by Mark Tufo
Mrs. Deneaux had no illusions. She had only survived this long because of the charity of others or at the very least, the indifference of them. She knew Brian was a lost cause, as was Paul, even if he showed up in the nick of time with medicine. Brian was in no shape to protect anyone, and to her, it seemed that Paul had survived along similar lines as her own, by the grace of others.
The night almost passed by uneventfully. She heard something going on maybe two or three streets over, but who and what it was were not discernible. She felt as if she had slept, but she couldn’t remember. Mostly she had stared at Brian and smoked cigarettes. With the moon still high in the sky, she found herself in the same spot and in the same position she had been when she had initially fallen asleep.
She had a small mountain of butts by her side, her exhaled smoke nearly obscuring her vision as she scanned the woods around her.
“Zombie,” she said, standing up and crushing her latest butt into the ground. She exhaled the blue-gray smoke. The zombie hadn’t quite locked onto their position.
“Must have smelled the smoke. My husband always said these would be the death of me. I can’t imagine he thought in this fashion though.” Mrs. Deneaux looked quickly down at Brian. He was on his own. She would not be able to move him and where to, anyway?
Mrs. Deneaux moved away from the small clearing and her smoldering pile of ash, to hide behind a fairly thick bush. The zombie was coming up on her left. If it kept its present course, it would run into her before getting to the clearing.
Mrs. Deneaux picked up a small stone. “No sense in both of us dying,” she said as she threw the rock at Brian. It landed a few inches from his face. He took no notice as he slept.
“Dammit,” she said, taking a peek from behind her cover. She picked up the only other thing within arm’s reach, a thick branch, it was about a foot long and six or seven inches around. She hurt her shoulder throwing it as hard as she could. Whether divine intervention or the luck of the devil, the branch struck Brian in the right cheek. His moans of surprise and pain changed the zombie’s angle of pursuit.
Brian stirred slightly, a red mark blooming on his face as he opened his eyes. Pain, confusion and recognition registered on his face as he looked straight across the clearing and could only see the eyes of a hiding Mrs. Deneaux. He tried to pull himself up, but completely lacked the energy.
“What is going on?” he scratched out of his fire-seared throat. Mrs. Deneaux held up her index finger to her lips. Brian could hear someone approaching. His initial hope was that it was Paul, but it made no sense that Deneaux would be hiding from him. Maybe she wanted to play a prank, he thought, but nobody in their right mind played those kinds of pranks anymore. You were more likely to end up with a bullet wound than a laugh.
Zombie or other people, not very likely to be a wild animal, at least not here. Brian’s vision focused on a stick that was no more than a few inches from his face. He felt and then realized the source of his initial pain, which caused him to awaken.
“Bitch,” he said just as the zombie plowed through the opening and lunged straight for his head.
Brian fought for his life harder than Mrs. Deneaux could have imagined. More than once, she thought that Wamsley had gained the advantage and that she would have to shoot him, lest he came after her when he was done. The zombie had finally landed a knock-out punch when it bit the same cheek she had prophetically hit with the stick.
She left her hiding spot amidst the screams of Brian and the moans of the zombie as it ate its meal. “That was close,” she said, staying in a half crouch until she was far enough away that she felt comfortable rising up.
Mrs. Deneaux looked around; there were no other zombies in the vicinity. She felt no regret when she realized she could have just shot the one that ate Brian. In hindsight she could have, but the prudent path had been the one she had taken. By not firing a shot, she had preserved her own life while also not alerting any other zombies in the area to her whereabouts. And just because she could not see any, did not necessarily mean that there weren’t any around.
“I should have never killed that two-timing bastard of a husband,” Mrs. Deneaux said as she hefted Brian’s rifle onto her shoulder. “That wasn’t the first time he had cheated on me and it wouldn’t have been the last. If I had just ignored it like I had all the others, I could be on the Riviera. They would never have allowed the undead in there, much too exclusive.” She laughed at her own joke.
Mrs. Deneaux found herself walking down the center of the roadway. She knew this might not be the best approach, but she was above skulking around on other people’s lawns.
Chapter Sixteen
Paul took one more painkiller that night, not because he was in any abundance of pain, but primarily because if he were to awaken as a zombie, he would be pissed with himself for not having done so. Moonlight streamed through the kitchen window as Paul picked his drool-laced face off the table. The candles were close to burning out. Paul’s legs ached as he shook the plastic bottle, which he was still clutching.
“One lone pill to rule them all,” he coughed out as he popped the top and took the remaining tablet elixir. “Breakfast of champions,” he said as he downed his warm diet Sprite. “Yuck! That doesn’t taste nearly as good as it had earlier. So now what?” he said to the empty bottle. “I’ve got to get back to Brian and the other one.” Just thinking about her gave him a headache. The approaching light of day was not bringing with it the promise that all those motivational posters talked about. He was effectively hobbled, one of his friends was dying from infection and three others were missing. He had no means of transportation, and in reality, didn’t really know how to get to Ron’s. Sure, he’d been there before, but he wasn’t driving and they were always smoking or drinking while they were heading up there. It wasn’t like he could pick up a phone and call anyone. The more he thought about it, the more he couldn’t remember having ever been so alone.
He got up to look for some more pills or at least an accelerant, maybe some Jack or SoCo. He sat back down quickly. “Maybe I’ll just wait until this kicks in a little,” he said as his ankle seemed to be high on the pain priority list today. He was deeply immersed in his pity party when he heard shots. “Damn, that sounds like it’s right out front,” he said, shuffling away from the table to the window next to the front door.
“Deneaux?” Paul was having a tough time putting all the images in front of him into a cognitive state. There was Mrs. Deneaux, looking like a skinny, old, female Rambo, rifle slung over her shoulder, giant, oversized pistol in her hands, zombies running at her from up the street. Paul craned his neck, but the wood from the window pane prevented him from getting a better look. It took him much longer than it should have to realize that he should open the door to get a better look…and to help. His head was as fuzzy as a schoolgirl on her second beer.
Paul pulled the door open, loudly cursing at himself as he dragged the door over the top of his shot foot. “Motherfucker!” he screamed. A fresh stream of blood spewed out as the bandage and wet scab was neatly pulled off.
Mrs. Deneaux looked over quickly. Paul was standing in the doorway to the house immediately to her left. He was swearing about something, but she had no idea what and no time to figure it out. She started to make her way over towards him. “You need to cover me!” she shouted.
Paul looked up, red veins criss-crossing his eyes so much, it was almost a solid color. “What?” he asked, finally focusing, the anger and pain welled in his features.
“You need to shoot, shithead!” Deneaux yelled.
“Where’s my gun?” Paul asked, more to himself than to her, but she heard him.
Deneaux was certain if she wasn’t so pressed for time and bullets, she would have shot him dead for being so damn useless.
Paul scrambled around. His rifle was on the sofa. He didn’t remember putting it there, but he couldn’t pin it on anyone else moving it, so at some point he must have, although for the life of him
, he couldn’t remember when.
He got back to the doorway. Deneaux was holding her own, but she had put her pistol away and was now using the rifle. Paul’s first shot knee-capped the closest zombie to her. Effective, but far from a kill shot.
It did, however, give Mrs. Deneaux the opening she needed. Paul noted that the old crone moved with some serious step when she needed to.
“Keep firing!” Mrs. D intoned. “You’re about as useless as a reformed alcoholic at a wine tasting.”
Paul started shooting again, but his mind could not race to catch up with her dig.
Mrs. Deneaux pushed past him. Zombies were racing across the lawn trying to get to her. “Shut the damn door!” she said, leaning up against the wall.
Paul was stoned, but not that far gone, and the door was closed before her words had completely finished.
“Haven’t had that much interest in these old bones in a long while,” Mrs. Deneaux said as she smiled, her tobacco-stained teeth shining dully.
Paul thought he heard one of her cheek muscles groan from the effort of the foreign maneuver. “Where’s Brian?”
Paul noted that she paused a half a beat too long before she answered, which was only a side to side shaking of her head.
“What happened to you?” she said, pointing down to his foot, which was now sautéing in a small stew of his own blood.
“Hunting accident,” he answered as he made sure the door was locked. Paul moved away from it as the first of the zombies made contact with the screen door beyond. He shuffled over to the couch and sat down.
Mrs. Deneaux sat in the closer chair. She kept peeking out the living room window until one of the zombies saw her and ran through a small bush to press his face up against the screen. She quickly pulled the shade down, plunging the room into an uncomfortable darkness.
“What happened to him?” Paul wanted clarification. When she answered that they had been ambushed by some zombies and he had gotten eaten defending her, he didn’t completely believe the story, but some part of him was relieved that he had not succumbed to the infection. Paul would have felt directly responsible for Brian’s demise if that had been the case. If he hadn’t shot himself, he might have been able to get some antibiotics.
What Paul wasn’t factoring into the equation was if he had not gotten hurt, he may have found some medicine and actually been back hours earlier to help defend their encampment. Every time his mind wandered into the realm of different possibilities, he kept reining it in so that it would not stray too far.
“Now what?” Paul asked.
“Do you have any more of what you’ve been drinking?”
Paul shook his head in the negative.
“We wait. Do they have any food? I’m starving,” Mrs. Deneaux said, heading for the kitchen.
Paul did not answer her as she walked by and began to open cabinets up.
“Talbot always said God had a hell of twisted sense of humor,” Paul mumbled.
Paul could hear Deneaux rummaging around for some utensils and a can opener.
“Cold soup will have to do,” she said.
“I hope you don’t get botulism. That can wreak havoc on someone your age,” Paul said it softly, but with no other noise in the house the acoustics were actually pretty nice.
“Maybe you should try it first,” Deneaux said as she slurped in a large swallow of Italian Wedding soup.
Paul got back in and leaned against the entrance to the kitchen. Deneaux summarily ignored him as she kept slurping the soup.
“Alright, so we both know, you just fed me a big heaping of bullshit. Why don’t you be straight with me now?”
Deneaux looked up from her spoon, her eyes cold and calculating. “What exactly are you talking about?” The creepy smile came back.
“Brian. What really happened to him?”
“I told you. Zombies got him.”
Paul kept looking at her, trying to somehow divine the answer, but Deneaux was a practiced and skilled liar. It would take much more than his amateurish attempt to get her to confess to anything.
“I think that’s only part of the story and I don’t believe or trust you. You can tell me. There isn’t a court or even a jury left to convict you.”
“Once I feel like confessing, you’ll be the first to know,” she said resuming her slurping.
“Suit yourself,” he said.
Paul grabbed his meager medical supplies from the table and went back to the couch. He re-wrapped his foot, which was on fire and took three aspirins for his splitting headache. He put his head down on the cushion and fell asleep to the sweet serenading of Deneaux’s slurps.
When he woke up, seemingly minutes later, the room was as black as Deneaux’s heart. He sat up quickly, not quite able to remember where he was or in what state of danger he might be finding himself.
“Good nap?” Deneaux asked without feeling.
Paul looked to where her voice emanated. Eyes darker than the room they sat in stared back at him.
“What’s going on?” Paul sat up quickly, reaching for his rifle.
“You looking for this?” she said, ratcheting a round into the chamber.
Paul’s heart sank as his blood pressure soared.
“Relax, you look like a rabbit trapped in a fox den. I was just keeping watch on the zombies outside and you’re the only one of us with any ammo left. Is that crawler on the steps the one that did you in?”
“Did me in?”
“The bite on your foot.”
“It’s not a bite,” Paul said, starting to rise.
“Do not get up,” she said coolly.
Paul didn’t. “She bit my boot, not my foot,” he said, trying to explain.
“Then what’s all the blood about?” she asked.
“I did not get bit!” Paul said heatedly.
“What really happened?”
“I told you!”
“You told me nothing. What if I were to say that I did not believe you or trust you?”
Paul fumed.
“Come, come Mr. Ginson, turnabout is fair play.”
“What are you planning on doing?”
“Why, whatever I please. You yourself said there isn’t even a jury to convict me.”
“I know what I said,” Paul replied angrily.
“Yes, Michael, they both died trying to save me,” Deneaux’s words were laced with syrup. “And he’d believe me because he’d have to. What’s the alternative? That an old crone like me killed two strapping young men? Huh? Who would believe that?”
“Mike’s smart, he’d suspect you were lying.”
“Suspect away, you can’t try someone on suspicion,” she laughed. “I should know.”
“So you’re just going to shoot me in cold blood, is that it?”
“I had rather hoped to wait until you turned into a zombie, but if you keep trying to get off that couch, I will have to put you down like a cur.”
“I’m telling you for the fiftieth time, I did not get bit!”
“Keep your voice down, or your friends will come back.”
It took Paul a moment to realize what she had said. “The zombies are gone?”
“Yes, your back-up left while the virus was spreading around inside of you. Obviously, because you were not worth eating anymore.”
So what does that say about you, you fucking battleaxe? Paul thought, but wisely kept to himself.
“Listen, Deneaux, I did not get bit. I shot myself, okay? I fucking shot myself.”
“Oh, that’s rich,” she laughed. “Sad, if true, but rich. Worthy of a hearty laugh, I’ll make sure to do one over your shallow grave.”
Paul hastily pulled his bandage off.
“Easy,” Deneaux said from across the room. “Don’t go getting any ideas, I didn’t say ‘bright’ because I have yet to see you have one, and I didn’t think you were getting ready to buck that trend.”
“Look at my damn foot! Does that look like a bite?!” Paul was nearly shrieking.
A high intensity flashlight blasted Paul in the face. His headache, which had been on the decline, came back with a vengeance. “You did that on purpose,” he said, shielding his eyes from the handheld sun.
“Of course, I did. Hold your foot up.”
Paul sat back on the couch and put his foot in the air. Deneaux stared long and hard at the wound. It was long minutes before she spoke.
“It’s amazing you’ve survived this long.”
“So you believe me now?” Paul asked.
“I do.”
“Can I have my gun back?”
“I think I’ll hold onto it for a while longer. At least we know you’ll be safer.”
“You’re a…”
“Careful, the number one cause of accidental shootings is careful aim.”
Paul wasn’t entirely sure what that meant, but she was holding the gun. “I’m getting some food.” Paul stood up.
“There are more candles on the table,” she told him before she opened the shade a bit to get a look out into the night.
“All the people left on the planet and I get stuck with her, I had more fun by myself last night.” The more he thought about that, the truer it rang. Of course, he had been with half a bottle of pain pills. “Should have saved those for tonight. Might have actually made her worthwhile company.”
“What are you going on about in there?” Deneaux asked.
“Just wondered what this peanut butter would taste like on some bread,” Paul said as he ate the thick, rich goodness off a tablespoon. It was the small things that hit the hardest. Paul thought the last time he had fresh bread was the day of the apocalypse. He had gone to a Subway and gotten a six-inch meatball sub. “Should have gotten the damn foot-long,” he said wistfully, popping another spoonful into his mouth.
“Bitch, where are you!” Paul heard from outside the house.
Deneaux was standing up by the window now, her half a smoke hanging from her lip. One word emanated resoundingly from her mouth, “Shit.”