“Wait! Don’t go over there.” I catch up to her, putting a hand on her shoulder to stop her.
“What is it? Are you going to rat me out?” She looks amused until she sees my grim expression.
“You can’t go over there. Something’s . . . something’s happened.” I pause, unsure of what else to say—what can I say?
“What do you mean? What has happened?” She looks toward the hub. “Is everything okay?”
I shake my head. “I don’t know how to explain it.” I shrug. “I think that they’re . . . dead.” I swallow again, the lump in my throat feeling larger and harder than before.
“Dead?” She swivels from looking toward the hub to looking back at me, finally taking in my appearance and seeing my clothes covered in blood. She starts to back away, her face paling.
“It wasn’t me.” Liar! my conscience quips. It wasn’t all me, anyway. I didn’t rip them apart, I just locked them in to die. “They were infected by . . . something. I don’t know. They were bitten by something, and it turned them—” I take a deep breath, “—crazy, I don’t really know, but they started attacking each other.”
“It is rabies? My brother got bitten by a rat once, and caught rabies. He went crazy, shouting and screaming at us. He was—”
I interrupt, “It’s not rabies. They weren’t bitten by an animal; they were bitten by another person. A man, one of them said.” My voice has risen to almost unrecognizable levels, but I can’t calm down. “They were killing each other, biting each other!”
“A man?” She looks frightened, but turns toward the hub and starts walking away from me.
“Where are you going?” I chase after her.
“We need to get them help. We need to get them to a hospital, or get a doctor. They need a vaccination shot!” she shouts and charges away from me again. “And the police! We need to get the police to catch this man.” She gestures around us wildly, looking frightened. “We need to help them.”
I shake my head, grabbing my hair and pulling in exasperation. This is the reaction of a normal person—to get help: the police, an ambulance—not to try and burn the damn place down with everyone inside. Guilt floors me, making me stumble, but whatever my conscience thinks about me, my brain wants me to live, and going back over there will not help my chances. “I told you that they’re all dead. You can’t help them—we need to just wait it out up here in the trees.” Sweat is trickling down my spine, making my shirt stick to me. “They’re all dead, damn it.”
And if they’re not, they will be soon, I think guiltily. The horror of what I’ve done is hitting me. I locked them in, I didn’t help them. If this is it, the end of days or whatever, I just killed them all for nothing. That’s not to say they wouldn’t have died in the end anyway, but still . . .
“We can’t just leave them.” She looks at me with tears in her eyes, but she looks more frustrated than upset. “Why should I even believe you? How do I know that you’re telling the truth?” she says through pinched lips as she wrings her hands. “You could be lying to me.”
“Why would I do that?” I ask disgustedly.
“I don’t know, maybe you are a serial killer. I do not know who you are.” Her eyes are wild, her breathing rapid.
She doesn’t realize how close to the truth she actually is. “I own this place, and I’m not lying. I wish I was, though. I know this is hard to believe, and I’ll take you over there and show you but I can’t let you go inside, I can’t let you open the door. Trust me on that one. You don’t want to do that.”
We stare at each other silently, the wind blowing through the leaves of the trees and the birds in the sky the only sounds we can hear. I feel kind of ridiculous; maybe this is all some bad dream. It doesn’t seem real now that I’ve stopped to take stock of the situation. Maybe it would do us both good to go back and see it. I think back to Sanil again, feeling suddenly sick. No, I don’t want to go back there, but I don’t want to be responsible for another death either. I’ve sentenced enough people to death today already.
“I want to see.” She turns angrily and continues to stomp through the forest, only vaguely aware of which direction to go in.
I catch up and guide her to the left. I know this place like the back of my hand, more so probably. This place has always been my escape. Probably why I bought the land when it came up for sale after my mother died. This piece of land was always like a second home to me.
We reach the crest of a small hill and I look over it cautiously. It all looks so normal, as if nothing happened. I can just make out the shape of something on the ground. You would never know it was the bitten woman I’d just murdered.
“I do not see anything,” she snaps and storms past me.
“Slow down, we don’t know how safe it is.” I catch up to her again and pull her back, but she shrugs me off.
As we get closer, she sees the body on the pavement and runs over to it, and it’s as we get close that I realize the body is still twitching: the woman is still alive. Horror hits me like a sucker punch to the gut and I stop walking, watching her go closer.
“Oh my God, what has happened to her?” She turns to look at me as she gets closer to the woman. “Did you do this?” she shouts. “Answer me, did you do this?”
I can’t breathe and I can’t speak as the bitten woman moves sluggishly around on the ground and turns to look at my new companion. I point a shaking hand to what I realize can now only be described as a zombie. Horror fills me, my blood rushing to my head and making me stumble backwards.
The German woman turns to look behind her, taking in the blood-covered face, the clouded eyes, and the snarling, growling mouth of the woman who was more than likely her co-worker at one time or another, and steps away with a yelp of fear.
“What is this?” she whimpers, taking another step back as the zombie moves toward her with a snarl and a snap of its teeth. It struggles to get to its feet, but seems to have no coordination whatsoever, and so stumbles back down to its knees. “What is wrong with her? What did you do?” She glares at me, but keeps her distance from the woman.
I step forward, picking up the oar I’d used to smash over its head before, readying myself for round two. The zombie looks at me with a hungry glare and rises up to its knees again, growling at me. I lift the oar high, preparing to smash its head in again. It’s funny how quickly we adapt when we need to, I think dryly.
“What are you doing?” she shouts.
“What do you think I’m doing? You’ve seen the movies—I need to destroy the brain.”
Her eyes go wide. “You can’t kill her.”
“It’s not a her anymore.” I gesture toward the zombie, which is nearly standing up now. “That’s a zombie. Look at it!” I shout.
“No, don’t be ridiculous!” She looks back to it as it finally rises to fully standing. The thing’s cloudy eyes focus on her and a growl erupts from its throat as it reaches for her, blood dribbling down its chin.
“Oh my God!” she sobs, a hand covering her mouth. “This cannot be real.” She backs away further.
I don’t need any more of an invitation than that. I swing down hard and smash the zombie across the side of its head. It falls to its knees and I swing repeatedly until it’s a crumpled heap of blood and bones and a mangled face.
I finally drop the oar when I know for certain that it is definitely dead-dead, not just zombie-dead. The woman is behind me, sobbing, and I turn to look at her.
“Are you okay?”
Her eyes go wider than should be possible as she takes in my appearance, and I look down at myself. If I thought I looked bad before, that’s nothing compared to now. I’m covered head to foot in blood and gore, the stench of death clinging to my every pore. My entire body is trembling at the realization of what I’ve just done—so many bad deeds done in such a short space of time. And I thought the only problems I had were my failing bank balance and rising overdraft.
The woman comes forward and takes my hand careful
ly, leading me back into the forest the way we had come out. Instead of taking a left to the aerial extreme, she goes right and leads me to the lake, bringing me to the edge and pulling me down to my knees where she begins to undo the buttons on my shirt, stripping it off my back and rinsing it in the water. She wipes my face with it, cleaning the blood and gore from me, and then and only then do we both sob together.
*
Later, we sit high up in the safety of the aerial extreme with heat from the metal fire pit warming our bodies, but not our souls. After cranking up the radio earlier and hearing alerts going off all over the country—with warnings not to approach any of the sick and stay inside armed with a weapon if possible—I don’t think either of us will ever be warm again. This is the kind of bone-chilling fear that can never be removed.
“I’m Duncan,” I say, staring in to the flames.
“I’m Britta.”
I look up to see her watching me across the fire pit.
Neither of us smile; we’re both lost in the horrors of the day, wondering what tomorrow and subsequent days will bring. At least we’re not alone in this. At least we have each other now, is all I can selfishly think. Could I live with myself, with my conscience, all alone? I don’t think so.
My brain rallies around, thinking about what equipment we’re going to need to survive out here, and for how long it could be. I’m thankful for the small amount of equipment I brought over earlier. At least we can get a good night’s sleep tonight and try and think more clearly tomorrow. I laugh dryly.
“What?” she says, her voice barely a whisper.
I look across at her. “I’m never going to be able to sleep again.”
The Lovers.
One.
“I love you, schnookums.” Wrapping my arms around Jane’s waist, I give her a squeeze. She turns around, returning my smile with one of her own, and leans in to kiss me softly.
“I love you too,” Jane says between kisses, “but we need to get going. We’re never going to get this packing finished if we don’t, and I’d really like to get to the camper before nightfall. You know I hate driving up there in the dark.”
She gives me one final kiss before tickling my ribs as I make a more serious move on her, my hands cupping her ass cheeks and pulling her closer. “Put me down,” she giggles.
“Okay, okay,” I laugh. “I’m going to start getting everything in the car and then we can get going.” She squeals as I slap her backside and head for the kitchen, leaving her to the rest of the packing.
We’ve been doing this trip two or three times a year, since I was left the land in my uncle’s will. We drive up into the hills, to our little escape from the real world, and stay in our secondhand camper. One day we’re going to build a real nice big ol’ log cabin and retire up there, living out our days in peace. I smile, picking up one of the heavier boxes she’s packed, and carry it out to the car.
We’ve been married for nearly ten years, but it feels like just yesterday that she was walking down the aisle toward me, dressed in white like an angel. I’m a big , burly guy, but I’m not afraid to admit that I love my woman more than life itself. She drives me crazy, and Lord knows she has her crazy moments, but she’s my reason for waking up every morning. I place the box in the back of the car and head on back inside.
“You almost ready, baby?” I shout up to her, and look at all the boxes yet to pack in the car. “Jesus, woman, it’s not the end of days,” I mutter to myself and pick up another box.
Several trips back and forth later, everything finally seems to be packed neatly into our green 1999 Chevrolet Suburban. I love this car—not as much as my wife, but it’s a close second. Jane, however, hates it. She says it reminds her of the pea soup her mother used to make. I guess that could bring up bad memories for anyone but, unlike her mother, mine could cook up a storm in the kitchen. Of course, I’m not stupid enough to tell her that.
Jane comes down the stairs, her blonde hair pulled into a tight little ponytail, carrying another bag of something or other.
“What’s in there, baby? I think you packed everything but the kitchen sink so far.” It’s the same story every time we go up to the camper.
She tuts and thrusts the bag into my hands. “You’ll be thanking me when we’re not hungry or freezing.” She grins and squeezes past me. “I always know what to pack.”
She’s right; of course she’s right. I’d never tell her that though. Damn, women always know best when it comes to packing for vacations and stuff. But again, I’d never tell her that—I’d never live it down.
She comes back out of the kitchen carrying her handbag and shrugging into her jacket. “Everything is locked up tight. I just need to set the alarm as we leave. You turned everything off at the sockets? Lamps, oven, TV?”
“No, I’ve been too busy packing all this stuff into the car. Besides, when was the last time we actually had the TV on? It’s probably still turned off from the last time we went away,” I chuckle.
She tuts again and goes to check. Sure enough, the little TV is still turned off from the last time. I squeeze what I now realize to be a bag of pillows into the trunk of the car, slamming the lid shut.
“Did you cancel the milk order?” Jane asks as we both climb in the car.
I feign forgetfulness. “No. I totally forgot. I’ll drive by the store on the way and run in to cancel it for the week. Sorry, baby.” We’re lucky that we even get a milk delivery—virtually no one gets those anymore, and I know the store that does it wants to stop it completely. Of course I didn’t actually forget to cancel the order, I just think why take the risk? They may not restart it when we come back.
She rolls her eyes and I can tell she’s pissed, but she doesn’t voice it. That’s my girl. She’s not like most women, I can tell this whenever we go somewhere. In the supermarket for instance, couples are doing their weekly shopping and bickering in the aisles. I see other husbands looking at me with pleading eyes while their wives yell and moan at them for not picking the nonfat variety of whatever crap they’re putting in their carts, and I just nod my sympathies. I’m one of the lucky few who got a good woman who looks just as sexy in a pair of sweatpants as she does in a miniskirt, doesn’t nag me about mundane crap, can BBQ a mean steak, and she wouldn’t ever dream about going on a diet or buying low-fat anything.
I pull out of the driveway, whistling loudly. Even that doesn’t grate on her nerves—or maybe it does, but again, she doesn’t voice her annoyance at it. The roads are busier than usual as I drive north to the little shop that delivers our milk. It’s in the center of town, and it takes longer than usual to get there. There are cars driving in every direction, and no one seems to be paying any attention to the road as we witness not one but three near misses.
“What the hell’s gotten into everyone today?” Jane turns to look at me with a concerned expression.
I shrug and finally pull up outside the store. This is one of the many reasons we aim to move out of the city and into the hills: to escape the madness of others. People have no respect for each other anymore, always more than willing to cheat and lie to get what they want, and never offering help to their neighbors and friends. And this isn’t even a particularly big town.
“I’ll be right back,” I say, and climb out and head into the shop. It’s busy inside, manic even, with people grabbing items from the shelves and barging past each other without any consideration. I stop and watch them, confusion furrowing my brow; something isn’t right. I have no idea what, but I can feel it in my gut, and my gut is never wrong. I grab a basket and copy everyone else, filling it with essentials like canned goods and batteries. It’s hard to know what to get when I have no idea what’s going on.
A younger man in his early twenties, with an overflowing shopping cart, barges past me and sends me crashing into some shelves of bread.
“What the hell, buddy?” I shout after him. He doesn’t even turn to acknowledge me and charges straight out of the store without pay
ing for his goods. The shopkeeper (Pete, if I remember correctly) shouts after him, but doesn’t move from his position behind the till—probably for fear of losing some of the other customers who are lining up impatiently and yelling at him to hurry.
I grab some of the bread I’ve fallen into and put it in my basket with a grumble of annoyance. Jane makes a mean ham and mustard sandwich, and all this craziness is making me cranky, and when I’m cranky I get hungry. I head off to look for the mustard, stepping over some smashed pickle jars on the floor that no one is bothering to clean up. Twenty years I’ve worked for the government, and this is a health and safety hazard if ever I saw one. This is the sort of stuff that could get a shop closed down. I look around at the sound of screaming from outside, all thoughts of insurance claims vanishing as I recognize my wife’s scream.
“Jane?” I mutter to myself and run in the direction of the car, still clutching my basket of goods and ignoring the shopkeeper’s infuriated shouts at me to come back.
Our car is surrounded by three young men who are all shouting at Jane to get out of the vehicle, banging their fists on the metal panels of my beautiful green Suburban. Her eyes search me out, finally finding me.
“Steve!” she shouts louder, and one of the men turns to look at me.
“Tell her to get out of the car now,” he yells, raising a hockey stick in one hand and slapping it against his other palm menacingly. His dark hair hangs over one eye and he shakes his head in that twitchy way teenagers do to clear it out of his line of sight.
I cock an eyebrow, amused that he even has the audacity to try this shit on me. I might be middle-aged and look calm on the outside, but I’m three times his size and have a mean temper when I want. The guy must have balls as big as basketballs to try and pull this shit with me. Either that or something more serious is going on—something that could be more frightening than me when I’m mad. I can’t see that happening.
The Dead Saga (Novella Part 1): Odium Origins Page 6