A half hour later, Fitzpatrick was wandering around the pulpit of Saint Anthony’s Church, investigating something he could no longer remember. After a couple hours of exploration, he found there was nothing to eat, and so he wandered down the aisle and out into the cool, evening air, as did the others—hundreds of them.
III
Alvin had been living with the Barneses for almost a month. There was never a formal agreement, but it was understood that Alvin was to help with sweeps and supply runs and etc. in exchange for a room. The arrangement stoked contentions between Charlie and Noah on a near-daily basis. The old man hated Alvin, for reasons Noah couldn’t quite pinpoint, and he wanted him gone. Charlie had given his son several ultimatums, but Noah ignored them. He figured he had the final say and refused to turn Al away since it was Alvin who now helped Noah reconnoiter for walking corpses and scavenge the local houses for supplies. He even took to looking after Abby like she was his own sister. Charlie hadn't helped with any of those duties in over a month, and it was nice for Noah to have someone to share the day-to-day responsibilities. Despite Alvin’s contributions, his father still found fault with him.
“I want you to take back his gun. That was a special edition,” said Charlie one morning.
Noah’s soiled fingers tightened around a glass of water. He and Alvin had just returned from replacing a section of pipe on the watermain—took them damn near a month of digging just to find the leak—and he was not in the mood.
He peered through the window to make sure Alvin was still outside smoking a cigarette. “You mean you’re going to use it?” Noah responded sarcastically.
Charlie ignored the comment. “He’s eating too much of our food.”
“He finds most of the food.”
“I don’t like the way he’s always around Abby.”
“He’s looking after her, dad—something else you should be doing.”
“I don't trust him.”
“Well, I do, and until you start pulling your weight like you used to, I decide what's best for the family,” said Noah.
“Then I will,” snapped Charlie.
Noah arched his eyebrow. “Volume,” he said calmly.
“I will!”
“Shh!” Noah put his finger to his lips. He eyed his father up and down. Charlie hadn't left the safety of the house in over a month. His father had real fear put in him, perhaps to a phobic degree, and Noah didn’t believe he had the nerve to confront it. “Then do it.”
“Fine.” Charlie’s whisper cut through the air like a whip. “And when I do, he’s gone.”
Noah stared at his dad. “Why do you hate him so much?”
“You know what I think about those Bartlett boys.”
“That's it. Isn't it? It's about the family he comes from, not who he is.”
“Those boys are rotten fruit—same as their old man. Same as your friend Billy,” he added.
Noah shook his head and walked away. If there were a portrait of his father hidden away in their attic, he thought, it had grown quite ugly over the past couple months.
As Noah entered the living room, he found Abigail grimacing from the top of the staircase. There was a large wet spot at the center of her nightgown. When she saw her big brother she began to cry, embarrassed.
“Did you have another accident, Abby?” Although he tried, Noah couldn’t conceal the frustration in his voice. It was the fifth time in three weeks she had wet the bed and he was getting tired of washing soiled linen and pajamas. “It’s ok, there’s no need to cry,” Noah said as he climbed the stairs. “It’s not your fault.”
He went to hug his sister, but she recoiled.
Her consideration surprised him. “It’s fine, I’ve had worse on me. What was it, another nightmare?”
“There was a dead man in my closet,” she whimpered.
“The dead men are out there, and we take care of them. It was a bad dream, that’s all.” He took her hand. “Come on, let’s get you changed.”
Charlie looked up as the pair headed down the cellar stairs. “What’s wrong?”
“An accident—bad dream.” He was annoyed by his father’s sporadic concern. “You want to help her?”
Their father shook his head. “You’re so eager to be the man of the house—you go right ahead and be him.”
Noah felt his face turning red. He opened his mouth to launch a cutting diatribe but thought better.
They stood in the basement next to the washing machine. Moisture made the gown cling to Abigail’s skin, and Noah had to help her pull it over her head. He threw the nightgown into the washing machine before rooting through the contents of the dryer for something clean to wear.
“Here, put these on,” Noah said handing her new underwear and his old Limp Bizkit t-shirt.
“It’ll get ruined,” she protested.
Noah chuckled. “It was ruined the moment it was printed.”
The shirt came all the way down to her knees. Noah turned his head while she pulled off her underwear and swapped them for the clean pair. As she pulled them up to her waist, she hissed in pain.
He looked at her curiously. “Are you hurt?”
Abigail nodded.
Noah’s eyes darted around the room. “Is it painful,” he swallowed uncomfortably and tilted his head toward the floor, “down there?”
“A little.”
“What does it feel like?”
“It stings.”
Noah thought for a moment. “You might have a urinary tract infection. Mom used to get them sometimes.”
It looked as if Abigail were about to burst into tears.
“No, no, don’t panic,” he said waving his hands in front of her. “It’s not a big deal. Women get them all the time—guys too sometimes.”
“What do I do?”
“I’ll get you some antibiotics on our next run. Pills—they’ll fix it. For now, you’re just going to have to try and put up with it.” He paused, considering what else to do. “Why don’t you go wait in the bathroom and I’ll draw you a bath. That should help. I’ll change your sheets in the meantime.”
After his little sister had gone upstairs, Noah shook his head in frustration. This was something his mother should have been there to handle. He poured a half-cup of detergent into the washing machine, gently closed the lid, and then started the wash cycle.
Why am I the only person in this family who can keep it together? He thought.
It didn't happen that day or the next, but over the course of the week, Charlie started accompanying his son outside again. He didn’t go far at first—only several feet from the front door—but after a few days he moved out into the yard, and then into the backyard, and then out into the woods. Noah could hardly believe it.
Almost two weeks had passed before they encountered a corpse. The blue overalls that hung from one of his shoulders were spotted with white paint and blood. It stood with its back to them, staring into the branches of a rotting Dutch elm tree.
Probably after a squirrel, Noah figured.
He measured his old man’s reaction.
Charlie stood frozen, tightly gripping his shovel. Noah held out the machete and nodded to his father, but Charlie was oblivious. He was breathing heavily, transfixed on the corpse. Noah shook his father’s shoulder. The old man snapped out of it. He looked at his son with wide eyes, the color drained from his face. Noah nodded to him more emphatically this time and, after a moment's hesitation, his father replied in kind, exchanging the shovel for his son’s weapon.
Charlie looked down at the cutting tool he had once used to carve paths through the woods for his son, but now it seemed more like an alien artifact. Noah waited a moment, and when it appeared that his father couldn’t muster the nerve, he took a step toward the corpse. Just then Charlie put his arm out in front of him. He closed his eyes, and in one deep breath the decision was made.
Charlie sprinted. The corpse turned at the sound of rapid footsteps approaching. Its jaw slowly lowered i
n an attempt to moan, but before it could make a sound Charlie swung the machete at its maggot-riddled head with such force that its body spun around in a circle before falling limp to the ground.
Charlie stood over his kill, panting. Noah walked up beside him and examined his father's handiwork.
“I told you I could do it,” he declared bitterly as he traded the machete back for his shovel. His hands shook with adrenaline. “Tomorrow. He goes.”
Noah stared at the stiff body beside his feet as his father walked back toward the house with a sense of urgency. “He goes,” he said to himself.
IV
Noah tried to break it to him gently, but it was no use.
“You turn me out, you’re gonna kill me,” he said.
“Aren’t you worried about your own family?” asked Noah.
“Would you want to go back to a father who used to beat on you whenever he got drunk? Or a brother who broke your arm when he was tweaked out on meth? My fourteen-year-old sister miscarried last year—we still don’t know which one of my brothers did it to her.”
Noah swallowed. Rumors about the Bartletts had swirled around school ever since he could remember, but apparently reality had greatly exceeded the legends.
Alvin stared into space. “Christ, you should have seen what dad did to Billy when he found out,” Alvin trailed off, and then looked at Noah curiously.
“It’s a different world, Al,” said Noah abruptly. “People need each other now more than ever. Besides, it’s out of my hands.”
“I’ll bet it is,” he said looking toward the living room. He could feel Charlie sitting silently in his recliner staring into oblivion. Alvin lowered his voice. “You’d rather have him around than me? I get food. I clear the wanderers. I look after Abby. He kills one of those things and suddenly he’s the house MVP?”
Noah looked down the hall to make sure his father wasn’t coming, and then replied in a hushed tone. “It’s not that simple, Al. He’s my dad. This is his house.”
“Sometimes blood ain’t thicker than water.”
Noah furrowed his brow. What the hell is he getting at? He thought. “Maybe it’s different with your family, Al—because of what you’ve been through. But he’s my father. He’ll always be my father.”
Al shook his head and then walked outside.
Early the next morning Alvin and Noah scurried around packing supplies. Noah stuffed as many canned goods as he could into a canvas backpack. Alvin might be exposed, he thought, but at least he won’t starve. Not right away, came an unpleasant afterthought.
Abigail was quiet at breakfast. She sat stirring her oatmeal with a spoon, not saying a word to anyone. In the last few weeks, she had become pickier and pickier about her meals—sometimes refusing to eat at all.
Noah took a break from running around. “Abby, why aren’t you eating? Are you upset because Al is leaving?”
She didn't respond.
“Gonna miss me, aren’t you, sweetie?” said Alvin, feigning a smile.
Abigail nodded timidly.
“I know, but he has his own family to protect,” said Noah.
“There’s no need to lie to her. I already told her why I was leavin’.”
Noah pursed his lips and looked at the ground.
The whole family stood outside to see Alvin off, each Barnes looking on his departure with drastically different feelings. Alvin slung the backpack on his shoulders.
“Here,” said Noah as he handed him their Regal 870 shotgun. “You have seven rounds. Don’t use them if you don’t have to.”
Charlie was aghast at the gesture. He hadn’t said a word while Noah stuffed Alvin’s pack with food. He would have gladly forfeited half of their rations to be rid of him. But giving away one of his guns was crossing the line. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? We need that!”
“Keep your voice down,” said Noah. There was fire in his eyes. “If we’re going to throw him out, we can at least give him a fighting chance.”
Alvin smiled. He would have gladly forfeited the gun if it meant seeing Noah put Charlie in his place.
He put his hand out to Noah. Noah took it and pulled him in for a hug, which surprised Alvin. Then he got down on one knee and opened his arms to Abby. She hesitated and then moved in for a hug. Alvin whispered something to her, but Noah couldn’t quite make it out.
Alvin stood up and looked at Charlie. “Thanks,” he said hollowly.
Charlie stared past him. “Mmm.”
Alvin rolled his eyes and then headed down the driveway.
As Noah watched his friend leave, the knot in his stomach grew tighter. Before Alvin disappeared behind the bend in the driveway, Noah called to him.
Alvin turned around, an inquisitive expression on his face.
“Wait,” said Noah. He sighed. “I’ll go with you.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Charlie seethed through his teeth.
“I can’t just stand here knowing that we may be sending him off to die. Maybe you can, but I can’t.”
Alvin walked back toward the house. “You’d come with me?” he said, incredulous.
Noah nodded.
“You can’t be serious?” said Charlie. “What about us? You’d just leave us here unprotected!”
“Calm down. It’ll only be for a day—two at most. Besides, you said it yourself, you can do it. That’s the reason he’s leaving, right? Because you’re capable now?”
His father’s eyes flitted from side to side as if looking for a response.
“Right?”
Charlie didn’t dare renege on what he had said a few days before. Alvin was finally leaving, and he wasn’t about to give his son a reason to argue in favor of him staying.
“Yes.”
“Then you can handle it.”
“But what if a drove shows up while you’re gone?”
“A drove? Dad, how many of those things have we seen lately? One a day? Sometimes less? Back when this thing got ramped up, we couldn’t even leave the house. But now? They’re dying out.”
Noah took an extra hour to pack a bag.
Before they left, Abigail hugged her brother. “Please don't go with him,” she whimpered into his ear.
Noah knelt next to her. “Don’t you worry. Those deadbeats don't stand a chance against me and my big muscles,” he said, flexing one arm.
She didn’t laugh.
Noah kissed her cheek. “You take care of daddy for me while I’m gone.”
Abigail began crying. She ran inside.
He frowned.
“She’ll be alright,” said Alvin.
“Yeah.” Noah nodded. “Let's get going.”
As Alvin started down the driveway Charlie put his hand on Noah’s shoulder. His son turned to him, and Charlie could tell by the way he crossed his arms that he was preparing for an argument.
“Look, I know I can’t stop you. I just want you to be careful.” Charlie’s face softened—warmed almost. “Come back to us, will you, son?”
Noah smiled. He hugged his father for the first time in months. “I promise I’ll come back. Alive,” he added with a grin.
The pair headed down the driveway and across the road. There were no corpses in sight and, aside from the buzzing of cicadas, all was quiet. Even after being cut off for so long, Noah still found the silence eerie.
“We should find a car,” said Alvin.
They weren’t more than two minutes into their journey and already Alvin was proving that he desperately needed Noah's guidance.
“No. Too loud. We’ll take your boat and paddle down the canal until we get to town. We’ll walk from there. The boat will keep us out of reach of any nearby dead.”
“That’ll take forever. Why don't we just take a car instead?”
“It's not worth the risk. The dead are like magnets. Each one you come across starts following you—and moaning. Others hear that and come crawling out of the woodwork. Before you know it, we'll be dragging along a h
orde of those things like we were the Grand Marshals of a god-damned zombie parade.”
“But we can outrun them in a car.”
“Yeah, but what if we break down or come to a roadblock? When something catches their attention, they don’t let up. We're better off taking our time and staying off the road.”
Alvin sighed in concession.
They headed over a wooded embankment, across a set of railroad tracks, and down a slope of ballast. The boat was beached on the muddy shore a quarter mile upriver right where Alvin had left it. They pushed it into the water and climbed in.
The boat rocked from side to side under their weight. Alvin held his arms out, awkwardly trying to keep his balance.
“Take a seat,” said Noah, trying not to laugh. He pulled out an oar from beneath the bulwark stay and pushed the boat away from shore.
As they rowed down the canal, the sun peeked through smoky stratus clouds. Birds sang and occasionally a carp leapt out of the muddy water in pursuit of a fat bug, and for a moment, Noah forgot that they were heading into the heart of a cannibal village.
The leisurely cruise illusion was shattered, from a distance, when a disheveled onlooker waded into the water in the direction of Noah’s and Alvin’s boat. Fortunately, the only harm it posed was to Noah’s peace of mind; when the water reached its chest, the current swept the man off his feet and he disappeared beneath the murky ripples.
Noah sighed. He wondered if a semblance of normality would ever return in his lifetime. Would they all eventually decompose into harmless piles of bones, or were enough living people still around to replace their dwindling ranks for decades to come?
After passing beneath a bridge clogged with abandoned cars, they came to the local marina. Unlike more urban marinas, with elaborate networks of quays that can berth dozens of boats, the Lyons marina had a single retaining wall running along the shore to which boats could be moored. Most of the vessels were gone except for a fifteen-foot sailboat and a thirty-foot yacht named Serenity. Black smoke wafted from Serenity’s cabin.
Worse Than Dying Page 3