“Okay,” she said simply. “We ought to be able to find it - yeah?”
I nodded. Should be able to narrow down its location to a quarter of an acre, I thought gloomily. I just didn't relish the thought of digging around in Jesse's grave if it came to that.
“Awesome,” she said. “I can strip it and clean it.” She gave my arm a series of quick pats. “I'm guessing you're not all that familiar with firearms, then?”
“To say the least,” I replied and she grinned. “How's your foot doing?” I added.
“Not too bad, I think.” She raised her leg and twisted it around. “Hurts. But like I twisted my ankle and stubbed my toe. Think I'll live.”
“We should have some peroxide to keep it flushed. I can do that later,” I offered.
She tipped her head and raised an eyebrow. “I think I can manage it from here on out. I only took advantage of you because I was pissed off and scared out of my wits. You don't need to be subjected to my scuzzy foot anymore.”
“Fair enough,” I laughed.
She turned away and contemplated her foot for awhile.
“They took your truck,” I said softly.
“I expected they would.”
“Also... I believe Mike is dead in your room over there.”
“Huh.”
“Sounded like he got bit, and they shot him for it.”
“Damned shame, isn't it?”
“Oh, I cried myself to sleep over it.”
Her shoulders shook as she gave a quiet laugh.
“So they're out of there, then?” she asked.
“Sounds like it,” I replied. “They were able to get their truck going too.”
Jackie was quiet again, and then whispered, “Poor Mrs. Clarke.”
My hand hovered over her back, wanting to give reassuring pats. But I held back, of course.
“Yeah,” I said foolishly. And for want of anything better to add, I just said, “Yeah,” again.
She straightened abruptly, slapped her hands down onto her thighs and turned to look at me with that open and direct way she had.
“Ya hungry, Artie?” she asked with a big grin.
“I am,” I said.
“Good! Let's see what we can rustle up on your camp stove.
The weather grew warm again, the temperature climbing into the mid eighties. The action next door seemed to act like the dinner bell for the dead, and at one point there must have been twenty or so of them clustered around the neighborhood. I was anxious to go next door and get Mike's body out of there – I could only imagine what the smell would be like wafting out of that room with the heat. There already was a tang to the air with all the dead milling about - “zombies” as Jackie insisted on calling them. And was I going to argue?
Perhaps the thunderstorm had shaken people free from their homes and hiding places, since there was much more activity out in the streets than there had been in the last month. It appeared a lot of them had been busy little beavers. I don't know how many snowplows had been reattached to trucks, along with steel plates and what looked like cow-catchers welded to the fronts of vehicles. Clearly a lot of thought had been put into making apocalypse battle wagons. I guess when you own a twenty year-old Escort you aren't naturally inclined to think of these things.
Jackie and I sat on the upper porch off my mom's bedroom. I had blocked off the French doors that opened onto to it with a huge dresser, but with the warmer weather and thinking that the dead were unlikely to hurl grappling hooks up and scale the house, we felt relatively safe sitting there watching the world go by. Besides, it beat the hell out of having a wedge-like view of the street out of the side window. The neighborhood had a strange, off-kilter look to it – like someone who always had his hair cut short in a neat military buzz, and had now allowed it to grow out over his ears. Lawns were long and fading, trash littered yards and the street and weeds were sprouting wildly in the gutters and sidewalk cracks.
“Neighborhood's going to hell,” remarked Jackie.
“Ay-yup,” I replied, and she laughed and threw a candy bar wrapper at me.
“God, what I wouldn't give for a cold beer,” she sighed. I murmured in agreement. I wasn't one for any alcohol, really. Never had a taste for it, and didn't really have the social life to develop it. But I could understand, and kept my thoughts of ice-cold milk to myself.
“Hell, I'd take a warm one,” she added, then frowned. I wondered if she was remembering her and Jesse's last drinking binge, and was rethinking that last statement.
“Well,” I offered, “if things ever get back to normal let me be the first to buy you one.”
She tipped her head to me and stared, opened her mouth, thought over what she might say then compressed her lips to a tight smile.
“You got a deal,” she finally said, and took a swig from the water bottle.
She paused, lifted her arm and sniffed. “Jesus, I'm ripe,” she laughed, and so did I.
“I can't imagine you're any worse off than anyone else,” I said and she gave me a grin, dimples forming in her cheeks.
“You are too kind, sir!”
The deep, throaty growl of a glasspack muffler intruded on us, growing in volume until it was obvious it was heading our way, accompanied with the booming thump of heavy bass.
“Ah, wonderful,” muttered Jackie.
A Civic shot down the street, and it seemed all of the dead paused, turned and began to stumble in the direction of the noise-maker. Jackie dropped her feet from the porch railing and leaned against it. The Civic turned at the end of the street by the park and rocketed back up towards us as incoherent yells and screamo blared from the interior. We watched as two paragons of society roared up and down the street playing the equivalent of mailbox baseball with the heads of the dead. The passenger, sitting recklessly on the door, swung his bat mightily at the clueless zombies. Bits of clotted blood and flesh sprayed with each connection.
Jesus, I thought. Swallow any of that shit buddy – get it in a cut, and you'll soon be one of them...
Jackie stood suddenly and leaned into the railing, her palms pressing against the wood on either side of her, causing her breasts to push forward prominently.
“Uh,” I prompted warily, but she ignored me, her head swiveling as she followed the car as it raced up and down the street.
As the last of the dead performed a clumsy pirouette after receiving a solid whack upside its head, the Civic cruised down the street, did a U-turn and shot over to Mrs. Clarke's driveway, then cut across the lawns to pull up facing us directly. The engine revved twice, the strangled screams of the music unable to rouse the dead that littered the neighborhood. Finally, the driver's side door opened and a kid leaned out, skinny in his black muscle shirt, tattoos crawling up and down his arms.
“Yo!” he yelled.
Jackie smiled, turned her head in profile and cupped her left ear. I shrank down and rubbed my forehead absently. I could not believe she was engaging these clowns.
The kid motioned to his partner to cut the music, which ended abruptly. The irritating rumble of the Civic's engine and the anxious calling of crows stood out clearly.
“'sup?” the kid asked.
“Not much,” Jackie answered. “Just kicking back. We were enjoying the peace and quiet.”
The kid gave a nonchalant roll of his shoulders, and Jackie leaned over to a small wrought-iron table to her right.
“Just out having some fun. Tired of being stuck inside, yo.”
“Yeah. I can see that,” Jackie laughed.
“You look like you could use some fun. How 'bout you come with us?”
“Oh, I don't believe I will,” Jackie responded, and raising her right arm she shot out the passenger side mirror on his car.
The kid and I both jumped, our mouths open in surprise. I sat up straight, eyes wide as my head snapped back and forth from the kid to Jackie.
“You crazy fucking bitch!” yelled the kid.
“You have no idea, you little
shit-stain,” she said, and put a round through the windshield dead-center. I could see the passenger cringing in his seat, curled around his baseball bat. The kid slammed his door, and Jackie took off his side mirror. I could only sit in awe of her marksmanship.
“Got anything else to say?” she shouted as the car reversed to the street, the back end popping sparks as it dropped off the curb, its rickety-looking spoiler trembling. As the kid backed south, he thrust his arm out defiantly, middle finger raised – then snatched it back quickly as Jackie fired at it, the bullet creasing the top of the car. Jackie laughed as the kid rabbited up the street.
As the sound of it's muffler faded, she turned and eyed me coolly. I suppose the look on my face made her think I might have been pondering some sort of judgment, so she raised her eyebrows and spread her arms as if to say, “What?”
I cleared my throat and said quietly, “To be fair, they did clear out the neighborhood pretty well.”
She burst out laughing, deep and throaty from her gut. She sat the pistol on the railing, wrapped an arm around my neck and gave me a deep kiss on the top of my head.
“Oh, Artie!” she shouted, and collapsed back into her chair giggling uncontrollably until she snorted, which made us both laugh some more. I had a few more quips lined up – the “think I'm in love” sort, but I thought the moment had been served best as it was. Over the last three days I was ever conscious of not appearing to hit on her – like I could have had the confidence to do that anyways. And she was newly widowed, for God's sake. I was under no impression I was in anything other than the friend-zone – worse yet, probably the 'like a little brother-zone' - but still the kiss on my head had made me turn red, and I casually propped my feet up on the railing and rested my arms in my lap.
“Well Artie,” she said, still chuckling. “I suppose that does bring up the matter of what we're going to do now.”
She leaned back and wiped her eyes, then ran her wrist under her nose, giving another burst of laughter, quieter this time.
“Yeah,” I said. Insightful as usual.
Jackie straightened in her chair, composed herself and gave me her direct and honest look. “I think we are going to have to get out of here - see what the hell's going on out there.” She waved an arm out towards the street.
“Hmm,” I offered.
“Seriously. The zombies aren't going away, but honestly? I'm more scared of the twiddle-dees and dumbers out there,” she gestured up the street where the Civic had fled, “than the dead.”
“Yeah...”
She leaned towards me and leveled her gaze right between my eyes.
“Artie. They will be back.” She waved her arm north again. “Maybe not those little jizz-drops, but I bet when they're done being scared and start being mad, they'll feel like they'll have something to prove, so who knows? But if not them, than someone like them. And probably worse.”
She sat back in the chair, staring into her lap. Her fingers began to pluck and worry at the hem of her tank-top.
“You know,” she said quietly, “there was something about all of this...situation...that really unnerved Jesse. As big of a bad-ass as he was, the dead just gave him the creeps something awful. He couldn't bear being couped up in the house, waiting things out, you know? He was itching to know what was going on with his friends, his family. For all of his fear of them, I think he would have rather been outside facing the zombies than hiding from them. He felt he had to do something, you know?”
She turned her head and pierced me with those eyes again.
“Artie, I'm at that point. I need to do something.”
“Well,” I said slowly. “It sounds like we're going to have to start by making a trip to your gun safe. And you teaching me how not to shoot like Woody Allen.” I almost said “shoot like a girl,” but the gun was within her reach, after all...
As I dragged the step ladder over to the fence, I looked down and at the corner of the garden lay Jesse's pistol.
“Hey, look!” I blurted, and reached down to pick it up.
“Hold on there, Tex,” barked Jackie and reached around me, grabbed my arm and held it still. “We want to be careful with it, don't we?”
“Yes,” I breathed, feeling foolish.
“Yes we do,” she said gravely. “Do you see that switch by the rear sight?”
I nodded.
“And do you see that red dot there? Yeah? Okay, flip the switch down to cover the dot. Good. Safety is on.” She gently pulled my arm down to my side, then away from my body.
“For now, this is the only way I want to see you holding this. I would pop the magazine out but these are troubled times we live in, my son. I may have hot-dogged it over the fence with a gun jammed in my pants – quit giggling, this is serious – but I was in a forced retreat with a 9.5 pucker factor and not exactly in a happy space. If you're going to learn about firearms, you are going to be in a happy space. Comprende?”
I nodded, afraid to move my arm at all. “So what type of gun is this?” I asked.
“That sir is a Beretta M9, also commonly called a 9mm.”
“Ah,” I said, and resisted any lame gangsta pop-a-cap-in-yo-ass remarks. I wanted to be able to find the happy space and take it seriously.
“Okay. We going to stand around all day, or are we going to scale that fence?”
“No sir. Yes sir!”
“Jesus. Fine Gomer, let me go first. I want to be in the house in case you fall over the fence and shoot yourself.”
She wore and old t-shirt of mine, but no shorts or pants in the house really fit her so she continued to wear her pair. None of my mom's shoes were big enough, so she wore an extra pair of my running shoes. They were too big for her, but that was okay since all we needed was to get next door so she could get her own. Plus, the bandage on her toe – which thankfully wasn't infected - could use the room. Her ankle seemed to be much better and she barely limped when walking. She held her pistol out to the side and clumped up the steps of the ladder and peered over the fence, moved up a step and peered along the property line. She waited, then gave a sharp whistle. She cocked her head, listening. Gave another whistle, and listened.
Finally, she turned to me and shrugged – then frowned as she looked around the yard.
“This your idea of landscaping, Artie?”
I looked back and saw all the bottles and cups I had set out the day of the storm. Most of them had blown over, but a few were still propped up and the coffee can looked like it may have had a good amount of water in it.
“It's a hobby,” I said, and was rewarded with dimples.
“Here,” she held her gun out to me. “Safety is on, but just hold onto it by the barrel if you please and then hand it to me grip first.”
After I took the gun, she went up another step, bent and grabbed the top of the fence, placed her bad foot on top, then swung over bracing her good foot against the other side and dropped from view. All the time we had been in the backyard, she had pointedly ignored the garden. I wondered if she was glad to have a fence between her and it now.
“Okay,” she said. “Not bad for a cripple.” Her hand waggled over the top of the fence. “Gimme. The gun.”
I did as I was told, then her other hand waved. “And yours. Good. Your turn, boyo.”
I climbed the ladder and swung over. Stuck the landing. She stood in her yard, smiling with the guns held lightly out to her sides.
“Here we are,” I said.
“Here we are,” she repeated.
The back yard was spartan, but neat – or would have been neat if the grass had been healthy and cut. A boat rested on a trailer next to the garage, and a cherry tree occupied the far north corner. She raised her left arm and said, “Okay, you can take it back now. But you keep the safety on. If you need to use it, you know how to take the safety off, yeah? I would like to strip and clean it first, so I can't guarantee it'll fire for you. So there's that.”
I took back the M9 and held it down and away from m
e.
“Awesome,” she said. “I am going to take the safety off my firearm, however, and I am now armed and ready to fire. Please stay behind me, to my left. Good. Let us proceed into my abode, and be cautious about it.”
As we crept across the patio, she held her arm back as we reached the door that opened into the kitchen. She stopped and gave a whistle, and waited. She repeated this three times until she seemed satisfied that nothing lurked inside. We crossed the threshold into the kitchen, where she paused. I could see daylight peeking in down a hall towards the dining and living rooms. It wasn't clear if it was just an open door, busted windows or the wall had been ripped open from the porch collapse. A faint smell of decay wafted in from up there as well, and that kept me from paying too close attention, afraid of what I might see. The smell could have been Mike upstairs. Or Mrs. Clarke, out there somewhere...
“I would dearly love to get on some clean undies and all,” whispered Jackie, “but I really want to check the safe first – see if they messed with it. I don't know what we're going to do if they buggered it up. We will need more rounds, and I'm not sure if I want you to have the M9 as your primary. Have to think that over.”
We moved into the carpeted hallway and stopped. She looked into a space under the stairs, where there was a gloomy opening and steps leading down to a basement. Directly opposite that was a room and her destination. Sun streamed in where the boards covering the windows had been pried off, and the room was mercifully free of dead people. Dead animals, however, were mounted on the walls. Jackie pointed to a buck with a magnificent rack, and said proudly, “That one's mine.”
I never really cared much for the idea of hunting. I mean, if you ate what you shot, fine. In our conversations, Jackie had mentioned if we couldn't find safety in town, we should head out to her father's cabin and hunt and fish. She was half convinced we should just do that anyways, but it was up in Bonner County over in Idaho and would be a hell of a hike (she was also convinced not to try and drive a car up there – people would just try and take it from us). Of course I would have gladly followed her into hell, but didn't relish the thought of killing animals and said as much. That was the only time, other than when she showed up at my bedroom window, when she was clearly pissed at me - until I assured her it wasn't any moral objection. I was just a wimp. She stated that would change when I got hungry enough, and looked forward to me trying venison.
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