“Oh, n. . . n . . . no!” he exclaimed. “I’m l . . . l . . . late! My dad is going to be m . . . m . . . mad. I have to g . . . g . . . go. B . . . b . . . bye, Mike!”
He turned and rushed down the short hallway and out of the apartment. The halls and stairwells were dark in the early evening; the light coming through the barred window on each level was weak. Multiple times he tripped and almost fell down the stairs, but caught himself at the last moment with a cry of alarm. A few people were in the stairwell, a couple with guns and suitcases, but he just pushed past them, focused on getting home. He ignored their shouts of “Watch where you’re going, dummy!” and kept on running.
By the time he reached the basement, he was whimpering and tugging on the front of his shirt with both hands, twisting it nervously. He was so focused on getting home that he didn’t even notice he was tearing the shirt apart at the seams.
Finally his hand reached out and gripped the doorknob, trying to turn it. It didn’t move. He cried out and then whimpered repeatedly trying harder to turn the knob.
The door suddenly flew open to reveal his dad standing there in a white tank top and his jeans with a beer in his hand.
“Did you get lost?” he sneered as he lifted the bottle and took a deep swill of beer.
“N . . . n . . . no, Dad,” Billy Jack muttered, looking down at the floor, tugging at his shirt. “I took t . . . t . . . too long and am l . . . l . . . late. I’m s . . . s . . . sorry.”
Mr. Harper watched his son for a moment. “Where’s the tool box? You were supposed to bring it back down with you.”
Billy Jack went still for a moment with a shocked/scared expression on his face. “I f . . . f . . . forgot.”
“Well, you better go back up there and get it,” his dad growled, “because you aren’t coming in here without it!” He stepped back and slammed the door in his son’s face.
Tears poured from Billy Jack’s eyes as he staggered back down the hall and toward the elevator. He pressed the button with no pleasure; his dad was mad at him and he was drinking, which was never a good combination. Gasping for breath between sobs, he rode up to the lobby. From there his journey was uneventful and he didn’t even play his game on the fifth floor landing.
He was still crying when he reached Mrs. Willis’ apartment, and she answered shortly after his first knock.
“Billy Jack, I was wondering if you were coming back for the tool box,” she said. “Why are you cryin’, honey?”
“I f . . . f . . . forgot to come get the t . . . t . . . tool box and was l . . . l . . . late going home,” he said, sniffling loudly. “Dad i . . . i . . . is mad at m . . . m . . . me.”
“Ah, honey,” she said, stepping forward to give him a hug. “It’ll be all right. I have your tool box right here and you’ll soon be home all safe and sound. Your daddy was probably just worried about you.”
Billy Jack whimpered and hugged the woman back, loving the way it felt to have someone care about him.
“Th . . . th . . . thank you, Mrs. Willis,” he said, sniffing again and stepping back. “I h . . . h . . . have to go now, b . . . b . . . before Dad gets more a . . . a . . . angry.”
She patted his cheek and smiled, letting him step inside and retrieve the tool box that was sitting out of the way in the kitchen. “You be careful going back downstairs,” she said as he left. “There’s some mean folks around here and they would take advantage of a sweet, handsome boy like you.”
“I w . . . w . . .will,” he said, wiping the last of the tears from his face. “G . . . g . . . good night, Mrs. Willis.”
“Good night, honey,” she said, smiling as she closed the door behind him.
When the door clicked shut Billy Jack felt alone and scared. Not of the people Mrs. Willis had mentioned, but of his dad and what he would do for punishment; Billy Jack never liked his punishments.
He descended the stairs slower this time, dreading going home now. He watched every step as he went down in the now almost completely dark stairwell. When he reached the third floor landing, he felt something hit his foot where he’d bumped into the angry men earlier in his rush. He bent down and felt around on the floor with his hand and found a smooth, squarish object. He picked it up and held it close to his face, squinting to see what it was. It was one of Mike’s walkie-talkies! He frowned, wondering how it had gotten there and realized after a few moments that he’d left Mike’s apartment with it and must have dropped it when he bumped into the man.
He turned around and thought about taking it back to Mike’s, but shook his head. It was too late now, Mike would be in bed, and Mike’s mom scared him; she was mean when Billy Jack showed up too late or she didn’t want him around. With a shrug he decided to take it home with him and give it back the next day.
Turning, he continued his descent and soon reached the basement once again. He trudged down the hall, now tired from going up and down the stairs so many times. Without even trying the knob on the door, he knocked, knowing from experience that it was locked; it was ripped open instantly.
His dad stood there once again, but this time he was swaying slightly and holding onto the door for support. He glanced down at the tool box Billy Jack was carrying.
“Tool box, good,” he said and staggered backwards, almost falling on the floor.
Billy Jack didn’t say anything. He just stepped inside and sat the tool box by the door where it always sat when not in use. He closed the door and locked it and then went to his room, noticing as he left the living room that his dad had made it to his recliner in front of the TV, which was on; he sighed and opened another beer.
Flipping his light on, Billy Jack noticed right away that the shelf in his bedroom – across from the door – was empty. His comic books were gone! His heart started pounding and his hands started shaking. He grabbed ahold of his already mutilated shirt and tugged on it hard; the sound of it ripping fell on deaf ears, going unnoticed.
“Dad!” he cried, running back out to the living room. “Someone t . . . t . . . took my c . . . c . . . comic books!”
His dad laughed, looking over and up at his son with a smirk. “Yeah, I did,” he said. “You were late and you didn’t bring the tool box, so I burned them.” He shrugged drunkenly and turned his attention back to the TV.
“N . . . n . . . no!” Booby Jim screamed at the top of his lungs, tugging his shirt at the same time, ripping it off of his body. He started crying and couldn’t talk. Turning abruptly he ran into his room, slammed the door behind himself, and threw himself on his bed, sobbing hysterically.
He lay that way for almost an hour, with his huge body shaking from sobs, but finally fell asleep.
***
A loud noise woke Billy Jack suddenly and he blinked in confusion at the brightness of his room; he rolled over to see that the light was still on. From beyond his door he heard thumping and his dad screaming. Quickly he got up and went to investigate.
“Dad are y . . . y . . . you okay?” he asked tentatively, still timid after what had happened earlier that evening.
His dad didn’t answer, but he could hear low growling/grunting noises and when he turned the corner to get a view of the living room he saw the source. A strange man was kneeling over the prone body of his dad, feasting upon his guts; his face was buried deep in Mr. Harper’s stomach.
“What are y . . . y . . . you doing to my d . . . d . . . dad?” he yelled, his hands balling into fists.
The man turned and looked in Billy Jack’s direction with cloudy eyes; he hissed at Billy Jack and went back to eating.
“S . . . s . . . stop!” Billy Jack yelled and stepped forward, kicking the strange man in the stomach, knocking him over and away from his dad and into the open apartment door, slamming it shut.
The man roared in anger, sending drops of blood flying from his lips and teeth. He charged at Billy Jack with his hands raised and his fingers bent into claws.
“No!” Billy Jack screamed and punched the man across the fa
ce as hard as he could.
The man’s head jerked to the side with the force of the blow and Billy Jack heard a wet snap as the man’s neck broke; the man fell to the floor and didn’t move anymore.
Turning back to his dad, Billy Jack started to panic. He reached down to grab ahold of his shirt while he tried to figure out what to do, only to realize he wasn’t wearing one. His hands started to shake as he tried to process the situation. His dad wasn’t moving and he didn’t know what to do or who to tell.
“R . . . r . . . rest,” he said, nodding his head. “Rest m . . . m . . . makes sick people b . . . b . . . better.”
He picked up his dad’s bloody body and took him into the master bedroom. He carefully laid him down on the bed and covered him with a blanket that was lying folded across the bottom.
Billy Jack knelt down on the floor beside the bed and held his dad’s hand in his larger ones, occasionally reaching up to stroke his forehead.
“Y . . . y . . . you’ll feel better s . . . s . . . soon, Dad,” he whispered. “You j . . . j . . . just need rest.”
In moments Billy Jack thought he saw results from the resting as Mr. Harper’s eyes fluttered open and a low moan escaped his partially parted lips.
“Dad? Y . . . y . . . you feel better?” Billy Jack asked, standing. “C . . . c . . . can I get you anything?”
Mr. Harper didn’t answer, he just groaned and turned his cloudy eyes toward Billy Jack and that’s when he knew something wasn’t right; the man who’d attacked his dad had eyes like that.
Clawing viciously at the blanket, trying to get free, Mr. Harper’s jaw snapped open and shut, clicking loudly.
“Dad?” Billy Jack asked in a voice that could have passed for a child’s. “What’s w . . . w . . . wrong with y . . . y . . . you?”
His dad didn’t answer, but broke free of the blanket to stand. Blood gushed from his open stomach, carrying his intestines with it. They splashed onto the scuffed, hardwood floor with a squish. He stepped forward, into his own mess, slipping slightly, but righting himself again with the help of the bed and advanced toward Billy Jack sniffing loudly and moaning.
Billy Jack backed away and bumped against a stand that a TV was sitting on, knocking the TV off; the screen shattered on the floor. He became more flustered and tried to pick up the TV and put it back.
“I’m s . . . s . . . sorry, Dad,” he gushed. “I d . . . d . . . didn’t mean to b . . . b . . . break your TV.”
Mr. Harper’s hand fell heavily on Billy Jack’s shoulder, and he stood and turned to face his father, who hissed menacingly in his face. He lunged at Billy Jack trying to bite him.
Billy Jack screamed and fell backwards as he instinctively dodged the bite, falling into the glass; it cut into his back and side, but he didn’t notice as his fear was focused on his sick parent.
“Why are y . . . y . . . you trying to e . . . e . . . eat me?” he whimpered, sitting up slightly and scooting backwards on his butt.
Mr. Harper roared and lunged at Billy Jack, who brought his arms up to defend himself, knocking his dad hard in the chin and off of him. Frantically he grabbed at things around him as his dad pounced on him once more. He lifted a large piece of glass and shoved it upward. It went in through the bottom of his dad’s chin at an angle, sinking deep into his head and brain.
Mr. Harper went still with a gurgle.
Billy Jack shoved his dad’s body off of himself and took deep, sobbing breaths. He didn’t understand why his dad had tried to bite him. He’d thought his dad loved him, but now he wasn’t so sure.
Sitting up, he looked around the room, noticing that he’d knocked the door of the TV stand open when he’d bumped into it. Some misplaced impulse made it impossible for him not to fix it; normally he would get in trouble for not closing doors. He rose up on his knees and crawled through the glass toward it, noting for the first time that he was hurt. As his hand met the dark, painted wood, he eyes caught sight of something bright and colorful inside. Frowning, he opened the door further to find his comic books stacked inside. A grin spread across his blood spattered face. Dad did love me, he thought, glancing at the dead body on the floor to his right with an ache in his heart. All he’d ever heard from his father were mean things: how dumb he was; how Billy Jack’s mother had left because she couldn’t handle living with a child like him; how hard his life was trying to provide for him and meet his “special” needs; and how he couldn’t have a life because what woman would want anything to do with the father of a big dummy like him. But deep down, in spite of everything, his dad really, truly had loved him, and to Billy Jack, the comic books proved it.
“Daddy,” Billy Jack whimpered and turned, lifting his dad’s body into his arms, hugging it tight, weeping. “I l . . . l . . . love you.” He cried and rocked his dad’s body for a long time before he laid the body back onto the bed.
He went down the hall and into the bathroom and was about to use the toilet when he noticed how filthy he was; he was completely covered in blood. Freaking out slightly, he stripped off his clothes as fast as he could and climbed into the shower, screaming as the water hit his wounds when he turned it on. He pulled out all the shards of glass that he could, but he couldn’t reach them all. They didn’t really hurt unless the water hit them directly, so he didn’t worry about them. After cleaning himself, he stepped out of the shower and toweled dry, realizing for the first time he didn’t have any clothes to put on and he’d have to go to his room to get some.
Cautiously, he opened the bathroom door, half-expecting another scary person to jump out of nowhere and try to bite him, but the apartment was silent. Just as he was stepping out into the hall the sound of static behind him made him jump and cry out, clutching his chest in fear.
“Billy Jack?” said a faint, young voice from his bloody pants.
He walked slowly over to them and stared down at them frowning. Why are my pants talking? he wondered. The voice spoke again, making him jump back in surprise.
“Billy Jack? It’s Mike. I’m scared. Mommy is acting funny and is trying to bite me. Help!”
“The w . . . w . . . walkie-talkie!” Billy Jack exclaimed. He reached forward and picked up his pants, frantically searching them until he found the toy he’d mistakenly taken from his friend’s house. Pressing the button he spoke into it, “Mike! I’ll c . . . c . . . come rescue y . . . y . . . you!”
“Hurry!” Mike’s little voice cried.
“I’m c . . . c . . . coming!” Billy Jack screamed into the speaker on the plastic box, shaking it hard when he didn’t get a response. “Oh, n . . . n . . . no! I c . . . c . . . can’t hear you anymore, Mike!” He turned knobs, pressed the button, and shook the walkie-talkie, but didn’t get a response.
No longer caring that he was naked or that he was bloody again from handling his pants, Billy Jack darted through the apartment and into his bedroom. Without hesitation he put on the superhero uniform he’d made, and in his mind he became Super Billy Jack, savior of all who lived in the cursed castle! He would save his little friend and save the day!
First he put on his red flannel union suit with the lightning bolt and the letters B and J on the chest. Next he slipped on the bright green galoshes he’d bought with his allowance money. Lastly, he put on his hat. It was a multicolored beanie with a little propeller on top that would keep the cursed castle keepers from reading his thoughts; he’d attached a strip of material with holes where his eyes were, to the front, to hang down over his face and protect his identity.
Proudly he stood admiring himself in the mirror for a moment with his feet wide apart and his fists on his hips.
“Super Billy Jack t . . . t . . . to the rescue!” he yelled and dashed out of his bedroom.
He paused for a moment at the door of the apartment, remembering his dad said that he shouldn’t go out dressed like he was or he would take his comic books. But he knew his dad wasn’t coming back this time and that he wouldn’t take his comic books again, so with a grin,
he charged out into the hall. He was disappointed when nothing was going on in the hall, but he quickly lifted his own spirits by pretending to fly to the elevator. Echoing the ding when the door opened, he hopped inside and spun in a full circling saying, “Whaaaa!” before he pushed the button that would take him to the lobby.
When the door slid open, he ran out into the lobby to witness one of the buildings tenants being attacked by a group of three biting men. Her screams grew weaker and weaker as blood sprayed into the air from her neck where a large patch of skin was missing and an artery had been ruptured. The blood landed on his bright green boots and ran down the side to pool around his feet as he stood in shock before he took action.
Screaming, he darted across the hall, bravely facing the mailbox monster to attack the men consuming the woman. He slammed his fist into the back of one of the men’s heads and his fist sank into the man’s skull. He shook it off in disgust, drawing the attention of the other two men as he did so. They shuffled away from the woman, allowing her dead, bloody, limp body to fall to the floor, hissing at him.
Their eyes were cloudy and parts of their faces were missing. They walked awkwardly and drooled blood out of their wide-open mouths.
“You c . . . c . . . cursed creatures won’t g . . . g . . . get the best of m . . . m . . . me!” Billy Jack shouted, and reached out and grabbing both of the men’s heads, slamming them together. They burst like two overly ripe melons under the pressure of the collision; chunks of brain and clotted, black blood flew in every direction.
He pulled his hands away and let the bodies drop to the floor.
“Ew,” he said looking down at the pile of bodies in front of him and at the mess they’d made. “I sh . . . sh . . . should clean this m . . . m . . . mess up, but I h . . . h . . . have to save Mike!”
Turning, he darted toward the door to the stairwell, but slipped in pooled blood and fell back onto the pile of death.
He screamed and kicked, trying to fight his way out of the slop. Finally rolling off, he crawled to the door to the stairs, breathing heavily. Being a superhero is harder than I thought it would be, he thought, holding onto the door handle while he regained his footing. He pulled open the door and headed into the darkness. He felt like he was being swallowed whole by the building itself, so he started singing the song that always gave him courage when he had to do big things that scared him: Itsy-Bitsy-Spider.
Zombies Inside Page 9