Darkest Days: A Southern Zombie Tale

by Layton, James J.

  “Okay Dad.” She paused to gather her thoughts. “So, you’ll make a lot of money here as an accountant right?”

  David seemed to calm down after the girl had changed subjects. “Why do you say that?”

  Cara smiled, “I figure an accountant would get a lot of business considering the adults around here never made it to multiplication and division.” Her father breathed an audible sigh.

  ***

  It was a Friday. Bryant stepped out of the pharmacy on Main Street. He watched a maroon Caprice creep by and everyone inside the car turned toward the courthouse. As it continued down the street, he saw the New York state tag. “New people.” He laughed to himself. “They don’t know what boredom they’re in for.” He began to stroll northward away from downtown.

  The fall wind whipped Bryant’s shaggy blonde hair in front of his eyes. He slipped the orange-brown plastic bottle with the childproof cap into his jacket pocket and brushed the hair back with his hand. The breeze brought the crisp autumn smell that he loved so much. He tried to describe it but the adjectives eluded him. All he knew was that it made his lungs feel full of freshness, his body more sensitive and alert.

  His blue eyes caught sight of a black pickup slowing as it pulled up beside him. The tinted window eased down with the smoothness that only comes with electric controls. A tanned face appeared followed by a deep, resonating voice.

  “Bryant, you need a ride?”

  The young pedestrian smiled. “Sure, but it’s a long drive. I’m heading home.”

  “Hop in. I’ve got gas.” The driver watched Bryant run to the passenger door. His name was Rick and he was on the offensive line on the Fayette County High School football team. Bryant Allens was not a close friend (even though he typically shared a lunch table) but cool enough to deserve a ride.

  “Thanks man. The wind is picking up some.” The statement made the driver look out the window. In two hours, the sky had filled with menacing clouds that hid the recently shining sun.

  “It’s going to rain.” Rick spoke to himself.

  Bryant assumed it was the beginning of a conversation. “That’s not going to affect the almighty Fayette Tigers, is it?”

  The athlete chuckled. “Nope, we’re still going to kick the shit out of Vernon.”

  Bryant felt the conversation dry up. Then he found a new opening for dialogue. “Who are the new people in town?”

  Rick began immediately. “They’re from New York City. They have a daughter; don’t know her name. Probably Yankee pricks. They have money too.”

  Bryant’s mind screamed “Can’t you meet them before you judge them?” But nothing came out of his mouth. He felt loathing for the more popular boy beside him but also shame for wanting to speak contrary to him. Rick stopped to give Bryant a ride and, at school, let him sit at the popular kids lunch table.

  Rick correctly interpreted Bryant’s silence as disapproval. “Hey, they’re all the same. Remember the Brauers? They were just like that. Had money and thought they were hot shit. Besides, Donnie Jacobs’ dad sold them a house heading out near the city limits. He said the dad was an asshole and the mom was a bitch.”

  Bryant looked out the window knowing he would never have a true friend in Rick. He could only think of one person who had been a true friend and that person was dead. These thoughts brought an uncomfortable silence into the cab.

  Finally, the driver spoke. “You didn’t comment on the truck, man. It was a present for making first string.”

  Bryant gave a weak smile. “It’s cool.” After a sharp curve, the dilapidated trailer came into view. “This is it. I can walk from here. Thanks for the ride.”

  Rick pressed the brake rather hard and both boys were thrown forward. Bryant pulled the latch and exited the vehicle. The teenager inside the truck gave him a “see ya” and sped off. The tires kicked up dust on the gravel road. Bryant pulled the collar of his suede jacket up around his neck and lower face. He walked across thirty yards of grass before he reached his trailer. He opened the door to his single wide, brown and rust mobile home and stepped inside.

  The interior of Bryant’s abode felt welcoming in comparison to the chill wind outside, despite the trailer’s thin walls. He closed the door, flipping the lock as he did so. The click reassured him that he would be safe. His few friends wondered about his almost obsessive-compulsive behavior, every door locked and every window latched. The young man walked through the living room and kitchen into the master bedroom. Master bedroom was a laugh. Between the full sized bed and a dresser, Bryant could barely walk across it. The second bedroom was the size of a walk-in closet, and a small one at that. It was just an empty space on the other side of the trailer.

  In the “master” bedroom, Bryant checked the six shot revolver he kept on the nightstand. Yes, it was still loaded. He gingerly set it down and walked to the living room, where he checked the mahogany gun cabinet. He stared through the glass for a moment before pulling the door open. After his father’s death, guns seemed to be the only reminders of a parent gone. The old man had believed in home protection. In life, his father avidly collected guns, in addition to a motorcycle that was many years gone. Bryant took a few weapons with him when he moved out. He left his original home with two rifles, a shotgun, and two pistols. Thoughtfully, he left the rest for his mother. Chances were that she had pawned them to help keep her kitchen stocked with alcohol purchased across the county line.

  Bryant left the gun cabinet unlocked, which worried his visitors even more than the isolation he preferred. A friend named Ralph, who later died in a car wreck, had (once) asked Bryant about his refusal to lock the cabinet when he went to great pains to lock everything else. His response was “You never know when you may need one.”

  Bryant shoved the memories of his best friend away. It was too much, his father, his friend. Thinking about them only brought pain. Immersing himself in other activities was the only way to stop from reminding himself. Bryant went to school and worked the maximum amount of hours OSHA allowed high school students (even though he had reached his eighteenth year). Any free time he had went to studying. Needless to say, Bryant’s lack of a social life brought criticism from his classmates.

  Bryant lifted his work shirt out of the clothes hamper and decided to start walking to his mother’s house. Mrs. Allens - widow Allens actually - lived only a mile from her son. Mr. Allen’s death had brought a gulf between them that neither knew how to bridge. The only contact the mother and son had now were the times he borrowed the truck to drive to McDonald’s and when he dropped off her prescriptions (like the one in his pocket). He had worked at McDonald’s for two years. The money saved in that time helped him afford the rent on the trailer. The owner of the land took care of the water bill, which also helped. Minimum wage could accomplish wonders when the the employee was properly motivated.

  ***

  Cara Creed, with Jean and David, stopped at McDonald’s instead of trying to have a home cooked meal and unpacking. In Fayette, the McDonald’s and the Burger King restaurants sat in the middle of town on opposite side of the Highway, facing each other. This led to all kinds of competitive efforts on both sides to steal business from the other one. Their flapping banners proclaimed specials that always mimicked the new promotions of the other fast food chain.

  Cara stood in line for a cash register. Her parents stayed back to give the illusion that the teen was separate from them, more for her sake than theirs. The young girl ordered a number three without cheese and an unsweet tea. The sandy blond boy taking her order seemed to stare at her the entire time she spoke. Cara finally asked, “Do you have a problem?”

  “Are you the girl from New York?”

  “Well, I’m not related to you, so I’m probably not from Alabama.” Cara coolly remarked.

  “I’m not inbred, thank you very much. What’s your name?” The boy appeared genuinely interested but Cara refused to let her guard down.

  “What’s yours? Bubba, Billy Bob, Billy Ray, or
Billy Joe?” She kept a stern, cold face.

  “It’s on my name tag.” He pointed to the clipped on piece of plastic hanging on his shirt. “Bryant. My last name is Allens.” The newly introduced boy flashed his brightest smile. “Your turn.”

  “Cara Creed.” She quickly responded, partly out of embarrass-ment.

  “I like the alliteration.” Bryant flashed another huge smile.

  “I’m shocked that you know what that is.” She casually threw the comment into the air.

  “We’re not all stupid.” His smile faded. “Do you know how insulting you are?”

  Cara snapped back. “Just take my parents order before I ask to speak to your manager.” Then she walked off, finding a booth in the corner out of sight.

  Bryant watched her walk away and felt a sly grin creep across his face. Her parents blocked his view of her as Jean and David stepped up to the register. His thoughts remained on the new girl as her legal guardians ordered.

  Cara felt the heat radiate off her face. How could an ignorant Alabamian make her feel such shame at her behavior. Her superiority complex had always prevented her from feeling embarrassment before. She sulked at her table even after being joined by David and Jean. Neither asked her what was wrong. As far as they were concerned, their offspring was just demonstrating her normal behavior.

  ***

  That night, Cara sat on the carpet in front of her bare computer desk and pulled several large cardboard boxes open. Long strips of packing tape gave up their hold on the brown flaps shutting the top. One box contained a CPU tower which she lifted up and placed on the left side of the desk. The next box contained a monitor and stand that sat centered on the flat polished wood surface. The final box contained a large scanner and printer combination which took its place to the right of the monitor. In a plastic bag sealed tight with a twist tie, Cara found a plethora of small parts, wires, and cords that would connect her devices.

  The process of hooking a mouse and keyboard to a tower required little attention; neither did plugging in a USB port. So her mind was free to explore other things. She thought about her room in New York with its tasteful bookshelves and elegant lack of decoration. No posters of the newest Hollywood heartthrob adorned her walls. She was above that. To her shame though, she was not above the teenage fantasies of romance and passion. She distinctly recalled standing among her labeled boxes lamenting her parent’s decision to move, but stopping to wonder if maybe her status as a Northerner would help her socially. Would she meet an educated transplant such as herself? They could discuss the theater, philosophy, cinema, literature. He would be sensitive, but strong and confident. He would be able to make her laugh, but could stop and become serious when she needed him to be.

  Lost in thought, her hands worked all through the reminiscent daydream and when all the appropriate cords slid into the appropriate ports, she pushed the power button. The fan whirled to life, cooling the components inside while a small green light flickered on the front plastic casing. The operating system could take two minutes to boot up, so her mind drifted off again.

  This mystery man would be the type that would not buy flowers. He would be too practical for that. What was she supposed to do with the flowers for the rest of the date? She could not carry them around all night. She didn’t have her own car to leave them in. So what would he do in order to win her heart? Despite her intelligence, Cara’s fantasies lacked life. The mindless imaginings of her dream man usually involved lots of talking. Cara never really expressed her emotions, with the exception of anger. So, the most romantic thing her dream man could do is listen to her and make her feel comfortable enough to open up.

  The computer idled. All start up programs were up and running on a screen marked with fingerprints and smudges that never seemed to wipe away. She moved the mouse over to the internet connection icon and double-clicked. An error message filled the screen. Page Could Not Be Found. “Son of a bitch!” She croaked out and pushed herself back from the screen. She exited her room and stomped down the stairs toward the culprit.

  Cara walked into the living room where her father was watching the news and her mother read through a Stephen King novel. She cleared her throat and made her announcement. “Why can’t I get an internet connection?”

  Both her parents looked up from their respective entertainments and gave her a cursory glance. David finally spoke. “The town only has one service provider and I haven’t contacted them yet. We have only been here a day.”

  Cara huffed. “I need to check my email. Can’t you call them now?”

  Mr. Creed laughed. “Who are you expecting an email from? I thought you prided yourself on being a loner.”

  Cara’s face reddened with rage. “You don’t pay me enough attention to know! I could have an Internet boyfriend who’s thirty-six, married, and lives in Wisconsin!”

  “Well, you wouldn’t have to resort to that if you could meet people normally.” He father retorted with a sneer.

  “All the social problems that I have came directly from you. I think being an asshole might be genetic.” She almost shouted at him.

  “I’ve always been respectful to those who respect me. You’ve never been tried it though, so that is completely alien to you.” Then he picked up the remote and pushed volume up until nothing could compete with the thunderous voice of Dan Rather.

  Cara stomped out of the room, intentionally slamming each foot down causing a dry ‘thwack’ Luckily for her, it would be the last Friday night that she spent in solitude.

  Back in the safety of her seclusion, Cara reached into yet another unpacked box and plucked out a thin paperback novel. She began reading The War of the Worlds by H.G. Wells. There was nothing like the classics. She had read it only once before and found a sick pleasure in the fact that humanity was helpless against the onslaught of far superior beings; humans needed to be taken down a peg or two. The race still survived, but it was more due to random chance than anything the individuals did. That was more like real life to her. Random chance was almost a god unto itself in the world she knew. People died due to traffic accidents, shootings, disease, and millions of other variations on nature’s clean-up process. She saw no reasoning or divine plan in the everyday workings of the world. Her reflections on the idea of an interventionist God fell between atheistic on her bad days and simple agnosticism on her good days.

  Cara may have been incorrect on H.G. Wells’ beliefs on God, having never read any biographical information on him, but she saw her point of view in that novel. Unfortunately, she felt little comfort in those beliefs this night. The protagonist wandered aimlessly until the invading force of aliens simply died by a lack of resistance to common Earth bacteria. Thinking about the hero, isolated and fighting for his pathetic survival in a world gone berserk, prompted the thought “He doesn’t even have any companionship. At least if he had a wife or even a friend, the end would not seem so . . . lonely.” The young girl glanced around her room, letting the packed boxes and barren walls speak for her. She realized her heart ached. The urge to go back downstairs crept through her. Through force of will, she stayed on the bed with the book clasped in her hands. “I don’t need them. I’m perfectly content up here with my intellectual pursuits. I just need some new reading material and I’ll be fine.” She made a mental note to check out the town’s public library in the next few days. Eventually, she felt her eyes tire and let the book fall closed on her chest. There was no need to save the page; she had read it before. Her eyelids slid closed and her breathing slowed. In a few moments, she descended into the little slice of death that people call “sleep”.

  ***

  Bryant left McDonald’s for his meager lunch break Saturday night. After eating the previous twelve consecutive breaks in the lobby of his place of employment, he desperately wanted a change. Pizza was always appetizing. The very moment that he imagined a personal pan from Pizza Hut, he knew he should have phoned ahead and placed an order. Ten to fifteen minutes to cook the dish cu
t his break in half.

  As he lamented not planning ahead, he thought about another lunch sitting alone in a restaurant. In his fantasies, love finds him. That means that he no longer eats by himself, he no longer has to put up with the false sympathy; he no longer has to pretend to be friends with people he doesn’t like (because when someone’s in love, none of that matters). Love would distract him from the pain of his past.

  While driving the paltry quarter mile to Pizza Hut, his mind broached the taboo topic of his father. It was a natural progression from the innocuous thought “It feels good to drive. There’s nothing like the open road.” It was one of his Dad’s favorite sayings. He could not resist using it every time he got behind the wheel.

  Mister Allens had been a loving man who was never wealthy but always smiled. Bryant (and everyone else who ever met his father) remembered his wide grin, oblivious to the knowledge that his life would be a short one. Dad had a romantic vision of how one should live his or her life that Bryant feared may have infected him as well. The man’s prize possession was a big chopper. On that raucous motorcycle, he had wandered up and down highways, interstates, and dirt roads trying to see America. He looked in every backwater town and every big city searching for something. What it was, not even he knew.

  When Bryant would ask what Daddy had been looking for, the man flashed his smile and said the same thing every time. “I didn’t know, but I just knew something somewhere would end my roaming.” He would get a far-away look in his eyes imagining the end of his wanderlust. “Then I pulled into a tiny little town called Fayette.” Bryant slightly mouthed the words, having heard the story countless times. “I saw a girl in a sundress. She stood by the road with her white purse clutched in front of her and looked lost. She glanced up and down the road, expecting something any moment when I rode right up to her. She was shy, I could tell. I asked her who she was waiting for. She said that her friends had left her and she was looking for someone she knew to pick her up. I said ‘Well, you don’t know me but I’ll take you anywhere you need to go.’ She said that she’d never been on a motorbike before. I told her ‘I’ve never had a girl as pretty as you on my bike before.’ I didn’t have two helmets so I let her wear the one in my travel bag. I never used it anyway. I blinked and two years had gone by. Your mom told me that I could ride away if I felt the call of the road again, but every time I drove away, my hog pointed right back to Fayette.” Bryant’s dad would bounce him on his knee and finish the story with “We had you, and looking down into that crib, I understood that everything I was searching for was right here.”