by C. M. Wright
Turning away from the blubbering fat freak, I look in Will and Jake's direction, but I avoid their eyes. I don't want to know what they think of me now.
"Grab him and bring him over to his truck...please." I add the please even though I make it clear that it's not a request.
Relieved that they actually do it without argument, I wait for them by the truck. As they hold him up in front of me, I take hold of his belt and rip it out of the loops in his jeans. This is a big man - fat, not muscle - so I have a lot of belt to work with. I climb in the passenger side and buckle the belt around the driver's side of the steering wheel, then I open the driver's door and tell them to back him up against the outside of the door.
When he's close enough, I drop the belt over his head, then slowly close the door with him firmly against the opposite side, tightening the belt until the door is shut and he's being held up by the belt around his neck, and his one good leg. There isn't enough slack for him to get out of the belt no matter how much he tries to. I lock the door from inside and crawl back out of the truck that reeks of stale sweat, body odor, cigarettes, and beer.
Grabbing my crutches where I left them propped against the side of the truck, I make my way back to the Hummer, not even checking to see if Will and Jake are following. The screams and pleas of the man echo throughout the night, but I do my best to ignore him.
I climb into the truck, and immediately after I slam my door shut, I hear two other doors open and close in the back. I take a quick glance in the rearview mirror to make sure both men are safely inside, but it wasn't quick enough. I stare straight into the eyes of my husband.
Those beautiful brown eyes stare back at me, the fear and accusations in them send laser beams of pain straight to my heart.
Then he does something he's never done before. He turns his head away. Avoiding me. Disgusted with me. Guilt starts to wash over me, not because of what I did to that man, but because I pointed my gun at the man I love most.
I shouldn't have done that. But I can't take it back now, no matter how much I wish I could.
I tear my eyes away from the mirror as movement in front of the Hummer catches my attention. The dead men are moving. The man strapped to the truck screams even louder, more frantically as he begs for help.
But I don't care.
The undead move closer and I watch him desperately try to free himself. He's bawling, screaming, begging.
But I don't care.
And then to my surprise, I see the woman he had done the unspeakable acts to appear in the beams of the Hummer's headlights. As I really look at her, I notice the shotgun blast hadn't hit her in the head - as I had assumed - but in the chest. She's the closest to the man and when she reaches him, he fights her off with both hands, screaming in pain each time his hand with the bullet-hole connects.
But she can't feel any pain from his blows; she doesn't even notice. When the others join her, the man's arms are soon torn and bleeding from the many teeth digging in.
"Grits" are now on the menu. Eat up!
The woman moves closer to him and wraps her arms around his neck. She brings her mouth to his as if she's about to kiss him, but right before her lips connect with his, she opens her mouth wide and rips his lower lip completely off.
But I don't care.
Why?
Justice.
Chapter Seven
I finally put the truck in gear and drive closer. Satisfied that ol' Grit is dead, I turn the truck so that my window faces the undead who are making sucking, chewing, and gulping sounds as they feast on the all-you-can-eat mound of still-warm flesh. I roll my window down and start picking them off, one by one. Will rolls his window down and finishes them when my gun runs out of bullets.
"Thanks," I tell him in almost a whisper, very much aware that his feelings for me have changed.
"Uh huh," he responds in monotone. That's it. He says nothing else.
Not that I expected him to.
My chest aches in the same spot my heart hides. I fight back the tears and allow myself to become cold, hard, and numb again.
In silence, we make it around the truck, over the bridge, and into Hill City. I pull out my cell, but I don't dial. I'm too scared of talking to anyone else.
Jake notices the phone in my hand and quickly offers to call. Grateful, I hand it to him. When he starts talking, the tone of his voice and the words he responds with, tell me all I need to know.
Jake says goodbye and hands my phone back. "Canada, they don't want you meeting up with them, but they're sending Dustin to check you out. They have to protect the kids, you know?"
"Screw you, Jake! How can you say that so casually? Some of those "kids" are mine. Mine! They can't keep them from me!" I scream at him.
"Canada, there's something wrong with you. You do need to be checked out and I know how much you love your kids. I know when you're able to think clearly again - and I believe you will, if you let Dustin help you - that you'll agree it's the right thing to do; the safest thing to do," Jake says.
I let Jake's words sink in, then nod my head. "So where are we supposed to meet Dustin?"
"They said to find somewhere safe on the east side of town on the main street and he will find us. Which - hopefully - is a store or something, 'cause I really need to use the restroom and get something to eat and drink."
My stomach growls and my own bladder reminds me it's getting pretty full too, so I nod my head in agreement and turn in the direction we need to go. Pulling up beside the door of a gas station, movement inside makes me groan with weariness. But when a small face appears in the glass of the door, and its mouth opens to call out to the others, I jerk in surprise.
These people are alive!
More headlights shine from the road in the direction we had just come and I brace myself, expecting another group like the ones we had just dealt with. But it's a Buick with an older couple who pull in next to us on our passenger side. They look hard inside the Hummer, but I know how dark these windows are - especially at night - so I roll the passenger window down and Jake does the same with his. Then I scoot over so that they can see me.
The old man calls out, "Are you friend or foe?"
I give a startled glance at Jake.
What the hell?
Who the hell actually says that?
Jake flashes a huge grin at me, and I can't help but grin back. I cough to cover up the laughter wanting to spill out and say, "Uh, friend, I guess. We won't hurt you, if that's what you mean."
I turn my head to Jake, prepared to roll my eyes and give him another grin from the absurdity of it all, but his look of doubt in my direction stops me.
Oh.
Yeah.
I'm considered armed, dangerous, and incredibly screwed up in the head. Well, more so than usual now.
My grin falls and I look away from Jake to Will. He's just staring at me - I guess waiting for me to start shooting this couple. I tear my eyes away from Will and tell Jake to talk to the older couple, as I scoot back over behind the wheel. I stare straight ahead at the dumpster sitting in the back of the lot. Tears burning to be let out.
I want to cry, scream, and lash out from the incredible pain I feel inside, but I fight it. I don't want sympathy. Worse, what if no one even offers any? That would screw me up even more.
But they're right. I have lost it. What I did back there, and what I did to Sara, that's not what normal people do. What if Dustin can't help me? What if they think he has helped me, but I lose it again? What if I hurt or kill someone I love?
No!
I am not going to let that happen.
"Jake, why don't you and Will take these people inside and talk to the ones already in there. I'm sure they can go to Rose's when it's safe; the more people, the better. I'll stay here and keep watch, then one of you can trade places with me so I can use the restroom. Sound good?"
"No, you go ahead. Jake and I will take turns keeping wa―"
"No, damn it! I would rather do it
the way I said. Please, just go. I need a few minutes," I interrupt Will and beg him silently to do as I ask.
Relieved, I watch as the two men get out - not happily in Will's case, I might add - and escort the elderly couple to the door of the gas station. After a few minutes of convincing the people inside to let them in, they finally do. One of the men that was already inside locks the door immediately behind them.
When I see Will and Jake's heads disappear as they make their way to the restrooms in the rear of the store, I turn the truck on and leave the parking lot. Turning back west, I drive straight past the turn for the highway, speed down the main street, leaving the small town behind on the other side. Now it's just country roads all the way.
My phone starts playing "Payphone" over and over again, and the tone of insistent incoming texts never stop. I shut my phone off without looking at the messages and slip it into a pocket of my fatigues. I force myself to forget my phone - forget everything and everyone.
My mind races as I try to figure out where to go. I entertain the thought of just killing myself, put a bullet in my own brain, but I quickly dismiss it. I'm too much of a coward to do that. So I just drive and keep my eyes open for a good place to hide out.
I refuse to let myself think about anything else.
About anyone else.
I will protect my family, even if I have to protect them from myself.
Chapter Eight
Twenty miles or so outside of Hill City I see a driveway, and in the distance, a house. I turn on the road that will take me to it, driving slow and keeping my eyes open for undead - and now, the dangerous living.
"More dangerous than you?" my conscience asks me.
My body droops with the realization that I am just as bad - if not worse - than those men in the truck were. No, I would never do anything close to what Grit did, but I'm damn sure not a good person anymore. I made it possible for that man to be attacked by the undead. I forced it to happen. And I don't feel at all sorry that the woman got her revenge...or for any of the rest of it.
Shaking my head and refusing to listen to any more crap that my conscience might have to say, I focus on my surroundings. I don't see any undead on the property, so now I just have to worry about the house. I stop the truck behind the house and just sit here, looking at the building. It's not a two-story, but the house sits high enough from the ground on cement that nothing can get in without using the stairs. Both the front and back porches have about a dozen steps to reach the platform, which makes me wonder if this house might be near water and made to withstand minor flooding.
This is perfect!
Uh, well maybe not.
Your foot is broke you idiot! How are you going to get up those stairs?
Shut up! I'll manage.
I've stopped between the house and a large two-car garage - which will be great to hide the truck in - and am now just staring at the windows of the house, looking for any movement behind the curtains.
Nothing.
My heart rate has picked up even more just by sitting here, than it has since I made the decision to take off. The reality that I'm truly all on my own is setting in...and I'm pretty sure it was a stupid thing to do now. I'm afraid to call out or honk the horn, because I don't want to attract any undead - or even the living - that might be in the area. But I'm afraid to get out and get my ass shot by someone inside the house too.
Damn, this sucks.
I guess I better just do this. I can't stay in the truck forever.
First things first, I reload my gun with my last four bullets and flop over into the backseat. My foot bangs on the door as I land, and even though it makes me gasp in pain, it's not near as painful as it would have been without a cast to protect it. Raising the backseat, I take inventory of the weapons and ammo inside.
Except for a sniper rifle with one bullet and an assortment of empty guns, there's nothing in here!
No ammo...for anything!
I take a few minutes to control myself from curling on the floor of the truck, throwing a tantrum like a child...but it's hard.
I drop in the seat, feeling defeated, and look around outside again.
Still nothing.
But it's dark, so what I see and what may be are two entirely different things. I lower the window and listen hard for any sound the undead make...or any other sound that shouldn't be here. Then I give myself fifteen minutes to just wait, watch, and listen. I tell myself it's the smart thing to do, but if I were honest, it's because I'm scared to death.
I mean, come on! It's dark, there are zombies all over the world - or at least all over this part of the world - and I'm alone.
Don't even think about telling me you wouldn't be pissing yourself in fear too!
Speaking of piss...damn I gotta go!
Sucking in as much air as I can then slowly letting it out, I force courage I don't feel, and open the door. When I get out and balance on my one good foot, I look and listen again. Then I grab my crutches and ease the door shut. It softly clicks as it latches, so it's not shut as securely as it should be, but I hardly think I give a damn.
Slowly, I make my way to the back porch, alert for any danger. Once I get to the steps safely, I lift my crutches and push them onto the platform of the porch. Then I turn around and ease myself down on the third step.
Like I did when I was a kid, I push myself up backwards on the steps, butt bumping down on each one. When my ass hits the platform, I sigh in relief.
Nothing undead on the ground can get me up here!
But now to deal with whatever or whoever is inside, if anyone or anything is. I turn my body and grab hold of the top banister to pull myself up. Bending down to pick up my crutches, I get them as comfortable as the damn things can be, suck in a deep breath, and cross over to the door.
Do I knock, or try the door handle and just go in?
I decide to knock. A few moments after I do, I hear grunts and moans from the other side, just before a flurry of activity at the window causes the curtain to move and I see a woman.
You got it!
A damn zombie.
Groaning - and kinda panicking because I really don't want the window broke - I pull out a handgun and step back as I turn the knob and push the door open the second she moves away. Of course, the bitch can't make this easy as she hurls her body back against the door, slamming it shut in my face.
Shit!
Now what?
Looking around the porch, I get an idea. Crouching down so that she can't see me, I take my crutch and tap on the window a few feet away. Just as I'd hoped, she flies to that window and starts banging on the glass.
Oh, damn!
Didn't think about that, now did ya, Canada?
Shit, bitch! Don't break the window!
Realizing I have to move fast, I pull my crutch back and rise to my good foot. I throw the door open and wait for her to show herself.
And boy does she!
She comes out the door ready to eat. But she's still not as fast as the new zombies, so I shoot her, and her body drops at my feet. I have to hop back a few times to avoid her crashing into me, but it's all good. She's dead and I'm safe. I look back up and into the house, making sure there are no more about to attack, and then go to work getting her off the porch.
Sure, I could let her roll down the stairs, but I have to use those stairs, and I really don't want to bump butts with her. So I get on my knees and push her to the side of the porch, where I shove her through the gap between the side rails and the porch platform. She's not very big so she fits with plenty of room. I send her flying off the edge and turn my head away so I don't have to watch as she hits the ground. The sound is more than enough for me.
Crawling back to my crutches and using the banister again for support, I stand and move toward the door - which opens into a kitchen - and take a good look around.
So out of place!
The room is something you might see in a restaurant. High-tech, cold stainless steel
appliances, industrial-looking paint and floors. The lights are all off in the house, except for the massive stove's light. I see the light switch on the wall next to me and flick it up. The light makes the kitchen even more cheerful.
Not!
Grunts and bangs coming from the front of the house draws my attention. I roll my eyes and go in search of the zombie, by-passing the two doors in the kitchen, assuming anything undead will have raised one hell of a fit by now.
I go through the kitchen door into a beautiful dining room with hardwood floors, a long shiny mahogany table, and beautiful mahogany chairs - all with armrests and thick with red-velvet padding. The walls are a deep cherry red.
Damn this room is pretty! But like the kitchen, it just seems so out of place for being in such a small home - which from the outside, looks almost like a little country home...albeit one very high off the ground. This is so stinkin' odd!
Another bang, accompanied by a growl as the zombie seems to be impatient for its food, pulls me away from admiring the room. I move toward another open doorway into an entry/hallway. The front door is directly ahead of me, and on each side of me are two more doorways. The one on the left is an open arched doorway, but the one on the right has an actual door on it, which most likely leads to a bedroom. I choose the open doorway first and enter a living room.
All white. Sofa, two recliners, very thick carpet, tables, walls, everything...white.
Ok. This tells me that this home did not have kids living in it.
I turn away from the living room and move toward the closed door across the hall. I know this is where the zombie is, have known it since I got to this part of the house. I just don't know what to do with the damn thing!
The door opens inside the room and there's obviously no window in the hall to tap on. I'm almost sure it's a man's grunts and groans coming from in there, which is a little intimidating for me, being alone and all.
You dumbass!
Don't you think you need to figure out how to deal with the big bad male zombies? You ran off from people who would have had your back - people who would have protected you and helped you when you needed it - no matter what you've done. So stop being such a damn idiotic wimp and just take care of it!