Z Ward

by Jay Mouton

  Again, the green Volvo station wagon filled the flat screen. The woman who’d been torn out of the wagon, through the remains of the front windshield, was long gone. Now the camera was trained on the scene taking place in the backseat of the wagon. So very many individuals, obviously infected people, had, by now opened all the doors of the vehicle. On one side of the Volvo, two of the sick were sharing a meal of one of the children from the backseat of the wagon. A child who had, only moments before, went by the name of Jennifer, Carl, or Jarrod. It was, at this point, impossible, even by threads of bloodied and torn clothing, to remotely determine if the child had been a boy or a girl.

  Somehow, on the very top of the Volvo, nestled in between a couple of long, and sturdy looking luggage racks, several more of the infected were getting their fill of another child from within the vehicle.

  The camera’s digital images had been, considering the frantic pace and unbelievable acts it was capturing, stable. As the last child was making a mad attempt to crawl over the backseat of the wagon, to what the child must have, in its terrified mind, thought was a last chance to escape the fate of its siblings, two more of the infected rushed into the open backdoors of the green Volvo. Once inside, they tore the child’s body into two parts. Both lifeless parts of the small body, now, outside of the car and, quickly, disappearing into the mouths of two infected individuals.

  Two monsters—!

  *****

  The three of them continued to watch the madness streaming, live, from somewhere in Jacksonville, for a few more minutes before the inevitable happened. The inevitable that, just so happened, to be satellite beamed live into a Baptist Health hospital room.

  “The post-change symptoms have, also, included the continuous and rapid blinking of the eyelids. As well, a clear, well-defined, loss of the capacity for lucid speech. CDC officials, strongly, insist if you find yourself near any individuals displaying any of these symptoms get away from them immediately. I repeat, if you, if you, don’t, if,” the woman seemed confused. She continued, but what came out of her made no sense, now. “Immediately, cars, or Volvos, insisting, symptoms don’t,” the woman continued talking. She was audible and clearly enunciating what, ultimately, amounted to nonsense. Still, professional that she was, the woman kept talking unimpeded by the gibberish coming out of her mouth.

  The camera, oblivious to her speech pattern, seemed in love with the woman’s lovely, emerald eyes—her soft lids fluttered, like colorful butterfly wings on the flat screen.

  “Dear God, please,” Susann whispered, softly. Tears were gathering at the corners of her own deep, blue pools.

  Robey, hearing her soft plea, walked over next to Susann. As he had done earlier with Buddy he, gently, placed his right hand on the nurse’s left shoulder. He squeezed her tenderly.

  When she could no longer hold the weight of her tears she let them go, and they began to fall. Only then, and without being aware of it, she turned her body toward the young boy by her side. She leaned her head against his slight frame. The young boy cradled her in a comforting embrace.

  Several minutes passed by, as Robey offered what comfort he could to Susann Beckett.

  Buddy, too, slipped down off the bed. He walked over to the only two people in the world that he knew, for sure, were still people. Just as his best friend had, he placed a warm hand on nurse Beckett’s shoulder. And, just as Robey had done for him back in Robey’s hospital room, as gently as he could, he patted Susann Beckett.

  Susann allowed herself the good cry that she had been, absolutely, convinced she’d had coming to her. Then the young woman shook off the remaining remnants of the self-pity that she had just expended. She lifted her head away from Robey. She looked up at him, and then over at Buddy. She whispered, “thank you, both.” With those words, she wiped away what was left of her tears. Then she stood up. She smiled at them.

  Both Robey and Buddy smiled back at the nurse. Buddy, not as schooled as Robey was at caring for the frail of heart, blushed. Then the boy turned, walked back over to the bed, and hopped back up on the edge of the mattress. His feet dangled. He looked to the ceiling as if he’d found something up there to preoccupy himself for a few moments.

  Susan began to speak, but her voice cracked weakly. She cleared her throat, and gave it another shot.

  “Okay, guys. Stop me at any time you think I’m wrong,” she said. She started explaining to them what, she was damn sure, was going to happen to her. And, likely, to happen to her sooner than later.

  Again, the pretty nurse cleared her throat to speak. This time she felt a small, but thankful, rush of self-confidence flow through her body. All considered, she seemed to be thinking, she felt pretty good. She sounded more like the strong, self-assured nurse that Robey had come to appreciate ever more as the morning wore on.

  “Y’all, I felt like that woman up there on that flat screen was talking right to me, guys,” was how she began.

  Robey and Buddy both paid close attention to her, but both glanced up at the flat screen. The image, although filled with bright and people friendly color, was simply that of an empty newsroom. A large and expensive looking desk took up much of the bottom of the screen. A couple of chairs along its side. A huge map of Florida, dotted with dozens of dark, well-defined, bulls eyes dotting its surface. The map covered the wall behind the desk, and filled the rest of the shot. There wasn’t any sound coming from the speakers.

  The boys looked back over to Susann Beckett as she continued.

  “If I understand what I heard, correctly, it may not be much longer before I end up just like Doctor Huddleston over there,” she said. She pointed to the bodies pushed up against the wall just below the window sill. A single breeze wafted in from the huge hole in the shattered window. It made the light, translucent, curtains dance for several moments.

  Buddy tilted his head, ever so slightly, to his left. Robey knew that habit of his friend from spending so much time in classrooms together. It was what Buddy did when he didn’t quite understand something somebody was trying to explain to him.

  Robey, at least concerning what his favorite nurse in the world was telling him, didn’t have the same problem of not understanding her. Robey knew exactly what Susann was implying. He knew it. He understood it. And he didn’t much like it. He didn’t like it one, damn bit.

  He was, technically, still a child. But the boy was an old hand at biting his tongue concerning things that he didn’t like. Things that he was, ultimately, powerless to change. He remained quiet and listened to the woman.

  “Robey. Buddy. Guys, if that lady is,” Susann, stopped, cleared her throat again. She corrected herself, before going on.

  “If that lady was giving accurate information from the CDC. If the CDC is correct. Well, guys, this sickness,” she paused, thought for a moment. Correcting herself, she continued “this virus, apparently only affects adults?” Her declarative sentence delivered more in the manner of a question. A question edged with a thin sliver of hope.

  The room was quiet, but only for a few, uncomfortable, moments.

  “I’m sorry, Susann,” Robey offered up. He was thinking, just that second, that his heart might begin to break apart inside him.

  The woman reached out to the young boy. She took hold of his hand.

  “It’s okay, Robey. Thank you for being honest with me,” she said. She squeezed his hand a little harder, and then released it. Still, her eyes seemed to lock onto Robey’s as if they were lifelines. Maybe, if his eyes remained locked onto hers, it might just keep the future at bay just a while longer.

  Buddy allowed himself to leave his perch near the door to the room. He went over and stood next to Robey and Susann Beckett.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t understand what you were saying just then, Miss Beckett,” Buddy said.

  Instantly, Robey smiled. He knew his friend so well. Buddy, always, reverted to a homegrown, southern gentleman when he was thought he was in the wrong or had hurt another. Tough guy that he always
tried to be, whenever Buddy felt he’d hurt somebody, even inadvertently, he was always tough enough to apologize. Robey reminded himself that one of the reasons he had become best friends with Buddy Whetherby was because any time Buddy screwed up, he apologized. And, when Buddy did make amends, it was always sincere.

  Buddy Whetherby was known to make up some tall tales from time to time. And, just maybe, he was prone to telling a white lie or two to get his sorry ass out of the slings he, often, found himself in. But his friend, Buddy Whetherby—no, Robey mentally corrected himself. His best friend, Buddy Whetherby, was never insincere when it came to making things right.

  Susann grinned at Buddy. Then she reached held a hand out to both boys. This time, as she went on with what she wanted to tell them, she grasped each hand—tightly.

  They stood there together. A small circle of friends. In a small, quiet room filled with life.

  And death.

  They stood, in a semi-huddle, circled up close together holding hands.

  Robey felt a sudden onslaught of de’ja’ vu, and found himself caught up in another time in his life that seemed so very familiar.

  *****

  His mother had been involved with one of her stints with Alcoholics Anonymous. Robey couldn’t have been much more than seven or eight years old at the time.

  His mom was sober.

  Well, she was kind of sober. It had been, almost, two weeks. She’d been going to a local church mission for her sobriety meetings. They were living, for the second time, in Gainesville, Florida.

  Robey remembered hearing his mother stumbling into their studio apartment that night. He knew, instantly, that something had given, or something was about to give.

  She was singing her song. Softly, and melodically. Broken strains of broken lyrics wafted into the easy darkness of the two-room studio. “I’m a takin’ all that business. All the days, taking so much business,” she half sang, half whispered.

  He heard her open the door on the tiny compact fridge that rested underneath the even more compact microwave oven that most of their meals were prepared in.

  A soft ray of light glowed across the dark interior of the small room, but only for a few seconds. Robey heard a little noise, then the light disappeared. Then, a moment later, he heard the familiar pop and the faint hiss that followed it. The lonely joy experienced by imprisoned carbonated air escaping confinement as it rushed out of its cold, circular cell. Rushing free, out into the world. He knew the sound by heart. He wasn’t sure that he could count to a thousand yet, but he was pretty sure he had heard at least a thousand cans of Bush beer whispering “hello, Roberta!”

  It was crazy that night. And crazy was normal for Robey Paquette and Roberta.

  Robey heard his mom take a long, satisfied swallow from her can of Bush. Then singing her favorite, things are going to get a little bit better, song she stumbled over to her favorite little man. She leaned over, listing. Then, she caught her balance. She reached for his small body, buried under a warm, fleece throw. She shook him. Once. She was gentle. She asked, in her softest slur, “you awake, Robey, baby?”

  The boy remembered sitting up in the loveseat that doubled as his bed. The warm air surrounding him, in the cocoon he’d created within the confines of the fleece throw, dissipated into the coolness of the room when the throw slid away from his t-shirt pajama top.

  The memory, recalled, seemed so real he could almost feel himself rubbing pretend sleep from his eyes. He could, almost, remember how small his voice used to sound. Way back, he thought, back when he was just a little boy. And, keeping in pace with the times he’d heard a can of Bush whispering out his mama’s name as it beckoned to her, he could hear himself say, “Mama! I thought you’d never get here!”

  Then, bathing her child in the scent of Bush beer breath, she leaned deeper into the small boy. She gave him warm hug. It was another thing that Robey, fondly, recollected. His mom, no matter what condition she happened to arrive home in, always gave him the gentlest of hugs. Hugs worth the combined weight of other memories, he’d reminded himself from time to time.

  On that night, for whatever random reasons that were flitting about in his mother’s head, she had her little Robey get out of his bed and slip on his sneakers. She always got him the ones with the Velcro straps on account that she’d always said she couldn’t tie a shoelace to save her life. Robey, young as he was, well understood the logic behind that practice.

  Then, hand in hand, she walked with her sleepy headed little boy the three blocks over from their apartment. To the little mission where her, current, AA meetings were held.

  He remembered that night so well, He felt himself shiver. He could feel the fog and chill close in on his goose bumped arms. The little boy exposed to that long ago, February night in north, central Florida. Roberta Paquette, and her little Robey. Two of them, huddled, together in front of the mission door for, what seemed to the boy, hours. His mama, Roberta, reaching out behind her, as she snuggled up next to her Robey. She, swaying back and forth, but still knocking away on the battered mission doors. Again, and again. And, then again some more.

  While Roberta kept knocking, little Robey just stood there, next to his mama. He was clinging to her for some warmth. Still he was shivering away in his worn, but clean, Star Wars pajamas. Then the flashing red lights of Gainesville’s finest illuminated the night through the hazy fog.

  *****

  Susann’s sweet voice, almost musical in its softness now, brought Robey back into the moment. He was standing in the close circle, with the two most important people in his life right now.

  “And, whatever is going to happen, I do not want to end up hurting either of you,” She said. Her pitch jumped up several notes as she ended her sentence.

  “You wouldn’t hurt us, Miss Beckett,” Buddy said, falling into his soft drawl.

  “Buddy,” she corrected him, “it’s Susann. We’re friends, now. We’re friends in a horrible tough spot, and we’ve got to work together. We’ve got to, well, try to get out of it,” she said. Her voice, again, flirting with the fear that filled all three of them.

  “Susann, I don’t really know you. But, so far, what I’ve seen is a really, good lady. And,” he added for emphasis, “and that’s a lady through and through.”

  “I know, you like me. You both do. And, I like the both of you. This isn’t about us being friends, now,” she said.

  Her eyes bore into Robey’s.

  “This is about the very real possibility that I’m going to,” she halted, the words catching in her throat. Robey sensed the woman’s courage as she struggled, trying to keep the upper hand, against her growing realization of what might come. And the fear the suspicions created in her.

  She took another breath, steadied herself, and told them, “There’s a strong possibility, boys, that I’m going to become one of those,” she sucked in more air to fill her burning lungs, “monsters!” she said, nearly spitting the words from her mouth.

  Finally, she managed to get her misgivings out. From the way she looked when she’d said it, Robey was sure saying it had left a filthy taste on her tongue.

  Buddy had no comeback for what she’d, honestly, just told them.

  Neither did Robey.

  For Robey, the hardest part of her telling them what she feared would come to be was the simple fact that she knew it.

  Both boys were at a loss of anything to add. They didn’t voice it, but they both pondered just what could one say to a person that knew that they were, most likely, going to end up becoming something that was, it seemed, worse than death itself.

  Robey caught the smallest reflection of light out of the corner of one of Susann Beckett’s beautiful, blue eyes. He wasn’t sure if it was the beginning of a new tear, or what was left of a tear left behind. One not allowed to release the portent of whatever it still retained.

  It didn’t matter. It was Susann’s tear, and Robey willed it away.

  As if hearing the boy’s mental ef
fort to give her comfort, Susann gave their hands another quick squeeze. Then, as if readying herself to discuss a medical problem with a couple of patients, she began to lay out what she’d been thinking about.

  “Boys, there is a chance that we might be able to get to my car,” she said.

  Just the act of talking about doing something other than staying holed up in a room with a small stack of corpses on one side of it gave them all another small taste of hope.

  Robey piped up quickly, “We can go to my house!”

  “Or, we can go to mine,” Buddy offered up. And then, as if to counter Robey, added, “it’s closer.”

  Susann looked back and forth at the two anxious boys.

  “Yes, we could,” she said, “but, realistically, what if things outside are as horrific as what we’ve just seen on television. What if that’s what it’s like everywhere?” She asked. Three pairs of eyes, seemed to widen just a little wider from another shot of fear about the possibility that Susann Beckett was spot on.

  What if things where as bad as what they’d watched. What if things were even worse?

  They were quiet for a moment.

  Suddenly, without any fanfare or announcement, Buddy calmly walked across the room. He bent over the mangled bundle of bodies and body parts shoved up against the wall under the window. He started rummaging through the pockets of Doctor Huddleston’s once bright, white, lab coat. The coat was a blood-stained mess. But Buddy only dry heaved twice as his fingers, deftly, pilfered through the dead man’s pockets.

  Then, as if acting the part of a movie sleuth, he held up the good doctor’s cell phone. Dramatically he said, nearly shouting it out, “Ah-ha!”

  All three of them grinned. Buddy walked back across the room. “I had another one of my epiphanies, Robey!” he announced. His grin widened.