by Ponce, Jen
She’s almost to the SUV when she hears the creak of hinges. She whirls.
“It’s okay! It’s okay. Come on! Come.” The woman is older, her hair long and grey. She has laugh lines. It’s the laugh lines that get her.
She glances around then goes to the woman, her hand on her weapon just in case. “I saw your signs,” she says inanely. Of course she saw the signs. How else was she here?
“I’m glad. They’re doing their job, then. Come on girl.”
The store has been drastically altered since she’d last been here. The shelves have been rearranged to create small living spaces and tents are popped up all over. There are people milling around, a few at work doing some task or another.
People. Living, breathing people. People with smiles on their faces, some of them.
A gentle voice says, “How long you been out there?”
She blinks, fighting back tears. “Since October,” she says. “Came from Nebraska.”
The woman stops dead, staring. A few others turn, their expressions shocked. “Nebraska? Good grief, girl. Is it … is it as bad there as it is here?”
She doesn’t want to tell them the truth, but she nods. The looks on their faces—resignation, despair—make her wish she had better news. “I think the whole country is like this.”
“Figured as much,” the woman says, though she detects disappointment in the woman’s voice that tells her this isn’t exactly true. “You look done in. What do you want first? Water? Food? A shower?”
“Shower?”
The woman chuckles. “On the roof. It’s makeshift but the water will be lukewarm. Good enough to get yourself clean. And there’s plenty, though we still want you to keep it to less than five minutes if you can.”
“Sure,” she says, feeling dazed. A shower? The signs had said nothing about a shower.
She follows the woman up a couple flights of stairs and then through an employee-only access door that leads to the roof. There, she sees another tent and a shower area made of tarp.
“What size you wear, girl?”
She was far from a girl, but she didn’t protest, just passed on the info.
“I’ll bring you up some new things. That’s something we have in abundance, clothes. Now go on. Drop your dirties in the basket. There’s soap and towels in the tent beside the shower. Best practice? Turn the water on long enough to get your hair and body wet. Turn it off and lather up. Turn it on long enough to get the soap off.”
“Got it. Thank you.”
“Sure.” She turns to go, then stops. “I’m Mel.”
“Dee.”
“Nice to meet you, Dee.”
Thank you, she thinks as the woman disappears. Then she turns to the tent, already kicking off her worn boots. This could be a trap. If it were TV, it would be. These people would be cannibals, getting her cleaned up to eat, maybe, or ready to sacrifice to their cult leader.
At least she’ll be clean.
She strips off her gear, laying her weapons within reach. Once she’s naked, she steps into the shower. The shampoo and conditioner hypnotize her. The soap. The promise of being clean arrests her.
She hasn’t been clean for how long?
Forever.
Since they holed up in the fancy house after losing Lana and Ivy and the kids.
Since she lost her love.
She reaches for the spigot and lets the water fall, lets it wash away her tears.
29
Then
They were dolls.
I pulled the trigger, hitting the first one in the shoulder. It fixed red-rimmed eyes on me and said, “Why?” before I blew its face in.
Evan shot one. Jean hit another in the chest. Dan was screaming Owen’s name behind us. I hoped he was watching for them because we already had our hands full and—I glanced at the truck—it looked like we wouldn’t be getting any help from Isaac or Paisley.
Paisley sat screaming without a sound while Isaac continued to glare at his knees.
“Fucking lot of help,” I muttered, sick to my stomach as I shot another of them—a fucking doll, that’s all—and it fell to the dirt in a tangle of arms and legs.
None of these zombies were our people.
So, where were our people?
What had happened? Why had they stopped? Who had been dragged, bleeding, from the van?
Please don’t let it be Lana, I thought, guilt pounding against the hope that she was alive, that it hadn’t been her.
“Spread out. Be careful. I don’t know if they can hide, if they can ambush …” Evan trailed off, looking at me as if I might have the answer. I shrugged hopelessly, then remembered the little girl who had almost bitten Lana.
“Yeah, they probably can. If they’re fresh.”
“We can’t walk into that corn field then.”
We all stared into the tall stalks, a breeze hissing through the browning leaves. “What do we do?”
“Honk the horn. While we’re in the truck. Take off if any of them come,” Jean said. She was clutching her husband’s arm desperately, and I was absolutely sure she was praying it hadn’t been her daughters who’d left the bloody smear, just as Dan was praying Owen was hail and hearty.
We got back into the truck and Evan honked and honked the horn. Two of them stumbled out the door of a white farmhouse ahead, their uncoordinated walk telegraphing what they were long before their plaintive song could be heard.
“You are my sunshine, my only sunshine—”
“Let’s go back to town,” Jean said. “Now. They would have gone back to town.”
“On foot? It would be suicide,” Evan said.
“What would you do?” Jean gestured to the van and we all sat staring at it as the two zombies came at us.
As they got closer, I saw that one of their legs had been stripped of its flesh. The bones glistened in the stew of red meat and muscle. The tendons churned like belts in a factory machine and I snapped my gaze away but the sight would forever be burned into my brain. “We have to go, please. Isaac and Paisley are vulnerable in the back. Either way. North or south, but we need to move. Now!” I snapped when Evan still hesitated. “We know they didn’t stay here. We know they didn’t answer our calls or honks. We can check out the farmhouse. We can go back to the semi wreck if we have to, but we move. Now!”
We moved. Evan headed for the farmhouse, giving the truck a burst of speed before we understood what he meant to do.
We hit the two zombies with a horrendous crunch of bones and meat. The slam of their heads into the concrete sounded like exploding melons. The truck lurched violently over one of them—maybe the one missing the flesh on her leg—and I slammed into Dan as the truck righted itself.
“Evan!” Jean shrieked. Paisley was screaming. Isaac had been thrown almost over the side of the bed, only Paisley’s frantic hands stopping him from tumbling over. Evan was panting heavily, his fingers white claws on the wheel. “Evan! What the hell? What the hell?”
“You could have killed us!” Dan’s hand shot between the seats and gripped Evan’s jacket. “You fucking idiot, don’t you take my life in your hands again. You probably fucked the axle. You fuck!”
I could have tried calming Dan, but I felt the same. I understood Evan too, though, understood the visceral horror the sight of that leg had produced in me.
We sat panting, processing, dissociating, maybe too, and then Evan drove toward the farmhouse, seemingly not noticing the grip Dan still had on him. He drove right up to the steps of the house and jerked the truck into park. Only then did he turn in his seat and point the gun at Dan. “Let. Go.”
Dan did, raising his hands while Jean continued her panicked questioning of her husband.
“I’m going in there,” Evan said with an calm that belied the wild look in his eyes. “Come or stay, don’t care. I’m finding my daughters.”
He got out and slammed the door. After a glance at Dan, I followed. Jean came too and we stood behind Evan while he banged on the door,
waited, banged again. If any more of them were in the house, they’d come see what the noise was about, right?
Could they ambush us? Was one of them hiding in a closet? Waiting?
I wished I had a metal tipped bat and combat armor and the big, strong, burly Ving Rhames at my side ready to smash some zombie brains. When it came to zombie brain smashing, he was the best. “Sorry Lana,” I whispered.
“What?” Evan asked, irritated I’d made noise.
“Nothing. Try the door.”
He did. It was unlocked and we pushed in in a tight clump. I knew we needed space to use our weapons, but I needed the comfort of my fellow living, breathing humans more. We moved through the room on shaking knees—at least, mine were shaking. I was projecting my fear on them, maybe. Then again, Jean’s teeth were audibly chattering.
“Lizbeth? Olivia? Girls? It’s your daddy. I know you might be thinking I’m one of them monsters, but I’m not.” Evan poked a head into the living room, a cozy spot once upon a time, before something ate the family dog. Its corpse lay half-eaten on the couch, its soulful dark eyes glazed over in death, its tongue stiff. “Clear,” he said, as if we were soldiers searching a terrorist den. Jean took the door on her right, her fingers trembling as she shoved it open. It banged against the wall which made her squeak in fear. The room was a den filled with dark wood, papers, and a softly glowing computer in one corner. “Clear?”
Jean nodded. “Yes. Unless …”
“Either it’s clear or it’s not,” Evan said.
“Something might be hiding under the desk.”
Evan shoved past her, knocking her into the jamb, though she didn’t seem to notice. He gave the desk wide berth, then shoved his gun at the space behind it. “Nothing. Clear.”
Jean nodded and we went on like that, checking each room, scaring the shit out of ourselves at every shadow that moved wrong, at every creak of the house. When we got to the final door, we all stared at it in tired horror. There were tiny bloody handprints just below the door handle. “Lizbeth honey? Olivia?” Jean called in her trembling voice.
Something answered, something small, something not quite human.
Jean shook her head, kept shaking it as Evan marched forward. “Don’t. They aren’t in there, our girls. Just … just leave it.”
“No.” He turned the handle, paused, then heaved the door open. Something crashed into the far wall and gave a pitiful wail.
Jean answered with one of her own. “You hurt it, poor thing. Stop!” She grabbed his arm and he jerked free. “Evan.”
He ignored her and went into the room by himself.
That was his first mistake.
He didn’t check the shadowy corners of the nursery. That was his second.
He focused on the baby, on the tiny monster this fucking apocalypse had created. That was his last.
The baby. I would always remember that baby. Its tiny, bloody hands reaching, its dead eyes begging him to be merciful, to come closer. A sob broke free from his throat as he drew his gun.
“No, Evan. Just leave it. Please,” Jean sobbed.
The gunshot made me jump, then the door slammed shut in our faces. There was a click.
Jean lunged for the knob. Behind the door, we heard Evan shout in surprise.
In pain.
Jean yanked at the door, screaming Evan’s name. He yelled back. Gunshots tore through the thin, hollow wood.
Dan was there, then, his eyes wild. “What’s going on?” His gaze moved to me, frozen against the far wall, to the holes in the wood, to Jean, who was slowly sinking to her knees. He caught her before she hit her head on the floor. “What happened?”
But surely he knew.
Behind the door, there was the meaty sound of a body hitting the floor. Evan? Or the thing that had been lying in wait for one of us to enter?
I went to my knees beside Jean, who was staring up at us in surprise as blood leaked from a hole in her throat. “It’s okay. It’ll be okay,” I said inanely, pressing shaking hands against her wound. “I need a towel. Get a towel?”
Dan nodded and struggled to his feet. I didn’t know how long he was gone, only that the blood continued to seep through my fingers the whole time and run in warm rivulets over the backs of my hands. “Here,” he said, as if from a long distance, and moved my hands to press the towel against the wound.
What had happened to Lana? Had she bled out somewhere afraid, alone? Was she somewhere right now, dying? Choking on her own blood?
“Help,” a weak voice said from behind the locked door. It could have been Evan’s.
“We need to get her out of here,” Dan said, voice low. “The front door won’t lock. More could come.”
What for? I wanted to ask. She wasn’t going to survive. And when she died, she would turn. She would turn and eat us. She would open her dead eyes and play the victim so that we would feel sorry for her and come close. Close enough to bite.
“Dee!” Dan gave me a shake.
I didn’t answer, but I nodded. We lifted her—barely—when the door clicked and swung open. When Evan emerged, hand to his jaw, his fingers oozing blood. Like husband, like wife. “Jean?” His voice wobbled. “God, Jean? What happened? Jean!”
He shoved us away and gathered her up in his arms. The bite on his jaw was deep, flesh ripped away as if the thing in the room had gnawed at him for a time. His shirt was spattered in gore. Behind him, there was a dark lump. Was it dead? Actually dead? “What happened?” he asked again. “Please.”
“She …” My voice trailed off. I couldn’t say the words. I couldn’t tell him he’d shot her. Accident, of course, but the result was the same.
“Please, please, please,” he gasped, clutching her to his chest. The towel shifted and his eyes went to the wound. A sob tore through him. “Please.”
Jean blinked. She wasn’t gone yet. I reached in and pressed the towel back to the wound.
“We need to get you guys out of here,” I said, my voice lacking conviction even to me. We weren’t taking either of them out of here. We couldn’t. Not if we wanted to survive.
Evan’s face, still turned to his wife, wet with tears and blood, seemed to sag in on itself, as if he was already dead but didn’t know it yet. “You have to find our girls. Please.”
I nodded. “I will.”
He didn’t acknowledge my words, just plowed over them as if I hadn’t spoken. “In my wallet, there’s a picture of them. Of us. Take it so you don’t forget them.” When I didn’t move, he barked, “Now!”
“Okay! Okay, I will.” I reached forward and fished the wallet out of his pocket. When I opened it, there was a creased picture in the clear plastic sleeve opposite his driver’s license. Jean and Evan stood behind their two little girls and a taller boy, all of them grinning at the camera.
When had they lost their boy?
“Find them.”
“We will.”
“Promise!” When he turned his angry, mutilated face to me, I saw a zombie, a horror movie zombie, not these weird, signing, prancing things that had befallen our world.
I jerked back, hitting my head against the wall.
More tears spilled out of his eyes and down his cheeks. He pressed no longer, just turned back to his dying wife and crooned to her as she died in his arms.
30
Now
She’s clean, fed, and safe for the first time in what feels like forever … and it feels like a terrible joke. It’s that moment in the movies where there’s a montage of happiness in preparation for the doom to come. She doesn’t want to trust it, doesn’t want to fall into the montage like those moony fucks on the shows, but she doesn’t want to say no to it, either.
Maybe she is just like those moony fucks.
She’s led around by Mel, introduced to the survivors, shown the kitchen, the living and sleeping areas, the holes they’ve cut through to the other stores so they have more space to move. Everything has been boarded up where the zombies might get in, which leave
s the lower spaces gloomy, but the outdoor store has high windows to let the light in.
It’s a happy space despite what’s going on outside.
They’re planning rooftop gardens. They’ve been hauling soil, soil amendments, and tools up there all winter. They’re growing seedlings in greenhouses they’ve constructed. There are hydroponic set ups in the dispensary where a young man named Barney used to work. The windows aren’t reinforced with plywood since the old owner “was a paranoid freak with too much money”. “Bullet resistant,” Mel says with a firm nod. “Which means they’re zombie resistant too.”
She sits at a table of eight, eating again because it’s warm and it’s good. She doesn’t think she’d be able to say no if they tried to feed her every hour on the hour. She’d say yes and get too fat to run from them, too fat to go looking for the boys.
“Dee?”
She blinks and looks to the inquirer, a woman in her forties by the look of her. “Sorry.”
She nods as if she understands. “It took me a couple months to feel safe in here. I jumped at everything. Dissociated a lot.” She brushes a hand across the table and then stares at the crumbs stuck to her palms. “Anyway, I asked where you’re headed. Mel says you came from Nebraska?”
“We were visiting my wife’s ex. My boys’ bio dad. We were there when things went to hell.” Six months gone. Six months fighting her way here and she is so close now. So close.
“Oh wow. And you spent all this time getting here?”
“Yeah.” Getting here. Such innocuous words for what she went through. Losing Lana. Dan. Ivy. Owen. Evan and Jean. Their kids. Isaac and Paisley. Jude. Will. She shed them like water and like water, they’d rushed downstream and out to sea. “My boys were staying with my mom and dad. I’m hoping …” She doesn’t have to say. It’s what every person in this place hopes or hoped once upon a time.
“Where?”
She gives the address and the woman—Alex—leans back in her chair. “That’s only five miles from here. More or less.”
Five miles. Only five miles more and she will know if her boys are alive or not. She’ll know if she still has family or not.