by D C P Fox
He sighed. “This all seems very implausible. I might be hallucinating.”
He rubbed his chin. “Good points . . . Where would we go? After I dig you up, I mean.”
Clarence fixed his gaze on the photos of his five children on the left wall, the oldest one 43, the youngest one 35. He could not get in touch with them when the apocalypse hit. Were they zombies too? Could he help to prevent others from becoming zombies? Could he, God willing, help to cure them and bring them back to normal?
“I may risk my life if that is the role I must play. But how do I know what you’re saying is true? And how do I know my proper role in this? It’s not like I can ask the archangel.”
Jocelyn smiled.
Chapter Forty-Three
Day Ten
“Oh? You believe I can speak with an archangel?”
“No.”
“Just like that.”
“Anybody can do this?”
“Why didn’t the Priests teach us this?”
“I am inclined to help you. It’s just a lot to take in, and I’d be putting a lot of trust in you.”
He sighed. “Okay, I guess I can trust you that much. How do we do this?”
He closed his eyes and sat in a relaxed state.
Clarence viewed the safe room as he had seen it with the camp light on, and before him was a screen, like in a movie theater. He saw it all with his eyes closed, similar to dreaming!
Jocelyn counted down to one.
Clarence had once been hypnotized and now felt similar to that.
He did as instructed.
He did as instructed and felt euphoric. The Archangel Michael appeared in Jocelyn’s place, a man in a red robe with green trim and a young, handsome face. A large sword stood before him, the tip of its blade resting on the floor, his hands resting on the hilt.
“Are you the Archangel Michael?” Clarence asked the giant figure before him.
Clarence looked around, amazed at how this representation in his mind of his safe room was so accurate, so detailed. Then again, it wasn’t much different from a dream.
“Yes. What is it you seek from me?” Clarence was surprised at how his voice filled up the room, as if it was vibrating every object, every thing, in his room.
“Er . . . Jocelyn wants me to accompany her on her mission. I wanted to . . . consult you about it.”
“May I read your mind? It will make it easier to understand your motivations, to understand why or why not you should do this.”
“Er . . . okay, as long as it’s not unpleasant.”
“You will not feel a thing.”
“Alright then.”
Michael closed his eyes for mere moments, after which he spoke. “You have had a very prosperous life, Clarence, and although you tithed your fortune, there still is more you can give back to society.”
“My wife died three and a half years ago. I’ve been lonely ever since. And now this zombie madness. I can’t use my fortune anymore. It’s not a good life.”
“But it was. You had your wife for forty-two years. You made your fortune in your early thirties. That was forty years ago. You had so much more fortune than most. That life might be over, but you enjoyed it. Now it is time to give back. Will you accept that mantle?”
“Is it true? Does this Jocelyn woman have real hope for a cure?”
“Yes, she does.”
“But a cure won’t bring my wife back. It won’t bring my fortune back. Those days are gone.”
“Yes, they are. Your life as you knew it is over. It seems unlikely that can change. But think about what you can do for billions of people, for humankind as we knew it to be.”
“Oh, you do not need to persuade me. It would be an honor to play even a small role in saving mankind. The only question is, are you truly Archangel Michael? Is this Jocelyn person telling the truth?”
“Ah. Who else do you believe I could be?”
“Beelzebub. The Devil. Call him what you wish, but I don’t want him to bring me into a nefarious scheme.”
“Hmm. Could it get any worse?”
“Pardon?”
“Let me put it another way. What are you afraid of?”
“Afraid I would do the Devil’s work.”
“May I be so bold as to suggest you are afraid of getting out of your comfort zone?”
Clarence had to admit that. “Yes, I’m afraid of that, too.”
“You doubt me because of that fear. But without you, the hope for a cure will be lost. Yes, it is dangerous, but you cannot live the life you became accustomed to. Do you want a sense of purpose beyond keeping yourself in this miserable little room?”
He sighed, both on the astral plane and the material plane, here in his safe room. “Yes, I suppose I do. One more thing: do you know the fate of my children? And my grandchildren?”
“I am sorry, but I only know what I am told by those that call on me, and none of your descendants have called on me. Now decide because jocelyn is rapidly running out of time. It is unlikely she can find anyone else to help her before it is too late.”
“Okay. I’ll do it. Thank you, archangel, for doing your part.”
“You are welcome. It is my job, but you are welcome.”
Jocelyn’s apparition stood next to Clarence, who was crouched at the side of a house across the street from the supermarket. Clarence shivered in the cold wind despite the heavy leather jacket he wore. His shovel and shotgun lay on the ground. While J
ocelyn had scouted out the area and encountered no draugar, she feared she missed some, or that some might wander into the area. Unsure how much time she had left, she sacrificed thoroughness for expediency.
“Where?”
They didn’t want a flashlight to attract attention, though one bulged in Clarence’s pocket, so they only had the light of the moon to guide them.
“Who? The people who buried you?”
Jocelyn was still angry at the survivalists for what they had done to her, and what she wanted to do was kill them all, but that did not seem possible.
First, she needed to escape that grave.
“If I crawl, they might not discover me—if they buried you far enough away . . . Do you even know where?”
She led the way while he crawled behind, holding onto the shotgun and shovel. They shielded themselves from view behind cars whenever possible.
She hoped no draugar would appear. She wouldn’t see them coming if they did.
Jocelyn contemplated that the survivalists probably would have defeated her rag-tag gang had they remained and reassured herself that persuading them to leave the supermarket was the right call, although she did not know if they now fared any better.
They were all doomed.
No, she shouldn’t think that way. Saving humanity would require overcoming overwhelming odds against them. Think positively. One step at a time. Slow and steady wins the race.
They reached the proper island.
Clarence began digging, his shotgun off to the side on the asphalt in front of a car’s tires.
He did as she went back into her body. Once turned over, she gasped for air, flooding her lungs.
After coughing for some time, she realized she lay on top of Joe’s body. She extricated herself from the grave with Clarence’s help.
“You’re real,” she said.
He stared bug-eyed at her. “And so are you.”
She nodded. “I suppose I am at that.”
“You weren’t sure this would work, were you?”
“No.”
“Which part?”
“All of it. I’ve never tried the astral projection where I communicated with someone . . . I was concerned it might all be an elaborate dream.”
She was disoriented, dizzy with a headache. As the fog in her mind lifted, the telltale tingling on the back of her neck returned. She looked around and spotted some draugar coming toward the parking lot. They weren’t in any hurry, probably because they hadn’t sighted Clarence yet, as a light truck blocked their line of sight. But then they spotted him.
Shit.
“Clarence, listen to me carefully. A bunch of zombies are walking this way. Pick up the shotgun and run home. I’ll follow right behind.”
He blinked finally. “What did you say?”
She repeated all her instructions. “Now nod if you understood me.”
He nodded, appearing to have his wits about him again. He placed the shovel under the car near him and picked up his shotgun, pumping it slowly.
“Okay. Ready! Run!”
Chapter Forty-Four
Day Ten
Seventy-two years old, Clarence ran for his life. Although in decent shape for his age, he was unsure how to pace himself. When he saw the zombies in the way of his front door, he stopped short, almost falling in a skid.
There were too many to count.
“Go around the back!” Jocelyn, right behind him, yelled while panting. “I’ll hold them off!”
He ran by one only fifty feet away, arcing around it and racing into his side yard.
Jocelyn did not understand how she would hold off the draugar from attacking Clarence, but there were too many for him to handle on his own.
The tingling on the back of her neck continued.
The draugar followed Clarence to the back of the house. Thankful the survivalists had ignored her multitool, Jocelyn pulled the knife out from it and threw it at the lead draugar, hoping to hit him in the neck and sever the spinal cord. It was a long shot, and while she hit her target, she couldn’t get enough strength into it to succeed. The tingling stopped as the draugar broke from the pack and charged her.
She knew Clarence had little hope unless he got into that safe room, but Jocelyn now had her own draugar to contend with. And she was without a weapon.
She ran back toward the front of the house, wishing that the draugar would not attack her. The tingling resumed as she reached the front door which was ajar and risked a glance back but didn’t see the draugar anywhere.
Pushing through the door, she raced toward the rear of the house. The back door came into view as she ran through an opulent and large living room.
Clarence appreciated his luck that he had left the back door unlocked for the cleaning woman on the day the apocalypse hit—and he’d never ventured out of his safe room to lock it.
Then again, he was being pursued by zombies amid an apocalypse, so how lucky was he, ultimately?
He knew if he stopped to fire at one zombie, the other ones would get to him, so he dropped his shotgun. Now he had the steps and the screen door to contend with, and it used up precious time, but he couldn’t help that. As he turned the knob on the main door, he heard from behind him the screen tearing. Once inside, he spotted Jocelyn in the living room racing toward him. He turned around and slammed the door onto the arm and a foot of a zombie.
The zombie pushed forward anyway.
Clarence pivoted back to face Jocelyn, but something struck him in the back and he propelled forward, landing awkwardly on the flat of his hands. Excruciating pain erupted in his left wrist and he cried out. He lay on the floor, waiting for the inevitable.
Jocelyn panicked. The lead draugar had burst into the house, the others probably not far behind. She had no weapons, nothing to defend Clarence and herself with. She desperately wanted to stop the draugar from attacking Clarence while the draugar straddled him and grabbed a hold of his head.
The draugar let go, stood up and walked toward Jocelyn. He didn’t run. He walked.
What the fuck?
Get away from me!
Now the draugar turned around and started to walk away from her.
Did it obey her?
Clarence got up, alternating looking at her and the draugar. She formed a thought that the draugar should pat itself on the head.
It was astounding. That was exactly what the draugar did.
The tingling continued.
All draugar, come in and not attack anyone.
Soon all the draugar filed into the living room. None of them were in a mood to attack.
Jocelyn and Clarence were both secure in the safe room. Jocelyn had “commanded” the pack of draugar to
stay where they were. She still experienced the tingling in her neck, but by now she had gotten used to it.
Her third-eye center, thigh, and knee itched as bullets wormed their way out of her.
Clarence sat down on his bed, gritting his teeth through pain. “You’re the Alpha Male. You direct this zombie pack . . . and you saved my life. Thank you.”
“And you saved mine. And since I got you into this mess in the first place, I figure I owe you a lot more than you owe me.”
“Well, you’re right about that.” He gave a wry smile. “Still, you’re a powerful person—you can astral-project, you can survive being buried for quite some time . . . and now you command zombies.”
“There is one more thing I need to tell you about. But first let’s take care of your wrist. How bad is it?”
“I’ve got a first aid kit.” He pointed in a general direction and she spotted it on top of his bookshelf. “This is probably just a bruise, at worst a sprain. I need you to help me wrap it.”
While she wrapped his wrist, she said, “I see a lot of my grandfather in you. He had convictions, a strong sense of right and wrong, and nothing could influence him away from that sense. In the end, you know you’re doing the right thing in helping me.”
“Are you trying to flatter me? Because you’re succeeding.”
Jocelyn grinned, but then changed to a more serious expression. “Look, you’ve had to take in a lot tonight, but I need you to understand one more thing.”
“Uh-oh. And what is that?”
“I possess a sword. A special sword. One blessed by the Archangel Michael centuries ago and passed down the generations to me. It was forged to help me fight zombies, and it allows me to cut heads off in one blow. I hope you can believe that.” She looked up into his eyes.
“A sword. Centuries . . . hell, after what I’ve seen tonight, I suppose I’ll believe anything you say.”