by A. J. Brown
Why so tight? she asked.
“I don’t want you to fall out. I’m probably going to have to run, and I’m going to need my hands to shoot or…” I nodded to the bat on the bed. “Or play ball.”
We’re leaving?
“That’s the plan.”
I like it here.
I took a hard look at Humphrey. In another time, I might have liked it there as well. It was spacious. The yard was huge. I bet it even had a basement or an attached garage.
Garage?
I hadn’t thought of that before.
If there was a garage, there might be a car, and if there was a car, I might have a better chance of getting out.
The backpack went over my shoulders. I winced a little when I first slid it on, especially as I pushed it over the bad arm. But the brace alleviated most of the pain even as it jostled about. There was no using Ox today and maybe not for a while. I still had never fired her but was certain if I had to right then, I would probably end up dying from getting knocked off balance by the recoil. I made sure the safety was on and slipped Pop’s shotgun through the straps of the backpack. For the first time, I thought I needed a gun tote for Ox. Maybe one day, I would find one.
With one pistol in hand, one in the pack, one tucked into my waistband, and the bat in the other hand, I went back to the staircase and made my way down. I tried to be quiet as I moved one of the chairs and the coffee table, but I had placed them so precariously on the steps that moving one item caused the others to topple. The chair made a loud CLACK when it hit the hardwood floor.
“Crap.”
I eased down the steps further and walked through the house, nerves on edge, eyes and mouth dry. If any of the rotters heard the chair fall, they would converge on the noise, and sticking around much longer wouldn’t be an option. Other than the front door, there were no other doors in that direction. That left the kitchen area.
Past the front door, I stopped. Something thumped outside. Another thump followed. Then another and another.
They had heard the chair fall, and they knew where I was. I moved a little faster, trying to stay as quiet as I could. In the kitchen, I heard the moans of those just beyond the backdoor. It didn’t look to be as sturdy as the front, and it was nearly ground level, but the windows were covered, and there were several two by fours nailed at the entrance so nothing could get in.
A second door sat off the kitchen where I walked in. It could have been a pantry, and if so, at least I would have a little food if I made it out of there. I opened it slowly, recalling what happened to Lee when he died. A careless moment where he hurried instead of took his time.
The door opened with a creak that may as well have been a scream. It wasn’t a pantry at all but stairs that led down into the garage. I took a step down, then another, listening as I did so and wishing I had one of my lights from the truck. I heard only the beating of my heart heavy in my ears.
Another step down and my eyes began to adjust. Three more steps and the garage became less black and more gray. Objects took shape. To my right was a workbench and several tool boxes. Other tools hung on pegboards: shovels, rakes, hoes, hammers, saws. To my left were what looked like boxes and cans and other stuff—a storage area, I guessed. But what sat in front of me were the most beautiful things I had ever seen up to that point. Two vehicles: an SUV and a van.
“Yes.”
I didn’t go for the cars right away. There were tools to be taken, and if I could load them in one of the vehicles, I would. I hurried over to the workbench, rummaged around, letting my hands feel for objects that I could use. Near one of the toolboxes, I struck gold. My fingers came across the almost square object, found the handle. Near that handle was a button. My thumb did what it does naturally and pressed the little button.
The flashlight came to life.
“Yes.”
That joy was short-lived. From up the steps, I heard the banging on the back door. A window broke, and glass hit the floor. Sure, there were boards in place, but that gave me no comfort at all. I went back up the seven steps and closed the garage door. Before doing so, I saw the glass on the floor and a hand sticking through the broken window. There was no lock, so the need to hurry became real.
I went back to the workbench, grabbed a screwdriver from one of the toolboxes and a hammer from one of the pegs. If I needed to break into one of the cars and hotwire it, I would need tools—at least the screwdriver.
The van looked newer than the SUV and probably got better gas mileage, but the other car looked more rugged, as if it could take running into something—like a walking corpse—and not get damaged too much. I went to the SUV, tried the driver’s side door. It opened, and the body slumped from the seat.
“Crap!”
Startled, I almost shot the guy. There was no need to do that. There was already a bullet in his head. Blood and brains matted against the ceiling, and the gun sat on his lap where it fell after the deed was done. I shone the flashlight in the vehicle. My heart sank. There were five of them, all strapped in as if they were heading on a trip.
“Are we going to Disney World, Daddy?”
“Yes, Sweet Pea.”
They were going somewhere, but Disney World wasn’t it. The two older kids lay slumped in their seats. The woman in the passenger’s side was leaning on the door, her window shattered. But it was the other child—the one strapped in the car seat between the older two—that hurt my heart the most. A baby—probably not even six months old.
I closed my eyes. The SUV was a mausoleum, their gravesite. I wouldn’t be taking it. But I took the gun—every bullet mattered.
I shone the flashlight on the steering column, smiled when I saw the keys dangling there. Surely, there would be a key to the van on it.
I was right, but before I opened the van’s door, I turned the flashlight on it. There were no dead bodies inside. I unlocked the front door and put the key in the ignition. After a moment of uncertainty and trying to get the motor to roll over, the engine purred.
Are we going to be safe? Humphrey asked.
“We’re getting there, Sweetheart,” I said and pulled Ox from its place. I set it between the two bucket seats up front. With Humphrey pulled free, the pack went to the floorboard in the driver’s seat. Humphrey went into the passenger’s seat.
“Stay here.”
Okay.
I didn’t know how much time I had; the dead outside continued to beat on the door, and I imagined the weight of their bodies forcing the nails in the two by fours to work out of the wall or door jamb. Eventually, they would get inside.
The back hatch of the van came up with ease. I searched the garage, grabbed the shovels off the pegs. A hoe as well. Some of the toolboxes were too big to carry, but others would fit in the back of the van nicely. I picked up what I could, and what I couldn’t, I grabbed random tools out of. I took a plastic container that held a chainsaw in it. Who knew if I would ever need one of those?
Before getting in the van, I went back to the SUV. I hated doing it and still found it hard to believe that someone could kill their entire family, not give them a chance of surviving. I think they would have been okay for a while. At least until some stranger with a teddy bear ended up on their front porch bringing the dead along with him. I couldn’t imagine doing the same to my boy and wife. It was hard enough putting Lee down after he rose again, but to actually kill them to keep them from turning into the dead? I couldn’t fathom it.
I pulled the back latch, freeing the tailgate. It was as I hoped. Cases of water, dried foods, and blankets were all stashed back there. Several flashlights and boxes with who knew what in them. With no real time to sort it out, I transferred the contents from one vehicle to the next then closed the SUV’s door.
From the upstairs came a loud CRACK. Not just one but several. Then came what I thought was the back door slamming against the wall. Another window broke, and more glass fell to the floor.
Hurry, Humphrey cried. I could almost
see her glass eyes filling with tears.
“I’m coming.”
I closed the back hatch of the van and got in the driver’s seat. For good measure, I buckled Humphrey in and did the same for myself. I shifted the vehicle into drive and looked over at the little bear.
“Hang on, kiddo. This could be a little scary.”
Easing off the brake, I let the car roll forward. There was no electricity, so we were going to have to go through the garage door but not like they did in the movies. No, we were going to go through slow, push the garage door out and up if we could.
The front of the van hit the door with a little more force than I wanted it to. The garage door lifted up a little. I bit down hard on my lip, my hands gripping tight to the steering wheel. A little gas and the van lurched forward. The door protested, but it went up.
Metal scraped on metal, and if I could hear it, so could they. By the time the front end of the van was free of the door, the dead were swarming. There were so many of them. Where did they all come from? Were they wandering from Charleston and Mt. Pleasant? If they were, then were they migrating in search of food? I didn’t find that thought to be a good thing.
So many bodies crushed against the van, their hands beating on the sides of the vehicle, on the glass, reaching for door handles. Through all the noise, I could hear Humphrey whimpering like a sick puppy.
“Close your eyes,” I said. “Close them, and keep them closed.”
I mashed the gas harder, rolling over the ones in front of us. The van jostled from side to side as the bodies broke and crumbled beneath the tires. The driver’s side mirror came off, and the antenna snapped free as the dead continued to grope for anything they could get hold of.
Again, I gave it some gas, this time smashing into more of the dead. They either bounced off the front of the van or disappeared beneath it. Sweat formed on my brow, and my knuckles must have been white. My muscles were tense, and the cacophony of sounds that came from outside the van was loud even with the windows all the way up.
Another rev of the engine and we lurched forward and out of the garage. I turned the van toward the road. I hadn’t realized in either of my journeys to that house that the driveway wound around to the back and that if I were going to reach the road, I would have to plow through the horde before me.
There were souls in the dead, people jailed in the husks that were once their bodies. I hated hitting them, running them over. If I didn’t kill them, then they would suffer the pain of broken bones and smashed insides, but I didn’t have a choice. I had to get out of there, and there was no chance I could do so if I took the time to try and keep from running any of them over.
Body after body fell away as I pressed the gas harder, picking up speed and making my way up the dirt road toward the black top that would lead me out of there. We hit the street faster than I intended and almost tipped over in the process.
What took an eternity by foot took only half a minute by vehicle. Sometimes, we forget things like distances and traveling times and how walking and running were far different than speeding along in a car. As I raced up the road, leaving most of the dead behind me, I remembered the difference.
I hit the interstate entrance ramp and slowed before coming to a complete stop near my old pickup. I had little time. Surely, all the rotters weren’t at that house. Some of them lingered. I had passed a few of them on the way.
What are you doing? Humphrey yelled—yes, she yelled at me.
“Guns and gas. I’ll be right back.”
In another time and another place, “I’ll be right back,” usually meant just that. But in this world, that same statement might be the last thing you hear from someone. Sure, we think we can make it to and from somewhere, but things aren’t the same as they used to be. There’s no store down on the corner where you know the owner and you can get a cold soda and a bag of chips and a tank of gas and be on your merry way. No, a simple ten-foot run from one place to another could get you killed.
I took a deep breath to calm my nerves, hopped out of the van, and ran the short distance to my truck. The guns were still there. So was the water and the gas tanks—thankfully, I had capped those. I grabbed as many of the weapons as I could, ran back, and slung open the side door. The gas came next. A couple of cans were lost causes, but I managed to secure six of them before the dead started down the hill.
Come on, Humphrey yelled.
I pulled out my pistol, took aim, and split the center of the first one’s head. It collapsed, and the one behind it tripped over its body and fell as well. The water came next. By then, there were a handful of corpses stumbling down the hill and one coming from up the road. I took aim at an older woman with tangled, gray hair. She dropped to the ground.
Hurry!
I could hear the panic in Humphrey’s voice. I could feel it in my chest. The food remained, and I had none in the van. I hurried to grab busted cartons from off the ground and ran back to the van. I didn’t care if I dented the cans or damaged the inside of the vehicle. I tossed what food I could grab in and slid the door closed.
Rounding the van, I stopped. There were three of the dead near the driver’s door. I put a bullet in the first one’s head, took aim, and pulled the trigger only to hear CLICK. It wasn’t my pistol. It was the one belonging to the man whose house I just came from.
There was no time to reach for the other pistol. I swung the gun down as hard as I could on the forehead of the corpse closest to me. Its skull gave a resounding pop, and he dropped.
It was the other one…the other one that almost got me. He was a thin, frail-looking person with drooping eyes, his mouth full of yellowed teeth and his bottom lip completely missing. His hands managed to reach my shirt, and his fingers tried to grip the cloth, to pull me toward him.
Fear—true, unadulterated fear—is like a jolt of electricity. There have been times since all this began that I have felt that fear, but on this day, at that moment, I had felt nothing like it. I saw my death in front of me again, this time not by a sickness but by the hands of a rotter. The world slowed again. It grayed, and the sounds of the dead moaning and my heartbeat and Humphrey’s—yes, even when life was so precariously close to ending horribly, I heard a stuffed child’s toy’s voice—screams became muffled remnants. The adrenaline and drive to survive kicked in. I pushed him with both hands. It was all I could think to do. The gun came out from my waistband, and I put a bullet in his head.
The world came back in real speed, the colors no longer bled out. I turned, pulled the trigger twice, taking down the two women closest to me. I slammed the side door closed. Around the vehicle I went, squeezing off one more shot before getting in. I slammed the door, locked it, and shifted into drive. Dirt and pebbles from the side of the road shot up from the right back tire, and the vehicle swerved.
It was a few miles before I stopped again, not bothering to pull off the road. Something had been humming in my brain since rushing to get back into the van, a sound that seemed to follow us as we fled Summerville.
As I sat in the middle of I-26 heading away from Charleston, it dawned on me. The sound was someone crying. I looked at Humphrey, who just looked ahead, her eyes staring at the dashboard.
She wasn’t crying. Not that I could hear.
No, it wasn't the stuffed teddy bear weeping at all. It was me…
Eleven Weeks After It All Started…
It was a sunny morning. The trees were a green so lush it looked like they could have been computer generated. But they weren’t. They circled the open field I parked in the night before. I had made my way to the little field in Columbia the previous day.
I was still tired.
I still hurt. The pills only dulled the pain. Things were a little fuzzy in my head, as if everything was falling apart in my mind, just as it had in the world.
But I was alive, and the need to press on was stronger than ever before. I guess almost dying will do that to a person—give them a stronger resolve. In this wo
rld we live in now, almost dying could be considered an everyday occurrence. Searching for food, gas, a safe place to stay for a night or two—or a couple weeks—are now the ways of survival. Gone are the days of reaching into the refrigerator for a beer or going to McDonald’s for one of their I-can’t-believe-it’s-not-soybean cheeseburgers or finding a hotel where they still leave a light on for you.
There are no luxuries. Only live or die, and if you die, you better hope it’s because of a bullet to the head and not from being bitten by something resembling a person but not quite.
That field was a familiar place, and nothing feels more like home these days than a little familiarity.
It sat off Interstate 20. I had detoured from 26 just to find some rest. I crossed over I-20 in Columbia and headed there. It sat behind a huge church, and at the time the world died, it was being turned into a sports complex. The entrance was a dirt and rock path with a mobile home to the right and a playground and eating area to the left.
I thought about the mobile home, about possibly finding a bed to sleep in, but decided against it. If I wanted, I could sleep in the back of the snazzy new van I had. There was plenty of space to lie down once I moved the supplies around or took out that middle seat. Maybe one of these days, I’ll find me a small mattress to put down in there—a luxury I longed for.
I drove down the dirt road and around the fence that separated it from the playground. The parking area was nothing more than dirt and grass, and there were a couple porta-potties sitting side by side. The field was lavishly green.
I parked in the center of it and got out. All around the field, the trees stood like ancient sentries over a holy land. They formed a U shape with the church directly behind the fields and an apartment complex in the opposite corner. The playground and exits sat up the hill I had come from. And along that hill just beyond the fields were steps that led up to the playground.
How many times had Bobby run up those steps after a game, whooping and hollering and having a blast?