by Main, Lynn
Chris has always been a heavy kid. He had always been shy and reserved for exactly that reason. He had always been big, but he never wanted anyone to think that he was tough because he wasn’t. Now he stands, staring down at Nick. Nick is conscious. His eyes are open, although the right one is red and already starting to swell, but he doesn’t move. Chris wonders if he should help Nick up.
Nick had always been such a good guy. His personality is a little rough at times but he is a truly trustworthy and just plain good person. Chris cannot fathom what Nick could have done to deserve to get hit like that. Chris would love to at least ask Patrick why he did that, but he dares not. He just stands by as Mr. Petrova walks up to them.
“Get him up.” Mr. Petrova says. Patrick leans down and grabs a handful of Nick’s shirt and hauls him to his feet.
Zooming toward Zero After watching Nick beaten for what Chris can surmise was no reason, he sits in the walk-in linen closet he had come to call home, reliving the savagery, and thinking about what he should do…if anything.
Patrick held him up and Mr. Petrova pulled some brass knuckles out of his sports coat pocket and buried his fist in Nick’s belly. Nick only yelped. He never cried and never spoke. Mr. Petrova hit him several more times, spraying blood out of Nick’s nose and lip. Then Patrick hauled him away as Mr. Petrova pulled his arm back for another heavy blow to the face, saying only, “Enough.”
Mr. Petrova looked at Patrick with what Chris could only describe as a murderous glare. Patrick stood stoically between Mr. Petrova and Nick. Mr. Petrova pulled out a handkerchief to wipe his bloody knuckles and walked away. Patrick carried Nick upstairs to the infirmary and Chris stood frozen. It was done.
Nick was way too good of a guy for that to happen to him. Chris wanted to stop them, but could only watch helplessly. In his selfdeprecating sadness, watching Nick slung there choking and bleeding, Chris experienced something that he did not often; anger. He had been afraid ever since the attacks began. He had forgotten completely about being angry until now. He has some of the sheets off of the shelf in his hands and twists them in frustration; secretly imagining wrapping them around Mr. Petrova’s neck.
Patrick knocks and then opens the door and sticks his head in, “Chris…grub time. Mr. Petrova wants everyone upstairs.” Chris nods and Patrick leaves the door cracked open behind him.
At dinner, the room is much emptier. They only bother to drag in two tables and move a single row of pews to dine. Mr. Petrova insisted that everyone eat together. The old lady, Ms. Lebrea, looks to Chris like she is going to vomit every time she takes a bite. Nick sits right next to her. He doesn’t even seem conscious.
Patrick brought him in as Jane and Jesse carried in the dinner bowls. They had found two of those gigantic cans of baked beans and Jane dished everyone out their share. Last night the food barely stretched around the table. Tonight Jane filled every bowl plenty full and the big pot of beans is only half gone.
The assured safety of the mortuary looks a bit flimsier to Chris than yesterday. If someone had suggested then that he leave, and at night no less without Mr. Petrova’s permission, Chris would have laughed in their faces. He almost laughed when the doctor had asked to go out with Patrick. But he would not laugh tonight. Chris wishes he had been out the door when they started beating Nick. Maybe he would have turned and ran down Orange after the blue caddy right then.
When Chris came into the viewing room, the first thing he noticed was the absence. Since yesterday, five people have died: Mr. Jennings, Mr. Shultz, Casey, Mrs. Hampton and Levi. Dead Boy, the doctor Faith, Kim and the two little boys she takes care of ran away. Levi got shot trying to stop Dead Boy from leaving. But why would he do that? It makes no sense to Chris. The more he thinks about it the more it seems like Levi got shot for the same reason Nick was beaten; helping Dead Boy escape.
Now the only ones left around the table are Patrick, Ms. Lebrea, Matt, the surfer dude Jesse, Jane, Greg the fucking douche bag, Charles, Stu, Mr. Petrova and Nick, who will be gone tomorrow probably. By his count, that is less than half the people that were in the mortuary when Dead Boy arrived. In Chris’s estimation, the safety rating of this refuge is zooming towards zero.
Patrick nonchalantly mentions to Mr. Petrova , “Yes…you were right. They went straight there. The car’s parked right out front and locked up. I figure they went inside and found a place to hole up for the night. My bet’s they won’t move until morning.” Mr. Petrova nods absently in agreement. There is really no other conversation in the room.
The only thing left to do is to be one of the smart ones and get out of here. Chris knows he can’t pull a stunt like Dead Boy did, attacking the guards at the front doors. He would never have the guts to even approach them. All the same, he knows he has to leave.
He tries to push the thought away and eat his beans. The more he tries to ignore it, the more he thinks about the possibility of departure. There could be another way. He thinks back to the sheets in his closet. He could tie some of them together and go over the balcony tonight. Chris tries to push that thought away too but it won’t leave his mind.
Chris eats nervously, but faster than everyone else. He finishes his beans and the stale piece of bread he was given and then slides his chair back and starts to stand. Everyone looks up at him. Chris just stands there, looking from face to face wordlessly for a few moments, unsure of what he should do. He finally spins to face Mr. Petrova. “Um, can I be excused?” He asks in a very hushed voice. Most nights he would not have asked. He would have simply finished eating, rose and left. But tonight’s not most nights.
Mr. Petrova stares at Chris a moment while it seems that the whole room holds their breath. He has no expression on his face but his normal grave thin lipped stare. He finally smiles slightly and speaks, “Of course, Christopher. You don’t need to ask. I shouldn’t have to ask you this either but…” He waits and Chris’ heart stops, expecting the craziest request to come out, as he finishes. “…please stay inside.”
Chris nods stiffly, exiting the viewing room as quickly as his small steps will carry him. The request was simple and almost as obvious as it seemed to be, except that it was exactly the thing Chris did not want to do. He reenters his room and looks at some of the sheets on the shelves. He pulls two of them down and sits on his mat. He rolls one up as well as possible at one corner and then does the same to another.
After tying them together, he yanks hard at both sheets. The knot comes out immediately. He throws the sheets away and lies back, dismissing it as a stupid idea. The worst thing he can imagine if he did go over the balcony, is his sheet rope breaking because he is too fat; husky as his mom had called it.
A religious experience I focus on moving the lockers out of the dressing rooms. I pull them up against the door and push it open, dragging them all the way to the edge of the room. Once they’re in place I go out into the hall and try to push the door in. I push as hard as I can but the door won’t budge.
With the flower shaped padlock, I break out just enough glass to slide my hand under and pull the door open from the lip of the window. I shimmy under the lockers. Pretty confident zombies cannot get in here. It’s just like the dumpster. We would have been easy prey for them in there if they would have had the brains to lift the lid.
For a while, I just stare at my barric ade. It’s much better than in my bedroom on 13th street. Kim speaks from behind me, “It’s your turn to shower.” Startled, I turn around and the room looks totally different. The couches have been laden with sheets and the boys are both already tucked into one together, sleeping soundly in each other’s arms. Kim joins the boys on the couch and quickly turns on her side. She holds her arm around both of them. There’s something bittersweet about that.
I walk into the shower room and Faith waits in front of a showerhead with towels, soap and clothes…blue scrubs. She’s still wearing her towel with her hair smoothed back and darkened from wetness. Her face and body are clean, and she is radiant.
I slide my pants off as I stare into her eyes, trying like hell not to look stupid. Especially because that’s exactly how I feel. She looks me up and down with a devilish grin and then rolling her eyes at the goofy look on my face, turns and walks towards the shower room door and says “Take your time…use all of the soap, you need to get cleaned up.” And then leaves me to the business of a shower. I turn it on and drag my hand under it to check the temperature. It’s steaming hot. Perfect. I walk under the showerhead.
I’ ve never been wet before. I’ve never smelled nice smells. I’m utterly lost in this shower. It’s my sun and my universe. I scrub feverishly through the black and then through the red all over my upper body. I wash my hair 4 times and consider doing it again. Black and then brown and finally grey sudsy water escapes down the drain. It’s a religious experience. How many times did I undervalue this simple ritual of cleaning myself?
My arm doesn’t sting from the shower. I let the soap rinse away and get a good look at the bite. I turn off the shower head with a flick of my left arm, without taking my eyes off of the other. My legs are still laden with bubbly soap but I don’t care. There’s probably still some shampoo in my hair too but I stare intently at my bicep for a long time before I turn the water back on and finish rinsing off. What I find there is a grizzly, mauled, un-sewn and very ugly yet completely healed scar.
Faith stands beside me when I look up. Still in her towel, her hair is a bit frizzy. “You smell so much better.” She says, reaching under the spray of water and gripping my shoulder. “Oh but look you haven’t gotten all the soap out of your hair.” She takes her hand back and pulls her fingers through her own hair. At the top of her chest where the towel is wrapped around her, she pushes her fingers under it. With a slight jerk, it slides away from her breasts and drops to a pile around her feet. I stare, mesmerized.
She walks under the shower head, pressing her lips and body against mine. The water forces me to keep my eyes closed under the jet. I feel her cheek press against the scar on mine. I wince and pull away. It only encourages her and she kisses me again, opening her mouth wider. Her tongue twists out and writhes against mine hungrily. Her hands hold me around the small of my back and occasionally one of them drifts down my butt and over my thigh.
I just hold her and let her kiss me until she finally pulls away. She steps out of the shower and finds her towel again. She then turns toward a bench on the far wall where clothes are piled and trots off retying the towel around her. I turn the water off and grab a folded white towel off the floor. I press it tightly to my face and then pull it over the top of my head and begin massaging gently. Some of the cuts and bruises on my head still sting. My hand hurts more now. I take my clothes over to the bench by Faith and dress.
When we finish dressing in our stolen scrubs, clean socks and white tee shirts, we walk back to the door but Faith puts a hand on my shoulder stopping me before I can push it open.
She looks down at her feet. “Les, we need to get that medicine. I know we feel fine now but there are things here we can use that will help us; maybe even save our lives. Everything we will need will be in the basement locker. We need to get down there and back
tonight…quickly. I don’t know how overrun this place is but if the second floor hallway is any indication, I wouldn’t plan on an easy trip.”
“Okay” I say, “Do you have a plan?”
Up and over Right after dinner, Chris hears a commotion in the main foyer. He creeps to his door and cracks it open enough to peek out. Patrick and Mr. Petrova are talking to someone. The big front doors are open and Chris sees the setting sun. Nerves or no nerves he knows his only chance is while Mr. Petrova and Patrick are distracted.
He takes the two 20 ft. ropes woven out of knotted sheets and stuffs the 9mm in the waistband of his pants. He tiptoes out of his room and stands, holding the pile of sheets in his hands while Mr. Petrova watches out the front doors. Patrick, Greg and Stu unload something out of the back of the van. Chris turns sharply and instead of scurrying in his normal fashion, takes big bounding steps once he reaches the staircase. Once in the viewing room he catches his breath and looks around.
Ms. Lebrea, sitting in a pew not far from Chris, looks up and nods weakly to him and then returns her attention to the Vogue magazine she had been reading. Chris crosses the viewing room without giving the old lady a second thought. If he stops to think of what might happen if he gets caught, he will freeze up and lose his nerve.
He opens the balcony doors and walks out. The evening air is fresh and crisp. Chris wastes no time tying the sheets around the rail of the balcony and then looks over. He watches the men below finish unloading supplies and hurry back into the mortuary. Patrick drives the van away. When Chris hears the big doors slam shut, he throws the ropes over and then twisting each around a fist, hoists himself up on the rail.
Chris, more scared than ever but relieved in a strange thrilling way to leave, looks down over the edge again. He knows someone will come out on the balcony and find the ropes, but the faster he’s over the rail and gone, the less likely anyone will know it was him. He positions himself to catch the edge of the balcony with his feet when he goes over so he can repel and then he shifts his weight.
As soon as his weight shifts to the sheets, the knots around the balcony rail begin to slip. Chris lets his grip loosen and slides fast. He’s able to control the fall and even through the tumble into the bushes fifteen feet below he gets to his feet immediately. Chris brushed himself off and scans for any onlookers. Then he runs.
Plan A If we go down to the entrance and then outside to an auxiliary parking structure across from the awning where we came in then we might possibly leave a bunch of zombies between us and the kids. Not only that, if we plan on staying here for even a night, Faith says we have to secure at least one of the entrances to this hall.
The one that we came in can’t be blocked off very easily, plus it is the easiest way out. There are other entrances: down the end of the hall and through a pediatric operating room, through a scrub station behind the main desk and down another hallway, and a stairwell going all the way up to the roof and all the way down to the multiple levels of subterranean basement under the entire complex. There are also the elevator banks but Faith seriously doubts that anyone will be using the elevators. Faith thinks all of those doors need to be locked, except for the elevators.
The easiest way back lies through the main maternity ward, straight to the spiral staircase and down to the lobby…the way we came in. That’s the way I’m going. For two reasons: One, this will be the area we need to leave open and my job will be clearing as I go on my way down. Two, I wouldn’t find my way out the other route. The directions to the main floor from the stairwell are complicated and the possibilities for getting completely lost are multiple.
We have to get to the parking garage on the other side of the main entrance. There, we will find the stairs down to the sub floors. We will be meeting by the same sliding doors we entered through, so all I have to do is get there and wait. I have a feeling the waiting part will be hardest. She says to expect her to take longer…but not much. That’s Plan A, anyway.
It is a good plan in theory, but a lot can go wrong. Any time Faith has to defend herself with the shotgun she could attract attention. If that happens, I won’t be able to come help her. I know she plans on keeping her promise to be quiet and careful and use her gun only as a last resort, but I’m not a big supporter of this plan overall. I’m going to do it anyway, though. It isn’t like she has given me any choice.
I’ ve had a little extra time to think about i
t because after she told me the plan, she went to use the toilet. She’s been in there a while. The question that keeps going through my mind “Is it really worth it?” If something happens to me it’s no huge loss I guess, but if something happens to her I wouldn’t know what to do. At least I’m not worried about screwing up my part. I go to the lobby and wait for Faith. If I see any zombies, I kill them.
I don’t know why but my scar fascinates me. I pull back my sleeve and stare at it while I’m leaning against the counter by the fridge waiting for Faith. I don’t know what it means that it’s healed. Maybe I’m naturally immune. That’s ridiculous. I guess they could still kill me conventionally and eat me. So the important thing is to keep them from doing that. I want to tell Faith that I am immune, but I’m not really sure how. It doesn’t make sense, I know it doesn’t, but my arm’s completely healed. I feel fine…better than fine.
Homecoming Chris sits in the little gazebo in the park off of Spanish Trail for a while, panting and heaving and then finally catches his breath. No one saw him leave but he ran anyway. He ran as fast as he could. He is still carrying the 9mm that Mr. Petrova shoved in his hand his first night in the mortuary.
For all of these days, Chris has been beyond useless. He has not even taken down a zombie that he can be sure of. He has certainly fired at them, but hasn’t made a single shot. He carried the gun around as if it were a slightly defective grenade for weeks in the mortuary, but holds it more firmly in his grip now.
Now he is walking in the shadows down Fairpointe Rd. It is hard to say if it was a conscious decision to come through his own neighborhood, because it is basically on the way to the hospital, but so far his route has brought him on a direct path to his own front door. He turns on Edgecliff and a minute later is standing at the curb in front of his house.