by Tim Morgan
“We got in a huge fight. She started trying to guilt me into staying, saying shit like if I loved her I’d change my plans. I told her if she loved me she’d suck it up; it’s only six weeks. I’ll have a cell phone and talk to her when I can. Then she hung up on me.”
“Have you talked to her since?”
“No.”
“Did either of you say you were dumping the other?”
“No.”
Dave took a deep breath. “Dude, you gotta go talk to her before this gets any worse.”
“Bullshit!”
“Chris, Chris . . . listen to me. I know how you feel about her. She’s the hottest girl in our school.”
“If she gave half a shit about me, she wouldn’t be trying to talk me out of the trip.”
Damn, Dave thought, that’s a good point. He sighed and reached into the box for another shirt. “Fine. Don’t talk to her. When you see her at the prom sucking face with someone else, don’t come crying to me.”
“What kind of friend are you?”
“Say what?”
“I’m losing the best thing that ever happened to me, and you’re telling me not to talk to her? Come on, I thought you were my wingman!”
“Would you make up your mind?” Dave shouted. “Do you want to get back with her or not? If you don’t want my advice, don’t ask for it.”
Chris didn’t say anything. He folded his arms in front of his chest. “I wasn’t asking for advice. I just needed to vent.”
“Tell you what. Sleep on it. Think about what you’re doing. If you can’t go on without Traci, call her and talk it out. If you don’t give a shit, don’t call her.” Dave hated being blunt. He hated it even more with people like Chris, because he secretly feared getting his ass kicked and being stuffed into a locker for the weekend.
“Okay,” Chris said as he stood up. “I’ll do that.”
Dave was spinning the dial on his locker the next morning when Chris showed up. He leaned against the next locker over, arms folded across his chest.
“Hey,” Chris said.
“What’s up?” Dave said. “You talk to Traci?”
“Yeah.”
Do I really want to know? Dave asked himself, do I even care? “And what happened?”
“I said I wanted to talk things out. At first she was okay with it, but once I started talking about the bike trip this summer she flipped out on me, called me an asshole, and hung up on me. Oh, right before she hung up she said she hates my guts and hopes I die.”
“Why is she so mad?”
“She thinks I’m gonna do Meghan while we’re out on the road.”
“Would you?” Dave said it without thinking and regretted it the moment the words left his mouth.
Chris shrugged. “She’s kinda hot, I mean I wouldn’t say no to her. But I wouldn’t go after her on my own unless I was beer goggling or something.”
Dave winced inside. He wanted to say something in Meghan’s defense but kept his mouth shut. I shoot my mouth off and word will be around the whole friggin’ school that I like her. I’m not having any repeats of seventh grade again—once was bad enough. Dave grabbed his books and closed the locker.
“Let’s get to class,” Dave said.
Meghan unlocked the front door and stepped into her house. She dropped her backpack by the door as Rocket rounded the corner. She knelt and scratched the back of Rocket’s head as he wagged his tail and pranced in place. Grabbing Rocket’s leash she took him around the block like she always did.
Rocket was a cute little mutt—he was part beagle and part something else, they weren’t quite sure what. There was something comforting about coming home to a little dog that was always glad to see you, and always glad to spend time with you, no matter how bad a day you had.
Meghan half jogged and Rocket trotted alongside, stopping once in a while to lift his leg on a conveniently available mailbox, tree, or tire. Meghan figured they probably looked kind of funny running along, her and her little dog, especially when she was carrying a conspicuous green bag filled with his crap.
After Meghan unclipped Rocket, he ran to the kitchen and stood next to the refrigerator, marching in place and wagging his tail.
“You want a treat?” Meghan asked.
Rocket sat down and begged, tilting his head and reaching out with his left paw.
Meghan smiled and opened the refrigerator. She grabbed a cheese stick and split it in half. She tossed half to Rocket—he had no problem catching it—and she ate the other half as she checked the answering machine. Nothing. She flipped through the mail. There was a new issue of Entertainment Weekly. She took the magazine and headed for the upstairs bathroom.
She switched the light on and almost dropped the magazine. Her straightening iron was sitting on the sink. And it was still plugged in. And it was on. “Karen!” Meghan sighed. She unplugged the iron and set it aside where it could cool while she read her magazine.
Karen got home about a half hour later. Karen was four years younger than Meghan, and she had a habit of rifling through Meghan’s stuff, especially after Meghan went to school. Karen dropped her backpack by the door and petted Rocket as Meghan came downstairs.
“Were you using my straightener?” Meghan asked.
“Uh, yeah,” Karen said.
“Could you put it away when you’re done with it?”
“I didn’t have time this morning.”
“Then you need to get up earlier. It’s been on all day! You’re going to ruin it, or start a fire.”
“All right!” Karen threw her hands up and stomped up the stairs. “Stop yelling at me!”
“I just want . . . ” Meghan started.
SLAM!
To make it through one more year with you, Meghan thought. One more year, then I’ll only see you on holidays. Bitch.
Things had been tense between them since Meghan came home early and caught Karen in the house—alone—with a boy. Meghan knew him as a sophomore since he rode her bus; she didn’t know his name and didn’t want to. He was the typical underclass idiot with a ponytail and a big mouth. Karen had her shirt off, and the two of them were giggling as Karen was trying to undo her bra.
Oh no, Meghan thought, you’re not doing this, not on my watch. She stormed in, grabbed the boy by the base of his ponytail, and dragged him out into the living room. She got right into his face. “I catch you with my sister again,” she growled, “and snip!” She made a motion like a pair of scissors with her fingers. The sophomore nodded, the fear of God in his eyes, and he hit the road without putting his shirt on.
Karen turned on the waterworks. Please oh please don’t tell mom and dad. I love him, Meghan; don’t you remember what it’s like? Meghan remembered, all right. Meghan remembered boys trying to take advantage of her the same way, and marched right down and told mom when she got home. Mom told dad.
Dad was quiet for a long time—so long it made Meghan nervous, and she expected him to explode any moment.
“You’re angry?” Karen asked.
Dad’s voice was calm but Meghan could hear him holding back the fury. “Not angry. Disappointed. Do you understand what you’re messing with? Do you realize what you could get yourself into?” Meghan decided she’d heard enough and went downstairs.
She set her chemistry book on the bookshelf her dad made for her in front of her stationary bike and put her headphones on. Meghan started pedaling. She flipped through the text. She found exercising and listening to music while she studied actually helped her remember things. And it helped her drown out Karen’s wailing.
Dave got out of work a little early and went down to the ice cream stand at the other end of the mall. He ordered a lime freeze that he sipped while he walked to the music store where he could browse for used CDs. The week before he saw a rare Cold Play disc that he was hoping to snag before anyone else found it; in a busy mall it would have flown off the shelf. When he got to the store he almost dropped his drink.
Standing in the use
d CD section was Traci. Her blonde hair was pulled up into a bun and she was wearing her softball jersey. She was one of the hottest girls in the school, and talking to her with Chris around was tough enough. This is going to be awkward, Dave thought. Don’t make eye contact, maybe she’ll go away . . .
He walked into the used CD section. Traci looked up and smiled at Dave. Dave smiled back and managed to say, “Hi. Sorry about you and Chris.”
Traci’s face flushed. She scowled, digging into Dave with her eyes. “Don’t be sorry for me. Be sorry for him. He’s the one who screwed things up.”
Dave found the CD he wanted. He took it out of the rack. “What happened?” he asked.
Traci ran her hand along the side of her head, smoothing hair that was already perfectly smoothed. “It’s a long story.”
“You want to talk about it?” Dave asked. She’s going to tell you to go away . . .
“There’s not much to tell. He cheated on me.” “Whoa!” Dave said. That’s the best I can do? Whoa?
Traci blinked tears away. “Yeah, I know. It sucks. I can’t believe he did this to me. After all we’ve been through.”
“Neither can I,” Dave said.
“He’s begging me to forgive him,” Traci said. “You know what sucks even more? I want to. I really do. But I can’t.” She wiped her eyes and left the store.
“Traci,” Dave said. She turned around. “Wait up—let me pay for this.” Dave paid for the CD and walked out into the mall with her. “That’s awful. I never would have thunk. I mean, he never said anything about that to me. What happened?”
“He went to a party with the guys on the track team. There was beer. There was hard stuff. And she was a freshman in college.” Traci didn’t try to hide the rage in her voice.
“That’s rough,” Dave said. “Is he sorry?” Why don’t older women come onto me?
“He says he was drunk. I’m sorry, but that’s no excuse. How could he do this to me?”
“I don’t know. Sometimes I don’t know what that guy’s thinking.” Dave finished his freeze and threw the cup in the trash.
“When you see him, tell him to stop calling me, okay? It’s over. And there’s no getting it back.”
Dave nodded. “Okay. Take care of yourself.” Dave pulled the receipt for his CD out of his pocket and scribbled his phone number on the back. “This is my number. Let me know if you need anything.” He said it with sincerity, one human being honestly concerned about another.
Traci smiled. She nodded. She took the paper. “Thanks.” She gave Dave a hug and they walked to their cars.
FIVE
Secure Location, Midwest United States (Science Journal) The Mumbai virus continues to spread across the world with no sign of relief in sight. As the global outbreak reaches its sixth month, an estimated forty to fifty percent of the human population is infected by the virus. There is no known cure for the virus or its baffling condition, dubbed necrotic somnambulism.
Infected display dispassionate behavior and appear to be unaffected by pain. They display no emotion but become violent when approached and are extremely dangerous. The public is urged to use extreme caution outdoors, and avoid groups of infected whenever possible.
One of those things was outside the gas station last night. Chris was on watch. He said it was just standing there, moaning, and it wouldn’t go away. He watched it for a couple hours and it just wouldn’t leave. Near dawn he went out with a wrench and bashed its head in. We were all in shock, but Chris took it harder than me and Dave.
We told him it’s okay, that those things are already dead. You can’t kill something if it’s already dead. You stop it. And that’s what Chris did. He stopped that thing. He stopped it from hurting anyone.
I’m worried about him. Six months ago he never would have dreamed of pulling a stunt like that—he would have waited in the office with us until that thing left. What’s happening to him? For that matter—what’s happening to us?
I just want to get to the outpost at Muscatine, where we’ll be safe.
The day started out overcast. The morning air was heavy and still. Dave was in the lead this time. He decided to set a moderate pace this morning. The night before hadn’t been restful, what with Chris setting out to dispose of a zombie. What the hell was he thinking? If there were more of them Chris could have gotten himself killed. Or he could have drawn a flock of zombies back to the gas station. That would have been great. Trapped in a gas station, with a moaning horde just outside. Dave shuddered at the thought.
He turned to Meghan. “How far to Muscatine?”
Meghan glanced at the GPS mounted on her handlebars. “Two miles. We should be there in about fifteen minutes.”
Dave looked up the road. There were a few cars driven off onto the shoulder, their doors left open. God knew what happened to the occupants. He glanced over at Chris. “How’re you doing?”
Chris didn’t say anything. He just nodded and flashed a thumbs-up. Dave turned his attention back to the road.
Chris had no problem keeping up with Dave’s leisurely pace. Compared to how they had to ride through the horde the other day, it was rather peaceful. It was mostly flat road with some rolling hills. The ride was meditative for Chris; being able to focus on keeping at Dave’s seven o’clock, watching the road for potholes and debris; keeping pace with Meghan in Dave’s five o’clock position did wonders to keep his mind focused. If his mind were active, he wouldn’t think about caving in the zombie’s skull with the wrench. Long as he didn’t think about it, maybe it didn’t happen.
He reached up and put the straw from his Camelbak into his mouth and drew some water. It tasted faintly of plastic. He swished it around before he swallowed. They ran out of toothpaste before the soldiers let them across the roadblock, and he couldn’t remember the last time they’d actually showered. Hygiene was more a matter of sponge bathing when they could, often with cold water. Sometimes there would be soap. Chris hoped the outpost at Muscatine would bring a hot meal and warm water for a real shower . . . maybe even a chance to do some laundry.
“It should be just over the next hill,” Meghan said.
A military outpost would mean food and safety. Maybe even a telephone. Except for Meghan’s laptop, they were effectively cut off after Dave fried his cell phone in the refugee camp. Chris couldn’t hold it in anymore—he let out a whoop and picked up the pace, racing ahead of Dave.
“Last one there’s a rotten egg!” he shouted as he passed.
“You’re on!” Dave shouted, pumping his legs faster in response to the challenge.
“First one eats it!” Meghan shouted. Dave and Chris took a lead on her. They were laughing as they disappeared over a rise.
“Wait up, guys!” Meghan called. The military might stop them before letting them into the outpost. If they were together things would probably go a lot more smoothly. Her thighs and calves burned as she pushed herself over the rise and saw Chris and Dave stopped in the middle of the road. She coasted down the hill, right past them.
“Come on, guys! We’re almost there! It’s right—” When Meghan looked up she stopped talking and hit her brakes, stopping in the middle of the road.
There were a couple of green military vehicles in the road—a few trucks, a couple Humvees. Sprawled out in a semicircle around them were bodies—hundreds, probably thousands of them. Brownish puddles. Parts of bodies. A couple craters. As the wind changed direction the smell of decay wafted toward them. Meghan made the sign of the cross and prayed silently.
“What happened?” Chris asked.
“Looks like they got overrun,” Dave replied.
The three of them sat there a few minutes, looking at the carnage before them. Nobody said anything. They glanced sideways at each other, making uneasy eye contact.
“Nobody’s moving down there,” Chris said.
“Think there’s anyone alive?” Meghan asked.
“I can’t tell,” Dave said. “If there’s anyone alive, they’re
staying pretty still.”
“That town could be full of zombies,” Meghan said.
“I don’t think so,” Chris said, “if there were zombies down there we’d see them moving.”
“There’s one way to find out,” Dave said. He pushed off and started rolling toward the town.
Dave slowed as he approached the first of the bodies, about a quarter mile from the military vehicles. As he approached the silence was broken by the buzzing of flies, which built to an annoying volume the closer he got. Brownish fluid stained the road near the bodies. Some of the corpses sported writhing footballs of maggots, the sickening sound of chewing faintly audible over the buzzing of the flies.
Dave kept his distance from the bodies while watching the road. The last thing he wanted to do was be within reach of a zombie. There were potholes and bits and pieces of broken bodies strewn everywhere. As Dave got closer he saw the bodies were stacked two or three deep. The air reeked of something like dead fish. Dave found the stench disgusting, but nowhere near as bad as the smell of the zombies.
When he got to the first Humvee, Dave stopped. The roof sported a machinegun—he couldn’t tell whether it was loaded or not—pointing up in the air. The windows were caved in, dried blood running along the doors and across the hood. The sides of the road were lined with Jersey barriers topped with razor wire. The barriers stretched along at least a couple hundred yards. Dozens of bodies were hung up on the wire, chunks of rotting tissue and dried blood smeared down the concrete. And flies! Flies everywhere, so many Dave had to pull his shirt over his nose to keep from inhaling them.
Dave looked inside. There was dried blood on the seats and something meaty on the floor. The radio handset lay on the road beside the Humvee. Dave set the kickstand down and looked inside. He had no idea what he was looking at, or looking for. Maybe the radio would still work, or there would be a gun on the floor. Not like he had any idea how to use a gun if there was one, but just having it would make them all feel safer. Even better if there were bullets. Meghan pulled up alongside and scanned the area. Chris was close behind, looking around on the ground. The clouds were starting to burn off and the sun poked through. “Welcome to Muscatine,” he said.