by Russ Watts
‘I want to kiss your mouth, hold your hand, and all I feel is the distant wind as you turn your back on me.’
That was over a year ago now. The singer was probably dead, and as much as Charlie wanted to grieve, to feel sorry for him and his family and his fans, the truth was she didn’t really care. He was like a cartoon character. Had he ever been real? He was only ever in a magazine or on the TV, just like the rest of them. It was as if her old life had been just an illusion.
Charlie heard the zombies rattling the fence and groaning, and she turned the volume up louder. “Jesus, can’t you just be quiet for one fucking minute?”
When she’d finished putting the last shirt up on the line, she turned the basket over and left it on the grass, and then made her way over to the long driveway. It had been three weeks since she had last stepped foot on the drive. It had been three long weeks since she had lost her mother, and neither she nor her father had gone back to the fence, to that spot where she had died.
They were loud today, the deadly sounds of the walking corpses filling her head until she couldn’t hear the singer’s voice anymore. Who gave them the right to take over? Who had decided to let them in and turn the country over to them? It wasn’t fair. Charlie was annoyed and angry. She had woken up with a headache, and the sky was a dreary gray. Kyler had made her do the washing and then proceeded to open a bottle of wine whilst giving her a list of chores. It had become something of a routine in the last couple of weeks. Ever since it had happened, since the screaming woman had destroyed their world, Charlie had been forced to watch her father drink all day and night. He refused to talk about what happened that day, and from his attitude, Charlie could only assume he still blamed her. He had shut her out, speaking to her only to trade insults or order her to do some menial task around the house. Since that day, she had become a tenant in her own home, no more than a live-in cleaner on hand to serve her master.
“For fuck’s sake, quit it.” Charlie turned the music off. It was impossible to hear it over the racket they were making. “What do you want?”
Charlie strode purposefully onto the drive, turned the corner of the house, and stared at the fence. It was them: the invaders, the foreigners who had just taken over the country with no regard for any of its people. It was them who had ruined everything. Charlie looked at the motley group of bodies, at the disparate people torn from their own lives forced into destroying others. Some days they seemed quiet, withdrawn, yet other days they were noisy. Today they were noisy. A crowd of around thirty were gathered futilely around the gate as they tried to get past the lock to her and Kyler. Charlie walked slowly down the driveway, trying to keep one ear out for her father. If he caught her he would only say she was shirking her duties to pleasure her own morbid curiosity. She was curious, true, but only as to why they kept coming. There was no logic to it. They couldn’t get in, it was impossible, and yet they kept trying.
Charlie wondered if they were being led by something or someone. Perhaps an invisible force that somehow drove them here to the house where they lived. It had stopped feeling like Charlie’s home and was just a place she lived now. More than that, it was a place to exist. Living would imply a sense of being, of working toward something, a future, a life; her father had ensured that any hope had been extinguished alongside the death of her mother. As Charlie ventured further forward down the driveway, she spotted the crowbar lying on the road where her father had left it. Not far away, there was a dark stain on the concrete, just a small circle of dried blood that hadn’t been completely erased by the wind and sporadic rain yet. It was the last evidence of her mother’s death.
Charlie looked at the zombies straining to reach her, their arms all pushed through the small gaps in the fence. Their hands were clutching at the air, grasping at nothing, reminding her of babies, feeble hands curling up and unfurling as they desperately tried to find something to grab hold of. But there was nothing. Charlie knew well enough to stay well away from the fence. The men and women there could kill her with a single scratch. Once the dead got hold of you, there was only one end. In the early days, they said it was a biological parasite that was transferred in the blood of its victims, much like the Zika virus that had left so many deformed and dead in South America. Then the guesses stopped, and the focus turned on how to survive, how to avoid the dead. Finally, everything stopped. It didn’t take long for them to take over and ruin everything.
“I hate you,” muttered Charlie. Her eyes scanned the corpses standing at her fence. There were men and women, partially dressed, some still wearing blood-stained clothes, some with arms and hands missing, some with chunks ripped from their necks or torsos, and some rotted away so they appeared more like ghoulish cartoon versions of their true selves. There were children too. Those were the ones she hated the most. They hadn’t been able to defend themselves. They had suffered the most, and now they were stood outside Charlie Gretzinger’s home, their small hands trying to grab a piece of her to shove into their rotten mouths. As they lined up to eat her, their faces pressed up against the fence, they reminded her of refugees from another country, as if they were just people looking for somewhere to turn, their hands outstretched for mercy and a hand-out, their open mouths waiting for food. She hated them for what they had done to her family, to her town, and what they had done to the world. She thought about picking up the crowbar and ramming it into their heads, thrusting it through all of their brittle skulls until a mountain of bloody zombies lay at her feet. She should, she knew, but she couldn’t. What purpose would it serve? It wouldn’t bring her mother back, and even if she killed these, then more would come. They always did.
The dead were dressed in rags, faded clothes that over the months had lost all their color, and yet in the throng she caught a glimpse of bright red. It was just a flash of color, but it was definitely there, hiding behind a fat woman with half her face missing. Charlie’s heart pounded. Could there be anyone alive out there? Charlie took a step forward, trying to find the burst of color again, and then she found it, this time appearing briefly behind a man with nothing below the elbows except for a straggly piece of meat and tissue that looked like spaghetti.
“Hello?” When Charlie spoke, her voice sounded faint and pathetic. She wanted to shout, but she was scared. Even the single word she spoke had aroused the dead, and they pulled and pushed against the fence with more force. They wanted her, but they weren’t going to get her.
“Is anyone—?”
Charlie turned the music up to full volume quickly, filling her head with snippets of her favorite songs, of thrashing guitars and piano chords, desperately trying to take her mind off what she could see. The glimpse of red from earlier was now in full view. It was part of a dress, part of a bright red dress that had been torn and ripped, but the owner was still wearing. The person wearing the dress was now at the driveway entrance, their hands pushing through the small gaps, and their bare feet kicking at it as they tried to get to Charlie. The zombie’s teeth clacked together loudly, and Charlie tried to focus on the music. It was impossible.
“Mom?” Charlie hated them all. They had done this, changed her, killed her, and taken her away from her family for what?
Jemma no longer resembled the beautiful woman who had married Kyler, but was a skeletal figure missing huge chunks of flesh. There was a gaping hole in her stomach, moist red tissue surrounded by patches of dark brown and purple skin where she had started to rot. One breast hung low over her abdomen, whilst the other was missing, eaten away exposing her ribcage. A silver pendant still hung around her crooked neck, and her face was riddled with bite marks. One eye had been sucked from its socket and eaten whilst the other swung loosely upon her cheek, hanging on by a thread. Patches of hair had been pulled from her head, swathes of skin ripped off, leaving her head a patchwork quilt of bruises and bloody flesh. Odd white pieces of her skull poked through the remaining thin hair. As Jemma pushed her arms through the fence, her body stuck on the other side, one of
her hands opened out revealing there were only two fingers left, the others now just short bony stumps.
Charlie gasped, turned away, and began walking quickly back to the house. How could this be happening? Had her mother returned because she was drawn there by the crowd or corpses, or had she led them there? Her mother was dead, dead and gone. Charlie couldn’t reconcile what she had seen with her loving mother. They weren’t the same person. Her mother had died, and whatever was stood at the fence now was just a Doppelganger, a freak, a parody of the real woman. Her body might be moving, her legs walking, but that thing was not her mother.
Returning to the clothesline, Charlie sank onto the grass, and grabbed hold of the empty basket. It was real, something she could feel in her hands. That thing back at the gate that looked like her mother wasn’t real. It was one of them now, not a real person. Charlie was trembling, her breath coming in quick gasps, and she knew she had to contain her anguish. She didn’t want her father to see her like this. He would want to know what she had been doing, and she couldn’t face having to tell him what she had seen. Charlie stayed on the grass, focusing on the music in her head, letting it soothe her until she managed to calm down. Every time the vision of her dead mother popped back in her head, she forced herself to concentrate on the necklace that was still around her mother’s neck. If Charlie forced her eyes to look at the necklace, she found she could ignore the terrible wounds on her mother’s body and ignore the terrible pain she knew that her mother must have been in when she died.
Eventually the music faded away, the guitars stopped playing, and the call of the zombies became background noise. She didn’t know how long she had been sat out on the garden like that, but it didn’t really matter. As she looked at the house that she still called home, she realized that her father hadn’t come out to look for her. Had he even noticed she hadn’t returned? Did he care? Charlie felt like staying out there a while longer. What was the point in going inside when all that faced her was more work? And for what? Kyler clearly didn’t give a shit about her anymore, and the truth was, she beginning to resent him. She loved her father, but he had changed. Since that day, he had become withdrawn, drank a lot more, and treated Charlie like she was worthless. She didn’t want to hate her father, but he was making it easier with each day that passed.
A muffled bang broke her thoughts. Looking up at the house, it took her a moment to work out what it was. The house looked quiet, empty even, yet she knew her father was in there somewhere, working on getting drunk enough to make it through another day. On the ground by the back door there was a bird. It had jet black feathers, and as Charlie stood up to look at it, she realized it was a crow. It was hopping around on the floor, turning around in circles, unable to get off the ground. Charlie looked at the large window that now had a thin crack in it and understood that the bird must have flown into it.
“You poor thing.” Charlie wondered if she should approach it or leave it be. If she spooked it, then it might do itself more harm. But if she didn’t attend to it, would it be able to fly again? There was a good chance it had broken a wing, and she knew it might need caring for. Wasn’t that the right thing to do? There was probably an old shoebox in the garage she could use. She could find worms for it in the garden, provide it with a little water, and coax it back to life. Here was a chance to do the right thing. Her mind made up, Charlie slowly began to approach the bird. It had stopped flapping around and was sat on the ground with its feathers puffed out as it watched her.
“Don’t worry, Mr. Crow, I’m going to help you,” she said with a lilt in her voice. She didn’t want to scare it and walked very slowly. The bird seemed to be breathing fast, its chest heaving rapidly. It was more than likely petrified. Charlie knew she must look like a giant to it, and picking the poor bird up might not be as easy as she thought. “It’s okay, it’s all right,” she cooed. “I’ll take care of you.”
The bird suddenly flapped its wing, and Charlie expected to see it soar up into the air. She had probably misdiagnosed it. Maybe its wing wasn’t broken, and the crow was just momentarily stunned. The bird cartwheeled and then landed back on the ground. It had at least one broken wing and wasn’t flying anywhere.
“Settle down now, Mr. Crow. It’s okay.” Charlie was only six feet away from it now and was preparing to grab it. She didn’t want to hurt it, but she knew she couldn’t just leave it.
“Charlie?” Kyler stepped out of the door into the sunlight and raised a hand above his eyes. The stubble around his chin was several days old now and threatening to turn into a full blown beard. The light hurt his eyes, unaccustomed as they were to seeing the sun for themselves without the soothing haze of alcohol to protect them. “What’s going on out here? You should’ve been back an hour ago. I heard a bang. Have you been in the garage? You know I don’t like you messing around with my stuff.”
Charlie ignored the gruffness and accusing tone to his voice. “There’s a bird, Dad. See? It flew into the window and hurt itself. I was just going to—”
“A bird?” Kyler saw it sitting on the ground and took a step toward it. “You’re out here playing with a bird? We’ve far more important things to be doing. You should be fixing that hole in my shirt I’ve been telling you about. Then there’s the inventory to do. We need to figure out exactly how much food we have left. Come on, Charlie, you’re supposed to be an adult now. Quit playing, and get on with your work. Jesus, I’m sick of having to tell you what to do. How about you start taking some damn responsibility for this house? You think I’m going to do everything?”
Charlie wanted to scream at him, to tell him to wind his head in, but more than anything she just wanted to help the bird. Whatever work had to be done inside would keep. They weren’t going anywhere. “Dad, I’ll be there in a minute; I’m just going to help this—”
“Like hell you are.” Kyler walked to his daughter, causing the bird to stir. It flapped its wings uselessly as Kyler grabbed his daughter’s arm firmly. He pulled her toward the house.
“Ow, Dad, that hurts. Stop it.” Charlie couldn’t win in a physical fight with her father, but that didn’t stop her from trying to pull back and stay to help the bird.
“I’ll stop it when you start acting like a damn adult. You think this is all fun and games? You’re supposed to be twenty-one, not a little girl anymore.”
Charlie managed to wrench her arm free of her father’s grasp. “Let go of me!” she screamed. She could feel the tears threatening to erupt, but didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing he had made her cry. Not again. “Just let me help this bird. Piss off, Dad. Just go back inside and leave me alone.”
Kyler grabbed her arm again. “You wouldn’t have spoken to me like that if your mother was here.” He drew his face up to hers. Anger burned in his eyes. “Come here. You want to help? You want to do something useful?” Kyler dragged Charlie toward the bird.
“Dad, please, just stop it.” Charlie felt her cheeks flush and knew tears were the next step. Why was he acting like this?
“Broken wing, huh?” Kyler put his other arm on Charlie’s neck and forced her to look down at the bird. They were only a couple of feet away now, and the bird was breathing heavily. A fleck of blood was encrusted on its yellow beak, and its eyelids were drooping as if it were sleepy. “This bird will make a good dinner. You want to help, then put it out of its misery. Snap its fucking neck and be done with it.”
Charlie was shocked. “No. I can help it, Dad. I can make it better. Please?” She felt like a little girl when he scolded her. She couldn’t stand up to him, and when she did she felt like everything she said only angered him more. Her father’s grip on her neck was strong, and there was no way she could throw him off. He was in control now and she had to make him understand. She had to make him see there was more to all of this than just death. “No, I’m doing it. Mr. Crow can still make it if we help him.”
“Mr. Crow is just food. He’s part of the food chain. Don’t you get how this
works, Charlie? The crow eats worms, we eat the crow, the zombies eat us, and then when their bodies finally rot and turn to mulch in the ground, the worms come up and eat them. It’s the circle of life.”
Kyler laughed. He forced Charlie’s head down lower. The bird sat on the ground motionless, exhausted, and Charlie felt the first tears fall from her eyes. He had lost it. Her father had totally lost it, and over what, an injured bird? Charlie thought she should tell him about his wife, her dead body at the fence, and then she’d see how he’d cope. She wanted to tell him, she wanted him to hurt, to suffer as she was. She wanted to make her father cry as he did her. But she said nothing and listened to her father’s cruel laugh.
“It’s not going to recover,” said Kyler. “There’s only one way to end this. So do it, Charlie. You think you’re a woman now; you think you can handle everything without me, so do it.” Kyler suddenly released his grip on her and Charlie stumbled forward. She jumped over the bird, worrying she was going to tread on it, and then stood up.