What Zombies Fear 4: Fracture

by Kirk Allmond

  At the corner of Roper and Government, he noticed a bed and breakfast that looked inviting. He stopped walking for a second in the middle of the street, standing in the rain looking stupidly at the building on the left. It was an antebellum mansion. Old growth trees surrounded the property, all with Spanish moss hanging from the leafless limbs. As he stared, he realized that he hadn't eaten in almost twenty-four hours. The front door was closed, and there was a new-looking Ford Ranger pickup truck in the parking area.

  Victor walked up the three brick steps onto the wooden porch and knocked on the door. Not out of any sense of habit but because it usually drew the zombies, and a door was a nice bottleneck. It was the easiest place to dispatch the former inhabitants.

  As he stood at the red-painted extra-wide front door of the house, looking through the antique glass sidelights, he caught movement inside the house. A chair scraped against the floor, and Victor heard a single slow pair of footfalls coming towards the door. He stepped to the side and drew his hatchet. To his surprise, he heard the deadbolt click in the door.

  Oh, a super, he thought. This might be entertaining, but that thought didn't ring true. Something wasn't right; a super wouldn't just come to the door. He switched to aura view and was surprised to see a rainbow of swirling color through the door. "Hello!" he called out.

  The ancient door opened wide with a creek. The shortest, oldest woman Victor may have ever seen stood in the doorway. Her pure white hair was clean and stood straight out from her head. Most of it was partially tamed by a large paisley scarf. "Oh, look, Leeland! We have a guest! We haven't had a guest in so long! Come in, come in. Did you have a reservation? What's your name?"

  "Victor Tookes, ma'am. I don't have a reservation, and I'm afraid I don't have much in the way of money. Would you be willing to trade some work for a room for the night and a hot meal? I'm pretty handy."

  "Come in. Come in before you catch your death of cold!" she said. "Leeland! We have a guest!" she yelled loud enough to wake the dead. Which, it occurred to Victor, wasn't very loud these days. Victor stepped into the wood-paneled foyer. It was not that terrible seventies wood paneling but actual real wood. The detail and craftsmanship of the woodwork in the house would rival even Marshall's woodworking skills. On the floor, an antique oriental rug matched the wall color.

  "The Rotelle House has never turned away a traveler in need!" she said, followed quickly by a disapproving look down at the floor. "Ohh deary, you're dripping all over my rugs!" Then she said, even louder than before, "Leeland! We have a guest! Bring a towel!"

  "I'm a-comin', Mother! For cryin' out loud, you don't have to scream. Hello, young man! It's good to see you!" the man Victor assumed was Leeland said, sticking his hand out. "What's your name, son?"

  "Victor Tookes, sir. I was just telling your wife that I don't have any money; I stopped carrying a wallet a few months ago," he said, shaking the old man's hand. Leeland was no more than five-and-a-half feet tall. His hair was combed back in a white pompadour. He had white sideburns down to his earlobes that spread out onto his cheeks and very kind eyes. His clothes were freshly pressed; the plaid button-down shirt he wore still had creases down the sleeves, and his blue jeans had creases down the front.

  "You're not one of them hippies, are ya, boy? Ya don't look like a hippie, but with that hair, ya never can tell. You could use a cut and a shave."

  "No sir, not a hippie sir, just in need of a shave. Things have been pretty crazy lately. I just haven’t had time."

  "Son, you'll never get ahead in life without a clean shave and a haircut. I was a barber for forty years. Come on in and I'll get you cleaned right up.

  "Mother, fetch my bag, please. I have a customer!" Leeland clapped his hands together excitedly. "Right this way, son. What did you say your name was?"

  "Victor, Victor Tookes. I'm afraid we haven't been properly introduced," said Victor, sticking his hand out again. "What's your name, sir?"

  "Leeland Rotelle," he said, shaking Victor's hand for the second time. "The shop is right this way. Take your shirt off. Mother will dry it for you."

  "Thank you, Mrs. Rotelle. I appreciate your kindness," said Victor. He paused for a second and then stripped his t-shirt off over his head. Victor looked at himself in the mirror in the hallway. He was a mess and in the best shape of his life. He was thin and toned; his muscles didn’t stand out like Marshall’s, but there was no softness under his skin, which was tightening up from the initial weight loss.

  Mrs. Rotelle handed Victor a towel and handed Leeland a worn black leather bag with a brass zipper holding the top closed. The bag was shaped like an antique doctor’s bag and clinked as Leeland carried it towards a door at the back of the house.

  The three of them passed through the dining room, painted deep red with a twelve-person antique dining table in the middle. Even with the massive table, there was still space in the cavernous room for two wingback chairs, an ottoman, and a buffet table that looked like it could hold enough dishes for thirty in its cabinets and enough food for as many on top.

  “This is a beautiful place,” said Victor. What he really wanted to say was, “This whole situation is really weird. Do you know there are zombies out there?”

  “Oh, thank you, dearie. This was my grandmother’s home. My mother lived here with us until she passed in eighty-seven, and since then it’s been just Leeland and me.”

  Leeland looked at Victor and mouthed, “Thank God,” as Mrs. Rotelle continued her narrative.

  “My grandmother always said never turn down a traveler in need. My mother kept that tradition when Leeland here got back from Korea; he looked a lot like you. He was a worn-out traveler who needed a shave and a haircut. He opened the barbershop in the back parlor, and we’ve been in love ever since. He was so handsome back then.”

  Victor wasn’t quite sure how crazy these people were, but he decided to go with it. They seemed pretty harmless, more eccentric than dangerous.

  Leeland puffed his chest out and said, “Still wear the same size pants I did when I got back. Kept myself in shape for fifty years. Ya never know when the commies are comin’ back.” He opened the door to the barbershop. Inside were four antique barber chairs, each with a long leather strop hanging from the back. It reminded Victor of the place he got his hair cut when he was a boy. It was dim inside the room, despite the huge windows that made up one whole wall.

  Leeland walked into the room, kicking up little tufts of dust into the air. He left footprints in the dust on the floor. Victor wondered if anyone had been in this room in a decade. “Mr. Rotelle, when was the last time you gave a haircut?”

  “Oh, it’s been a few days. I did a high-and-tight flattop for an Army boy last week,” Leeland said.

  “Leeland, do you know what the date is today?”

  “Why, son, of course I do. Today’s Christmas!” he said with a smile.

  Somehow, Victor had gotten almost two weeks off in his time keeping. He was sure it was the thirteenth of December. “Are you sure? I was thinking it was closer to mid-December.”

  “Yes sir, December 25th, nineteen hunnert ninety-two,” said Leeland.

  Oh. Bat-shit crazy, thought Victor. Do I really want this guy near my neck with a straight razor?

  It was frighteningly easy for Victor to allow himself to be pulled into this fantasy world, a place where there were no zombies, where he could make up whatever reality he wanted. It was warm and dry, and these were living people who didn’t try to shoot him. Victor lost himself in the thoughts of what life had been like for this elderly couple. He wondered how they survived in their delusion.

  “You gonna sit down, son?” Leeland said, swatting the chair with a towel.

  Victor walked to the chair and sat down. Leeland ran water over a white towel, wrung it out, and placed it on Victor’s face. Victor was pleasantly surprised at the warmth of the water. Somehow, this couple had hot water.

  “Oh,” said Victor. “That feels good. It feels good to be normal f
or once.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “My life has been crazy the last few months,” answered Victor. “I’ve been running and fighting for so long, I’m not sure I know how to stop. It’s all that’s left for me.”

  “Son, life is about living. You’re not living. You gotta let go of the past, find some pretty little girl, and get on with your life,” Leeland said.

  “My past won’t stay let go. Every time I think I’ve moved on, it comes back to haunt me.”

  “We cannot change our past. We cannot change the fact that people act in a certain way. We cannot change the inevitable. The only thing we can do is play on the one card we have, and that is our attitude.”

  Victor closed his eyes and enjoyed the warmth and comfort of the steaming towel. There was something familiar about sitting in a barber’s chair, something normal. Leeland could have been any old barber in any old town. He felt Leeland’s hand on his head, pushing it up. A comb slid through Victor’s longish, greasy hair. A slight tug as the old man grabbed the first lock of hair between his index and middle finger, followed by the familiar snip of a barber’s scissors. Comb, tug, snip. Comb, tug, snip. Leeland worked quickly and efficiently, cutting Victor’s hair. He never asked Victor what kind of haircut he wanted or how he wanted it styled. The barber cut his hair the way it should be cut, based on the way the hair grew. A good barber didn’t force the hair into a style; he molded the style around the hair. Leeland was a good barber.

  The snipping stopped, and Victor heard the water running for a second, followed by a whisking sound. A few seconds later, the towel was removed, and Victor felt coarse bristles swirling warm shaving lather against his face. Victor knew this was an authentic badger hairbrush. Leeland would have nothing less. Before the lather had a chance to cool, Leeland swiped a heavy-bladed straight razor across the leather strop hanging on the back of the chair. He honed the edge of the blade to perfection in just a few strokes. He held Victor’s head in one hand, pulling the skin of his face tight, and dragged the razor lightly down his cheek. Leeland was all business, no shake, and no hesitation; all this was pure muscle memory. Before Victor could even think about the danger of this guy holding his head in one hand and a razor blade in the other, Leeland wiped his face with a towel and said, “All finished.”

  Victor stood up and looked like a new man. He’d always worn his hair clipped short and scrubbed backward. Leeland had cut it short with scissors and laid it down forward. Between the forty pounds he’d lost and the new haircut, Victor looked ten years younger and felt fantastic. He rubbed his hand down his cheek, amazed at how close the shave was. There wasn’t a hint of stubble.

  “Thank you, Leeland. I can’t tell you how much better I feel,” said Victor.

  “Amazing,” said Leeland. “You walked in my house a dead hippie, and you’re going to walk out a living man. It’s nice to meet you. What was your name again?” Leeland stuck out his hand.

  “Victor Tookes, sir. I’m pleased to meet you,” said the freshly-groomed man, shaking hands again.

  “Well, come on, Victor Tookes. Mother will have supper ready now, and we have to find you a shirt to wear. You can’t sit down to the supper table without a proper shirt. We had a helper last year that was about your size, a nice boy. Stayed with us about a year. Never did get his name though. I bet he has some clothes in his room that you could wear. It’s right up these stairs, first door on the left.”

  Victor walked up the stairs wondering what he’d find in the first door on the left.

  Chapter 3

  Supper

  Victor opened the door to the bedroom, the first on the left at the top of the stairs. Inside the door was a small but orderly bedroom. Along one wall was a perfectly-made twin bed. The blanket was tight and the sheet was folded back along the top edge. A single fluffy pillow invited Victor to lie down, but he was on a mission. He opened the closet on the wall opposite the bed. Inside, he found a few pairs of pants, several shirts, and two sport coats. The clothes were old but well kept. He pulled a pair of green heavy-duty cargo work pants, a t-shirt, and a khaki work shirt out of the closet and tossed them onto the bed. Next, he pulled out the tweed sports jacket. It was out of fashion, with patches over the elbows and a slightly larger than modern collar, but it looked warm, and it looked like it would fit.

  It turned out the clothes were all about one size too large, but it wasn’t as if anyone was going to be judging him. He slid the tweed jacket on, emptied his pockets out of his old pants into his new ones, and laid his still slightly damp clothes out to dry. Over beside the desk, he found an old beat-up schoolbook-style backpack and laid it out next to his clothes. He needed to ask the Rotelles if he could have it. Judging by the clothes, no one had been actually using this room since the early nineties. There was a Lethal Weapon 3 poster hanging just above the desk, and a Right Said Fred CD sitting on the desk next to a CD player. Victor hit the eject button on the CD player; inside was Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch.

  "This guy had great taste in music," said Victor as he walked out the door and back down the steps.

  When Victor stepped out into the dining room of the old mansion, Leeland stood up from the table and walked towards him. He stuck his hand out and said, "Leeland Rotelle, nice to meet you young man." Victor shook his hand.

  "Victor Tookes, sir. It's a pleasure to meet you too," he said, looking at Mrs. Rotelle, who was smiling happily. She gave no indication that anything was out of the ordinary.

  "Come in, Victor dearie. Supper is ready. I'm afraid it's not much. The cook didn't come in, and apparently he hasn't been to the grocery in a while." She took the lids off three different pots. One contained steamed white rice, the other stewed tomatoes and okra, and the third had something that looked like ground beef and onions. Victor wasn't sure where they would have gotten all this fresh food, but they had to have power in the house. They weren't using any lights, but maybe their freezer was working. There were many unanswered questions. Victor hadn't heard a generator running when he was walking by. Keeping a generator running constantly for six months would have consumed a massive amount of fuel. Who was doing that work? Who was defending the house?

  Victor debated asking those questions. It wasn't really any of his business; if these two were happy and surviving, did he need to interfere with their delusion? Perhaps they were better off forgetting all the loss and death. Maybe they had it right. He sat down at the table across from the Rotelles and folded his hands in his lap.

  "Leeland, would you say the blessing?" Mrs. Rotelle asked.

  Leeland held his hands out. Victor took one hand; Mother Rotelle took the other and extended her other hand to Victor, who completed the circle. He'd never been a religious man, but when in Rome, as the saying went. "Kind Father, please accept these thanks for the bounty You have provided. Please keep an eye on our friends and family wherever they travel. Please be kind to those less fortunate than we are. Please continue to bless this house and all those in it, in Max's name we pray, Amen."

  Victor was stunned. He thought back to the group of survivors that had held Max a few miles from his house in Virginia. "Did you say in Max's name?" he asked after nearly a minute of sitting there dumbfounded.

  "We had the nicest guest last week," said Mrs. Rotelle. "He told us all about the coming of Max and how the little boy had come to save us. He told us about how The Boy's father had stolen him away from their loving embrace and, with that action, plunged the world into darkness and despair. What was that devil's name, Leeland? We were supposed to be on the lookout for him."

  Victor slowly moved his hand to his hip and loosened the snap on his gun quietly.

  "Victor something," said Leeland. "Jukes? Dukes? Tookes. Yea, that was it. Victor Tookes."

  Both of the Rotelles looked at Victor long and hard. "Didn't you say your name was Victor?" asked Mother Rotelle.

  "Yes, Ma'am," said Victor slowly. He slid the gun slightly out of its holster, his finger on the trig
ger under the table.

  "What a coincidence," she said clapping her hands together. "Would you like some rice?" She picked up the pot and passed it to Victor.

  Tookes slid the gun back into its holster and sighed softly before taking the pot from her. He spooned a third of the rice out onto his plate. He had so many questions, but if either of them remembered his name and put two and two together, he would be in trouble. He didn't want to kill them; they were mostly harmless, if slightly deranged. They were someone's grandparents or someone's friends, and they were misled by a charlatan.

  "On Sunday we're going to church," said Mother Rotelle. "You're welcome to come with us."

  "I appreciate your offer, but I actually need to be moving along in the morning. I appreciate all your hospitality. In the bedroom upstairs, I found an empty book bag; would it be all right if I borrowed that? I have a long way to go to get back to my son, and I'll need a backpack to carry some food and water."

  "Oh, sure, dearie. Ronald hasn't used that backpack in years. I'd love to see it getting some use. It was an expensive bag."

  "Thank you, Mrs. Rotelle," said Victor, spooning stewed tomatoes and okra over his rice. "And thank you for this fine meal and the clothes. I feel like a new man."

  As they ate, they talked about simple things. Victor struggled not to break their delusion and gain as much information as he could. He learned that the man who had come to see them was a middle-aged black man who wore a white robe. He was one of many prophets of Max. He was travelling the country telling anyone he could find about the coming of Max, a Godchild who would save them all from this life.

  "Do you two have any children?" Victor asked at one point.

  Leeland frowned as he said, "We have two sons, Nick and Nathaniel. Nick works for a television show, out in California. Nathaniel left right after the Prophet; he went out to spread the gospel of Max."