What We Left Behind, page 10
part #1 of Z is for Zombie Series
The smell of spent gunpowder hangs in the air.
“Did you hit him?” David asks Steve as he edges cautiously toward the shadows with his feeble flashlight.
“He shot the wall,” I say, only realizing how stupid that sounds after the words have left my lips.
Steve and I follow David into the bedroom. There’s no one there.
David steps cautiously around the bed. It’s only then I realize how crazy this is. Both Steve and I are illuminating David’s back with our flashlights. We’re pointing our guns at him. Damn, if we were jumped by Zee, we’d kill David in our panic to fire. I swing my gun up and away to the side. Steve must sense the same stupidity, as he does the same thing and lets out a nervous laugh.
“Shhh,” David says, peering into an adjoining bathroom.
“We’re stupid. We’re so stupid,” I whisper under my breath.
“Shhh,” David repeats.
“What’s stupid?” Steve asks softly, ignoring David.
“Is this what happens in zombie movies?” I ask. “Everyone goes off in one direction and the zombies creep up from behind?”
No sooner have I spoken than Steve wheels around, facing the entrance to the room.
“What about Jane?” I ask. “We left her alone.”
Steve says, “This is worse than the movies. You never leave someone alone.”
“Will you be quiet?” David says, peering into the walk-in closet. His flashlight flickers over a row of clothes hanging on the rack. I’m expecting to see zombie eyes peering back at any moment, almost blending in with the clothing but not quite. Dark, haunting zombie eyes. I can almost convince myself they’re there, just out of sight, hovering on the edge of our vision at the back of the closet.
“Nothing,” David whispers.
Nothing? You haven’t looked, not really, I want to scream. I want to run in there and push the clothing to one side and check every inch of the space, but David pushes past me back into the bedroom.
There’s no one here.
But I saw someone. I know I did.
Steve stands in the doorway, looking out at the landing by the stairs, watching our backs.
David walks up to him, saying, “False alarm,” leaving me feeling even more stupid than stupid.
As we walk out of the room, there’s another flash of lightning. The flash lights up the silhouette of a tree trunk just outside the window. One of the branches has been cut off, leaving a stump reaching just a few feet to one side.
“There’s your zombie,” David says, laughing. He walks across the landing and down the stairs, saying, “See what you can find.”
He means useful things, not zombies.
Steve and I stand on the landing in silence for a moment. We’re facing a small hole in the far wall.
“Good shot,” I say.
Steve laughs. “One of my best.”
Water drips from above, landing in my hair and running down the back of my neck.
“I’ll check the next floor,” Steve says.
“You want a hand?”
“I’ll be fine.”
Yeah, sure, I think, I almost scared you to death. I can’t blame Steve for wanting to go on alone. I feel like a fool. No, I correct myself. I am a fool. I’ve let my imagination run wild.
I can hear David and Jane talking downstairs.
Jane laughs.
I am so embarrassed.
Thunder rumbles overhead. The storm’s getting worse.
Steve disappears out of sight up the stairs.
I walk toward the next bedroom feeling more stupid than scared. This bedroom appears to be the mirror image of the other one, so I’m confident of the layout.
There’s a putrid smell.
My flashlight shines across the bed and catches curtains blowing with the wind. One of the windows is open. Rain comes in, sending a soft spray through the air.
I crouch, checking beneath the queen-size bed. Nothing.
Keeping my back to the wall, I peer slowly into the bathroom. My light reflects off the mirror into the shower stall. Empty.
I back away and over to the walk-in closet. The door is slightly ajar, revealing the pitch-black darkness inside. With the barrel of my gun, I push the door open. The hinges squeak softly, setting my nerves on edge.
A few dresses hang on the rack, but the closet is mostly empty. Something scurries across the floor. My heart races. At a guess, it’s a cockroach or a mouse. I really don’t want to know. It’s not Zee, and that’s all that matters. I can deal with anything less than a zombie.
The curtain lifts, fluttering in the air as the storm rages outside. I close the window and calm descends on the room. The carpet’s damp, but the bed is dry.
There’s a photo on the nightstand. I dust the glass and see a beautiful couple smiling for the camera. They’re frozen in a perfect moment in time. She looks content. He looks proud, but in a good kind of way, as though life is on track and nothing could go wrong. That’s the illusion of life, I guess—that we have some measure of control when we have next to none. We get swept along with the current. I wonder how long ago this photo was taken. Where are they now? Are they still out there somewhere? I hope they are, although I know the odds are against them.
The room is clear. I want to say that to someone as though I’m reporting back on how well I’m doing, but no one cares.
Oh, wait, I’m supposed to be looking for things that are useful. If I wasn’t so crazy-scared of running into Zee in the dark I’d probably notice dozens of things we need. I should go through the drawers in the bathrooms, they’re probably loaded with stuff.
I can hear footsteps on the floor above. That must be Steve. I hope it’s Steve.
A crack of lightning casts a dull blue light through the room for a fraction of a second, allowing me to see details I’d previously missed. A hairbrush sits on an ornate, old-fashioned dresser made from highly polished wood. A small mirror hangs on the wall. There’s a repeating pattern in the aging wallpaper and a cornice running around the edge of the ceiling. As quickly as it came, though, the light is gone. The darkness returns, drawing the life out of the room.
I press on. There will be time for rummaging later. For now, I need to know that we really are alone. I creep back out onto the landing. The problem is, even after clearing a room, I can’t help but feel as though I’ve missed something. I cannot bring myself to turn my back on the darkened doorway even though I know there’s nothing in the shadows.
Floorboards creak as I walk.
The last doorway leads to the master bedroom, which is easily the size of the previous two bedrooms combined. Even in the half-light, I can make out the form of a body lying on the king-size bed. A woman is curled in a fetal position facing away from me. She’s wearing a nightie. Her hair is long and straggly. The stench of death clogs the air.
My heart races.
If there’s one, there could be two. I stand in the doorway, wanting to survey the room. I flash my light around the bedroom, but the light flickers and cuts out, leaving me alone in the darkness. I shake the flashlight, willing the batteries back into life. There are a few soft flashes, giving me false hope before the darkness descends again.
Slowly, I creep into the room with my back against the wall. My gun is trained on the bed, but my eyes are darting from side to side, trying to make out shapes in the inky black shadows. Brief bursts of distant lightning give me a glimpse of the room.
There’s a balcony. The sliding doors are closed but the curtains are open. The tree outside sways with the wind. Shadows dance across the bed, scaring me because it looks as though the body is coming to life.
I reach the bathroom and peer in. Zee could be right in front of me, just inches away in the dark with his menacing, stained teeth bared, ready to attack, and I’d never know it. I shake the flashlight. Nothing.
A crash of thunder immediately overhead causes me to jump. I come within a heartbeat of squeezing the trigger and firing my gun at the innocent bathroom tiles.
Then, a flash of lightning reveals a broken mirror. Dark stains mark dried blood splattered across the floor. A gun rests on the sink. I put down my dead flashlight and pick up the gun. In the darkness, I can feel the position of the safety. I flip the switch and slide the gun into the small of my back.
The walk-in closet is pitch black. There is no way I’m going in there without a flashlight. There could be dozens of zombies in there and I’d never know it except for a deep growl. I almost convince myself there is a low groan from the back of the closet, but I tell myself that it’s just the wind outside. I hope it’s just the wind.
I creep past the body lying on the bed, again keeping my gun trained on the corpse, but this time with my back to the sliding glass doors. I’m frantically trying to make out any movement in the shadows. The tree outside sways with the wind. Shadows dance across the bed. I’m ready to start squeezing off shots just to make sure she’s really dead, but I resist the temptation.
If my flashlight was working, I’d be able to see her facial features, but all I can see are dark strands of hair draped over her face.
The room is clear, apart from the closet and the body lying on the bed. And I’m acutely aware how utterly unprepared I am for life outside the commune. The room is not clear. I creep back to the door, trying not to jump at the shadows. My heart races, pounding in my throat.
Water cascades down the stairs onto the landing.
I catch a glimpse of someone walking past below. I lean over the railing and half whisper, half call out, “David. I found a dead body.”
David walks back into view on the edge of the collapsed rubble. He’s little more than a dark silhouette. Rain drips on the back of my head.
“How do you know it’s dead?”
I don’t, but I don’t have the courage to say that. I shrug my shoulders, unsure if he can see that gesture or not.
“Give it a prod. Kick its leg or something.”
“I’m not touching it,” I reply in a hiss.
“Did you see a bullet hole in the forehead? Any skull injuries?”
“No,” I reply in a whisper.
“Check again. Oh, and whatever you do, don’t turn your back on it.”
My eyes go wide as I realize the open door is about four feet behind me and a foot or so to my left, just out of sight.
A floorboard creaks behind me.
I freeze, standing as still as a statue. The hair on my arms stands on end. My legs begin to shake involuntarily. I’m about to pee. My heart is pounding its way out of my chest. I try to stand still. I’m trying to keep my trembling hands under control as I’m in danger of dropping the gun to the floor below. My teeth chatter.
Another floorboard creaks, only it is a long, slow creak that sounds like a groan.
It’s cold, but I’m sweating.
Water drips down from above.
I’m going to die.
Zee is stalking his prey, waiting until he’s close enough to pounce.
I spin around, keeping myself against the railing.
A dark figure looms in front of me.
I bring my gun up, holding it with both hands, wanting to aim for the center of his forehead, but Zee is too close. He bats my hand away.
The gun fires.
I miss.
My fingers are wet. With the recoil, I lose my grip on the gun and it falls over the balustrade. It clatters on the marble floor below.
“No!” I scream as dark hands grab my shoulders.
Zee lurches out of the darkness. His fingers are firm, holding my shoulders rigid.
His fingers? Wait, the zombie on the bed was a she. I’m confused. I try to grab the second gun tucked beneath my belt when Steve says, “Hey. You need to be more careful where you point your gun.”
“Steve?”
I blink, struggling to make out his face in the dark.
“It’s okay. It’s me.”
I hit Steve on his chest, pounding on him with my fists as I cry out, “Don’t do that! Don’t sneak up on me. I could have killed you!”
“Sorry,” he says. “I didn’t want to scare you.”
David comes bounding up the stairs in response to the gunshot. He shines his flashlight on us, saying, “Will you two quit goofing around?”
I want to scream at him, but I refrain and point at the master bedroom.
“There’s a dead woman—in there.”
This time I’m sure it’s not some fear-induced hallucination. I saw her lying there.
Steve and David walk into the master bedroom. They’ve both got their guns and flashlights trained on the woman. She doesn’t move.
“If she’s a zombie,” David quips, “she’s deaf.”
That’s not funny.
I have nothing to say.
This is serious.
David moves around the bed while keeping a wary eye on the closet. He flashes his light into the pitch-black room. Clothes lay strewn on the ground, torn from their hangers.
I follow David. He walks around in front of the woman. He hands me his flashlight and I keep the light on her face as he leans forward. Slowly, gingerly, he reaches out with one hand and sweeps her hair away. There, in the center of her forehead, is a single hole from a small caliber bullet.
I sigh with relief.
There’s no blood on the pillow or the sheets. She must have been shot in the bathroom and placed here afterwards. Someone cared about her, even after she turned.
“Dead,” he says, like I need some kind of official pronouncement. I’m not stupid. I can see the bullet hole, but given the shenanigans of the last few minutes, I understand why he said that. David slips his gun into his holster.
“OK, help me with her,” he says.
“Help you?”
“Yeah, we’re sleeping here tonight. We might as well be comfortable.”
David wraps her in the bed sheet. He opens the sliding door and grabs one end as I grab the other. Steve keeps his flashlight on us, but I’d rather he was the one hauling the body. David and I carry her out on the balcony and unceremoniously dump her over the edge. She falls to the ground with a thud. She may be a dead zombie but it feels like we’re being cruel to a person.
Part of a gutter and downspout on the far end of the balcony have come away and rainwater pours onto the floor, spraying us with a fine mist.
We go back inside and David asks, “Did you find anything useful?”
“Camping equipment,” Steve replies. “An old gas cooker and a gas lantern.”
“I found a gun,” I say, handing David the pistol.
“Awesome,” David says. I’m not sure what type of gun this is, but it’s small, perhaps something a woman would conceal in her purse.
We walk back onto the landing and Steve points at the items he’s piled up on the sideboard below the painting. He had to have made several trips back and forth from the floor above. He must have walked down the stairs while I was leaning over the balcony talking to David. I should have seen him. I was so terrified I only heard what I wanted to hear—Zee creeping up on me. I feel like such a jerk. I could have killed him.
“OK, let’s get this stuff downstairs,” David says enthusiastically.
“I think I’ll rummage around a little more,” I say for a couple of reasons. I feel stupid having reacted the way I did. David was right. The house is empty. I don’t want to be seen as too fearful to be useful or shying away from my responsibility. Besides, I’m more than a little embarrassed. “I’m going to look through the bathroom drawers.”
“Okay,” David says, already walking down the stairs.
“If you need anything,” Steve says.
I smile and wave, but my smile is fake. I’m determined I won’t need anything. I shouldn’t need to be rescued from the monsters of my own imagination.
I walk back into the master bedroom feeling like a fool. The darkness doesn’t scare me any more. I pick up my flashlight from the bathroom sink and turn it on. It works perfectly. Of course it does, I think. The light seems brighter than before.
“Hazel, Hazel, Hazel,” I mutter to myself, realizing how much simpler life is when your rational mind isn’t on vacation. The darkness is dark—nothing more, nothing less, nothing sinister.
With the grace of a herd of water buffalo stampeding through the jungle, I ransack the drawers. There are all the usual things you find in a bathroom—tweezers, a hair straightener, a lint brush, hair ties, clips, cotton balls, and nail polish, but it’s the toothpaste that gets my attention. Toothpaste is a treat.
There’s a full bottle of shampoo in the shower. The towels hanging on the railing are a little musty, but they’re soft to touch.
“Damn it,” I say to the darkness. “I’m going to have a shower and freshen up.”
The darkness doesn’t reply, which is good.
Back in the bedroom, I find fresh underwear, shirts, shorts, and a couple of sweaters in the drawers of a dresser. The clothing is a little baggy, but it’s clean and, surprisingly, the clothes don’t smell bad. I riffle through the drawers and find a small bag of potpourri in the corner. The scent has faded, but it has kept the clothing fresh.
“See,” I say to myself. “This is what we left behind. Decency.”
I close the door to the room, put the clothes out on the bed, and strip down before stepping out onto the balcony with the bottle of shampoo.
There’s a chill in the air, but I don’t care. Goosebumps break out on my skin.
Freezing cold and naked, I step under the shower of rainwater coming from the broken downspout. A torrent of water hits me like it’s spraying out of a fire hose.
This is the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. Actually, no, almost shooting Steve is the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. This barely rates, I decide.
I step to one side and begin rubbing shampoo through my hair. The smell is wonderful: coconut and papaya.
Soapsuds slide over my shoulders and down my skin. I rub my fingers under my armpits, across my belly, down my legs, and then step back into the waterfall cascading from the broken gutter.
The water doesn’t feel as cold anymore. The rain has eased and I can face up into the shower of water, feeling it wash over my body. I stand there for a few minutes, trying to pretend the water’s warm, but it’s not.
