Eat, Prey, Decay: 7 Tales of the Apocalypse (Zombie, Dark Fantasy, Dystopian, Horror, & Post-Apocalyptic Boxed Set), page 92
From what he saw, the zombie-like victims didn’t eat the people they attacked; they just seemed intent on biting them. It was freaky. They’d gnaw on one person for a little while and make sure that person was good and injured and then move on to the next. In some weird way, it kind of made sense that the alien virus, or whatever the contagion was, would seek to reproduce itself without killing the host.
Clarissa’s Toyota Forerunner sat right where he’d parked it, the meter having long run out. He pulled the key fob from his jeans pocket and hit the unlock button. The SUV beeped twice in response, flashing the headlights in time. With a moan, a man came from behind the building across the street.
Like an overblown red balloon, the man’s skin was stretched taut over his swollen face. His eyes squinted to small slits. One foot dragged behind him at an odd angle, his knee out of joint. The man leaned against a street sign. He turned his head back and forth blindly, with his head tilted like he was searching for the sound.
Trying his best to ignore the odd victim, Brad opened the door and jumped in, slamming it behind him and hitting the lock. The noise attracted the attention of the guy. He stumbled toward the vehicle in a bee-line, hopping along as quickly as his deformed gait would allow. When he reached the vehicle, the man didn’t slow his pace. He slammed into the rear door leaving bloody foam on the tinted window. The wailing increased.
Brad gagged. The continuous smell of garbage had trailed him, making the car smell as bad as the dumpster. The bloody, foaming man banged on the door and tried the handle. It was all too much. Nausea washed over Brad in waves. He gulped and started the engine. The man outside beat on the door weakly. These zombie things had enough strength to run around on broken legs but hardly enough to beat on a door with fists.
Brad had seen more in the past two days than he’d care to ever see again. He imagined Clarissa becoming one of these zombie-like things. Laughing to himself, he wondered what the zombie version of Clarissa would do if she broke a nail pounding on a car door.
Clenching his jaw to bite down on the hysterical laughter that threatened to surface, Brad flipped through the iPod Touch to get to some blaring, heavy music to drown out the sounds of the chaos outside the vehicle. He checked the gas gauge. Half a tank. It should be enough. Pressing the Toyota into drive, Brad sped toward home, leaving the zombie in his wake.
***
Hugh
Hugh’s cat had stepped across his laptop keyboard while he had gotten up to go to the bathroom. A series of 0s, Gs, and parenthesis traveled their way down three lines in some funky code. “Great. Thanks, Tiger.”
The grey-striped cat considered Hugh with an indignant green-eyed look. Hugh deleted the three sentences worth of gibberish and re-read what he’d written so far. The notes he’d taken from watching almost 24 hours straight of news and what he could hear on the emergency station came down to three things. And listing them in a visual way helped his scientific mind make some sort of sense out of what was going on.
1. The attacks on people made by the Shisa always left the victims injured and seemed to happen at random.
2. The time the bitten victims had before they showed symptoms varied but averaged just over an hour. It seemed they were affected by an alien virus of some sort and began attacking bystanders, also leaving them alive.
3. No matter the injuries sustained by the victims, they continued to attack. It seemed that bullets to the vital organs made no apparent difference in stopping them. Could they die?
The thought of this sent a chill through him. He theorized about the possibilities of a parasitic alien that kept the body of the victim moving even after all life had left the person. Disgust made him gag.
“Murrrrow.” Tiger stood on Hugh’s desk, staring at him from over the screen on his laptop. Another thought occur to him, and a chill raced down his arms. He could hardly think of the implication.
4. The Shisa are only attacking humans, no animals.
A soft, hesitant knock sounded at the door. Hugh stood from his desk and headed over to the peephole. It showed a distorted vision of the little old lady from down the hall, Mrs. Marquis. Hugh frowned, scrubbed the growth of his beard, and ran his hands through his hair. He glanced down at his grey sweats and bare feet. Not the best time for company, but he shrugged and opened the door.
He smiled apologetically at the woman. “How can I help you?”
Mrs. Marquis’ hair was dyed a platinum blonde. In tight curls, it stood out about an inch from her head in every direction. Square, silver-framed glasses covered her bright blue eyes. “Mr. Harris. I’m so glad you’re home. Listen, could you give me a hand with something?”
Hugh looked down at his bare feet again, and said, “Umm, sure. Give me just a minute. Would you like to come in?”
Mrs. Marquis smiled and peered into the room past Hugh. “I don’t know that it would be appropriate. Me, a widow and you, a bachelor and all…no need to set the apartment building aflame with scandal.”
The twinkle in her eye was enough to make him blush. “Let me get my shoes.” Just as he began to push his door shut, Tiger leapt through the crack.
The cat had just started down the hall when Mrs. Marquis scooped him up and scratched him behind the ears. “There’s a good kitty. Did you want to come out and keep me company?” She winked at Hugh.
He shook his head. He knew the cat’s only intention was to prove he could escape and nothing else. But since closing the door had been only to keep Tiger in, he pulled it open wide and reached for his Converse sneakers. “What do you need help with, Mrs. Marquis?
“Oh, I need to get something of Carl’s from the top shelf of my closet. It’s too high up. I can’t reach it.”
He slipped on the shoes and stuffed the laces into the high tops. When he stood again and came to the door, Mrs. Marquis held Tiger out for him.
“Here you go.”
The lady’s eyes seemed slightly saddened to let the cat go. Part of Hugh wondered if she’d like to keep the cat, but with the food shortages, the last thing she needed was to take care of more than herself, right? He took Tiger from her hands, tossed him lightly onto the couch, and closed the apartment door.
Mrs. Marquis led him down the hall. “Now, I would have asked Mr. Dunn to do it, but he can be such a busy body at times that I feared he’d let the whole building know about the favor.”
Hugh shook his head behind her back and waited for her to unlock her apartment. She opened it and stepped in, leaving the door standing open for him. He couldn’t help but ask, “Why, madam, is it inappropriate for you to come into my apartment but it’s okay for me to enter yours?”
She spun around and smiled at him playfully. “Because, Mr. Harris, in this situation, you are but a gentleman helping the little old lady reach a high shelf. In the other, I would be the cougar entering the bachelor’s pad.”
He shouldn’t have asked.
The small apartment had the same floor plan as his own but twice the furnishings. The diverse mixture of hardwood antiques and bamboo patio furniture paid homage to the old woman’s eclectic personality. She led him toward the hallway closet and opened the door. Each shelf held a colorful array of towels and linens. “It’s just up on the top shelf there, behind the quilt.”
“What is it I’m getting for you?” Hugh asked, pulling the colorful patchwork coverlet down.
“That black box right there,” she said, pointing at the plastic case just visible at the back of the shelf.
He pulled it from the shelf and handed it to Mrs. Marquis. “Here you go.”
“Thanks.” She set the box gingerly on the table and rolled the lock to the numbers 1-2-3-4.
Not the most secure of combinations. He couldn’t help but watch over the woman’s shoulder as she revealed the contents. Within the box lay a silver 1873 Colt .45 Army revolver. Hugh swallowed hard and rubbed the back of his neck. “Ma’am, I really hope you’re not planning to use that thing. I know things are getting dangerous out there, but do we really need to resort to this yet?”
She turned and flashed him a brilliant smile of unnaturally straight teeth. “Of course not, dear, but I’m, also, no idiot. Carl would have wanted me to be prepared for any possibility, and I intend to do as he says.”
“I can understand that.” He shifted uncomfortably and wondered if her eyesight was well enough to prove her a good shot.
She pulled the silver gun out by the pearl inlaid handle and spun the cylinder with confidence.
Hugh cracked a smile. Mrs. Marquis was full of surprises, as usual.
***
Jennie
Mickey yawned so big, Jennie was glad a fly didn’t make its way in. He rubbed his eyes and continued to look out the gauze curtain with her. They were two sentries waiting for the return of their father. But now, she looked at her brother with worry. “Do you want to take a nap?”
He shook his head and yawned again, trying to keep his mouth shut.
“I don’t know about you, but I could use a nap,” she said, stretching her arms out and feigning a yawn. “I haven’t slept well in days. Those pews sure weren’t very comfy.”
“Yeah, me too,” he finally admitted, and his eyes drooped.
“Tell ya what, I bet Dad won’t mind if we go lie down on his and Mom’s bed. What do you say?”
“Okay, if you’re going to lay down with me.”
“Of course.” She smiled, and started up the stairs.
“I hope Daddy comes home soon.”
“Me, too.”
“I’m hungry.”
“I know, but we’ve got to wait for Daddy, right?”
“Right.”
At the top of the stairs, Mickey headed directly for their parents’ bedroom, picking up a little jog and throwing his body on top of the bed. Jennie did the same, and it brought the giggles out of both of them. They snuggled under the white coverlet, fully clothed.
The moment his eyes were shut, Mickey’s breath evened out, and his mouth dropped open in a gentle snore. While she lay in her mother’s bed, surrounded by the smells of her soaps and shampoos, Jennie felt comforted and suddenly sad. Tears spilled over both of her temples landing in the crooks of her ears, as she looked at the ceiling. What if she never saw her mom again?
Embraced in the memory-foam mattress, her muscles loosened and relaxed. If she didn’t get out of the bed soon, she would fall asleep. She needed to be ready to help her dad when he returned. There used to be a commercial on TV for her parent’s mattress, where a woman jumped up and down on the bed next to a glass of red wine. The claim was that a sleeper would not be disturbed as his or her partner left the bed. As she slipped slowly out of the coverlet, she hoped the claim was true this time.
“Jennie!” Her father knocked on the door, with the sound of panic in his voice that traveled up to the second floor.
“I’m coming!” she yelled, the moment she reached the stairs. She hated to think the pounding might wake Mickey up. Considering she’d been checking the window every two minutes for the minivan, it was Murphy’s Law that he would show up the moment she was upstairs and no longer standing sentry for him.
When she got to the door, she pulled the deadbolt open and yanked the door. Her father was drooped, holding his thigh, and sweat beaded on his forehead. The look in his wide eyes made Jennie choke back a scream.
Her father had been bitten.
CHAPTER TEN
Jennie
THE sobs spilled out as Jennie panicked. “Dad, no...no…don’t tell me that you—”
His face was as gray as his eyes. He nodded and stated the obvious. “Yes, I’ve been attacked.”
She wanted to scream in her pain. Why was this happening to her? She needed her father, and if her mother was gone, too… “What am I supposed to do?”
“Listen.” He grabbed her chin and raised it. He shoved the black shotgun in her hands. “I need you to take this.”
She shook her head. He was only a blur through her teary vision.
“Yes, Jennie. You need to take care of your brother. I know I don’t have long. I was bitten about fifteen minutes ago.” His leg was wrapped with his jacket. “You know we don’t have much time, right?”
Jennie nodded, not able to think. Panic.
“Go next door to the Cassels. They must have food and maybe even a way to get you and Mickey to one of the bases. The minivan ran out of gas just before I turned into the neighborhood.”
The car, too? No food, no car, and no parents? How was she supposed to survive? How was she supposed to take care of Mickey?
“Where’s your brother?”
“He’s upstairs. I put him in your bed for a nap.”
Dad leaned hard against the door and closed his eyes. “I’m so tired, Jennie. I’ve never felt so tired and weak in my whole life. All my joints are aching. I wonder if this is how your mother felt. It’s almost like I can feel my life draining out of this wound in my leg.”
“Don’t talk like that.”
He opened his eyes and met hers. “It’s the truth, Jennie. There’s no point in sugar-coating it. I figure I’ve got about forty-five minutes before I become one of them. You need to hurry next door with Mickey.”
An order, something to do. It was just what she needed to get her feet moving. Even though the floorboards felt more like molasses than wood, she pushed herself up the stairs as fast as she could. Mickey had kicked off his blanket, his chubby cheeks red from the heat in the upstairs room.
“Mickey, we’ve got to go.”
His eyelids cracked open a sliver and then closed again.
“Come on. We’ve got to go.”
He shook his head and grabbed to pull the blanket over himself.
“I’m serious, Mickey,” she demanded, as she pulled him to a sitting position.
Like a jellyfish, his body couldn’t hold the position and wilted back into the mattress. She pulled him up again, and this time, slung his limp body over her shoulder. He didn’t weigh much more than some of the backpacks she’d carried in school. She could handle this.
Going down the stairs with the extra baggage was difficult, but not impossible, if she kept her weight back on her heels. She gripped the rail as she went, concentrating on placing one foot after the other. Her father sat in the foyer with his back against the large, white front door. He opened his eyes when they hit the bottom step.
“Good.” He pulled on the door handle to rise up weakly. His eyes filled with tears, and he pulled her in a one-armed hug and kissed both their foreheads. Then he closed his eyes and pushed her away gently. “I love you both. Now, hurry.”
The front yard to her house had never seemed as large as when she made the long trek around the side fence to the neighbor’s yard. Her breath came out in gasps while she started up the three steps to the porch. She stopped for a moment to catch her breath and adjust her brother’s unmoving body to the other shoulder.
Under her feet the mat said welcome. She stepped up to the green front door of the Cassel’s house and gripped the brass knocker. After giving it three raps, she waited. Her eyes darted in all directions, ears alert for wailing or rumbling. After a minute, and no answer, she rapped on the brass knocker again.
Inside, someone shuffled, and the curtain to the side of the window moved. Mrs. Cassel looked out and quickly replaced the curtain. Jennie waited a reasonable moment for her to open the door, but after almost three minutes, the door never moved.
“Mrs. Cassel?” Jennie’s voice shook as her whole body shivered with the terror of the realization that Mrs. C was not going to open the door.
No answer.
Gripping the knocker, Jennie rapped again and called out, “Mrs. Cassel?”
No answer.
Mickey stirred in her arms, his sleep disturbed by her voice. On the edge of her hearing, a wail began, and Jennie panicked. She beat on the door with her fist. “Mrs. Cassel, please open the door! One of the wailers is coming. I hear him. Please open the door! My father’s been bitten. We have no food. I need help! Please!”
She waited another full three minutes. The door did not budge, the curtain did not move, the Cassels did not respond. The wailing continued to grow louder, as the attack victim approached. She needed to move if she didn’t want to be spotted. Unshed tears blurred her vision.
The wind picked up and whipped the flyaways of her hair around her neck. Her brother’s gentle breath warmed her shoulder. She shivered and rushed back toward her house. Her father stood in the doorway with a worried expression on his face. “What’s going on?”
“They wouldn’t answer the door.” Her voice cracked, and the words spilled out with her tears. “I saw them, Dad. Mrs. Cassel moved the curtain. I yelled and pounded on the door, but still they didn’t come. They don’t care, Dad. Why don’t they care?”
Dad narrowed his eyes at the house, his hands gripping the barrel of his shotgun. “I’ll bet they’re the ones who broke into our house and stole the food.”
Her eyes widened in disbelief. “Would they really do that?”
“Desperate times, Jennie.” He shouldered his gun and headed next door. “I’ll go see if I can’t get them to make a change.”
“Dad, there’s a wailer.”
“A what? Oh, you mean another victim.” His eyes turned suddenly sad. “It’s not like I need to worry about that now. But you two head inside, I’ll be back in a minute.”
“You’re not going to shoot them are you?” Her eyes glued to the black shotgun in his hands.
He looked at the weapon and smiled at her. “Of course I’m not.”
Relieved, she headed inside and put her brother on the couch. Her arms ached from holding him. His long brown eyelashes curled against his chubby cheeks. Her shoulder was wet on the jacket in a spot where he drooled. “Thanks a lot, kiddo.” She grabbed the throw blanket that sat on the top of the couch and pulled it up to his chin.
Her stomach growled. She hadn’t eaten much in the two days since her mom was bitten and hadn’t eaten at all since the night before. Right about now, anything edible would do. She headed back into the kitchen in the hopes that something might have been left behind. She hadn’t checked the refrigerator yet.
