Among the Living (25 page)

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Out in the night, people are still streaming out of the club. Several stragglers across the street wander slowly as if confused. Grinder knows all too well what that look means. They have already turned; hell, the whole city is bound to go before the night is over.

He gets to the tour bus and pounds on it. Three fans wearing expensive hockey shirts with the band’s name emblazoned on them stream past Grinder as if they don’t see him. Each has blood on him, and they all look terrified as they run past the lead singer of their favorite band.

“HEY!” Grinder calls out.

They stop and stare at him for a second before recognition dawns. They approach slowly as if he is one of the creatures. He smiles a wicked grin full of evil intent and beckons to them. Before any of them can speak, he drops the grin, gives his best badass metal face and grunts, “We are the chosen. Take back the night. Go forth and kill, my children. Kill the infected.” And with that, he turns and pounds on the tour bus door.

The driver recognizes him and opens the door. Marcos doesn’t speak; he just reaches for the lever that closes the door to the bus, but before he can shoot it closed, he yells out, “Come on, Sid, we are getting the fuck out of town.”

“No, Marcos, WAIT!” But it is too late. Sid staggers onto the bus. Grinder backs up the aisle, suddenly unsure. Maybe Sid wasn’t as dead as he thought. He is, however, covered in blood; his hair is matted and stringy with gore. Sid’s eyes are bright red, the pupils nearly obscured by the blood.

Eric hops up from the little chair at the two-seat table where he has been hitting the bottle of Jack. He looks like he wants to hug Sid, even offers him the bottle like he is a returning hero.

“Oh Sid, man, I heard you were dead.” Grinder tries to yell a warning. His eyes are wide, his mouth open in a great big O.

Sid moves fast. He grabs the proffered arm and instead of taking the bottle, he bites into Eric’s forearm and tears off a hunk of meat. Eric screams in shock and drops the booze. It clatters to the metal floor and rolls over and over, spilling alcohol. Sid latches onto Eric, and they fall together in a tangle. Sid’s head dives in and takes a chunk of Eric’s cheek with his next bite.

This is not fucking good. He can’t be trapped here with these things. He needs to get off the bus so he can spread the word to the faithful, not to mention the fact that he has no desire to die just now. Eric withers beneath the assault, and instead of standing aside, Grinder steps up and starts pounding on Sid’s back. He grabs the man’s long hair and tries to drag him off poor Eric. But Sid has a death grip and is eating the drummer alive.

Eric howls in pain as blood spurts in every direction. Sid is drenched in the stuff, and it starts to sicken Grinder, so he lets go and rubs his hand on his pants. Then he looks down to see the red smeared on his clothes, and he wants to scream.

Wil and Marcos have joined Grinder, but they stand behind him in the tiny space, unsure what to do. The bus driver jumps up suddenly and hauls Sid off by his legs. Eric thrashes on the floor, hands against his neck as he tries to contain enough blood to stay alive. The effort seems futile. Blood pours from his body at a terrible rate, and Grinder doesn’t think he can last much longer.

Sid turns over and comes to his feet. Grinder sees the move, and it isn’t like before, when he was moving as slowly as a drunk. He comes up fast and latches onto the bus driver, chomping at his shoulder through the driver’s thick shirt. The driver goes crazy, punching and kicking Sid, but to no avail. Sid’s grip is unshakeable as he tears through the fabric and rends the man’s skin.

The small aisle is completely blocked; there is no way to get past the two. Wil steps right over Eric, who is staring at nothing as the blood flow slows. His legs kick as the bus driver and Sid dance around in their deadly struggle.

“What the fuck is wrong with Sid, man?” Wil screams as he tries to pry Sid off the bus driver. Sid’s teeth hold fast.

“It’s all wrong, man. They’re already dead. It’s all wrong,” Grinder mumbles as he witnesses the carnage. His gaze is fixed on Eric, who is no longer moving except for his eyes, which are blinking very very slowly.

Grinder backs up past Allen, brushes against the sides of the little sleeping areas and then reaches the back of the bus. He stares in horror, in wonder, in dread as Eric dies. There is a last gasp, a bubble of bloody air that escapes his torn throat before his death throes arrive. This is a scene to which Grinder is growing accustomed, a scene he is falling out of love with—quickly.

Eric dies, and they all know it because his bladder lets go, releasing the unmistakable smell of urine. Then a worse sound as Eric shits himself.

Allen is down on his knees beside Eric when he dies. He looks up at Grinder, then at Sid and the bus driver who are thrashing it out. The smell of blood is palpable, overwhelming, it mixes with the horror in a way that sends poor Allen over the edge. He turns his head, and vomit erupts in a geyser across the table and chair legs. Grinder is all the way at the back of the bus now, and scared to death. He knows what is about to happen and is powerless to stop it. He can see the scene like a clairvoyant; he can see Eric’s eyes snapping open as the newly dead man reaches up to attack and eat Allen. When the driver is down, it will just be him and his dead bandmates.

As if reading his thoughts, Eric does open his eyes, and a half-scream roars from his mouth in a breathy gasp echoed by a wheeze as air escapes the giant hole in his neck. Then he snaps up and latches onto Wil’s neck and holds on like a dog with a large rope toy. His head whips back and forth and comes away with a mouthful of flesh.

Blood rushes down to spray Eric’s face, and Grinder decides he has had it with this hellish scene. He jumps up onto his bunk, grabs his iPod and his worn notebook with all the unfinished lyrics he has been working on. His leather jacket is next as he whips it onto the floor. The men on the bus are alternating moan and scream, and it is truly something out of a nightmare.

Sid must be done with the bus driver, because he drops him and stares at Eric, who has his hands wrapped around Wil in a death grip. Wil howls as Eric feeds on his face. He snaps at an eye, gets hold of an eyelid and rips it off. Wil kicks and punches, but he is obviously running out of steam as the blows fall weaker and weaker.

The driver is trying to drag himself out of a puddle of blood, shit and vomit. The smell is unbearable. Grinder has an exceptionally strong stomach, but he wants to empty it. He wants to turn his head and give the bus a farewell by projectile vomiting all over it.

Sid turns his blood-filled eyes on him, and Grinder is done with this scene.

He jumps up on Wil’s bunk, which is at the very back of the bus. He lands on the bed, then hunches his body forward and rests his foot on the back window. There is a safety release, but he remembers the bus driver telling them that it wouldn’t work and they would have to use one of the pop-out windows at the front of the bus if they got into trouble.

He rears back his leg and kicks the window as hard as he can. Safety glass explodes outward. He looks back, and Sid is closing the distance. He slides out of the hole and drops the notebook and jacket on the ground. He jams his iPod in his pocket along with his high-end headphones and prepares to join the night.

Blood is caked in Sid’s hair, smeared all over his face, congealing in his eye sockets. Red froth and drool dribble out of his mouth, and there is a piece of skin stuck to the side of his lips. Whose is that? Is that part of Eric or the bus driver? Eric is on his feet, and he has nothing but malice in his empty red eyes, which are set on Grinder.

He takes a quick peek out the window, but there are no others on this side of the bus. He slips his feet out first, then his legs follow. Sid staggers down the walkway with murder in his eyes. At least that’s what it looks like with the amount of gore on his face. Grinder, who loves horror and torture-porn flicks, is convinced he has never witnessed a scene more graphic or disturbing in his life. He slides out just as Sid closes the distance. Eric is right behind him, and Grinder wishes he had a camera to capture this Kodak moment.

“Adios, mother fuckers!” He gives them the finger before he drops to the ground. It is a short drop, just a few feet, and he pulls it off with aplomb and grace. Behind him, Sid pops his head out the window and groans like a fat man passing gas. Grinder turns around as he slips his leather jacket on and offers his middle finger once more before pounding into the night.

Night and I can’t sleep.

She lies next to me in a heap of sheets, the blankets having been pushed to the end of the bed during our lovemaking. I turn on my side and open my eyes to find Erin’s face inches from my own. She sleeps much more quietly than Rita ever did, and I curse myself for comparing the two. I don’t jump into bed with women unless I am in a serious relationship. My mind latches onto that thought. A serious relationship. Am I ready for that?

Rita was another person, another life ago. I should have done it a while back, but I do it now: like letting someone adrift in the sea, I set her free in my mind and wonder what my future might hold with Erin.

The condominium is cool. Her air conditioning unit hums along in the bedroom window. First on, then off, the sound seems to kick in every time I drift off. The city is devoid of the crickets and frogs I usually hear at home, and I find the silence a bit unsettling. Light from the streetlamps paint the condo a hazy shade of dusk and yellow. It only adds to the feeling of gloom. But I lean over and stare at Erin, and I forget all about that.

I could get up and see if she has blinds behind the curtains so I can cut out the light, but I don’t want to wake her.

Erin’s bedroom, much like her living room, is sparse. A single dresser with a rectangular mirror mounted in oak hangs over it. Minimal artwork, a nighttime shot of New York that stretches nearly three feet across one wall. The other has some abstract piece with swirling shapes competing for room on a white background.

She doesn’t snore but sleeps with a contentment I wish I felt. Don’t get me wrong, I am very happy with our lovemaking. In fact, the word ecstatic comes to mind. I worry about other things. Rita. I wonder if it will affect our relationship back at work. If I survive the weekend, that is—she seems intent on draining me dry. I sit up and look at the clock on her side of the bed, and the digital display informs me in big amber numbers that it is just after midnight.

There is a scream from outside, but this is the big city and I’m sure it’s just kids leaving a bar or playing around. Erin rolls over and tugs a blanket up. I stare at her face in the pale light and watch her sleep. A lock of hair falls across her eyebrows, and I use a gentle touch to move it out of the way.

I give up on sleep after another twenty minutes, slip out of the bed and find my boxers. Moving quietly across the wood floor, I go to the living room. My laptop is in my bag, so I take it out and fire it up. It has a built-in wireless broadband card, which I use to get on the web. I make myself at home on her lazy boy, or what passes for one. It has a soft cloth cover in blue that is much more comfortable than any chair I have ever owned. The laptop finishes loading, and I start the wireless service. After about twenty seconds, it shows a connection failed error.

I hit connect again, but I get the same result. She has a computer, but it is a Mac and I am Apple-dumb. I know how to load an iPod, but my knowledge ends there. I close the laptop and set it aside.

Night and I am wide awake.

I should be exhausted after the things we did, but instead I feel wired. I wish Erin would wake up so we can talk, but I will let her sleep. I peruse her bookshelf, which turns up a pretty wide assortment. There are books by Stephen King, Crichton and some large cookbooks. She has a couple of ‘chick lit’ books, something by the author of Sex and the City, or so the cover proclaims. There is even a lone Harry Potter book. I wonder how Andy would have liked those, if he would have grown up to wish he were a boy wizard.

I pull out a book on depression and palm through it. It seems to be commonsense advice, but it makes me wonder why I have never dealt with my own. They gave me drugs after the accident, Zoloft and then something to help me sleep at night called Klonopin. They were fine for a week or two, but I found myself transformed into a drugged-out zombie while Rita refused to take anything except Wild Turkey. Then it was scotch, and then she finally settled on vodka as her food of choice.

“See anything interesting?”

I nearly jump out of my skin. I am in the act of putting the book back like a child caught with my hand in the cookie jar. My face flushes red, and I turn to face her with the book clutched at my side.

She has slipped into a skimpy black nightie that clings to her in the pale light. It plunges deeply around her breasts and barely reaches her thighs. There is lace everywhere, and the night does interesting things to her shape, making her ethereal, unreal. I put the book down and go to her.

“You scared the crap out of me. I didn’t mean to snoop, just couldn’t sleep.”

“I thought as much. It’s always tough to sleep in a new bed, or someone else’s. Not that we got much sleep earlier.” She stretches her arms above her head, which makes the hem of the nightie ride up her hips. I wrap my arms around her waist; she comes up to about my nose, so I lean in and kiss her very deeply. We stand in the room for a while, reacquainting our lips with each other’s, and I feel a stirring below.