The Dead & Dying: A Zombie Novel (3 page)

“Josie”, I croaked as I stretched my hand toward her, “Josie, baby, I l.... ”

But then I saw him as well: the boy. I saw the flesh peeling away from his small round face, hints of bone and teeth where lips should have been. And his eyes, glaring at me, challenging me, hating me with every ounce of his being.

“I... I'm sorry.” Tears spill from the corners of my eyes and I wrap my arms around my stomach as if I can somehow hold back the tide of blood flowing from my body. “I'm so, so sorry.”

Funny thing is, if anyone was around to ask, I couldn't really say if I’m talkin’ to Josie... or the boy.

CHAPTER FIVE: JOSIE

When I first met Carl, I was traveling alone. Somehow, the idea had gotten into my head that I should try to make my way across the country, all the way to what used to be California. Maybe I was lured by thoughts of palm trees and beaches; maybe there was still some mythical appeal to this land by the ocean. Or maybe, it was more practical.

Winters are bad enough when you have to strip clothes off the rotters you've killed just to have one extra layer between your skin and the bite of the wind. You think about lighting a fire, of rubbing your hands over the crackling flames and deeply inhaling an aroma that would bring back memories of camping and bubbling marshmallows impaled on a stick. But you know better. A campfire would draw them in from miles around; they would slowly tighten the circle until there was no hope of escape. So you shiver and try to ignore the stench wafting up from the sweatshirt you just pulled over your head: you cope and survive.

But, if that wasn't bad enough, the winter also works against you in other ways. Once the temperature dips below freezing, freshies stave off deterioration much longer. Without decomp breaking down muscle tissue, they can stay fast and cagey almost indefinitely; and even the rotters' slow march toward mulch is put on hold.

Some argue that you can hear them better as they crunch through the icy crust of the snow; and that, if it piles up deeply enough, it slows down the freshies enough to give you more of a fighting chance. But these idiots have apparently never experienced what an Illinois winter can do to the human body.

You see, the cold can devour you as quickly as one of those damn zombies. It starts with the soft parts of your face, your nose and cheeks, the earlobes and lips....  At first, it almost feels as if your skin is tightening, as if it were trying to pull away from the danger and hide deep within the warm safety of the skull. Undaunted, the wind continues its attack with invisible teeth and soon you begin to feel needles of pain, like tiny pieces of flesh are being stripped away. The pain quickly grows into a burning sensation and you flirt with the idea of rubbing snow across your skin to find a modicum of comfort. After a while, however, it recedes and there is only numbness; at this point, you know these parts of your face have been totally devoured and no longer exist. The cycle then starts over then as the cold begins to feast on your toes and fingers, its hunger insatiable....

It had been nearly two hours since I'd left my last shelter and, as these thoughts went through my head, I began to wonder if I'd made a mistake. With its single point of entrance and exit, the old silo hadn't been exactly the safest of strongholds; but it did provide a screen from the wind and a place where I could stretch out free of snow. But, as I laid there listening to the little pops and creaks of the metal, I began imaging a veritable army of corpses tightening around the outside of my resting place.

I could picture them trudging through the snow, their numbers growing with each passing moment, coming closer... and closer... ever closer.

What at first had seemed like a cavernous room now began to feel as dark and constricting as a coffin. It was almost as if I could feel the walls pressing in and the air suddenly seemed thin and dry, making each breath an act of sheer will power.

That screech echoing through the darkness: was that a wire raking against the outside of the silo? Or broken and jagged fingernails scratching against the metal, desperately searching for purchase?

My heart pounded in my chest and I clutched my tire iron closer to me, the metal warm and slick in my moist palms.

“Damn it, girl, you had to go and drop the gun didn't you? Shit.... ”

I pictured the shotgun, laying at the bottom of what could have either been a very large stream or an extremely small river. Probably trapped beneath ice by then, the way the temperature had been dropping. And I knew exactly how it felt: cold, isolated, and useless.

Something clanged against the outside of my shelter, the sound causing a queasy warmth to spread through my stomach. I held my breath and listened for it to repeat, for even the smallest ting or pop.

“Girl, you need to get up and get your ass out of here. You want to die in this place?”

The voice in my head sounded reasonable, but I laid there for several minutes with images of rotting flesh and gnashing teeth looping through my mind.

Could I really bring myself to kill them if I had to? And how many were out there? Just one? Ten?

“Be a whole lot more if you don't get your ass moving.”

I stood and walked to the entrance of the silo, holding the cold metal lever in one hand with the tire iron raised above my head in the other. Waiting. Listening.

My heart pounded in my chest and I could feel beads of sweat forming on my brow.

Another scraping sound, so soft that it could have been nothing more than a twig swaying in the wind.

But was it really?

Fuck this
.

I threw open the door and my head instinctively whipped back as I winced in pain. Tears streamed from the corner of my eyes and I backed away, swinging the tire iron wildly before me.

When the door was flung open sunlight had flooded into the previously darkened silo. Intensified by the reflective blanket of snow, I found myself blind. Vulnerable. And trapped.

There was a sound in the doorway. A soft crunching that could only be feet breaking through icy crust. At the same time, a stench wafted in, a smell that reminded me of coming back from spring break only to find we had left steaks sitting on the counter in our dorm room.

I continued backing away, swinging the tire iron at what I imagined to be head level; trying to blink away the flashbulb-like explosions that obscured my vision.

But, inside, I knew that it was pointless. The little voice that had urged me to leave while I still had the chance now whispered with quiet certainty:

“Girl, you're going to die in this place.”

CHAPTER SIX: THE CHILD

He saw me, I know he did, I could tell by the look on his face. I knew he was just tryin' to ignore me and that he had to be able to see and hear me all along. I just knew it. And he can keep tryin' to pretend he doesn't but I know he can now so it won't do him no good. I'll keep yellin' and kickin' and hittin' and every time it looks like he might be ready to pass out or something I'll make sure he wakes back up. He has to feel every little bit of the pain, has to suffer every minute 'til he dies. If Mr. Boots was here, I'd say
sic 'em boy, go get 'em
and I know he would 'cause Mommy always said Mr. Boots was my protector and would do anything to keep me safe.

If Mr. Boots had been there that day in the creek, I know things woulda turned out different. He wouldn't have let that man point the gun at me and Mommy. I know he wouldn't.

When he said he was gonna shoot us if we didn't say somethin', I started tryin' to talk but it was like my brain had forgot how to make words. There was kind of this feeling in my throat like maybe I had tried to swallow something a little too big and my belly felt all warm and sick.

Mommy jumped in front of me and threw up her hands.

“Don't, please, for God's sake, no.”

The man looked like he was glad Mommy had said something, like maybe he really didn't want to shoot us after all. But now I think that it was all just an act.

So the man said his name was Carl and he said there were a bunch of those things headin' our way and we'd best be movin' on if we knew what was good for us. Then he asked if he had any weapons or anything.

Mommy told him we didn't, that it was just her and me and she didn't understand what was going on and just wanted to keep me safe and was trying to make her way to my Grandpa's farm. She started crying again and it was real hard to understand what she was saying after that.

Mr. Carl kept lookin' over his shoulder the entire time and he kinda bounced from one foot to the other like he had to pee real bad. But he listened to everything Mommy was saying and for a minute it looked like he was about to cry too.

“You two better come with me.” he ended up sayin'. “You won't last long out here without any weapons or nothin'.”

So Mommy scooped me up in her arms and waded out of the creek, but the man looked at me and kinda frowned. He told Mommy that those things were really fast and if she was gonna carry me the whole way she better be darn sure it would be quicker than me runnin' alongside. He said those things didn't care if I was a kid or the King of England... that they would snatch me up the minute they had a chance.

When he was saying all this, I just wanted to lay my head on Mommy's shoulder and cry. Maybe if I cried long and hard enough I would wake up like I sometimes do and find out this was all nothin' more than just a bad dream. But there was another part of me that told me to be a big boy, so I blinked really fast and held my breath until I didn't feel like I had to cry anymore.

The rest of the day we spent wanderin' through the woods. Sometimes Carl would tell us to wait by a tree or a rock while he went to take a look up ahead. And he would always say that if he wasn't back in ten minutes then we just needed to run and keep on runnin' and not worry 'bout what had happened to him. And sometimes, when we were waiting for him, we would hear gunshots and Mommy would try to cover my ears but it was already too late.

It was after one of these times that he came back with blood all over his clothes and that was probably the only time I ever saw him cry. He just kinda plopped down in the grass and held his head in his hands like he had a headache or somethin'. But Mommy knew right away something more was wrong with him, just like she does with me.

“Carl,” she said, “what's wrong? What happened?”

He looked up at us and his eyes were all watery and it was weird but his face somehow looked longer than it had before. He opened his mouth like he was about to say somethin' but instead he made these noises almost like he was chokin'. And then his entire body started shakin' and he started cryin' just as hard as if he'd just seen his favorite puppy get run over by a truck.

Mommy went over and crouched down beside him and started rubbin' her hand across his back like she does when I'm sick. She was whisperin' to him, but I was far enough away that I couldn't really hear her very good. And Carl just kept sayin' over and over again, “It ain't right. It just ain't right.”

So I was just kinda lookin' around, not really knowin' what to do, and I heard this rustlin' in the bushes. I remember thinkin' that maybe it was a deer and I got a little excited 'cause I'd always wanted to see a real live deer and never had.

I turned around to ask Mommy if I could go look at the deer, but she was holding Carl now and his head was buried in her shoulder as she rocked back and forth, pettin' his hair and still whispering to him. So I thought she wouldn't mind, not so long as I stayed where she could see me.

I walked over to the bushes as quiet as I could and had almost made it there when the branches started shakin' and rattlin'. I stopped in my tracks and held my breath and watched the leaves as they moved and for the first time I started getting' a little afraid.

What if it weren't a deer in there at all? What if it was a monster? The bushes were big enough that two or three of 'em could probably fit in there and I wouldn't ever know.

I bit my lip and kept watchin' the bush, but by now the shakin' had stopped. I tried to listen real hard. To see if I could hear any monster noises.

“They don't make no noise.” part of me thought. “Remember? They don't growl or nothing.”

My heart had started beatin' really hard and I wanted to turn around and run back to where Mommy and Carl was. But I was afraid. Afraid that if I turned my back the monsters would leap out like a jungle cat.

I thought about yellin' for help, but what if it wasn't a monster at all? What if it was just a rabbit or squirrel or somethin'? I had been tryin' real hard to make Mommy think I wasn't afraid or nothin' because I wanted her to be so proud of me.

And besides, I remembered how fast those things were when they were chasin' us through the house. What if I screamed for help and they jumped out at me? They would have me before Mr. Carl would even be able to pick up his gun.

The bushes rattled again and I knew that whatever was in there wasn't no rabbit. Anything that could make them shake like that had to be big.

I felt like I was about to throw up and I wished I never woulda walked over to where I was. I shoulda stayed by Mommy and Mr. Carl, stayed where I knew it was safe.

My whole body had started shakin', just like those bushes, but I couldn't take my eyes off of them.

Because I knew.

I knew there was a monster in there.

I knew it was waiting for me to make one wrong move.

Waiting to pounce.

CHAPTER SEVEN: CARL

The boy. Sometimes I still wake up in a sweat, his voice echoing through my head like a ghost trapped somewhere between the realm of sleep and reality. And the image of him from the nightmare lingers on for a moment: usually he's crying but sometimes he's just standing there staring at me; his eyes as hard and cold as two pieces of coal, his teeth clenched in anger, radiating accusations without actually voicing the words.

You killed my mother....

Looking back, I'm sure he hated me and, to be perfectly honest, he had every right to.