by John McCuaig
“Before you do, just think about something for a minute,” she said as she slowly moved across and sat back down on her little bed. “Can you live with this?”
“What?” Margot snapped back. “Killing you? That will make me very happy; you can trust me on that.”
“It’s not just me that will have died; it’s also your future. Who will find a cure if I am gone?”
“I don’t frigging care,” she muttered.
The door creaked open and it was Michel’s head that slowly peeked around and came into view.
“Did I just hear someone fire?” he muttered as he saw Margot holding onto his gun. “Margot…is there something you want to tell me?”
“Please just go…,” Margot said as she kept her eyes firmly on Mary. “This is something I need to do.”
“No,” he said as he stood directly between the two women. “You are better than this; I’ve seen how you have been with my girls. Do not take a life.”
“Papa…papa,” a little voice came from the other side of the door and little Elayna wandered in. On seeing her father, the girl ran over and grabbed him around the legs.
Sweeping her up in his arms, he kissed her gently and whispered in her ear.
“I need to take her back to bed,” Michel said as he made towards the door. “Margot, would you please come with me. She needs to hear you sing to get off to sleep. Would you not rather be doing that right now than this?” He twisted his body slightly around so that Margot could see the face of the beautiful little blonde girl. “Please?”
Marot stood up and placed the old gun against the wall just before the door burst open again.
“What the fucks going on now?” Taylor was first through the door, closely followed by Pauline and Gordon. “Who’s shooting?”
“It was all just a misunderstanding,” Michel said as he stood before them. “It’s all been sorted now, leave it be, it’s finished.”
“Professor,” Taylor said as he looked at the gun standing beside Margot and at the blown out porthole. “Do you need any help ma’am?”
“No thank you, Corporal,” she muttered. “As he said, it’s all done. Everything is fine.”
“Margot…what have you done?” Pauline said as she tried to figure out what had just happened.
“Just leave me alone,” she said as she got up and stood beside Michel. “We need to get the child to bed.” Grabbing him by the arm, she quickly led the father and daughter out of the room.
“Please tell me what the hell’s being going on,” Pauline marched over to Mary when the others had left. “What have you done to my sister?”
“Please just leave me alone,” Mary said as she lay down on her bed. “You need to speak to her.”
“No,” Pauline shouted back. “You’ll tell me.”
Mary pulled the thin covers up over her body and turned to face the wall. She made it all too clear she was in no mood to talk.
Gordon grabbed Pauline by the arm. “Let’s just leave it to the morning love. Once everyone has had some sleep we can talk about it in the morning.” He knew they would never get to the bottom of it now. Grudgingly, she stormed out of the room and back to their own quarters.
04:25 A.M
The HMS Clyde
For the first time all was quiet aboard the ship. The only person doing anything useful was a solitary soldier in the wheelroom trying his best to keep them on course.
Mary just stared at her ceiling. Her mind going in circles thinking of what had already happened and of what was still to come.
Pauline and Gordon found comfort with each other under the covers of their bed.
The last of the scientists were all in their beds, some asleep, some soaked in tears.
Corporal Simon Taylor continued to struggle to keep his men under control. Whispers and rumors abounded as the death of their C.O still caused calls for revenge.
Margot sang her little songs long after Michel and the girls were asleep.
************
To be continued with-
The Last Hope
By John McCuaig
Read on for a free sample of Damn Zombies
Chapter One
The news anchor pressed his index finger to his earpiece and said, “This just in, we have confirmation that troops are advancing into the town of Little River …”
Max mumbled, “Probably my old unit.”
Pete looked up at the dusty TV screen. The camera-shot cut to a dude with corporate hair and grave eyes, the on-the-scene reporter, who launched into the same old song and dance. Nobody seemed to know what the heck was going on.
Pete lowered his gaze to his bottle of beer. He took a sip, and then fiddled with a nick in the bar top’s veneer. The crowd’s murmur rose and fell. Tonight’s turnout doubled the average Tuesday. Probably folks felt a lot safer while gathering to watch the twenty-four hour, wall-to-wall coverage of the so-called Zombie Crisis. A person could get spooked, if they were alone and way out in the dark countryside. Pete smirked, “So this is it, the beginning of the end of the world.”
At the edge of his vision, Pete detected Max’s slow swivel of his head. Pete bit back a grin. Max hated it when Pete laughed at his thousand-yard stare. Pete faced Max and took his medicine. Max’s scowl crinkled his forehead and deepened the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. His small nostrils flared. Too thick and long for summertime, his gray-dashed brown beard hid most of his bared teeth. Whenever Max gave him the look, Pete got the idea that Max verged on bending him over his knee and spanking him.
Max, a little more gravel in his voice than usual, said, “If the Army is moving on that town, then this shit is serious.”
Pete cleared his throat. “Listen, I might be worried if we lived in Chicago, or Rockford, somewhere some asshole might spread the virus around. But I think the million miles of corn surrounding us makes us pretty safe, don’t you?”
Max’s stern expression wavered, and then a small smile destroyed it. “You’re such a brat.” He returned his full attention to the TV. The network’s coverage resumed in the studio. Apparently, the on-the-scene stuff had sounded yet another false alarm. One of the bug-eyed right-wingers dominated the panel of experts. He spouted the usual crap about the president scheming to declare martial law and so extending his administration indefinitely.
Pete tuned out the hollering. He wished Hank would turn off the sound and put some music on, even the country and western the old bartender favored. Pete regarded his beer. Less than half full. He could order another, but he didn’t feel like getting buzzed. On the other hand, he was wide-awake and would be all the livelong night. He still hadn’t gotten the hang of navigating his days off, even though he’d been working graveyard for months.
A howl jarred Pete out of his reverie. He sagged. More howls answered the first, and he didn’t need to look to know that the entire Wolf Pack had invaded the bar.
Max exhaled a brief snort. He muttered, “What’re those assholes doing here?”
“Slumming it.” Everybody knew the Wolf Pack spent most of their free time trolling Rockford nightclubs and strip joints. The middle-aged and hard-living barflies that hung out at the town bar, didn’t rate the Wolf Pack’s notice. They only cruised small-town bars when they wanted to pick a fight.
Under his tee shirt, sweat prickled Pete’s armpits. He tracked them in the bar’s smudgy back-mirror. They gathered around the pool table, racking balls, mocking kung fu moves with the cues. Their sleeveless jerseys showed off their rounded biceps. The hems of their nylon-mesh shorts draped almost to the tops of their sneakers. Their foreheads gleamed sweaty, their hair, each sporting a slightly different version of a something like a mullet, a cut that Max called a modified ‘ducktail,’ whatever that was, drooped greasy. Maybe they weren’t looking to brawl, but rather an evening’s worth of pickup basketball left them too bushed to go barhopping in the big city.
Pete blinked. He realized that via the mirror, he’d locked eyes with Carl. Caroline
’s ex gave him the stink eye. Pete shifted to watching Fug, who bellied up to the bar and ordered a pitcher of Coors. Pete waited for Fug to take the pitcher back. After they poured their beers and started their game, he knocked his own beer back, and then said to Max, “I’m bored with the news. I’m gonna take off.”
Max kept his eyes aimed at the TV. He revolved the bottom his beer bottle on the scarred bar top. “Have another, and then I’ll give you a ride.”
“Eh, I’ll just hoof it.”
“You sleeping over?”
“Is that cool?” Pete knew that it was, that they were just going through the formalities. Caroline didn’t have school or work in the morning. He’d go home when she was getting ready to leave. Seemed like handing off Alice was the only time they even looked at each other anymore.
Max nodded. “I’ll probably be another hour or so then.”
Pete pushed to his feet. He shot for nonchalance, but the Wolf Pack’s glares stiffened his gait. He remembered to breathe when the bar’s front door slammed behind him.
The muggy night air filled his lungs. He’d need a shower by the end of the two-mile walk. He let out a nervous belch so loud that it echoed along deserted Main Street. The cheap-beer aftertaste, along with a passing glance at Carl’s restored Mustang, inspired a grimace. That jerk got everything he wanted. Almost. Through most of high school, he’d dated Caroline, the girl Pete had crushed on since forever. The sidewalk’s squares blurred as Pete’s pace quickened. Still, Carl had broken up with her, they’d been broken up for a while by the summer after senior year. Carl had no reason to be such an asshole. Pete hadn’t done anything wrong.
He looked ahead. Two blocks before the cement bridge and the town’s limit, then three hills till home. He wondered what she’d do if he crawled into bed with her. He chuckled. She’d freak out for sure. A bitter snort clipped off his laughter. His wife would freak out for sure.
He kicked a stone, sent it skittering across the road. He couldn’t remember the last time Caroline spoke to him, or smiled at him, let alone touched him. More and more, she didn’t even hand Alice off to him, with Grace serving as a buffer between her daughter and her disappointing son-in-law.
He unclenched his jaw. Grace made them get married in the first place. A religious daughter, so there was no question about having the baby, and a super religious mother who insisted on a wedding. Of course, marrying the girl of his dreams had not been a hard sell to Pete, who had offered anyway when Caroline came back during her first semester at college, already showing, and weeping, and told him he was gonna be a daddy. Of course, Grace would’ve preferred Carl, the star athlete, the small business owner, and a member of a God-fearing family. She sure as hell preferred Carl’s money, but she was stuck with poor Pete; son of a dead mother and a deadbeat dad, who’d pulled a slow fade from the picture, going from personal appearances at birthdays and Christmases, to sending cards, then to sending nothing at all.
Pete crossed his arms and squeezed until his shoulder joints popped. He’d die before he did that to Alice. But he’d heard Grace whispering into the phone, ‘… gone on long enough.’ He knew she was trying to talk Caroline into ditching him. Her daughter had put in over three years, had given it an honest try, or at least it would look that way to Grace’s ice cream social crowd, and that was all that really mattered.
He squeezed his ribcage again. The hell of it was, lately, he’d been thinking that maybe his bitch of a mother-in-law was right, at least when it came to what was best for Alice. Little kids picked up on things. He remembered his own grandma badmouthing his dad way back when. More and more, Grace showed up with no warning and took Alice sometimes for the whole day, when he was supposed to watch her. He could guess what Grace was telling his daughter, trying to poison her against him, trying to prepare her for life after a divorce.
He winced. Divorce. He inhaled a shuddery breath, and then exhaled while gazing at the stars. He let his arms drop to his sides. All through school, he’d never really believed that he would get so close. If he could just figure out what she wanted and give it to her, he could fix everything, and to hell with Grace.
He focused on the cement bridge. He stepped off the sidewalk’s last square and veered onto the road’s shoulder. He picked up his pace. No way would he give up. If he was gonna go down, he’d go down swinging.
From a few blocks behind, a burst of mean laughter jolted him. Car doors slammed, one-two-three-four, spoiling the quiet, probably waking up a few folks. An engine revved. He crossed his fingers on both hands. He uncrossed his fingers and scowled when the engine’s rumble grew louder.
He reached the bridge. The car swerved to a stop behind him. He squelched the urge to run, even though he had a chance of losing them if he made it to the corn. He willed himself to maintain a normal pace.
“Hey, flatdick!”
He sighed. No use putting it off. Midway over the bridge, he turned to face them. The Mustang rocked on its suspension as they clambered out of the car. The moonlight glinted off their whitened smiles. They swaggered toward him, Carl in the lead. Deke performed an exaggerated hip-juke while slinking to Pete’s other side. Carl stopped at arm’s length. The others halted behind their leader, forming a semicircle, trapping Pete against the bridge’s waist-high parapet.
Fug loomed behind Carl, his black-haired skull cresting an inch above his master’s crown. Herc sealed off Pete’s left side. Herc and Deke each had three inches on Pete, but Herc had twenty pounds of farm-honed muscle on his counterpart. Herc ground his hamhock fist into his left palm, engorging the big veins in his bare biceps. Pete tilted his head upwards, his eyes scanning over Carl’s dimpled chin and sandy-blond stubble. He met Carl’s light blue stare. That five-inch difference seemed to have always existed, even back in seventh grade when Pete rode the bench, while Carl led the basketball team to one win short of the conference title. Most of their former classmates had already gone a little pudgy, but not the Wolf Pack, who, besides pumping iron, all worked for Carl’s moving company. Pete wondered if the two-story drop into the two feet-deep creek below would hurt more than a Wolf Pack beat down.
With a snarky twang, Carl said, “Why ya walking? Beemer in the shop?”
The others guffawed.
Pete’s arms twitched in preparation to cross over his chest, but he forced his elbows to remain straight and loose at his side. Everybody knew he still drove the same beat-up Delta 88 he bought for two hundred bucks during his junior year. He glanced at Carl’s restored Mustang. Cherry.
A shit-eating grin spread across Carl’s face. “You find a singer for your band yet?”
Pete bit down on the side of his tongue. Somehow, it got out that Caroline had made him give up his heavy-metal dreams, to quit wasting time playing the guitar. He supposed that most folk got an inkling when he cut his hair, which he’d worn long and shaggy all through school, when he told anybody who’d listen that one day his metal band would rule the world.
Fug mimicked a whip crack while snapping his wrist. Carl revolved his head, his lips flattening to a cruel slash, his profile silencing the Wolf Pack. His smile returned as he faced Pete. “Hey, I’m just fucking with you. How things been? How’s the graveyard shift at the factory?”
Pete relaxed a smidge. Maybe Carl was just trying to suss out what was what, confirm the rumors, and see if he might be free to make a move on Caroline soon.
Pete inhaled, opened his mouth, but before he could get a word out, Carl said, “Hey, how many zombies does it take to screw in a light bulb?”
The others snickered, obviously already in on the joke. Carl’s grin widened. Pete couldn’t help smiling himself. He shrugged, shook his head, and said, “I don’t know.”
“None. Light bulbs ain’t big enough for Zombies to get inside.”
The others cracked up. Impatience darkened the sparkle in Carl’s eyes. Pete threw up his hands. Carl said, “Get it? Screw?” He jabbed his right index finger through the circle created by his left index
and thumb. “Screw?”
Behind sealed lips, Pete forced a laugh. Carl seemed pretty proud of his lame joke. Pete decided not to mention that zombies weren’t known for having sex.
Smack. Pete jerked backwards. The tip of his nose throbbed. All laughter ceased. His eyelids fluttered while he pieced it together, Carl’s fist and open palm striking against each other, in between clipping the very tip of Pete’s nose.
“Everybody knows she’s gonna leave you,” Carl said.
Pete suppressed a tremble. He balled up his right hand. Carl didn’t bother to assume a defensive posture. Everybody knew that Carl and Wolf Pack had been taking Karate. Add the five inches and the thirty pounds of muscle, and Pete knew he didn’t stand a chance. But maybe he could get in one good shot.
“Just like in school,” Carl said, “you thought nobody knew, but everybody knew you were in love with her.”
“What?” Pete’s fist uncurled. He’d never told anybody. Not even her. Hot blood surged into his cheeks.
“Why don’t you just run off,” Carl said, “like your daddy.”
Pete hated the quiver in his voice as he said, “He didn’t run off.”
“You think you can protect her, protect them, when the zombies come?”
Pete scoffed. He seized on the idiot notion to steady himself. He should’ve known that Carl stood among the morons who believed the world teetered on the edge of the apocalypse.
Carl took a step towards Pete. “You laughing at me?”
Pete pressed his backside against the rough cement parapet. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the glare approaching from the town side. He exhaled. He’d recognize those square headlights anywhere. Max’s Jeep.
“Hey, man,” Deke said.
Carl and the others backed off a few feet. Pete had to force himself not to wick the sweat off his forehead. For a second there, he’d been sure they were gonna throw him over the side.
The Jeep stopped parallel to them. Max leaned out the open window and said, “What’s up, boys?”