The Lazarus Impact

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The Lazarus Impact Page 13

by Todarello, Vincent


  “Huh?” Michael responds.

  “There’s luck, and then there’s fate,” Marcus explains. “You were meant to find this building, and I was meant to be here to receive you.”

  “Is it part of fate to have a swarm of zombies around the building as well?” Michael asks with sarcasm.

  “God will provide a path out when the time is right. I’m being tested,” Marcus says.

  Michael’s eyes widen with condescending disbelief. There’s even a bit of laughter behind them. He presses Marcus further upon hearing the dreaded G-word. “Tested?”

  “He’s testing me. Makin’ sure I’m worth keeping alive,” Marcus says.

  Michael rolls his eyes through his mask.

  “Thank you,” Amy says. “You saved our lives.” She glares at Michael as she says this. She’s heard Michael argue over religion before, and many of Amy’s friends were turned off by it, even if they weren’t super religious themselves. He was often abrasive toward people of faith. He blamed them for wars, and slowing what he called progress. Marcus certainly seemed to be a believer, so she had to nip that in the bud before it even started.

  “Come on in. Make yourselves at home. I was just about to light a fire to keep warm.” Marcus walks back into the warehouse and begins to arrange some crumpled papers and break apart the wood from a skid.

  “Make ourselves at home? This place is a fucking dump,” Michael whispers to Amy.

  “Shh.” Amy quiets him. “Are you kidding me right now? It’s better than being dead.”

  “I don’t trust this guy. He’s dressed like the Grim Reaper for God’s sake.”

  “Well I do. And you don’t believe in God or the Grim Reaper, so what do you care how he’s dressed?” Amy asks.

  “I don’t like the idea of being trapped inside here with a religious nutter.”

  “Okay. Well let’s see... so far he’s saved our lives, opened up his... home... to us, and is making a fire to keep us warm. He doesn’t seem too nuts to me.”

  “Yeah well you didn’t grow up in New York City like I did,” Michael whispers. “I inherently distrust people.”

  “Grab some wood and stuff. Let’s at least help him make the fire,” Amy suggests. “We still have a lighter, right?” Michael checks his bag and nods his head yes. “Is this your place, or are you just hiding out like us?” Amy asks Marcus.

  “It’s my place. I haven’t been here in a while. Bought it before I went away...” Marcus catches himself. He doesn’t want to bring up prison. These two are already frightened of me; I can tell. “I’m Marcus by the way.” He extends his hand with a hidden smile behind the mask.

  “Amy.” She shakes it. “This is my husband Michael.”

  “Hey. I have a lighter if you need.” Michael passes it to Marcus instead of shaking his hand, avoiding eye contact in the process. Easy to do with masks on. Marcus thanks him and flicks the lighter upon the papers beneath the wood. Soon the old warehouse glows with golden warmth, and smoke billows out the hole in the roof, wafting out into the poisonous air above.

  They can hear the beasts moaning and clawing at the door and garage gate outside, no doubt still hungry for flesh, still thirsty with the scent of Amy’s bloodied knuckles in their dead noses.

  “Can they get in?” Michael asks.

  “Not unless they learn to jump ten feet, climb a ladder, and find the hole in the roof.”

  “Or pick a lock,” Amy says with a grin behind her mask.

  Marcus chuckles. His deep voice booms and echoes off the cavernous walls. “It’s all concrete block. We should be good.”

  Michael peeks into his and Amy’s bags, looking over what they have.

  “Got anything to eat or drink in there?” Marcus asks. “I’ve been walking a long way.”

  “Not all that much...” Michael starts, but Amy rips one of the bags away from his fingers and flings it over to Marcus.

  “Take whatever you want,” she says.

  Marcus rifles through the bag, seeing things he hasn’t seen in ages. “Swinkles? Oh man. I haven’t had these in years. You mind?”

  “Knock yourself out,” Amy says. “But is it safe to take the mask off?”

  “I’m gonna go in my truck,” he says.

  Michael perks his head up. “Truck?”

  “Back there, under the tarp. I’m gonna head out west when it’s clear if y’all want a lift,” he offers.

  “West. That’s where we’re going. To my parents’ house, and then hopefully past the quarantine,” Amy says.

  “What quarantine?” Marcus asks.

  “They blockaded everyone east of Ohio and North of DC. You didn’t hear?” Michael asks. “We’re lucky we got out of the city. They blocked that off too.”

  “No. Haven’t really heard anything too reliable.” Marcus doesn’t care to explain why his knowledge is limited. He lets the silence linger for a moment. “I’m gonna go eat this in the truck and take a nap. Again, make yourselves at home.” He walks back into the area behind the skids and removes the tarp from the truck. Underneath is a black pickup truck with a custom paint job of glowing green skulls and orange flames. It’s the kind of truck a mid-west teenager would kill for; a monster truck, with four foot high wheels and a blower poking out the top of the hood. It may as well be the legendary Bone Yard Crusher. Marcus has to leap up just to reach the step bar.

  Michael and Amy huddle by the fire.

  “Were you seriously going to say no to him and not give him something to eat?” Amy asks angrily.

  “We only have a little bit. We have to make it last until we reach your parent’s house,” he explains.

  “Yeah but he saved our lives.” She huffs at him. It’s been a long time since she spoke up to him like this. They used to argue a lot back when they first got together, but things cooled out when Amy stopped giving a shit about the multitude of quirks that bothered her. She began to choose her battles. But now, given all that’s happened, she’s letting them fly.

  “Come on. Let’s eat something,” Michael says. “Why’d you grab Swinkles anyway? We don’t eat that stuff.”

  “I don’t have an appetite,” she replies, staring off into the flames.

  “You have to. We’ll need the energy tomorrow if we’re planning to walk out of here.”

  “You don’t want to get a ride with him?” Amy asks with incredulity.

  “I told you I don’t trust him.”

  “Unbelievable,” Amy says under her breath. “Well, I’m going with him. You were the one complaining about having to walk to Pennsylvania before. Now we have a ride and you want to walk?”

  “Okay. I’m going to go eat in the office thing,” Michael says with an attitude. “You can sit out here and cool off by the fire if you don’t want to eat.”

  Michael walks back into the enclosed office area, closes the door behind him, and plops down on the swivel chair behind the desk. He starts popping open drawers and poking around a bit before unwrapping a granola bar. He slides chunks of it under his mask quickly and chomps away. He scopes out the room as he chews, noticing the closet on the wall. He opens the door and sees Marcus’ gym bag. He pulls it down and unzips it, and his eyes widen with shock.

  Holy fuck! The bills are haphazardly stacked, bundled with decaying, dry-rotted rubber bands. Twenties, fifties and hundreds. Michael grabs a few stacks and stuffs them into his coat. He shoves some into his semi-transparent plastic shopping bag too, but is careful to hide them among the other items inside. He finishes his granola bar and tiptoes back over to Amy, who is dozing by the fire.

  “Amy. You gotta see this,” he whispers loudly to wake her.

  “What?” She’s annoyed.

  “You wanna talk about trusting this guy? He has a gym bag full of cash back there.”

  After a moment of thought she answers. “So what? That’s his business. I don’t want to know and I don’t care.” Admittedly, she does think it’s a bit odd to have a stash like that, but part of her just wants to defy Mi
chael at this point.

  “There’s gotta be like at least a few hundred thousand, maybe millions, I don't know. It’s suspicious. I told you I don’t trust him.”

  “Yeah well there’s worse things to worry about right now than criminals,” she says, motioning to the outside. The moans are still audible; it’s like they’re waiting.

  “Maybe we should just grab some and get out of here,” he suggests.

  “What do we need money for? We have plenty.”

  “Not cash. Ours is in banks. We can’t even get at our money right now.”

  “My money,” she corrects him. She never thought of their money as hers, even though she makes 90% of it. But now Michael is getting on her nerves. “What good is money now anyway? Supplies are what we need. Shelter, which we have. Food, water. I can care less about a stack of money.”

  “This is all going to get better, just like everything else. The Department of Health and Human Services will work with the CDC to help find and distribute a cure, and the government will make everything right again. We can come out of it with enough money to pay off all our debts.”

  Amy laughs at the idea. “We already have enough money to pay down our debts. Trust me. I am the finance person here.”

  “Yeah well I know how to deal with these kinds of shady people. I know he’s planning something and I don’t want to wait around until it’s too late. You have to make the first move. That’s how you do it. You fuck him before he fucks you,” Michael says.

  “Yeah? You want me to help you? To fuck him for money?” Amy asks with heavy sarcasm. “Let me go back to sleep.” She ignores him for the rest of the night.

  #

  In the morning, Michael and Amy wake to the sound of Marcus trying to get the truck engine to start. He quietly moved the skids out of the way earlier, popped his baby in neutral, and rolled the beast out from behind the barricade. It cranks, but it won’t turn over. It hasn’t been started in a while. Marcus unhooks the stereo equipment from a separate car battery and swaps that one out for the one under the hood. After some good old fashioned tinkering, and of course some cursing and hollering, it finally roars back to life. A puff of black smoke shoots out the side pipes and the whole warehouse starts to vibrate with testosterone. Marcus revs the engine and the thing screams so loud Michael thinks it might shatter the concrete walls. The radio even works off what little power remains in the swapped battery. For a few moments, the chugging guitar riffs of a familiar heavy metal band echo off the walls of the warehouse before Marcus cuts the engine.

  “Wooooooo!” Marcus cheers. “Still purrs like a tiger baby.”

  Amy has a grin from ear to ear under her mask, and Michael is in complete shock at the spectacle before him. It truly is an amazing machine.

  A small fire dwindles on the cement floor. Marcus tended to it throughout the night. He napped comfortably but hasn’t been much of a heavy sleeper since he went away to prison. After recovering from his startling awakening, Michael notices that there are stacks of money in the fire. The empty gym bag sits deflated a few feet away. It’s all gone.

  “Why would you do that?” he asks Marcus, pointing to the money in the fire.

  “What, the money? Ahh man you don’t want that. That’s blood money. Besides, my secrecy is more valuable than a bunch of useless green paper right now. Those wood skids? That tarp? I ain’t burning that stuff. If I ever need to hide my truck again, I’m coming back here. No one is the wiser when it’s hidden back there.” Marcus points. “Besides I can use the gym bag to carry things with real value. Food, water, weapons to protect myself from the demons...”

  “Demons?” Michael presses him. “They’re people. They’re just sick.”

  “Sick people don’t come back from the dead to eat other people. Zombies do that. Demons. Devil’s spawn.” Marcus curls a sinister grin on his face. Michael can see it in his eyes.

  “So you’re on a mission from God to kill demons and save people?” Michael asks sarcastically. Part of him wonders if Marcus is high or something. His outlandish giddiness discomforts Michael.

  “Maybe so,” Marcus answers, overwhelmed with excitement that his truck is in working order, and unwilling to argue religion at the moment. He changes the subject. “Hey we can get out of here. The demons have been exorcized,” he says with a snarky twang to his voice.

  “They’re gone?” Amy asks with hope in her voice. She trots over to the door and presses her ear against it.

  “None within eye shot. I was up on the roof a little while ago. They musta been distracted away,” he answers. “You see? God provided the pathway out.”

  “Well what are we waiting for?” Amy asks.

  “Your man,” Marcus says, pointing at Michael.

  “We can be at my parents’ in a matter of hours,” Amy adds.

  Michael reluctantly agrees. “Fine. Let’s go.”

  “Alright hop in!” Marcus says as he swipes the gym bag off the floor. He tosses it in the truck bed with some tools and supplies. He secures everything down with bungee cords. He clips the lock on the outside of the garage with a pair of bolt cutters, yanks open the roll gate, and gets into the driver’s seat. The engine growls to a start, and heavy metal once again fills the air.

  As soon as they approach the highway entrance ramp Michael begins to scoff at Marcus. Cars are parked, abandoned and jammed in nearly every square inch of asphalt leading onto the interstate. Dead bodies cover what little pavement can be seen, rotted, mangled and torn from limb to limb. Looking out from the truck’s high vantage point, there’s gridlock frozen in both directions as far as the eye can see.

  “This is some path that the Lord doth provide.” Michael remarks.

  “Shh,” Amy elbows him. She wishes she could turn her face to look out the window in anger, but she’s stuck sitting bitch between Michael and Marcus, with her knees aimed toward Michael so Marcus has enough room to shift.

  Marcus ignores Michael’s intolerance. Instead he eyeballs the sleek bodied American sports car that’s spun around in front of him, and the pimped-out, low-riding rice rocket just beside it. Both cars are extremely low to the ground, and sitting at the rear of the traffic snarl. Marcus backs the truck up a few car lengths and revs the engine with a sinister grin, peering at Michael.

  “What are you doing?” Michael asks.

  “Put your seatbelts on. It’s gonna be a bumpy ride.” Marcus laughs as he cranks up the metal.

  He drops the truck into gear and it screams and thunders its way to the two cars at the back of the traffic jam. Its four foot tires hit the front end of the sports car like a ramp, and it barrels up the hood of the sports car with ease, using the door panels of the import beside it to guide it upward and keep from toppling over. They soar through the air for a moment and then slam down onto the roofs of the cars ahead of them. They crunch underneath the beastly truck as Marcus moves forward on top of all the traffic.

  There is constant up and down – trunk, roof, hood, trunk, roof, hood... The thuds, the shattering of glass, the screeching of metal, and the blaring riffs of the greatest heavy metal band that ever lived combine into a hellish harmony. It all begins to give Michael motion sickness. His stomach turns with each gut wrenching lurch the truck makes. He closes his eyes tight and clenches the muscles in his abdomen to keep from vomiting in his mask.

  Amy sees the queasy look on Michael’s face and allows a smile. This ought to keep him quiet and respectful for a while. He would get a sour stomach just from certain subway lines, not to mention boats and airplanes. “This path works for me!” she hollers over the crunching cars and blasting music, holding onto the dash like it’s a handlebar on a rollercoaster.

  CHAPTER 27

  Puke was everywhere. It was on his favorite comics and porn mags; it gunked up his game controllers and his keyboard, and it was all over his clothes. Brandon woke up to the smell of it, mixing with the scent of the warm skunked beer bottles that sat beside his head on the cold metal floor. It was a
lmost enough to make him hurl again. His head pounded and throbbed with a pain that felt like his brain was split in two and dangling out a gaping hole in his head. For the first time in his life he was hung over.

  The barfing was uncontrollable at times. The whole bunker was spinning and he was a terrible shot in his video games. He didn’t remember to shut anything off when he fell asleep either. The bulbs were baking his skin, making him sweat profusely even in the winter underground. The agony seemed to last for days. He gobbled down some aspirin and burned through several bottles of water, both on himself and in cleaning up the mess he made. He was angry at how much supply he wasted on the episode. I’ll never drink again!

  The power cuts out. Low on gas, Brandon knows it’s time to venture out into the zombie apocalypse to refuel. It’s a five mile hike in each direction through a bloody battlefield of cannibals. But I’m prepared for it. Shit, I’m excited for it! With the hangover fading into memory, and the loose bowels finally working their way out of his system, he packs up his fastest, lightest and best weapons for the mission. The rifle, which can sling over his shoulder; a small hatchet, whose handle slips nicely through the wide belt loop on his jeans; and a gas can in each hand. The way back will be difficult. His arms are weak, and carrying a full gas container in each hand means he’ll have to stop to rest often, and stay extra alert, since his weapons won’t be at the ready. A few more gallons of fuel isn’t much, but I can make several trips if needed, and start a stockpile in here or the shed.

  With his mask on and his courage up, Brandon emerges from his bomb shelter. He quickly closes the hatch and drags some loose branches and tree debris over it to hide the entrance. It’s quiet, and the bloated bodies of his parents still rot away in death where they fell. He pays them no mind, or at least he tries. Those aren’t your parents. Don’t look. Don’t even glance. But he has to. Crows are plucking away at their eyes and stomachs, feasting on them like vultures. Their skin has turned an eerie shade of marbled greenish white, freezing them in decomposition. As Brandon’s stomach begins to flutter with sorrow, and tears begin to well up in his eyes, he turns the other way. Fuck it. I’m on my own. I don’t need anyone.

 

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