Dead World: Hero

by D. N. Harding

  The jet of flaming fuel arched like an orange rainbow from the strange weapon, dousing Margaret in a death shroud of fire. The heat from the flamethrower could be felt through the window where Jack stood watching in dismay. Margaret’s voice screeched above the machine gun fire that erupted up and down the street. Her arms flailing above her head, she ran blindly into shrubs, a tree and finally toward a group of soldiers who were preparing to storm one of her neighbor’s houses. Everything she touched ignited. Her every footstep was marked by flames. Jack turned his face away as she was brought down by a single shot from the Colonel’s pistol.

  Jack paused for one more moment to take a mental snap shot of the Colonel as he stood like a conquering king atop a royal wagon watching as his orders to kill the local peasants were accomplished by a host of his evil minions. Then, turning from the window, Jack grabbed Davis and threw him over his shoulder. He walked out the backdoor as soldiers came bursting in through the front. Hatred fueled him as he carried the old man out behind the garage and laid him in the soft grass behind a large barrel. In his mind, he rehearsed the image of the tyrant who ordered the death of Margi and smiled while he did it. His day would come and Jack prayed that he’d be the one to bring it.

  Muffled machinegun fire echoed from deep within the house. It never occurred to him that there might have been others in the home. He recalled the door with its single slat of wood holding it closed. He shook his head. Surely, there had been infected people behind the door — Davis’ people.

  It was nearly an hour after he had heard the last of four single gunshots come from inside the house when Davis stirred next to him. It took a moment for the old man get his bearings. He looked around sleepily and then his eyes fell on Jack. Jack refused to look him in the eye. He finally sat up against the barrel. “Are they dead?” he asked quietly.

  “Yes,” Jack whispered motioning to the old man to keep his voice low. “And you would be too, if I’d let you go out that door.” Jack wanted so desperately to defend his actions with more than mere excuses, but he was on emotional overload and couldn’t manage it. “They’ve moved to the next block. In a few moments, we should be able to go back inside, but I’m afraid there might have been others in the house we didn’t know about,” Jack said, still not looking at Davis.

  “Mack, Margi’s husband was in the basement with their daughter and granddaughters. Margi told me that she wanted to be with them. She had tried to get the basement door open, but her state of mind was deteriorating. She simply couldn’t get the last board off the door.” Davis rubbed his nose and continued. “There were four of them down there.”

  “Davis, the . . . well, the soldiers stormed the house just as I was getting you out. I heard gunshots. Particularly, four gunshots before everything in the house went quiet. I don’t think we’re going to find anyone alive in there,” Jack said quietly.

  “What happened to Margi,” Davis asked.

  Jack shrugged. “They killed her like everyone else on the block. It was quick.” Jack didn’t feel comfortable lying to the old man, but he just couldn’t add to the grief Davis was already feeling with the knowledge that his daughter had suffered a horrible death.

  Tears fell from Davis’ eyes. “Let’s go inside,” he said. “I’m tired.”

  The two men moved cautiously to the house and then inside. Jack made for the basement. If it was as bad as he suspected down there, then there was no need for Davis to see his family in such a state. The door to the basement was wide open. The interior of it was smeared with bloody scratches. Draped awkwardly across the bottom step were the bodies of a middle-aged black man and his seven-year-old granddaughter. Their bodies were torn apart by bullets. The most significant bullet hole was in the center of their foreheads. A strange sour smell emanated from the corpses. It was like soured meat, not rotting, just sour. Stepping past the bodies, Jack took note of two more corpses riddled with bullets. One was the other granddaughter. The other was an attractive black woman that had to be Margi’s daughter. Both corpses looked as if they had been flung to the ground without concern for their final posture. He felt his cheeks burn in shame for them and adjusted their limbs and clothing to more proper positions.

  “Thank you for that,” Davis said, his voice thick with grief. He stood on a stair above the one occupied by the corpses of his stepson and great granddaughter. He looked so weak and frail that Jack immediately went to him for fear of him falling. “I never expected to outlive them. I was sure that a day would soon come when they would be attending my funeral and I would be with the Blessed Mother waiting for them. Now they’re waiting for me.”

  “Well, they’re just going to have to wait for a while longer. You aren’t going anywhere. You surely aren’t leaving me in this hellhole all by myself,” Jack teased. “Besides, you’re the leader of this group. I’m just a lackey. We’d still be trying to get out of that building if it hadn’t been for your bright idea about going through the wall. And what about that song and dance routine you did back at the Denny’s?”

  Davis offered Jack a small sincere smile. “Take me upstairs. I’ll get us something fixed up for breakfast while you take care of things down here.”

  “Sure, old man,” Jack said. “Bacon and eggs sound great. I haven’t had real eggs since . . . well . . . since 1997!”

  That afternoon, Jack stepped into the master bedroom where Davis lay staring at the ceiling fan. The bed was a four-poster with a sheer canopy. Heavy mahogany furniture filled the room like ancient monoliths designed to draw the mind back to a simpler time. The room was painted in a light teal and contrasted well with the soft yellow comforter on which Davis lay. The air was still. Jack looked at the ceiling fan only to realize that Davis’ interest lay elsewhere.

  “Where ya’ at old man?” Jack asked and watched Davis return to the present.

  “I was just thinking about Margi. Her name is Margaret, you know, but her mother shortened it to Margi when she was still an infant. It stuck. The only time we used her full name was when she was in trouble.” The creases in the corner of Davis’ eyes wrinkled when he smiled. It made Jack smile. “We named her after Margaret Thatcher, the first female Prime Minister of England,” he said sitting up and putting his stocking feet on the carpet. “We figured, with a name like that, she was surely going to do something great.”

  “Did she?” Jack asked accepting the invitation to sit.

  “Yes, she gave me a granddaughter. Her name was Sandra.” At the mentioning of her name, Davis seemed to turn in on himself again. It was like a cloud rolling through his heart dimming the light.

  “Davis,” Jack said quickly. “The fact that you had a daughter makes me wonder. How could you become a priest? I’ve always understood that priests could not be married.”

  “You are right,” Davis replied. “A priest cannot.” He turned his eyes toward the window and continued. “I am not married. My Dolly passed away about a year and a half after we were married. She had always been fragile, but she never really recovered after Margi’s birth. It was as if she had been living for that one purpose and when she had accomplished it, she went on.

  “Her death devastated me. She had always been a woman of profound faith. For years afterward, I was angry with God for taking her from me. In my hurt, I neglected to give Margi what she needed most — me. She spent most of her childhood being raised by Dolly’s side of the family. They took good care of her.

  “Eventually, I came around and returned to my faith. It was a way of honoring Dolly and honoring God — becoming a priest, that is. It required many years of education and training, but I eventually became a man of the cloth.” Davis turned to look at Jack. “That was nearly fifty years ago.”

  Jack started to ask if he had any regrets and then quickly decided against it. After a day like the one they’d been having, regret was served with every meal. Instead, he said, “So that’s why you’re so smart and all.” It made Davis smile.

  “I want you to have something,
” the old man said as he reached into his pocket. “It was given to me at my ordination all those years ago. I had hoped to give it to one of my great grandchildren. Now I want you to have it.” From deep within his pocket, he took out an elegantly beaded necklace. “It’s called a rosary,” he said. “I don’t believe in good luck charms, but I do believe that the Blessed Mother of our Lord can offer you protection in this dark time.” He took Jack’s hand and closed it around the rosary. “It is my sincerest prayer that the Holy Mother protect you and keep you and that she will pray for you, my big friend.”

  Jack was touched. All he could manage was a “thank you.” The beads felt warm in his hand as he stood. Davis stood with him. “Will you leave me so that I can pray?” Davis asked, placing a hand on his friend’s shoulder.

  “Sure,” Jack said.

  “Close the door behind you, please.”

  Jack walked out. Closing the door behind him, he caught a glimpse of Davis kneeling. From behind the door, Jack heard the old man speak with such reverence, “Hail Mary, full of grace. The Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou amongst women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for me, a sinner, now and at the hour of my death. Amen.” Davis began to repeat the prayer as Jack moved into the living room placing the beads around his neck under his shirt. If that man can keep his faith after losing so much, surely, he’s a man of God, Jack thought.

  CHAPTER 10

  Thursday, September 2nd, 2017

  B y midnight, the infected were moving in the street again. They seemed to be more active at night. Jack watched as groups of them meandered past the house followed by a few stragglers. At one point, Jack saw a soldier dressed similar to those who had murdered Margi stumble by — the sickness evident in his stride. “Serves him right,” he said to the curtain.

  Jack eventually found a comfortable place on the couch and drifted into a fitful sleep. He jerked awake, his dreams scattered like ghosts, when a group of about fifty shamblers moved up the street at some point during the night. Their howls and wails filling the night air like a pack of feral wolves. He rubbed his eyes and went to the window. In the light of the moon, Jack watched quietly as men, women, and children ambled past in various stages of undress. The blood dripping from the chins of some looked dark in contrast to the pale skin of their faces. It was as if they had been drinking tar. It made Jack wonder who had been their most recent victim. He easily envisioned a certain Colonel with his neck ripped open as hordes of infected people devoured him alive. The thought made him feel better. He returned to the couch.

  * * *

  “Davis, you ready for breakfast?” Jack said loud enough to wake the dead. Pushing the door open, he found the old man still kneeling with his face propped on his hand by the bedside. His eyes were closed. He looked so peaceful. “Fell asleep praying, huh? Wonder what the big man upstairs thinks about that?” Jack joked as he set the tray on the dresser. Its contents sloshed a bit, making him grimace. “Come on, old man!” Davis didn’t move. Jack looked closer and a chill ran between his shoulder blades catching him by surprise. He shivered and put the back of his hand to the cheek of his friend. It was cold. Davis was dead.

  Jack sat on the bed next to his friend and sighed. “If you’re going to go, I suppose that’s the way to do it,” Jack said, running a hand over the old man’s head. He sat there for a few minutes recalling some of the things they had talked about the night before. His hand instinctively went to his chest where Davis’ rosary was hidden under his shirt.

  * * *

  Jack stood over the fresh grave. His new friend had passed away in the night. He’d died while praying. What a way to go, Jack thought to himself. Though the two men had only known one another for two days, Jack felt as if they had shared a lifetime together. The day before, Jack had wrapped Davis’ family in blankets and moved them into the garage so the old man wouldn’t have to face them every time he moved around the house. This morning he simply didn’t have the heart to wrap the old man in a sheet and throw him in a corner, so he buried him behind the garage where they’d hid from the soldiers the day before. On a piece of plywood staked in the ground over the grave, Jack wrote,

  Father James Davis, the song and dance man. He died as he lived — on his knees before God.

  Jack bowed his head. He wanted to offer a prayer, but all that came to mind was bits and pieces of what he’d overheard the old man praying through the door last night. He cleared his throat. “Hail, Mary of Grace. Bless Davis now among . . . the fruit of his loins. Holy Mary, pray for Davis and his family now that they are dead.” His voice was lowered in reverence. Then he made an awkward sign of the cross over himself and then over the grave as he’d seen Davis do on the bus two days ago. “Safe journey, my friend.”

  Friday, October 8th, 2017

  Static burst from the radio and then, “Hello? Is anyone out there? This is Doctor Shirley Baker at St. Michael’s Medical Center. We are in need of assistance. I repeat. We are in need of assistance.” It was the third time this morning that the doctor had pleaded for help. Her electric voice squawked from the HAM radio on the workbench. Jack rolled over on the cot and kicked the wool blanket off his bare feet. Stretching, he watched the dust particles dancing in the autumn light that dribbled through the small four-pane window across the loft. He sat up and looked over at the radio. He’d found it in a garage down the street. Once he had it hooked up to a car battery, he realized that it was broken. He could receive, but could not broadcast. He couldn’t respond to Doctor Shirley’s pleas.

  “Our supplies are running low and the generator supplying power to our medical equipment has stopped working. We need help.”

  Over the last thirty days, he’d been paying close attention to whatever he could learn from the device. During the first few days, it was a buzz of information. Chicago was fully overrun by the infected. Later it was New York, then Los Angeles. By the end of the second week, every major city in the U.S. was reporting severe outbreaks of infection. The official word to the civilian population was to avoid all metropolitan areas.

  The U. S. military threatened all deserters with court-martials. They hoped to minimize the amount of soldiers abandoning their posts. However, a week later the official word came over the airwaves that military personnel were suspending rescue operations and that soldiers had permission to take what supplies they needed to survive during the pandemic.

  Pandemic, Jack thought of the word again. The word was not familiar to him, but he was sure that it had something to do with how far flung the infection had spread. He scratched his beard, moved over to the workbench, and sat down on a stool. With the pull of a chain, the light bulb suspended overhead ignited, illuminating the area. Over his right shoulder was a stack of deep cycle batteries that he’d swiped from nearly every truck, boat and RV on the block. It took some time, but he had managed to figure out how to hook the batteries to appliances he’d retrieved from a couple of RV’s up the street. The small refrigerator humming across the loft, a coffee pot, and a box fan were wired to the DC power. The city might be without electricity, but he wasn’t.

  The water had stopped working and Jack learned that he could pour water into the tank of a toilet and it would flush normally, which was a relief. He was running out of bathrooms nearby where the smell of excrement wasn’t so overpowering. Dipping water from the neighbor’s pool, he simply used the bathroom in the main house.

  “This is the United States military, calling Doctor Shirley Baker. Come in Doc.” The voice held the steel of authority. Jack put his bare feet on the pegs of the stool and reached for a bottle of water. “This is Private David Primrose of the military rescue squad, The Band, calling anyone at St Michael’s Medical Center, come in.” A distant laugh could be heard behind the man’s voice.

  “Yes! This is Doctor Shirley Baker. Come back!” The sense of her relief was obvious.

  “Doc, be advised that we will soon be en route to your position. Do you copy?”r />
  “Yes! Thank you so much, Private. How far are you from St. Michael’s?”

  “We’re about two clicks — I mean ten miles outside of town. We’ll be arriving at your position at about noon. Do you copy?”

  “Yes, thank you. We’ll be looking for you, Private.”

  “One more question, ma’am. How many people do you have with you?”

  “There are a total of twenty-six of us. That includes several infirm.”

  “Don’t worry about a thing. We’re equipped to take care of everyone.” Again, stifled laughter came from the background while the soldier spoke. “See you shortly, Ma’am. Over and out.”

  Jack washed the film from his mouth and pulled long at the bottle until it was empty. The tepid water felt good going down his throat. The Band. He figured them to be a mercenary-type group helping to round up those who were still functional in the community. The question arose in Jack’s mind whether or not he should make for the hospital and join them. He looked around the small loft. It wasn’t much of an existence. He’d lived in much smaller accommodations for more years than he’d care to mention and even in this cramped space over Margi’s garage, he felt like a king in his castle. But, he wasn’t cut out to be a hermit.

  On the bench in front of him were the spoils of his explorations beyond Margi’s house and yard. He’d found a Mossberg 12 gauge shotgun in the back of a pickup truck last week and he discovered a semi-automatic pistol in a kitchen drawer plus enough ammunition for both weapons to chase off a herd of Al-Qaeda. His first trip up the block he managed to scrounge up a pair of heavy-duty binoculars, fishing poles and a tackle box, and the broken HAM radio. The collapsible military cot, two-man tent, solid steel chopping ax, and bullhorn that included a switch to activate an ear-splitting siren came from an RV a block over. And, finally, various tools, a gun cleaning kit, two MAG flashlights (one was small and could be strapped to the forehead), and a large green army satchel was retrieved on his last trip out before the hordes of infected moved into the neighborhood.