All of this means that I was a sweaty, heavily panting mess by the time I got to the gates that led into Brandon’s subdivision. The sub was called—believe it or not—Elysian Fields. Doesn’t that sound like the name of a cemetery? Don’t you think that in this day and age developers would name a place to live something a bit more lively? The guard added to the funereal atmosphere. He looked a little like a walking corpse with a riot gun strapped across his back. I couldn’t tell if he was taking his sweet time to get to me or if he was really walking as fast as his arthritic legs would carry him. Either way I had lots of time to stand in the sun. Unless Brandon had a thing for really sweaty girls, I think me showing up on his doorstep soaking wet would put a stake in the heart of his seeming obsession with me.
The World’s Oldest Guard (WOG) finally reached the gate and squinted at me like I was there to commit some high-dollar-value vandalism. A safe bet any other time, actually.
“Yes?” he said.
“I’m here to visit Brandon Ikaros,” I told him, and gave him the address.
“Name?”
“Courtney Hart,” I said, keeping the exasperation out of my voice.
“You on the list?” he asked.
My resolve was slipping and I could hear the annoyance ratcheting up as I answered him. “Brandon said he’d put me on the list.”
He eyed me for a moment, trying to figure out if I was giving him guff. Finally, he turned and toddled off toward the guard booth because he did not have the list on him. Actually carrying the list with him to the gate would have been too much trouble, I guess. I gritted my teeth to keep my mouth shut. I could see WOG in the booth. His head was down, consulting the list, I’m sure, then he looked back up and met my eyes. I could tell he was debating whether or not to let me in even though he’d found my name. He frowned deeply and hit a button. The gate rumbled to life. I heaved my leg over the bike’s crossbar and made my wobbly way down the street.
WOG tried to say something to me as I rode past—probably the subdivision’s rules of conduct or the Geneva Convention or something—but I ignored him and kept riding. One can only spare so much of one’s time to annoying people.
The houses in the subdivision were nice, not too vomit-inducing. They all seemed to just skirt the McMansion designation. Brandon’s place was no exception. It was a two-story job with columns in front. Though it looked nice, it did lose points because there was a monster pickup in the driveway. It was raised so high, I’m sure I would need a ladder to climb into it. Not that I ever would.
I did note with approval, however, that there was a gun rack in the back window that was loaded up with a couple of shotguns. I couldn’t tell from my vantage point what types of shotguns they were. I guessed that, based on the income-level in evidence, they’d be top-of-the-line.
I didn’t bother chaining up my bike. I can’t imagine anyone in this neighborhood would deign to steal it. They’d be more likely to have it removed as an eyesore.
I mopped my face as best I could and rang the doorbell. Brandon opened the door a few seconds later, and I got goose bumps as I felt the twin effects of the house’s full-bore air-conditioning and his high-voltage smile.
“You’re here,” he said. “Great!” And he moved aside so I could enter.
Elsa already sat at the large dining room table with a glass of soda in front of her. She looked mildly disappointed that I’d shown. Probably wanted the boy all to herself. I’d have to let her know she was welcome to him. I sat down and started to arrange my stuff, and Brandon offered to get me a soda, too. I asked for a diet.
“Doesn’t look like you need it,” he called as he went into the kitchen. I exchanged a look with Elsa, neither of us able to believe he’d said that.
Brandon came back with my soda—diet, despite the fact that I’m apparently rail thin—and we got down to business. It only took about an hour to figure everything out. We weren’t blowing the lid off Watergate, after all. Afterward, I could feel us shifting into the part of the evening where we socialize. I was trying to calculate how quickly I could leave without looking like I’d been raised by a pack of ill-socialized badgers.
Actually, it wasn’t that bad. Elsa talked about rehearsals for the spring play. The drama club was putting on the umpteenth production of The Diary of Anne Frank. This year, however, the director, Mr. Richland, was trying to make the play edgy and relevant by having the Frank family terrorized not by Nazis. His grand theatrical vision was to have the family terrorized by zombies. It must have taken five whole minutes to come up with that bit of genius. When it was Brandon’s turn to introduce a conversation starter, he brought up some volunteer work he did with his Scout troop at an old folks’ home. Yes, Brandon was seventeen and still a Scout, an Eagle Scout, actually. I refrained from making any Brownshirt jokes; I didn’t think they’d go down very well. This topic actually generated a fair bit of talk since Elsa has a minor phobia about old people and I wanted details about their bathroom habits. What can I say? My interests are many and varied.
It fell to me to bring up something next. I couldn’t think of anything Nazi-related so I started telling them about the scene that Sherri, Willie, and I had come across earlier: the lady who’d been attacked by zombies in broad daylight. I meant it just as a story to tell. Certainly not funny or anything. Not too serious, either. I mean, odds were good that none of us knew the woman and besides, attacks like that happen all the time. Taking any one too seriously would be like getting all het up every time it rained or something. I could tell that Brandon really was affected, though. His cheeks were all red and he was kind of snorting. His mouth was a straight line. I’d never seen him angry before, but I’d be willing to bet money that he was angry now.
“Are you okay?” Elsa asked him. I’m glad she took point on that one.
He took a moment to answer, and when he did, his voice was low and strained. “I’m fine,” he said. “It’s just that stories like that . . . they get to me, you know.” I found myself nodding, just like Elsa, even though I didn’t think I did quite get it.
“It’s just that,” he paused and looked down at his hands. “It’s just that my mom . . .”
Oh, Christ. Now I felt like an ass. I mean, I didn’t know he’d lost his mom in a zombie attack. Really, am I supposed to go around all the time never saying anything because I’m going to rub some sensitive jerk the wrong way? It’s not like I did it on purpose.
None of that made me feel like less of an ass, of course. Now I felt sorry for Brandon, and that was definitely not how I wanted to feel about him.
“I’m sorry,” I finally said, my own voice sounding pathetic in my ears. “I didn’t know.” Stellar performance, Courtney. You are one top-notch human being.
A really loud silence followed that. I heard the kitchen clock ticking away in the other room. The ice cracking in my glass sounded like a gunshot.
Brandon steepled his fingers together and looked down at the table.
“Well,” he said, “now that we’ve broken the ice . . .”
I giggled nervously until he looked up and I saw his grin. Then I giggled for real. He and Elsa joined in, and I felt something go out of the room. It felt better. We actually started to talk after that—not just waiting for our turn to say something. A real conversation. It was nice. For a while. Until it was time to leave.
Elsa looked at the time on her phone and frowned. “I have to get going, guys,” she said. “My folks are expecting me back.”
“Me, too, I guess,” I said.
We all stood and started to move toward the door.
“Okay, you two,” Brandon said, “drive safe.”
Elsa said she would, and I must have had one of those looks on my face. It would have been easy enough for me to say okay, too, even though I hadn’t driven. To be honest, there’s a part of me that never wants to miss an opportunity to correct someone.
“What?” Brandon asked.
“Well,” I said, “I’ll ride safely. I
rode my bike.”
“Oh,” Brandon said, “you should let me give you a ride.”
“No, that’s okay,” I said, “I don’t live far from here and I don’t want to leave my bike.”
“It’s not okay,” Brandon said. “I can’t let you ride your bike home.”
“Excuse me,” I said. “You can’t let me?”
We were between Elsa and the door. I shot her a look, and I could tell she wanted to be anywhere other than where she was.
“What the hell does that mean?” I asked.
“It’s dark out, Courtney,” Brandon said, and I could tell he was as frustrated with me as I was with him. “And you told that story about the lady who got attacked today!”
“First of all,” I said, “I can take care of myself. Second, even if I couldn’t, you are not who I’d run to to save me. So, please, take your macho, chauvinistic bullshit and cram it!” I threw the door open and checked Brandon as hard as I could with my shoulder. Granted, he barely moved. I heard footsteps on the driveway behind me and turned to see Elsa getting her keys out of her purse. Thank God Brandon hadn’t come after me.
I hopped on my bike and was about to ride away when she spoke to me. “You know,” she said, “he was just trying to be nice.”
“Yeah, well,” I said, “he was being kind of a dick about it.”
She shrugged. “Maybe,” she said. “Do you want a ride? We could probably put your bike in the trunk.”
“No,” I said, “but thanks. I don’t have far to go.”
“Okay,” she said, and climbed into her car and pulled out onto the street.
I made my own way behind her. It was a lot easier getting out of the subdivision than it had been getting in. The security guard seemed eager to have me leave. That made two of us.
I heard the gate clang shut behind me and I rode out into the darkness on my way home.
CHAPTER SIX
This Is Too Much
I’m going to admit right up front that turning down that ride from Brandon was not one of my best ideas. Or, to put it another way: I was stupid to ride my bike home in the dark. The first mile or so was fine since I had to ride up Commercial Street with all of its traffic streaming by. The passing cars and the well-lit parking lots made me feel safe. Hell, I almost forgot that it was dark outside.
Almost, that is, until I turned off the main drag onto Madrona Street and slowly left the halogen lights of the parking lots behind. Madrona is a really steep hill at that point, and, because I refused to get off and walk my bike up the incline, I was a sweaty, huffy pile of humanity by the time I crested the hill. It’s not even like it goes down after that, it just levels out. But believe me, after that climb it felt like I was coasting. I realized that the hard work of climbing the hill had actually held back any fear I might have felt. Once I could breathe normally, that feeling started to creep in on the edges.
I turned down 12th Street toward my part of town, and the streetlights were few and far between. A lot of those had been busted out. I found myself riding from one insubstantial puddle of light to the next. The occasional car that did pass me wasn’t reassuring at all; their lights created weird swaths of shadow where anything could be hiding. For the most part, I rode in the middle of the street where, theoretically, it would be easiest for me to avoid any attacking undead. My heart rate spiked every time I had to swerve to the sidewalk because of a passing car.
Because my mind is a bitch and likes to conspire against me, I started to think about every zombie attack I’d ever seen, whether it was real or not. Real life scenes started to get mixed up in my mind with stuff I’d seen in horror movies. Dead, gray hands reaching out of the dark, rigor-mortised lips pulled back from hungry teeth. It didn’t matter if the shuffler coming after you was a complete stranger or your best friend or your mom when they had been alive, because after they’d been turned, all that mattered was their unending hunger for live flesh. Nothing was going to stop them till they got their teeth into you.
I found myself panting again even though I was on flat ground. I was tempted to stop there in the middle of the street and grab my pistol out of my bag and maybe shove it in my waistband like some TV show cop. Somehow the thought of stopping there in the dark was even worse than the thought that my gun was so hard to get to, which meant I was unprotected.
I shuddered as my mind flashed on the image of a pair of zombies crouching over a still-screaming woman and feasting on her guts. At least that was a scene from a movie. Thank God. I needed to get a grip on myself. I needed something else to occupy my stupid brain.
I started thinking about how I would tell off Brandon the next time I saw him. I’d start by pointing out I was very much alive and intact and in no way eaten by any stupid shufflers. Then I’d ask where he got off assuming I couldn’t take care of myself. I’ve probably been through more attacks than him and could handle myself better—
I nearly let out a scream when I rounded a corner and saw someone on the sidewalk. I was just a few blocks from home by that point and was really not expecting anyone to be out, especially not on foot. It was a woman and I relaxed a little when I saw she had her hands on her swollen belly. Jeez, what was a pregnant lady doing out here by herself after dark?
“Hey,” I called out, “are you okay?”
I swerved the bike toward the curb, and she turned more swiftly than I thought possible, her yellow teeth bared, her desiccated hands outstretched. I tried to maneuver the bike away from her, overcorrected, and toppled over. The next thing I knew, my cheek was pressed against the asphalt—that was gonna hurt like a bitch later. If there was a later. My legs tangled in the bike and I felt panic setting in, my breath coming fast and shallow.
I forced myself to slow down my breathing and to actually look at my legs. It only took a second after that to get them free and under me. By that time the zombie had made it out into the street and bore down on me. I swung my bag around and tore at the zipper. My pistol. I needed my pistol. I could hear the zombie right behind me, her shuffling steps so loud despite my ragged breath. There wasn’t enough time. Why did I have so much crap in my bag? Why couldn’t I find the pistol? It was the only gun-shaped object in there!
I became dimly aware of a rustling from the bushes behind me. Great, the expectant shuffler brought friends, probably her baby-daddy.
My hand wrapped around the pistol’s grip—just as I felt the zombie’s hand fall on my shoulder.
I heard a loud thud and felt a jolt travel up the zombie’s arm. Her grip dropped away from my shoulder and she fell to the ground beside me. A couple of guys in camo and face paint stood there with homemade weapons.
“Phil?” I yelled as I stood and backed away from the quivering zombie. I kept the pistol trained on her, even though my hands shook. My mind refused to accept this. Phil was the troll who lived in the back of the Bully Burger and washed dishes; he wasn’t the guy who came to my rescue.
Phil looked at me for a moment, like he was considering whether or not he should have saved me. Then, very swiftly, he raised his weapon—a baseball bat with nails driven through it—and brought it down on the shuffler’s face. She stopped quivering.
“Hey, Courtney,” he said as he straightened. “What are you doing out here?”
“Me?” I nearly screamed. “What the hell are you and Junior G.I. Joe doing out here?”
He shrugged. “Saving your ass, I guess.”
Fair enough.
“Who’s your buddy?” I asked.
Phil pointed with his bat. The end of which was covered in black zombie-brain-stuff. Nice.
“Cody,” he said. “Cody, Courtney. We work together.”
Cody gave me a chin nod. “Hey,” he said.
“Hey,” I said back.
“So, you know it’s not a good idea to be out joyriding by yourself after dark, right?” Phil asked.
Joyriding? “Jesus, am I going to have to take crap from you tonight, too?”
“Well, you have to
admit it was a pretty bad idea,” Phil said.
“Hey, guys?” Cody started to say. I cut him off.
“For your information, douche,” I snapped at Phil, “I was doing fine!” I brandished the pistol.
Phil looked unimpressed. “Yeah,” he said, “from the looks of things, that undead bitch was about to take that thing away and shove it up your butt. Then she was set to chow down.”
“Go to hell, Phil,” I said, not really having an answer to what was basically the truth. “I didn’t need—”
“Hey, guys,” Cody said again, this time urgently.
Out of his black face paint, Cody’s eyes were huge and too-white.
“What is it?” Phil asked. But Cody didn’t say anything, he just pointed down at the for-real-dead zombie.
All I noticed was the place where her face used to be. Thank God her matted hair covered the worst of it. I couldn’t see what freaked out Cody. I was ready to ask him what his beef was, but then I caught Phil’s expression. His face contorted into this horrified mask, his mouth open in a kind of disgusted grimace.
“You have to be shitting me,” he said in a husky voice.
The zombie’s swollen belly was moving. It looked like a puppy playing under a blanket. Of course, that’s not what it was. I couldn’t process what I saw. My mind felt blank—a long, silent scream filled it. The baby. It was still inside her and it wanted to get out and get at us. I could imagine its empty eyes and its gaping toothless mouth. I thought I was going to puke.
I looked back at the boys. They were right there with me.
“This is too much,” I said, and my voice croaked out of my throat. Cody nodded.
“We have to kill it,” Phil said.
I started to back away slowly. I wanted to back out of this whole stupid night.
“We can’t leave it,” he said. “It’s going to get out soon.” I looked at the zombie’s belly. A tiny hand pushed against the skin, its little fingers very distinct. He was right, the mother’s desiccated flesh wouldn’t hold up for long.
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