by James Dean
"Ha, clever man. I like you, Brandon, I do. I'm glad you practice law during my time on the bench. I always enjoy hearing your cases. Take care of yourself today. This feels like an auspicious day to me. Reminds me of September 11th. The hours after, though… nothing bad has happened yet. Stay safe. Figure out your car. Take care of your people. My office will be in touch."
"Thank you, Your Honor. I appreciate it."
The judge ended the call without saying goodbye.
*****
A relieved Brandon took his still-unlucky suit off and made more telephone calls. He contacted Abdul and Clarice as they drove through a congested city downtown to the courthouse. He told them to head back to the office, and to watch out for injured people, even though he felt crazy saying it.
He called the law firm and hoped Helen would answer, but no one did, and eventually he navigated their backdoor phone system until he could leave a message for Monique Gordon, his boss and chief partner in the firm. He explained the situation with his car, and the case, and said he'd be in as soon as he could manage it.
Over the course of the hour following, Brandon tried everything he knew under the hood of his Audi to get it going, but achieved nothing more than a trio of clicks from the starter. Task abandoned, he phoned the local garage.
"Mark's Garage," the young guy who picked up said.
"Hey this is Brandon Hughes, over on Park Street with the Audi Q7? Is this Blake?"
"Yeah, Brandon, hey. What's up?"
"My Q7 won't start. I can't figure out why. I turn the key and nothing happens. Are you guys busy today? Can you take a look at it for me? I need to get to the city."
"Seriously?"
"Um, yeah. Why is that strange?"
The kid named Blake whistled in amazement. "Have you been living under a rock? The last couple hours shit has gone cray-zee. I wouldn't go to the city in a stolen car armed with my uncle's rifle and a two by four."
"Crazy how?" Brandon asked as he sat on one of the stools at his kitchen island. He poured a fresh cup of black coffee into his mug from the French press and listened to the kid speak.
Blake got serious. "Pretty bad car accidents with folks driving like assholes downtown. Then--get this--the people who were hurt, attacked the paramedics and cops, and then the cop had to shoot to defend themselves. Bunch of people were shot in the process, and then some of those people attacked more people, and so on. They're saying the people are biting, like rabid dogs or something. Acting lethargic and tired, slurring their words or whatever. You ever see that old horror movie about the farm house and the people eating each other? You know the extras actually ate meat donated by a butcher during those scenes? Plus, the hospital put out calls that they were already 'over capacity' and that the emergency room was bogged down hard with people coming in."
"Wow. I had no idea."
"City isn't a good idea, friend. Knock offa work. But, I can totally swing by and take a look at your ride. Mark left the tow truck at the shop, and we're slow today. It's like a church over here. He's gone for lunch, but I can swing by, and tow it in if I need to start on it, and he can finish up when he gets back."
"That'd be terrific Blake. When can you get here?"
"You said Park Street?"
"Yeah," Brandon answered, daring a sip from the mug. He burnt his tongue on the too hot coffee. Shit I forgot milk and sugar.
"Ten minutes."
"See you then, bye.
"Bye."
*****
Nine minutes later Blake backed the tow truck into Brandon's small driveway and hopped out. The skinny kid with the Pirate 4x4 hat on wore a dirty pair of jeans and a shirt emblazoned with the logo for Mark's Diesel Garage. On the back was the number for the business, and the classy slogan; 'Drive diesel; get women. Mark's Garage.' Mark knew his target market reasonably well.
"Howdy," he said.
"Morning," Brandon returned. "Thanks."
"My pleasure. Keys in it?"
"Yeah, be my guest," Brandon stepped out of the kid's way and Blake strode past him into the garage. Without sitting in the car, he reached in and turned the key. It failed to respond for him as it did for Brandon. "See? Dead as a doornail."
"Try jumping it?"
"Yeah. I have one of those portable car jumpers there. Nada."
"Weird. Lemme look under the hood." Blake popped the hood and walked around to the front. He spent ten minutes examining all manner of connections and potential issues, but all he managed was confused look after confused look.
"Weird, right?" Brandon asked.
"Yeah. It should be starting. Well, this is beyond me. Lemme tow it back and put it on the computer. Maybe Mark'll be back and he can help. Want us to give you a call once we figure it out?"
"That would be great. Here, take my card," Brandon said, and handed the young man a business card. He looked at it and smiled.
"A lawyer. Cool. How's that treat ya?"
"It's a means to an end. I like it enough to bust ass and try and retire early, if you get my drift."
"Amen. I'm hoping to go to diesel school officially and move up. You know a good diesel mechanic can make more than 60 grand a year? Man… what I wouldn't give for that."
"You'd give the time it takes to learn how to be a good mechanic," Brandon said with a smile. "You'll be a great mechanic. You're good now."
"I do mostly auto body and welding, but still, thank you. I want to be a good mechanic. I need to take care of my girlfriend Kim. She's the best. Lemme hook you up on the car here, and we'll give you a ring as soon as we figure out the story with the Audi. Watch out for the zoooombeeeeez."
The two men shared a laugh, shook hands, and Blake left with a lanky wave out the truck window after hooking up Brandon's car.
*****
When the early afternoon rolled around, a bored Brandon sat in front of his laptop, scouring the local and world news. He had abandoned his suit for gym shorts and an old University of Colorado shirt. He'd moved his computer to the table on the patio just outside the front door. Under the shade of the old oak tree he drank more coffee and watched as the cars drove faster and faster by, the horns grew louder and more frequent, and as the sounds of distant gunfire grew.
He didn't need to read CNN, or the BBC to know that the world had gone more than a little bit crazy. He didn't need to read that phone services were crashing under the crushing weight of 911 calls. His phone sat useless beside his empty coffee mug, and the pack of stale cigarettes he fought against opening. The habit had been shelved for months now, but not being able to get in touch with people ate away at his will to stay away from the cigarettes.
He'd tried to call his mom, Blake at the garage, and two of his college buddies back in Colorado, but no connection worked. His brother's phone connected in New York, but he didn't answer. Zombies or not, civil unrest and panic ate away at the fabric of society like moths in a forgotten closet.
He didn't need to feel worried for his safety though. Zombies weren't real, and right beside that cup of coffee and the cigarettes sat his Ruger.
The gun was there because of a neighbor.
*****
After making his phone calls when the phones still worked right earlier in the day, Brandon changed into his gym shorts and his t-shirt and went for down to the corner park to shoot hoops. All his restless energy from the hearing that never happened had to be set free somehow.
He lived two houses from the small town park. The basketball court, and the tiny merry-go-round painted in almost every bright color imaginable was one of the things that swayed him into buying the house he did. When he met someone, and they had kids, this could be a wonderful place to bring them. It also helped that Brandon loved to play basketball.
So he went.
And he took jump shot after jump shot, missing as many as he hit for the better part of an hour. Every time he chased down an errant rebound he'd pause to gulp down water from his bottle, and watch as idiots drove around like maniacs, tryin
g to get home, or get the hell away from home. Everyone he saw looked panicked. All eyes were forward, or riveted on their kids in the car as they drove. The few people he saw on foot moved at a jog or faster and moved with purpose. There were no waves, no smiles, and no conversations to be had. He had to have been the only person doing something casual, and active. When he saw multiple police cruisers blast down Main Street, lights flashing and sirens blaring, he knew he had to get home. He gathered his ball, his towel, and his bottle, and walked home.
He found his neighbor standing on the patio, looking in the bay window to his kitchen.
"Hey, Doug. What's up?"
Doug spun and looked at Brandon. His eyes darted to the left and right, beyond Brandon at the street. He took a step back and nearly fell into the rhododendron.
"Hey. Uh, sorry. I thought you weren't home," Doug stammered.
Brandon's hair prickled, but he stayed calm. He remembered his gun safety courses. "Really? If you thought I wasn't home… why were you looking in my window?" Brandon took a few steps sideways towards his open garage. If he could get inside…
"No, no. You're right, I was in the wrong. I just… I saw your garage open, and your car gone, and just had to see if you were home or not," Doug's hands gesticulated back and forth, matching the earlier erratic eye movements. "I had to be sure."
"…Why? Sure about what?" Doug's answer would tell Brandon how this would go. A full sixty seconds of Doug shuffling his feet, licking his lips, and avoiding eye contact passed before Doug could answer, and when he did, it was the first honest thing he'd said.
"Because the grocery store is a mad house. People pushing people out of the way, yelling, fighting and stealing. Someone just got ran over in the parking lot, and they sat up after they died, and tried to get up, and some big dude shot them with a shotgun. I need food for my family. Not… not for today. But soon if this lasts. I saw one of those… people over on our street earlier. I thought maybe if you had left your food here, I'd… I'd take it. I've got Lindsey and Maddie and Andrea to feed. I figured… I figured I'd steal. I'm sorry. I'm scared."
"Sat up after they died? I don't know if that's what actually happened. But look, thank you for being honest. I don't have much in the way of food, Mr. Manning. I spend a lot of time on the road and in court. I don't appreciate the idea that you were thinking of stealing from me, but I do want to help you. I can't offer more than a few protein bars, or some boxes of spaghetti," Brandon said.
Doug shook his head and waved his hands defensively. "No. I couldn't. I'm ashamed. I need to keep moving. I heard they were downtown already. I'm sorry I bothered you. I'll figure it out some other way. Be safe, Brandon."
"I will, take care of your girls," Brandon said as Doug turned, and trotted away to his family's house a street over. The lawyer watched the anxious, scared man leave on unsure legs, and felt a sudden worry grow.
His pistol made that worry go away.
*****
The world slowed, and Brandon's singularly focused mind slowed with it.
Noon the next day found the pack of cigarettes empty, his throat hoarse, and the pistol in Brandon's hand, everywhere he went in the house. Life in town had died away like a concert hall two hours after the show's end. All that remained was distant echoes and trash that came from nowhere. Not one soul came and went on his street the entire morning the day after, and the few cars he saw passing by on Main Street more closely resembled low flying planes, than fast-driving cars. Civilization might not have ended, but it had been paused.
Doug Manning never returned, nor did his two daughters and wife.
The neighbor across the street never came back with her minivan.
So Brandon returned to the patio with his pistol and a glass of tap water. He switched the gym shorts for jeans because somehow that seemed safer. He listened to the rare chirps from the high flying birds as they watched a strange world go through the throes of what might be its death. Away from the madness of work, and the next house project everything in the world seemed easier, more beautiful. In the clarity that came of the end he still denied, he envied them, and their tiny wings, and their freedom from the weight of the world.
A small squeak of life echoed down the street coming from the park. Brandon stiffened and snatched the pistol off the table. He stood and looked down the way towards the merry-go-round and the basketball hoop. A small boy climbed on top of the low end of the seesaw and sat down. He grabbed the handle and stood, lifting the plank up with some effort. He sat down again, thumping the wood and his bottom into the sand. Brandon heard the solitary boy grunt.
You can't seesaw by yourself, little man. "Wait, is he alone?" That same worry crept back into Brandon's belly, even with the Ruger in his hand. "He can't be more than five. Maybe six."
Brandon took a step away from the empty pack of cigarettes and the table.
The kid stood once more, and thumped back down hard in the sand. He cried out louder than the first time, surprised by his bum's impact with the ground.
"I better go. See if he's okay. I mean, who else?" Brandon's worry flurried up and away with his mind made. He left his yard and jogged down the street, keeping his pistol aimed straight at the ground, and his eyes searching for anyone acting weird. Weirder than he was acting, at least.
"Hey, kid," Brandon called out when he reached the low wooden fence that circled the park. The kid stood like a spooked meerkat out of a burrow, and spun around to face him. The kid had bright brown eyes the color of amber in the sun. They hid behind narrowed lids, and the kid took a step away.
"Who are you?" the kid asked.
"I'm Brandon. I'm safe. I saw you playing down here, are you okay? Are you alone? It's not safe to be alone."
"My name is Taylor. You're supposed to ask me what my name is," the kid's eyes narrowed more, making him look more skeptical.
Brandon slid his pistol behind his hip. "I'm sorry, Taylor. That was rude of me. Where are your parents?"
"My mom is at work. Dad is coming. He said he'd meet me here."
"That's good. How long until he can get here?" Brandon looked around for a father on the way, but saw no one, and heard less.
"I don't know. He has been walking really slow since he got up this morning."
"Slow? How slow?"
The kid shrugged. "I dunno. Slower than you. And he was real quiet. Wouldn't talk to me at all, had his eyes shut mostly, so I said I was coming here, and he grunted, and I left. He's coming."
Brandon felt the worry return. "Was your father hurt? Was he… bitten?"
Taylor shrugged his narrow shoulders. "Maybe. He went out and left me home for two whole hours yesterday to get food. He said he got in a fight. Had to bandage his arm."
"Shit."
"What?" the little boy asked, alarmed.
"I think maybe you should hang out with me for awhile. Until your daddy gets here. So you're safer. Would that be okay?"
The skeptical boy looked around at the park, with its merry-go-round, slide, basketball court and swings. He looked back to Brandon and tested the waters.
"Only if you'll swing with me. You gotta push me though. I like to go really high."
"Deal," Brandon said with a genuine grin. Something about the boy's innocence made him feel… lighter. Like one of those birds. He followed the boy over to the swing and tucked the pistol into the waistband of his jeans at the back.
Then he put his hands on the seat of the swing, and walked backwards, lifting little Taylor into the air at the end of the chain until he reached head height. Brandon let go, and the boy swung down, away, and up, giggling in a furious fit of happiness. Brandon watched as the boy came back, kicking his legs in the air like an Olympic swimmer, trying to go faster, FASTER, FASTER!
Brandon helped, and pushed the boy again. Then again, and again.
As Taylor swung high and into the bright light of the June sun above the lawyer felt peace, if only for a moment. The sweet air of the day, filled with the aroma of th
e blossoming flowers fringing the park, mixed with the warmth and the laughter of the child put him in a place he'd only dreamt about. The focus on work; the single minded dedication to his house, his retirement, and the end game meant he glossed over the moments in getting there. The things he hadn't realized… he now pined for.
I miss my mom. I want to be a dad.
Taylor swung away, then up, and Brandon felt a sharp, piercing sensation in his left side, just below his armpit.
Did I just get stung? Brandon reached down to where he'd felt the pain, and looked at his hand. It came back wet with red blood. A sudden coolness flooded his entire body as Taylor screamed. Weakness struck him, and he went down on one knee, clutching at his side.
Taylor's backwards momentum carried the little boy's body straight back and into Brandon's head, knocking him over. He fell first to his side, then to his back with a splitting headache to match the wound in his side. He looked up to the orb of the sun and saw a tiny black speck of a bird cross the sky, disappearing in front of it. Blood flooded over his eye, drowning the sun and the bird away.
"Taylor, are you okay?" a man's voice bellowed. Brandon rolled over and looked to where the voice came from. An unshaven man wearing no more than red and black plaid pajama pants and a stained tank top came running. A bandage that flapped in the air clung around his forearm. A semi-circle stain of red lingered at its center. Maybe it was a bite. Maybe it wasn't. The father had a pistol pointed at Brandon, but his amber eyes locked onto his boy.
The crying boy fell off the swing and ran to his father. They embraced near to the ground, and the father picked his boy up.