by Mark Tufo
I wondered what happened to Paul and Deneaux? “How the hell am I going to tell Cindy this?”
“We’re still not out of the woods ourselves; you might not have to,” was Gary’s dour reply. He was not accepting this new wrinkle very well and far be it for me to blame him.
“Michael?” I heard from further up the road.
“Deneaux?” I asked, as Gary turned around.
He pointed to a lady standing on a porch step about three houses up.
“Is Paul with you?” I asked as I approached.
I could see her head shaking as I got closer.
“What happened?” I asked as I got to her.
She related her story about how Brian was shot during the initial ambush and that Paul had left them to go get antibiotics. While they were waiting, they had been attacked by zombies, Brian had been bitten and she had run for her life. She had not seen Paul since she had found this house. She had been staring out the window when Brian had come. She had called to him, but when she realized he was a zombie, she had shot him.
***
Her story had holes and the house she was in just about screamed “liar,” but I couldn’t figure out why and I didn’t want to yet call her on it.
“Big fan of peanut butter?” I asked her innocently as Gary and she sat at the kitchen table. I was walking around looking at the counter.
She was playing the part of a grieving woman, but it did not fit the true Deneaux I had come to know and loathe.
“I can’t really stand it, gets stuck in my bridge work,” she said as she turned to look at me, holding the near empty peanut butter jar and oversized spoon.
“Previous occupant,” she said without missing a beat, turning back to Gary.
The spoon was still wet with the saliva of the previous occupant. She was spinning a web and I was willing to let her until she wrapped herself up in it and choked.
I could see the necessity of shooting Brian. He was no longer human, but if she had called to him like she said, she would have had to shoot him in the face, not the back of the head. Why lie about that part? It made no sense.
“You haven’t seen Paul since he left to get the meds?” I asked her again.
“Really, Michael, how often do I need to keep explaining myself? If you weren’t going to listen the first three times, maybe you should have just saved us both some time and told me that,” she said, never turning to face me. She was holding Gary’s hands for comfort.
Something reeked here and it wasn’t even a zombie.
“Gary, will you help Mrs. Deneaux get her stuff and then we’ll head back to Mary’s?”
“Sure what are you going to do?” he asked.
“I want to do a quick once-over through the house and see if there is anything worth grabbing.”
“We should just get going,” Mrs. Deneaux said. “There have been zombies around all night. We might not get away from here if we stay much longer.”
Gary looked over to me. “I’ll risk it,” I told her.
For the briefest of seconds, she sneered at me. If I had blinked, I would have missed it.
I went through the house. It had been ransacked. Someone had been here before, but there wasn’t anything to substantiate whether it was Paul or Deneaux; and besides a few hypo-allergenic pillows, there really wasn’t anything we could use.
“Isn’t this Paul’s rifle?” Gary asked as he handed her the rifle and we got ready to leave.
“He gave it to me when he went to look for the medicine,” she said as she grabbed the gun.
I couldn’t help myself. “Bullshit! He left giving you his only means of defense?”
“I offered him my pistol; he said he was more apt to hurt himself than anyone else,” she said.
“Let’s go,” I said, not wanting to question her anymore. Now we both knew I had my suspicions about her. The question was, what was she going to do about it?
Gary led the way, Deneaux in the middle, and me at the end, more to keep an eye on her than anything else.
We saw one band of five speeding zombies, which we did not engage; we stayed hidden behind a motor home. They were running at a full sprint, in the opposite direction from which we had come. They very much looked like they had dinner reservations and they were running late, I saw absolutely no reason to alter their dining plans.
Within twenty minutes, we were back at Mary’s stoop, once again arguing with her over whether or not she should let us in.
It was actually a good showing from Deneaux that got the door open.
“Oh dear, I feel rather faint,” she said as she began to fan herself with her hand. “I haven’t eaten in days and I’ve just been so scared,” she said, shivering.
She was actually quite good at the grandmother card, although I’m almost completely sure nothing could have survived in that frozen womb of hers to be born, hatched perhaps, but not born.
“You poor thing! Come on in,” Mary said, opening the door and ushering the woman in. “What kind of savages are you two that you would make her carry this heavy rifle?” Mary said, grabbing the gun from an unwilling Deneaux’s hands. I suddenly felt much safer.
Josh, who had been watching from the kitchen, went upstairs when he saw Deneaux come in. I knew the kid was smart; this just proved me right. Deneaux made a great show of sitting down heavily on one of Mary’s chairs.
“Oh you poor thing! Let me get you some food,” Mary said, retreating to her pantry.
“He’s here?” Deneaux asked, pointing to the slumbering BT.
“Does that somehow interfere with your plans?” I asked.
“Relax, Michael. I was merely asking a question,” Deneaux said, smiling, I think happy that she was making me so upset.
“Listen, I know you’re covering something up, and if I find out that something happened to my friend because of you, I’ll leave you on the side of the road. Do you believe me?” I told her, now standing over her, my finger pointing directly at her face.
“Oh, I do believe you would, but I’ve already told you, I have not seen your precious friend since he left us.”
“What’s going on?” Mary asked as she came back, with a tray, an MRE and some utensils.
I walked away, heading up to where Josh had safely retreated.
“Just a misunderstanding,” Mrs. Deneaux said, warmly thanking Mary for the food.
I heard Gary ask Mary how BT had been and her reply that he had slept the whole time, before I made it to the top of the stairs.
“She’s fucking scary,” Josh said, peeking his head out of his bedroom.
“Yes, she is, and I don’t think you’re supposed to be swearing.”
“I’d rather face that Eliza lady than her.”
I thought about it for a second. “No, you wouldn’t. Close, but no, you wouldn’t.”
Chapter Twenty
“Mike, where the hell are you?” Paul asked as he hunched down by some trashcans. He had heard something moments earlier and nearly wet his pants when an angry raccoon came out from a row of hedges to claim its trash barrels.
“Sorry, fella. These yours?” Paul asked as he grunted to get away from the large animal. A rabies bite from the raccoon would be just as fatal and more painful than a zombie bite. Paul backed away carefully, making sure the animal did not crazily charge him. He fell over a long-unclaimed bag of trash. The smell of old diapers and moldy cabbage assailed his nostrils.
“Couldn’t be an old florist shop. No, had to be a damn daycare or something,” Paul said as he began to stand up. His eye caught something moving on his peripheral, but it was not the raccoon. The animal had taken off, sensing a greater predator than Paul in the neighborhood. It sucks not being on top of the food chain anymore, Paul thought as he looked past the trash cans to five rapidly approaching zombies.
He knew if he so much as clenched his asshole, he would wrinkle the trash bag under him and the zombies would come his way. He wasn’t yet sure that they hadn’t already seen him.
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br /> The zombies passed by less than twenty feet away. Paul relaxed somewhat as they began to head off. The small release in tension caused his arm to slip, pushing his elbow down onto a soda can. Paul held his breath as the can popped. He could still hear the zombies’ footfalls heading away and felt like he had dodged a bullet until he craned his head to find the best way to get up and saw one lone zombie staring straight at him. Its head tilted like a dog’s does when it’s trying to figure out what it is looking at.
The zombie started to approach. The blending-in-with-garbage trick was not going to work anymore. Paul thought about turning to run, but right now, he wouldn’t be able to out distance a deader. He once again adopted the pose of the fighter as he got on his tender feet. “What are the chances that another bullet saves my ass?” Paul asked the heavens as the zombie ran towards him.
The heavens weren’t listening as the zombie ran straight into Paul’s fist. Paul was sure he had broken at least one knuckle on the zombie’s skull. The shot on the eye of the zombie may not have put a man on his ass, but it should have at least dazed him. It had no effect whatsoever on the zombie. The zombie fell on top of Paul as they both went down onto the stinking pile of refuse. The bag exploded, sending leaking diapers everywhere.
Snapping teeth came within the width of a fingernail from shearing Paul’s fingers off. Paul felt the slime of the film that coated the zombies’ unbrushed teeth. Paul placed both hands on the zombie’s shoulders and pushed away as the zombie attempted to draw closer. When the zombie realized it could not reach Paul’s face, it began to turn from arm to arm, looking for a place to seek purchase. Paul had to keep alternating his hand placement in an effort to stay one step ahead of the zombie’s teeth. Already his arms were beginning to tire, he did not know how long he could play Hide The Flesh From The Zombie before his arms gave out.
No one is going to save me this time, he thought.
Paul shoved his hips upward, gaining some distance from the zombie as he brought his knee up, in what could only be described as a ball-busting maneuver. The zombie did not so much as flinch from the contact. Thick tendrils of drool and liquefied plaque hung from the zombie’s mouth, dangerously close to Paul’s face, Paul kept blowing out great puffs of air in a futile hope to keep the mouth offal from striking him. The smell of the old, wet, moldy diapers competed with the zombie for odor of the decade. Paul was having difficulty getting in enough clean air to work with.
Paul was trying to scramble from under the zombie, but his feet kept sliding in rubbish. Had a newly axed girlfriend once tell me I was going to die in a pile of shit. I can’t imagine she meant this, Paul thought. Or maybe she did.
The zombie was fairly predictable in its approach. After nine or ten times through the cycle, Paul got an idea. As the zombie reached for Paul’s left arm, he pulled it away. The zombie would make a slight attempt for Paul’s face and then move to the right side. Paul moved his right arm quicker than the zombie was expecting, then he thrust up with his left hip. The death-tangled duo rolled to the right, precariously balancing on their right side until momentum brought Paul on top.
“How about I eat you, motherfucker?!” Paul screamed. Paul made a feint to bite on the zombie’s arm. Once again, the zombie could not have cared less as it still tried to bite at Paul’s hands, but it now did not have as much range in motion. Paul still had no clue as to what to do. He did not want to release his grip. He was afraid he might slip in the piles of garbage as he turned to run and then they’d be doing this dance all over again. Paul did the only option that was available to him as the zombie went for Paul’s right hand. With his left, Paul grabbed as much trash as he could, becoming utterly dismayed when his hand went through decomposing diaper.
He began to shove as much refuse into the zombie’s eager mouth as he could. The zombie, at first, greedily took the offering and then began to fight against the force-fed meal. Paul had already let go and was halfway to getting up. The zombie was still struggling with a Pamper lodged in its throat. Paul’s nightmare nearly came to fruition as he slid on a cliché. No way! A banana peel? Are you kidding me? But banana peels were much more slippery in cartoons. Paul was quickly on terra firma and shuffling for all his life to the doorstep closest to him. Locked door, crazy resident, home full of zombies or just pissed off squirrels, Paul was placing all his marbles into this bag; there were no other options. He could not make it to another house and he’d much rather see the zombie coming than get brought down from behind like a gazelle on the Serengeti.
Paul’s ankle groaned as he climbed the first step. If not for forward momentum, he would have brought his foot down and brought up his left. That was no bargain either as his foot wound broke open from the flexion of the move. Blood was seeping through his boot at an alarming rate. Paul had no time to take notice as he reached the top of the third step and got onto the landing. His zombie friend had finally got its feet under it and was now ready to continue its pursuit.
Paul reached out to grab the storm door, his hands slick with an unidentifiable, or at least, unwilling to identify, substance. His hand slid off as effectively as if the handle had been Vaseline-coated.
***
For the briefest of synapses, he remembered that time in college when Mike and he had gotten a particularly difficult Resident Assistant to quit his job. An RA’s job is sort of like den mother. It is his or her responsibility to make sure that no huge parties are held on the floor; or that any huge violations are being broken, (like having an oven in a dorm room). Sometimes they even act as a pseudo counselor when a freshman runs across the familiar homesick blues. Paul and Mike had the unfortunate luck of the draw, with their RA, he took his responsibilities a little too seriously. Most of the RAs were simply in it so that they could break all of the rules in a single; as opposed to the standard, two-to-a-dorm room. Gert (yes, he was a man) was studying to move on to grad school and could absolutely not stand any noise whatsoever on his floor. He had once written a sophomore up because her alarm clock was excessively loud.
Mike and Paul had been written up no less than five times in their first month on the floor. Six meant an automatic meeting with the dean and potential disciplinary actions, up to and including, expulsion. Mike and Paul had on more than one occasion caught Gert outside their door listening to see if he could get that elusive sixth offense.
“Is he there?” Mike asked Paul as Paul had snuck up to the door and quickly opened it, trying to once again catch him.
“No, but he was here recently. I can almost hear the echo of his goosestep as he went down the hallway.”
“Good one,” Mike had said. “We need to do something about him. We’ve been good for a few days now, but how much longer do you think we can last?”
“Not long, I’m already itching for another fiesta.”
“That’s what I’m saying. We need to get rid of the party Nazi.”
“Wouldn’t it just be easier to wait until next semester and move off this floor?”
“You think we’ll make it that far? And then we have to admit that he wins. And that sure doesn’t sound like the guy that threw perhaps the largest spitball ever conceived at Mrs. Weinstedder back in the sixth grade.”
“You sure do know how to flatter a guy. What’s your plan?”
“You think he’s in his room?”
“The only time he isn’t is either when’s he’s at class or writing a student advisory slip.”
“Alright, we’ve got to be careful. He’s got the other freshmen on this floor so wound tight, they might rat us out if they catch us.”
“You sure about all this, Mike?” Paul asked with some concern.
“I’d rather go out in a blaze of glory than skulking into the night.”
“I agree,” Paul said, feeling himself quite possibly being peer-pressured. There’s something to be said for skulking, Paul thought.
“Alright, I’m going to need your help with this one.”
Paul nodded and noted Mike
taking a stack of pennies from their shared coin jar.
“When we get to Hurtie Gert’s door, you need to press on the top corner as hard as you can.”
“Which corner?” Paul asked.
“Valid question, the one above the doorknob.”
“What’s that going to do?”
“It’s going to give me the room I need to shove these pennies in.”
“You know our fingerprints are all over those things.”
“So? No way, do you think he’d get these dusted?”
“Who knows?”
“We don’t have our fingerprints on file, do we?”
“I don’t think so, but I’d rather not take the chance.”
Mike wiped all the coins on his shirt and then put a sock over his hand to grasp the coins.
“That doesn’t look suspicious at all.”
“Come on, let’s get this done.”
Mike kept his sock-clad hand in his pocket to allay any prying questions, should they arise. The twenty-five-foot walk to Gert’s door was uneventful. The only noise was when some unlucky student had dropped his chemistry book on his foot and cried out in alarm and pain. Paul and Mike had frozen, thinking Gert would come busting out of his door to quiet the offending student. He didn’t do that, but he had yelled for the clumsy scholar to shut up.
“He’s a very caring individual,” Mike had said, turning back towards Paul.
The door had groaned slightly as Paul pressed on the top corner.
“Harder,” Mike had intoned, looking at the gap being formed from the pressure.
The gap had finally widened to a liking for Mike as he pulled the pennies from his pocket and placed about seven of them in a stack against the bowed door and the frame.
“Let go,” Mike said.
“There was a brief second where the corner of Mike’s sock got pinched in the door. Paul thought it had been Mike’s finger and was waiting for the resultant scream that would most assuredly get them kicked out of school. Mike quickly pulled the sock out and bolted for their room, Paul hurriedly followed. They had no sooner shut their door when someone down the hallway had opened theirs.