by J. Thorn
“Yeah. Duh. That’s why you named them Dokes.”
“I’m in the Army, we give everything an acronym.”
“True. But it is a good thing this isn’t Night of the Living Dead.”
“Yep. You had some deep spots. If it were. You’d be—”
Finishing his sentence—Alex leaned forward, close, and growled with a lunging mouth. Mack inched to her and stared for a moment before using his index finger to push her mouth closed.
They locked eyes.
After clearing his throat, Mack stood. “I’m gonna get some ointment.”
Alex nodded. “So why do you suppose that is?”
“What?”
“Why we’re immune.”
“To infection?” Mack returned with the ointment. “We’re not. That why you have to use this and cover it when we’re out.”
“No, that’s not what I meant. I mean about turning.”
Applying the ointment, Mack raised his eyes to her.
“We get bit. Why don’t we turn? We all have been bit. None of us turn.”
“And where is this expert opinion from, on turning into the walking dead when you get bit?” Mack asked. “Movies.”
“Us.”
Silence.
Alex leaned closer again, whispering, “We saw it, Mack. The others may not have, but you … You and I, at the aid station when I first arrived. We saw it and—”
“Alex,” Mack silenced her. “Can we not talk about this?”
“I’m sorry. It was your men.”
“No, not that. I just saw some shit my realistic mind doesn’t want to accept. I just don’t want to think about it tonight.”
“I understand.” Alex sat back. “What do you want to think about?”
“Tonight. Competition. We hit three sporting stores today. Lots of ammo.”
“Oh, yeah?” Alex cocked an eyebrow. “Doke-off?”
“You got it. But let’s make it really interesting. Let’s use revolvers.”
“You got it.”
They both stood.
“Mack?”
“Yeah?”
“You really don’t have a theory on why we are immune?”
“I don’t know, Alex, maybe we’re just … special.”
She nodded with passive agreement, and as he led the way from the room, she followed. But only for a second. Alex backtracked, grabbed her food, and then joined Mack.
++++
There really wasn’t much to do, so Del wrote a song. He was always writing songs. Nicole enjoyed them even though most of the time, they really did sound alike.
“Can you play something we know?” Rick requested, over his reading.
Del stopped playing. “What’s wrong with what I’m writing?”
“Nothing. It’s just that you play it over and over again, the same thing, trying to get it right.”
“I’m writing a song.”
“Which is cool, the world needs new music. But can you play something all the way through. Just once.”
After a huff—and then a follow-up snicker from Nicole—Del smiled, nodded, and strummed.
“The Eastern World, it is explodin’—”
“Uh!” Rick grunted out. “You have to play apocalypse songs all the time?”
“You just complained I was playing my stuff. Make up your mind.”
“Dude, I saw that movie, that guy played more than just that one tune.”
Nicole interjected, “If it makes you feel good to play apocalypse songs, I don’t care, Del.”
“Thank you, Nicole.”
“I do,” Rick said. “You talk about the movies, the music.”
“Guy, I loved end-of-the-world stuff.” Del picked his guitar. “What’s the problem? We’re living it. Maybe playing and recanting that stuff will give me answers.”
Nicole cleared her throat, prompting Del to look at her, and she nodded a point at Rick.
“Ah, yes.” Del flashed a tight-lipped smile.
Rick was reading the Bible. He looked down to it, then up to them. “Answers, dude, are right here.”
“Doesn’t wash,” Del replied. “And don’t get on your kick about it either.”
“What kick? I’m just spilling the truth. Padre agrees.”
“Padre suffers from dementia.”
“Selective dementia,” Rick corrected. “And maybe, guy, if I had been reading this like my mom, I wouldn’t be here.”
Nicole winked. “He’s second-level selected. One of the 144,000. Like you.”
Del shook his head. “We gotta get Mack into one of these talks.”
“Why’s that?” Rick asked.
“Because he doesn’t buy it either.”
Rick snickered and shut the Bible. “You really think he doesn’t buy it? Dude, didn’t you ever notice he never argues about it.”
“Yep. I noticed,” Del said. “But clearly you have an explanation other than he doesn’t want to waste his time.”
“Yeah. I do.” Rick nodded. “Mack doesn’t argue because Mack knows. Out of all of us. He believes more than anyone else does. No matter what he says.”
Del shook his head slightly and curiously. “Why do you say that?”
“Trust me. From what he saw. I know.” Rick paused. “Why else do you think he writes those letters?”
“For therapy.”
“Nope.” Rick shook his head. “Because he knows where Garret is.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Mack’s letter started out ‘Dear Garret, Alex got bit again today. That makes seven times. I’m gonna have to teach her to be more careful.’
He had gotten that far in the letter and then he stopped.
Sometimes he would pause and think, but on this night, he turned and looked out the window.
They were watching him. Usually, he and Alex would take out as many as they could, all if possible, but it wasn’t possible tonight. They took out about forty—after that, Alex wasn’t feeling well, and Mack was tired.
Del took roof watch. Sitting up there, strumming his guitar, making up songs with the word Zombie or Doke in it. Singing it to the undead as a tease.
And it was. The music stopped them in their tracks and they just stared out. They had no idea where the music was coming from.
They weren’t attacking, if so, Del would be shooting. They meandered. Instinctively cautious, Mack supposed, after watching their fellow Dokes fall.
They stayed clear of the building where Mack and the others rested for the night. A few brave ones, curious, hung out across the street.
Some looked up toward the sky, some at Mack.
They were close, close enough for Mack to watch in return.
Were they swaying to the music? A few of them were. Dancing Dokes. That made Mack chuckle. Thinking about some sort of twisted website he had seen, before the world went to shit.
Prostitute Doke locked a glare on Mack. He guessed she was a prostitute in her ‘alive’ state, by the way she was dressed.
Her short skirt was dirty and tattered, parts of it still catching a shimmer of the moon against the shiny material.
Her blouse was open, and her left boob dangled out. The dead breast looked shriveled as it swayed with her movements. The inside of her thighs were chewed apart. No blood, just gnawed flesh.
From the twisted, perverted section of his mind, Mack could only imagine how they got like that.
Her arms swung some, probably from the weight of her purse that she still carried.
Every woman looked like Sherry. Even Prostitute Doke. Mack looked for Sherry everywhere, even though he knew she wasn’t one of them.
He still wondered.
Did she somehow return to walk the Earth as an undead? If so, and Mack saw her, would he be able to put a bullet in her head without hesitation?
Probably.
But the search for a Sherry Doke was more habit than instinct.
Mack knew better.
Although he never saw with his own eyes what occurred, he … knew better
.
Prostitute Doke found something else to gain her attention. She moved slowly, as Dokes always did, to the trash bin. Her hand—lacking coordination as she reached for something—swung out more than reached and then retrieved what she sought.
A bottle.
Was it Jack Daniels?
Jack Daniels.
Mack chuckled. She was more like Sherry than he originally thought. OK, the former Sherry. The one that Mack met, loved, and had a blast with. Then she gave birth.
Not that she stopped being fun. But her wayward ways, one of the things that Mack enjoyed most about his wife, were ways of the past.
Of course, she really was only wayward with Mack.
Gone were the nights when he and his wife would do shots until they were silly and flirty, all over each other like lust-struck, twenty-something kids. Giggling, laughing, and daring. It was as if motherhood was a pseudonym for sainthood. After Garret was born, she didn’t want to do anything. They tried for so long to have a child, she was scared of never being ‘right there’ for him.
She was a good woman, a really good woman, and gorgeous too. They had great conversations, laughed a lot, but were more like friends. Sherry lost her zest for intimacy and Mack didn’t want to push her.
He understood for the most part. He didn’t understand why she complained about his drinking. Not that Mack was a drunk, but he wasn’t giving up alcohol just because she did.
Their lack of intimacy was the reason Mack spent most of his nights sleeping on the couch. That, and the fact that she didn’t want him sleeping in the room with her when he had been drinking, something about the smell of alcohol on his breath. Sherry didn’t realize the more she complained, the more Mack drank.
When it all went down, that Friday was no different.
The Friday-night fights were on. Not his and Sherry’s fights, but Mixed Martial Arts. He had worked 14 days in a row on base, finally off on a Saturday, and he wanted to relax, watch the fights, and drink that Friday night.
The last thing he wanted to do was get up and take Garret to his game at eight in the morning, or deal with another stray dog. But he would on both accounts. Despite wanting to sleep in, he enjoyed his son’s games more. However, the dog … well … Sherry had taken on another stray. It was her thing, a rescue house. Of course, they were always temporary.
Alex had dropped off the stray. Mack wanted to kill Alex. He had known her, and her husband Gary, forever. Why Alex became a dogcatcher he’d never know. She switched jobs all the time but stayed with the dogcatcher job. She’d liked it. Then again, Alex was more of a humanitarian than she led on. Sherry probably had her hand in that. Some undermining plan to save all the dogs and cats in the world. When Alex found a stray that made her feel guilty about leaving it in a pound, she brought the dog to Mack’s house. Sherry took the dogs.
That night, Mack slept on the couch, getting more affection from a cuddling dog than he had from his wife in years.
He wouldn’t tell that to Alex. She and Gary were well aware of how Sherry was, and Gary, being the huge joker, would have turned an innocent night of sleeping with the dog into bestiality.
When Mack awoke the next morning, he was pretty shocked that the dog wasn’t there.
No sounds. It was quiet.
A few beer bottles were on the coffee table, and Mack hunched when he knocked one over getting his phone.
He was awake before the alarm went off, and he made sure it wasn’t set anymore. He didn’t want the thing sounding off when he was in the shower.
Grabbing the empties, he carried them to the kitchen, tossed them in the bin, and immediately started a pot of coffee.
He lived in a ranch-style home, and the hallway to the bedrooms was directly off the kitchen.
Garret’s room was first, and Mack knocked on the bedroom door.
“Hey, guy, get up. You have a game.”
Thinking, I can’t believe I’m up at six in the morning on my day off. Mack made his way into the bathroom.
He stood by the toilet as if he had urination anxiety. It was taking forever.
The long stand was probably why he noticed it.
Still no noise.
No sound of Garret.
After finishing, but before getting in the shower, Mack went to check on his son.
He knocked again.
No answer.
A ping of worry hit him and he opened the door. “Gar, get …”
Before he could finish the sentence, he noticed the bed was empty. Immediate fear hit him. What happened? Where was his son?
“Sherry!” Mack called out, and flew down the hall. “Sherry, I can’t find Garret,” he said as he opened the bedroom door.
Empty.
Her bed was empty.
He blurted out an angry “Damn it!” Did Sherry leave him? In the middle of the night, had Sherry packed up their son and left?
With rage, he stormed into the kitchen and reached for the key rack. Just as he touched upon his keys. He stopped.
Two sets.
Sherry’s keys were still there.
Did someone come and get them?
Keys in hand, he went back to the bedroom to look. If she left, surely she took clothes. Storming into the bedroom, he went for her dresser. Just as he pulled the first drawer, he caught glimpse of it through the reflection of the dresser mirror.
The covers were still pulled—but there was something on her pillow.
Slowly he turned. It looked like salt. Exactly like salt. Reaching for the pillow, just at the top of the covers, peeking out was that blue nightshirt she wore. Upon seeing it, Mack flung off the covers.
Sherry’s nightshirt and shorts were in bed.
He lifted them only to have more of the salt substance pour out.
Confused, the clothing slipped from his hand and he raced to Garret’s room.
Without hesitation, he flung the covers form Garret’s bed.
The same substance on the pillow just above Garret’s Spiderman pajamas.
Doing the same, Mack lifted the pajamas. The salt-like stuff poured out on the bed.
Was it a sick, twisted, practical joke?
He teetered between the emotions of worry and anger as he aimed for the front door, fully intending to search out every possibility of where Sherry went.
The moment he stepped from his house, he knew.
It was more than his house.
Something had happened. Something strange, out of control, and unbelievable. So engrossed in his own search, Mack never heard it.
But he did when he stepped out.
The calls.
The crying out of names.
Up and down the street, people had come from their homes still clad in bedclothes.
Frantic, they poured from their driveways, all looking the same, all doing the same.
All lost and calling out names, searching for loved ones. Loved ones that simply vanished into thin air, leaving only their clothes and a dust of their being behind.
A gunshot brought Mack from that memory, and he looked out the window. Del had shot Prostitute Doke.
The others scurried like animals.
They were safe. Mack took stock in the fact that if things got out of control, Del would radio.
Mack was tired. He turned off the lantern, and for the first time since it all went down, he didn’t finish a letter to Garret.
Maybe in the morning.
He took off his shirt, leaving on his shorts, and walked to the bed.
Alex was already asleep on her side, not moving, on her half of the bed. Lifting the covers, Mack slipped in.
He inched his way to her, and she moved, groaning out an ‘it’s about time.’
Mack smiled and moved closer to Alex, she didn’t turn around. He rested his chin on her shoulder.
“Ow, your whiskers.”
“Sorry,” he whispered. “Hey, you wanna fool around?”
“Go to sleep.”
“Thought I’d ask.
” Mack kissed her on the cheek and moving to her, shared her pillow.
Alex inched back and snuggled into him. That was enough for Mack, it made him smile, and with a peaceful feeling, he fell fast asleep.
CHAPTER FIVE
Why they did it, Del didn’t know. But it was every city. Not that he minded, he really didn’t. He found it demented, fun, and rarely a challenge.
Only once was it a challenge and that was when a section wasn’t secure. Other than that, every time he and Mack hit a prison, the Dokes were contained.
The original idea came from Rick who told them that he had an uncle in prison. It was unimaginable to Del, the horror someone would feel if they were not a Doke and stuck behind bars. He read that book once.
So they started to hit every prison in every city.
Undoubtedly as each month passed, the chances of finding some ‘really’ alive were slim. But they tried.
Lorain Prison didn’t look like a challenge. Not too big, they’d have it done by the time the sun rose.
Del was tired. He didn’t sleep at all and Mack had only a few hours. Somehow, sleep wasn’t ever that important to them. There was little to do when the sun was up but sleep.
Mack did his thing of finding the alternate power supply, while Del reviewed the standard equipment in the security room.
It was all the same, blank monitors that would become visions of dismay when Del flipped the switch. Actually, several.
Mack returned claiming, “Generator’s running. Go on.” Weapons strapped to him, he stood watching like a supervisor.
Del powered up the security station.
Static and humming, along with blinking lights.
He kept his eyes focused on the ‘lock’ light, which came on first indicating all was secure, then he raised his eyes, like Mack, to the monitors.
One by one, they blinked on.
They couldn’t see anything. Not a single prisoner.
Of course, that wasn’t uncommon. The prisoners turned Dokes stayed in their cells. They couldn’t get out and there was nothing to reach for.
Del turned his chair. “I’m ready.”
Mack nodded and led the way out.
The main section of the prison had a wide-open recreation space. They stayed center of that as they walked down. They were the starting gun.