The Lazarus Impact

by Todarello, Vincent

  “Yeah. My husband keeps a pistol somewhere in his closet,” she says.

  “Good. If we can ever get into my place I have a rifle and a shotgun,” he says. Sheryl nods but she doesn’t want to go back there, back into danger. She doesn’t even fully know if she wants to bring Willy with her when she leaves. I guess I owe him the favor, and the companionship can’t hurt now. Otherwise what point is there to go on living? The boys are gone, and my husband abandoned me. Why live in this nightmare? She starts to think crazy thoughts; that perhaps Willy is her father’s spirit somehow, looking out for her now when she needs him most.

  She wonders how they’ll all fit in a packed car if they find her husband, or if he returns home. She still tells herself that she must find him, but she doesn’t know why. In her gut she knows he was somewhere in that mob of monsters at Hillside, probably with his pants down or half naked, having turned into a zombie during a Christmas morning tryst. That bastard.

  After they finish eating Willy puts his makeshift mask back on, pulls the car into the garage, and starts packing the trunk and back seat with supplies and food. Sheryl roots around her husband’s closet for his pistol with Rocky right beside her, wagging his tail with his ears perked up like it’s some kind of game. She knows her husband keeps the gun well hidden so the boys can’t find it. She pops open shoe boxes, and pokes behind his shelves. Nothing. But up on top, behind some unopened packaged shirts, she sees a small box. She takes it down. It has a combination lock, and she doesn’t know the numbers. She brings it to the kitchen.

  “Locked,” she says.

  Willy examines the box. It’s nothing complicated. He sees that it’s weak. The lock is useless. He takes the hammer and a screwdriver from his tool belt and begins to lightly chisel between the box and the lid, popping it off its hinges and opening it from the back. Sheryl marvels at him. That’s something dad would’ve done.

  Inside is a gun wrapped in newspaper and a few boxes of bullets. But underneath there’s an envelope. Sheryl snatches it from Willy’s fingers. She knows what it is before she even opens it. But she has to. She has to see with her own eyes. Pictures of her husband and the girl from Hillside, doing everything, in every way, sexually. Recent too. The date from the digital camera they used to take them was printed on the bottom right corner of each. Some were as recent as last week. He never stopped seeing her. And there are two other girls in the pictures too.

  “Fucking scumbag!” She yells. She tells herself that she isn’t going looking for him. He can fend for himself and rot in this hell for all I care. Willy doesn’t pry, but she involves him anyway. “Why did you save me?” she asks.

  “You wouldn’t have done the same for someone in danger?” he asks in response.

  “Maybe I’d be better off dead. Did you ever think of that? What do I have to live for?”

  “Don’t throw your life away. Trust me when I tell you I’ve been down that road. It ain’t worth traveling. Life’s one of the few gifts we get.”

  “Feels more like a curse now.”

  “Maybe. But you have to press on. This may be the beginning of the end, but how you act now matters more than ever. It’s no feat to be a good person during good times. The challenge is to be a good person even in bad times.”

  Dad used to say something similar. Willy walks away and continues packing the car. After Sheryl cools down he shows her how to use the gun without actually firing it. She eventually thanks him for saving her, almost calling him “dad” in the process. She takes Willy’s advice. How she acts now matters more than ever. She convinces herself. I need to find him even though he doesn’t deserve it. It’s the right thing to do.

  CHAPTER 19

  Marcus wanders alone through the woods heading south. In anguish, he wonders if he could have done more to prevent what happened. Regret fills him, but what he needed to do would’ve required him to break his vow to not harm the living. He curses himself as he walks.

  They burned down the empty highway at breakneck speed in the delivery truck. Whenever they came upon an abandoned vehicle they siphoned off any gas they could. They were down to fumes when they happened upon a group of travelers at a rest stop on the other side of the highway.

  “Hang on!” Harley yelled as they bounded across the grass between the south and north arteries, aiming the truck right at their family friendly sport utility wagon. He screeched to a stop just inches from them. As if understood by all, Harley and his gang jumped out of the truck, brandishing weapons and yelling. “Get the fuck out of the car! Get your ass on the ground!” Marcus was confused and in shock. But part of him was excited, he admitted that much to himself. The lure of his old ways tore at him, trying to claw him back into that familiar comfort zone of taking, hurting, killing. The easy way through life. The adrenaline coursed through his veins, pumping hate through his body. It found familiar pathways to trigger old memories; what to say, how to act, how to crazy-up his eyes to instill the most fear. It all came rushing back. But he resisted.

  “Get the fuck out of the car! Get your ass on the ground!” Harley and his men commanded.

  One of the travelers didn’t listen. A young kid, maybe 19. “Leave us alone!” he yelled back, defiant. He was the oldest male among what must have been his mother, a younger sister, and a still younger brother; they all looked alike. The eldest kid was their protector, and Harley wanted what he was protecting. The car. The gas. Whatever it was, it didn’t even matter. Without hesitation Harley pistol whipped him, and when he didn’t go down Harley put a bullet in his chest. Just like that. No thought. No pause. His mother ran to him as he dropped to his knees, holding him in her arms one last time.

  “I said get on the ground!” The younger kids listened through their tears, but mom was still clinging to her oldest son as he faded into the afterlife. Harley wouldn’t tolerate insolence. He pressed the gun to her temple and squeezed the trigger, coating her dead son and the rear fender of their car with brains. They tied the young boy up and shoved him in the truck, and they took the girl off the highway into the woods one at a time. Marcus could only imagine what they did to her. She couldn’t have been much older than 16.

  When Harley finally calmed himself down from the rampage, Marcus told him he was leaving and would go his separate way. Despite not really wanting to, Marcus shook Harley’s hand in return when he extended it.

  The young girl’s tear streaked face and the panicked horror in her screams haunt him as he walks. Is that how others saw me, how she saw Harley then? What kind of monster was I in the eyes of my victims? Worse than the zombies. Have I even truly reformed? No. I should have saved her! The dread she felt at the hands of Harley’s marauders was worse than any zombie could instill in someone. Marcus constantly reassesses his vows, his code. But this is his second chance. This is his test. If he fails now, this world will seem like a day at the beach compared to the hell he imagines; the real hell awaiting him after this one. Being on the outside is just like being on the inside; trouble has a way of seeking you out. You have to work hard to get away from it.

  Up ahead there’s a clearing. A farm. He sees a barn near the edge of the woods. It’s half painted; a fresh coat of white partially covers a flaked and weathered apple red. He creeps inside to find the remaining unopened buckets of white paint. An old 1950s era pickup truck rots on the earthen floor in the middle of the barn, rusting and fading with time. On the walls hang all manner of farming tools. The one that strikes him is the scythe. He takes it in his hand and strokes the blade softly with his fingers. It’s still sharp. When he turns he catches a glimpse of himself reflected in the old pickup window, hooded in black and carrying a scythe. He pries open a can of paint and starts to outline the crude shape of a skull on his mask, using the reflection in the pickup window as a mirror. The spots that have too much paint begin to drip down, creating an even more ominous, melted look to the design.

  His vows begin to trouble him again. What about when the living harm the living? I must strike
fear into their hearts to stop them. He sees it as his mission, his duty; the reason God gave him a second chance at life. He would become a reaper; an angel of death to the undead. And if possible he would strike fear into the soulless hearts of the demons that yet live. Perhaps fear will cause them to stay their sinful hands upon the very sight of me.

  With much of the day left ahead of him, he continues walking on. Following the dirt road out from the farm he eventually comes upon a small town. Empty. He sees a church on the main stretch of town and enters. He seeks guidance from God on his new vow, his mission. “Is this your plan?” he asks aloud, wondering if happening upon a church is a sign that he is on the right path.

  A deep voice echoes off the pews and stained glass windows. “Behold, the angel of death.” Marcus stops dead in his tracks and raises his weapon, looking all around for the source. A weathered priest lurks in the shadows behind the altar. He emerges with a rifle over his shoulder. “What is it you seek?” he asks.

  “Guidance.” Marcus lowers his scythe.

  “Guidance comes from God. All a priest can do is help people to see it,” the priest says.

  “Why would God do this to his people?” Marcus asks.

  “Maybe God isn’t doing anything. Maybe God is just letting it happen,” the priest suggests.

  “God is all powerful. He can stop it if he wants.”

  “Sure. But it wouldn’t be unfair if he didn’t. We’re all sinful beings. He could leave us to die but he gives us a chance at forgiveness.” The priest’s eye catches the prison uniform under Marcus’ hooded cape and jacket. “Even you.”

  “That’s what I’m trying to figure out. Why? And what am I supposed to do? What’s my purpose?” Marcus asks.

  “The why is love, grace. The purpose is for you to find.”

  “I think I’m supposed to kill these things, these demons. But when I see men still harming each other in the face of this evil instead of coming together, I wonder if I’m already condemned to hell. I vowed never to harm another person, but I don’t know if I can hold true to it anymore. But you. You’re a priest. Priests are supposed to be peaceful. So what’s a priest doing with a gun?”

  “To effectively shepherd those through the valley of the shadow of death, we must have the means to strike down the evil that might block the path. I’m merely protecting my flock, even if it means killing them when they return from death.”

  “This is a ghost town. What flock is there?”

  “There are some that still live, hiding. I killed the rest. Some were turned, and some weren’t.”

  “You’re a priest murderer then.”

  “Not all killing is murder. Jesus told his disciples: ‘If you don’t have a sword, sell your cloak and buy one.’ Even he, who turned the other cheek, warned that self defense is necessary at times. You took up a scythe to arm yourself, but only to reap the dead? You vowed to protect the living and do them no harm, but now you see that maybe some of those yet living pose an equal threat to peace. Perhaps the living can be worse than these cannibals. You see, this condition affects the living as well as the dead. Soulless, and driven by nothing but survival, man will abandon all notions of morality, humanity, and consequence in favor of anarchy. With lawlessness comes godlessness. With no eternal consequences for our actions, man becomes beast. We become ravenous, soulless, just like the undead. Only we arrive there through reason, through choice, through a Darwinian survival mentality. I don’t know which demon is worse; the risen or those yet living.”

  “So you’re telling me it’s okay to kill people?”

  “You must do what you believe is right, son. I have not struck down the good, only the bad. I feel no remorse or regret in it, just as God feels no remorse or regret in denying evil’s entry into his kingdom. Earth is still the kingdom of man, and we remaining kings must protect our castles until we are called to our final home by God. Being a man of God does not mean you cannot defend others, protect yourself, or uproot evil. No. And perhaps now, more than ever, being a man of God even commands those actions. Do not bind yourself to protect these animals at all cost. Nurture those that yet have good in them, and dispatch the ones who are too far gone for saving. Do it not with hate, but rather with prayer, even love. Just as a rancher puts down a horse that is injured beyond repair, or as one puts down a rabid dog.”

  “But the rancher owns the horse. It’s different. Putting a man down is not the same. In society that is killing.”

  “Ahh but you are no man, and this is no society. You are an angel. The angel of death, loosed from its shackles. A reaper, freed from its cage and set upon this lawless wasteland, this hellish end-of-days, by God himself.” The priest’s eyes are wide with fury.

  Marcus begins to question the old priest’s sanity, but he understands his point. My vows are flawed. They have no room for righteous justice. Even governments have death penalties and take the lives of men when they’re guilty of the worst crimes. That was a fate he might have met under different circumstances for the crimes he committed. Marcus sits down in thought.

  “Tell me what choice you’ve made that haunts you.” The priest seems to read Marcus like a book as he sits beside him in the pew. Marcus tells him of the incident on the road, how he wanted to help but was afraid of what might happen if he killed again, if he committed the same mortal sins that condemned him. “God is justice but he is also compassion,” the priest says. “He understands your torment. Perhaps he wanted you to act, for God is righteous in his retribution too. These are difficult choices, and they are for you alone to make. Pray. Pray for guidance, and if the time comes again for such decisions, perhaps God will make your path clearer.” Marcus prays with the priest in silence for several moments. They rise together. “Go down to the last house on the left. Eat. Change your clothing. Erase your past. Cleanse and renew yourself. Peel away the old man and become the new man. All that matters now and what is yet to come. Your second chance is here. Seize it,” the priest tells him. “And as for the Lord’s command to sell your cloak and buy a sword, since you already have a scythe, you should keep your cloak. You have a dreadful look with it. The angel of death.” The old priest chuckles as they walk together toward the church doors.

  “Some angel, huh? A fallen angel. Or more like a demon. Just like them out there.”

  “My son, the angels were the most frightening creatures in the Bible. When people saw them they fainted in awe and fear. I’d much rather face a demon than an angel any day.”

  “Can I take one of them with me?” Marcus asks, pointing to a Bible sitting in the pew closest to the doors. The old priest nods his head yes.

  CHAPTER 20

  Sheryl wakes thinking it was all a bad dream, and that her boys are alive. When her senses return she becomes angry. Her body aches. The early morning sun creeps in through her bedroom window, shining right into her eyes. “Fuck!” she yells, frustrated that her dream of normalcy was not reality. Then the sadness sets in. As she gets dressed she reminds herself that she must press on. She walks into the kitchen for some water. Willy lightly sleeps on the armchair in the living room. He stirs awake when Sheryl closes the pantry door.

  They finish packing the car, and Sheryl, Willy and Rocky hop inside, setting out to determine the fate of Sheryl’s husband and make another attempt at Willy’s apartment. Their first stop is her husband’s office, but the parking lot is empty. Same thing at the gym, so back to Hillside they must go, as Sheryl sees that as the only other place her husband could be. Their first stop will be Willy’s apartment, to get his guns.

  Hillside is clearer in the day. The cannibals must have dispersed through the town in search of more people to eat. But there are still a few lingering on the grounds, watching the car as it drives along the fence.

  “Turn into the far lot, and get as close to the rear entrance as you can,” Willy says. “I’m real close to that door, on the first floor. As long as the hallway isn’t swarmed I can be in and out in under a minute.” But Willy
wonders if he can. He fears another episode, another flashback. Things can go bad quickly if he opens that door and suddenly he is on a tunnel clearing mission back in the war. He takes a few deep, calming breaths to prepare himself.

  Sheryl pulls into the far lot and lines up the passenger side door with the rear entrance. Willy pops out and shuts the car door quietly. Sheryl immediately locks it. Willy keys himself into the building, disappearing inside. Sheryl looks at her watch, counting off the seconds in her head.

  11... 12... 13...

  Her eyes keep moving. Her neck cranes as she looks all around. Are they coming? The sound of the car door doesn’t seem to have grabbed their attention.

  25... 26... 27...

  There are two on the grass near the side of the building, one by the street, and a hunched group feeding near the edge of the woods. But others that saw them drive up are starting to wander over.

  43... 44...45...

  Sheryl hears a thick muffled gunshot from inside the building. Every hair on her body stands on end. A murder of crows takes to the sky in response, shattering the crisp silence of the morning. Sheryl didn’t even notice them picking at the bodies that lay all over the ground. Her eyes follow them as they fly up into the air. But moments later some of them seize. Their wings stop flapping, and they fall from the sky in mid-flight, crashing back to the ground in death. Rocky begins to bark wildly, and Sheryl struggles to silence him.

  52... 53... 54... Am I counting too fast?

  The zombies turn their attention, and they start to run toward the building. She counts six of them, all running in the direction of the gunshot, the direction of the rear entrance to Willy’s building, the direction of Rocky’s barking, the direction of the car.