by Dead Road 02
Darian said in all seriousness, “There’s a cure. The cure for any zombie: Remove the head, destroy the brain.”
“As embarrassing as it is to concede, your theory appears to be the most logical and illogical at the same time. The possibility of zombies actually existing is just too much to believe.”
“And yet those people out there show all the signs of the living dead. It’s just. . . they’re fresh. They still look alive. Give them a month of rotting in the sun and it won’t be hard to believe.”
“If we live past a month that is,” Hiroshi said.
“Right now, I’d say that’s as possible as hitting an exhaust vent two meters in diameter with proton torpedoes.”
“If you’re implying that I used to bull’s-eye womp rats in my T-16 back home, I can assure you that’s not the case.”
Darian’s jaw dropped, stunned by Hiroshi’s reply. “Uh. . . did you really just say that, Hiroshi?”
Placing his hands on his knees, the older man rose to his feet. “Perhaps I did. And don’t call me Hiroshi.”
“Hey!” Darian called after the man, before he could leave the room. For what felt like the first time since Darian had met Hiroshi Yamate, he found the older man’s dark eyes and held his gaze, staring at him with an intensity he didn’t know he could muster. His voice was steady when he spoke. “I promise to take care of everyone, not just Amy. That includes you.”
“I didn’t know I needed taking care of, Mr. Whitaker.” Hiroshi exited the room through the door leading to the kitchen.
Alone, Darian slumped back into the couch. He ran his hands up his face, stretching it. “John, you better get back here. I’m making promises I don’t think I can keep,” he mumbled.
*****
Murky blue eyes snapped open, the morning light sinking into the pupils and shrinking them in an instant. John found himself in midair, falling backward and he cried out in surprise. A moment later his spine hit the ground, the air knocked from his lung. He groaned, landing on the baseball bat strapped to his back.
“Shit!” he exclaimed and rolled to his side. It took him only a second to realize he had fallen asleep but he didn’t understand why he was suddenly on the ground. He found Buttercup, the white and brown mare neighing and bucking in fear, the reason he had fallen. She leapt abruptly, dashing from the area and John tried to yell after her, but still lacked the air in his lungs.
When his eyes finally focused, he scanned the area around where he lie, finding the source of Buttercup’s fright. Some twenty yards away, a man limped slowly across the grassy land. One of his arms was missing from above the elbow, a gruesome stump where it should’ve been. The one armed-man moaned throatily, eager to reach its prize.
John tried to sit up, but unable to muster the strength, he collapsed in a heap. “Shit, shit, shit,” he swore, fighting to rise. His spine was throbbing, legs shuddering from exertion. The closer the one-armed man got, the greater John’s dread became. On his side, he reached and pulled the bat from his back. It landed heavily beside him and he slowly felt strength returning to his muscles.
The moaning was louder, hungrier, as the man stumbled a few feet away. “Get up, get up, get up,” John urged his body and agonizingly managed to sit up. His back ached, constant spikes of pain running up his spine, but he ignored it.
With his remaining hand, the one-armed man reached down for John, ready to grab and fall on his next meal. His legs gave out from under him and he collapsed on John, mouth open, teeth bared. The length of the bat collided with his chest, blocking his fall, and his jaw snapped like a lion missing its prey. His hand strained to grasp the fresh meat that lay below.
Using all the strength in his body, John held the bat firmly against the man’s chest, propping him up and away. The man’s dead weight was slowly pushing him down, his hand and teeth drawing closer. His fingers brushed over John’s cheek, scratching it lightly with his dirty nails.
“Get. . . off. . .” John growled and with a sudden burst of strength, shoved the man off and to the side. He rolled away, dragging his bat with him as the one-armed man clawed the ground where he’d been, moaning in frustration. As he rolled, he swung the bat with one hand, he missed the man’s reaching arm, pounding the dirt beside it. The man’s fingers curled around the head of the bat, clutching it tightly. He tugged on it, using it to drag himself forward. His jaw widened and rancid breath poured out.
John gagged as the stench swept over his face. He yanked his bat free from the man’s grasp and rose to his knees, weapon held over his head. Pausing, he stared down at the man, struggling to grab him. He flopped on his stomach, like a fish out of water, unwilling to rise to his feet. The hunger clouded his mind to the point where he could only crawl.
As he stood, John took a step away and lowered the bat. “Come on, get up.”
The man moaned in frustration, but kept straining his arm and dragging himself.
“Get up!” John shouted. “You stupid piece of shit, get up! Come on! Show me you’re smart enough to stand up!” He stepped back, avoiding the man’s hand as it swiped for his ankle. Spinning the bat upside down, he stabbed the head down on the back of the man’s hand, crushing it. He lifted it and slammed it down again. “Don’t you feel that? What the hell is wrong with you! Show me that you feel something!”
Once more the bat rose and fell, effectively breaking the man’s wrist with a sickening crack. He made no sound, other than the same hollow moan. His empty eyes stared up at John with a mixture of sorrow and need, broken hand twitching as it tried to clench.
Breathing heavily, John kicked the extremity away, no longer afraid. The man lifted his head, mouth open wide. His tongue was missing, most likely having bit it off himself.
“Darian is right. You’re already dead.” The bat cracked the zombie’s skull and it stilled completely, truly lifeless.
*****
Mark slipped from bedroom he and Alex had slept in with a curious tilt of the head. He sniffed the air and his face contorted. While accustomed to the stink of farms and the animals that came with them, he noticed something was different. It was stronger, a little more rotten. As he left the hallway and entered the living room it grew weaker and the smell of breakfast replaced it. His stomach growled and he knew there were eggs cooking behind the kitchen door.
“I heard that,” Natalie sang, smiling from where she sat. Her arms rested over the base of the couch, feet up on the crafted coffee table.
Rubbing the top of his head in embarrassment, Mark strode over to one of the free couches, plopping down on it. “How’d you sleep?”
“Like a baby,” she lied. “I haven’t slept that good in years.”
“Me too.” Mark was lying as well. They both knew it but ignored it all the same. “So, uh, who’s cooking?”
“Weirdly enough, I think Hiroshi’s in there with Ben.” Natalie slid her arms off the couch, not liking that she was displaying her chest so broadly to Mark. She barely knew him, and though he seemed nice enough, she didn’t want him getting any ideas. “I never thought I’d be this excited for eggs.”
“Yeah. . .” Mark trailed off and looked around the room, unsure how to carry on the small talk. “Is it weird that I miss school?”
“A little,” Natalie replied. “I miss my phone.” She let her hands fall to her lap, honestly not giving a damn about her phone. Her family was what she missed but it was easier to talk about the random things.
Mark gave a small laugh. “Oh man, a few months ago, this friend of mine, Pete, we went out for some drinks and he just proceeded to get trashed.” He shook his head, smiling at the memory as it played through his head. “So as we’re leaving the bars, a couple cops come up and start talking to us and are sort of playing games with Pete, messing with him because they know he’s out of it. Well, the idiot starts mouthing off, ‘Screw you, pigs. Kiss my ass. Oink, oink.’ All that stuff.
He was clearly entering his own world, reciting the story more to himself than Natali
e. “So the cops finally get tired of his swearing and put him in handcuffs, tell him they’re going to take him to the station, put him in the drunk tank. I’m trying to talk them out of it, but Pete’s still mouthing off, especially now that he’s cuffed. So as the cops are starting to drag him to their car, he just goes dead weight, mouth shuts, like he passed out.”
Natalie raised an eyebrow and leaned forward, a tiny smirk creasing the corners of her lips.
“So now the cops are literally dragging him to their car and I’m still trying to talk them out of it, telling them I’ll take him home, he’s asleep, they don’t have to worry, when all of a sudden, Pete snaps awake, stands up tall and belts out, ‘Whoo whoo!’ Just like a train, he just starts whistling and making the chugga chugga sounds, and takes off running. Lowers his head like he’s gonna ram into something, chugging and whistling and everyone on the street is looking now.
“Before he gets even five steps away he trips and falls right on his face, you know, since his hands are cuffed behind his back. The cops are cracking up. The guy that was cursing them out just fell on his face like an ass. So they haul Pete to his feet and shove him in their car, and Pete’s just still swearing, kicking the cage separating the front and back seats while his face and nose are bleeding from falling.”
There was a large grin on his face, and he was trying hard not to laugh. “So just a couple days ago we’re out again, and as we’re leaving the bars, we all the sudden hear a couple voices call out, ‘Whoo whoo’ and across the street are the same two cops, pulling imaginary train whistles and whoo whooing at Pete. They told us that was the first time they’d had something like that happened and thanked Pete for such a hilarious night. They gave him a twenty and told him to go drink some more and that they’d catch him later.”
He exhaled and let his head roll back to stare at the ceiling. His cheeks felt taut from smiling the entire time so he stretched his jaw. Slipping his long arms behind his neck, he intertwined his fingers and relaxed into them. “Damn, Pete.”
“Sounds like a funny guy,” Natalie said, “or an idiot.”
“A little of both.” Mark blinked heavily, Natalie’s voice bringing him back to the real world. “I wonder what happened to him. . . and those cops.”
Natalie’s grey-green eyes looked off to the side, her mind wondering about someone else: John. She wondered what he was doing, if he was alright, where he might be. As much as she hated him at that moment, she hoped he was okay. She hoped he was coming back.
*****
“Uh, why do you fill me up, fill me up, Buttercup, baby, just to let me down, let me down, and mess me around, and then worst of all, worst of all, you never call, baby, when you say you will, say you will,” John sang under his breath. He mumbled the next couple words, picking up again, “I need you, I need, more than anyone, darling, you’re all that I had from the start.”
Sticking to the grassy hills along the highway, John trudged north, toward San Alito. His horse abandoning him, he had been left to reach his destination on his own and decided that staying off the roads would be safer. On the hills he could see into the distance, finding every zombie long before he was too close. His singing faded softy from his lips, too hushed for anyone but him to hear.
From where he stood he could also see the city outskirts and numerous towers of smoke rising to the sky, mingling with the grey, overcast clouds. Tall electrical pylons stood silently around him, powered down and useless. Estimating a good seven miles between him and the school, John smiled despite the fact that with every step closer to the city, it became easier to see how ruined everything had become in just three days. He knew time was running out though and started for the highway, pack strapped to his back, bat held tight in his hand.
His shoes slipped over the damp grass as he slid down hill. He worried that the clouds might not be grey from smoke, but a coming storm. Licking his lips, he stepped on the quiet highway and started following it north.
The first car he approached was a new grey sedan. As he passed its doors, he spied an older man slumped over the steering wheel, motionless. Sighing, John continued but froze as the zombie’s head slowly rose and twisted to look at him. The rest of its body jolted with sudden life and its arms reached out. His seatbelt tightened, trapping him. Too stupid to remove it, the belt held him in place.
“Safety first,” John said, smiling at the zombie.
Bam!
John jumped away as a face smashed into the backseat window, a girl John hadn’t noticed before because of the glass’ dark tint. The younger girl dragged her cheek up the glass, eyeing him with want. Her hands smacked the window, trying to claw through it with cracked finger nails.
“God, damnit,” John muttered, clutching at his heart. “You’re lucky you’re behind that door,” he threatened, though the surprise had shot his nerves. Shaking his head, he decided not to stand around wasting any more time and began heading up the highway again.
The sedan honked and John’s shoulders slumped in dismay. Its horn sounded again, over and over, as the zombie unknowingly pushed against it. In the cars ahead, John could see a multitude of heads and bodies shifting, waking from their static slumber. More and more cars began honking sporadically, carrying down the stretch of the highway like a wave of noise.
“Shit. . .”
*****
The clinking of silverware on dishes tapped through the dining room as everyone dug into their breakfast. A large bowl of scrambled eggs, now nearly empty, moved around the table. Each plate had two pieces of toast, mostly eaten. Darian scraped the last yellow bits from his plate, shoveling it in his mouth. Amy had piled her eggs onto her toast and taken a large bite out of both while her husband kept the two foods on his plate separate. As Karen reached for the circling bowl, her elbow bumped Natalie’s glass of juice. It tipped, falling over and spilling over the blonde’s eggs before she could stop it.
“Aw, man!” Natalie moaned, hurrying to mop up the liquid with her napkin.
“I’m so sorry,” Karen said, helping to clean the mess.
Natalie frowned, her scrambled eggs and toast soggy. She stabbed at them with her fork and sighed. “It’s okay, I’ll just get some more.”
“So you’re not gonna eat that?” Darian asked from the other side of the table, mouth full.
“Probably not.” Before Natalie finished speaking, Darian was reaching across the table, scooping up as much of her eggs has he could and shoving them into his mouth. “Are you serious?”
“Wha?” Darian mumbled, blinking. He swallowed heavily, forcing the eggs down faster than he wanted. “You said ‘probably not’.”
The youngest person at the table, Alex stared down at his plate quietly. He hadn’t eaten a bite; instead too busy pushing it around, his youthful mind too caught up in everything that was wrong. Normally he would be sitting with his brother, his mom pouring bowls of cereal and giving them both a kiss on their forehead. Everyone at this table was a stranger, even Mark, but they all seemed kind enough. He was glad that the one man, John, had left. He felt safer with him gone. Darian, however, was funny, easy-going, and watching him reminded Alex of his father’s poor table manners.
“Again, we can’t thank you enough for this, Ben,” Amy said. “You’ve really put yourself out to accommodate us all.”
“It’s really not a problem. God has blessed me with the food and shelter to help others. It would be wrong of me to turn you away,” Ben replied, his mustache curving with his smile.
“You really think God’s still hanging around here?” Darian asked bluntly. “From the looks of it, I’d say he hightailed it out of this hell hole.”
“He’s still out there, boy,” Ben growled, brown eyes glinting. “We just haven’t been chosen yet.”
“Chosen? Chosen for what?”
“The Rapture.”
Darian looked around the table, hoping for help.
Ben continued, “Those people out there were chosen by God. He’s taken thei
r souls to be with Him and left those unworthy behind, such as you. That’s why I’m helping you all, in order to be taken by Him sooner. He’ll see that I’m worthy, and I’ll be with them.
“As for you,” he said, looking at Darian. “I don’t think you’ll ever be taken.”
“This is what you believe?” Natalie asked. “That God took everyone’s souls and left their bodies behind?” As someone who wasn’t very religious, it bothered her that Ben’s argument actually made some sense.
“And hopefully he will come and takes yours as well, my dear.”
“God is not out there picking people and taking their souls!” Darian exclaimed in exasperation, throwing his arms up. “That’s not what’s happening out there, Ben! It’s a God damn disease!”
“Darian!” Amy snapped, slamming a hand on the table, startling everyone except Ben and her husband. “That’s enough! Don’t disrespect our host in his own house!”
Darian slumped into his seat, surrendering to his principal. “Sorry, Ben, I didn’t mean to offend.”
“While you may not have any faith in Him, son, He has plenty in you.” The old farmer interlocked his fingers in front of his mouth, resting his elbows on the table. “God’s got a plan for you, as well as your friend.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
*****
Panting heavily, John bent over to catch his breath. His stomach flipped and he tried hard to hold back the puke that rose in his throat. After a deep inhale, he coughed and hurled on the asphalt in front of his shoes. He had run a good fifteen minutes up the highway, dashing between the cars as their occupants struggled to free themselves.