by Gnarly, Bart
What could I do? I couldn’t tell her what I knew, about the Z Gene and how I was a carrier; how it was people with blood like mine that had killed the world.
And her family.
Instead I said some line about how the situation was no one’s fault, and that there was nothing she could do, and how we would see the end of this.
She smiled, but her eyes told me that her expression was patronizing. Unblinking she said, “Kid, there is no hope. We are already dead. The whole world is. Saying otherwise is just lying to get through the day. Look at James. Look at Steven. Look at Christi and Meagan. Edward. Look at you!”
“Me?” I asked, surprised. For a terrible moment I feared she knew. Knew that I was a carrier. Knew that I was sick with the disease that contaminated the world. But when she smiled again, I assured myself that she couldn’t have known such a thing, and that something even more base was happening inside her.
She leaned in and said in a voice that sounded like some sort of madness had taken her, “You’re dead as well. We all are. Don’t feel bad, kid. It’ll be over for us soon enough.”
I think it was the way she said it. Sure, the words were offensive, but it was the look in her eyes that made it hard to sleep for weeks. The look was without emotion; without expectation; without depth. She was stone and plastic and glass. She was heartless, though her words dripped with a quiet resignation that hinted at a festering sore in her soul.
“Kyle,” I muttered. “My name’s Kyle.”
“Bertha Mason,” she replied. “Nice to meet you Kyle.”
◊◊◊
Wouldn’t you know it, she was absolutely right. By the time it was dark, all of the shufflers in the lot behind the garage were gone.
“What if we opened the doors?” I asked. “Would the ones inside wander off as well?”
Bertha pulled the window open and grabbed the ladder. “Time to go,” she announced, as though I had not spoken a word. She slid the ladder out the portal and struggled to gently set the feet in the grass. Then, without waiting to see if I was coming, Bertha swung a leg out the window and started down the ladder.
“Wait,” I hissed. “How do you know there aren’t any shufflers around?” I went to the window and tried to see into the darkened space surrounding the building. “How can you be sure there isn’t some brain-eater just beyond the bushes? How can you be sure you’re safe?”
The look of disappointment returned as she confessed, “I can’t.” She gave a weak smile and added, “There’s no telling if you’re ever safe here, but you can’t stay still. You either move or you die. So get moving, kid.”
Down she climbed. I took a last look at Edward, his lolling head still flopping about dangerously, barely attached, and then followed her down the ladder.
By the time I hit the ground, Bertha was slinking off around the building and headed for the street.
“Wait,” I pleaded in a hushed tone. Either she didn’t hear me, or she didn’t care to respond, because she just kept skulking away into the night. I pursued her, wondering where she might be taking us.
I didn’t have to wait long.
Three buildings down, Bertha tapped lightly three times on a door to another garage, paused, and then repeated the three taps. The door flew open and we quickly passed inside. Within, I was greeted by a small band of men and women, looking dirty, worn, and tired.
“Heard the ruckus over there,” said the man nearest us. “Glad to see you’re alive and well. Who the hell is this?”
“Sebastian, this is Kyle. He tried to take shelter in Edward’s shop.”
“Then you had a bit of a surprise, didn’t ya?” the man asked with a dark laugh. “Sebastian,” he said, offering his hand. I took it and found his grip to be aggressively firm. “How’s the family?” he asked Bertha, still squeezing my hand excessively.
“He attacked them with a crowbar,” Bertha muttered, as though I had just been accused of kicking the family dog.
Sebastian turned his glare back on me and clamped his grasp even harder. “Really?” he asked in a serpentine voice. “Bashed up our family then?” he asked me.
I yanked my hand out of his and looked him straight in the eye when I replied, “Yes. Yes I did. I bashed-in every face I could with a wrecking bar, and I would have kept it up only I thought Bertha was trying to save me, not preserve her dead family like a group of demented stray cats she likes to leave food out for…”
Pain flashed and my vision failed then rose back out of an obscure haze. My eyes wouldn’t focus right away, but when they did I saw another man standing over me, shaking his hand.
“That’s Richard,” Sebastian voice informed me. “He just so happens to be Bertha’s brother and family to most of the people you just assaulted.”
I muttered a curse and reminded them that all of those people were dead already.
“Sure they are,” Sebastian apparently conceded, “to you. But to us, those used to be our friends, our family, our loved ones. To us, you just hit some of our favorite people with a construction bar. Try to understand how that must feel. Didn’t you have any family that was turned?”
Family? No. Friends? Peter. Dr. Carver. Wood.
Sissy.
Plenty of people I knew had been turned and needed to be put down. It was harder to do some than others, but for most it was just like killing any other zombie.
But none of them were family first. Sissy was the closest, but I didn’t really have to be the one who pulled the trigger there, did I?
“No,” I answered. “My family was killed by living, breathing, thinking humans. I’ve had friends turned, and I’ve had to end some of them, but I have never had to worry about family.”
“I am sorry to hear that you lost your family in such a way, but you are also fortunate to know that they are not wandering the city attacking, killing, and infecting people. Those of us in this room have not been so lucky. We have all lost, but Richard and Bertha are especially cursed. Their family refused to leave the area; they kept retuning. At first it was their cousin who was turned, then their sister. One at a time they have watched family members be lost, and usually it’s to the bite of a relative. How do you think that feels? Eh? Watching that happen to the ones you love?”
“It would suck,” I said unsympathetically.
“It would suck,” Sebastian repeated with attitude. “That’s one way to put it. But now, do you understand how our Richard and Bertha might be a little sensitive about you attacking the people who were once their family members?”
“Except that once they turn,” I pointed out, “They’re gone. Sorry guy,” I said, turning to Richard, “but there is nothing in that garage you want to keep, and the sooner you put them down the sooner they are free from the curse that is driving them.”
“I think you should leave,” Richard answered. “I’ve heard enough, and you are not the type we want here. I don’t wish you ill, but I don’t wish you here with us either.”
A little pissed at his perspective, I raised my hands and retorted, “Fine. Whatever. Thanks to your sister for not feeding me to daddy or whatever. Give me something I can use to defend myself and I’ll be gone.” The anger was rising in me at the thought of being turned out for explaining that zombies were dead.
“Where will you go?” Sebastian asked.
“Like it friggin’ matters?” I snapped.
“We have no extra weapons to share,” Richard added.
Sebastian rolled his eyes and handed me a bat. “Here,” he said, not looking at Richard. I thanked him and fought the urge to pummel Richard. “So?” Sebastian pushed. “Where will you go?”
“I have a place, at the mill on First.” I regretted telling them once I sized-up their shelter. It was tiny in comparison to the mill, where they could all fit comfortably. With at least twelve in their group, the shop is a tight space to live in full time.
“Well,” Sebastian continued, “that’s not too far away, and now I’ll know where to find you
if I need you.”
“Unless you decide that killing deadheads is your new pastime, then don’t bother.” I gripped the bat and gave the end a shake. Bertha sat in the corner, eyeing me with some unknown intent in her look. “Good bye, Bertha, and thank you again for saving my life.” I meant it, even if my tone implied the opposite. I then turned and walked to the exit. The door was opened for me, and just like that, I was back into the night.
“You know where to find us, if you need us,” Sebastian called from the doorway.
“I won’t”, I promised him. “Tell Richard to forget my face.”
He shook his head, and closed the door on me.
While I made my way home, I did something I had never done before: I looted. I found myself breaking into houses, businesses, offices. Anything with a door and the possibility of anything I might find valuable.
What I quickly learned was that all of the obvious things had already been stolen. Tools. Food. Water. But all of the less obvious stuff was still there, if you were ready to search for it. Things like music, entertainment, and booze.
Remembering Michael’s trick at the university, I broke open every desk and cabinet with a lock. Most of the time it was nothing; personnel files and such. But occasionally…
I found two pistols and several bottles of liquor. I found a first aid kit and someone’s stash of canned food. The idea occurred to me that these people might still be alive and I was stealing the very things helping to keep them that way, but the thought was fleeting. There was no way to know what state anyone was in except for me, and I intended to live. So I stuffed everything I could into some grocery bags I found and headed back home.
I made it back to the mill and found the back door open. I remember leaving it and not caring, since I was going to torch myself anyways. The memory of that night sends shivers up my spine, but at the time I didn’t think it would matter if the place was overrun. Now I was kicking myself.
I set my bags just inside the door and drew my pistols. As the evening air wafted into the main floor, I could hear the rising moans of the dead.
“Welcome home,” I sang, and opened fire.
◊◊◊
Weeks passed without seeing another human, but my life was not without incident.
Of all the tools I had found, of all the treasures I had brought back to the mill, I should have never taken the liquor.
It seemed like an indulgence I could afford. This world was so devoid of pleasure that having a drink seemed like a great way to spoil myself. Well… Turns out I’m terrible at “just having a drink” and am quite talented at “getting totally hammered”. The first night after looting, I got trashed and put on a puppet show with the remains of the zombies I had found in the mill. Their digits were still twitching as I made their arms and legs dance across the room. The next day I woke hung over, and decided to fix that with another drink. So the cycle began. Day after day I would tip the bottle and then go find something to destroy. Store fronts. Cars. Street signs. Zombies.
In short: I got sad and broke things.
I nearly died every day, but didn’t care. Life was shit, and I wasn’t going to be able to make it any better.
The last event stands out from all the rest in my mind.
Looking back, it could be said that I was having a rough day. I woke from the only nightmare I have. It’s the same one every time, and nothing ever changes. Sissy is standing with me in the street, with an entire horde of zombies occupying the lower block. I tell her we have to run. She leans in and kisses me gently on the cheek, and turns to walk into the horde. The wave of zombies doesn’t move towards us; they just stomp and howl and scratch at nothing. I squeeze her hand but it lazily slips through my fingers. I scream, but she just smiles. I reach for her but she glides away toward the mob.
I can’t move.
I can’t reach her.
I can’t save her.
Hundreds of hungry dead mouths pulse and drip blood. They don’t pursue. They don’t run. The horde just stands there, bouncing impatiently as Sissy strolls away from me. Just before she reaches them, Sissy turns to face me. She’s going to tell me her name. I know she is. She opens her mouth and a fountain of blood issues forth, drenching her front and collecting at her feet. The show becomes too much for the zombies and they tackle her. I watch as they bite and tear and rip and devour.
Then I realize it’s me. All of the zombies have my face. My hands. My fingernails tearing and teeth cutting. All of the hands that gash her are mine.
I’ve killed Sissy.
And then I wake up. Right there is when I wake up. How messed-up is that? Really?
Fresh off that image, and suffering from a massive headache, I pulled myself out of the bed and shuffled to the bathroom. I uncapped a bottle of water and splashed my face. Looking up makes me hurt and laugh. The image in the mirror is gruesome. Anybody who looked like I did that day would be mistaken for a zombie and aced without a question. I chuckle, giggle, and then begin to laugh at the idea. There’s a bottle of tequila in the bathroom. Without questioning how it got there, I take a long pull. Now that the image in the mirror has a prop in its hand, it gets really funny. What would the shooter think of a zombie holding a bottle of Mexican water? I’ve seen deadies hold items but never alcohol.
I laugh until I cry. I cry until I’m weeping. It occurs to me that not only am I a zombie on the inside, but now I look like one too, and I decide I might as well be dead at this point. Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t suicidal again, just totally hopeless.
The only thing that got the crying under control was the anger I felt. I was mad at myself, my blood, and the greater outside world. I hated the zombies that had infected my home. I hated the people who died for their dying and the living for still being alive. No one was safe. No one was without blame.
I hated Wood, and Peter, and Duck. I hated Stuart and Dr. Carver and Molly and Michael. And at that moment, looking in the mirror at my zombie face, I hated Sissy the most. How dare she make me love her, and then kill herself? She put me in a position to be unable to prevent her dying and as a result I end up blaming both of us for her death. The blame falls a bit haphazardly most days, depending on what I’m doing and how much I’ve had to drink. The bottle of tequila in my hand would suggest that today I would be blaming myself.
I remember thinking the only thing that would make me feel better would be punishing some zombies. I stumbled downstairs, grabbed one of Stuart’s old weighted clubs, and hit the street. I couldn’t find any zombies right away, so I engaged in my second favorite pastime: I broke into a business and smashed everything I could. Desks, lamps, electronics, displays, you name it. Today’s donor shop happened to be a bank. Of course, most of the items had already been removed, like the computers, supplies and all money left out, but I was certain there were still plenty of breakables. I made my way behind the counter and found myself looking for the big vault. It didn’t take long, and the sight of it was much as you would expect. There were gashes and dents to the door, but it was all just surface damage. Now I don’t know much about safes, but it seemed like blunt force was a dumb way to try and open one, but from the look of things the contestants on America’s Next Great Bank Robber seemed to have waded in from the shallow end of the gene pool. Lying in pieces before the safe were the remains of the thieves efforts. A sledge, a crowbar, and a torch. There were no burns on the door, so I wondered what happened that made them stop wanting to cut. There was a broken axe, and that really got me laughing. Who breaks a vault with a common wood axe? Really?
I found the entire scene funny, all of the broken tools lying at the foot of the scarred though unbroken safe. It was like a strange shrine to a rare god.
I picked up the sledge and decided to leave my own signature on the door of the box. I kept my grip loose so the vibration wouldn’t shake me too bad, drew back the hammer, and let it rip at the safe. The sound was awesome. A deep, pulsing vibration hummed through the building and I was rewarded
with a handsome mar on the face of the door.
“Hello?!?” came a voice, which made me jump from my skin.
I spin in place, searching for the source, but there’s no one there. I drop the sledge and reach for my club. Hunkering low, I start to leave the vault room when the voice again rises.
“Hello?!? Can you hear me? I’m trapped! I’m trapped in here. Help me!! I’m not a zombie! I promise! I promise!! My God it’s been days. I’m going to die in here!! Help!!”
‘Shit,’ I think. ‘He’s in the vault. The guy’s locked in the safe.’
“If you can hear me,” the voice continues, “I don’t know how to open the safe, but I will die in here if you don’t get me out. It’s so dark… And there’s no food or water in here. Please!!”
‘It would be dark, wouldn’t it?’ I muse. There’s no power to the building. The air must be terrible in there, what with him probably shitting in a corner. No vents. No plumbing. No light. Just some guy, blind in the dark, smelling his own waste until he finally dies of dehydration.
“Kyle?” the voice whimpers. I shudder and step away from the safe. “Kyle, I’m sorry, okay? If that’s you out there, just… Please know that I’m sorry. We both loved her. Neither of us wanted to see her become one of them, but when she changed I had no choice. The only option was to put her down, Kyle.” The voice goes silent for the moment. Driven by curiosity I move toward the safe, as if being closer would help me understand why this person knows my name. Not only that, but who was he talking about? Sissy? Molly? Who could this be in the vault? I start racking my brain, wondering who I saw die and who I didn’t. I know that I saw Stuart and Peter die. Peter swore that Duck was dead. Is this Wood? Is Wood in there? I saw him dead, didn’t I? He was a zombie, right? Wasn’t that him?