Vaccination - 01

by Phillip Tomasso

  This was not the time for day dreaming, or wishful thinking.

  “Chase,” Allison whispered.

  “Shhh.”

  “Chase,” she said, again.

  I turned away from the peephole. Turned away from scouting the area on the opposite side of the door. Turned away from watching most of the zombies move on, finding nothing but what must have appeared to them like a vacant house. “What?”

  Allison had her arms held out in front of her. Holding the Y handle of her hedge clippers in a white-knuckle grip. “We’re not alone.”

  It was a whisper. I heard her as if she’d yelled. I looked up the stairs. Hairs on my arm stood. A cold sweat broke out on my skin. A shudder passed down my spine. “Ah, shit,” I said.

  It was like something out of a horror film. The old woman at the top of staircase stood still in a white nightie that reached to just above her ankles. Ruffles around the cuffs and neckline. Pale, decayed skin was the flesh that covered her skull and was her face. Her arms were at her side. She didn’t appear to have any fingers on one hand. Made me think if she was the only one in the house, she might have eaten the digits herself.

  “We need to stay quiet,” I said. “Watch the door. Don’t make a sound.”

  Allison and I swapped spots. I wanted her to keep an eye at the peephole. I had my back to her. I knew she was watching me and the woman at the top of the stairs, regardless. Suppose I would be too.

  I held my shovel; the rounded end aimed at the woman, as if it were a spear, and walked up the first stair.

  “What are you doing?” Allison had her hand on my shoulder.

  “She has to go.”

  “It’s her house.”

  I ignored that stupid comment and took another step closer. The woman just stood there. She wasn’t swaying. She wasn’t moaning. Had she been glowing, I’d of sworn she was a ghost and not a zombie. And on a night like tonight, I’d have easily accepted a haunting. Easily.

  “Watch the peep hole,” I said. My eyes never left the woman. There was no way to gauge her age. The peeling flesh on her cheeks and milky white eyeballs made it impossible. Only thing I had was the tuft of thin white hair rolled in curlers and held in place with a yellow and blue bandanna. No one did that anymore, just old people did.

  Seven steps separated us. The blade of the shovel would reach her in two. I held the wood handle with both hands. Sweat coated my palms. I gripped and re-gripped as I took another step. With a jab, I think I could reach her from here, without having to get any closer. I needed the striking blow to deliver death. Not just knock her back, or cut into her. Like it or not, I’ have to shave more off the distance between us.

  It was the way she just stood there, though. Staring. Vacant. She didn’t seem anxious, or hungry to eat me. Drool, or puss, or nothing fell from her lips. If she wasn’t a ghost, I’d put money on poorly crafted mannequin, way before I guessed flesh eating zombie.

  I pulled the shovel back, so I could strike fast and hard with some momentum as I climbed the next step. Sweat was behind my knees. I felt more apprehensive about this one. I’d killed a few along the way. Maybe because the few I’d killed put my life in immediate danger. Or Allison’s. And at this point, Mannequin has not made as much as an aggressive flinch.

  She freaked me the fuck out, but I didn’t feel threatened. Yet.

  Would her freaking me out be reason enough to destroy her skull? She was not human. That was clear. Evident in the black goo that dripped from stumps that used to contain at least eight fingers and a few thumbs. You sever parts of the body, you bleed. Blood. Red blood. Not goo. Black goo.

  We were in danger. We were. A flock of zombies were on the lawn. Enveloping the house--Mannequin’s house. They did not seem to be interested enough to force entry. Had a feeling if they suspected four . . . humans were inside, they might. The way they’d appeared all gang-like and organized, I couldn’t put past them that it wouldn’t take much to realize breaking glass would be as good as opening a door. Mannequin had to go. Just like I’d said when I’d climbed up the first step. Whether that had been for Allison’s sake or mine, did not matter.

  Feeling like a coiled rattler, and just as I was ready to lunge springing forward to chop Mannequin to death, the radio on my hip squawked and hissed. I stared down at it.

  “Chase? What’s it like out front. Clear back here.”

  My jaw dropped open. Fucking Dave. Josh gave Dave the fucking radio.

  “Chase!” Allison said.

  I looked up the stairs. Mannequin was gone. Just, gone.

  Shit. Now what. “I have to find her. Please, Alley, keep a lookout.” I took the radio off my hip, handed it down to her. “Turn down the volume, and answer that fuck.”

  “You’re going up there?”

  “Unless you saw her pass me on the stairs and she’s hiding down here somewhere? Did you see her do that? Did you see her pass me? Is she down here?”

  “You don’t have to be a dick,” she said.

  I gave her my back, re-gripped my hold on the shovel and climbed the stairs into a windowless and completely pitch black hallway. “Ah, shit.”

  I could barely see a thing in front of me. I strained to listen. Thought I might hear Mannequin breathing, or groaning, or something. But nothing. Not a sound. About the only thing I heard was my own heartbeat. It filled my ears with a muffled tha-thump, tha-thump, and my own heavy breathing. I might not hear Mannequin, but if she wasn’t deaf with old age, she’d hear me.

  Don’t know if it was strength or courage I conjured, but taking that first step was not easy. Still, I took it. Each step after -- no easier.

  I had to take one hand off the shovel to feel along the wall. I was looking for a door, or doorway. Last thing I wanted to feel, but the one thing that kept coming to mind, was the touch of a cotton nightie. I shivered.

  My fingers grazed over fuzzy wallpaper. Reminded me of mold. I almost pulled my hand away. Instead, I pushed forward. Seemed like I’d covered more than a hundred yards. A chanced look back told me maybe I’d crossed a foot or two. The baby steps weren’t getting the job done.

  Molding. A doorway. I felt around. The door was open. I reached across to the opposite wall, the wall on the east and touched fuzziness. So no one was behind me. I took a deep breath. Held it, and sent the end of my shovel into the room ahead of me. I poked and jabbed at air. Followed in close behind. I swung it back and forth, just to make sure Mannequin wasn’t standing right there, waiting for me.

  She wasn’t. The window across the room let in some outside light. I could turn on the light. Josh and Dave had indicated the back yard was clear. This room faced that direction. I didn’t want to risk it. Didn’t seem worth it. Instead, I stood at the threshold a moment, hoping my eyes would adjust. I didn’t have all night. A few extra seconds wasn’t going to hurt, especially if it helped my sight.

  Or so I thought.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  There should have been a warning. Some kind of sound. I should have smelled the decaying flesh. Instead, I tried to jump back as stumps where fingers should have been slammed into my back, sending me forward, reeling. My eyes adjusted to the darkness as I lost balance and stumbled toward the bed.

  Under the covers lie a man. What was once a man. Best I could tell, it had been a man. If his face had been green, he’d of resembled a watermelon sliced in half and eaten by a dog. Nose, mouth and upper jaw . . . gone. So was most of the brain. His face looked more like a bowl. A deep, hollowed out hole. Only thing that told me it was a male, was the pajama top. Mannequin was in an old-fashioned nightgown, and this old guy wore pajamas. Didn’t think people wore that kind of stuff anymore.

  And then I was on him. Chests criss-crossing. I smelled him. Insides reeked, emptied bowels mashed by the extra weight of me on the deceased.

  Before I could push off, or roll off of the dead guy, Mannequin was on me, fell or dropped onto my back. Envisioning those gooey stumps slapping at me, as if trying to get a fi
nger grasp on my shirt, or to dig fingernails into my skin for a hold, had me bucking like a bull that did not want to be ridden.

  I felt trapped, pinned between two bodies. The shovel useless, sandwiched like this. I’d seen enough horror movies to know I was in some shit. Had no idea if getting bit infected me with whatever they had. Would I become one of them? That thought alone had my own bowels ready to release.

  Unlike when I first entered the room, I heard her. Mannequin. She breathed hard and heavy. Like an excited woman. She seemed to be scaling my back. Perhaps getting her head in position to chomp down on my exposed and highly vulnerable neck.

  This kicked my adrenaline into hyper-drive. I thrashed. Twisted. I was not going to be bitten, but neither was I able to throw her off my back.

  Her hot breath was on my skin. Near my neck.

  The inevitable happened. I felt a prick on my shoulders. Sharp teeth sinking into my flesh. I screamed. Couldn’t help it.

  “I got her,” I heard.

  Dave.

  All at once, the weight was lifted off me. The sound of a body hitting the floor followed. I rolled over, and off of the dead man. In the dimly lit room, I saw Dave. He stood with a two-handed grip on his pitchfork.

  I sat up, looked down. The tines of his weapon had pierced Mannequin’s head. He stepped on her back and pulled free the pitchfork. My hand went to my neck. There was some bleeding. Warm, and sticky. “I think she bit me,” I said. I felt sick. Thought I might throw up. I had no clue what was in store.

  “Let me see,” Dave said. He slapped a hand on my shoulder and spun me around. “My bad.”

  “What’s your bad?”

  “She didn’t bite you. The pitchfork went too far. I think those marks are from this,” he said, and held up his weapon.

  “Not a bite?”

  “Doesn’t look like it.”

  I wanted to cry. Relief washed through me. My shoulders deflated. I sighed. And sighed again. “Oh my, God. Thank you. Thank you.”

  “For stabbing you?”

  New respect for the slow man filled me. I stood up. Put out my hand. “For saving my life.”

  He shook it. “It was nothing. You saved ours earlier. It’s what friends do.”

  I’d not had many opportunities to save lives. Of friends, or otherwise. There was the one time a guy was choking on a mouth full of french fries at Schaller’s. I performed the Heimlich. He spat a wad of chewed potato across the room, but he was breathing, and alive. “I suppose in days like this, it is. I appreciate it.”

  I wanted to apologize for being a dick, but figured I’d wait it out. See what type of friendship actually blossomed.

  “Josh is watching the back. Allison’s at the front door still. She was worried. I came to apologize about the radio. She told me you were up here. That there was one of those things up here. I didn’t want you to go at it alone. Thought I might be able to help. Have your back, you know?”

  “I’m glad you did. Again, thank you.” I looked around the room. My shovel was on the opposite side of the bed. I walked around to retrieve it.

  “She musta ate her husband?”

  “Looks that way.”

  “This is fucked up, you know? I mean, seriously fucked up shit.”

  “Tell me about it.” I clapped him on the back. “Let’s check the rest of the rooms up here. Just make sure there aren’t any more surprises.”

  “Good call.”

  We cleared a second bedroom and bathroom at the end of the hallway. There was a door that led to an attic. We looked at each other. Chance of this old couple having more people in the attic did not seem plausible. Dave volunteered to give it a once-over. I stopped him. “Let me,” I said.

  A thin cord dangled just over the third step. Didn’t suspect the attic had windows. I chanced the light and pulled the cord. A naked bulb bounced and swung back and forth from the tug. It cast moving shadows in every corner of the attic. With just my head at floor level, I prairie-dogged it. Gave the room a full 360. Aside from neatly stacked and black marker-labeled boxes, no one was hiding in the attic. Relieved, I turned off the light and went back down the stairs.

  “Anything?”

  “Nothing. Clear.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Josh and I sat at the kitchen table. Dave had raided the fridge, found left over deep fried chicken and a saran wrapped bowl of mashed potatoes. He pulled a few cans of French cut green beans from the cabinet, added some Italian salad dressing to it, and together, and in silence, we ate a meal.

  The front lawn was loaded with what seemed like camped-out zombies. They didn’t seem to be going anywhere. They wondered up and down the driveway, went around the side of the house and explored the backyard, came back and walked up and down the driveway.

  It was 4 a.m. We’d sent Dave and Allison to sleep on sofas in the family room about an hour a half ago. No sense all of us staying up. Josh told me to get some sleep too, but I wasn’t interested. When there was a break in zombies, I wanted to be ready to run. Thought it might have lasted a half hour or so. Never expected them to remain.

  My gut was in knots. I’d eaten, but feared I’d not be able to keep the food down. It went down easy. Stayed down, too. Mannequin had been an amazing cook.

  I held a portrait of Mannequin and her husband. They were a cute old couple. I’d put them in their late 70’s. The way they sat close posing, and the natural smiles they wore, spoke volumes. They were side-by-side on a wood swing bench with an umbrella awning. Behind them was a body of water. Could be Lake Ontario. Didn’t have to be. The sun set on the horizon. The colors were spectacular. The entire photograph made the viewer feel warm and serene. I was half-tempted to go through their things, not just pull the framed photo off the mantel. I wanted to know who they were. Their names, at the very least.

  But I also didn’t want to know shit about them.

  I set the frame down, the photo facing the table.

  I’d seen and learned enough. They were gone. Dead. Together.

  “So,” I said, if only to break the silence between us. “You and Dave, you guys from Rochester?”

  “Yeah, actually.”

  “Family?”

  “No. Parents died. Our mother battled cancer most of her life. Lost to it when Dave was around thirteen. Hit our father pretty hard. He sank into a depression. Five years later, to the day--a massive heart attack took him. It’s been Dave and me since then.”

  “No aunts, uncles.”

  “Couple of each. They were cool to us. Wanted us to visit, and stuff. No one offered to take us in. We were old enough to be on our own and everything. But, with Dave--it hasn’t been easy. He struggles keeping a job. You might not have noticed, but he’s an adult, and he’s a handful.” Josh snickered. I did too.

  “Tell me more about Mexico,” Josh said.

  We sat in darkness, across from each other. My eyes were so adjusted to the darkness I felt like a cat.

  “The government put up that huge wall to keep aliens out of our country,” I said.

  “Right, sure.”

  “Now the Mexican government is using it to keep us out of their country. The infected anyway. I’m guessing they got guards watching it. Making sure none of us sneak in.”

  “You know all of this how?”

  “There was something on the radio. Late yesterday. Said something like, the Mexicans couldn’t afford to vaccinate their residents. Or there wasn’t enough vaccination to go around. Something like that. So it’s an uninfected country with an amazing border wall that we installed. Like a fucking fortress, their country,” I said.

  Even in darkness, I saw it. His head nodded. But he was looking down at his folded hands on the table.

  “What?”

  “I mean, theoretically it sounds good.”

  “What does that mean? I heard it. It’s what they said.”

  “What channel? Who said it?”

  “Why is it so hard to believe, Josh?” I said.

  “
Why is it so easy to believe?”

  “I don’t know what your issue is. Yeah, okay. Mexico is a few thousand miles away. Roads are shit. But we’re going there. We’re not infected. We’re going to cross the border, and start a new life.”

  “We are?”

  This time I shook my head. “My kids and I. You guys can come.”

  “The bulk of the outbreak seems to have occurred today, well, yesterday now -- since the sun’s about to rise.”

  “Seems that way. Yeah.”

  “But I don’t think yesterday was the very first day. I’ve watched the news. All kinds of weird shit was happening across the country the day before. Remember there was that guy on the expressway, was naked, eating some cab drivers face … right out on the road, stopped traffic up for hours.”

  “So?”

  “That happened in Dallas.”

  “Okay, Dallas. Josh, either you have a fucking point, or you don’t.”

  “No point.” He stood up.

  I slammed my fists on the table. “What was the point, Josh?”

  “We’re starting a third day here,” he pointed toward the front of the house. As if he could see a rising sun, or something. I knew what he meant. He was indicating a new day was dawning.

  “Yeah, and?”

  “And, just think about it. Planes. Cars passing through the border. Thousands of cars pass through that border every day. There’s no way the country doesn’t have infected people in it. Just, there isn’t. This is clearly an epidemic. I’d say turn the TV on, let’s hear what they’re saying, but right now might not be the best time.” Josh walked out of the kitchen. End of conversation.