by Matt Hart
The prosecutor had the audacity to smile at me. “DNA match from your fingernails, description of the attack, everything fits together like a neat little puzzle.”
Mr. Rilky got charged with all kinds of things. My mom said he'd be a “level three sex offender” for the rest of his life. My dad said that wouldn't be very long.
They had a few arguments about it—the only time I'd ever heard a cross word between them. I think my dad planned to kill him somehow.
It didn't matter in the end.
I turned over again and stared at the window, barely outlined in the darkness, a tiny bit of light supplied by the clear night sky. I thought about the sky for a moment. My favorite thing to do at night on the boat was to stare at the reflected moonlight when the water was calm. If we were close to shore, the noise of a boat horn would sometimes interrupt the quiet slapping of the water on the boat, carried over the water for miles until it was a single low note, diminishing in the distance but never completely going away.
Rilky was convicted of murder, third or fourth degree, I forget which one. Yuriel killed herself two days after the Incident, and my mom and the prosecutor were able to cast the blame on him. My friend had been deposed by the police, neither her parents nor me had been allowed to accompany her. My mom was able to go as “her lawyer”, but wasn't able to help her much.
She blamed herself.
Rilky ended up housed with the general population. The other prisoners knew what he did, though, and he was found dead in his cell one night, apparent suicide. He was a coward, my dad told me, and likely it was another prisoner.
He said they don't tolerate child molesters, and it was only because he wasn't yet convicted on that charge that he'd been housed in the general population in the first place.
I closed my eyes and willed my memories forward, focusing only on the martial arts I had started almost immediately. I was excused from gym, so I practiced. I ate lunch quickly and practiced. After school, I practiced. On weekends, I practiced.
Always practicing.
My breathing slowed as I went through the mental motions of my forms, from white belt to second degree black, concentrating on each hand position, knee bent at the right angle, shoulders squared.
I fell back to sleep at the “Diamond” form.
Chapter 2
Joe : San Diego, California
Erin seemed restless. I lay quietly beside her as she tossed and turned. I could only imagine what she was thinking about, and I probably wasn't even close. She'd killed five men that I knew about today, not including the strange creatures that roamed the streets, banged on car windows, and maybe even now surrounded the house.
I couldn't sleep, and usually I could close my eyes anywhere and be out like a light. Any odd noise and I would be instantly awake. Army did that to you. Just not tonight. It was dead quiet and darker than my grandaddy’s backside.
She's even got me censoring my own thoughts.
“My grandaddy’s ass.” There, I thought it!
I mentally sighed, feeling guilty, and thought back on our escape from the house. She was so brave as we fought our way into the garage, then turned and looked at me, so vulnerable. She was a deep mystery, controlling her emotions with some sort of silent ritual. Able to turn on “The Ninja” and outfight a Ranger. Give me a KA-BAR against her machete and baton, and I'd lose.
I laughed silently. My wife’s voice sounded clearly in my head.
—————
“You keep watching that crappy cake wars show and I'm gonna bonk that remote on your head!” said Joe, smiling. “Has anyone made a ‘fatal mistake’ yet?”
“Shut up about my cake show, ya stink bomb. Take a shower, hippy!”
“Yer gonna need a shower to wash off the blood, woman!”
“Gimme that KA-BAR and you're the one who'll be bloody, mister!”
They laughed and giggled, and Joe tickled his wife, Tisha, as she yelled for help. He kissed her and she kissed him back, long and passionate, then pushed him away.
“Wash up, stinky, then we can kiss some more.” Joe laughed and pulled her in for another kiss, then danced away from her poking hands, shaking the floorboards. “Quit wrecking the house and for cryin’ out loud, take a shower!” yelled Tisha.
“I'm going, I'm going,” said Joe as he walked to the bathroom. It was just a few minutes later when the door opened. Tisha undressed and joined him in the shower.
“What are you doing, cooking a lobster in here?” asked Tisha with a grin. Joe smiled. He knew that his wife didn't like it quite so hot, so he turned it from boiling to merely scalding. The steam rose around them as they embraced.
“Too bad you take up the whole shower, Bulky Joe,” she said.
—————
The memory died around me as I remembered when Tish had called me that nickname, “Bulky Joe.” Just that one time in the shower. I'd forgotten about that.
And here's Erin calling me “Stompy Joe” or “Camo Joe” or half a dozen other “Joes”. It was a nice illusion that there was a little bit of Tish in Erin. The daughter I lost.
—————
“I'm sorry sir, but you must leave right now,” said the masked doctor, his eyes full of concern. He turned back to Tisha, who lay on the table gripping his hand. Joe looked at his wife and could see that she was in tremendous pain.
“I love you hon, I'll be right outside.” She nodded through clenched teeth, and I pulled her hand from mine and hurried out of the room, following a young nurse.
She explained, “Something something complication, happens something something, best of care.” Joe barely heard any of it, his heart gripped in an icy fist. There was a weight preventing him from breathing. He pulled off the surgical mask that'd he worn in the delivery room and looked around frantically for someone to reassure him. His heart raced faster when two more doctors rushed past him toward the room he'd just left, and, he could only assume, his wife.
Joe stood and started to follow them. “Sir, please wait here. The doctors are with your wife.”
Joe heard only the rushing sound of jet engines in his ears. The young nurse put her hands around his arm, but Joe didn't even realize it as he reached up to push open the swing doors. The nurse was pulled forward and nearly catapulted through the doors until Joe caught himself, and her.
He stopped and looked down at her as she righted herself, still holding one of his arms as he lifted her up. “Oh,” he said quietly. “I'm sorry.”
“That's—that's okay. Please, have a seat. I'll go check and be right back and let you know what the doctor says.”
“Okay,” said Joe, returning woodenly to a couch in the waiting room. The nurse sat next to him and patted his arm.
“I'll be back in a bit, but I don't know if the doctor can talk to me right away, so it might be a few minutes or longer.” Joe just sat with his head in his hands. “Okay?” she asked. Joe didn't respond. The nurse got up and left him sitting there. She glanced back. The swinging doors closed, briefly framing the huge man as he sat on the couch, his head still in his hands.
—————
Why do all of my memories go back to that moment?
I missed her so much. She made me laugh, and I made her laugh. She kidded me for saying “croissant bush” instead of “currant bush” one time, and never let me forget it.
“Man, I'm hungry for breakfast. Hey Joe, go out to the croissant bush and get some breakfast!” she'd say with a twinkle in her eyes.
“You’ll be asking the nurse to bring you breakfast!” I'd reply. She’d laugh and dance away from me as I tried to tickle her.
I listened to the silence and heard Erin’s breathing change as she fell into a deeper sleep. An owl hooted somewhere nearby, and I heard what had to be a distant gunshot. A low moaning sound rose with the wind off the ocean.
I didn't think I'd be getting any sleep tonight.
Chapter 3
Salisburg, Massachusetts
“Wak
e up, Jeffrey!” yelled Richard, kicking the sleeping bag he was in. “Time to take out the trash,” he added with a chuckle. Jeffrey stirred in his sleeping bag and opened his eyes, then scrambled to get out of the bag.
“Don't point that thing at me!” he yelled at his uncle. “Are you crazy?”
“Be a man and stop whining. The safety’s on,” said Richard, lifting the barrel of the shotgun. He'd pointed the business end in his nephew’s face to give him a little scare when he woke up. He'd already geared up in camouflage and a hunter’s vest, lacking only his backpack for the full effect. Richard was a big man, tall and wide, with a permanent scowl across his rough features.
Jeffrey had always looked up to him, but was also always afraid of him. Back when he was a kid, his family would visit his Uncle Jeffrey and Aunt Gladys on some weekends. They lived near his grandparent’s house, so usually there'd be a quick stop to say, “Hi”. He could usually count on a crushing handshake from Uncle Richard, and would hope he wasn't drunk on the dark whiskey he always kept on the kitchen counter. When he was drunk, even a little bit, Jeffrey could count on being grabbed and held upside down while Richard pounded on him, telling him to “be a man and stop whining”.
But other times, Richard and Jeffrey’s favorite cousin, Richard Jr. aka Richie, would go hunting or fishing together. No more of that, though. Richie was dead at the hands of some guy according to his uncle.
“Time to do a little man hunting, huh?” he asked Richard, who grinned at the question.
“You betcha. Get dressed. I'm going to send off our lovely couple, here.” Richard nodded in the direction of the man and woman they'd captured the previous night. “Unless we want to keep our plaything.”
Jeffrey turned his head to hide his expression. “No,” he choked out, barely audible. He pretended to cough, then said, “Nah, we can let ‘em go with some camping gear. Payment for a night’s fun, eh?” He'd only pretended with the woman. No way he was going to be a rapist, but he wasn't going to turn on family either. He told the woman to scream and pretended to hit her a few times. He ended the charade as soon as possible, then tied her up with her boyfriend or husband or whatever he was. His uncle had already fallen asleep.
“Yeah, it was fun, wasn't it?” said Richard. He walked over to the two and cut the bonds on their hands and feet. “Go on, out the back,” he said, pushing the man hard enough to knock him to the floor. He kicked him hard in the side. “Get up, go on, we're lettin’ you go. You can come back in an hour when we're gone and load up on supplies.” The man struggled to his feet, helped by the sobbing woman. They limped to the back, followed by Richard.
Jeffrey watched them go through a back door and sighed with relief. He began folding up his sleeping bag, then shrugged and walked the few aisles over from the gun department where he'd slept and just grabbed a brand new one from a shelf. He walked back to his gear and started tying it onto his pack when he heard the distant boom of a shotgun. He picked up the closest weapon, his Mossberg 500, and ran to the door where Richard and the others went. He heard another boom when he opened the door, but could barely see from the light coming through the door. Another light shined faintly in the distance.
“Uncle Richard!” he called. “Are you alright, what's happening?” He fumbled for a flashlight and switched it on. The door at the far end of the back warehouse closed and a powerful flashlight pointed at him.
“It's alright, it's just me. I was saying ‘goodbye’ to our two friends,” laughed his uncle. Jeffrey froze, unable to process what he'd just heard. Richard had just killed them? An image flashed into his mind. The woman, makeup smeared on her once beautiful face, looking at him with hope as he explained he wouldn't hurt her.
What was her name again? Dammit! What was her name?!?
A hard slap on his shoulder broke him out his fugue. “Wake up, son! Sleep time is over, let's get a move on!” Richard walked past Jeffrey, who followed him through the door and back into the main store.
“Alright,” whispered Jeffrey. He cleared his throat again. “Alright, what's next?” he asked, hoping the falseness in his voice wasn't showing.
“I did not sign up for this,” he thought.
“First order of business is to get to that gas station I came from,” said Richard, lifting his backpack and sliding his arms through the straps. “There's a working truck there if the damn zombies haven't eaten it yet.” He chuckled at his own joke, then slapped his belly. “Hell I could eat a truck myself!” He laughed out loud at that one. “You hungry Jeffrey?”
“Oh yeah, I could eat a dozen stale donuts,” answered Jeffrey, though he wasn't hungry at all.
“Well, there you go. We hit the store, clear out the critters, grab some breakfast and check the truck.” He lifted his shotgun and dramatically pumped it, ejecting an unfired shell. “I got my wallet.” Jeffrey shouldered his backpack and slung his rifle, then picked up his shotgun and chambered a round.
“I got mine,” he said, his adrenaline starting to pump.
“Now this is more like it,” thought Jeffrey.
Richard walked to the front of the store and grabbed a sports drink from a warm refrigerator and tossed it to Jeffrey, took one for himself and then walked to the front door. Jeffrey walked up to him and stopped.
“Open the damn door, dumbass!”
“Oh yeah, forgot,” said Jeffrey, pulling the manager’s keys from a pocket in his cargo pants. He unlocked the door and opened it for his uncle, then walked through and re-locked it. “Not that it'll keep anyone out,” he said. He turned and looked at Richard, who was already a dozen yards away, walking quickly and slapping the shotgun repeatedly in his hand. Jeffrey pocketed the keys and hurried to catch up.
“The truck is down this road, I dunno, a mile or so,” said Richard. “We need to watch for zombies though. This was an industrial area, so probably just the after-hours types.”
“The hard workin’ zombies, then,” said Jeffrey. Richard laughed.
“Yeah, gotta put in some extra hours to pay for that Zombie swimming pool.”
“Do zombies swim?” asked Jeffrey.
“How the hell would I know,” answered Richard. “They quit movin’ when you pop ‘em in the head with a shotgun, that's all I need to know.” He looked at Jeffrey walking behind him. “Now shut up, because I do know the things can hear pretty well.” Jeffrey nodded and continued following his uncle. He looked around at the buildings and warehouses but didn't see anything.
“Well lookie there,” said Richard, pointing up the road with his Weatherby .30-06. There was a group of at least ten creatures milling around. “Maybe two hundred yards?” Richard stopped and yelled, “Hey!” A couple of them looked toward the two men, then moaned and drew the attention of the others. They all began walking awkwardly toward the men.
“What the hell, man?” said Jeffrey. “I thought we were supposed to…”
“Shut up!” interrupted Richard. “You watch all around us and make sure nothing and no one sneaks up. I'm gonna take these freaks out. We have to do it at some point, so best when we're far away.”
“Yeah and we could have been way up high, too, instead of down here on the pavement like chumps,” thought Jeffrey. Oh well, I always knew a crazy relative would get me killed.
Richard set his Weatherby aside and pulled out the scoped .22. “Gawl damned ten freakin’ bullets per mag, crap legislature,” he muttered. He pulled the rifle to his shoulder and aimed at the approaching creatures and fired. One of them staggered a bit, then kept coming. “Dammit too short a range!” he cursed. He put the .22 down and picked up the larger rifle, aimed and fired. A zombie dropped to the ground. Two of them following tripped, then scrambled over the corpse and stood up to keep coming. “Hah! Did you see that sucker fall and trip the others?” he asked.
“Nope,” said Jeffrey, “I'm watching around us.”
“Well, good boy, then,” said Richard, aiming and firing again. Another creature fell, and the one behind it staggered ba
ckwards and fell as well, but then got up and kept coming. “Damn, hit two of them, but the one behind just got hit in the shoulder.” He aimed and fired again, dropping the injured one, then heard Jeffrey’s rifle go off behind him. “What’s the…” he began.
“One coming out of the building on the left,” said Jeffrey. “I got him.”
“Alright then, keep watching, but warn me before you fire again.” Richard paused. “Did it come out of an open door or do the damn things know how to work a doorknob?”
“It sort of fell out then got to its feet, then I shot it.”
“So, maybe a push handle,” speculated Richard.
“Yeah, probably,” agreed Jeffrey.
Richard aimed and hit two more zombies, dropping both of them. “Out of rounds, let's see if they're close enough for the .22 now.” He picked up the smaller rifle and took aim at the remaining creatures, now about fifty or so yards away. Some of them took a couple of rounds, but they kept falling. He finished the clip and replaced it and kept firing.
“I see more, either people or zombies, coming out of one of warehouses we passed,” said Jeffrey. “Thousand yards maybe?”
“Well take ‘em out!” said Richard, firing again.
“I don't know,” said Jeffrey. “They act more like regular people.”
“Regular people have guns and they can kill us just as dead as a pack of zombies,” Richard growled as he laid aside the .22 and pulled out his shotgun. He stood up and finished the remaining creatures, the gun booming loudly compared to the relatively silent .22.
“But I don't…” began Jeffrey. Richard snarled and ripped the Browning .30-06 from Jeffrey's hands and thrust the shotgun at him. He aimed at the people in the distance and fired. A yell sounded in the distance and the small group quickly turned and ran back inside a building, apparently unharmed.