The Dark Times: A Zombie Novel
Page 22
It wasn’t long into the movie when Quin slowly brought his hand up and caressed her back. His touch cracked the illusion of the innocent past and reminded her of what and who she was today. With each stroke, his fingers moved lower and lower down her body.
A part of her wanted to slap his hand away and tell him to lay off, but the other part of her craved the attention. Wanted him to keep going. Keep going until it went all the way. She needed it. Spent her entire life feeding off the attention of men. She hated herself, but it was true. She was never going to get away from her old lifestyle. Once a prostitute, always a prostitute. Just because she wouldn’t be exchanging money or drugs this time around didn’t mean she wouldn’t be exchanging something else. The sense of protection was a high commodity at the end of the world, and protection always came at a price. Sadly, when it came to men like Quin, she knew what that price was. Even sadder than that, she felt comfortable paying that price. There was a certain need that could only be fulfilled by giving control of her body away to a man who knew how to take it.
Q’s hand went lower.
She didn’t stop him.
***
“I can’t stand it, Drew.” Sarah’s arms crossed her chest as she rocked back and forth.
“It’s okay, honey.” Drew reached over and ran his fingers through his wife’s hair. They sat in their tent across from each other. “I explained it to the group. Everything will be fine. They’re planning to go back out soon. We can get you your medicine then, I promise.”
“You told them?”
“I had to. I should have said something earlier when they went out for the insulin. I was hoping we’d be back home before you started having problems again. I . . . I thought maybe God might keep you from going over the edge—”
“Well, He didn’t, and now everyone’s going to think I’m some crazy person.”
“Being bipolar is nothing to be ashamed about. You were just built different. That’s all. Everyone has some medical issue in life. There wouldn’t be so many of those drug commercials on TV if it wasn’t true.”
“I just wish the zombies outside weren’t so loud.” Sarah’s eyes moistened and her voice cracked into a sob.
Drew lowered his hand to her shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “They’re outside. We’re safe in here. Don’t let them bother you. Hopefully the Army will arrive in a few days and get us out.”
“But I can hear them . . . hear what they’re thinking. They’re in pain. I don’t know how to describe it. They need me. They need us. They want us to become part of them by eating us.”
“Honey, it’s just your imagination. You’re scared and it’s running wild. I’m sure all of that will go away when you start taking your meds again.”
“I know, I know, but it seems so real.” She put her palms to her face. “I just feel so exhausted,” she whimpered. “It’s like I have no control of my mind. It keeps shifting from one thing to the next.”
“I know, honey. I know.” He held her tightly.
Drew Finley was used to dealing with his wife’s emotional turmoil, but right now, her internal problems were the least of his worries. Although he was next to her doing all that he could to bring comfort, his mind was elsewhere. He kept thinking of his daughter and the growing connection with that Asian man. Aside from his name, the group knew little to nothing about him. Now he was watching his little girl start to grow fond of him. This wasn’t the time or place for crushes—especially not with a man more than ten years her age that didn’t speak near a lick of English. He wanted to tell his wife. Get her opinion on the matter. Maybe she would tell him not to worry and that he was just being over protective. Now wasn’t the time for such things. Telling her now would only upset her even more. He thought to have a talk with Patrick, but wasn’t sure that would honestly do him much good. The man wouldn’t understand him one bit.
***
Rico sat by his tent propped up in the gun and ammo department. As safe as everyone else felt in this place, he didn’t feel safe at all. That’s why he was busy preparing for the worst. He had pulled a backpack off of the shelf in the hiking department, and right now, he was loading it with gear. It wasn’t that he planned on leaving anytime soon, but if for some reason he had to jump ship at a moment’s notice, he wanted to be ready. He stuffed 4 bottles of water and packs of crackers into the backpack, wishing he had a few MREs to stick in there, too.
Rico had a 9mm Beretta 92FS pistol on his hip. Out of all the guns available, he chose the Beretta because of its historical military sentimentality. The 92FS replaced the legendary 1911A1 Colt 45 sometime in the 80s. The grip fit his hand perfectly, and the magazine held twice the capacity of the Colt. Too bad Academy didn’t have a Tommy gun with a 100 round drum. It would have been the perfect zombie gun. He still had to make up his mind to go with a shotgun, or an AR15 style rifle, when it came to choosing a long gun.
A small .22 revolver caught his eye, so he grabbed it and placed it in his front pocket. Next came all the ammunition he thought practical enough to carry and four extra clips for the 9mm. As much as he liked the Beretta, the .22 would probably be easier to find ammunition for if the need were ever to arise. He packed an extra shirt off the clearance rack along with a six pack of socks.
Once he was finished, he set the backpack next to the tent flap and crawled inside to rest. The blowup mattress was comfortable enough, but try as he might, he just couldn’t manage to drift off to sleep. His mind raced with all things present, past, and future.
What about Angie and Quin? How far had things gone between them? Did he really have feelings for Angie? Hell, by now he thought he’d have been able to sort that shit out. What about the advice the Finley family had tried to give him? He wouldn’t be chasing his tail over Angie had he taken their advice.
Then there was the trip back to CVS to consider. Would they be able to find a suitable van like the one they had when it came time to leave Academy? He knew he told them he wanted to head out in the country somewhere, but maybe Fort Hood, or one of the other bases would be a better safe zone? If only the emergency message over the radio would update, he’d feel better about going there. Going back home made him think about Pop and about his possible horrible fate. His mother and father—his own flesh and blood—were in Killeen. When it all came down to it, he thought about Mary Etta, his ex-wife. Despite the trouble in their marriage, he hoped that she was okay. That she was faring better than he was.
He thought about the undead out in the parking lot, and about Sarah needing medication. How it all made sense now. She didn’t seem wound too tight emotionally. Happy one minute and sad the next. Or zoned-out like the first time he met her in the back when they arrived at Academy. Was being with someone like that in the group safe? She potentially could get them all killed.
Above all things, he was thinking about getting Angie and fleeing into the night while they still had a chance. While they still had a choice. At least he’d be in total control of their fate. It was the most selfish action he could take. He wondered if he could live with himself if he and Angie did up and abandon the others. But what if Angie refused to come with him? Would he still want to leave? It was a question he couldn’t answer. His indecision frustrated him to the point that he decided he was going to look for something at CVS to help get his ADD straight again.
His thoughts faded into the darkness, and he finally started to nod off.
“Rico! Up! Up!” Patrick shouted from outside the tent in broken English, and then sputtered out a bunch of words in his native tongue.
The only word that Rico made out besides his own name was ‘Steven.’ Rico didn’t speak Asian or Chinese, or whatever it was Patrick spoke. One thing that did translate well with the universal tongue of any language was tone, and right now, Patrick sounded panicked.
“Steven!” Patrick said.
Rico sat up and crawled out of the tent. “What is it?” By the time he stood to his feet, the noise echoed across the store.
Chapter 27
Rico and Patrick ran down the center aisle past racks of hunting jackets and hiking gear toward the sound of the shot. Rico’s bare feet slapped the cold tile with each frantic step forward as he tightened the belt on the holster across his waist. Patrick turned down a narrow lane, briskly running between the women’s workout clothing and the bathing suits. Rico followed, with one arm closing the distance between him and Patrick. The other hand reached for the gun.
Once they stepped past the women’s wear, the two came to a halt before the registers and the front doors just beyond. The undead were there to greet them as usual—banging and eager, the shatterproof glass preventing their entry.
It was a sight Rico thought he’d never get used to seeing. All he could imagine was the glass exploding inward and a flood of zombies pouring in like an angry swarm of ants. He shook it off and motioned for Patrick to stay put while he eased around the service counter to see what lay just beyond.
A few steps later, two legs lying on the ground came into view near the doors. Rico looked over at Patrick, closed his eyes, and bit his lip.
Patrick gingerly stepped over to Rico’s side. “Steven.”
“Steven,” Rico said. He put the gun in the holster and continued around the counter, reluctant to get any closer to the doors.
But he had to.
Steven was lying on his side, his body sprawled out like a drunk who passed out on the floor rather than the couch, but this was no frat party. This wasn’t a domestic disturbance call because some punk kids were playing their music too loud and drinking too much. No, this was real life. As Rico looked down at the body—the hole in the side of Steven’s head—the blood still dripping out—he couldn’t help but think back on his time as a police officer. At how mundane and trivial so many of the call outs had been. Domestic disputes. Noise ordinances. Bar fights. Drunk drivers. Prostitutes. All of those people, the ones he dealt with every day. The ones that made his city seem so terrible. They were just living their lives. Living their lives the way they wanted to. None of it compared to this. This pressure everyone was under. The relentless lack of hope. The awareness of what the future may never be like again. As Rico watched the blood pool on the cold tile around Steven’s head, he felt ashamed at ever believing his job as a police officer was really that hard. This—their new life—it was hard. And honestly, he didn’t blame Steven one bit for what he did. At least now, the young man was free. He was free from the terror of waking up every day to that buzzing drone of moans and pain. Free from the fear of getting eaten alive and knowing that it was only a matter of time before one of them sank its teeth into you.
Rico envied Steven in a flood of emotions he had never felt before.
Suddenly, the pistol holstered on his hip felt much heavier.
It was obvious there was nothing he could do to help Steven at this point. Still, Rico knelt next to the body and felt for a pulse on Steven’s neck. He hoped like hell he wouldn’t detect one, knowing he’d be the one to end any prolonged suffering.
The roar from the undead outside increased. Rico looked up at the deteriorated flesh on the ghastly faces and felt an icy tingle on the back of his neck. Something touched his shoulder, and he jumped.
Patrick came to his side to offer a hand of comfort. “Bad . . . very bad.”
Rico cleared his throat and rubbed his hand across his mouth. “Yeah, man. Not good at all. He, uh, he didn’t need to go out this way.” He leaned over and picked up the gun. The barrel wafted the perfume of a spent casing. He put the gun in his back pocket as shoes hitting the floor approached.
Drew walked into view with his arms wildly swinging from his side. He abruptly stopped and placed one hand on a counter. After momentarily rocking back and forth as if he was on a boat, he steadied himself. “Is he dead?”
“Yeah, Steven’s gone now.” Rico rose and placed a hand on the butt of his pistol.
“Lordy, Lordy. That poor man. I wish he had come and talked to me first. I could have given him hope. There’s always hope.”
“Where are Sarah and Debra?” Rick asked.
Drew waved a hand. “I told them to stay in their tents. I gave Debra a gun. She knows how to use it.”
Rico nodded.
“Do you know what happened? You didn’t see him . . .”
“No, no. The drugs must have worn off. We didn’t get here until afterward.” Rico sighed. “I guess everything that went down was just too much to handle. Took the easy way out.”
Rico’s palms began to sweat, thinking about it. You can take the easy way out, too, Rico. Do it.
“Well, we can’t leave him here,” Drew said. “How do you want to do this?”
Rico mulled it over a bit. “We should wait till morning to move the body. Maybe dump it in the trash bin before we head out to the CVS. We can—”
“No,” Drew interrupted. “I don’t want my wife or my baby girl to see this mess. We do it tonight. Just the thought of a dead body in the store will drive Sarah crazy.” Drew quickly raised a hand. “Uh, not crazy, crazy. I meant upset.”
“I knew what you meant. Okay then, let’s do it like before and get Quin to help us,” Rico said. “Since it’s night time we need to be extra careful. I know that none of the zombies have crossed the vehicle wall yet, but I always worry about that every time we open that door. We need to move as fast as last time.”
Patrick and Drew nodded.
“Where is Q anyway?” Rico asked. “Surely, he and Angie heard the gun go off.”
“I’ll go get him if you and Patrick want to get a blanket or a rug to wrap Steven in.”
Rico grabbed Drew by the arm just as he started to walk off. “No, I’ll go. Angie’s my friend.” Rico hesitated. “I, uh, I want her to be reassured everything’s okay and talk to her a bit.” The words carried slight desperation.
Drew nodded and looked like he was about to say something. About to comment on the concerned look most likely plastered across Rico’s face.
However, before he could say anything, Rico tried to save as much dignity as he could by turning and walking away.
***
Drew led the way toward camping supplies with Patrick lagging slightly behind him. The last thing he wanted to do was tell Sarah about Steven committing suicide. Learning of his death was sure to send her off on another emotional cliff. As much as he tried to protect Debra from things, he knew her to be strong. If nothing else, the zombie apocalypse had matured her in a positive way. Instead of becoming clinging and needy, Debra joined right in with the rest of the adults and pulled her weight. His little girl was growing up and becoming a woman, which unfortunately, opened another can of worms. Maturity also brought along with it some negatives. Since he and Patrick were alone, now seemed to be the best time to see if he could make his concerns known. Drew came to a stop in front of a shelf containing sleeping bags.
“All right, Patrick. I want to talk to you about something, and I’ll do my best to let you know how I feel.” Drew waited for Patrick’s expression to show some sign of understanding, but gave up after a few seconds. “I’ve seen the way my daughter looks at you.”
Patrick’s eyes widened for a split second.
“Good, you do understand me, don’t you? At least a little.” Drew glared. “I’ve seen the way she looks at you, and I’ve seen the way you look back at her. In fact, there’s been more than one occasion where she’s volunteered to help you do some things around here. I didn’t think much about it at first, but now . . . Okay, I’m rambling and that’s wasting time and doing us no good.” Drew slowly raised his hand and pointed a finger right at Patrick’s nose. “You’re too old for Debra. She’s just starting to grow into a woman. Her life’s screwed up enough right now with those things outside. This isn’t the time or place for her to get her heart fluttering over a boy. You’ll only end up hurting her, and w
e’ve already been through enough pain. We’ve already lost enough.” Drew sighed and turned away, grabbing a sleeping bag from the shelf. Had he just wasted two minutes of his life he would never get back?
“Debra?”
Drew shook his head. “You don’t understand a word I’m saying, do you?” Frustrated, his hand began to shake. “Just stay away from my little girl. Got it?” He poked Patrick in the chest with his finger with the demand.
Patrick brought his arm up and knocked Drew’s arm to the side. “She’s not a little girl any more, Drew. She can make her own decisions now.”
“What the fuck? You speak English? You could understand us this whole time. What the hell?”
“Yes, I speak English just fine. And apparently Mr. Holy Roller knows how to cuss. I was born in America, Drew. My parents named me Patrick, for the love of God. Of course I speak English.”
“But all this time… Why did you pretend you didn’t?”
“I have my reasons,” Patrick said, taking the sleeping bag from Drew. “Some of my classes in college dealt with behavior modification. I’ve always had a fascination with people. How they think and react to situations. I knew if I pretended to understand only a little of what was being said, eventually I’d be treated like I wasn’t in the room. People would start saying what they really thought in front of me—show their true self. I like to hold my cards close to my vest and surprise people when I play them.”
“But this isn’t some stupid game. It’s life and death. You shouldn’t have acted that way. It, it’s deceiving. How can we trust you from now on?”