by J. B. Beatty
He kneels at her side and feels for a pulse. “Carrie,” he says. “Carrie, can you hear me?”
She doesn’t respond. A flash of light from his hands—he has his little flashlight and he checks her for wounds.
“Can you help me over here?” he says towards me.
I try to push myself up again and the pain sends a wave of blackness across my brain. I open my eyes and I am back on the ground. “I’m hurt,” I say. “It might be bad.”
“At least you’re conscious. You need to help. Get your pistol out. Keep watch. I can’t work with her and guard against flu victims at the same time.”
I begin to reach for my sidearm but the jolt of electricity hits me again. I catch my breath. My eyes are wet and I feel dizzy. I reach for the pistol with my left hand. Slowly I bring it up. I turn my head to the side of the road where the zombie emerged and I take the safety off.
“How is she?” I say.
“Alive. She bonked her head. Out cold. This is not good. But it doesn’t look like he ate any of her.”
“What do we do now?”
Justin makes a noise, letting out a lot of breath in a way that says he is absolutely frustrated and angry. It takes him a while to find words.
“If we had a truck, I’d be putting both of you into it and getting you to a safe place as soon as possible. If we had a truck, this wouldn’t even have happened. If we had a truck…”
“Hey, I’m sorry that I suggested the bikes…”
“Now we have one person who can ride. That’s me, in case you’re still indisposed. We have one person with a closed head injury and another who keeps squealing in pain…”
“Are you going to check on me to see what it is?”
“You are the last person I want to help right now. This is all your fault. This would not have happened without your leadership.”
“My leadership? I’m not the leader. I never said I was the leader!”
“For someone who is not leading you sure do a pitiful job of listening to other people’s suggestions. And here we are.”
That stings, because I thought we had a pretty functional consensus arrangement going on. Turns out I’m an incompetent dictator. Word on the street.
“We need to get off the road. If someone comes up, we’re all dead,” said Justin soberly. He stands, and with his flashlight, he starts surveying the forest on both sides of the road. He walks into the woods; I can see his light bobbing about 50 feet in. Finally, it bounces its way back to me.
“Okay,” he says. He crouches down and lifts Carrie gently up. He walks with her into the woods. He jogs back to me and grabs me roughly underneath the arms and lifts me up. I black out and when I come to, I am leaned against a tree next to the prone Carrie. Justin is putting a rifle on my lap.
“There,” he says. “You need to stay awake. I’m going to get those fucking bikes out of the road.”
“My shoulder…” I moan.
“Shut the fuck up.”
That actually doesn’t seem helpful to me.
He stalks back through the woods. I grimace and look toward Carrie but I can barely make out her body as the starlight isn’t getting past the trees. I grip the rifle stock and gently feel the trigger. I try to listen as carefully as possible, because if any zombies come up I’m not going to see them until they’re chewing on my legs.
I hear a clattering and quickly see that it is Justin bringing a bike back. He does this three times. And makes more trips to grab the bike trailers that we have much of our supplies in. He arranges them in a semicircle around us. One more thing to alert us to approaching zombies, should they trip on one of our bikes.
Finally, he stands before me. I say, “Well?”
“Your bike is probably ridable. Alignment is screwed up; it will need some work. Hers is a mess. Front wheel is ruined and the frame might be bent. Which of course leaves us with a predicament that should have been obvious from the first day we rode. How in the hell do we get a damaged bike or an injured person back home if all we have are bikes?”
“Can we talk about this later?” I say. “I’m really hoping you can check me out and see what I’ve broken.”
He just stares down at me.
“Really. I’m sorry about the bikes.”
Nothing.
“I’m sorry I was bossy and not a good listener. But I’m hurt. I’m pretty sure I broke something. Can you please take a look?”
“In a bit. Right now, I’m savoring the moment.” And he steps away and checks on Carrie again. As far as I can tell, she’s just having a nice nap. I am the one who is in misery.
“Have I ever called you a sadistic son of a bitch? Because I’m thinking of calling you that. Any minute now. Here I thought you were all nice and sensitive and warm-hearted, perhaps because you’re gay. I know that’s probably pushing some sort of stereotype and I’m sure it is, now that I think of it. Because I really shouldn’t be surprised that gays are capable of being sadistic sons of bitches. I would think sexual preference would have no actual bearing on a person’s inner demons, now that I think of it. But still, I’m disappointed. Not in all gays—because I am sure there are kind-hearted ones out there. Though maybe not. Maybe they’re all dead, and by default you are the last representative of gayness on earth. And you’re doing a hell of a lousy job of representing, sir.”
He stands above me.
“Shut the fuck up about gay shit.”
“It was the pain talking.”
“It was the stupid talking. You moronic pussy.”
“Oh, go there, I see. You can be misogynistic as well. How proud you must be.”
He kneels at my side. “Where does it hurt, asshole?”
“My shoulder,” I growl.
“Poor baby. Lift up your arm.”
“I can’t.”
In a voice that sounds like a freight train bearing down on an innocent victim tied to the tracks, he growls, “Lift it.”
I begin to. And yelp in pain.
“Pussy,” he says. He grabs my shoulder and squeezes. It hurts, so I yelp again. Then he puts his hand on my collarbone and lifts my arm up himself. My world goes black.
I open my eyes. With my right hand, I wipe my drooling mouth. I don’t know how long I’ve been out. Justin is still kneeling there looking at me. “What happens now?” I say.
“You have a broken collarbone. Which is good. It means karma works. All is well in this world. If you’re lucky, you won’t need surgery. Which is a good thing, because your sorry ass isn’t getting surgery. You’re getting a sling. And some painkillers. Though I might go light on the painkillers if you keep pissing me off.”
“Okay…” I say.
Justin stands and paces. The forest looms black and silent around us; nothing, no light, not even the sound of spring peepers.
“We can’t risk traveling by daylight. And we can’t delay. We need to get back to the bunker. That means we have to get out of here as soon as we can. Tonight.”
I look up at him: “How?”
“I need to leave you here and find a car.”
“Great,” I say. Inside, I’m thinking that I am a horrible choice to leave on guard duty. Every time I so much as wiggle my collarbone shrieks in pain. But there is no other option, so I decide to keep my fears to myself.
“I need to know where you’re going, in case…”
“I don’t recall passing by any likely places recently, so I’m going to head south. If I see any driveways, or small roads that might lead to a house, I’m going to check them out. You… you stay put. If any flu victims come after you, try to avoid firing your gun. We need to fly under the radar, especially with Carrie not able to move or fight.”
“Gotcha, chief.”
Silence follows. I imagine he’s firing a dirty look at me, but it’s too dark to tell. Then I hear him digging in the trailers. Eventually he hands me a flashlight. And a few granola bars. A bottle of water. “Do you have your knife?”
“Yes, sir.”<
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“Okay, then I’m out of here.”
“Wait, what do I do with Carrie?”
“Don’t molest her.”
“You really didn’t need to say that.”
“Don’t do anything with her. She needs to stay warm. If she wakes up, talk to her. Try to get some conversation out of her and get a feel for whether she’s messed up or not. That’s it, besides keeping coyotes from eating her.”
Justin wheels his bike through the trees back to the highway. In terms of setting the scene, I realize this would be the perfect time for a coyote to howl in the distance. But nothing like that happens. It doesn’t matter anyway, as I already feel creeped out enough.
42→WATCH OUT SHARP
Since the apocalyptic flu hit, I’ve been on guard duty more than a man should have to be. It’s kind of sad, I guess. Before the end, we didn’t need to stand guard. My family didn’t have to take turns being the lookout. We had neighbors, police, armies, and a general societal taboo on the eating of human flesh.
Now that’s all gone. And I sit in a darkness so complete I can’t tell if my eyes are opened or closed. I focus all of my attention on listening. I can hear the gentle rise and fall of Carrie’s breaths. I can hear a light breeze in the branches of the pine trees around us. And when I hear a twig snap in the distance, adrenalin surges through my veins and I have to calm my breathing, directing all of my attention toward the sound, hoping that I will hear a scurrying away and can paint the picture in my mind of a racoon or opossum or deer.
I find I am gripping the knife so hard at these times that my hand begins to cramp. I am not left-handed, but tonight I have to be. Anything I do with my right arm ends badly, as if I were leaning against an electric fence. Still, I can’t keep my right hand from reaching every few minutes to touch my sidearm, to make sure that if I need it, I can shoot.
I have/had an uncle, my mom’s brother. (The “have/had”, by the way, represents a new way of thinking we have developed since the world rolled over. Chances are, in a sample sentence, that the person who is the object of the sentence is either dead or wandering the surface of the planet scrapping for the next meal along with the rest of the undead. But hypothetically, they could still be alive, especially if they were lucky enough to have a previously undiagnosed cancer. Yet despite the need for such a word, we really have no good replacement for “have/had”. Often when it comes up, we pause in mid-sentence and sadly correct the “have” to “had”. Other times we barrel through and act like nothing has happened and there’s a very good chance we will see that loved one at the next family reunion.)
Sorry about that tangent. I have lots of time on my hands, sitting in the darkness, waiting to be rescued by Justin or eaten by roving bands of former CrossFit addicts, who have fortuitously discovered that spending extended periods of time in graduate-level gym class has prepared them to be the perfect predators in the zombie apocalypse.
This Uncle Jerry of mine was actually a very nice guy. He lived in Illinois and we didn’t see him that often. When I was young, maybe 11 or so, our families rented adjoining cabins in the woods Up North. One of those family-bonding things that really was a good time and of course our parents swore we would do it every summer but we never did it again. A lot of good things die like that.
Uncle Jerry’s wife was named Jeri—but obviously spelled differently if you’re a book-on-tape person or more likely, you’re one of the last two people on earth and you find this journal next to a skeleton in the woods but your eyes were seared blind by a phosphorous grenade in the final battle and your buddy is reading you this passage before you draw straws to see who eats whom.
Yeah, so Aunt Jeri was cool at one point but then something happened—a promotion at work, maybe, or a self-help book—and she turned all of her energies to adulting. No more frivolity, no more cool. And she drove her husband into the woods. He was always looking for activities that kept him away from the kitchen where she ruled.
That week, he seemed to take joy in being the best uncle ever to me. My sister Julie was attached to my dad, so Jerry would take me out fishing (which bored me to death) and birdwatching (which bored me to near-death). I thought it was because we were amazing soulmates and he would be my favorite uncle and mentor forever. However, as the years passed and that vacation drifted farther away, it became apparent to me that it was really all about Aunt Jeri, who was driving Uncle Jerry up the fucking wall. They had a lot of heated talks that week in their cabin.
I actually heard her yell at him after he took me out to the woods to show me how to shoot a handgun. My dad had never showed me; those lessons were reserved for Julie. I was glad to fire a gun and pretend that I knew what I was doing. I never hit the coffee can. Jerry kept saying things like, “Relax. Legs apart. Take a breath, Squeeze.” I felt the same way I did at my one failed golf lesson.
Afterward, while sitting at the picnic table eating lunch, I got to hear his wife ream him with an extended reminder that the gun was not a toy nor was it suitable entertainment for a child like me. I looked up in confusion at that one, but Julie didn’t. She just kept eating her chili dog with gusto. I looked at my mom and she said, “Just eat and mind your own business.”
Jerry and Jeri got divorced a few years after that, and I think the only time I have seen him since was at my grandmother’s funeral. He patted me on the back and gave me this kind of “I’m -here-for-you” look, but of course he wasn’t. He was my first shooting instructor, though I have to admit I learned everything important from Maggie.
That’s what I am thinking in the darkness as I wait for Justin. Or disaster, whichever comes first. I keep touching my gun. Mentally, I keep drilling myself on how to attack a zombie with a knife left-handed in pitch darkness. I’m really not sure how. It’s like how I imagine driving on the left side of the road in England would be. In a panicked situation, like simply taking a left turn at an intersection, I know I would drive right into the face of certain death.
That’s why I keep touching my gun. That’s why, when I hear branches breaking, I grab my gun. That’s why I ignore the instructions Justin gave me when I hear more branches breaking, and they’re breaking too fast, and it’s coming in our direction.
I get up on my knees, legs spread, over Carrie’s still body. I am facing the noise. I drop the knife and fumble for the flashlight just in time to flick it on and glimpse a zombie launching itself at us. I felt no pain as I fired wildly.
I had to tell myself to stop shooting—I know I used too many shots. The beam of the light showed the body on the ground before us, just a few feet away. I shine the flashlight around but I don’t see any others.
I am shaking. My arm and shoulder don’t start radiating pain until I catch my breath and start calming down. I turn off the flashlight. Any zombies attracted by the noise don’t need to see my beacon. I return to listening mode. Fear squeezes up next to me and stays for the duration. And that is all I remember.
43→CONSIDERABLE IN THE DOCTORING WAY
Ajarring, stabbing pain greets me in the morning.
“I’ll take that,” I hear as someone wrenches the gun from my hand. I am laying down next to Carrie. The light is just dawning, and I notice people standing around us. I rub my eyes, my right arm on fire. I look at them. Unfamiliar faces. And Justin. I struggle to sit up.
“Not so fast,” someone says.
“I can’t do anything fast,” I mumble. The newcomers are all old. They all have guns. Justin shrugs at me apologetically. His hands are tied behind him.
“Come on.” I am yanked up.
A couple men bend down to pick up Carrie as Justin frantically cautions, “Careful, she’s hurt bad. Head injury, possible spinal injury.”
I am led through the woods back to the road, where a pickup truck awaits. I climb up onto the bed and am motioned to sit against the cab. They lay Carrie in the center. They have no blankets under her. Her head rests on the metal bed. Justin comes and sits next to me. In the rear are two
men with rifles pointed at us. The truck moves.
I look at Justin. He’s not making eye contact. “Thanks for bringing help,” I say cheerily. He doesn’t look up. The gunman nearest me, balding and large and wearing camo, simply says, “Shut up.”
“Okay,” I say.
The other one, wearing a green Michigan State hoody, points a shotgun at me and repeats, “Shut up.”
“Okay,” I repeat.
He raises his gun and says calmly, “Don’t answer. Don’t say ‘okay.’ Don’t do nothing but sit there quietly and politely for now or you will be greeted by the Lord’s justice immediately.”
I start to say “Okay” out of force of habit but stop myself before the word leaves my lips. Instead I just mimic Justin and look down at my lap. I am thankful they didn’t tie my hands together—I am sure that would have put my shoulder in much more pain than it is in already.
We travel a couple of miles down the highway before turning west on a potholed dirt road. I worry because they don’t bother to put a hood over my head. If they wanted to keep their location a secret, that’s step one. Unless they’re confident I won’t be alive long enough to compromise them, a thought that makes me feel like my expiration date must be imminent.
After maybe another mile, we pull into a yard surrounded by a small house, another cottage, and a few outbuildings. In the center of the yard is a crucifix that looks to be three stories tall, made up of tree trunks that have been lashed together. Wires attached to the ground reinforce it. A lanky, thin woman walks over and peers down into the pick-up truck at Carrie. She looks up at Justin and says, “I don’t know what we can do for her.”
“I know what I can do for her,” he says. “I need a place where I can treat her. A bed. She needs to be stabilized.”
The woman, who has librarian-style glasses dangling from a lanyard, has nothing else of a librarian about her. Her gray eyes are cold and when they pass over me they reveal no empathy. We are a burden to her day, and I do not feel safe here.