by Tony Urban
He must have made a noise or maybe Phillip caught him in his peripheral vision, because the young man swiveled his head in his direction.
“You need something, Hal?”
Hal felt another coughing jag coming on and simply shook his head.
“Move on then.”
Hal did and when he was confident that he was out of Phillip’s sight, he let his chest muscles do what they’d been longing for and choked and coughed until he was so lightheaded that he had to take a knee in order not to fall. Near the tail end of it, what little he’d eaten for breakfast ended up on his shoes along with heaps of yellow bile and bright, crimson blood. The pile of it looked a little like an abstract painting.
Hal’s head felt like a balloon at the end of its tether and he grabbed onto his ears to stop it from floating away. The world in front of him spun and twirled and then went black.
In Hal’s dream, he was eating meat. It was thick and rubbery and red and with every bite blood squished out like jelly from an overfull PB&J sandwich. It was warm as it trailed down his chin and neck before getting caught up in the webbing of gray hair that covered his chest. The meat itself was flavorless. All he could taste was the coppery flavor of the blood and, as it plunged down his throat, all he could think was ‘More. I want more.’
Hal came awake feeling stiff, frozen. The sun was high overhead but it gave off no heat. It must be noon. I’ve been laying here for hours.
He rolled onto his belly then worked his way up to his knees. His face felt tacky and wet and it reminded him of the blood in his dream. When he reached up and felt his skin, he came away with a handful of sticky, semi-congealed vomit. He swiped at it with his fingers, trying to clean it away before someone saw.
But, as he scanned the area around him he realized his worries were for naught as he was alone. Thank God. He thought again about going to Dr. Sideris and that time the idea didn’t seem too bad. But first he wanted to clean himself up.
As he worked his way back to his cabin, he kept far enough away from the others so as not to draw their attention. Almost there. Another hundred yards.
His belly tightened and growled. The nausea was gone and, in its place, hunger that bordered on famishment. He remembered the bacon in his pocket and shoved it into his mouth. His cheeks puffed up like a chipmunk gathering nuts for winter and he thought he must be quite the spectacle as he chewed. No one seemed to notice. As he swallowed it down, his body gave no signs of satiation. He was still hungry. So hungry. He felt like his internal organs were devouring themselves in a tearing, raucous rumble and knew the only way to stop the pain was to eat.
Chapter Thirteen
The fourth and fifth days inside the box were a nightmarish jumble of cold, delirium, and thirst. Wim felt dried out as a scarecrow. He could barely move and his body was contorted into a fetal shaped ball on the floor of the box. Once, he thought he saw frost on the steel wall and went to lick it off. As soon as the tip of his tongue touched the frozen metal it stuck like glue.
Double dog dare you.
He quickly jerked his head back and the pink tissue stretched, then tore. There was no pain. No blood. Only cold.
Later he scratched loose a few handfuls of dirt from the floor of the box, then shoved it into his mouth and he tried to suck whatever moisture it contained. He repeated that every few hours and each time it gave him enough wetness to be able to swallow again. He never thought such a simple act could be so blissful.
He dozed off, or lost consciousness briefly and when he awoke the world was dark.
You’ve fallen down the well, you damn fool. How’d you manage that?
I’m gonna have to climb out.
He tried to stand. Couldn’t. Aw heck, I broke my legs. Or my back. Maybe I’m paralyzed.
Wim tried to scream out for help but no words came. It was just as well because there was no one around to hear him. He had no neighbors and even the mailman only dropped his delivery at the end of the lane, far out of earshot.
He attempted to move his arms and at first, they too wouldn’t cooperate. He tried again and that time they moved, slowly at first, painfully. He reached out, trying to grab hold of the walls of the well but when his fingers touch them they slid down helpless, unable to get a grip.
He stared up and saw nothing but darkness. How did he get down here? Was he sleepwalking? Or did he get into the apple pie moonshine his pa kept hidden in the root cellar behind the preserves? Damn fool, Wim. You damn fool.
Hours passed. His fingertips had gone bloody from trying to climb the walls to no avail. He sucked on the blood that oozed from his battered digits and didn’t even mind the penny-like taste of it. Somehow it soothed him.
He must have drifted to sleep, or lost consciousness, but her voice brought him back to the world.
“Wim?”
His eyes fluttered. Opened.
“Wim? Are you all right?”
“Mama?” He stared up again but everything was still dark. “Mama, I’m down here. I fell into the well. I’m sorry I’m such a klutz.”
“Wim! It’s Ramey!”
Who? “Mama, you’ve got to get me out. It’s so cold down here.”
“Wim, listen to me. This is Ramey. You’re not in a well. They’re keeping you prisoner inside the box. It’s been five days now.”
The box? That sounded familiar and so did the voice. He shook his head in an attempt to clear away the cobwebs.
Think, you big oaf.
“Wim, come back to me, please. I need you.”
Ramey. That was Ramey’s voice. His fog dissipated and his sad reality came back to him. The box wasn’t much better than the well but it was a moderate relief to have a mostly clear head.
“Aw, shoot. I’m sorry, Ramey. I think my marbles got scattered a bit in here.”
“That’s okay. I just needed to hear your voice. To know you’re okay.”
He thought he heard relief in her voice, but he heard sadness too. Not sadness, tears. He didn’t think you could actually hear tears, but he knew she was spilling some. And he wished he could drink them.
“Where’s Phillip? You can’t let him see you here.”
“He’s asleep. It’s fine.”
But it wasn’t fine. They both knew that.
“Wim, are you really okay?”
“How many days did you say it’s been?”
“Five.”
“Is it nighttime?”
“No, just before dawn.”
Aw, heck. He was sure it was night. That meant he had almost two full days remaining.
“Wim, don’t you lie to me. Are you really okay?”
His head had that taking on water feeling again. It made it hard to concentrate but he tried to push through.
“Will you make me a promise?” He asked her.
“Anything.”
“No matter what happens, you’ll still leave this place.”
“We’re going together. In the spring. As soon as the weather turns for the better. Did you know it’s snowing now?”
Stop talking, he thought. Answer my question. I need to know you’ll be gone from here. “I’m saying, no matter what. And that means even if you have to go without me.”
“That’s not gonna happen, Wim. I won’t go anywhere without you. We’re in this together. Have been since you saved my life back on that Pennsylvania road. You remember that, right? Poor Stan the truck driver almost made dinner out of me. But you didn’t let that happen. We’re always going to be together.”
“Promise me Ramey.”
She didn’t. He could tell she was trying to prevent him from hearing her sobbing. It sounded like she’d moved a yard or so away. The soft hitching sounds passing through the wall caused him far more pain than the deep, frozen aches that assaulted his body.
“I need you to promise.”
More crying and some sniffles. Then finally, “Promise.”
She didn’t say anything else. He heard her leave. Then Wim waited to die.
Part Two
Six Months Earlier
Chapter Fourteen
The tomcat was old. This was his seventeenth summer and his once jet-black fur was now dotted and dashed with bits of gray. His eyesight was still admirable though and he watched the robin digging away at the wet soil, attempting to unearth a worm, with rapt, ravenous attention.
Hunting had been a challenge the last few weeks. The chipmunks, mice, and birds that usually fell prey to his still deadly sharp claws had seemingly gone away. And the humans, some of which used to set out dishes of milk or hard, tasteless kibble, were either gone or dashing around like animals themselves. Either way, they weren’t feeding the old tom.
He took two slinking steps closer to the robin, trying to remain unseen in the cover of the unmown, foot deep grass. His movements were just a shimmery wave of green against the foliage and soon he was close enough to the bird to smell its moldy aroma. The tom’s belly spasmed. It had been days since his last meal.
When the robin pushed its face into the dirt, its beak grabbing hold of a long, fat earthworm, the tom sprung. His old body crossed the yard-long void between them fast and silent and when he came down, he was atop his prey.
He sunk his teeth, what remained of them anyway, into the feathers. Their buttery texture tickled his tongue as his jaws closed. He felt hot blood flood his mouth and he felt more alive than he had in days, maybe weeks. Since everyone and everything went away.
The robin struggled, its wings fluttering furious and panicked. But even though the tom was old, he was still strong. There came a muffled crunch as its teeth smashed the bones in the bird’s neck and then it went limp.
The cat savored his meal, devouring everything edible. Afterward he took a long nap, enjoying the warmth of the sun as it baked his ancient bones. Later, when it awoke, he felt renewed, almost young again. He wished some of his friends were still around so they could romp and jump and play together, but they were all gone too.
He spied the robin’s severed head resting in the grass and he grabbed it between his paws, tossing it into the air and batting it to and fro. The game lasted for five or so minutes before the head went careening down an embankment and onto the road below.
Before everything went away the tom was cautious about roads. He’d seen too many of his own kind lying flat and dead upon them. But there hadn’t been a vehicle in weeks and he bounded down the bank, his eyes locked on the robin’s head, his new play toy.
The tomcat was old. He’d lost his hearing more than three summers before and now that became his undoing. As he sat on the road, rolling the head back and forth, he didn’t hear the roar of the approaching engine. And by the time he felt the subtle vibrations through the pads on his paws, it was too late. He turned around just in time to see the orange monstrosity barreling down upon him.
The tom tried to flee, but it was far too late. The oversized wheels of the truck were the last thing he saw and then he joined his feline friends and the chipmunks and mice and birds in wherever it was that animals went when their days on Earth came to an end.
“Splat! Got to be quicker than that, pussy cat. Quicker than that if you want to avoid my truck,” Solomon Baldwin cackled.
He checked the rearview mirror and saw a wet stain on the road behind him. That was all that remained of the old tom. He grinned and punched the horn.
“Saw one. Pussy none.”
He’d been on the road for days, running down anything in his path. That was mostly zombies. Seemed they were just about all that was left. But he’d taken out a groundhog earlier in the week and a squirrel a day ago. This was his first cat and that delighted him to no end.
Gonna have to start me a log book, he thought.
He caught his reflection in the mirror. The bullet hole in his forehead had scabbed over and turned black. He thought about picking it off, God knew the fucker itched like a dirty asshole, but remembered how his brains had poked out of that hole, like a gopher popping its head out of its burrow, and decided to let the scab alone. Might be keeping me brains from leaking out, he reasoned.
He’d been driving for hours and needed a rest. Shortly after he passed into West Virginia he saw road signs declaring “Scenic Overlook” and he decided to see what the fuss was about.
After passing through a thicket of oak trees, he emerged at a wooden platform which overlooked a sprawling lake.
Not that special.
Still, he needed to work the cramps out of his legs and arms so he paced back and forth for a while. As he prepared to leave, he saw a gleaming white dot reflecting atop the water. It moved fast and even, making a direct line toward the island.
“Well I’ll be…”
Saw realized the dot was a boat. He sat down and watched until it reached the island where movement ceased. He assumed that whoever was driving it docked the boat and got off, but he was at least three miles away and seeing those kinds of details were impossible. Nonetheless, his curiosity had been piqued.
After returning to his truck, Saw drove until he found an outdoor hobby shop a few towns away. There he gathered together some supplies, like hatchets, knives, and maps, but the prize he sought was a telescope.
He loaded up the biggest one he could find and returned to the overlook. After setting up the scope, he could clearly see the island and what he discovered changed everything. Up until that moment, he’d thought that the world had ended, that he was the only one left alive. Those thoughts had turned his normally jolly mood sour. Saw couldn’t imagine living out the rest of his days all alone, without anyone else around to taunt or torment. That would be the most boring thing he could imagine. And a bored Solomon Baldwin was very dangerous.
Now, on this island, he saw not just a person or two, but a veritable town filled with them. Saw unfolded a map and marked his current coordinates, as well as those of the island. He also highlighted all the roads leading to the lake. He wasn’t going there today or tomorrow, or even next week, but he’d be back. This looked like too much fun to pass up.
Chapter Fifteen
After fleeing The Greenbrier and the chaos that broke free from the underground bunker, Aben let Juli drive. Every now and again he directed her to make a right or left but he mostly sat in the passenger seat and allowed her to choose their destiny. The dog sat in the foot well alternating between curling up on his feet and sitting on its haunches and resting its head in his lap. Scratching the mutt’s tan ears took his mind off Bolivar’s death, at least to some extent. He couldn’t shake the feeling that it should have been him. Bolivar was a good guy. Smart and calm and resourceful. A man with a purpose. This world needed men like him. Not homeless bums with one hand and a sour attitude.
“Where should we go now?”
Aben glanced over at Juli when he realized the voice was hers. She looked exhausted and a decade older than her 40-some years. He felt guilty for making her drive all this time, but not guilty enough to take over the duties.
“Huh?”
Juli pointed to the road ahead and Aben realized they were stopped at a Y intersection. A road sign informed them one fork would take them south, the other west.
“You don’t have an opinion?”
Juli shrugged her shoulders. “I’ve never been further south than Myrtle Beach.”
“You didn’t miss much.”
“So, west then?”
“Seems as good a choice as any.”
It turned out not to be.
They were halfway across a bridge the signs had labeled the New River Gorge. It was one of the longest, and highest, bridges Aben had ever seen. A Chevy pickup had collided with a tour bus, blocking their lane and Juli stopped the car a few yards before it.
“Now what?” She asked.
“Turn around, I suppose.”
In the back-seat Mitch popped his door open. “Bullshit. All we got to do is move one of ‘em. I need to stretch my legs anyway.”
And with that he was out of the car. The dog bounded a
fter and Juli looked to Aben for an opinion he didn’t have. She sighed and followed the others. Aben stayed behind and watched.
Mitch jumped up on the running board of the pickup and climbed into the vacant driver’s seat. He looked down, then yelled out, “No keys!”
Juli was halfway between their Saab and the truck. “Shift it into neutral and I’ll try to push it with the car.”
Mitch did so, but when he exited the truck he peered over the hood to where the body was pinned against the concrete median. “Fucker’s wedged in pretty tight. Let me check the bus.”
Aben watched him but lost sight when Mitch disappeared around the front of the extra-long vehicle. As he tried to find the kid, he saw movement behind the dark, smoked glass windows of the bus.
Did I really see that? He couldn’t be sure. The windows were almost black. He strained his eyes, squinting. And then he saw it again. Someone was in there. Or something.
Aben jumped out of the car and jogged toward the bus just in time to see Mitch slam his shoulder against the inward folding door.
“Wait!’
Mitch glanced his way but the door had already opened. “What?”
A silver-haired zombie tumbled down the steps and out the door, hitting Mitch in the back as she fell. The boy crashed to the ground, the woman on his back. He rolled onto his side knocking her off then jumped to his feet and backed away. As he did, he peered into the bus.
“Oh, fucking shit…”