Dead World: Hero

by D. N. Harding

  “Leave her alone, Jeffrey. I mean it,” a woman’s voice came from inside the vehicle, which was followed by, “Mom, make Jeffrey leave! Please!” It was a young girl’s voice.

  Jack pulled Randi away from the car and looked inside. Sitting in the driver’s seat was a milky-eyed man who most certainly was dead. His hair was custom tailored for his face. The rich dark manufactured tan seemed odd on the graying skin. It was apparent that his thin Clark Gable mustache was meant to communicate meaning. The only thing that was real about the man was the fact that he was now an animated corpse. The corpse was pinned to the seat by a locked seat belt.

  Unable to reach Randi or Jack, the man turned his attention to the woman sitting next to him. He moaned and grasped at her. To Jack, the intent was clear, but the woman kept batting at Jeffrey’s “advances” as if the man was merely playing a game. When his teeth came inches from her flesh, Jack pulled the handle on the door.

  “Lady, you need to get out of the car right now,” he said. The door was locked. Quickly, he reached into the car, unlocked the door and pulled it open. The driver turned his attention to Jack.

  “You guys want to come out and play?” Randi asked from the other side of the car. She was smiling and motioning to the kids in the back seat. There were three of them. The oldest was about ten years old and he sat with his arms crossed behind the driver. His scowl communicated what he thought about the whole situation, maybe the whole world. His brown hair was straight and hung over his brows and ears. His sister was about eight years old. Her blonde curls bounced about her shoulders as she shook her head. She rolled her eyes at Randi as if it was all she could do to put up with the stupidity that was occurring around her. She had one hand on the knee of her five-year-old brother who was fastened into a car seat between the two older children. His short blonde hair was tussled and stood up on one side of his head. He smiled as a snot bubble expanded from his left nostril. Tears glistened on his cheeks.

  “Oh, for Pete’s sake,” the woman said with a heavy southern drawl. She opened her car door and said, “Jeffrey, you’re ruining everything!” The woman was on the verge of tears. Her auburn hair was as custom cut as Jeffrey’s was. Her make-up, her long expensive nails, and even her clothes were custom fitted to match. She was a wannabe Barbie doll. Yet, the crow’s feet at the corner of her eyes and slight bulge below her chin offered more truth about the woman than she could conceal behind her make-up. She was fighting to look twenty-something when she was closer to forty-something. It made Randi feel sorry for her.

  “Jeffrey! Jeffrey!” she screamed as Jack pulled Jeffrey’s animated corpse from the car. She was wearing a short tan skirt, emerald high heels, and a billowy grey blouse that was covered by a short puffy red jacket. She held a magazine over her head to protect her hair from the drizzle. As she came around the front of the car, she noticed the man in the gray overalls pinned under the right front tire. The man moaned and reached for her. “Jeffrey!” she squeaked and made a wide circle around the man, temporarily forgetting to cover her head with the magazine.

  Jack wrestled “Jeffrey” to the ground and held him there. Apparently, he was the husband and father of this family and the last thing Jack wanted to do was upset them more than they were already going to be when they found out the man was dead and had become so recently.

  “What are you doing?” the woman asked.

  “Carol, I’m getting hungry,” the older boy said as he rolled his window down.

  Jack watched a look pass between the woman and the boy. It made Jack raise his eyebrows. There was some serious hostility between the two. Jack cleared his throat and said, “Carol is it?”

  “Huh? Oh . . . Um . . . Yes . . . I mean . . . My name is Carolynn. Carolynn Mason. But to HIM,” she pointed a sharp finger at the boy, “I am his MOTHER!” She growled the last part. The boy didn’t even look her direction. “Will you please let my Jeffrey get up so that we can get to the hospital?” she said after a moment of staring at the boy.

  “Hospital?” Jack asked.

  “Yes, Jeffrey was bitten by some maniac and he said that he wasn’t feeling well. I suggested we go to the Emergency Room and have him looked at, but OH NO, nobody listens to me when I have something to say. I suppose all that people hear when I open my mouth is BLAH BLAH BLAH—.” Jack shut her out as she continued her tirade. Looking over to Randi, he nodded at the kids in the car.

  “So, what’re your names?” Randi asked as she motioned for the kids to get out.

  The little girl said, “I am Sheri. I’ll be nine next month.” Randi unbuckled the boy and Sheri continued, “That’s my little brother Charlie and that’s Steven. He’s always cranky.”

  “I am not!” the boy said and scowled deeper.

  Randi pulled the kids from the car and took them around the side of the house and up the steps of the porch, where they waited for Jack and Carol. Steven sat on the front step tossing pebbles at the birdbath in the front yard. Sheri held Charlie protectively against her side.

  Jack held up a hand to Carol and she stopped talking and then frowned as she realized that she was just shushed. “I think you’re misinterpreting Jeffrey’s . . . um . . . condition. He’s not sick. He’s dead,” Jack said as kindly as he could manage.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  T hrowing her wet bangs back across her forehead, Carol looked at Jack and sighed. Her face cocked sideways and she smiled lightly as she realized that she was probably dealing with someone who had “special” problems. “Right,” she said sweetly. “I’m so glad that you think so,” and then added, “JEFFREY! IF YOU DON’T GET UP RIGHT NOW, I’M LEAVING YOU WITH THIS . . . THIS . . . PERSON!”

  Jack smiled to himself. The world had gone to the crapper and all this woman could see was that her Jeffrey needed a doctor. He realized that Carol was not much different than he was. He shrugged and stood up. He would not have believed it either. In fact, he hadn’t believed it. If it hadn’t been for Randi, he would still be walking around thinking that the shambling masses were still living, infected persons who merely needed a cure. He brushed himself off and smiled sadly at Carol as the thing that was Jeffrey rolled over searching for a way to get up. It was having some difficulty.

  “This is a good learning experience for you,” Carol said in a soft singsong voice. She thought she was talking to a child. “If a person is moving around, he can’t be dead because dead people don’t move. They just lay there. They have to be moved.”

  “I’m sorry, Carol.”

  “That’s okay. I understand how hard it can be for you people.”

  Jack wiped a hand over his face and then turned to Randi. “Take the kids inside. We’ll be right behind you.” He turned back to Carol who opened her mouth to protest but found Jack’s hand raised in a “shushing” motion, again. Dark clouds of frustration moved across her brow. Jack stepped up to her and quietly said, “What I’m getting ready to do will be a shock to you, but you’ll thank me before the day is over.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked stepping away from Jack. The screen door squeaked as the children entered the house.

  “I mean this,” he said and pulled the pistol from its holster. He aimed the weapon at Jeffrey, as he finally stood erect. The shot rang throughout the neighborhood and returned in a series of echoes. The bullet punched Jeffrey in the center of his chest, blowing pieces of him out the back of his ski jacket. His facial expression never wavered. He didn’t grasp at the hole in his chest. He didn’t stagger, cry out in pain, or do anything a living, breathing person would have done in that situation. His hands merely extended toward Jack as he stumbled forward looking for a snack.

  The second gunshot to the chest had the same affect. Jack turned to look at Carol. She had retreated behind the car holding the magazine over her face. Her brow was creased and her hazel eyes gaped at the man that should have fallen dead after the first shot and yet continued to move after the second.

  “Its . . . its . . .”
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  “Impossible?” Jack finished for her. “He’s dead. A virus is afflicting those who have been bitten. It kills the host and reanimates the body. Will you come in so that I can show you something?”

  Carol turned around and slid down the front tire well until she was sitting on the wet gravel, her back against the tire. Jack had to walk around the car to see her.

  “You understand that I have to put him down. If he bites someone, they’ll get infected and become just like him. Do you understand?” Jack asked.

  She sat there staring at the wet crinkled cover of the Vogue Magazine she was holding. There was a profile of a beautiful black woman. The woman’s head was turned upward; her eyes looked sideways at the reader, while her finger crossed her full pouty lips. Across the page were the words, Ten Secrets Wives Keep from Their Husbands.

  Jack raised the pistol. Again, the shot echoed off the houses around them. Carol flinched at the sound of the body collapsing and looked up at the clouds rolling above them. Tears mingled with the rain on her cheeks and then she smiled. It was the kind of smile void of humor. It was the painted smile of one who refused to accept reality. A switch in her had been thrown.

  “Let’s go inside and get you out of the rain,” Jack said.

  “Okay,” she said and took Jack’s hand. Her voice sounded too high in pitch.

  Jack helped her hobble toward the house after turning the car off. Her high heels were left stuck in the yard. She deliberately did not look at Jeffrey’s body as they climbed the porch and entered the house.

  Steven stood with his arms crossed looking out the side widow at the neighboring house. Randi had the other children on the large sectional. Little Charlie was lying down with his head in his sister’s lap. Her small hand caressed the boy’s hair. The room felt darker than it was and Jack wished the sun would peek out brief enough to touch more than the dreary afternoon with its gentle caress.

  Carol found a place on the love seat as Randi and Jack reconnoitered the rest of the house. It was empty except for the decaying bodies found in the bathroom upstairs. It was an elderly couple still in their pajamas. A single bullet hole in the center of their foreheads communicated much about the day this couple died.

  Jack arranged the bodies in a small cubbyhole in the hallway and then cleaned up the bathroom the best he could, knowing that it may be in use shortly. Laughter echoed up the steps and made him smile. The voices of children were as foreign to him as anything he’d ever heard. There were no children in prison. There were very few women. The bubbly laughter borne from hearts that had yet to ponder their future, filled him with such a warm sensation that he wanted to weep for the joy of it.

  Jack stood at the bottom of the stairs listening to the young voices coming from the kitchen. He could hear utensils clanking around on some sort of plate or dish. The tinkle of what could only be cereal being emptied into a bowl followed by liquid being poured over it brought him out of his musings. In the kitchen, he found everyone munching on bowls of cereal as he had suspected.

  “Cereal? Where’d ya’ get the milk?” he asked Randi.

  She pointed to a white canister on the counter that said in big black letters, Powered Milk. Next to it were several boxes of name brand cereal. He picked up the Fruity Pebbles box to find that it had not been opened. Randi smiled as he ripped it open with enthusiasm and fixed himself a bowl.

  The kids sat around the dark oak table on stools rather than chairs. Jack realized that Carol was not in the room, and paused with the spoon halfway to his mouth.

  “Where’s Carol?” he asked.

  Randi frowned and pointed to the back door.

  The back porch was a glass sunroom. The windowpanes were etched along the edge giving them a frosted touch that reminded him of Christmas. The windows curved from floor to ceiling allowing Jack to see the gray boiling clouds sweep past above the house. The rain had stopped, leaving rivulets of water on the glass. Wicker furniture filled the space with their tasteful pastel hues. The carpeting matched the interior of the house — beige.

  Carol was sitting on the wicker divan. She was slouched over a bottle filled with dark liquor. Her hair hung in damp spirals over her face as she held Randi’s cell phone. Her clothes were disheveled so that one shoulder was exposed and despite the fact that her ankles were shoulder width apart, her knees were knocked together. She looked pitiful.

  “You alright?” he asked.

  She stirred lightly, pulling her damp stringy hair aside to look sideways at Jack. “You know,” she said, leaning back against the couch. “I was sure you were . . . you know . . . retarded or something.” She gave a loud cackle and then drank so deeply at the bottle that she nearly inhaled some of the liquid. She coughed in spasms and set the phone on the cushion of the couch. When she could finally speak she said, “It’s not every day that you find yourself trying to hold together a dead relationship. Here’s a little morsel for ya, Jack. Jeffrey was dead before he died. He just didn’t know it.” She found the thought so funny that she laughed so hard she began to weep.

  Jack was at a loss for words. He was sure that the amount of alcohol that she was consuming would have her out of commission before long. He felt ashamed at watching her fall apart so he turned to go back in the kitchen. “Well, if you need anything we’ll be in here.” How stupid he must have sounded, he thought.

  Stepping into the kitchen, he realized that everyone had overheard the conversation. Yet, it was little Sheri Mason that did what needed to be done. She slid from her stool and walked over to Jack.

  She patted him on his hand and said in a quiet voice, “I got her.” She then walked past Jack onto the back porch.

  Jack felt like he should follow, but didn’t know what he would do. Maybe this was a girl thing. He picked up his bowl of cereal that had turned to mush and spooned it into his mouth absentmindedly. The more he thought about it, the more he was sure that he was right. It was surely a girl thing.

  Jack found himself sitting on the front porch as the afternoon turned toward evening. He watched the bodies walk up and down the street. He realized that his gunshots had attracted an unusual amount attention. He made a mental note to minimize the amount of times that he used his gun. The things walked so slowly that it didn’t take too much to leave them behind. If you picked up your pace a little, you could leave them far enough behind to ensure that they would be no threat. The only real danger was when there were hordes of them around that prevented escape.

  Randi stuck her head out the screen door and said, “Hey?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Sheri wants to put her mother to bed. What room should she take?”

  “Put her in the master bedroom. She might find something in there to wear when she gets up. I’m sure she will not want to wear her heels anymore. The dead are not impressed.”

  Randi giggled at the thought and closed the door.

  The screen door opened again. Jack turned to find Steven standing behind him frowning. It was apparent that the boy had been through a lot. He had a lot of hate in him and much of it was directed at his mother.

  “Wanna sit?” Jack said, pointing to a step next to him. “I won’t bite. I promise.”

  “That’s what you all say,” Steven growled. “I just came out here to tell you to stay away from my . . . from Carol. If you know what’s good for ya’, you’ll stay away.” He turned to go back inside.

  “Why?” Jack asked softly. Was he protecting his mother or was it something else.

  The boy didn’t turn around. “Trust me. Stay away from her.”

  The number of dead in the streets picked up when the sun descended beyond the horizon. Jack made his rounds through the house. The windows and doors were closed and locked on the first floor. Randi and the kids had retired up the stairs, so Jack followed. At the top of the steps, he turned and looked back down. If any of the dead were to enter the house, the only way to get at the kids would be to climb these stairs.

  The linen closet outsi
de the bathroom was full. Armed with blankets and a pillow, Jack made a pallet for himself at the top of the steps. With his pistol lying next to him, he rested his head on the pillow. From where he lay, he could see right down the steps.

  The night passed slowly. A few times, he heard Carol screaming at Jeffrey in a drunken slur, followed by Sheri’s little voice calming and soothing her tortured mother. When little Charlie cried out from an adjoining room, Sheri got up and padded barefoot in to check on the boy. Then all went quiet.

  Jack readjusted his pillow under his head, marveling at little Sheri Mason’s maturity. The end of the world was upon them and the girl took it upon herself to be the glue that held that broken and tortured family together. How does something like that happen? What do children do when their parent is nothing more than a middle-aged adolescent? Was she forced by necessity to fill the vacancy?

  The fourth time that he looked at his watch it read 2:30 AM. He’d been lying at the top of the stairs for the better part of four hours. He needed something that he’d missed over the last couple of weeks. He slipped out from under the covers and tiptoed down the steps, through the living room and kitchen, and onto the back porch.

  The sky was bright and clear. The moon shone full in the night sky and he felt something stir in him that he’d not felt in a long time. He stepped outside. The night air was crisp and raised his skin in goosebumps. Every day for the last thirty years, he’d given himself to some of the most intense workouts, calisthenics, and weight lifting afforded by the Department of Corrections. He might have been fifty-one in age, but he was in better shape than most men were half his age.

  The back yard was surrounded by a six-foot privacy fence that hid him from hungry eyes and so he slipped off his clothes until he was standing barefoot in his boxers on the concrete patio. He closed his eyes and focused on his breathing. In and out. In and out. Then, slowly at first, he began to move, feeling the motion of his body, the breeze blowing over him. He moved through a series of small jumps, kicks and spins. His hands split the air, then caressed it, and thrust through it. The minutes passed. He felt his body warming and could hear the sound of his blood pumping in his ears. Then it happened as it always did. The animal took over. There was no thinking. There was only movement.