that you’re hiding?”
“Very well, if you must know, he did require some…persuasion. He was turning into a zombie, just like the boy was. I simply helped him find his place in the zombie apocalypse, and simultaneously secured our own safety. What I do not understand is this extreme ingratitude. You are all acting as if I have wronged you in some way.”
Lorie spoke up. “You stabbed him, like you stabbed Evan?”
Milt shook his head. “No, nothing like that. I simply pushed him from the roof. It is what he would have wanted, anyway—to be with his kind.”
Lorie looked incredulous as her eyes filled with tears. “So you pushed him…off the roof…to the zombies, just like that.”
“Well, in a manner of speaking, yes.”
Milt beamed, looking proud of his deed.
108
Overcome by rage, Sven grabbed Milt by his trench coat collar. A machete appeared at Milt’s neck, the tarnished blade reflecting small spots of moonlight.
The machete drew droplets of blood that trickled part of the way down toward the haft before finding comfortable resting places on the metal.
Awestruck, Sven looked at the machete, realizing that he had drawn it reflexively, without thinking.
Then the dark feeling was there, tingling up Sven’s arm and into his body, running down his spine and back up it.
Then the jungle enveloped him.
***
It was nightfall in the jungle, and the sun-kissed woman’s eyes flickered at him.
The corners of her mouth curved downward with a knowing peril.
Then she disappeared behind a thick tree trunk.
Sven began to follow, but a blinding bolt of lightning ripped into the ground a few paces in front of him, and he stopped dead in his tracks.
A faint, metallic odor hung in the air, and in the distance was…the beating of drums?
Sven’s voice caught in his throat as he tried to call out to the woman. He had finally taken notice of his surroundings, and he didn’t know if the immobility in his throat was greater part horror or revulsion.
The trees and vines around him…they were spattered with…almost painted with…as if they themselves were…
***
Sven was back on the roof, utterly disoriented.
He was holding a pig-like man, and there was a blade at the pig man’s throat. Sven followed the blade down to its wooden handle, and the wooden handle down to the hand that was holding it.
My hand, Sven thought, feeling even more disoriented.
The thoughts didn’t connect to anything in his mind, and then they were gone.
The darkness was in his legs and his face, then it was running around his face and up his legs at the same time. It was focusing itself in the back of his neck, then in his back, then—
It took hold of him.
Sven continued to hold Milt, who was squealing something. Sven couldn’t hear what it was, because he was too far away, somewhere unreachable. He felt his face do something. It could’ve been a grin, or a sneer, or a grimace, but it was most likely a baring of teeth.
He took Milt by the neck and crotch, and lifted the pudgy man up over his head.
It was almost a record-breaking push press.
Almost.
Sven walked closer to the edge of the roof. He looked up and felt sheer disgust fill him when the pig man’s tears fell onto his own face.
Milt was wailing now, begging probably, but Sven was still too far away to make out the words.
Then something kicked on in Sven’s mind and he looked Milt dead in the eye.
“You’ll not be back,” Sven said.
He felt Milt’s body shudder as he held the gargantuan lard-ball overhead.
He had trained for this his whole life.
There was something about this moment.
Something fated.
Something.
There was someone behind Sven, outside of him, screaming.
Sven lunged forward and threw Milt as hard as he could, with more strength than he thought he had.
Sven barely felt the crunch in his shoulder as he tossed Milt down to the zombies.
Milt hugged his knees and fell, no longer wailing or shrieking or even shuddering.
It was a short drop, and then the zombies had their very own butterball to play with.
Sven backed away from the edge of the roof and saw Milt’s sword lying by his feet. He picked it up and tossed it off the roof, without a care to where it went.
He sheathed the machete, then stood there, still and unblinking, his mind working through the darkness that had taken hold.
In jerky, uneven thoughts, he understood that there was a purpose to the darkness, a structure behind it.
Then Sven rested each of his hands on the hilt of a machete, and his sense of self began to seep back into him.
109
Milt didn’t scream as he fell. It was a short drop, and then the zombies had him…were holding him…were carrying him off? Why weren’t they tearing him apart?
That strange feeling of kinship hit him again, of belongingness, of some deep understanding...and that intoxicating aroma was there, playing in and around Milt’s nostrils, fluttering deeper and deeper, seeping into his lungs.
He was awash with a kind of acceptance he had never felt before. It was a glorious feeling, and he had to confess that the smell was even better than the smell of his personal battle station. He was in a better place now. He had become an even truer warrior through this ordeal.
Even if the undead tore him limb from limb—and for some reason they weren’t doing it yet—falling to the zombies was acceptable, because Milt had won. He was smarter than that meathead, the failed squire, and those stupid girls. He had shown them, Milt knew. He had especially shown the boy and the cigarette-clutching anorexic.
Oh yes, and he knew something else...something the idiots in the m
all would die to know. He knew what was causing it—the contagion. He knew why the zombies had come. Sven and those other idiots would be dead soon, and they would never know—they would be dead because they didn’t know. They wouldn’t last a day on their own. They were ignorant hacks, but Milt was a genius. He was the genius—the genius of the world. He was the master of the univ—
Milt gasped as he felt the nibble, and his attention shifted from his loathing for Sven and his crew to the multitude of groping, rotten hands, and the terribly odd nibble…so dry and scratchy…then…was that a bite?
The colors of the world seemed to shift at once, as if the surroundings were reeling backward, and then forward, and then backward again. The hues around him changed places with each other and danced a carefree, iridescent waltz.
Milt was dimly aware that he was moving away from a big building. The zombies were carrying him away. Zombies?
There is no such thing as zombies, Milt thought, and chuckled.
It was a dream, of course it was. Zombies carrying him through the night as they munched on his flesh...a wonderfully strange dream. Wonderful because the smell of them was so profoundly sweet! So joyfully pleasing, so rapturous…so—
110
Lorie was pulling at his hand, punching him in the back, tugging at his duck pants, pulling at his shin. But he wouldn’t move. He just stood there a few feet back from the edge of the roof, like he was hypnotized.
“Sven! Sven!” She could feel the tears rolling down her cheeks. “Wake up! Come back in, he’s gone.”
She was scared—so scared—because he looked like he was about to jump off the roof, to make sure that the zombies finished their job of Milt.
Of course Milt deserved to be thrown off the roof to the zombies after what he had done to Evan and Randy...and who knew what else he’d been planning for the rest of them?
Lorie felt no sympathy for Milt, but she was still surprised at how Sven had disposed of him. She was impressed in a way, and felt pride at being on a team led by someone who could be so ruthless. And yet Sven seemed so unassuming most of the time, it was certainly out of character.
Then again, Lorie thought, which one of us isn’t out of character now? The world’s overrun by zombies, you have to change to survive.
“Yeah,” Sven finally said. “Yeah.”
“Come on, let’s go back inside. You need some rest.”
“I think I tore something in my shoulder,” Sven said. His voice was uncharacteristically deadpan, not at all the way someone who had just torn something in his shoulder would communicate that statement.
“Well,” Lorie said, feeling more concerned, “let’s get you inside and we can patch you up.”
She wasn’t sure how they could, if Sven really had torn something in his shoulder, but she knew there would at least be painkillers downstairs to give to Sven, and maybe even a sleeping pill. The man looked like he needed rest very badly. His face was so pallid that it seemed out of place on his lightly-tanned body.
She pulled on his arm, leading him back to the stairs that led from the roof.
She stopped abruptly, realizing she might be pulling on his hurt arm. “Is that the shoulder?” Lorie asked, pointing to the shoulder connected to the arm she was pulling.
He nodded.
“Why didn’t you tell me to stop pulling on your arm then?”
Sven shrugged and looked at Lorie blankly.
Lorie, now beginning to feel frightened, collected herself and set her jaw. She looked Sven directly in the eyes. “Will you follow me in already?”
He nodded again.
Lorie made for the stairs and walked down into the Wegmans, looking back every few seconds to make sure Sven was plodding in after her.
She led him back to their communal camping spot.
“Will you try to get some rest?” Lorie asked.
Sven nodded again, the blank look still on his face.
She set up a sleeping bag for him and pointed to it, but he just stood where he was, looking past her, apparently at nothing.
Now it was just her, Jane, Brian, and Sven…but was Sven still with them? Lorie hoped he just needed some sleep.
“You have to lie down,” Lorie said, bending down and shaking the sleeping bag this time.
He nodded again, and stiffly bent at the knees and waist until he was lying face down, on top of the sleeping bag.
Lorie looked up to see that Jane was watching the sleeping bag debacle. Lorie shrugged, and left Sven in his obviously uncomfortable position. He was lying on top of his knives, but Lorie decided it was best not to pester him about it.
She walked over to Jane and looked up at her somber face. “You gonna try to rest up too?”
“Yeah, we all should. Brian will keep watch for the next few hours. I trust him…he won’t let anything happen to us.”
Lorie wondered if Jane was really going to sleep, or if she was just trying to be comforting.
Lorie didn’t plan on sleeping. She might pillage some fruit and cookies, but she wasn’t going to sleep. Maybe she would give the magazine aisle another visit, and maybe she would keep her own watch, simultaneously with that of Brian.
Two sets of eyes, she knew, were better than one.
111
Ivan smelled the breach at once. The air in the new enclosure suddenly turned stale. Then the air putrefied before Ivan could load up even a short hiss in his throat. He leapt into action. He had to find the breach. He had to find any of his friends that were close to it. He had to tell them. They never saw the bad people coming soon enough. Ivan ran, skittering and sliding at sharp corners. He ran and slid and ran. Then he knew exactly where the foul people were getting in. There was another smell in the air. It was Sven’s friend. Sven’s friend was close. Ivan leapt into action once more. Then he was next to Sven’s friend with the wood in his hands. Ivan hissed. Sven’s friend looked at Ivan and made a silly noise. Ivan hissed again. Sven’s friend made another silly noise. Ivan tried to make Sven’s friend follow. Ivan tried to lead Sven’s friend away from the rotten people. Sven’s friend wouldn’t follow. Sven’s friend wouldn’t—the rotten people were close now. They were too close. Ivan hissed once more. He had to find Sven. Ivan tried to lead Sven’s friend away again. When Sven’s friend wouldn’t come, Ivan ran off. Ivan had to find Sven now. Ivan had to tell Sven.
112
Sven had slept some after the encounter with Milt. Now it was late in the morning, and they were all still alive.
He was trying to force down a banana when Ivan came running at him. Ivan looked wild, and ran straight at Sven with no sign of slowing.
Sven backed up, bewildered, and dropped a bite-sized piece of the banana that Lorie was insisting he eat. He almost felt relieved at having an excuse not to eat the thing, to go on avoiding food.
Ivan attacked Sven, scratching at the mallard pants, meowing frantically.
Sven’s thoughts began to turn dark. “What? What is it?”
Ivan began padding away, then turned around to Sven.
Sven got the idea.
“What’s wrong?” Lorie asked, looking up from the green apple she was munching. Jane looked over too.
“I don’t know.”
Sven began to follow Ivan, with Lorie and Jane following behind him. He wished he could be back home, with Ivan leading the way to his bowl.
He didn’t have to look at the amount of food left in Ivan’s new bowls to know that wherever Ivan was now leading him, food was not the issue.
113
Brian wondered what had Ivan so spooked.
He decided that the cat could smell the remnants of the zombies and zombie parts that he and Sven had painstakingly carted out.
Brian had met Ivan before, on his many trips over to Sven’s house. Brian usually went over when Sven called and said that the protein supplies were dwindling rapidly, and that time was of the essence.
This was often right before one of Sven’s shows or before a training session wit
h a client that Sven was particularly keen on impressing. Brian shrugged, remembering the good old days, and figured all of that was over now. Nothing left now but survival…cold survival.
He was glad that Ivan was there. He knew that caring for animals was one of humanity’s few redeeming characteristics, and Ivan could help to bring out the best in all of them while they struggled through the outbreak.
In addition, he realized, Ivan could also ferret out the mean ones like Milt. It seemed to confirm Brian’s suspicion about people that hated animals.
If they hate animals, Brian said to himself, they’re not to be trusted.
He swung the baseball bat back and forth as he walked to the end of the aisle of international foods. There were some interesting, unfamiliar delicacies there. Some of them caught Brian’s eye, and though he was curious to inspect them, he had a job to do.
He was there to patrol the place and sound the alarm if anything went wrong, and he was going to discharge his duty precisely. Their collective survival depended on vigilance. It was a task to be taken seriously.
What was bothering Ivan so much? The question now burned in Brian’s mind. Did Ivan hate him all of a sudden?
Brian exited the aisle of international foods and stopped in the back of the supermarket. He looked left, then right, like someone about to cross the street, then he strode toward the doors to the stockroom. It was worth a quick check.
The doors to the stockroom were metallic, and fashioned in the style of a saloon entrance, except that the doors spanned the full length of their frame. Each door had a small looking window at about Brian’s eye level, but he couldn’t see through either window unless he walked closer.