by Chris Lowry
I let him have his fun, since number five towered over me and drew back his boot for a kick.
I used my now freed hand to punch him in the nuts, and squeezed for all I was worth.
I got a chest full of vomit for my trouble, but he was out of the picture.
Dry humper must have finished, but instead of rolling over and falling asleep, he tried to claw his way up to my face.
I grabbed him by the back of the hair and rubbed his nose in my freshly decorated chest.
For the record, if someone rubs your face in another guy's throw up, you will probably throw up yourself.
It was warm and chunky and had I eaten recently, I would have added my own repast to the two recent meals residing on my person.
Urgh.
Number six kicked me in the thigh vacated by the dry humper, and it hurt. I was going to feel that tomorrow.
If I was going to make it to tomorrow, I needed to turn the tide, and not in a return the vomit comet kind of way.
Rule number which one, I forget, but it's don't be on your back in a fight.
So I started rolling, trying to bowl out some legs, trying to get clear of the group of them.
I gained space and pushed up just in time to see a steel toe aimed at my eyeball. I ducked away and managed to take a scraping blow across my healing bullet scar, and hopped, skipped and jumped backwards more as stars exploded around my vision.
There were now eight of them standing in front of me, but when I shook my head, some of the twins disappeared, and left four standing.
One of the guys holding my wrist was knocked cold by his noggin bump with his buddy, the guy next to him was still clutching his crotch.
Guess I must have popped something.
The rest didn't rush this time.
They spread out in a wider pattern, eyes bouncing off me to each other and back again as they tried to decide what to do next.
"Get him," Mags screamed an order.
I guess she expected them to make short work of me, or that I would go quietly.
She was right about one thing.
I was going to be very quiet.
The four men screamed and rushed again.
I ran to meet them halfway.
Of course, we're only talking ten steps or so for the distance between us, but since they were screaming, they were losing air.
I dropped to my knees and slid into one, punching for gut with the sharp point of my elbow, straight into his diaphragm.
The combo sent him sprawling, stomach heaving as he gasped for wind.
Going low threw the one beside him off.
He rounded on me with a haymaker, but I spun and did my best sweep the leg move into both of his ankles.
One snapped and he screamed.
I kept spinning, tossing up little clouds of dirt and debris when the other two guys landed on top of me.
They were good at punching.
Experts even.
One was hammering on the top of my head with one fist, clenching my shirt with the other as I kept my chin pressed against his neck.
The other was trying to compose a drum symphony on my kidneys. A long one.
But that left my hands free.
I was fighting blind and just reaching, but hooked a finger in someone's mouth on one hand, a thumb in the other's eye and pulled with both.
I got a reward.
An eyeball popped on my thumb and sent warm juice running down my arm, and I felt what it was like to have a cheek rip open on my hand, then a warm spurt of blood cascading down that arm.
Those guys screamed, or maybe it was me.
When they rolled away in the dirt, I added some of my own vomit to the gunk already on my chest, even though I hadn't eaten.
Then I stood up and faced the woman in the chair.
I wanted to say something smart ass, or snarky, but close quarter fighting leaves one breathless.
Plus, my side hurt. I bet I would piss some blood that night.
If I made it that far.
Six bodies lay on the ground around me, none of them dead, but all of them squirming. It really looked like something I would like to do, but I felt I had an image to maintain.
The whole predators don't show weakness to other predator's thing.
"Impressive," she said in her flat voice.
I was glad the collective approved, and wondered why they didn't just shoot. They had guns.
Was this some sort of test?
Did I pass?
"Can I just take my kid and go?"
She smiled then, and I did not like the way she wore it on her face.
A shark's smile under bored impassive eyes, or like a cat toying with its lunch.
"Kid?" she asked with pretended innocence. "Or kids?"
Another flick of her finger brought Tyler and the Boy to the stage, joined by Bem.
My stomach did a flip flop thing, but on a bright note, it totally made me forget about the mish mash of my kidneys.
"Bring out the giant," she said.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
And then the giant showed up.
It's not often you get the chance to say that in real life. I wouldn't have suspected an NFL player to survive the zombie plague, but for the life of me I couldn't fathom why I thought that.
Of course some would survive.
They are extraordinary athletes, and with a couple of thousands of them, it would only make sense.
This guy looked like a sumo wrestler met a mack truck and they made a baby. A big giant bald headed baby glaring at me with pig eyes and what I hoped was oil that made his muscles shine.
"You're dead," he predicted.
I almost nodded.
He was probably right. I'm not a large man, and trekking half way across the country scavenging for food made me wiry. All muscle, sure, but there wasn't much of it, as far as raw brute strength.
The giant on the other hand looked well fed.
Like he ate whole turkeys every day.
And washed them down with protein shakes.
Size isn't everything.
At least that's what we tell the ladies.
Big meant he was going to be slow. Which I was not.
Big meant he would have more weight to carry and tire easy.
I was fast on my feet and a long distance runner to boot.
My mind raced. It was going to be an Ali Frazier fight, the old Rope a Dope. I'd wear him out by staying out of reach, and when he got tired, move in and finish him, just like the man suggested to Johnny at the all karate valley championship.
Then he moved.
Like a dancer, fast and lithe and his dad must have really been a Mack truck because he was going as fast as one.
I barely had a chance to dodge out of his grip and then it was on.
He was too big, too fast and looked too strong.
I was too tired, too beat and too broken to win.
This wasn’t going to be fair at all.
I kept backing up, all the while thinking of Ali and Foreman. Rope a dope would work great on this massive stack of humanity, but I wasn’t sure I could handle a hit.
Then he did.
And I couldn’t.
It was a glancing blow across the scarred side of my head and sent me reeling.
Then his speed kicked in and he landed one on my chin.
It would have been better it knocked me cold.
But all it did was hurt.
And bleed.
He grabbed me in a bear hug and squeezed. Ribs cracked.
My arms were pinned but my hands were free. I grabbed for his nuts and squeezed.
He giggled in my face and laughed.
“Ain’t that kind of date,” his breath smelled like coffee.
He planted his forehead into my nose, once, twice and stars exploded in my head.
Then he dropped me, straddled my chest and started pounding with massive ham sized fists. I saw two, a third, then no more.
CHAPTER SE
VENTEEN
I woke up some time later and stared at the white walls around me.
Plain, unadorned and unbroken except for a door and a window that looked out onto a courtyard, a sliver of blue sky visible at the top of the building across the way.
My throat was sandpaper.
I tried to move my hands, but soft cushioned cuffs held them strapped to a bar on the side of the bed.
The door open and a tall white haired orderly in blue scrubs peeked in.
“You’re awake,” he smiled.
His face was kind, soft, thin hair touching the back of his scrub collar.
He stepped into the room.
“I’m Tony,” he said. “You’ve been out for a while. Are you thirsty?”
I tried to answer, but it came out as a croak that cracked and evolved into coughing fit.
He put a hand on my chest and nursed me through it, then held a small pink plastic cup full of water up and put a straw to my lips.
“Just a sip,” he ordered. “You’ve been in and out for days.”
I took two long swallows, almost crying at how good it felt as the moisture coated my mouth and throat.
The sandpaper melted into something like gravel and I tried again.
“Where are my kids?”
Tony smiled and nodded.
He must have been a priest before or some social worker. There was an air of kindness about him, a patience.
“You’ve mentioned them before,” he answered. “The doctor is on his way and he’ll be able to answer more questions.”
Tony checked the straps on my wrists, double checked the ones on my ankles and gave me another sip of water.
“You said days,” I told him. “How many?”
“You’ve been in here for almost a month.”
My stomach dropped.
A month.
What had Bem and the Boy done? What were they doing to them? Bis out there, somewhere for a month on her own.
I struggled against the bindings.
Tony put his hand on my chest again.
“Hold on,” he said. “Let’s just relax.”
“I’ve got to get out of here.”
“That’s what you said before we put you under last time.”
“Put me under?”
The door opened and a woman stepped inside. She had brown hair, large eyes and a serious look on your face.
She marched across the room and took a chart off the end of the hospital bed.
“You had us worried,” she studied the chart. “We weren’t sure you were coming back this time.”
“This time? Who are you?”
She peered over the end of the clipboard and watched me, pen poised on the chart.
“You really don’t remember me?”
I shook my head.
She made a note on the paper.
“I’ve been your doctor for the last six months. You’re in a hospital.”
I tried to gesture to the white walls, but the sarcasm was lost on her.
“I can see. The giant must have done a number on me.”
“What giant?” she asked as she scribbled another note.
I looked from her to the orderly and back again.
“Your giant, the one the lady turned loose.”
“What lady?”
I screwed up my eyebrows.
She told me her name. I tried to recall it. Marge. Maggie.
“Mags,” I stuttered.
The doctor stared at Tony for a moment then back at me. She had a sad look in her eyes.
“There’s no one named Mags here.”
I struggled to sit up again, and Tony held be against the bed. It wasn’t difficult for him to do.
“Where are my kids?!”
“You need to relax, please,” said the doctor. “I don’t want to sedate you again.”
I fought for control and laid down. I didn’t want them to sedate me. I needed answers.
“I told him he’s been asking for his kids,” said the orderly.
“Do you know where you are?”
I shook my head.
“Some compound. Kentucky.”
It was her turn to shake her head.
“You are in Kentucky,” she spoke in a slow controlled manner. “But you’re not in a compound. This is a hospital. A psychiatric facility. You have had a break with reality and have been our guest for the past nine months.”
Break with reality? Nine months?
But all I could manage was, “Huh?”
“I’ve had you under constant monitoring. You just came off a seventy two hour suicide watch. I kept you sedated so you wouldn’t hurt yourself.”
The door opened and a thick necked black man leaned in.
“Doc, we need you. It’s an emergency.”
She hung the chart on the foot of the bed and patted my shin.
“I’ll come back and see you in a little while. I need you to relax. Stay calm and we’ll get you some answers.”
I watched her leave.
The black man smiled at me.
“I’m glad you’re coming around.”
“Do I know you?”
The smile fell.
“It’s Jeffrey, man. You’ve known me since you’ve been here.”
“I have?”
“Yeah, you and I are good friends. At least when you’re like this. The other way,” he shuddered and shared a glance with Tony.
“What other way?”
Tony waved him out of the room.
“We’re not going to get you excited. Just try to get some rest and I’ll be back after rounds.”
Tony ushered Jeffrey out of the room and left me alone strapped to the bed with nothing but my jumbled and confused thoughts.
Nine months?
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Three days.
I was strapped to the bed for three days. I counted the passage of time as the sun slanted through the window and climbed across the wall.
Tony or Jeffrey would come and feed me, pudding or soup, but they wouldn’t loosen the straps and they wouldn’t talk.
They would come back later with a bedpan.
The doctor checked in twice a day, but she wouldn’t say anything either.
It’s like they were afraid to tell me anything.
Finally, Jeffrey said it was time to go for a walk.
He unstrapped my feet first.
Tony stood by the door while he unfastened my left wrist, then my right. Jeffrey stepped back fast and waited.
I struggled to sit up, but I was weak.
Soup, pudding and atrophy.
It took two tries to swing my legs off the bed, and three tries to stand up. I wobbled and held fast to the end of the bed.
“Short walks,” Tony said and stepped into the corridor.
I took a step after him, almost falling, but caught myself.
Then another, balance coming back.
The tile floor was cold under my bare feet.
Jeffery came up and put his hand on my elbow, guiding me, but not too hard, not too fast.
“Small steps,” he said.
We took small steps through the door and out into the hall. There were other rooms off of this one, doors closed and hiding occupants. The white walls were pristine, looking almost new. The tile was shining, and sunlight beamed through double doors at the end of the corridor.
Tony stood by an empty nurse’s station and watched Jeffrey lead me down the hall.
“To the bathroom and back,” he advised.
Jeffrey nodded and steered me toward a doorway.
My legs were shaking from lack of use. It was tough to catch my breath.We made the bathroom doorway and Jeffrey led us inside. Yellow square tiles covered the walls up to head height, two stalls and two sinks under a long mirror.
"I have to warn you," said Jeffrey. "You did some awful things to yourself while you were in a delusional state."
"What kinds of things."
He pointed to the m
irror and I saw myself for the first time in weeks.
Maybe even months.
Long hair with gray streaks, stubble, dark sunken eyes in a hollowed-out face.
Pale.
Not the tan smiling face I was used to seeing from Florida.
And scars.
A long one that ran over the side of my head drawing a thick white line that was crudely stitched with white x scar tissue. More scars, tiny purple and red lines across the side of a face that looked older than I remembered, more worn.
And then I locked on my eyes.
I'm not sure if anyone has ever stared in a mirror and tried to see their own soul.
That type of look is usually reserved for lovers, because we live with so many lies that we tell ourselves we can't handle that level of truth.
The eyes didn't lie.
Brown pupils with flecks of gold, crinkled memories of laugh lines etched in the skin around them.
They stared back at me and I remembered.
I remembered being blown up by a grenade tossed in a tunnel, protecting a young boy who tried to build a kingdom.
Byron.
I remembered being nursed back to health more than once by a woman a decade or more my junior that I rescued from a cult. A woman who loved me, and who I may have been falling in love with back.
Anna.
And Brian.
My friend who wanted my counsel, who wanted to lead a group and keep them safe, who believed in society and rebuilding something better from the ground up.
Were they all figments of my creation?
My imagination?
Were my children safe in Arkansas and Florida, doing teenage things like texting and chatting, homework and crushing on boys, girls, and thinking how their parents didn't really know how the world worked?
Were they okay?
The Mississippi River. The flight. My son the pilot. The fighting. The gunshots. And what felt like a thousand zombies.
Did I fall into a coma or stupor and imagine it all?
"No," I said.
"It's true," said Jeff.
He put a gentle hand on my shoulder and steered me toward the door.
"The mind is an incredible and powerful thing. You have convinced yourself of many things. And you have hurt people. That's why we sedated you."
I let him lead me back to the room. My brain was tumbling like a boulder down a mountain, an avalanche of emotion that threatened to crush me, drag me under and I felt like I was suffocating.