by Tim Morgan
“Massachusetts,” Chris said.
“Massachusetts! That’s a hike.”
“You’re telling us,” Meghan said.
They talked a while longer about how the trip was going. Meghan asked if he knew of any campground where they could spend the night. The officer thought a moment.
“There aren’t any campgrounds in town. The nearest one would be Kinzua Heights. It’s about five miles from here.”
“Could you spell that?” Meghan asked.
The officer did as an ambulance sped by, its lights flashing and its siren wailing. A voice clicked over his radio. He turned and radioed a reply.
“What was that about?” Chris asked.
“Nothing. Old guy with the flu.” He started back to the cruiser. “I’ve got to go.”
Meghan was in the lead as they rode to the campground. It was only five miles—that was maybe a half hour for them to ride. As they were riding dozens of cars drove by, packed full of stuff. Some had luggage tied down on roof racks.
“Where’s everyone going?” Dave asked.
“Vacation?” Chris asked.
Meghan said. “They look more like they’re moving than going on vacation.” Meghan made a point of looking in the packed cars when they drove by—they were all families. Parents in the front seats, kids of various ages, toddlers through teens, in the back. Whoever was driving always had a worried look on their face. “This doesn’t seem right.”
“It’s probably nothing,” Chris said.
Chris is probably right, Meghan thought. This town looks is half abandoned; most of these people are probably moving. If you were going to move, you’d try to do it in the summer when the weather is good. Though it’s Wednesday.
“Who moves on a Wednesday?” Dave asked.
“How should I know?” Chris snapped. “I don’t live here.”
“Dude, take a pill,” Dave snapped back. I know he’s sick, I know he’s not feeling good, but he doesn’t need to be such a dick all the time. I can’t wait to get home so I don’t have to put up with his bullshit anymore.
They finally arrived at the campground about twenty minutes later. Dave went into the office. The campground manager was sitting in a chair, watching the news. There was a map of Europe mostly outlined in red with a weird symbol superimposed over it. Dave squinted—is that a bio-hazard symbol? The manager stood up.
“Can I help you?” he said. He was about the same age as Dave’s father, maybe a little younger. Dave thought his face looked pale.
“We’re hoping you had a site available,” Dave said.
“I’ve got plenty. Tent, RV, cabin?”
“Tent.”
“How many nights?”
“Just one.”
The manager clicked through some screens on his computer. “Site twenty four,” he said.
“Thanks,” Dave said. He handed the money for the site to the manager, who absently put it in the till and sat back down. “Uh, my change . . . ?”
The manager got up and opened the register. He blushed. “Sorry about that,” he said. He handed Dave a handful of bills. Dave gave half of them back. What is up with that guy? he thought as he walked out of the office.
Meghan looked around as they pitched the tent. “There’s nobody here.”
“It’s the middle of the week,” Chris said.
“In the middle of the summer,” Dave said. “This is kind of weird.”
“You guys are paranoid,” Chris said.
They made ramen for supper and started a campfire afterward. The wind blew ever so gently as embers and smoke wafted into the sky.
“Thanks for coming with me,” Chris said. He hadn’t felt good all day and wanted to make up for it.
“Thanks for inviting us,” Meghan said.
“No, seriously. I couldn’t do this by myself,” Chris said. “And this ride means a lot to me. Thanks.”
“It means a lot to us, too” Dave said.
Chris poked at the fire with a stick. “What’s the first thing you want to do when we get to Seattle?”
“Find a hotel with comfortable beds,” Dave said.
“And a private shower,” Meghan added, “that doesn’t take coins.”
Chris smiled. “Yeah, that’ll be nice.”
“What do you want to do?” Meghan asked.
“I’m not sure,” Chris said. “See the Space Needle. Maybe stick my feet in the Pacific Ocean.”
They sat around and watched the fire for a few minutes.
“You guys remember Emily Lancaster?”
“Oh, yeah,” Chris said. She had a nice ass but she was off-limits; her boyfriend was a tank.
“What about her?” Meghan asked.
“I told her off at graduation,” Dave said.
“No!” Chris said.
“You did not!” Meghan gasped.
Dave smiled. “I did.”
“Why?” Meghan asked.
“She was giving me shit about my balls,” Dave said.
“I give you shit about your balls all the time,” Chris said with a smile. Meghan held in a laugh as Dave folded his arms across his chest. “Seriously—she’s been giving you shit since seventh grade.”
“Exactly!” Dave said. “What did I care? I was so fed up with her treating me like that I couldn’t take anymore.”
“Good for you, man!” Chris said. It’s about time you grew a spine, Dave. “You can’t go through life letting people push you around.”
“But you’ve got to be careful and pick your battles,” Meghan said.
“I bit my tongue for five years,” Dave said. “It was high time to speak up.”
They sat there a few minutes, watching the dance of the dying flames. “I love the smell of a campfire,” Meghan said. “It’s so comforting.”
“It is,” Dave said.
“Yeah,” Chris said. “It reminds me of when I was a kid.” Before I had to worry about zits, money, girls, or AIDS. “I’d do anything to be a kid again.”
“I don’t know if I would,” Meghan said. “I’ve been waiting all my life to grow up.”
“Really?” Chris asked. Growing up isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.
“Yeah,” Meghan said. “How about you Dave? Would you rather be a kid again or grow up?”
“I don’t know,” Dave said. “I’m kind of tired of everyone telling me how to spend my day, when I can eat, and what I can wear . . . but I don’t know if I’m ready to get a job. I want to live a little longer.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
They made it through the intersection a few bike lengths ahead of the swarm of zombies. Dave glanced over his shoulder, sweat stinging his eyes and his pulse hammering in his temples. The zombies were close—real close. If they were on open road they’d have a much more comfortable distance between them and the zombies, but between the rubble and the ever-present mines they couldn’t build up much speed.
Up ahead there was a narrow channel between mounds of debris. “Mine!” Meghan shouted, zipping along to the left of the yellow canister. Chris was right behind her and darted left.
Dave brought up the rear. This is insane, this is positively insane. He zipped just to the right side of the mine, eyeing the yellow harbinger of death. He was terrified that just passing by it would be enough to set the mine off. It didn’t. They were about a half block away when the zombies detonated it. Walls of debris crumbled together, rendering the front ranks of the mob to dust.
They raced through a maze of smashed buildings and broken bodies, not sure where they were going. Left, then right, then left. The GPS was useless in this labyrinth. The only thing Meghan could do was ride. She had to lead them—keeping an eye on the ground for mines, and an eye ahead for zombies, wondering why the hell Chris was having such a hard time keeping up with them.
Time passed—they weren’t sure how long since all the alleys looked alike and low clouds obscured the sun. It could have been an hour; it could have been half a day. She couldn’t tell. They
finally rolled into another relatively intact area. As they slowed the moaning faded into the distance, drowned out by the wind.
“We need water,” Chris said. “Let’s check if there’s running water in any of these houses.”
The first house they rode up to looked pretty good; the doors and windows were intact and if it weren’t for bloody handprints on the walls it would have looked normal, right down to the Navigator parked in the driveway. Dave walked up and tried the door. Locked. He looked in the sidelight. “Find a rock or something,” he said.
Chris walked down off the porch and looked around a few minutes before returning with a fist-sized rock. Dave smashed the sidelight and reached inside to unlock the door. He opened the door and stepped inside.
The house was nice—hardwood floors, two stories, furnished nicely. There was a flat screen TV in the living room with a Wii and a DVD player connected to it. Meghan and Chris followed behind him; Dave shut the door behind them and threw the deadbolt. The floors creaked as they walked. “Nobody’s sneaking up on us in here,’ Dave said.
They moved into the kitchen. There were marble countertops and beautiful cabinets; the refrigerator, dishwasher and double oven were stainless steel and there was real tile on the floor.
Chris walked to the sink and turned on the faucet. It rumbled a moment then trickled water. “There’s water,” he said. “Nice to have tap water again.”
Dave checked out the oven. It was gas. I wonder if it works? He turned the switch to the start position. It hissed. Dave shut the gas off. “Looks like there’s gas!” He rifled through the cabinets looking for matches. He found them on the bottom shelf. “Matches, too.”
“Great!” Meghan said as she opened the refrigerator. She didn’t even notice the stink of spoiled food as she rifled through its contents. There was a warm six-pack of Coke, but not much else that didn’t have fur growing on it.
“Have a Coke and a smile,” Dave said. He checked the lights. Nothing. They each opened a can of Coke and drank as they looked through the rest of the house. The walls told the story of the occupants.
Mr. and Mrs. Johnson both had college degrees; he was an architect, she had a marketing degree. There were pictures of them at Big Ben, in front of the Eiffel Tower, and in some tropical paradise. There were pictures of what the house looked like when they moved in—wall to wall carpet, off-white counters in the kitchen. No kids, though. Meghan thought that was kind of sad they were together so long without starting a family. The Johnsons were in their twenties in the earlier pictures; in the later ones they both had graying hair.
There was a stash of canned food in one of the cabinets. There were a dozen cans of ravioli, canned tuna, boxes of pasta, and unopened boxes of cookies. “Jackpot!” Chris said, slapping his hands together. “See if there’s a can opener.”
A beautiful electric can opener was bolted under a cabinet, but was absolutely useless. Meghan and Dave rifled through the drawers. She found a manual can opener buried in the back of a junk drawer.
“Chris, we found one!” Meghan called.
“Great!” Chris answered. “I’m going to look upstairs.” He started up the stairs. At the top he could see a bathroom with an open door, but that was it. The stairs creaked a little as he stole up the stairs. He could feel a cool breeze—the windows on the second floor must have been open. Three steps from the top he realized he faintly smelled death. It wasn’t the stench of the zombies; it was the smell of dead people.
Chris heard Meghan and Dave calling to him but didn’t pay attention. Chris walked up to the second floor and looked both ways. There were three rooms up there; one was converted to an office. Another was a nice guest bedroom that got more show than use. The last door was closed—Chris guessed it was the master bedroom.
He wasn’t sure why, but he knocked on the door. If there’s someone in there and they’ve got a gun, or a baseball bat, I want them to know I’m not dead. “Hello?” As Chris opened the door death punched him in the face.
Chris staggered back a step, coughing. Dave and Meghan rounded the corner at the top of the stairs. “Who are you talking t . . . oh God!” Dave said. Meghan pulled her shirt up over her face.
Chris stepped into the room. It was nicely furnished with huge dressers and mirrors, and a four-post bed with a canopy. Lying on the bed were two bodies, a man and a woman. Their skin was grey and wrinkled, the sheets stained reddish-brown. On the man’s nightstand was a medication bottle. Chris walked over and picked it up. The label read “Percocet.” On the woman’s nightstand sat an empty whiskey bottle and a pamphlet about living with a terminal illness.
“Oh God,” Meghan said.
“They killed themselves,” Chris said. “Pain killers and alcohol. They went to sleep and never woke up.” The Johnsons, married what, thirty years? Nice house, nice car, good jobs. Never had time to raise a family. She’s got cancer, it’s only a matter of time before she’s going to die when the zombies show up. They decided to go out together in their sleep. I don’t want to do that. I don’t want to waste away, and I sure as hell don’t want those things to get me either. I want to go fast; I want my death to mean something.
“Chris?” Meghan said.
“Huh?” Chris replied.
“You okay?” Meghan touched his shoulder.
Chris pulled away. “Yeah, I’m fine. It’s just—you know—all the houses we’ve been in . . . never seen anything like this.”
“Yeah,” Dave said. “It’s screwed up.” Dave stuck his hands in his pockets and turned away. “Let’s go downstairs."
They walked out of the bedroom and quietly closed the door behind them, as if they were going to disturb the Johnsons.
“Should we eat their food?” Dave asked.
“They can’t eat it,” Chris said.
They ate canned raviolis that they warmed on the stove, and drank their fill of tap water. Nobody spoke. The only sound was the metallic ting of their forks against the dishes. The meal wasn’t rushed, but they ate quickly.
Dave went out first, looking up and down the street. There were no zombies, but the distant sound of moaning filled the air. “Come on,” Dave said, “it’s clear.”
Meghan and Chris came out next. “Are you okay?” Meghan asked.
“I’m fine,” Chris said. Dave looked over at him; he did look a bit pale and nauseous. So did everyone else. Maybe he looks normal, but we think he looks sick. How screwed up is that? Healthy is the new sick.
“If we need to ease up let us know,” Meghan said.
Chris nodded.
Meghan tapped her GPS screen. “It’s getting late,” Meghan said. “We should find a place to sleep. Without dead people in it.”
“How far are we from the river?” Chris asked, wiping sweat from his brow. Why is he sweating when we haven’t started riding yet?
“Five miles,” Meghan said.
“Let’s press on,” Chris said. “We get to the river and we’ll have tomorrow to find a way across.”
“If it were a straight shot it’d be five miles,” Dave said. “We have no idea what the roads are like. They could be jammed with junk or mined.”
“I’m calling a vote,” Chris said. He took off his helmet and tossed his reflector in. Meghan and Dave followed suit. “Dave, call it.”
Dave pulled the blue square from the helmet. Chris quickly pulled the helmet away. “My call, I say we press on. Let’s go.”
Meghan looked over her shoulder for zombies. Dave saw Chris pull all four of his reflectors from his helmet. They stared at one another a long time. I can’t believe he did that. Dave narrowed his eyes. I ought to call him on it—no, not here, not now. I’ll talk to him when we stop.
The maze of smashed buildings was horribly confusing. They spent two hours making a little headway, backtracking, and then moving laterally. All along the way Chris fought cramps and shivers, with moaning just over every other debris pile building to an almost deafening level.
Dave and Meghan ke
pt the pace slow—partly to keep Chris in sight and partly because there were mines everywhere. It was another hour before they spoke. “This wasn’t such a good idea,” Dave muttered.
“No,” Meghan said. “It wasn’t.”
Chris half listened to the conversation. His muscles were burning and his pulse pounded in his head. No, not here, not now. His shirt was soaked with sweat. Something moved on top of the shattered remains of a building. Something that looked sort of human but sort of not.
“You guys see . . .” Chris began. He thought he was seeing things when he heard the moan. The figure broke into a run down the shifting pile of debris.
“Shit,” Dave said.
“Go!” Meghan shouted.
The moans were everywhere, echoing off the debris, and sending birds aloft from seemingly every direction. They darted along the paths, narrowly avoiding the mines as zombies ran down shifting piles of debris at them.
“They’re every-friggin’-where!” Dave shouted.
A thunderclap erupted behind them, sending pebbles and splinters of wood and wet bits raining down on them. Meghan shrieked as a zombie stumbled off the debris and reached for her shoulder, just barely missing. The scare threw her off balance and she barely avoided a mine in her path.
We don’t have much room between us and the zombies. We can’t get enough speed up to get away from them. No, I can’t get enough speed up to get away. Dave and Meghan can without me. I might make it home and waste away or maybe we’ll all die here or maybe just maybe I can buy time for my friends. Which is it going to be?
Chris looked at the debris piles, picked out two that seemed to be unstable. He skidded to a stop, swinging his bike around to face the coming horde. At his foot was one of the mines. I want my death to mean something.
God, I don’t know if you’re there, but I’ve done some things I’m not proud of . . .
“Chris!” Meghan shouted, “What are you doing?”
. . . some things I’m sorry I’ve done . . .