Hell Hath No Fury

by TW Brown

  “Ready?” I ask with shaky voice and hand. Taking aim, I pull back and flick my wrist forward to puncture Kyle’s skin. It is miserable to watch him just coping with everything the way he does, blissfully ignorant and supporting me in whatever crazy idea I get. But Kyle is my rock, and the only person I can depend on now that my family is gone, and his is, too…thanks to mine.

  “Okay, let’s do this.” Kyle picks up Candidate A and heads down the hallway to the reinforced garage door. The walls are covered in insulation and extra blankets to make sure no one knows what we are doing in there. Just for good measure, we always blare loud death metal music. Sick, I know.

  I pull out the keys to undo the chains that are holding the first section of sheet-metal against the door. Three more locks and the next door opens. One more, and we are to the regular wooden door the house came equipped with. We’ve done everything we can to make sure what happened in Upland doesn’t happen here in Texas. I’m sure the local authorities wouldn’t be so easy on us. Then again, they weren’t really easy on us in California when they figured out what Mom was doing with Dad’s special drink for my brother’s classmates.

  “Got the lights?” Kyle asks, and Candidate A starts to stir with his body draped over Kyle’s shoulder. “We need to hurry.”

  “Yeah.” I flick the modified light switch on the wall, illuminating the inside of the garage with million watt candle power lights to temporarily blind the waiting monster on the other side of the door.

  “1…2…3…” I count quickly and throw open the door with another powerful light in my hand, ready to blind him or hit him back if he has gotten anywhere near the door.

  My brother, or what’s left of him, is huddled with a chain fastened around his ankle in the corner next to the garage wall, just so he is out of reach from the door. His gaunt appearance haunts my dreams, and it never gets any better. For five years I’ve heard his moans, his weeps, but not a single word from his decrepit, bloody lips. He’s shaking today, a sign that we’ve waited too long to let him feed. The half-eaten, rotting corpse of Candidate A from two weeks ago is laying in a heap in the corner. All of Aiden’s favorite parts are gone, the ears, stomach, and thighs are always the first to go. And once he’s gotten the pieces he wants, he no longer wants the bodies. Although this time he thought it would be fun to use the leg bones as modified drum sticks. He kept us up most of the night playing a fiendish melody of blood, muscle, and bone thumping against the garage wall. I guess that it was either to annoy us, or show his appreciation for the fine meal. Either way, I wanted to kill him…but he’s already dead—so I guess it wouldn’t have mattered anyway. You can only really die once, right?

  Aiden shifts onto his heels, like a kid getting ready to enter a candy store, anxiously awaiting what he knows is coming. Kyle gets within range to toss the new Candidate to where Aiden can reach it, and Aiden looks like he is ready to pounce. He is starving this time. He reaches for Candidate A before Kyle can fully pull himself back.

  Even if Kyle made contact with Aiden, he wouldn’t come down with the illness thanks to the shots that we take daily, but neither of us is willing to take that chance. We know that Aiden can turn on us at any moment like he did to my mother, and all she was doing was trying to keep him alive like I am. But his hunger for human flesh grows, day by day, even though his body doesn’t. In another month, he would’ve been eleven years old. Instead, he is trapped in time, the living among the undead. And I am trapped with him—the keeper of the key and the flesh—upholding the promise I made to my mother to keep him alive until a cure can be found. But after the outbreak, destruction seemed to be the only answer, and the one everyone focused on whole-heartedly.

  Now, the only chance at a cure relies on me and the research journals my father left unfinished before he was killed. Everyday, I spend reading and researching the journals. We are getting closer to the cure, but further away, too, as Aiden’s body deteriorates along with my will to continue this chaotic life. I know I made a promise to my mother, one she forced me to make while she lay dying on our kitchen floor, but I don’t know how much longer we can keep him a secret from the rest of the world or how many more children we can steal to satisfy his hunger. At first, one a month was enough, but with the recent Candidate A, this makes three kids in a month and a half, and it’s not like we can collect a few and freeze them for later.

  I am the zookeeper to the undead, and next week we will make preparations to move our ghoulish family to yet another unassuming neighborhood. In another two weeks, I’ll be back on the prowl for a few good Candidates. It’s a never ending cycle; one that will continue until the cure is found and what is left of my family, is saved. I refuse to give up on Aiden, no matter how many children we watch him eat, he’s still my little brother.

  Rebecca Snow got married in a cemetery. To her knowledge, there were no zombies in attendance. She lives in Virginia with her husband and an inheritance of geriatricats. Zombies have intrigued her since she saw the original Dawn of the Dead on video when she was 11 years old. She still devises plans to outwit the zombies in the movie to make sustainable mall living a viable option.

  "Take another little piece of my heart now, baby." Janis Joplin. If only all could be so selfless. Unfortunately, all are not.

  Our lovers remain with us long after they no longer hold the title. Open yourself to another, and an exchange is made, pieces of ourselves that can not be replenished. So casual we regard these intangibles, do we even value them at all? Too often, the answer is no. Too often, we are ignorant of so much as their existence, much less the pain we inflict upon their donors. Too often, we award each other only heartbreak.

  But, surely, this does not involve you. You've never betrayed a trust, indulged selfishness, declined another's most darling gift? No; not you.

  Good thing. Sometimes those heartbreaks come home to roost.

  Pieces

  By Rebecca Snow

  My heart was broken. It had been breaking for twenty years, but had shattered into an unmendable mess when Doug strolled into our kitchen on the first day of spring and told me he wanted a divorce. He poured out all the typical excuses with a cup of coffee. It wasn’t me; it was him. He loved me; he just wasn’t in love with me. He’d thought long and hard, but he just wasn’t happy.

  “Do you think counseling would help?” I asked in spite of knowing that I wasn’t as perky or as nimble as the nurses.

  He looked down at his tasseled loafers, going so far as to kick an invisible piece of dirt. Peeking from underneath his boyish bangs, he looked like a seven-year-old trying to get out of cleaning his room.

  “No, Nell,” he said. “I don’t think that will help.”

  I went back to wiping the counter, turning the towel, and folding the cloth as I tried to clean up the mess he’d made of our life. He slurped his coffee.

  “Nell, look at me.”

  I stopped shoving the terry cloth back and forth. I inhaled…exhaled…and began scrubbing the grout line next to the sink.

  “Nell. This is why I’m leaving,” he said in a last-ditch effort to get my attention. “You pay more attention to the Scrubbing Bubbles than you do to me.”

  That was a lie. I paid too much attention to him. I was always washing the stench of strange perfumes from his sweaters, bleaching unknown stains from his underwear, and scrubbing the unfamiliar lipstick shades from his collars. Just because I didn’t say anything didn’t mean I wasn’t paying attention.

  He tossed his half-empty mug into the sink. The handle broke and disappeared into the disposal. He picked up the duffle bag he’d dropped next to the trashcan and placed his free hand on the doorknob.

  “Don’t worry, you can have your precious house,” he said. “I don’t want to spend another second here with you. I’ll pick up my car later.”

  When he slammed the door, the knives flew from the magnetic knife rack. Cutlery slid over the counter and the kitchen floor. The butcher knife twirled on the cold ceramic tile
s. I watched the blade slow until it stopped; the tip glinted in a patch of sun and pointed at my feet. Picking it up, I knew not to cut across my wrist. Lengthwise was the only way.

  ***

  I opened my eyes. From the predawn light creeping through the kitchen window, I could make out a large, dark puddle pooled around me on the floor. I sat up and leaned my back against the cabinets. It took a few moments to remember where I was. Running my fingers through my hair, I dropped my hand when a flap of skin hit my face. I squinted in the dim light trying to see my wrist. Then I remembered why I was on the floor. The memory didn’t come rushing back; it trickled in like a leaky faucet filling a swimming pool.

  I reached up, gripped the side of the counter, and pulled with all my strength. I was surprised to find that I wasn’t weak after losing so much blood. Peering through the kitchen window, I saw pink ribbons of clouds streaking the sky. It was a new day. I would have sighed if I’d been breathing.

  A picture frame sat on the mantle in the living room. I could see it through the doorway. Taking a step forward, my legs felt as though I had just gotten off a boat after a two-week cruise. I took the shortest route through the puddle on the floor. My bloody, stumbling footprints followed me onto the tan carpet.

  When I reached the porcelain frame, I thumbed the intricate, raised grape pattern. Two sparkling faces smiled at me through the glass. I was almost certain I was the one in the white dress. Turning the frame over, I fumbled with the latches as I tried to release the photo. The picture tumbled from my hands. The glass shattered as the frame collided with the brick hearth.

  All the broken pieces glittered in the morning light. As I stood there, I thought of my heart. My chest didn’t ache like I remembered when I thought of previous broken hearts. I guessed it was because there weren’t any pieces left to break. I picked up the frame and peeled the photo out from underneath the jagged pane, not noticing the slivers of glass that stuck in my fingers.

  Trudging up the stairs, I flopped on the floor next to my bed. I flailed my arm until it collided with a sharp corner. I grabbed the corner and dragged a box with a white swirl and red background into the light. Pulling off the lid, I saw three tabs. Each partition was filled with pictures. I would have to add a fourth tab for Doug.

  Armed with the bloody butcher knife and a picture from each section of my shoebox, I searched for my office. I knew it had been behind one of the doors on the first floor. Grabbing the knob at the end of the hall, my fingers locked. I twisted my body to make the knob turn enough to disengage the latch. When I was able to pry my cramped fingers from the handle, the door swung open. My computer sat dormant on the desk. I stared at it for a moment before remembering I had to press a button.

  The machine powered up, and I searched the names scrawled on the backs of the pictures. I had to use my shoulders and elbows to move my locked fingers around the keyboard. It would have taken even longer if typing hadn’t been something I could do in my sleep. I had learned to type in high school, correct fingers on correct keys. I seemed to remember thinking of it as a lost art form. Finding the first name, I gripped a pencil between my palms and scribbled an address onto the back of the corresponding photo. I thought my sight was failing me as I wrote down the final address until I realized it was past my usual dinnertime. A vague thought flitted through my brain that Doug should be home soon before I remembered that he was with his harlot.

  The phone on the desk next to me rang. I would have jumped if my reaction time hadn’t been hampered. As it was, I flung my arm sideways to pick up the receiver and missed, sending the handset flying across the room. Screeching sounds came from where it lay on the floor.

  I fell to my knees when I tried to stand. I groaned and crawled toward the phone as I tried to speak.

  “I’m coming,” I tried to say. I succeeded in grunting some incomprehensible syllables.

  The screeching continued as I approached. I got close enough to drop my body to the floor with the phone near my head, and I grunted.

  “Nellie,” my mother’s voice echoed from the phone.

  I grunted again.

  “I’m so glad you’re okay. Have you seen the news?”

  I grunted what I thought was a negative sound.

  “Dear, the dead are walking. Your father arrived twenty minutes ago. I knew it was him because he was wearing that hideous suit we buried him in. Other than that, he’s unrecognizable.”

  I groaned in sympathy.

  “I won’t let him in the house, though. He’ll mess up the carpets. What do you think I should do? They’re telling us on the news to stay in our homes and lock the doors. Is Doug home with you?”

  I gave her another negative grunt.

  “I hope the poor dear is all right. Call me if you hear anything.”

  I lay on the floor until the deafening, quick busy signal jarred me out of my stupor. I was trying to remember why I was on the floor when the thought of my father digging out of his grave and walking thirty blocks from the cemetery to my mother’s house seeped into my head. Why wasn’t I moving like that?

  The phone went silent. By my calculations, Doug had been gone since yesterday morning. I died the same morning. I could only guess that I had risen that same evening. Otherwise, my mother would have been screaming about my having been out of touch for more than a day instead of screeching about my father coming back from the dead to visit her. By the time I’d come to that conclusion, dawn had come again.

  I rolled over on my back and prepared to struggle to my feet. But after a few pops and cracks, my joints moved almost as well as they had before I’d died, barring the slight jerkiness in my gait.

  Stumbling around the room, I caught sight of the small stack of photos and the butcher knife and remembered my quest. I flexed my fingers, and found that they had unlocked sometime during the night.

  I retrieved the knife and pictures and searched for my bedroom. Finding it, I rummaged through the closet and found a dress I’d always loved. The maroon velvet clung in all the right places and hung just above my knees. It would have been the perfect dancing dress, but I’d never had the chance to wear it. Reaching up to a top shelf in the closet, I found a few small gift boxes and some ribbon. I took my haul into the bathroom along with three plastic sandwich bags I’d gotten in the kitchen.

  With my loosened joints, today’s preparations took less time than the previous day’s. The sun was still shining through the eastern windows when I emerged from the bathroom washed and dressed to the nines. I had to forgo any jewelry with clasps, but a bunch of bangle bracelets covered the gashes on my arm, and a long necklace finished my ensemble. My skin was a sallow-grey, but I had always been pale. After grabbing Doug’s car keys, I stuffed the three beribboned boxes and the photos into a large purse and shuffled into a pair of shiny, black flip-flops. My movement may have returned, but my balance wasn’t stable enough for heels.

  I stepped into the yard, focusing my mind on my task. I wasn’t sure how far I could get if I drove, but I had to try. The car’s doorlocks clicked open as I pressed a button on the key fob. It took three tries to slip the key into the ignition. The engine raced as I held the key in the start position too long. My reaction time hadn’t recovered.

  Ramming into the garage door didn’t upset me. I had places to go and people to see. I managed to put the car in reverse and slide out of the driveway, hitting a single bush, before stopping and slipping the car back into drive. I slammed on the brakes as I heard my cell phone ring a third time from the bottom of my purse. Digging the device from the depths of the bag, I answered the call.

  “You didn’t answer the house phone, where are you?” my mother said. “Your father got in the house. I’m calling from inside the bathroom. I think he’s in the den. I’ve heard some awful crashes.”

  I grunted.

  “I’ve called the police, but no one answers.”

  I groaned.

  “I’ll call you back,” she said, and the phone went silent.
/>
  The streets were empty except for a few stumbling corpses and a couple of growling dogs. I drove toward 33 Maple Street and Anthony Wells. If I’d been feeling anything, I would have been surprised that the first one to crack my heart still lived in town. We had met in high school. I’d had a crush on him for a year and a half before he asked me out. We were inseparable for two years until he stood me up on prom night to go to the local motel with some girl he met at the mall. After graduation, he’d gone to college a thousand miles away. I’d no idea he’d moved back to town.

  I pressed the brake pedal after clipping the red mailbox in front of the house. Climbing from the car, I saw a small child scratching at a side door. Between scratches, she pressed her head against a small pet door. Upon closer inspection, the little girl was grey like I was. I heard whimpering behind the front door before I knocked.

  “Just go away,” a woman’s voice cried. “Why won’t you just go away?”

  I knocked again. A curtain fluttered at the window next to the door. I heard a moment of muffled muttering before a deadbolt clicked, and the door opened. A squinting blue eye peered down at me over the chain lock.

  “What do you want?” a male voice whispered through the opening.

  I flashed my most provocative smile and blinked up at the blue eye.

  “Nellie? Nellie Porter?” The voice behind the door sounded bewildered. “How have you been? I haven’t seen you for years. Are you okay?”

  I pressed one of the small, wrapped packages to the door’s opening.

  “Hold on a sec,” the voice said.

  The door closed. I heard the chain rattle before the door was flung wide. Anthony stood looking from side to side before he reached for my arm and tugged me into the house.