Dark Rhodes

by Michael Canon

  The zombie fought, but it couldn’t break my death grip. I was too strong during and for days after I fed. As I finished, I stood quickly, repulsed by what I had just done. Dropping the drained, but still undead Hunter at my feet, I crushed its skull under my boot, snuffing out its preternatural life for good.

  I stopped for a moment, senses still on high, making sure I was alone. Other than a few curious Georges (Sorry, I had to do it at least once!) hundreds of yards away, I reaffirmed there were no other threats in the vicinity. Walking to the back of the SUV, I stripped out of my gore-soaked clothes, keeping only my boots, belt, and jacket, leaving the dirty clothes in a path on the side of the road.

  With effort, I popped open the damaged back hatch of the SUV, setting my rescued items down. I grabbed two gallons of water, a washcloth, and some all-in-one hair and body soap. Stepping away, I quickly washed as much of the zombie filth off me as I could. From the first day I awoke in my own personal Hell, I couldn’t get zombie-filth off me fast enough. I scrubbed hard; I suppose I was still trying to wash the inside as well as the outside. Yep, I still had issues.

  As soon as the water ran out, I walked back over to the SUV to grab a towel. I dried myself off, leaving the towel on the ground. I selected new undergarments and an outfit, along with a new pair of sunglasses out of my stash in the back of the SUV.

  Before dressing, I felt along my right ribcage and breast, where the Hunter had raked me with its nails. The wounds felt like they were almost closed, but I still moved to use a side mirror to watch the accelerated healing process at work. It still fascinated me to see the wounds stitch themselves back together. I watched as a chunk of new tissue filled the void on the underside of my breast. In less than three minutes there were barely any marks on my ribcage, and the gouge in my breast was almost filled in with new, pink tissue. Even with my accelerated healing, the area still ached and itched, and would for hours.

  The March breeze was strong and cold, but even standing there completely nude, I was okay. I knew it was cold; it just didn’t bother me. Without warning, my right index finger involuntarily shot up my right nostril, picked a huge booger, and wiped it on the side of the SUV.

  “Ugh! Gross! I hate having other people’s bad habits! Next thing you know I’ll be trying to scratch my balls!” I thought loudly.

  I indignantly walked back to the rear of the vehicle, reacquiring my clothes off the tailgate.

  I dressed quickly, having spent too much time in one place. I was alone for now, but that could change in an instant. A naked woman by herself was an inviting target for any predator, alive or undead. I wiped down my boots, belt, and jacket with some cleaning wipes, and another towel, before slipping them on.

  I quickly loaded a full magazine into my 9mm and slid it into its holster. I put the half full one in a cargo pocket of my pants. I’d reload it as I walked. I grabbed some bottled water, a toothbrush and toothpaste out of side pocket of my backpack, as I slid it and my M4 on.

  A questioning meow came from low on the back seat floor of the SUV.

  I smiled, and said, “It’s okay Mr. Crowley, you can come out now.”

  The big orange cat jumped over the back seat, bounding to me, chirping, meowing, and purring like a boat motor, while he paced back and forth.

  I said, “I’m fine, they weren’t that tough.” I set my oral care products on the tailgate as scrubbed on him for few seconds. I surveyed my supplies one last time to see if I was missing anything.

  As my senses returned to normal, the intensity of the moment hit me like a ton of bricks. Tears flowed freely, and I sobbed inwardly. Since screaming could be hazardous to my health, I yelled under my breath, “FUCK! How did this happen! Why me?!” I think I’d said that a couple thousand times since February 5th, and I still didn’t have a satisfactory answer.

  I retrieved Thunker and a damp towel, using it to clean the weapon while the cat circled my feet and rubbed against me. I slipped the mace back into its holster and dropped the towel again. I picked up Crowley, letting him settle himself into his usual spot on top of my pack and left shoulder. Picking up my brush, paste, and water I brushed and rinsed my teeth as we started walking west.

  A lone figure stood on an overpass about 100 yards behind Ashleigh.

  He was tall – over six feet, heavily muscled, and appeared to be in his twenties. His intense, brooding brown eyes did not match his youthful appearance.

  A lone shuffling zombie approached from the right but lost interest in him as it took in his scent. Without taking his eyes off Ashleigh, the man dispatched the zombie with a quick machete thrust to the side of the head.

  The cool breeze whipped his braided dark hair and long leather jacket as he watched Ashleigh move away. The stranger quickly cleaned his machete and grabbed his gear to follow her.

  2

  6 months earlier

  I awoke to the sound of an alarm going off, but couldn’t understand why it wouldn’t shut off as I beat the crap out of the top of my clock. I realized it was the phone ringing when I heard my Dad’s deep voice on the answering machine.

  “Hi Honey, it’s Dad, don’t bother coming into work today, just take the day off and try to get some rest. We’ll get through this...somehow. I love you Ashie.” followed by a click. Given the fact that he hadn’t called me “Ashie” since I was three and couldn’t say “Ashleigh” I knew my Dad was upset.

  I let him hang up, I would call him back later. It was better this way for both of us. My former Marine Recon Daddy is a rock-solid mountain of a man, who didn’t take shit from anybody, but it’s not every day you find out your only daughter has a nearly inoperable brain tumor.

  For me, I had a knock-down, drag out fight with my boyfriend, Christian, last night about my tumor. We yelled, we screamed, we threw things.. Well, I threw things.

  This went on until his folks called from their house next door to tell us to keep it down unless we wanted Tucson police knocking on my door. He stormed out shortly after they called. Neither one of us were dealing with my condition like adults.

  Because of last night, I knew I didn’t have the mental reserves not to fall into a blubbering mass of female hysteria if I spoke to my father right now. I needed more time to recharge my batteries.

  I flipped on the TV as I climbed out of bed, and dropped to the floor to run through my morning exercise routine. I had been a gymnast since I was four years old, working out was still an integral of my daily life. Killer brain cancer or not, a good workout helped me think and center myself.

  As I completed my workout, I listened to the local and national news. The late September weather in Tucson was perfect, as it was 300 other days a year. There was a huge fire in an industrial complex on the outskirts of Beijing. The Chinese military was moving around a lot, attributing the fire to a training exercise that got out of control, but it was still causing us and other nations to be concerned.

  Just as I finished up an hour and a half of yoga, Pilates, and calisthenics, I heard the front door open, and a “Hi Ash!” from my mom.

  She poked her head into my room. “Put some clothes on and meet me in the kitchen; we need to discuss your tumor.”

  I grabbed some pajama pants and a robe off the end of my bed and slipped them on. I ran a brush through my hair before joining Mom in the kitchen.

  I walked down the hall, through the great room, and into the kitchen, looking at the house like it was my first time doing so. I wasn’t looking at my home in a “facing a life crisis” mindset, it was how I always looked at it.

  My parents had given me their old house as a college graduation gift. They knew I loved the old Spanish Colonial all my life, and they could afford it. Dad was one of the most successful builders in the Southwest, and Mom was the lead oncologist for the Davron Group, the largest private cancer research group in the world.

  Even at 61 years old, my mother was a striking woman that could still turn heads. We were the same height, but I carried more muscle mass, which mad
e her appear more petite. We shared the same green eyes, but her hair was platinum silver and had been since right after I was born. The running family joke was that I took all the red for myself when I was born.

  Mom looked great, as usual. She wore a business skirt/suit combo from her favorite designer - Vera or Donna, I could never remember which. I was my Daddy’s daughter; I preferred my jeans, my boots, and a nice button-down shirt.

  Mom was making a pot of coffee as I entered the kitchen.

  “Omelet?” I asked her.

  She thought about it for a moment, before nodding yes, as she headed for the bread box and toaster on the corner of the breakfast bar. I grabbed eggs, milk, cheese, and mushrooms out of the fridge and headed for the stove.

  As I prepared our breakfast, Mom said, “I’ve been looking over your labs, CAT Scans, blood work, and MRI, and I think there might be a way we can address your tumor. It will take a few months of pretreatment here at Davron’s local clinic, and eventually a trip to the Boston’s surgical lab.”

  I set our plates down and joined her at the bar. “What does this pretreatment entail, chemotherapy?”

  She shook her head no, as she sipped her coffee.

  “No, targeted cell reprogramming. You know cancer is the unchecked duplication of cellular material,”

  I nodded as I ate, and she continued, “We’re going to try to turn off this duplication. We’ve had excellent results in trials on other cancer types, but never on brain tumors, so it isn’t a sure bet. Just be ready to get poked with more needles than a pin cushion.”

  I stopped eating and frowned at the thought of all the needles, and I asked rhetorically, “Is anything in life ever a sure bet?”

  We both turned to the sound of the front door opening.

  “Ash, you here?” asked Brian.

  “We’re in the kitchen, big brother!” I responded.

  My older brother rushed into the kitchen and scooped me up off the bar stool in a huge bear hug before setting me down.

  Brian said to both of us, “I just spoke to Dad, why didn’t you tell me before!”

  He was more upset than I could ever remember. It hurt my heart to see my big brother, the 41-year-old, former Air Force Combat Control Officer badass in tears as he stood before us. Mom moved first to comfort her boy. I was Daddy’s girl, but even at 6’ and 200 pounds of rock solid muscle, Brian would always be his Mama’s little boy.

  She walked over to Brian and put her hand on his cheek, “Because we needed to be sure before we upset the whole family.”

  Brian held Mom’s hand and reached for me. I moved over to tuck myself against his chest, under his protective arm, like I had since I was old enough to walk.

  With tears streaming down my face for the second time in the last 24 hours, I said, “I love you big brother, we’ll get through this.”

  3

  Feb 4

  I stepped out of the Davron Group’s private plane that had just ferried my mother and me to a private plane terminal at Boston’s Logan International Airport. The lightly falling late morning snow and the 18-degree air temperature was a shocking change from the never-ending sun and 75 plus of Tucson. I zipped my leather jacket, then put my gloves and a knit hat on as I waited for my mother at the bottom of the stairs.

  “I love Boston weather.” said mom as she joined me to walk to the Davron Group limousine.

  “Really?” I exclaimed, “It’s okay. It’s a little too cold for me. I need the sun, my sunglasses, and a pool. I’m a “clothing optional - margarita mandatory” kinda girl.” with an impish smile. Mom rolled her eyes and took my hand as we walked to the waiting car.

  I enjoyed the ride through Boston. The city was so different from Tucson. The Group’s office building was close to Faneuil Hall Market Place, so mom had the driver drop us off at one of the city’s best seafood restaurants for an early lunch. We sat next to each other like we did when I was a kid.

  In between spoonfuls of some of the best clam chowder in sourdough bread bowls I’ve ever had, mom said, “Your results have been very good; your tumor is over 80% smaller than it was in September. It’s very operable now.”

  I grimaced as I replied, “I know, that’s what Dr. Edwards in Tucson told me. It better be after all the shots I’ve had, and all the blood they’ve taken. Are you sure the Davron Group isn’t cloning me against my will?”

  Mom laughed a mouthful of chowder back into her bowl, coughing a response, “Absolutely not! One Ashleigh Marie Rhodes is all this world is equipped to handle, thank you very much.”

  We walked to the Davron Group Office, enjoying each other’s company as well as the large whipped hot chocolates we each sipped to ward off the chill. We cut down a small pedestrian alleyway to get to the street the Davron Building was on and were met at the corner by a giant of a man in a trench coat and a dark green tweed Scally cap, carrying a large black duffel bag.

  “Mrs. Rhodes, it’s so pleasant to see ya! What ah you doing out in this wheathah?” the man exclaimed in a heavy New England accent.

  My Mom’s face lit up, and she said, “Connor Butler, it is so nice to see you! And I’ve told you before, please call me Barbara.”

  Embracing the large man, she all but disappeared. Reappearing as she pulled back, Mom continued, “Connor, this is my daughter Ashleigh, Ashleigh, this is Connor Butler. He is the facilities manager for the whole Davron building, and we are so thankful to have him.”

  Connor blushed like only the fair skinned can, and said, “What she’s leaving out is she’s the reason I’m still kicking in the first place. God’s will and your Mom’s treatments saved my life. I’m just trying to square my debt. Your mom does God’s work, Ashleigh, mark my words. God own work. Are you headed to the Group, may I join you?”

  We nodded yes, as he threw the duffel over his shoulder like it was full of feathers.

  Approaching the Davron Group building, I couldn’t help but think the front façade looked more like something you would see in a top law firm or ad agency vs. a leading cancer research center. I guess I was used to the Tucson center, which was an old Mission Revival hospital the Davron Group bought after it closed. The Boston Center lacked that “medical office” feel to me.

  I asked out loud, “Why did you put a cutting-edge cancer clinic near Boston’s financial district? Wouldn’t near Boston General or Harvard Med have been a better choice?

  Before Mom could respond, Connor laughed heartily and said, “Who else better to help pay for all that cutting-edge? You’ve got thousands of potential donors right next door! It was great seeing you Mrs. Rh – Barbara, nice to meet you, Ashleigh.” As he tipped his hat and headed into the building.

  Mom smiled and nodded in the affirmative to both his reason and his goodbye.

  4

  Mom and I parted with Connor and headed further into the lobby. An impeccably dressed, 40ish man of medium height was there to greet us. His closely cropped silver and black hair only added to his meticulous image.

  “Hello Barbara, good to see you made it here safely. The storm is supposed to get a lot worse over the next few hours,” said the man with an English accent.

  “Thank you, Martin. Martin, this is my daughter, Ashleigh. Ashleigh, this is Martin Schofield.” replied Mom.

  Martin offered his hand and bowed slightly. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Ashleigh. You have my word we will be taking great care of you while you visit our fine facility.”

  I replied, “Thank you, Martin, it’s nice to meet you. Mom spoke very highly of you on our flight out here. Did she actually steal you from Cambridge?”

  Martin looked at us both with an overly acted, pained expression and said, “Ms. Ashleigh, have you ever known your mother to be someone who takes “No” for a final answer?” his eyes enhancing his genuine smile.

  I let out a short laugh as I responded, “Not likely! You’d have an easier time taking a bone from a starving pit bull!”

  “Quite!” replied Martin.

&n
bsp; “Hello! I’m standing right here!” exclaimed Mom.

  We all chuckled as Martin continued, “Truth be told, she didn’t need to try very hard to get me out of the halls of academia. From the moment I heard your mother speak years ago at a university symposium, I knew I would have to work with her. I even went home that evening and told my Martha that while she was the love of my life, I found someone I must work with. Your mother and her theories moved working with her to the top of my career bucket list.”

  Our reverie was interrupted by the bank of flat panels mounted on a support column in the waiting area.

  Each of the three silent, but the subtitled TVs displayed a different all day cable news station, two were regular news, while the third was business related. What had gained our attention so readily was all three stations were showing what was being called “civil unrest” in different cities around the world.

  The first screen, with the title “Beijing,” showed a grainy, distant video of hundreds, if not thousands, of people attacking the Chinese military. It was odd to watch as some of the attackers ran at the soldiers at full speed while others sort of plodded forward. The soldiers were firing on the crowd with no discretion.

  The second screen was a live feed of the skyline of New Delhi, where a reporter explained a fight between thousands of people was occurring in one of the city’s many slums. The smoke and fire filled the video with the occasional flash of an explosion.

  The last screen had more unrest in another location playing behind the business reporter, who was discussing the economic and business impact these situations were causing with a couple of financial experts.

  Martin informed us, “It has been like this all day. I’m not sure what is going on, but it is a bit unsettling. Shall we move upstairs?”