Vaccination - 01

by Phillip Tomasso

  “You mean that?”

  I jumped back. “Are you serious right now?”

  Dave was behind me. He hugged me. “I am your friend, Chase.”

  I almost shrugged his arm off. Instead, I patted his massive forearm. “Thank you, buddy. Thank you.”

  “We’re going to find your kids, Chase. I promise you. We’ll find them.”

  When Dave finally let go, I just stared up into that sky, at all the stars and wondered where on earth my kids might be.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  When Char woke up, first thing she noticed was sunlight from the slightly parted curtain filling the room. She shielded her eyes with the back of one hand, as she threw off the bedspread and sheets. With bare feet planted on icy hardwoods, she shivered. She thought she’d seen slippers before going to bed, but wasn’t sure where. Right now, she needed to use the bathroom more than she felt the need to search for slippers.

  Cash still slept. It had to be after seven. She wanted to be up before daybreak and on the move. Something about the room must have tricked them into getting a good night’s rest. Sleeping had been rough the last two nights. Last night was not only refreshing, it was appreciated.

  Before Char could remove the desk she’d slid in front of the door to block it, she needed to un-stack everything she’d piled on top. It didn’t really make the desk heavier, it just ensured things would fall off and wake her if anyone, or anything, tried pushing their way in.

  As she pulled off dolls, snow globes, books and dirty clothing, trophies, a lamp and crystal unicorn shaped knick-knacks, she listened. It sounded quiet beyond the bedroom. No feet shuffled. No grunts. No moans. Most of all, no smell.

  The dead smelled. There was no explaining it, and more importantly, no mistaking it. She often felt like a wolf when walking the streets with her little brother. Her nose raised, nostrils flared, head cocking from one side, then the other. She wasn’t trying to see the dead. She was trying to smell them. Thing is, you see one, it’s obvious. They don’t hide. They don’t wait to attack you. One spots you, you spot it, and you run. And they chase. And the dead can run. Fast. Hunger drives them, no doubt.

  But if you smell them, you can avoid them. Avoid being chased.

  Chases are bad. It’s how they’d gotten sidetracked. The plan once leaving her mom’s house had been simple. Go find dad. She knew how to get to his apartment on the main roads. The zombies forced her and Cash to find alternate ways the last day and a half.

  In this house, whatever house they were in, she did not smell the dead. At least not upstairs. Not near the still shut, still mostly barricaded bedroom door.

  She cast a look at Cash as she pushed the desk away from the door. By the bed, leaning against the mattress was her pick-head axe. It was thirty-six inches long and just under fifteen pounds. Swinging it was not a problem. Crushing a dead’s head, simple enough.

  Char needed strength freeing the blade or pick side once embedded inside a skull. She hated having to step on the dead’s neck and yank every time, especially when more dead were around, and there was only little time to retrieve the weapon currently impaled in a dead’s brain.

  She decided to leave the axe. The house was silent. Cash would know it was there. If he woke up, he might even take more comfort seeing the handle of the axe near him, than his own big sister.

  Char twisted the knob slowly and opened the door but a fraction. She knew the hinges squeaked. But only at about twenty-five degrees. She also knew the third step from the bottom at the edge of the hallway squeaked. Normally, she’d never remember either thing. Currently, knowing what makes noise, when, and how, could be the difference between survival and becoming dinner for the dead.

  Once she squeezed through the doorway, Char moved stealthily down the hall, past the staircase, toward the bathroom. She stopped at the banister, and gave the downstairs a once-over. Nothing looked troubling, the front door was shut. The chain engaged.

  She sniffed at the air. Stale. Musty. The house must have been vacant since the virus spread, since the vaccination, meant to stop the H7N9, infected most of the United States. That was how long ago now? A year ago? Almost two?

  In the bathroom, Char shut the door. Protocol was broken. She knew it. She engaged the simple twist lock on the center of the knob. The wood door was solid. Old houses were great that way. Hardwood floors, gum wood trim, and when taking shelter from the dead, solid doors. Nice.

  If Cash ever went to the bathroom alone, she’d knock him in the head with a Bible and hope some common sense sank in. He was nine though. A kid. Stupid, even. Forget the fact he’s a boy, and boys just don’t think things through. At fourteen, Char knew better.

  Usually.

  Except this time.

  When she finished with the toilet. She depressed the handle. It flushed. The bowl filled, her waste swirled and sank and shot through the plumbing.

  Running water.

  She closed her eyes, shook her head.

  When she opened them, she knew what she’d see. The drawn shower curtain. How long had it been since she’d bathed? Just two days?

  It couldn’t hurt. A fast shower. Even if the water was icy cold. The idea of a bar of soap ... wait, wait ... she parted the curtain, and yes, yes, soap, shampoo – conditioner, a razor! A razor!

  She had to do it. A fast shower. And Cash could take one too. God knows he smelled raw. She must, too, it was just harder to admit. Easier to blame the stank on him.

  She stepped out of her clothing, turned on the faucet and almost cried. Water flowed. But not just cold. Hot, too. She was going to have a hot shower. It felt like Christmas. The smile she wore felt so wide the corners of her mouth already began to ache. The muscles rarely used, were flabby and out of shape. She’d have to try smiling more, just wasn’t much these days’ worth smiling over. She missed living with her dad, her parents being apart, and now this . . . zombies.

  While it felt like it was over in moments, Char knew she must have been in the shower for over half an hour. The hot water was barely tepid. If Cash was going to shower, he’d at least need water that wasn’t freezing. Or else she could just imagine him arguing with her about even getting in. And he was going to shower. Icy cold water, or not. The boy needed soap embedded in his skin, if not a flea-bath dip to boot.

  She towel dried, pulled her newly scented Rain Forest hair under her nose and breathed it in. She didn’t know if the dead would smell her, the way she smelled them, but she also knew the fresh, clean hair would only last the day. By tomorrow, she’d begin to stink again. And so would Cash.

  Char decided she’d put the bathroom supplies into her back-pack. Take the items with them. She wasn’t sure an actual rain forest smelled like this shampoo, but she was sure . . .

  She took in a quick breath, lips closed tight and sniffed.

  She released her hair, let it fall over her shoulder and turned her head toward the closed bathroom door. She sniffed again.

  Her heart beat accelerated.

  Dead.

  Outside the door? Could be downstairs still. The smell, however, was strong enough to make her think—

  Cash!

  She spun around. The axe—she’d left her father’s weapon in the bedroom. Cash knew how to use it. It was heavy for him, but he was getting better at wielding it.

  The sink counter-top held a bar of soap, a cup with three toothbrushes, and a can of shaving cream.

  With freshly shaved legs forgotten, Char opened the medicine cabinet. Pill bottles, creams, disposable Bic Razors. Nothing she could see working as an effective tool to fight the dead.

  Under the sink, she found only one thing. It might work. Mostly likely it wouldn’t. She had no other options. She grabbed it and unlocked the door. The solid wood --the only barrier between her and the dead-- was also a barrier between her and her brother.

  Cash might still be asleep. Vulnerable.

  She couldn’t even remember if she’d shut the bedroom door when she left. She may
have. But maybe not.

  “Charlene!”

  It was Cash. He was up. Worse, she knew that tone. He was scared. The dead had found him.

  She threw open the bathroom door.

  And screamed.

  A woman stood there. Dead. Where the whites of her eyes should have been, there was merely bloodshot red. The eye was clouded over with a thick, grey film. The woman’s flesh was purple, blue. She’d been dead a while. Whatever bit her did a good job at chunking out meat along her throat and shoulder. The worst was seeing bits of skin tissue stuck between the woman’s teeth like chicken, or asparagus.

  Char raised the over-sized can of Aqua-net and the lighter and did her best to mimic what she’d seen in movies. The hairspray jetted out from the small white nozzle into the dead’s lifeless eyes. Under the spray, Char thumbed the lighter’s roller to life. With barely a spark, the Aqua-net became a flamethrower, and caught the dead’s hair and face on fire.

  Dropping back, Char pulled away the lighter, brought her hands down onto the sink counter and jumped up and she kicked the woman in the gut with both feet, knocking her backward and down the stairs.

  The hall was clear.

  Except at the end.

  At the opened bedroom door.

  The room Cash was alone in.

  A dead had just entered.

  “Hey!” Char ran out of the bathroom. The dead turned to face her. She tried to light the lighter. While running, it was impossible. She dropped it, and the hairspray.

  The dead raised arms and lunged toward her.

  She dropped down onto one leg, as if sliding into second base, stretched her arms out behind her to get as slim and thin as possible as she passed between the dead’s legs. Feeling a little like a crochet ball, she got back onto her feet inside the bedroom. Cash stood on the bed, the axe in his hands ready to swing.

  “Cash,” Char said, held out a hand to him.

  She didn’t want his hand. And he knew it.

  Cash tossed the axe her way. She caught it by the axe head, and swung just as the outsmarted dead came back into the room.

  The blade cut through his temple, left eye, and the bridge of his nose as if his skull had been made of warm bread. Blood squirted and poured and finally just oozed as the dead fell to his knees.

  Char let him fall face first onto the nice hardwoods before planting her foot on the back of his neck and twisting the blade out of his head, ignoring the slurp sound of the blade pulling free.

  “Get your stuff, Cash. It’s time to move.”

  Any other little brother might moan, might complain, might ask for breakfast first, or to get to watch some TV. Cash was different. Times were, too.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Same as everyone else. Mexico.” The virus wasn’t there. The Mexican government couldn’t afford the vaccinations for its people. Now, the walls our presidents built to keep illegal aliens out of America were being used to keep Americans out of Mexico. “They don’t have the dead there.”

  “But what if some got in?”

  It was possible. Probable. “They didn’t,” Char said. What else could she say? “Come on. We need to keep moving.”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  West Ridge Road resembled a war zone. The I-390 over pass had cars bumper to bumper, up on the sidewalk, and facing the wrong direction. Shattered glass, a muffler, quarter panels and a rear bumper clogged most of the street. In short, the road looked like I felt. My head was cluttered. My hopes so high, I was forced to rein them in, settle them down. It was, after all, merely a guess. I had no idea if my kids were at my apartment, if Charlene would have thought to go there. It was what I wanted to believe, that if she was going to feel safe anywhere, it would be with me.

  Dave led us. He climbed on hoods, slid down them, and up onto the next. I helped Allison, lending a hand for support, as she’d hoist herself up and over and down each vehicle. Then I’d labor my way over, and onto the next. We had little left. We must resemble zombies ourselves. We moved slow and sluggish, with jerking motions. We were covered in blood. Josh’s blood. Our own. We stunk of body odor, not death. Or maybe the stench of death was on us, and I’d just grown so used to it, I couldn’t tell the difference anymore.

  “I can’t keep going,” Allison said. “I just can’t.”

  I could see Stone Road. Three lights away. We were almost there.

  “Please, dear. Please. We’re almost home,” I said.

  She stopped. Her arms flat at her side. Her head cocked to one side. “Home? We’re almost home?”

  I pursed my lips.

  “Chase, we’re almost nowhere. We’ve gone in a huge circle. We’ve spent days going like fifteen miles. Days. We’ve walked. Run. We’ve driven, and in the last few days we’re only about four miles away from where we started. How in the hell are we going to make it to Mexico? On foot? We going to walk like two-thousand miles? We don’t know that Mexico is even safe, that there aren’t any zombies there. We saw that news report. The D.C. is in shambles. The military was setting up safe camps, but do we even know where they are? Do we even have a clue where one of them is located? We’re in New York, and we’re fucked, Chase. Fucked. I want you to get your kids. To have them with you. I want that. More than you might know, or even fucking believe, but home, Chase? Home?” She shook her head. She snickered. “I don’t think we’re almost home. I think we’re almost nowhere.”

  “Guys,” Dave said.

  I turned my attention his way. I saw what he saw. It was a mob. No other word described it. We’d encountered gangs, and managed to get by hordes, but what was ambling its way east along Ridge Road was nothing short of a mob of zombies. If the wind had been blowing in our direction, I’d guarantee we’d smell them. No way could that much rotting flesh go undetected, even by the laziest of nostrils.

  “I love you, Allison.”

  That stopped her. She closed her eyes. Her head shook slightly from side to side.

  “We’re going to need to hide, or something,” Dave said.

  “You what?” Allison said.

  “Ah, guys?”

  “I love you,” I said. “I think I’ve known it for a while. I just couldn’t say it. Wouldn’t let myself believe it, that it could happen to me. I don’t trust that emotion. Not even a little.”

  “Say it again.” She smiled. Despite the mob. Despite the desperation of it all.

  “I’m an ass, Alley. A fool. I could have lost you so many times by not telling you how I feel. And I wouldn’t have blamed you if you walked away from me. Wouldn’t hold it against you now. But, it’s important to me to tell you now that I love you. That I really don’t ever want to be without you. I’m in love with you.” I stood there. Not sure what I was waiting for. She told me all the time that she loved me. It had always been awkward. I never replied with anything shy of, give me a kiss, or you’re the best, baby.

  Her arms shot up. They wrapped tight around my neck. Her lips puckered and planted tight on my mouth. “You have my heart, Chase. All of it. You always have. I’ve waited so long to hear you say it, that you love me.”

  Inwardly, I sighed. “I love you.”

  It felt good. Felt right. Telling her made my own heart skip a beat. Flutter.

  “This is so cute, so freaking awesome. But, and maybe this is just me, if we don’t fucking move now, we’re, well, I guess, we’re . . . dead.”

  I put my hands on Allison’s shoulders. “I need you. I love you, and I need you. We can do this. Together. It’s the only way we’re going to get through this. Any of it. All of it. Okay?”

  She bit down on her lip, nodded.

  I spun around. “Got a plan, David?”

  His eyes opened wide. “Me?”

  “You. Yes, you. Have a plan?”

  He tried to hide a smile. Not sure if his opinion, if his ideas or suggestions were often sought. It was kind of putting him on the spot. The more I looked, the more I realized the situation appeared a bit less than hopeless.
We were on a bridge. The mob might be moving slow, but it was in our direction, leaving us little choice for paths toward an escape.

  “They’re pretty close,” Dave said.

  “And the plan is what? What are we going to do?”

  It looked hopeless. Completely hopeless.

  Dave’s face contorted, he looked determined.

  “Dave?”

  “I’m thinking. I’m thinking.”

  “We’re running out of time.”

  “The shadows,” he said.

  “The shadows?”

  “Let’s move to the right. Cross the bridge. Get into the trees beside the expressway ramp, from there we can go behind the Distillery, and wait until the monsters pass,” he said.

  I looked at the trees. Wasn’t enough to call them a forest. Thick enough to seek cover in, deep enough to hide behind. Only problem I saw, was that the trees were on the south side of Ridge. Stone was on the north. We’d be headed in slightly the wrong direction. It was significant, though. Getting from point A to B was not a straight line any longer. The shortest distance was turning out to look more like a connect-the-dots game. There was nowhere to go on the left though. The exit ramp, the vacant restaurant parking lot, then Famous Dave’s and Starbucks. Going to the right, as much as I didn’t want to, made the most sense.

  I nodded. “Okay. I like it. As long as they haven’t seen us, we might be okay,” I said, agreeing.

  “Really?” Dave said.

  “Really. You lead the way. You’ve done a good job so far,” I said.

  “Okay,” he said, “follow me.”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  We bent forward while we ran. Staying low. Using the disabled vehicles for cover. We crossed the bridge that ran over I-390. Dave, Allison and I looked both ways before darting past the eastbound expressway exit ramp, and were in the woods. Best I could tell, undetected.