“Dad, you think too much,” Patrick said from the backseat.
“Thinking is what keeps you safe and alive in this world. And speaking of which, I would recommend after what we’ve seen today to start taking some precautions ourselves when we’re out and about…like carrying weapons.”
“But you just said we shouldn’t kill the infected,” Josh threw his hands up in frustration.
“No, I said we shouldn’t involve ourselves unnecessarily. But you’d better believe that if one of those things tries to attack me, Caroline, Patrick, or any one of you or your family members, I’ll sure as hell shoot it. Make no mistake, there’s no room for error here. And if it comes down to it, I’m not taking any chances. One of those things comes my way, and it’s going down.”
“But how do you know the difference between a regular person and one who has the Carchar Syndrome?” Manny asked.
“If it’s licking its chops and salivating as it’s coming toward you, it’s got the disease,” Patrick snorted.
Michael ignored his son’s juvenile comment. “They say that before they attack someone, they start drooling all over themselves and bare their fangs…teeth…whatever you want to call them,” Michael explained. “It’s like they get hyper-excited and can’t control themselves. But you don’t have much time after that, so you’d better be on your guard. You see those pointy-ass teeth coming your way, and you’ve got a couple seconds if you’re lucky. This ain’t your father’s zombie movie. They don’t move like arthritic geriatrics. They move just like you and me, so keep your loved ones close and your guns closer.”
Chapter 12
“I suppose I could request my vacation now…but do you really think it’s necessary.”
“I wouldn’t have brought it up if I didn’t think it was necessary,” Wendell looked at Charla across their dining room table, his brow furrowed in worry. “I don’t think you’re taking this thing as seriously as you should.”
“Wendell,” Charla huffed in an exasperated sigh. “What am I supposed to do, just hide away in the condo all day? Sure, I know it’s getting bad out there.”
“It’s more than bad,” Wendell frowned, cutting a piece of his Chicken Cordon Blue.
“Okay, it’s more than bad, but that doesn’t mean I can just walk away from my job, my career, because there’s a chance I might run into one of these infected weirdos while I’m at work one day. I’ve worked too hard to get to where I’m at. We both have. I just don’t have the luxury of a well-timed holiday break like you do.”
“Will you at least put in the vacation request? If we can take a couple weeks, maybe they’ll get a handle on this thing in the meantime.”
“And what do we do? Do we just sit here in the condo for two weeks straight?”
“Why not? Other people do it. They call it a stay-cation.”
“Sounds like a blast,” Charla sat back disappointedly in her chair, arms crossed, her wine glass in hand. “Exactly how I wanted to spend my hard-earned vacation time.”
“It’s not my fault the pandemic of the century, hell, maybe of all time, is breaking out around us,” Wendell shot back.
“It’s not that bad yet.”
“But it’s getting bad, and it’s getting bad faster by the day. The more people who get this thing, the more it’s going to spread. They said tonight on the news that there were already over a thousand reported cases in Chicago alone and probably thousands more that were going unreported. And now it’s spread to cities across the country and around the world. This thing isn’t going away, Charla.”
“Well, if that’s the case, why would I take time off work? I might as well just keep going until I lose my job.”
“Which might not be very long,” Wendell said softly.
Charla’s silence caused Wendell to look up from his food. He could see the hurt in her eyes.
“I’m sorry,” he apologized. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Exactly how did you mean it?” Charla gave him a tilted-head glare.
“I meant that companies are closing their doors all over Chicago because of the Carchar Syndrome. I just meant that your company might be following suit soon…in an effort to protect you.”
“Humph,” Charla licked her lips and took a sip of wine.
“Just look at the Richardsons. They’ve already closed their coffee shop.”
“They were planning to retire soon anyway,” Charla shot back. “They don’t need the money. We do. We have a mortgage, bills to pay, food to put on the table,” she swept a hand across the dinner spread before them.
“We can make it on my salary,” Wendell offered.
“And what if they close your school? I know they’re talking about closing all Chicago public schools. Will you still get paid?”
Wendell shrugged and stayed silent.
“I understand what you’re saying, babe,” Charla went on. “I get it. But we can’t just put our lives completely on hold for this thing. All of life is a risk.”
“Yes, all of life is a risk, but we don’t have to put ourselves out there just to tempt fate. One bite…one bite is all it takes, and that’s it, that’s the end. You’re done for. It’s over. There’s no cure. Don’t you understand that? I’m saying this because I love you, not because I want you to lose your job or anything like that. I know we’ve always been competitive in that respect. And I know I haven’t always handled it in the best way. What do you want me to say? That you make more money than me? Okay, yes you do. That you’re more successful as a therapist than I am as a teacher? Fine. You’ve got me beat there too. That you’re just better than me, stronger, more adventurous. Fine, fine, fine. I don’t care. I just want you safe…that’s all.”
His caring made her smile. And the fact that he was willing to set his ego aside and admit what he felt were some of his shortcomings melted her heart.
“It’s not a job or a career that makes one of us better or stronger than the other,” Charla tried to soothe her wounded husband. “It just makes us different. And our differences are what make us work so well together. I get what you’re saying. People are staying home and being safe. I totally understand. Even Chris across the hall said he was taking some time off.”
“Chris?” Wendell frowned. “What’s he got to do with this?” he asked with more than a hint of accusatory concern in his voice.
“No…nothing,” Charla shook her head. “I was just saying that he’s taking time off too. You mentioned Paul and Diana having closed the coffee shop. Well, Chris said he was taking time off work since things were already seasonally slow at the tree trimming business.”
“When did you see him?” Wendell set his fork down beside his plate.
“The other day when I was getting the mail. I bumped into him and we chatted for a minute.”
“Hmm…yeah…right,” Wendell picked up his fork and knife to begin hacking at his chicken more than cutting.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Charla asked. This time she was the one who assumed the accusatory tone.
“Means I saw you two getting cozy on Thanksgiving.”
“Oh, give me a break,” Charla sighed and rolled her eyes.
“I did. I didn’t say anything about it. I know you’re a grown woman. I understand that occasional flirting is good for the soul…a little ego boost. I’m mature enough and secure enough in my manhood to accept that and deal with it…even when it’s taking place right in front of me in my own home,” he added somewhat bitterly. “But it doesn’t need to continue…unless you have other things in mind.”
“Wendell!” Charla leaned forward in her chair, still neglecting her dinner. “It’s nothing like that, and you know it. We’ve been together long enough that you should know that by now.”
Wendell eyed her with a disbelieving, steely-eyed gaze.
“And if you don’t, it’s not my fault. I know it might be somewhat hard to believe, but every once in a while, I like talking to someone who is a little different fr
om you. I enjoy getting a different perspective on life. It doesn’t mean that I don’t love you or that I want to be with someone else. Chris is about as different from you as you can get. That’s why I find him interesting. It’s not that I want to run off and sleep with the man. Sometimes it’s just nice to have a conversation with someone who isn’t like our friends, who is more like me.”
“Oh, so you’re more like Chris, huh?”
“I’d say so, yes…at least in our likes and interests.”
“Great…just great,” Wendell took a spiteful bite of his chicken and chomped it angrily. “Sorry I don’t offer you the like-minded conversation that you get from him,” he mumbled around his mouthful of food.
“Ugh!” Charla scooted her chair back forcefully, screeching it across the wood floor. “You’re impossible!” she threw her napkin on the table. “Why even try to have a conversation with you!”
“Yeah, why?” Wendell shrugged his shoulders. “Might as well go have it with Chris.”
“Rrrrr…” Charla clenched her fists and gritted her teeth in frustrated anger. “Maybe that’s a good idea!” she stormed away from the table, grabbing her coat from the rack near the front door and throwing it on. She didn’t bother to zip it, just wanting to make her exit. She flung the door open, stepped out, and slammed it behind her a little louder than she’d meant too.
Then she made a quick walk to Chris’ condo and knocked on the door. He opened it a few moments later, shirtless and clad only in warm-up pants and white socks. He looked like he had been working out. Charla had to admit, he did look good – probably the best looking white guy she’d ever met.
“Oh uh…” she fumbled, not used to being greeted with rounded pecs, bulging biceps, and rock hard abs, “…sorry to bother you. I was just wondering if I could bum a cigarette.”
“Sure,” Chris smiled pleasantly. “Would you like to come in?”
“Uh, no…thank you,” Charla shook her head, not wanting to tempt herself more than she already was by the pleasant view with which she was met. “I’m going for a walk to clear my head. Just wanted a cig to help calm me down,” she felt the need to explain. Pangs of guilt for being at Chris’ flowed through her after the conversation she’d just had with Wendell.
“Okay,” Chris nodded. “Just hang tight.” He turned, holding the door open with a foot, and rummaged in his coat pocket on a nearby rack.
While he worked to find his cigarettes, Charla heard a door open down the hall. She turned to see Wendell’s head peering out, looking the other direction down the hall. Then he turned to see her standing in Chris’ doorway.
Their eyes met and locked for but a fraction of a second, and then Wendell gave a sort of snorting half-smile, shook his head knowingly, and closed the door.
Part of Charla felt like rushing back to Wendell and explaining what she was doing. But another part, a darker part buried somewhere deep in her subconscious, liked knowing that Wendell had seen her at Chris’. And she liked knowing how he must be feeling right now – alone, helpless, jealous, submissive, defeated. She had the power, the power of the attentions of another, one of the cruelest and most vicious weapons a woman could use against her man. And today, Charla was going to slash Wendell’s uppity, holier-than-thou attitude with it.
She didn’t have to sleep with Chris. She didn’t even have to set foot inside his condo. All she had to do was set the stage and let Wendell’s rapidly spinning mind do the rest. All the questions and conjecture running rampant through her husband’s overactive imagination would likely do far more damage than Charla probably could through her own overt actions.
“Here ya go!” Chris finally found his pack and produced a cigarette for her to take.
“Thanks,” Charla nodded gratefully. “I owe you.”
“No problem. Stop by any time. Gets lonely around these parts, especially now that I’m not at work all day.”
Charla could feel Chris laying the groundwork. “Lonely”, “not at work all day”. Why didn’t he just give her a key to his place for when Wendell wasn’t around? But she played it off casually.
“Thanks a bunch,” she smiled pleasantly and turned to go.
But she felt a hand on her arm stopping her before she could leave. She turned back to find herself close to Chris, too close to Chris. His eyes were burning and she’d seen that look before, although she had to admit it had been a while. It was a look that said far more than words ever could, a look she knew well, a look that in the past had left her naked body sprawled sweaty and heaving among a tangled rumple of sheets in a foreign bed beside a man in the stupors of orgasmic recovery.
Chris released his hold on her arm. “Don’t forget this,” he held up something in front of her. She took a moment to refocus her eyes from Chris’ to what he held before her – a lighter.
“Oh…yes…right,” she half nodded, half shook her head, taking the lighter and jamming it into her pocket. “Thanks…again,” she turned and hurried down the hall toward the elevators, doing her best to quickly put as much physical distance between her and Chris as she could.
* * *
Charla had hoped to take a nice walk along the paved pathway that skirted the river’s edge. She wanted to let Wendell stew for a bit on his childish behavior. He could sulk on his own. She didn’t need to be around for his pouting. But she was finding the bitter winter temperatures making an extended journey difficult.
Worse yet, she’d forgotten her gloves, and holding the cigarette, which had taken her over a minute to light in the gusty December wind, was fast becoming a torturous task. Her dark skin was assuming a reddish hue from what felt like a sub-zero wind chill.
Charla crossed the bridge over the Des Plaines River and that took her from the Village of Lyons to that of Riverside. Once across, she hooked a right down a slight incline that led her to the paved river walk.
By this point, she was halfway through her bummed smoke. She was already feeling the mind-numbing effects of the nicotine. It was nice. It helped relieve some of the tenseness from the fight with Wendell.
She laughed aloud at the thought. It was hardly a “fight”, more of a marital spat if anything. By tonight, maybe tomorrow, it’d all be over and they’d have moved on. Just one more bump, a tiny pothole in the long and winding road of marriage. It was something that would quickly disappear in the rearview mirror, its jolting effects soon to be forgotten by the drivers, but only after having taken its minor toll on the vehicle of matrimony.
The pathway evened out to a more level walking surface. A rock and concrete wall shored up the riverbank on her right while a tree-studded field expanded to her left.
The walk was just what she needed. Sometimes when she and Wendell were pent up inside their condo together on the weekend, especially when the weather was like this, they were like two caged animals looking for any little thing to start quarrelling over.
Ahead of her, Charla could see three figures approaching. Other than them, there weren’t any other people around. Charla wasn’t surprised. “Other idiots out for a walk in these temperatures,” Charla breathed aloud, shaking her head.
She took another puff of her cigarette. She was smoking faster than she normally would have; eager to get her exposed and fast-freezing hand back inside her pocket.
She puffed out her smoke, then huffed some warm air onto her hands.
As the three figures neared, Charla could tell that they were young males. There were dressed in jeans and mostly black outerwear. One wore a Chicago White Sox knit cap. The other two had dark hoods pulled up over their heads. They were all walking with their heads down, which Charla found odd. The three didn’t exactly fit the cast of characters that Charla would have preferred to see approaching, but they were in Riverside. And with one of the best high schools in the state nearby, the adolescents in the area were typically good kids from upper-middle class households.
As the three strangers drew close enough to speak to, Charla offered a pleasant, “Hello.�
��
One of the youths, the closest to Charla looked up, just as she was about to pass him. At first, she thought he was sneering at her in a punkish sort of way.
But then she saw the teeth.
They weren’t teeth like she’d ever seen before, at least not in person. They were sharp, pointy looking fang-like things similar to those she’d seen on news clips of those affected by the Carchar Syndrome.
She gave a sort of inadvertent gasp at the sight as the young man turned toward her, his hands reaching out. Charla tried to scream but couldn’t find the breath. Only dry air commingled with cigarette smoke piddled from her lungs.
She took a step back on the path’s pavement, stumbling as she lost her footing and reeled backwards. She plopped heavily down onto her butt, dropping what remained of her cigarette. Her hands scrabbled at the leaf-covered pathway in an effort to get away from the vicious set of fangs snarling at her. She couldn’t tear her eyes from them. They were horrible, blood-covered things.
The young man lunged toward her, curled fingers reaching. Then suddenly he paused, bent, halfway to where Charla had fallen. He turned and looked back at his two buddies who were standing, watching, huge grins on their faces.
“Ahhhhh…I’m going to suck your blood,” the guy half laughed in his best attempt at a Dracula impression.
“Goddamn it!” Charla pounded the ground with her fists, suddenly finding herself filled with rage at the prank. The little assholes thought the Carchar Syndrome was funny?
She pushed herself up off the ground angrily, jumping to her feet.
“RUN!” the youngster with the teeth yelled, his fake fangs falling out of his mouth as he called to his cohorts.
Charla stood watching, hands on hips as the three teens ran off down the trail toward downtown Riverside.
The Last Bastion (Book 1): The Last Bastion Page 14