Cutter kept expecting to run into someone he knew, or at least to see other people, but no one appeared. From time to time, they noticed a dead shuffling along a side street or through an alleyway, but they were able to stay clear of the dark, rotting figures. Twice, they saw cats bouncing merrily down the street, each with a fat juicy rat clamped tightly in their jaws. Jean pointed them out to Cutter each time, and he seemed to think she was hinting that he might think of bringing home a cat or kitten to his place. It probably wouldn’t be a bad idea, he figured.
Finally, they were within sight of Oliver’s tree house. Ron and Jean hunkered down low to the street as he pointed it out to her. They were hiding behind a Lexus that was sitting on four flat tires, frame to the earth, leaves and trash plastered to its formerly red and lustrous paint job. One window had been shattered out, and the leather interior had gone to musty dissolution. Finally, Ron chose this point to speak, albeit in a very low whisper.
“We’ll go to the edge of the razor wire,” he told Jean. “If he’s there, we’ll see a rope that he uses to get down. It’ll be tied up beside the poplar trunk. If it’s not there, that means he’s not at home and we’ll have to head back. But if he’s at home I’ll have to call out to him. He’ll lower a rope ladder for us. We’ll go up and get him.” With that, he stood, checking the area carefully, and headed across the intervening distance.
Cutter risked a quick call of Oliver’s name. He waited for only a second and was ready to call again when the boy’s head appeared at the edge of the overhanging porch. Without a spoken reply, the ladder unfurled at Cutter’s feet and without sparing a split second, he and Jean were clambering up the length of it. At the top, they quickly pulled it after them and retreated into The Kid’s house, leaving the dead and silent street behind them.
“Oliver.” The boy’s back was turned to them and he seemed not interested in them at all, and there was no reaction to the fact that Cutter had brought a companion along. “Hey, Kid. I brought someone for you to meet. And we want to take you and show you something. Something amazing. You’ll get a kick out of it. I promise.”
At that, the boy finally turned and faced his visitors. He looked immediately to Cutter and then his eyes fell on Jean. She was not dressed now as when Ron had found her. Despite being covered in several layers of solid fabric, it was obvious that she was a woman, and a beautiful one. Oliver’s eyes fell on her and lingered for a moment and he nodded. However, no smile cracked the sun-browned features that were heavy with depression.
“Oliver, this is Jean Crump.”
“Hello,” the boy said. “I’m glad to meet you,” he added.
“Jean’s staying with me, now. We’d like for you to come and visit us. At my place. There’s something amazing happening. You have to see it.”
“What? What’s happening?” the boy asked.
“It’s a surprise, Kid.”
“What kind of surprise?” There was something of suspicion in his words, and nothing of wonder at all.
“Please,” Jean finally spoke up. “You’ll like it. We promise you will.”
The boy seemed to wilt at Jean’s voice. It was as if he had not heard the voice of a woman since the death of his mother. For all, either Jean or Ron knew, that could be the truth of it.
“Come on, kid. You can come back here later. We’ll bring you back.”
“I don’t need any help coming back here,” he said, his back stiffening.
“Then you’ll come with us? Okay?” Ron stepped up to the boy and put his hand on the youth’s shoulder, feeling bone and not much else through the cloth of his shirt.
“It’s something really cool?” he asked.
“Yeah, Kid. I promise. Like I said, you’ll get a huge kick out of it. You’ll be glad you came with us.”
“Okay, then,” the boy agreed. And his eyes kept falling on Jean Crump, and he was remembering his mother, her touch, her voice.
**
The journey back to Cutter’s home was easy. Along the way, they encountered only one dead who walked ahead of them for a short distance and turned aside, attracted to the obvious vibrations of the passing of that gigantic herd through the cityscape. Even Oliver felt the tread of those things vibrating up through the soles of his shoes, and there was a question on his lips, which he left unuttered as they three of them marched in silence.
No eyes followed them, and nothing molested them as Cutter unlocked the reinforced doorway that led up to his place. Once the bars were in place, the trio faced forward and hiked up the stairs until they were at the door to the roof and opening it, allowing the light to flood into the stairwell and coax them out.
“Welcome to my place, Oliver,” Ron said. “This is where I live. Well, most of the time.”
“This where you make the ammo?” the boy asked.
“Yep. Right here. I fire up the gas out there under that little shed,” he pointed it out to the boy. “And that’s where I cast the bullets and load the cartridges with gunpowder. I’ll show you how I do it, if you’d like.”
“Maybe,” Oliver said. “Is that what you wanted to show me up here?” He blinked into the sun and Ron noticed that the boy really needed to wash up. Depression was getting to the kid, and it was obvious that he hadn’t washed the dirt from his face and hands in at least a few days. And he probably hadn’t bathed, although the boy didn’t seem to smell of body odor at all.
“No, we want to show you something really cool,” Ron told him.
“This way,” Jean said, all but running toward the opposite side of the roof. “They’re still where they were when we left,” she squealed. The excitement in her voice spurred the boy to pick up the pace and he had soon joined her at the wall overlooking the avenue far below.
“Look, Oliver,” Jean said. “Elephants!”
The boy just stood for a long time. After a moment or two, he put his hand on the waist-high wall that surrounded the roof and leaned out, looking down. The herd revealed to them was larger than they first suspected. Now, no less than three dozen elephants of various sizes, ages, and sexes were milling about down the length of the street that had first produced them. A few zombies had also appeared in their midst, staring up at the gigantic things in their idiotic ways. One of the herd seemed to take offense at their presence and went about shoving them to the ground, squashing one underfoot now and again.
“I’ve never seen an elephant,” Oliver said. “Well, in books and on TV, but I never saw a real one.” He seemed to relax, the tension going completely out of his body. “My…my parents were going to take me to Africa,” he said, turning. “My mom and dad had booked us a tour to Kenya.” His eyes were bright with the memory. “I remember, because my mom showed me booklets the tour company sent them. We were going to ride out in the bush and see real elephants and ostriches and lions just roaming around in the wild.” A smile appeared on his tired face as he quickly turned around to look at the animals again.
“And here they are. This is kind of like what I would have seen if I’d gone to Africa with Mommy and Daddy…”
Oliver stopped, as if shot. He stiffened again and didn’t say anything for a moment. “That’s just what I called them,” he said. “It was like their names. I don’t need parents. Not anymore,” he added, staring down and not daring to face his hosts again.
“That’s okay,” Jean told him. She stepped very close to him and put her hands on his narrow shoulders. “It’s okay to talk about your mother and father. I loved my father, too, and he took care of me, but now he’s gone. It’s okay to think about them, though.”
“I guess so,” the boy said, but he still just remained where he was rooted to the wall, looking down at the elephants that were now picking up the pace. Some signal seemed to have gone through the herd and they were moving more swiftly. As the three watched, the elephants strolled along, more and more quickly, until soon they had moved through the intersection. The zombies that had appeared to watch them vanished back into the shadows a
nd side streets and shattered buildings, except for the ones that had been crushed, and those mainly lay twitching, glued to the streets by the texture of their own innards.
Within fifteen minutes, the herd had passed beyond their line of sight, vanishing down another street, headed back toward the creeping forest that was doing its best to find and obliterate the city.
“Would you like to come inside?” Ron asked. Jean and I are going to make some supper. You can stay and eat with us, if you’d like.
“You can spend the night with us,” Jean said. “We want you to stay with us a while. If you want to,” she added. She tried to get the boy to turn around, but he just stood and looked down at the now empty streets.
For a long time, the boy didn’t say anything. He didn’t move at all, his little hands just lying there on the top of the concrete wall. Neither Jean nor Ron said anything, each willing to let the boy break the silence and let them know what he was thinking.
After a couple of minutes, he finally turned. There was a bit of a smile on his wan face, and his sandy hair hanging down into his eyes. “I sure am glad that you showed me that, Mr. Cutter. And you too, Ms. Crump. I’m glad I got to see real elephants before I died.”
“Well, maybe we’ll get to see them again,” Ron said.
“Who knows what kind of critters will end up roaming into Charlotte,” Jean added.
“Well, I don’t know. I don’t guess I’ll be around to see,” the boy said.
“You shouldn’t talk like that, Oliver.” Jean knelt to be close to him, to look him in the eyes. “You’re just a young fellow and will certainly be around for a long time.”
“Not me,” Oliver said. And without another word he turned toward Cutter. “Remember what you told me not along ago, Mr. Cutter? You made a promise,” he said.
With that, Oliver rolled up his right sleeve and presented his arm to the man. There, on the boy’s forearm, was the half-crescent wound of a bite mark. It wasn’t deep, but the edges were blue with bruised flesh and the interior red and livid. “You promised me, Mr. Cutter.” With that, the boy turned his back on the man.
Cutter’s hand went immediately for the .357 in his shoulder-holster.
The End
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1
For an hour, the last patient of the day had been droning on and on about his abusive father. Dr. Jebediah Stone had heard the depressing tale so many times over the past six months; he could repeat it almost verbatim. Worse yet, the story never varied; a well-rehearsed rationale for the speaker’s abusive behavior. Dr. Stone idly stared out the window at a spotted Gila Woodpecker busily excavating a new hole in the twenty-foot tall saguaro cactus outside his office. The sunshine from a cloudless blue sky and the yellow lantanas blooming like a patch of spring in late November made him wish he could be out there in the fresh air instead of sitting bored in his office.
Thanksgiving was just a few days away and his thoughts turned to the aroma of pumpkin pie, roast turkey and cranberries. Thanksgiving had always been a season of food, friends, family and fellowship for the Stone family. However, this year, events had transpired to place his favorite holiday on the back burner.
“What do you think, Dr. Stone?”
Jeb refocused his attention on his patient, Nelson Sedge. The question was his cue to respond. This time, he decided to vary the dialogue. “I think you need to move on.”
Sedge’s head jerked in his direction at the unexpected answer. “Move on? What do you mean? He abused me.”
“Yes, yes, he beat you. I know. You said yourself you were a wild kid, always in trouble. Do you think your father beat you because he hated you or because he wanted to straighten you out?”
Sedge hesitated, confused by the new focus of the conversation. He had never been grilled before while on the couch and the spotlight made him uncomfortable. “I don’t know.”
Jeb sighed. “Nelson, you’ve told me a dozen times that you’ve forgiven your father; that you want to move on with your life. Why rehash old wounds?”
Sedge squirmed uncomfortably on the leather couch, his ample backside squeaking on the leather upholstery. “I’m impotent and it’s his fault,” he snapped.
“You’re impotent because you’re 150 pounds overweight, have high blood pressure and take seven different pills a day for your supposed mood swings. It’s enough to curtail any man’s sex drive. You don’t need a psychologist. What you need is a gym and a good personal trainer.”
Sedge sneezed without covering his mouth. Jeb winced. Great, all he needed was the flu, especially since his child already had it, and his wife might be coming down with it. Everyone in the whole country seemed to have it, despite the mandatory flu shots.
“You’re supposed to help me,” Sedge said in an accusatory tone.
“You have to want to help yourself. Blaming your father is the easy way out. He might have encouraged your low self-esteem and your quick anger, but he’s dead and you are the only one who can change your life. These past six months I’ve listened to you, and even though I have made my observations time after time, you choose to ignore them because they’re inconvenient. I can’t help that. It’s time to take some responsibility for letting your past control your present.”
Sedge remained silent for a moment before replying harshly, “Maybe, I need a new doctor.”
Jeb sighed again, this time in irritation. He was tired and his head throbbed. Maybe, he was coming down with the flu despite the vaccine, after all. “You might be right. You won’t listen to me and I can’t in good conscience take your money and offer nothing in return.”
“I’ve got plenty of money,” Sedge snapped. “I need help.”
Laying his notepad and pencil aside, Jeb looked at his watch. Since a video recorder captured each session, he seldom took notes, but patients felt reassured by the age-old façade.
“Your time is up, Nelson. I suggest you seek professional help elsewhere. I’ve done all I can for you.”
With some difficulty, Sedge levered himself from the couch, glared at Jeb and said quite huffily, “That is exactly what I’ll do, Doctor. I find your manner quite unprofessional, and I don’t think you care anymore.”
Jeb rose. “You know, you’re right, Nelson. I don’t care. Good day.”
Quickly, he ushered Sedge out the door and shut it behind him. Then, he returned to his desk and leaned against it for a moment, as a dizzy spell swept over him. I should have taken better care of myself. Nursing Karen and Josh has worn me out. He pressed the concealed button shutting off the video recorder, before buzzing Gloria, his receptionist.
“Go on home, Gloria. I’m going to change and drop by the florist. It’s Karen’s birthday. God knows a little color might cheer her up a bit.”
“Send her my love, Dr. S,” she answered.
Jeb smiled at Gloria’s irreverence for the boss/employee relationship. He liked Gloria, because she brooked no nonsense from him or the patients, and she never failed to offer her opinion about his patients, his choice in ties or his refusal to eat fast food.
“I’ll do that, Gloria. Good night.” Just as he turned off the intercom, he heard Gloria’s sneeze come through the closed door and shook his head. Her too?
Changing out of his suit coat and tie was almost more than he could handle. He fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, finally yanking it off over his head. Thank God, it’s Friday. I need a break. Finally, dressed in a pair of worn jeans and a faded t-shirt, he felt less the doctor and more the human being. Absentmindedly, he rubbed the belly of the brass Buddha sitting on his desk for luck, a reminder of his and Karen’s vacation to China seven years earlier. His constant daily rubbing had removed the dull patina that covered the rest of the smiling statue, making the prominent belly shine. Gloria, a devout Christian, always chided him for what she called a ‘heathen idol’, but to him it was a simpl
e reminder of better times.
As Jeb drove west along Ina Road from his Catalina Foothills office, he was surprised at how light the traffic was. The Catalina Mountains formed a spectacular barricade to Tucson’s northern growth, rising majestically to a height of almost 10,000 feet. In stark contrast to the warm late fall day below, snow blanketed the piney slopes of Mt. Lemmon. The major east-west conduit on the city’s north side was usually crowded. People were beginning to panic and stay home. Not that he could blame them. Nearly six thousand people in the U.S. had died of the Avian Flu in the past month, and over fifty thousand in Asia where it had originated. It wasn’t just the old and young succumbing to the ravages of the fever anymore. Men and women, hale and hardy, were beginning to drop like flies.
“Damn,” he muttered, as he noticed an ambulance rapidly overtaking him in his rear view mirror, lights flashing and siren wailing. He dutifully pulled over to the side of the road. As its siren grew louder, he saw there were three ambulances, followed closely by as many police cars. They shot past him, turned north onto Oracle Road and raced toward the already overflowing medical center on Tangerine Road. Seeing the ambulance convoy reminded him of Karen and Josh. A feeling of anxiety swept over him. Forgoing his idea of flowers, he pulled back into the street and followed the ambulances toward Oro valley.
His home, a four-bedroom, Pueblo-style house near the western foot of the Catalinas, sat on a private five-acre lot atop a narrow ridge jutting into Alamo Canyon facing Pusch Ridge. As he waited for the gate to open, a second convoy, this once comprised of army trucks and jeeps, rolled northward along Oracle Road. He wondered just what was happening. Was the flu epidemic spreading? Why was the military involved? His heart sank when he saw the silver Lexus of his friend, Doctor Benjamin Reynolds, parked in the drive. He didn’t bother with the garage. He pulled his Hyundai beside Reynolds’ car and rushed inside.
The Coalition: Part 1 The State of Extinction (Zombie Series) Page 11