by Tim Morgan
When he walked out of the alcove he realized his clothes smelled faintly of pot. Great, he thought, this is just friggin’ great. I don’t remember smoking anything last night, but I may have . . . no, I drew the line there. Everyone else was but I wasn’t. I had the schnapps but not the dope. I think. There’s one thing I got right.
On his way to the elevator he passed one of the cleaning crew, a tanned guy with narrow eyes and a scowl on his face. He stared at Chris as he walked past. Chris nodded. The cleaning guy returned the gesture. Chris downed the rest of the Snickers bar fast as he could, barely chewing. He pressed the call button on the elevator and checked the time on his cell phone. Nine o’clock. Did I call home? He scrolled through his dialed numbers. Yes, I did. Eleven thirty, talked two minutes. That’s two things I got right. I didn’t touch the pot and I called home so Mom and Dad won’t worry. That counts for something, right?
He drank the rest of the Gatorade while watching the LEDs above the elevator change, floor by floor, showing the elevator’s progress. When the doors finally opened Chris stepped inside. He hit the button for the lobby then half sat against the rail in the back of the elevator. As the elevator began descending tears rolled down Chris’ cheeks. He flipped his phone open and went to the contacts list.
On a normal Saturday, Dave would have been up about seven thirty. He slept in that morning. He got in about two in the morning, and Dad was in the den playing Left 4 Dead. Chris stopped, told them about the prom: what he had for dinner, who he sat with, the late night trip to Salem. He played the game with his father for a while then went to bed.
He couldn’t believe the prom was last night. The pictures were going to look awesome, and he finally moved on Meghan. Her being receptive to the moonlight kiss not once but twice made the whole expense of getting the tickets and paying half of the limo worth every penny. His thoughts turned to Chris, and hoping his friend didn’t do anything majorly stupid. Then his cell phone rang. Dave picked it up. Speak of the devil—Chris’ name was on the caller ID.
“Dave,” Chris said. His voice was raspy and dry and he sounded like he was sick.
“Dude,” Dave said, “you sound awful.”
“I feel awful. Hey, I need a favor. Can you come get me?”
“Sure, where are you?” Dave expected him to have landed at someone’s house on the other side of town, or maybe in Tewksbury or Burlington or Lowell.
“I’m at the hotel.”
“What hotel?”
“Where we had the prom.”
“You’re at the Long Wharf? In Boston?”
“Yeah.”
Dave hesitated. “You didn’t tell me you were in Boston. What are you doing there? Don’t tell me you spent the night with . . . ”
“Can you just come and get me?”
Dave sat up. “You didn’t!“
“Would you please hang up the goddamned phone, get down here, and get me?” Chris demanded, straining to be polite.
“You did?”
“Dave, I need to get out of here—now! Just come down here and get me!” Chris snapped. Dave realized there was agony in his voice.
“Okay, I’ll be in as soon as I can.” Saturday morning traffic was typically light, so he could probably be there in half an hour. He’d need to Mapquest it and print directions, and maybe grab a granola bar for breakfast.
“One more thing.”
“What’s that?”
“You need to bring me some clothes.”
“Clothes?” Dave asked, stunned. “Okay, I have to come into Boston to pick you up, and bring you a set of clothes? Do you need anything else?”
“If you’ve got a spare pair of shoes . . . ”
I’d better get him off the phone before he asks for the fillings out of my teeth. “I’ll be there soon as I can. I’ll meet you in the lobby.”
“Thanks, dude! Someday I’m going to make this up to you.”
Yeah, Dave thought as he snapped the phone closed, you sure will.
Dave managed to make it into downtown Boston in about thirty minutes. He didn’t tell his parents where he was going—just that he needed to pick Chris up. The roads were pretty much empty, and with the office workers off for the weekend navigating the streets wasn’t bad either. He pulled into the entryway and parked his Neon next to an Acura. Getting out he grabbed a gym bag out of the back seat. The doorman walked over to Dave.
“Good morning sir,” he said, gesturing to the car. “Could I take your bags?”
“No, I’m just picking someone up,” Dave said.
“How long will you be here?”
“He’s right there,” Dave said, pointing to the lobby. Chris was sitting on a chair, a distant look in his eyes, his hair disheveled. The doorman said something about how Dave couldn’t stay long, but Dave let it go. He didn’t run, but he walked quickly to Chris.
Chris rose as Dave walked in. “Man,” Chris said, “am I glad to see you.”
Dave handed the duffle bag over. “What happened last night?” They started toward the men’s room just outside the lobby.
“It’s a blur,” Chris said. “I don’t remember much after we got up to the room.”
“What do you remember?”
“There was booze, some people were smoking dope.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
“You drank, though?”
“Yeah. Wait here—I’ll be right out.”
Shit, Dave thought. He didn’t. He wouldn’t. “You didn’t do what I think you did, did you?” Dave knew what the answer was going to be.
Chris looked at Dave for a moment. Then his eyes found the floor. “I’ll be right out.”
Dave was stunned. He ran a hand through his hair. Again? What is it with this guy? Is he stupid or something? If he’d just listen to me once in a while . . .
Chris came out a few minutes later. They walked to the car, got in and drove to the highway in silence. They were on 128 in Burlington before Dave spoke.
“You did, didn’t you?”
“Yeah.”
“Really? After everything you went through to get Traci back? Was it worth it?”
Chris’ eyes found the floor. “No,” he said softly.
“I don’t understand you. Sometimes I wonder if I even know you.”
Chris didn’t say anything.
“Dude, you’re HIV positive.”
“I know.”
“Were you protected?”
“For most of it, yeah.”
“Most of it?”
“I . . . we . . . ”
Dave held up a hand as he turned onto Route 3. The Burlington Mall zipped by in the passenger window. “Nevermind—I don’t want to know. What’s Traci think?”
“She said it’s over. We’re just friends now. There’s no going back.”
“Is that what you think, or is that what she said?”
“It’s what she said. I tried to tell you last night.”
Dave looked at Chris. He recognized the pain in his friend’s eyes and got off at route 62. He headed toward the Middlesex Turnpike. “Dude, I’m sorry.”
They drove along, houses and stores passing by. “Why are you sorry? I’m the one who screwed up. When Traci told me she only wanted to be friends, it was like, the biggest let down. All I could think of was how I wanted her to be with me, how I wanted to get through this with her. Then she tells me she only wants to be friends. It hurt. And all I could think of was hurting her back.”
“That was dumb,” Dave said.
“I know. I should have listened to you.”
They drove the rest of the way to Chris’ house in silence. Dave stopped the car and left the engine running.
“I’ll get your clothes to you a little later,” Chris said.
“Don’t worry about it.”
Chris got out of the car. Dave saw Chris’ parents in the doorway; his father’s massive arms were folded across his chest. Chris’ mom was peeking out the sidelight, saying somethin
g. He was about to put the car back into gear when Chris poked his face in the passenger window.
“Dave . . . ” Chris said.
Dave turned.
“Thanks. I owe you big time.”
Dave nodded. As Chris stepped away he put the car in gear and drove away.
SEVENTEEN
A half hour out of Milan they stopped hearing the moans from the zombies and they were on clear road. Chris was amazed that he was still riding at noon—it was still tough with the aches all over his body, but at least the queasiness had passed. His eyes scanned the countryside around them; this leg of the trip brought them down side roads since the highway would have swung them out of their way. As far as he could see on either side were fields and farmland. In the distance behind them dark clouds were building.
The air was hot and humid. Chris drew some water from his pack; he got a little bit of a trickle. “How are you guys doing for water?”
“I’m pretty low,” Dave said.
“Me too.” Meghan adjusted her sunglasses. “There are houses around here. Maybe there’s running water.”
Chris nodded. “We need to refill,” he said. He really didn’t want to stop, but they left the tower in Milan with such haste they didn’t have a chance to fill their water packs. He guessed the temperature was easily 80 degrees, and it would probably get hotter. Riding in this weather without water would be insane, and they couldn’t afford heatstroke. Not out here.
There were a few houses scattered along the road. The first one they rode up to was boarded up tight; without tools they weren’t getting in there. They had better luck at the next one. If they were home this would have been a pretty big house; it was two stories with a wrap-around porch. The windows on the lower floor had been smashed, and there were bloody handprints on the exterior walls and a swing was torn from its braces and shredded. The front door stood slightly open and askew.
Dave took a closer look at the walls. There were bullet holes in the clapboards. Oh no, he thought, this doesn’t look good. Chris and Meghan were off their bikes and almost to the front steps when Dave dismounted. He looked around and realized they could see a good mile in every direction and nothing was moving except the grass blowing in the breeze.
The stairs groaned with each step. Chris would stop, hold his hand up, and listen. Then he would wave them on, take another step, creak, wait, listen . . .
Dave couldn’t take anymore. “What are we? The special forces?” He strode forward and pushed the door open. It twisted right off the last bit of hinge holding it on and fell to the floor. If anything was in the house—zombies or nervous homeowners—they knew they were there now, and Dave was right in their sights. The stench punched him in the nose and a cloud of fat, black flies swarmed all around him. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.
He entered the house with a hand over his mouth, followed by Chris and Meghan. There was a staircase to the second floor before them; to the left what looked like a dining room and to the right was a family room. Dave moved to the right.
There was a body on the floor. Its clothing was shredded and covered in blackened blood. One arm was missing. Zombie, Dave guessed. The floor was covered with black rivulets of blood and scraps of clothing. Footprints—some barefoot, some from shoes. The far wall had an entertainment center with a modest TV in it, complete with baseball trophies on top. Family pictures were still hanging on the walls, as if the faces would watch over the house while everyone was away. Blood was sprayed and splattered all over the walls. “This place was a slaughterhouse,” he said in a distant voice.
Meghan checked the dining room with Chris right behind her. Shards of bloodied glass covered the floor and it made a crunching noise as she walked. The table was smashed to splinters; from the size of it Meghan figured it would fit seven or eight people at it. On the other side of the room a china cabinet was tipped over. Its contents were shattered and mixed with the blood and glass on the floor. She reached out and tried the light switch. Nothing. “Power’s out,” she called.
They met up in the kitchen. There were lots of cabinets, a walk-in pantry and a smaller table. The cabinets were wide open and mostly empty but there were some things left behind. Meghan checked for useful items. Ketchup. Spaghetti sauce. Beans. A couple jars of pickled eggs. Meghan took one out and held it like a scientist examining something alien.
Dave went to the refrigerator and opened the door. The light didn’t go on, but he stuck his head in anyway and withdrew it immediately. “Whew!” he shouted. “Don’t go in there.”
“We ought to eat those,” Chris said. “Eggs have a lot of protein.”
“These haven’t been refrigerated!” Meghan said. “They’re probably bad.”
“They’re pickled, they won’t be bad.” If we’re going to get through this, he thought, you need to loosen up. Chris went to the faucet. Air rattled the pipes for a moment, then spurts of water came. They had just finished filling their packs when they heard a door slam on the second floor.
Chris pointed to the ceiling. Meghan and Dave nodded. Chris made a stabbing motion with his hand. Meghan and Dave nodded again. They rifled through the drawers in the kitchen. Chris hoped they’d find a cleaver, or a least a big knife. All they found was a steak knife. It was short with a sharp point and a serrated edge. Dave held it out and Chris took it.
He walked as quietly as he could, but the junk on the floor still crunched lightly as he walked. Through the dining room, to the stairs. Up the stairs, one at a time they went. The three of them hugged the wall, Chris in the lead, steak knife in hand. Dave was right behind him. Chris was sure Dave was ready to run for his life at the right moment, and kill Meghan on the way down the stairs. He tried to push away the achiness and his thirst and the screams of cells in his brain insisting he not go up those stairs.
He thought about being safe back at home. When this is all over we’ll laugh about it. Ha, ha, remember when we were in that house in Illinois? Or was it Indiana? And you were going to kill a zombie with a steak knife? Ha, ha, you should have seen your face. The pounding of his heart and the sweat running into his eyes and the aches throughout his body brought him back to reality. I am not safe at home. I don’t know what’s up there. I have never been this scared.
The stairs led to a narrow hallway. There was a bathroom right in front of them, its window open and the curtain blowing in the breeze. To the right were two bedrooms, doors torn from their hinges. To the left was another room, its door shut. Chris eased his way down the hall, walking on cat-feet. He cocked the steak knife in his arm, ready for whatever might be on the other side of that door. His hand found the knob. Slowly, deliberately He turned the knob. He counted one, he counted two, he counted THREE! and threw the door open.
He expected something to burst out of the room, attacking with flailing hands and gnashing teeth. Nothing did. The room was painted a light pink color with teddy bear wallpaper. A bassinet sat against the far wall. A banner between the windows read WELCOME HOME MARIA. Chris lowered the knife.
Dave checked the door on the way in. It moved freely on the hinges; the windows in the room were all open; there was a nice breeze blowing through the room. He walked to the bassinet with Meghan at his side. They braced themselves to see something, perhaps a tiny emaciated body, maybe even a bloodied skeleton. It was empty, the sheets and blanket still tucked neatly in. Dave turned and looked at the changing table. Packages of diapers and wipes were stacked neatly on the shelves.
“What do you think happened to Maria?” Meghan asked.
“I don’t think she ever made it home,” Dave said. “Nothing’s open.” He picked up a can of formula and lifted the lid. It was still sealed.
Meghan ran her hand along the bassinet and spent a long time looking at the banner between the windows. “You okay?” Dave asked.
The answer took a while. “Yeah,” she said, “I’m fine. I was just—you know—I thought Maria was . . . ” Dave’s hand found hers. She squeezed hard for a mo
ment, then let go.
Dave replied. “Come on, we’ve still got a lot of ground to cover.”
There was nothing of any use in the other two rooms. They went downstairs and fished pickled eggs out of the jars with dirty hands. Each of them had two.
“I actually like these,” Chris said as he took a bite of an egg. “They’re kind of smoky.”
“I hate boiled eggs,” Dave said.
Meghan turned the egg in her hand. It looked slightly off, slightly gray with flecks of black. She sighed and took a bite. Everything about it was absolutely wrong: it was warm and creamy and tasted faintly like vinegar. It was a multi-pronged assault on her senses and it was everything Meghan could do to keep from gagging, but she managed to choke the egg down. She offered her other egg to her friends. “Either of you want this one?”
“Eat it,” Dave said, “it’s yours.”
“You’re going to need your strength,’ Chris said. “We’ve got no idea when we can stop and eat again.”
Meghan sighed and consumed the other egg as quickly as she could.
EIGHTEEN
Atlanta, GA (API). Scientists at the Centers for Disease Control (CDC) are working round the clock on a vaccine for the deadly Mumbai virus while fresh reports of infection surfaced in Japan, Australia, and central Europe. India declared martial law and has instituted a country-wide dusk-to-dawn curfew in an attempt to stem unprecedented rioting. While early symptoms appeared similar to the flu, cases of infected people descending into a demented, animal-like state are being reported. Officials are still unsure whether this dementia is caused by the Mumbai virus itself or an opportunistic related germ.