Apoc Series (Vol. 2): Silence of the Apoc [Tales From The Zombie Apocalypse]

by Wilsey, Martin (Editor)

  “But the Book of Revelation doesn’t talk about zombies.”

  “It does, and it doesn’t.”

  “Is that what your book is about? I know you’ve been dying to tell me.”

  “Oh man, it’s brilliant. Then again, everything Father Jerome writes is.”

  “When it’s not about demons.”

  “He doesn’t write about demons. He writes about amoral multi-dimensional creatures—things, monsters, whatever you want to call them—that have free-will just like a man.”

  “Most people would say demons and monsters are the same things.”

  “Those would be the people who don’t know squat about Father Jerome.”

  “Let’s not get into an argument. Just tell me if it’s fiction or not.”

  “Strictly theology, none of the monster stuff.”

  “So what does he say about all the zombies? Is this the Tribulation?”

  “No. He makes a clear distinction between the zombies of the natural order and the zombies of the supernatural.”

  “And this kind is?”

  “The natural order. They’re either a genetic defect exploited by a virus, something engineered in a lab, or even Romero Syndrome.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Does he believe they’re dead? And where do their souls go?”

  “He puts two ideas out there. If they’re dead, their spirits have gone on to their reward, leaving their bodies running on purely motor and primeval instincts, or they’re still alive in a sort of sleepwalking coma, again operating on the most basic level possible. In either case, that’s why they only cease functioning when their brains are destroyed. They’re not possessed by evil spirits, in other words, if that answers your question.”

  “So he basically says he doesn’t know?”

  “No, he’s pretty emphatic that they’re of the natural order. His reasoning is that though the zombies of Revelation can’t die, either, they consciously seek death. They don’t go mad and start eating people. Besides, they’re infected by locust stings—the giant, demonic kind.”

  “You mean your grandmother’s kind?”

  He laughed. “Yeah, my grandmother’s kind. You remembered that?”

  She laughed, too. “Who could forget a tagline that bad?”

  “Your grandmother?”

  She frowned. “Hey.”

  “Pizza is served,” said the waitress, placing the large pan on the metal stand center of the table.

  Carrie’s eyes widened. “Look at the steam coming off it.”

  Ben smiled. “Man, that looks good.”

  Using a silver server, the waitress placed a slice on a plate for Carrie, another for Ben. She twirled the hanging foot-long strands of mozzarella around the server and plopped them over each slice.

  “Can I get you anything else?” she asked.

  Ben looked at Carrie, who shook her head. “No, thanks,” answered Ben.

  Carrie smiled at Ben as the waitress walked off.

  “You want me to say the blessing?” he asked.

  “Yes, please,” she answered.

  The two bowed their heads and closed their eyes.

  “Heavenly Father—” Ben began.

  “That is one good-looking pizza,” a voice interrupted.

  The couple looked up. Ben unclasped his hands and placed them palms down on the table.

  “What are you doing here?” Carrie asked.

  “About to have lunch. Yourself?” Alex asked with a cocky smile, his hands in his pockets. He rocked back and forth from the tip of his toes to the ball of his heels.

  “Would you mind leaving?” Ben asked.

  “Oh, don’t worry. I wouldn’t want to bother such a good-looking couple,” said Alex, still rocking on the ends of his feet.

  He looked at Carrie with one brow raised, waiting for her to contradict him, to declare his assessment of her and Ben’s relationship status as friends or co-workers or acquaintances—any answer other than a couple would do.

  He sighed when no amendment was made. “Your pizza looks pretty good,” his voice cracked. “Only one thing would make it better.”

  Ben’s right hand balled into a fist. He took a deep breath and asked, “What’s that, sport?”

  Alex smirked. He removed a gloved hand from his pocket and extended his closed fist in front of Ben.

  Ben looked at the latex glove then into Alex’s eyes. He reached his balled fist toward Alex’s to knock knuckles, only out of feigned respect, when Alex opened his fist, releasing a handful of glistening, yellowed teeth onto the pizza in a small pile.

  Carrie’s stomach convulsed. She swallowed to keep from vomiting.

  Ben jumped to his feet. “You son of a bitch!” He shot a hand out to take Alex by the shirt.

  Alex stepped back, just out of Ben’s grasp. He raised both hands palms forward. “Watch the language, sport. There’s a Christian lady present.”

  Ben stepped out of the booth to take hold of Alex, who took another cautious step back to dodge him. Before Ben could even take a swing, Alex left the floor and flew sideways several feet.

  The hulking Eli stood in profile before Ben.

  Alex looked up from the floor, shaking his head, unsure what had happened. He looked up in time to see Eli stooping down to take hold of him. He scurried in a backward crabwalk until he ran into the front door.

  He quickly stood up and backed through the door to avoid the approaching Eli. Having watched the event unfold through the glass storefront, a group of onlookers standing on the street corner stepped away from Alex.

  He turned to his right, expecting to find sympathy in their expressions, but saw revulsion; to his left, he only found more. Voices rose through closed lips from all around, mumbling, condemning. The verbal assault of the crowd terrified him.

  He tucked his hands into his pockets and walked down the sidewalk with his head low and his face red with embarrassment.

  “Hey, Jackass!” a voice came from behind. “You forgot your pizza!”

  Alex turned his head just in time to see the pizza he had defiled leaving the giant hand of the bald bartender-turned-bouncer.

  The large pizza folded around his back, clinging long enough to leave half its toppings stuck to his shirt before it slid down to his waist and fell off, landing face-up on the sidewalk.

  The crowd who had previously shown utter contempt burst into laughter, the imagined voices of condemnation now echoing the insult “Jackass” one after another, until eventually the multiple voices caught up with each other and declared in unison “Jackass! Jackass! Jackass!”

  The crowd continued to laugh as he walked off, one young man even recording the event with his cell phone camera.

  ***

  Carrie opened the break room fridge and placed half a tin-foil-wrapped submarine sandwich inside.

  “Here you go,” said Ben, handing her his half-sub to place beside hers.

  She closed the fridge.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, glancing into Ben’s eyes then looking down.

  “It’s not your fault,” he said gazing at her until she faced him.

  “No. You were right all along. I should have known nothing good would come of being nice to him.”

  “I don’t know,” he said, cradling her right elbow with his left hand. “We got two free sandwiches out of the deal.”

  She laughed. “Thanks.”

  “For what?”

  “For what you were willing to do for me.”

  “You mean pounding the living hell out of him?”

  She nodded, then placed her left hand on his right bicep. Even through his long-sleeve dress shirt, she could tell the muscle was large and firm.

  He smiled. “I don’t know that I deserve credit for that. I would have done that purely out of self-gratification.”

  “Don’t sell yourself so short. I think you deserve a lot more than that.”

  His eyes sparkled with curiosity. “Yea
h? Like—”

  She stood on her toes and leaned into his arms, kissing him for the first time.

  He pulled her closer, tighter, her breasts pressing against his broad chest.

  “Hey Carr—Ohhh...” someone said, drawing a single open eye from the lovers.

  Neither Ben or Carrie knew who it was. They heard hurried footsteps and rustling papers. When they pulled away to see who it was the doorway was empty.

  “Sorry,” she said, placing her hand over her mouth. “I have salami breath.”

  “So do I,” he said, then pulled her close for one more kiss.

  A moment later she pulled away again. “We better get back to work before—”

  “Before people start talking?” he asked with a sheepish smile.

  “Yeah,” she smiled and lowered her head bashfully.

  She found herself holding his hand. She looked at their clasped hands and swung them back and forth several times before pulling her hand gently from his.

  “Get back to work?” she repeated.

  He playfully rolled his eyes. “Sure.”

  She walked ahead of him slowly, smiling like a school girl.

  He put his hands on her shoulders to make her walk faster through the narrow hall, but she only stopped in her tracks until she felt his chest against her back.

  She turned and gave him a quick kiss.

  “Back to work, remember?” he teased her.

  She turned and headed back toward the office.

  Before they parted ways to their cubicles, he asked, “Does this mean I’m allowed to walk you to your car now?”

  She glanced back and nodded three times.

  They sat at their desks to finish the day’s work, completely invigorated yet thoroughly distracted by their incessant need to peek or wink or smile or just plain stare at one another over the cubicle walls.

  ***

  Alex dropped a handful of green and yellow teeth inside a gray PVC pipe. Sealed on its bottom, the plastic pipe was 18 inches long, three inches in diameter. He squeezed it between his knees, allowing its bottom to rest on his bedroom floor.

  He took a second, slightly smaller pipe, also sealed on its end, and dropped it in the first. Inside the second he placed a lead rod. He raised the second pipe (and its rod) and thrust it toward the floor. There was a satisfying crack.

  He removed the second pipe and glanced inside the first—a tiny mound of green and yellow pebbles lined the bottom. He gave the pipe a twirl and watched the contents tumble about, its sound like a forgotten pocketful of just-cleaned coins in a spinning dryer.

  He replaced the second pipe in the first and repeated the mashing process until the teeth were pulverized into a fine frit.

  ***

  Alex pulled the hot metal pan out of the oven and placed it on the range. He shoved the door shut and looked at his steaming creation. It wasn’t a bad pie for a doctor-in-training. He was tempted to inhale its buttery, sweet aroma when he recalled its contagious contents.

  In fact, he wasn’t quite sure just how contagious Alex’s famous apple pie would be. Would the baked-in frit seep into her bloodstream while in her mouth? Would a tiny chunk be embedded in the lining of her digestive tract? Or would it wait until her stomach did its job and disperse the necrotic nutrients throughout her entire being? Then again, there was always the chance she’d just crap it out and be none the wiser.

  But that was the science of medicine: hypothesize, experiment, results.

  “Mrs. Owen,” he called.

  “Alex, what are you cooking?” her voice came from down the hall. “It smells delicious.”

  “Oh, I’m sure it will be.”

  “I’ll be there in a minute,” she said from her canvas-covered chair. She leaned forward and reached for her cane when he called back.

  “No, no. Mrs. Owen. You stay right there. I’ll bring you a slice.”

  “That’s very considerate of you,” she said, leaning back into her chair.

  He came down the hall, a sickeningly sweet smile on his cherubic face and a tray in both hands bearing fine china plate, saucer, and cup.

  She smiled when he entered the living room. “You shouldn’t have.”

  He shrugged and thought, “You’re probably right.”

  She noticed the cluttered end table beside her and swiftly removed a book and magnifying glass to make room for the tray, placing the reading materials between her hip and arm of the chair.

  He lowered the tray to the end table and placed the plate and pie in her anxious hands. She raised the plate just beneath her nose and inhaled the pie’s aroma. She smiled ear to ear, her gray teeth peeking through dry lips.

  The muscles in his throat involuntarily constricted to keep the rising bile from coming into his mouth, his smile considerably weakened, until he noticed her glancing about for something.

  “What do you need, Mrs. Owen?” he asked.

  She looked at the tray to her side. “Silverware,” she said, satisfied she had located it.

  “Oh. I’m sorry,” he said and handed the fork to her.

  “Thank you.”

  He smiled.

  She pressed the fork into the tender crust, breaking its surface and pressing down till metal prongs scraped against china. Alex winced at the shrill sound. His hands clenched into fists, and he fought the desire to punch or strangle her on the spot.

  A second scrape sounded as she scooped the bite off the plate into her mouth. Alex winced again, twitched even.

  While he watched her chew with her mouth open, the muscles in his throat gave way to the rising bile. He squeezed his eyes shut when the foul acid filled his mouth. He swallowed and hurried from the room.

  “This is good, Alex,” she called from the living room.

  He turned off the kitchen tap and quickly gulped the lukewarm water from a glass and gasped. “I’m glad you like it,” he hollered back.

  She took another bite when he returned to the living room. “This is really good,” she said, sure he hadn’t heard her.

  His jaws clenched to keep the words “I heard you the first time, bitch,” from coming out. “I’m glad you like it,” he repeated.

  “What’d you put in this?”

  His smile flashed wide for just a second. “Something special,” he said, the muscles of his throat tightening again, this time voluntarily keep his maniacal laughter from bursting forth.

  She placed the plate in her lap and lowered her fork, then faced him with a concerned look. “What did you put in this, Alex?”

  He took a deep breath. “Love, Mrs. Owen.”

  Her concern melted into tearful gratitude. “I don’t know what I would do without you, Alex.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I couldn’t survive here on my own. You renting that room is what keeps my head above water. I’d be sunk on the bottom if not for you.”

  He pulled a wooden chair from the dinner table behind him and sat beside her. “Well, that’s sort of like the lamprey and the minke whale.”

  Her pitiful smile turned into a playful scowl. “Are you calling me fat?”

  “No, not at all.”

  “Good,” she said and raised her cane. “’Cause I’d give you a knot on your head if you were.”

  His eyes fixated on his distorted reflection in the cane until she set it back down, then turned back to her. “The lamprey and minke whale are friends. They help each other survive.”

  She took another bite and spoke while chewing. “You’re so smart, Alex. You’re going to make a great doctor.”

  “Thank you. I sure hope so.”

  “You will. And I think it’s really nice of you to say you need me, too, like the ... lamp— What did you call it?”

  “The lamprey.”

  She yawned.

  “Are you tired, Mrs. Owen?”

  She blinked slowly. “I am. I don’t know what’s come over me.”

  “Well, you just close your eyes and take a nap.”

  “But
I haven’t finished my pie or touched my tea.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Alex, as he carefully took the china and placed it on the tray. “I’ll put it in the microwave. You can heat it up later if you want it.”

  “That’s real thoughtful of you, Alex.”

  “You’re welcome, Mrs. Owen. Now, get you some rest.”

  “Thank you, I think I will.” She closed her eyes, and her neck went limp.

  Alex held the tray, perfectly still as he waited for the desired sign. At first, it was a quick, choking sound. The china rattled atop the tray in Alex’ startled hands. He regained his composure and waited again until he heard the sound of soft snoring.

  He made his way to the kitchen while Mrs. Owen rested, in something not quite peace.

  He emptied the cup of tea and scraped chunks of pie off the plate into the sink. He turned the faucet to hot and let the scalding water wash the meal down the drain. With the water still running he flicked on the garbage disposal and listened to the metal mouth gargle and grind its meal to mush.

  His callous and unblinking reflection stared back at him from the kitchen window until it disappeared beneath a thick layer of mist.

  ***

  Alex exited the open door, a hand momentarily shielding his eyes from the bright sky as he bounced down the concrete porch stair, car keys in hand and duffle bag over his shoulder. He got in his car and quickly drove away.

  The front door remained open; the hall beyond, dark. A wide shape lumbered forth out of the darkness onto the short grass lawn. Across the street, two boys worked on an overturned bicycle. One fiddled with the loose chain while the other helped, more or less.

  Mrs. Owen crossed the street without looking either way, but it wasn’t an exceptionally busy street for the small neighborhood. Her eyes were a lifeless silver, the same color eyes one might find in a baked fish. Her mouth hung open, drool running over gray teeth and gums onto her crumb-covered muumuu.

  She approached the careless boys, made aware of her presence only when the sun cast her looming shadow over them.

  “Hi,” said the mechanic.

  “Are you okay?” the supervisor asked.