The Haunted Country

by Jason White

  “You asshole!” someone says, but it’s not the same man who’d been screaming threats at us all afternoon. A third voice: “Calm down, Rich. We gotta get out of here.”

  Rich apparently doesn’t care about the always hungry groans coming from just beyond the forest line or what his friend has to say because he stands and looks up at the second floor. He yells, “Show yourselves, you fucking cowards!” and raises his automatic machine gun that, from here, looks to me like an AK-47. He unloads a clip into the second floor and then returns to where he was.

  I’ll never know why Grant didn’t shoot him while he was standing, all prone and ignorant of our presence on the first floor now. But he moves from the window to the closet. He opens it slowly so as to not raise any eyes our way and rummages inside. He comes out with coats and boots and then heads to where we are behind the couch.

  “These oughta fit Cindy,” he says, tossing a coat and a pair of boots onto the couch. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to go with a comforter and your sneakers, Arlie.”

  In a flash I realize that I’d never told him my name, but he’s heard Cindy’s version of it. So he thinks that my name is Arlie instead of Charlie. I don’t correct him as gunfire erupts from outside. This time it’s not aimed at the house. I’m guessing they’re firing at the forest line this time. At the undead.

  Grant was able to get a coat for himself from the closet, and wraps it around his broad shoulders. He then huffs it back upstairs. When he returns, he’s carrying the comforter he had mentioned and tosses to me.

  “Double fold it,” he says. “Then wrap it around your body. With any luck, you won’t need it long.”

  “Where are you going?” I say.

  “The garage. I’m hoping to hell there’s a vehicle in there while our friends are negotiating with the zombies.”

  I do as he says with the comforter, but it’s not as easy as it sounds. The fabrics and stuffing are thick. The entire thing is huge. It’s more than enough to wrap around me a few times but I do as Grant says. I’m certain that I look like an elephant or something when I’ve finally got it around my shoulders.

  Grant returns. His eyes are wide and worried. He holds a flashlight I didn’t notice he had before and puts it on a nightstand by the front door.

  “We got a problem,” he says, and motions me with his finger to follow him. “You’re gonna want to take off that comforter and grab a gun,” he adds. Although his voice remains typically calm and undisturbed, he is winded and pauses between words.

  “What about Cindy?” I ask, letting the comforter fall to the floor. I pull the Colt from my pants, make sure it’s loaded.

  “She’s gonna have to wait here,” he says. “She’ll just get in the way. This shouldn’t take long, anyway.”

  “What if they start shooting? You may be able to talk to her like the retard whisperer or something, but once we’re gone, that shooting going on out there along with our absence is going to freak her out. She’ll scream.” What I don’t add is my own fears of leaving her alone. Of being physically separated from her. I can’t remember the last time she wasn’t within touch.

  “You think she don’t know what words like retard mean?” He snaps at me. “No wonder she never fucking listened to you. You don’t respect her.”

  “I didn’t mean it that way,” I say. “It’s just, it’s just … she’s gonna freak out.”

  I look over at her, and in the dim light of the lantern, Cindy’s head down to the left, her retinas up in her skull. Her hands dance nervously by the crown of her head and her mouth is working though no words come from it. I imagine her coming up with a retort to my insult, and the guilt I feel at having called her a retard sinks deeper as the love I feel for her deepens with it.

  Grant approaches and grabs Cindy by the cheeks. He does so gently so that she knows he wants her attention. Her eyes roll around and meet his, and I swear that I see her smile when her eyes focus on his face. The smile is confirmed by the laugh that barks out from her throat.

  “’Rant,” she says. “Gu-Gu-Rant!”

  “Yes, hon, it’s me, Grant. Your brother and I have to leave for a minute or two. You’re going to have to be a big girl and be alone for just a minute. Can you do that?”

  She reaches up and grabs a lock of his unkempt hair and emits another laugh.

  My cheeks burn, and my teeth grind almost painfully. “What the fuck?” I say, but I’m ignored. Cindy never recognized me this way. She only ever calls my name when she needs me it seems.

  “Can you do that for me, Cindy?” Grant repeats, and Cindy’s smile only grows bigger. She lets his hair go as he slips his fingers away from his cheek, and her eyes return to stare up at the ceiling, the smile plastered on her face like a mask.

  I’m in the middle of shaking my head when Grant’s fingers, which were so gentle on Cindy’s face, grasp my upper arm in that vice-grip he’s so good at.

  “What the fuck?” I say, and he lets go. From the nightstand he grabs the flashlight he used earlier when he went to the garage.

  We head outside and close the ruined door behind us. I hope that this doesn’t take long and Cindy doesn’t find her way outside. The bandits, only ten to fifteen yards away, still behind their truck, are taking occasional shots at the zombies. There’s a lot more of them than I had thought, but it’s hard to tell with only the glow of the fire for light. Things move out there in the shadows. You can see hints of it. You can hear it when the gunmen, who have to be running out of bullets, take breaks to squint into the inky black beyond the fire’s glow.

  The campfire smell is contaminated with the rotted stench of the undead. A few zombies lie at their feet, by their fire, their heads crushed in by rifle stock. The bandits themselves stand battle ready, their knees bent, eyes wide and searching. Every so often they raise their weapon and fire into the darkness.

  Perhaps the bandits want to die? If I were in their situation, I’d probably prefer the dark. Even though I’ve been stuck in it a couple times myself and know its maddening terror, I’ve survived each time. The undead could only guess at where I was with the noises I made, though how they see with those white-filmed and sunken eyes, I’ve no idea.

  Now that we’re outside I can see where Grant had disabled the Ford. Through the truck’s hood are three bullets, and both tires facing the house are blown out. Thick liquids have bled out onto the snow beneath the engine; stains of red and black and green, the blood of machines.

  “You guys’d be better off finding your way through them and somewhere safe,” Grant says as he passes them. “They’re no doubt coming from behind the house, too.”

  “Fuck you, asshole!” The closest one, a woman, says. She aims her gun at us, but Grant’s quicker.

  “You just mind your own business,” he says. “I think your hands are full as it is.”

  Grant’s words are prophetic. One of the undead, wearing a torn plaid jacket and brown pants, emerges into the light. This is a fresh one. No longer than a week old. His face has been half-gnawed off, and his throat is one massive hole of blood and torn veins and muscle. Because he’s fresh, he moves faster, and he grabs the bandit farthest away from us, knocking him back into the side of the truck’s bed and out of our site. Judging from the screams coming from the man, the zombie’s teeth have found flesh. I don’t want to think about it, so as his comrades scream and go to his defense, I turn around.

  Grant nods at me, a grim look on his face, and then we’re off to the garage.

  The double garage is separate from the house. Grant turns on the flashlight and illuminates what looks like an apartment or storage area on the small second floor. One of the two massive garage doors hangs open, a black abyss within awaiting our presence. With the sorrowful sounds coming from behind us it’s too easy for me to imagine what awaits me in that garage. The black hole, the cavernous entrance to the garage resembles the dread I feel, which grows as we come closer to it. I want to ask Grant what we’re doing out here, whether or
not he found a car, but my mouth is too dry and when I lick my lips it sounds like sandpaper.

  A shot from behind, more screams from the bandits, and I realize that Cindy is also screaming. Just as I said she would. I look at Grant and he must see the panic in my eyes, the desire—no, the need to go back to her and protect her, but he shakes his head no.

  “There’s a car in there,” he whispers. “There’s a family inside it. A father, mother, and their daughter. Looks to me like the dad started the car and let the engine idle long enough for them all to fall asleep, if you catch my drift.” I nod. “If the car still works, it’s no doubt out of gas, but there’s a second car hoisted up on jacks. Looks like someone’s been working on it. I siphoned what was left of its gas and hopefully that’ll be enough to get us long away from this.”

  “Wh—what about that family?”

  “You’re just a kid, so I don’t trust your aim with that pistol of yours. No offense. I need you to open the car doors. When the zombies come out, I will shoot them. Until they’re put down, I want you to head on over by the wall and remain there until I’m finished. Is that understood?”

  More screams from behind us. Grant looks up and I turn to see what’s happening, but all I can see from here is the bandits’ small fire. I imagine them fighting hand to hand, like in the movies, but the reality is probably so much more grim. I wonder why they didn’t take Grant’s advice and head out into the darkness. Or, for that matter, why didn’t they storm the house when we had left it?

  I guess they didn’t know our numbers. That doesn’t explain why they didn’t try for the garage themselves. Are they that stupid? Maybe they were too wrapped up with their predicament. Perhaps, deep down, they no longer wanted to fight to stay alive. Perhaps this entire undertaking of theirs was nothing but a suicide mission; a way to finish it once and for all without their even being aware of it.

  The idea sends shivers down my spine. Would I make stupid decisions like they had just to put an end to Cindy’s and my life? Would I unconsciously make decisions that would put me and my sister in serious danger just to end the constant hunger and need of a warm and safe place to live?

  The thought of Cindy sets my eyes to the house, where Cindy’s still screaming that throat tearing scream. I’m surprised her throat doesn’t ever bleed and I’m about to go back to her when that vice-grip returns on my upper arm. I’m turned around to look at Grant’s grim face.

  “If you want you and your sister to survive, we have to do this,” he says. “The zombies are drawn to their campfire right now, and soon the house, with your sister screaming like that. The sooner we get started, the sooner we can get the fuck out of here. Understand?”

  I nod. He’s right. This is just beginning. Within minutes this place will be full of the undead horde and if we don’t act now, it’s guaranteed that we will not live to see the sunrise.

  I nod a second time, and Grant lets go of my upper arm. He turns and heads into the garage with me on his heels.

  The garage reeks of oil, dust, and death. The rot is nearly overwhelming so I draw my shirt up to cover my nose. It barely works, and I’m reminded of better times when a friend would cut the cheese and we’d wear our shirts the same way, giggling like fools ignorant of hard living and day to day survival. Still, I nearly laugh when Grant turns around wearing his shirt above his nose to block out the smell, too.

  I would have laughed if it wasn’t for the cries of the ever hungry, the ever angry and insane. They pound on the windows and when Grant lifts the flashlight, I could see the daughter he had mentioned punching at the rear window. Bone stuck through the rotted flesh of her knuckles, leaving wet and smeared black marks on the glass. Her teeth reflected the dim light as they opened and snapped shut, opened and snapped shut. I wondered if she thought she could bite us through the car’s encasement. The Plymouth trembles, tilts and sways with the violent motion coming from inside.

  Another vehicle sits at the Plymouth’s side. It’s suspended in the air with jacks, as Grant said, and has no tires. It’s a Ford Mustang from the mid 1980s, but it’s hard to tell considering the lighting and the shape of the car itself. I wonder if the Jerry can that sits beside the car, a garden hose snaking around it, is the one Grant used to siphon the gas. All along the walls hang tools, old license plates, and hubcaps. In the corner, past the Mustang and beside a door leading out to the backyard, is a calendar with half-naked women.

  “Go to the driver’s side,” Grant says. “I want to take out the father first.”

  I take a wide step around the car as if the whole thing is diseased and contagious. When I come around to the driver’s side, the father is just as animated as his daughter, only he’s using his head and face to try and get through the barrier separating us. His method is also more successful as a spider web crack materializes across the glass. He also leaves the same thick, black substance behind, like old blood, but I know that it’s rotted skin, hair and meat.

  “Hurry up,” Grant says. “They’ve targeted us, too.” He shakes his flashlight for emphasis, and I reach out my hand. The car’s door handle is silver and reflects the flashlight in a blinding pinpoint. I reach out for it, but the sound coming from inside—

  Whump whump whump

  —makes me pull back. The anger, the hunger, the desperation behind the father’s slamming his head into the driver’s side window is just too much. I look up at Grant. He holds the flashlight up high so I can see what I’m doing. His other hand holds the Glock. His eyebrows raise along with his shoulders. He shakes his head, mouth slightly open as though he wants to say, “What’s the hold up?”

  Cold sweat drips down into my eyes. I again reach out for the door handle.

  Whump whump whump

  My fingers curl around smooth, cold metal. I pull, and the door creaks open.

  The effect is immediate. The father, well aware of his freedom, is suddenly at hand, pushing the door into my torso, knocking me onto my ass. I look up to see the thing stumble out of the car, its hair standing straight up with chunks missing, showing skull beneath. In his clenched fist are the clumps of hair, which appear to be still attached to the scalp. He looks around, his teeth a prominent feature of his face in the firelight. Like most zombies his eyes are sunken, but the flesh doesn’t look as dried out as the older ones. A month, maybe more.

  Somehow, in some dark corner of my mind, I understand why he chose to kill himself and his family. At least he did it in a peaceful way and didn’t turn a gun on them like I considered with Cindy.

  But I understand.

  Humanity isn’t going to survive. To think so is futile, a waste of time.

  There’s another side to me, though. One that laughs at this man and his weakness. As far as I can tell, this garage was part of his home, and probably had been for some time. It was out in the middle of nowhere. If they kept quiet and didn’t draw the attention of the undead they would have been fine. The only reason the father, and probably the mother too, decided to bring their existence to this grim end was because they couldn’t stand it anymore.

  These people failed, whereas I—with my handicapped sister—had travelled the countryside and survived not only the undead, but the insane living who do terrible things to each other.

  Up until now, we survived. Fighting all the way while these guys just threw in the towel.

  The zombie stands up straight, its teeth snapping open and closed, making loud clicking sounds. What’s taking Grant so long? Had he frozen in a moment of existential horror as I had? Or is he taking his sweet time just to piss me off, as he seems to enjoy doing?

  Standing now, the zombie turns toward Grant. Still Grant doesn’t shoot.

  “I’m sure you don’t want zombie brain and skull all over you,” Grant says in his bored voice. “You might want to move.”

  Asshole! But he’s right and I don’t know why I didn’t think of that, too. I roll away from the car. Even though I’m expecting it, the blast from Grant’s six shooter startl
es me, making my heart stop for a few seconds. I turn and see the zombie crumple against the interior of the Plymouth’s door and fall to the ground.

  Almost immediately after he’s down, the mother sticks her bushy head through, her teeth snapping open and shut just like the man before her. Her curly hair is so snarled that it looks like an afro. She has the same sunken eyes and black, yellow and purple flesh as her husband. She’s also just as quick. Her arms wave in the air as she lies along the car seat on her side. A hissing gurgle bubbles up from her throat as her teeth snap open and closed. I think that she’s reaching for Grant but can’t quite remember how to get out of the car.

  “Arlie,” Grant barks. “I need you to pull her out before I shoot her.”

  “Why, for Christ’s sake?” I ask. That’s the last thing I want to do.

  “We’re going to be driving in the damn thing. Do you want to sit with bits of her rotted brains all over?

  I shake my head and Grant’s next words are angry.

  “Then drag her out of the fucking car!”

  My heart pounds. I have touched the living dead once or twice before. Before Dalmer there was the biker gang and their insane leader. The leader is the man who had tried to rape Cindy before he met his ugly end. This happened the same night the gang met their demise. I was trying to get away from them. All their screaming—and yes, Cindy’s too—had drawn the zombies. I took Cindy into the woods, knowing there was a garage to hide in. But it was dark, like walking through ink. I walked straight into the thing, felt its cold flesh and the impossibility of its cold, rotted breath.

  The memory is more than unpleasant. I reach out anyway and wrap my hand into her curly hair and pull.

  If she were living, this would have worked. I realize right away that I probably should have gone for the collar of her blouse, up near her neck so she couldn’t bite me.

  The hair tears off her skull with a wet rip, and I hold nothing but her scalp all wet and juicy with rot.

  “Jesus H. Christ!” Grant complains.