Erik Handy (11 page)

The soldiers shook off their shock and dashed into the rear of the building.

Jacoby grabbed a revolver from the gun cabinet, loaded it, and brought it alongside his neck. He beckoned the quiet children to remain so.

The zombie kept knocking.

Then stopped.

Stepped out of sight.

A soldier came back. "We --"

Jacoby hushed him harshly as if silence would deter the zombie.

Softly and quickly, Jacoby told the soldier, "Get on the radio. Call for reinforcements. Get everybody."

The soldier nodded, then left Jacoby standing in the middle of the room facing the door. To the children, he said, "Go. Hide. Pray."

He chuckled.

"Save me. Save me. Save me."

***

The back office was just a messy room with some broken office chairs, a small stand with an ancient coffee pot atop it, and miscellaneous old and unusable office equipment. All of this was piled against the back door, which was a fine gesture, but the wooden door was not flush with the door frame. Sunlight blasted through those open cracks.

The two soldiers looked at each other, worried.

"He wants us to radio for back-up," one said to the other. "I don't know. He, he's -- something happened out there. Where is everybody? What do we do?"

The other soldier looked at the weak back door and their vain attempt at a barricade. "We get out of here."

"What? What about the constable? And those kids?"

"The constable's lost it and those kids are going to die in this hell anyway. We don't live here. These aren't our people."

This all made sense to them. They were city boys. Out here . . . why should they care?

"Okay," said the questioning soldier. "Let's hurry."

They began to toss the crap out of the way so they could slip out and away from the insanity.

***

The grocer's children stood in the doorway of the inner office. The boy held his sister's hand.

Both were witnessing all that was happening -- Jacoby pacing and looking out the window -- with a detachment of sorts. Witnessing their mother's death took its toll upon their psyches. But yet they were still there for each other. Who else would be? They were alone.

Jacoby's psyche, on the other hand --

SMASH!

A jeep plowed through the office front. Planks of cheap wood splintered inward. Jacoby shielded his face with his hands.

The jeep stopped just over the threshold.

Jacoby stepped back when he made out the figure who was getting out of the vehicle. He grimaced. "The priest."

Nolan was banged up and bruised. His left arm hanged limp at his side. His dirty face could barely contain his simmering rage. It was a face that mirrored Rosalo's at its murderous peak.

This was the moment Nolan waited for since the meeting with the constable the day before. First, he destroyed the man's office. Now --

"You coward," Nolan spat.

Jacoby backstepped. "No," he said. "They were slaughtering us."

"Us?" Nolan countered. "You're still alive. You ran to save yourself."

The constable shook his head vehemently. "No. That's not true."

Nolan closed in on him, ready to beat him to death.

Death. That's what life in this place had come to. No God. No hope.

"How many people have died because you failed to act?" Nolan said. "How many?"

Nolan came closer still.

Jacoby stepped backwards, afraid of this very real menace approaching him.

The zombie Jacoby ran over, the same one who incessantly knocked on the door just minutes before, appeared behind Nolan at the shattered office front.

He ambled over to Nolan.

Nolan had no idea the monster was so close.

Chapter 43

Jacoby finally saw the undead thing.

He raised his gun.

"Quit staring at me," he whispered.

The zombie shoved Nolan out of his way.

The priest fell into the office wreckage, unable to get up right away. He just watched Jacoby start shooting the zombie.

Bullets pelleted the revenant in the chest, drawing no blood, offering no defense. Dust and someone else's blood were the only things knocked off the zombie who advanced closer to the constable.

CLICK.

Jacoby threw his emptied gun at the zombie.

"I am the law," he said. "I am the law."

He turned to run into his inner office, but the grocer's children slammed the door shut and locked it before he could get in.

Jacoby cried out in anguish, in defeat. He tried not to look the monster in the eyes. That was where all of the people he harmed through inaction and corrupted action stared at him from. They were all there.

Nolan watched on as the zombie wrenched Jacoby's head back to sink his black teeth into the constable's neck and throat.

Jacoby's cries turned to bubbly gasps.

The zombie ripped away flesh and arteries, muscle and sinew.

Jacoby tried to collapse, but the zombie held him up by his head. With his head in both hands, the zombie squeezed until Jacoby's skull broke and fragmented into his brain.

Jacoby stopped squirming.

The zombie let go of Jacoby, a dead heap.

The zombie surveyed his handiwork impassively for a moment before turning to leave.

From the ground, Nolan watched the creature walk past him, ignoring him. He couldn't fathom who or what this person was. Or how he's not the only one of these . . . these . . . monsters. But this monster seemed to not be interested in hurting him so Nolan didn't bother to protect himself. Besides he didn't have the strength to.

Once the zombie was outside, the priest managed to get up.

Chapter 44

In the street, Nolan stumbled. He tried to regain his strength, but failed. His energy was spent.

The zombie walked back to the jungle line. His nine brethren were there waiting for him. They looked past him at the town, the few townspeople watching this odd tableau, and the drained priest. The zombies' blank stares were met with fearful gazes that longed for other, more pleasant sights.

Once Jacoby's executioner arrived at the jungle line, he and his fellow resurrected entered the jungle, disappearing from view. Their intense, surreal presences followed them, leaving a vacuum as if they had never existed.

Due to the commotion at the constable's, more townspeople converged in the street near Nolan. Puzzled conversation stoked their uneasiness and speculation. What happened to the soldiers out in the jungle? Why was there a jeep in the constable's office? Who were those pale people who went into the jungle?

Nolan looked around at the people on the street and took it all in -- the squalor, the life trying to thrive here, the people who got in the way of these people's lives. It overwhelmed him, the action in the jungle, in his church a few nights prior, his murdering Rosalo on the road, his aggravation, rage, and fear.

The grocer's children rushed to him. A townswoman joined them. She had little Jean Paul cradled in her arms. The woman was the first person Nolan saw when he reached town. He asked her to keep the child until his confrontation with the constable was complete. He had hoped she understood and she obviously did.

Grateful, Nolan took the baby from her.

The baby giggled. Nolan smiled down at the child in his arms and the children by his side.

The boy and girl had already been tainted by the desperation and evil of this place. But they were still young. They could regain some semblance of innocence, or, at least, not lose anymore right away like every other child in this town.

The baby still had a chance.

Here was Hope.

Nolan smiled.

"Get out."

Nolan turned to the source of the voice.

An old woman.

"Get out."

"Get out."

A middle-aged man with scabs on his lips.

Were they warning him? Or tired of him and his interference? Have they turned on his helping hands?

"Get out."

Another.

Nolan swirled around.

The small crowd began to say the same thing in an ambiguous tone; neither sinister nor pleasant. A disconcerting chant.

Did they blame him for the recent tragedies?

"Get out."

"Get out."

Nolan's mind swished with the sounds of each townsperson's voice.
Get out. Get out. Get out.
What if he didn't leave? Would they hurt him? And the children by his side and in his arms?

Had the madness of the jungle affected them, the townspeople? Had it affected him?

He spun around, in place, and squeezed his eyes shut. The townspeople's chant kept him reeling.

Still spinning, he tilted his head back, eyes now opened, and stared as hard as he could at the blue sky high above.

THE END

And now two bonus stories from Erik Handy . . . .

The Spot

Jesse was sitting on the couch with his arm around his girl when he noticed the spot on the carpet. The living room was dark save for the random flickering of television images. The flickering made the spot appear to move and sometimes pulsate like an amoeba reluctant to grow and split.

Jesse would have gotten up to check out the carpet, but when the thought rose in his brain, the spot seemed to disappear. It was as if the spot was like a mirage, there one moment, gone the next. He would have asked his girl what the spot could be, or maybe if she actually saw the thing, but he didn’t want to ruin her movie watching experience. She was the kind of person who had to be entirely focused on absorbing the story displayed on screen. If something disrupted her, she would clam up for the night and no nookie could be had. So Jesse kept quiet.

The back of the video box described the movie as a “perfect remedy for the summertime blues.” Whatever that meant. Jesse didn’t ponder the video description or the actual movie. He thought about the spot all night.

***

The next morning after his girl got up and left for work, Jesse got dressed and walked over to the TV set. The stain was still there on the carpet. Roughly four inches in diameter, the round spot looked like a simple water stain. Upon further inspection, Jesse found that the round spot wasn’t all that round. The carpet made the spot’s edges appear jagged, like a circular saw blade.

Jesse shrugged and touched it with one brave finger. There was no dampness and the stain didn’t taint Jesse’s finger with a smell or color of any kind. Jesse put his palm over the spot and rubbed deeply. He looked at his hand and saw nothing. Jesse thought that maybe he or his girl spilled some food or drink there. He wracked his brain trying to remember what they ate or drank recently. She might have had grape juice, but he wasn't sure. He couldn't remember buying any.

Jesse went into the kitchen, grabbed a washcloth, and ran it under some cold water. He walked back to the spot and scrubbed it with the cloth. The spot was buried by darker, harmless water stains from the damp cloth. It would take a few minutes before the area would dry.

Jesse spent that time brushing his teeth and showering. When he returned to the spot, he smiled. It was gone.

“Well, one problem down,” he had said quite drolly as he threw the victorious washcloth into the kitchen sink. “Now it’s time to conquer the workplace.”

But he didn’t go into work that day. As he left the kitchen, his eyes, drawn to the battleground of earlier, found the spot had returned, this time a few shades darker as if it was furious at the attempted elimination.

***

Jesse called a carpet cleaning company and by late afternoon a “carpet specialist” -- Jesse had laughed to himself at that -- was busy applying some mystery solution to the spot and running some kind of handheld vacuum machine over the area. The guy told Jesse to let the solution set for twenty-four hours and before he went to work the next day to wipe the area with a damp white cloth. Then the carpet specialist charged Jesse seventy-five dollars -- and Jesse had to do a quarter of the work.

After the carpet specialist left, Jesse looked at the attacked area by the TV and nodded confidently. “Gotcha sucka.”

The next morning as Jesse wiped the area with a damp white cloth, the spot seemed to disappear before his eyes. Before he left for work, he made sure it hadn't reappeared.

However, all day at work, Jesse thought about the strange spot. He imagined it had returned. Larger. Badder.