by Meyer, Tim
Bob slapped his slippery forehead, which still leaked perspiration despite his remaining stationary. The sun beat down on them from directly above. “Tennis. That's right.”
“I told them to let themselves in if we weren't back yet.” Brenda touched her husband's chin. “Hope that's okay?”
Bob nodded. “Of course, honey.” He glanced around the suburban development, waving to a stranger mowing his lawn. In the near distance, the steeple of Saint Joseph's church towered over the long row of maple oaks. “You have any water left?”
“You don't?”
Bob unclipped his 20oz bottle from his fuel belt and shook it before his wife. “What? I was thirsty.”
“I told you to pack some in my Camelbak.”
Bob waved her off. “Oh, stop.”
“You know, you should listen to your beautiful wife once in a while.”
“I keep hearing that. Maybe one day I'll try it out.”
“What are we doing?” Brenda asked. “We're already going to be late for our tennis date.”
“I say we stop at the church and fill up. It's going to be a long nine miles home. And it's a lot hotter than that jerkweed weatherman said it was going to be.”
“I feel like my face is going to melt,” Brenda said, walking alongside him.
They followed a small path through the trees to the other side, where Main Street stretched out before them; on it sat Saint Joseph's Church. They crossed the street and jogged up the steep concrete steps leading to the elegantly decorated entrance.
“I'll sneak in and grab some water. I'll be out before you know it.”
Brenda shook her head. “Wouldn't have to sneak around if you'd just listened to me,” she snarled playfully, her eyebrows ascending her glistening forehead.
Bob leaned into kiss her. Before their lips touched, squealing tires seized their attention. They whipped their heads toward Main Street, where a red convertible with the top down spun out of control and crashed into one of the oaks lining the side of the road. The driver opened the door and stumbled into oncoming traffic. “Help! Somebody! I need help!”
Bob rushed forward, but Brenda put her arm across his chest, stopping him.
“Brenda, the guy's probably hurt—”
“Wait.” She gripped his sweat-soaked shirt.
Cars dodged the man as he shambled toward the church.
“What's wrong with his face?”
Bob wished he had brought his contacts. He squinted, trying to make out the details.
“I don't know.”
The commotion drew a small crowd from inside the church. As the congregation moved outside onto the stoop, the man burst into flames, a torturous scream erupting from his vocal chords. The mutilated driver dropped to the asphalt and rolled around in an effort to put himself out. As far as Bob could see, his actions did nothing. Several of the churchgoers flew down the steps to the man's rescue. They neared the burning body, which now resembled the hamburgers Bob loved to eat—blackened.
Brenda and the surrounding women let out a horrified whimper. Their cries grew louder when the injured driver's rescuers ignited like matchsticks. Cars tried to dodge the flame-ridden bodies, but very few lacked the skills to swerve around the moving targets. A white BMW slammed into one of the burning bodies, sending the victim airborne. He landed on the street and didn't move. His skin had already crisped.
Horrified, the crowd on the stoop backed away. Some ran inside and dialed 9-1-1, but none got through. The lines were full with stories similar to what Bob and Brenda had witnessed. Stories of death and fire and apocalyptic terror.
Just before Brenda and Bob felt their flesh crawl as if covered in fire ants, hands collapsed on their shoulders.
A priest, his eyes wide with fear, tugged them into the shadow the steeple provided.
“Inside! Everybody inside! Now!”
They did as they were told, no second guessing.
Through the stain-glass art depicting the Stations of the Cross, Bob and Brenda watched God's creatures burn until their bodies crisped.
-1-
Jogging down the hallway, peeking his head in each room, a sense of dread rushed Samuel Wright. Something invisible carved his innards. That thunderous heartbeat he sometimes got when he left the house and realized he left the front door unlocked, or considered the possibility that he never turned the stove off, punched his chest. He popped into the men's locker room and spotted Joel changing his shirt.
“You see Matty?” Sam asked, his nerves twitching.
Joel shook his head. “No. Not since earlier today. Why?”
Sam shut the door without responding.
Moving quickly down the corridor, Sam tried to ignore the thoughts bursting into his mind.
This is all your fault. You always push everyone you love away. Brenda. Becky. Dana. Is Matty next? Huh, asshole?
I did what I had to, he told himself, although he barely believed his own lies. In truth, Sam didn't know what to do. He felt alone. For the first time since the Burn, he felt completely and utterly alone. Except for Matty.
Yes, except for him. Matthew. Your son who you've taken almost no interest in over the years. The son whose science fairs you never attended. The son who never learned how to throw a football because his father was never there to teach him. The son who was bullied because his father never taught him how to defend himself. That son? You're lucky he hasn't left you like the rest of them.
“Fuck you,” Sam muttered.
“Uh, Sam,” he heard someone say from behind him.
Turning rapidly, Sam balled his fists.
“What are you doing?” Brian asked. “You can put those fists down, boss. Didn't come here to punch your lights out.”
Slowly, Sam dropped his hands to his sides.
“What do you want, Brian? Can't you see I'm busy?”
“Look, Sam. We need to have ourselves a little chat. A little one on one time. Remember when we used to have our little chats.”
“I need to find my son.”
“I'm sure he's okay, Sam.”
“Just tell me what you want?”
Brian sighed. “I hate to say it, Sam, I really do. But it's over.”
“What's over?” He felt his anger rise, trumping all other emotions. His mind invented Tina's voice, telling him to take it easy, that whatever information Brian relayed was no big deal. But he couldn't help it. Heat pelted his flesh. “Brian, what the hell are you talking about?”
“This. This place. It's not gonna fly anymore.”
“You're on my side. Remember?” Sam tried his best to mask the desperation in his voice. “We cannot leave this place. It's safe. I thought we agreed on that. From day one we've done nothing but fortify this place, build our community.”
“Sam, you did a great job. You really did. But things are different now. Between the walk-talkie thing and the lies, and the whole... Soren thing—”
“Soren thing?” Sam shook his head while biting down on his lip. “I can't believe you...”
“Please, Sam. You can't really think this place is the answer.” Brian laughed through his nose. “I mean, short term, sure. Long term? Come on. Use that brilliant head of yours. Eventually, we'll run out of supplies. You said it yourself. The quadrants are getting dry. How long before it runs out?”
“We will cross that bridge when we get there.”
“No, Sam. We need to be proactive.”
“Bullshit. We leave this place, we die. Simple as that.”
“I think you're wrong. We can travel by night.”
“Too dangerous.”
“Not if we're in a group.”
“Too dangerous.”
“Sam, you're being close-minded—”
“It's too fucking dangerous. I won't allow my kids to risk their lives because the Jesus freak thinks we need to go on a fucking pilgrimage across the country.” Sam placed his hand on Brian's shoulder. “Don't you see what that man is doing to us?”
Brian
pushed his hand away. “Don't touch me. You make me sick. You know that?”
Stepping away, Sam folded his arms across his chest. “Okay. Here we go. Come on. I deserve it, don't I? After how I treated you over the years? I treated you like a brother.”
“This isn't about that, Sam! You've lost your fucking mind! Your own kids don't even trust you!”
Sam stepped forward. “Stop talking about my kids, or I swear—”
A blur collided with Sam's face, knocking him back against the wall.
“That's for dragging me down with you.”
“You fucking hit me?” Sam asked, touching the small bloody trickle on his lip. “You ungrateful asshole.”
“Stay back. Sam. You won't like—”
Sam threw his shoulder into Brian's stomach, driving him against the wall. The drywall broke on impact. Behind them, feet clanked against the floor and before Sam could dismount his former friend, hands gripped his shoulder and peeled him away. Scrambling to his feet, Brian shot him a cold look.
“You're fucking losing it, man!” Brian screamed. “I hate you! I hate what you've become!”
Sam surveyed Brian's rescuers. Soren's usual suspects: Chris Atkins. Susan. A few other familiar faces who haunted Sam's dreams. He realized this wasn't a fight he'd win. Not today.
“I've protected you people,” Sam said, grimacing. “I've given you food and shelter. I've kept you alive.”
“Join us, Sam,” Susan said, offering a weak smile. “Join us or...”
Sam glanced at her suspiciously. Who the hell was she to give him an ultimatum?
“Or what?”
“Or be cast aside. Be alone for the rest of your life, however short it might be.”
“I won't be alone.” He surveyed the crowd for Dana and Becky. “Where...” Spotting Becky behind Chris, he started toward her. Two men who could easily lay a beating on Sam stepped into his path. His eyes followed Becky as she disappeared amongst the surrounding faces.
“You are alone, Sam,” Susan said. “No one is following you anymore. Not even your own kin.”
Backing away, Sam wondered how different things would be if he could turn back the hands of time.
-2-
“What the hell...” Tina said, removing a plastic object from the victim's mouth.
“I can't believe you just stuck your fingers in there,” Noah said, pale-faced. He'd already seen enough. And then there was the stench tainting the air, stirring his stomach. He closed his eyes, wishing himself into another area of Costbusters. When he opened them, Tina was still scoping out the victim's mouth. He sighed. “Um, can I leave?”
Craig shook his head. “Not yet, buddy. We promised we'd take care of the body and that's what we're gonna do.”
Noah nodded and looked elsewhere.
“What is it?” Sherry asked.
“A mouth guard,” Tina replied. She pulled back Peter's lips with her fingers. “Damn.”
“What the hell are those?” Craig asked, pointing at the dead kid's mouth.
“Those would be Peter's teeth.”
“They don't look like any teeth I've ever seen.”
“That's because they've been modified.”
“Modified?”
Tina let go and quickly walked over to the other end of the room. She turned the faucet on and placed her hands in the sink. “Yes. They've been filed to look like that.”
“Who the hell would want their teeth to look like that?” Craig asked.
“Cannibals,” Noah muttered. “Holy shit, guys! He was one of them!”
Tina, drying her hands, whipped around. “Shut up, Noah.”
“We have to tell Soren,” Sherry said. “He must know.”
“If you do that, everyone will panic. There will be a riot.” And Sam will be lynched, she thought.
“You're just protecting, Sam,” Sherry said.
“I'm protecting all of us. You tell everyone that Peter, who has been with us for months, was one of them this whole time, you'll start pandemonium. People will get hurt. It's better they don't know.”
Sherry didn't agree, but she didn't push the subject.
Tina wrapped the black garbage bag over the body while Sherry finished mopping up the blood on the ground. There would be more to clean; the blood had not yet congealed and continued leaking from the points of impact. Sherry decided she'd stick around, mop in hand.
“I think I'm going to be sick,” Noah said, wrinkling his nose. “I don't think I can do this.”
Craig patted him on the shoulder. “Just don't think about it, buddy. That's all. Pretend it's a sack of potatoes or something.”
Noah examined his quandary and turned his eyes away from the red droplets leaking from the bag. “Potatoes don't bleed.”
Craig saw the droplets and laughed. “Yeah, guess you're right about that one. Come on, kid. Help me with this thing. When it's over, I'll buy you a pizza.”
Noah smiled and grabbed the dead man's legs. Craig took the head and they lugged Peter's body out the door.
“What do you suppose they'll do with it?” Sherry asked, grabbing the mop and going to work again.
Tina shrugged, examining the sheets and running her fingers along the outlines two bodies had made. The imprint was deep enough to confirm her suspicions. One of them had been on top of the other. Pressing down.
“She was being straddled...” Tina thought aloud.
“What?” Sherry asked.
“Peter was on top of her. Pinning her down.”
“Who?”
“Lilah.”
“That young girl?” Sherry asked, confounded. “Wait, you're saying she did this? No way. That sweet young girl you guys rescued from those monsters?”
“Yes, but something tells me she's not the sweet young girl we thought she was.”
“I don't believe it.”
“Don't care if you believe it. That's what happened.” Tina pointed to the mop bucket. “Bet if you followed that trail, it'd lead you straight out that door.” Straight to them, she almost said, but did something she had never been good at; keeping her thoughts to herself.
Sherry checked the hallway. “Shit...”
“What is it?”
“You're right.”
“See? I think... she may be one of them.”
Sherry shrugged. “I don't see how she could be.”
“Think about it. If Peter tried raping her and she killed him in self-defense, why would she run?”
Unable to follow, Sherry squinted.
“Why not come grab one of us?”
Shaking her head, Sherry rested the mop against the wall. “I dunno. Maybe she was too scared?”
Tina closed her eyes, wagging her head. “No. She would've come to us. Scared or not. No, she went somewhere else. Somewhere safe. Where she knew she wouldn't be attacked. What if... what if she infiltrated us? What if the whole scene at the pizzeria was a setup? You know? What if they sent in another spy? What if... what if there are more here with us?”
“You're freaking me out, Tina.”
She glared at her. “I'm freaking myself out.”
“I think your imagination is getting the best of you.”
“We can only hope,” she said, then shook her head. “She killed him, Sherry. Then ran. An innocent person never runs.”
“They teach you that in the academy?”
Tina ignored her.
“You going after her?” Sherry asked.
“Yeah. We need to.”
“For what? Why don't you just leave with Soren and the rest of us?
“I'm not going with Soren.”
Sherry folded her arms across her chest. “You're really going to side with Sam?”
“Sam's a good guy. I trust him.”
“He's a liar. And you can't trust a liar.” She leaned her head to the side. “And don't think I have forgotten about looking for Maurice being your top priority. Suppose you don't remember the little deal we had back when Sam was bleeding like a
stuck pig.”
“Sherry, if your husband is out there, we will find him.”
“More lies. Empty promises. If you cared at all, you would've found him already.” She waved Tina away. “You and Sam deserve each other.”
“Things have been a little hectic here, in case you haven't noticed. I told you when we were one-hundred percent we'd go looking for him.”
“Soren's ready to go right now. Today.”
Tina closed her eyes and pushed her anger down. “Well, good for Soren. I hope you two have a wonderful trip together.” She stormed past her, brushing her shoulder against Sherry's.
“Hey! Where are you going?”
Tina grunted. “Going to do my job!” she shouted back, disappearing down the hallway.
-3-
3 Months Ago
Several weeks (and bodies) later, Bob awoke in the dead of day to something stabbing his right leg. He glanced up and saw smoke rising from his flesh. Looking up, he noticed he had been stupid and fallen asleep too close to the window. The sun beamed its evil rays through the glass, obliterating the hairs off his exposed skin. He quickly retracted his leg and found a safe place in the shadows. The burn wasn't bad and had left behind only a faint pink mark. He thought about the ones who had been less fortunate than he. Those who had tested the sun and failed. More than half the church had tested fate and set out into daylight, never to be seen or heard from again. Some of them burned before they even reached the bottom of the stairs, their charred corpses a poignant reminder of how far bravery would take you.
He almost cried. Would have if Brenda hadn't opened her eyes at that exact moment. He didn't like crying in front of her, thought it would make him look weak and now was a time for strength and sharpness, not weakness. Survival mode was in full command. Outwitting the sun would require many things from them all; emotional instability was not one of those things.
“Are you okay?” Brenda asked, stretching her limbs.
“Yeah, fine.”
“You don't look fine. You look... sad.”
“No. I just woke up,” he responded quickly. “My eyes are itchy. Must be my allergies kicking up.”
She gave him that look like, yeah, sure. Allergies. She didn't press the matter. Bob was quite thankful because it only would have triggered another argument, and they had been arguing way too much lately. So much in fact that the other survivors kept their distance, especially at dawn when everyone laid down for bed. They argued more before bed than any other time for some reason. Maybe it was because they were both exhausted, drained from the night. Adjusting their bodies to these new sleeping arrangements had proved difficult. Bob firmly believed he'd never get a full eight hours again. Every day he woke up at least twice, tossed and turned before returning to restless sleep.