Just Us

by Stark, Collin

  Leaves began to rustle visibly now, and Kern stepped slowly behind a tree, setting his pack down behind a bush. It wasn't total concealment, but it would at least offer some. It didn't sound like a human. The movements were more erratic. Rustled leaves, then a pause, then a more rustled leaves. Kern figured a human would have been either consistent or quiet altogether. That would have indicated either knowing he was there or complete ignorance. In a way he was hoping that it would be one of the dead and not another human being. The dead were a threat, but one easily handled if it were slow and he had time to get back to Dad. Humans, on the other hand, were completely unpredictable.

  Kern began to tremble not from fear, but from nerves. He had accepted his fate in life, doomed to roam the ruined landscape dominated by the dead, but he would never get used to being prey, having to fight something for his very survival every time they came into contact. It took everything he had to not go running back to the camp or to charge into the bush and get the bloody deed over with, regardless of the outcome.

  Yet he waited, until what was once a woman emerged from the thick brambles and briars. Once upon a time, it must have been beautiful. Lithe with blonde hair. It was wearing the tattered remnants of a summer dress, long faded and offering a blessed distraction to the putrid nakedness exposed by the rips and tears. In a split second, Kern identified the cause of it's original demise: a large chunk taken out of the left forearm. Spotting these things had also become one of his oddities these days.

  The wind was in Kern's favor, blowing toward him and away from his adversary. Kern hunkered behind a tree slowly, the dead thing staring blankly forward and him being to it's side. Kern fought to breath slowly as it moved onwards, moving farther forward yet coming towards him diagonally. When the time was right, he leapt from behind the tree.

  Dad had told him many times the dangers of attacking one of them with a knife, and he had seen it a time or two in person. Most people thought that a swift stab to the skull would end it, but this was not so. More often than not, the knife would lodge there or a quick turn would dislodge it before damaging the brain. Final death was only slightly promised with a strike to the temple or a swift puncture and rip to the base of the skull. The sound of trampled dirt and rocks echoed in his ears and he ran forward. In just a few strides he had his free hand on the back of it's skull and his knife dug into the rotten flesh at the base of it.

  Quicker than he thought, it turned right out of his grasp and his blade ripped from it, only flaying it open. It's bony arms reached for him as it let out an almost inaudible wretch. It caught his left arm and opened it's mouth, moving to take a bite of the flesh it so ravenously craved. Kern tried to roll out of it's grasp, but it's fingers were hung in the fabric of the t-shirt he was wearing. As he pivoted, he fell, and it landed on top of him. Luckily it didn't weigh much, and he had little trouble rolling underneath it as it grappled for him, and as his face turned from the ground he caught it by the throat just in time.

  His first instinct was to scream, to yell for Dad and try to fend the creature off. On the surface this was a viable approach. If there were other's around, it was a blessing in disguise that this one had apparent vocal chord problems. He had never seen one this quiet, at least not one by itself. If there were others, it would alert them and then both of them would be in trouble. This one was weak, lacking any muscle mass. Kern pushed up on it's throat, the smell of rotten flesh emitting from it's mouth making his eyes water and forcing him to gag. It lifted easily. Both of it's hands were still wrapped around his arm, trying to bring it up to it's maw.

  Kern's heart was racing, and he was almost sure he had soiled himself. He pushed as hard as he could with his other arm, the creature lifting off of him. It didn't take much to push it over to the side and roll on top of it. With his free hand he shoved it into the dirt, his knife a few feet away. Running on pure instinct, he began slamming his fist into it's forehead, aiming high to avoid it's mouth. Sweat was now pouring off him, dripping onto the decayed flesh of the dead. After several strikes, there was a pop, then a couple of more and it's face and skull began to slightly morph before his very eyes as the bone structure gave way. A calculated, heavy hit shattered the skull inside and his fist punched ever so slightly inside. It started to convulse, it's fingers losing its grip and slipping away from his arm. Another hit was all it took to make it stay down.

  As soon as it's arms flopped to the dirt, he rolled off. He scanned the surrounding area quickly and didn't see anything and then immediately turned his gaze back down. The once horrifying face was now a gory mess of decayed flesh, shattered bone, and gray matter seeping out of the hole he had made in it's head. He listened closely to make sure nothing else had heard the tussle and was moving his way, and then retrieved his knife and pack and ran, half crouched, towards the camp.

  "What in the world happened to you?" Dad asked incredulously, looking at the dusty, bloodied shirt. The rotter had managed to make a good tear in it, too, when it wrapped it's hand up in it. Breathing heavily, Kern bent over and put his hands on his knees. He held his shaking hand up, telling Dad that he needed a second.

  "I ran into one of them," Kern panted. "Down by the river. I didn't...didn't see anymore. Got my fish and frog dirty, but it's just dirt."

  "Are you alright? Did you get bitten?" Dad started checking.

  "No. My back and side are scratched up from falling, but I didn't get bit."

  Dad still searched him over frantically, pulling his shirt up first and inspecting the gashes. Kern winced as he poked the large one on his side with his finger. After that he was patted down, and his arms and ankles checked thoroughly. At one time, Kern would have taken offense to not being believed, but that was the way of things now. Sometimes people didn't even know they had been bit until well after the adrenaline had worn off. When Dad was satisfied, he looked in Kern's face with tears in his eyes, then hugged him briskly.

  "Thank God," Dad said. "I think we better pack everything up but the strings and one of the skillets. If we can, we need to eat before we move on, and I think we can spot them before they get too close. First, though, we need to get you cleaned up."

  Kern nodded silently and dug into his pack, pulling out a zip lock baggy filled with medical supplies. It didn't look like much, but it was a culmination of things they had found along the way. Next, Kern took out a bottle of water. They had boiled it and poured it into the bottle the previous night, so it was still good. Dad pulled out one of the washcloths from the baggy, clean even if a little moth-eaten. He wet part of it and began to wipe of Kern's wounds. When Dad got to his side, Kern grunted in pain and pulled away.

  "Easy! That hurts!"

  "Keep it down! It hurts because you have rocks embedded in it! Don't be such a baby." Sure, Kern thought. I just killed one of the dead, almost got bit, and all of a sudden I'm a baby.

  Dad took a little more care as he wiped the wound out now, Kern hissing under his breath with each touch. When Dad was done drying him off with the dry part of the washcloth, he took the small bottle of rubbing alcohol out of the bag and conservatively wiped down the cuts. Kern gasped and bit his lip, trying to not be loud. Dad pulled away and Kern risked a look at his side. It wasn't bad enough to worry, unless of course it got infected. Once the wind had dried the alcohol on his skin, Dad smeared antibiotic ointment on his side and dressed it with a gauze pad. As Kern held it, Dad took a lighter out of his pocket which was wrapped in duct tape and pulled some off, putting it on all four sides of the gash.

  Infection was one of the main concerns in this new world. What used to be a minor inconvenience could now turn into a life-threatening situation. It wasn't just the lack of antibiotics, which was just treating the end result. People had been conditioned to wash their hands regularly. After using the restroom. Before preparing a meal. If there was anything on them. This ensured a whole host of germs and bacteria never had a chance to cultivate. When the curtain went down on the old world, a curtain raised on an even ol
der time, one of disease and pestilence.

  Dad turned from Kern and began beating the dirt off of and rolling up the thin blankets lined with construction plastic to keep the moisture off and the heat in. He handed one to Kern and packed one in his own pack. Next he beat the off the two small couch cushions, no bigger than a hamburger ( and they both often thought of hamburgers ), and packed them neatly into the one of the pouches. Kern packed up one of their six fishing kits, the one laying next to where he had slept, back into it's canvas pouch and put it away. All that was left was the guns, the modest cooking gear, and the ropes and cans lining the perimeter. Packing something away as soon as it wasn't needed was a trait they had both picked up on the road.

  It didn't take long for Dad to get the fire roaring and the old cast iron skillet hot enough to cook the fish and the frog legs. Dad hated to cook fish, because the smell carried for a ways. He also hated to spark a fire while the sun was high. The dead weren't the only ones to worry about. Kern didn't mind, though. He was famished, and after adrenaline wore off he was more than a little drowsy. A good meal and some coffee might perk him up, even if the coffee grains were old and stale. Trying to run from the dead wouldn't go very well for him otherwise.

  After they had eaten and buried the bones several yards from the camp site, they set about taking down the perimeter. The string was thick yarn, and they always had to make sure they bedded down in an area they could run it around four corners. There were twelve cans on it, side by side. Dad was proud of how he had done the cans, cutting slivers out of them and fitting them one inside of the other for easy packing. Once that was done, they hastily covered the fire with dirt. They were in too much of a hurry to clean up the way they normally did.

  Kern didn't care much for the coffee. Usually he would drop a hard candy into it or use a packet of sweetener. It was amazing how much of both they had found in houses and abandoned stores. The latest batch they had found was more stale than most, and it gave the coffee a twangy after-flavor. Kern had a decent stock of hard candy, which he figured would last long after they were gone, but he didn't want to run the risk of running out too soon. Still, he chugged it down before devouring the fish and frog legs. Dad had wrapped enough for two more meals in plastic bags and saved them for later. When they were done, they wiped their metal camping tins and forks with water and a washcloth.

  By the time the last of their gear was packed, which didn't take long, they could hear moans and growls off in the distance. From what Kern figured, it didn't sound like many. Sound could be deceiving. There were a few he had seen who couldn't make a sound due to their throats being ripped out, but more often than not, a good number just grunted or shambled along totally silent until they were aroused. They headed in the opposite direction, into the hills.

  One thing about the dead was that they usually took the path of least resistance unless they were after something. Valleys and depressions were always dangerous. If the dead weren't there, then they could stumble or roll down the hill at any time. They darted over hills, then through the small valley, in order to shake them if their scent was too strong. Kern feared it would carry for miles if one of them had gotten fish on their clothing or their bags. On and on they went, through the harsh, hot summer day. Sweat poured down Kern's forehead, his clothes clinging to him. It was before noon when they started their run. Summers in the South could be brutal, and this one was turning out to be one of those. The humidity, the mosquitos, the searing heat.

  Kern happily collapsed when Dad finally picked out a camping site on a hill, surrounded by mighty oaks and pines. It was one of the most miserable days that Kern had in a while. If he was exhausted after his fight for survival, then he was depleted when he fell into a heap on the ground, trying to dig into his bag for a bottle of water. It was hot after hours in his bag, and he had to force himself to take small sips. After he had settled down, he ripped open a packet of salt and poured it into his mouth, chasing it down with another gulp of water.

  Dad wasn't faring much better. Kern watched as he looped the twine around the trees, slipping it through the holes in the cans. In disinterested unbelief, Kern watched as his Dad trembled slightly as he finished setting up the perimeter. He wanted to help Dad, he really did. But he was spent. Kern knew Dad was spent as well, but he couldn't move. His legs were on fire, and his stomach was throbbing dully with hunger pains. They hadn't eaten anything but a small bag of potato chips all day after they started to run, stale as concrete.

  Kern laid where he was, wondering if he should try to get up and help. He was starting to cool down in the twilight, and managed just enough strength to pull his crumpled blanket from his pack ( luckily it was on top ) and cover up. In his mind, he was going through the routine of stringing out the perimeter and setting the cans when passed into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  xxxxxxxxxx

  Night had fallen, and had been settled in for a couple of hours. Kern laid snoring right where he had fallen, but that was alright. Dad had spread the blanket over him and propped the small cushion from his bag under Kern's head. He wouldn't be needing it tonight. Fatigue had set in, but he knew if he fell asleep now, neither one of them would hear if one of the infected tripped the perimeter. It wasn't the first night he had sat up watching, and he was sure that it wouldn't be his last. Now, however, there was a kind of complacency about it. Before, especially in the first months, there was the adrenaline, the fear, the newness of it all. Now, after the adrenaline had been spent for well over a year, the fear had become the new normal, and Dad chuckled when he realized that this was the new norm.

  A cigarette wiggled loosely between Dad's fingers. Kern didn't know it, but he had found a pack and a half in someone's freezer, of all places. He had smoked three cigarettes over last couple of weeks, one a little while before Kern was attacked by the river. Understanding probably wouldn't be too hard for Kern to come by, but it was still something Dad was ashamed of. It had been over eight years since he had smoked, and he could still remember Kern sitting on the front porch asking him, Daddy, why aren't you smoking today?

  It was a part of his lost world, though. Indulgence and instant gratification had become so ingrained into his mind and that of virtually every other American that those minuscule trinkets of what once was excited him, even gave him a little hope that the future might not be so bleak as everything seemed. Surely the infected could smell cigarette smoke, and that was why he didn't light it. Maybe that had been what had drawn the infected by the river in the first place.

  So he sat in the dark, listening to the crickets chirp and bullfrogs off in the distance. It was a pleasant night. The sweltering heat they had experienced on their run in the broad daylight had subsided to a temperate mid-summer's night. Dad knew what that sometimes meant. Rain. Part of him hoped that it would. Kern's wound needed washing, and they could both use a good shower and to wash out at least one pair of their two sets of clothes. More than anything their socks needed a good washing. Once they had been worn for several days and gotten hard, they disintegrated during a wash.

  Kern had become a paradox to him since the day that he had shot Julie. He had become more responsible, like he had aged years in a matter of minutes, but he had also become cold. Once on the road, they had heard a man screaming for help. Dad had wanted to go and help, but be cautious in case it was a trap. Kern had simply said that it was a waste of energy, and if it was a trap then they needed to get away. Even if it was someone who needed help, they might get bitten or even waste a precious bullet. Dad was fixing to go see what was going on when Kern bolted off into the woods. While Dad wanted to help the person, his paternal instinct made him follow Kern. It took him a good deal of time to catch up, and by then they had gone so far and Kern had turned and twisted his path so much that Dad knew he couldn't find his way back.

  That was one of the strange things about this world. Being calculated and cold seemed to lengthen a person's life. Kindness and generosity were always taken advantage off. Giv
ing the benefit of the doubt usually lead to death or worse. But was it worth losing one's humanity? The hugs and smiles Kern sometimes gave showed that he wasn't all the way gone, but over the last few months he had gone further inside himself. Sometimes he would just sit, staring off into space. What was he thinking about? Nothing could say would get him to talk.

  Besides that, they were hungry, too. They had stockpiled what carbs they could from what they had found. No one was making bread anymore, and they hadn't run across any potatoes. Sugar was also in short supply. All that was left were the processed foods like crackers and noodles they were able to scavenge, and that wasn't a lot. Most of the houses they came to had been picked clean, but they did manage to luck up and find things hidden in drawers or left behind. For a few days they had enjoyed hot chocolate, with rock hard marshmallows barely softened by the water. Kern didn't know it, but Dad had three sodas hidden in the bottom of his pack.

  They mostly subsided on vegetables, greens, and whatever meat they could scrounge. Sometimes Dad would dig a hole with the little spade he kept, and put nuts or berries they had scavenged at the bottom. An all day affair it turned into sometimes, but they had snagged a few squirrels and rabbits with sharpened branches. They also weren't above eating dogs. Many of them had become hungry and feral. They had encountered a few packs of feral dogs and several loners, but never anything worth worrying about like wolves. Dog meat wasn't too bad when put in a stew. Cats, on the other hand? Not enough meat to be worth the trouble.