by G. D. Lang
“Your da-…” I caught myself, “the mean man said there were other survivors in here. Do you know where they are? It’s ok if you don’t” I said softly, making sure to avoid overwhelming her.
“He wouldn’t let me see them” she said, focusing her eyes on her feet as she wiggled her toes, most likely reliving in her mind over and over again what she had endured and trying her hardest to forget it. An innocence lost that will forever cease to return. “But when we first got here there was a man and a woman. They were really nice to me. I don’t know what happened to them.”
Before I could begin the search, I detected movement in my periphery, immediately making the hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention. A man dressed in full camouflage gear from head to toe emerged from his undeniably perfect hiding spot – a rack of waste-length camouflage coats and wading pants. I could’ve been inches from him and most likely not have detected his presence. The crossbow in his hand remained squarely trained on me as he methodically emerged from his makeshift blind.
He motioned towards Zoe while keeping eye contact with me, “Where’s the guy she was with… her father? Who the hell are you?” Zoe grasped my leg tightly once again, a show of trust not lost on me.
“Whoa, man. Listen, that guy’s dead. Didn’t you hear the shots?” With the size of the store and his location within it, I realized there was a good possibility that he didn’t. “But I didn’t kill him and that wasn’t her father, ok? He kidnapped her. He was not a good person.” I gave him a look as I glanced from him towards Zoe. He lowered his weapon, his shoulders relaxing as he gave me a quick nod; a nonverbal sign of understanding.
“I knew there was something off about that guy. I just couldn’t put my finger on it. Dead eyes, ya’ know?” he said, walking closer now.
I nodded in agreement, “now more than ever, I suppose.”
He chuckled slightly before a look of guilt crossed his face as he struggled to make sense of what should be funny and what shouldn’t in a time like this.
He looked serious now, “if you didn’t kill him, who did?” He squinted as he pondered the possibilities.
“I have no idea. Shots started flying and all I was trying to do was make sure Zoe was alright. It was pure luck that we didn’t get shot too.”
After fighting for my life and surviving against an undead nightmare with at least 100 pounds on me, the thought of dying from a single bullet fired by a human being brought forth a lot of anger that I tried quickly to subdue.
“If it wasn’t for Zoe telling me where to go, I’d probably be dead too.” I put my knuckles on the top of Zoe’s head, giving her a gentle noogie, “this little booger saved my life.” A smile, big and wide, shone across her face. The first real smile I had seen her form in our short time together.
“It sounded like only one shooter” I added. “All the shots sounded the same and they were spaced enough apart that it seemed like a single person but... I don’t know I can’t be sure.” I shook my head slightly, doubting myself now. “I don’t know the first thing about guns. I was just trying to get the hell outta there.”
He was in front of us now, slowly peeling away the oversized camo vest that seemed to swallow up his torso in one gulp. He had chiseled forearms which stood in direct contrast to a beer gut still in its infancy. The shadow of a moustache struggling to take root on his upper lip placed him at about 19 years old. The coat hit the ground to reveal a standard Sportsman’s Paradise employee t-shirt, complete with name tag and glaring multi-colored logo that could make even the most fleeting of attention spans focus intently on its jumble of creatures, guns, fishing poles, and mismatched colors. Its lack of beauty was almost hypnotizing.
“The first and only thing you need to know about guns…” he began “is that they’re loud. And those…” his voice trailed off as he pointed in the direction of the main entrance, his brain wanting to use the Z-word but his still-firm grasp on reality not allowing him to do so; “Those meatheads out there, they like the noise because noise means food. We’re flying blind out here. The TV, the radio… they’re all down, so the one thing you need to know is to be as quiet as humanly possible and you might have a chance. The rest of the employees took the guns but they left plenty of these babies” he said, bringing the crossbow to rest on his shoulder. “There’s a pile of them over there with plenty of arrows to go around. You’re welcome to what you can carry.”
He seemed wise beyond his years. An old soul with a look in his eye that seemed to suggest he’s seen things that he hasn’t quite figured out how to explain but with time he’d be able to accept.
“Did you get a look at the guy who shot at you?” he asked.
“No, why?”
“It’s probably nothing. My dad called me before the communication lines went down and said he was coming to get me and to stay put until he got here.”
I raised my eyebrows slightly at the thought of someone else being able to rescue us, still having no idea how bad this thing really was but too scared to find out. I remained in shock at the fact that I had been so wrapped up in my own misery and despair that I failed to notice a full-on undead uprising taking place right under my nose. It made me wonder what other kinds of things I may have missed over the years. With my attention span, it was probably a long damn list.
“You think your dad would shoot innocent people? A kid?” I asked. “Why would he do that?” My voice was getting uncomfortably loud but I couldn’t seem to help it.
“I don’t know man. Maybe he thought you were a threat or something. He just wanted to save me and get us out of here. Plus he’s been on a cross-country run so he’s probably a little strung-out.”
He turned slightly – as if looking for a sound that was yet to happen – and I saw it. I missed it the first time but now I could see the light glinting off the nametag on his shirt that read “Welcome to Sportsman’s Paradise. My name is Ricky. How may I help you?” My heart sunk as I remembered the inscription on the knife I had taken from the rotund trucker intent on taking my life – “To Dad. Love Ricky.” I closed my eyes and pinched the bridge of my nose with my thumb and forefinger.
“Was your dad a trucker?” I asked solemnly.
Confused, he looked at me, “uh… yeah. Why?” The beginnings of anger formed in his eyebrows and extended down to his lips, “how did you know that?”
I knew I had to choose my words carefully. “Your dad…” I shook my head, “he’s not coming to rescue you. I’m sorry.”
“Start talkin’ man,” he ordered. “I’m not playin’ around. How do you know that?”
“Sea-Land, right? That’s who your dad worked for?”
He nodded to confirm, anger giving way to fear, maybe even shock.
“Listen man…” I started, pausing to make sure the words came out right, “Your dad’s the reason I look like this, ok? He was a… what did you call them? A meathead. He was trying to kill me. I had no choice.” I extended my hands away and to the sides of my body, palms partially facing skyward in a gesture that was meant to reinforce my words. Zoe’s grip on my leg never wavered. I was hoping her presence would make this man think twice about going crazy on me.
I slowly removed the sheathed knife from my pants. “This belongs to you. I’m sorry.” He clearly recognized it but was hesitant to take it. His eyes welled up, tears were inevitable. He took it from me and pulled it out enough to read the inscription, which made him smile.
“I just gave this to him last year. He’s gone so much, I had no idea he actually carried it around with him” he said, his eyes glazing over as he was undoubtedly remembering better times. He raised his arms, clamping his hands together behind his head, trying to keep himself together. He lowered his hands, exhaling deeply, “Damn man, thanks. And seriously? No need to apologize. I’ve been up against a few of these things. You did what you did to survive. I can respect that. I appreciate you giving this back to me though.” He stared at the knife, no doubt remembering some amazing time tha
t he once shared with his father, “That means a lot.”
I simply nodded. “I need to hit the bathroom, can you watch her for me?” I asked, signaling towards the sweet little girl still super-glued to the only part of my body not in pain. Though if she kept holding onto me like this, I’d have to amend that statement. I got the feeling she wasn’t going to let go any time soon.
I looked at Ricky once again, “Zoe said there was another survivor, a woman? Is she still here?”
“Oh yeah, you mean Jane. She’s in the café making sure none of the food spoils. Come on, I’ll introduce you.”
I looked down, “Zoe, would you like to hang out with Jane while I use the bathroom? She’s really nice, I remember you saying that. Is that ok?” I was trying to be sweet but my bladder was about to burst.
Ricky sensed both her unease and my urgency. He leaned down and extended his hand. “Come on little munchkin, I’ll bet Jane has one of those big cookies waiting for you. As big as your head!”
Zoe smiled, “with sprinkles?” she asked excitedly.
“You bet kiddo, whatever you want” he smiled. With that, Zoe released her death grip on my leg and allowed me a long overdue bathroom break.
Ricky looked at me seriously, whispering “Listen, I don’t know what that guy is up to out there but don’t take too long in the bathroom, alright? We have the café locked down so if anyone tries to come in, we’ll be safe. The security cams are located in back of the café so we can monitor any movement from there, as long as the power stays on anyway. Here take this.” He handed me the crossbow that only a few minutes ago was aimed directly at my chest. “We’ve got more in the back.”
“Gotcha, I’ll be quick” I said and made a beeline for the bathroom, every second feeling like an hour. As I covered the twenty or so yards to the two doors somewhat cleverly marked “Bucks” and “Does” it struck me how unfamiliar with this place I was. Each dark corner held secrets that I was not privy to. A bump in the floor here, a creak in the stairs there. A sticky door hinge. Blinding overhead lights that bounce off a certain clothing rack at just the right angle to make you squint. I had no idea if these things existed. I wasn’t sure yet if that was a good thing or not. Familiarity does tend to breed complacency after all. I recall reading an article one time about how a large percentage of car accidents happen within a few miles of where the victims (or culprits for that matter) live. Perhaps the things I didn’t know about this place were the very things that would save my life. My brain couldn’t afford to take a time-out.
Chapter 6
I entered the bathroom door on the right, confident in my status as a “Buck” and made my way to a bank of urinals, scoffing at their lack of privacy screens in between one another. I guess it didn’t much matter anymore. I thought back to my childhood, cheering on the Seattle Mariners inside the concrete coffin known as the Kingdome where the urinals consisted of one long trough filled with ice. There existed no clear designation for proper alignment, like a bar with no stools. A mass of feet and elbows touching one another, foreign genitalia mere inches from my own. This seemed like the Ritz-Carlton in comparison. Though with this place I was shocked not to see a urinal cake in the form of a bulls-eye. They really missed an opportunity there.
I bellied up to the urinal furthest away from the door, next to the beginning of row of stalls painted the obligatory beige that populates substandard public restrooms the world over. As I unzipped, I noticed the vent hatch above one of the stalls was unhitched and hanging open, slightly flapping in a nonexistent wind. By the time my brain connected the dots, it was too late.
The gun cocking alerted me to his presence. If this was the same person who shot Paul in cold blood without asking questions and had attempted to procure the same fate for me, I knew I was as good as dead. I stood frozen in fear, too afraid to even tuck my genitals back into the safety of my pants. I found myself in what I’m sure is the most prone position a man could possibly experience, my hands struggling to figure out whether to reach for the sky or instinctually protect my most precious of assets. He grabbed me from behind, his left arm wrapping around my neck as the business end of the gun bore deep into the small of my back. Fear mixed with a call from nature that could no longer be ignored forced the urine out in full force, the satisfaction one normally experiences with such an urgent expulsion nowhere to be found, lost in the numbness that accompanies the realization that your life may soon come to an end.
I wanted to fight but could do nothing, my body otherwise detained until its base needs were met. I expected a “freeze!” or “don’t move!” but no such exclamations were made. Instead, the grip on my neck loosened, the cold steel on my back removed as a gravelly female voice painfully whimpered “help me…” A barely audible whisper that no doubt began in her brain as a full-fledged yell until the pain forced her vocal cords to involuntarily constrict. I quickly turned away, creating distance between us that would allow me to put everything back where it belonged. I was able to see her now, an unusually tall, wiry woman who looked as though she’d been fighting on the front lines of some unnamed war in a region I couldn’t pronounce. She grabbed her stomach not unlike a pregnant woman having labor pains, though she didn’t appear to be with child. A shooting pain must have found its way to her hands as the gun dropped to the floor discharging a single round which ricocheted several times before losing momentum, causing me to instinctually cover my head as if a tree branch were about to fall on me. How I thought this particular move would stop a bullet, I wasn’t sure. But it gave me a miniscule, if not false sense of security.
I readied myself to fight, taking a low stance with fists reluctantly held up for no other reason than I thought this is what one does in a situation like this. Fisticuffs not being a particular specialty of mine, I was relieved to see this lanky woman slowly fall backwards into the side of the nearest stall, a slight indent visible as she sank to the floor. I had managed to handle Jim Bob in the end but I wasn’t so naïve as to think I was now an assassin who could handle any perpetrator, undead or not, with ease. I’ll leave that kind of ignorance for the alpha-males who charge into a situation chests pumped and guns loaded, supremely confident of their own invincibility. I was out of my element to be sure but submitting to that vital truth is what I believe will keep me alive in the end. You have to adapt to the environment because it sure as hell isn’t going to adapt to you.
As her strength dwindled, her hands dropped to her sides revealing a large wound on the inside of her arm just below the elbow. It oozed with a yellowish puss that reminded me of a sinus infection I had several months back. The blood encircling the wound seemed to be clotting at a rapid pace, congealing before it even had a chance to drip to the floor. I could just make out teeth marks that created an uneven tearing of the skin. The crude hallmark of blunt human teeth forced to do the dirty work without the aid of a knife and fork. Indisputable empirical evidence of a zombie plague and an official end to the reality I had come to know. What happened next only intensified the point. All of the veins in her body seemed to be expanding and taking on a blue hue similar to the veins we all see on the inside of our wrists but much more pronounced. She began ripping at her face and neck as if trying to peel away the layers of the virus that had clearly taken root in her blood stream.
She strained to look at me and harder still to painfully yelp out “End it...Now, dammit! PLEASE!”She was crying now as her eyes began to turn yellow, her tears tinged with blood as she pleaded not for the sparing of her life but instead for the termination of it while it still belonged to her and not the virus. I readied the crossbow, taking a few seconds to familiarize myself with its intended mode of operation. Our eyes locked with an intensity befitting of the situation. We both knew what needed to be done and what would happen if it was not.
“It has to be in the head” she said with the conviction of someone with nothing left to fear. She pressed the tips of her fingers into her temple to belabor the point. This was no time for
miscommunication.
I nodded quickly, a sudden calm overtaking my body as I steeled myself for what needed to be done. The crossbow seemed to raise itself involuntarily. I took aim and prayed that she would soon be in the hands of whatever god she held dear. I hoped that if the roles were reversed she’d do me the same favor. With all of the experience of the novice (see: nonexistent) hunter that I was, I pulled the trigger before confirming my aim, the arrow barely grazing her left cheek as it plunged into the side of her ear. She was turning now. I rolled my eyes and loaded another arrow, the final arrow I was sure to tell myself, steadied my aim and hit her in the forehead a few inches above the nose just as the look in her eye turned from human to something else entirely. The arrow pinned her head to the stall just below the dent she had created moments earlier. The body went limp; a solemn but fitting trophy in a place where hanging heads on the wall seemed to be a birthright.