Darkest Days: A Southern Zombie Tale (20 page)

Bryant noticed the movement and ran to follow. He held the shotgun, ready for action, and leaned in close. “What are we doing?”

Cara smiled as she thought about the wording that he had chosen. “What are
we
doing” signified equality. He acknowledged that she was the originator of this course of action and that he would be the follower this time. She replied, “We are going upstairs to look. That other dead one is not my father, so he could still be around here.”

The boy looked up the flight of stairs, wanting to go first, but the girl had already begun her ascent. Both children strained their ears trying to pick up the minutest sound. Each step upward led them deeper into the darkened second floor. It was not possible to figure out who heard it first, because both of them stopped at the same time. A faint erratic, yet repetitive thump permeated the stillness. Not able to hear the sound from the first floor, Cara guessed that it came from one of the rooms on the second floor or the attic. Anywhere in the hall, the noise should have floated down to them in the living room.

Cara bravely stepped into the hallway at the top of the ascent. Her ears told her that the source of that muffled sound was in one of the rooms in front of her. She moved toward the noise and encountered a closed bedroom door. Hearing the sound growing considerably louder, she was sure that she was heading the right way. Cara looked back at Bryant and pointed at the door. He stepped to one side and pointed the shotgun at the entrance. The girl reached out with her free hand and grasped the doorknob. Her pistol was pointed at the wooden barrier in anticipation of an attack. The door drifted open with a gentle push and nothing inside moved. The pair stared at her parents’ empty bedroom. Cautiously, Cara peeked around the corners of the door-frame and slipped into the room. The barrel wavered in front of her, not knowing from what direction a target would approach.

Two quick thuds sounded against the closet door across the bed from the lovers’ location. The suddenness of it made both of them jump. Bryant raised the shotgun to eye level and pointed it toward the source of the sound again. Cara crept around the bed and extended her hand. This time the pressure weighed heavier as she was sure that whatever she encountered was definitely in the closet in front of her.

Her fingers brushed the brass, just as another collision with the door made her jump back. She shot Bryant an uneasy glance but reached out a second time. She curled her fingers around the knob and pulled the door open. Feet kicked aimlessly a foot above the floor and a noose suspended the body from the top of the closet.

Cara shrieked, falling backward as a solitary, haunting word escaped. “Daddy!”

Bryant looked into its face. The eyes bulged and filled with blood from burst vessels. The tongue rolled about as spit flecked around the mouth. The teeth gnashed cutting into the lips, tongue, or anything else that fell in-between. The hands blindly groped for the nearby victims while the feet kicked forward in a gross parody of walking. That hideous contorted face barely resembled David Creed, yet it was.

After flinging herself away from the hideous parody of her father, Cara landed on the bed and heard the familiar crumple of paper. In a daze, she reached behind her and grabbed the single white and wrinkled letter. A shaky, cursive hand covered the page, which read:

To whoever finds this,

I, David Creed, have taken my own life. I witnessed an attack on my very own wife. I killed the attacker but my wife, upon regaining consciousness, did not recognize me. For some unknown reason, she tried to kill me and I ended her life as well. My poor daughter will have to continue alone. I know that she has strength of character that I do not. I only hope that she can forgive this act of cowardice.

David Creed

Cara buried her face in the sheets and let the letter fall to the floor. This time she did not try to stop the flood. Few people really ever make the distinction between crying and weeping. Of course, the people who never have had occasion to compare the two acts lead blessed lives.

Bryant bent down to pick up the fallen note, keeping the struggling monstrosity in his line of sight. He stood back up and silently read as Cara’s sobs filled the room. When he was done, he carefully folded the letter and slipped it into his pocket. The lover watched, with renewed heartbreak, the tragic girl in front of him. “Both parents in one day” he thought. “And a murder-suicide no less.” The thought was not intended to be callous. Bryant had just gone numb earlier in the evening. His mind functioned but his emotions had fluctuated in strength. The only emotion that he had any certainty of was the love he felt for Cara.

The object of his affection grabbed the sheets bracing herself. She attempted to confront the undead corpse of her father. One glance destroyed her composure. The snarling face barely resembled anything human, much less a beloved family member. She knew that they would have to destroy it, but no matter how little it looked like Dad, she couldn’t imagine shooting it.

When she spoke to Bryant, her voice quivered. “I’m going to leave the room. Will you . . .?” She could not bring herself to even say the words.

Bryant nodded in understanding. Cara briefly smiled to herself. He understood her too well, almost a mind reader at times. She stood and stuck the pistol into the waistband of her jeans, pausing to wipe her eyes with the back of her hand. She sniffled and mouthed the words “Goodbye, Dad”. The hanging beast replied only with more primitive, guttural noises and flailing arms. She brushed the hair from her eyes and walked through the door, disappearing in the shadows outside.

Bryant waited until Cara pulled the door closed behind her and then he drew his pistol. He stepped closer, trying to ensure that it would only take one shot. He aimed at the thrashing head and the creature did something that surprised him. It stopped and looked intently at the barrel of the gun for a brief second and then continued its fight against the rope.

In the hall, Cara leaned back against the wall and closed her eyes; head tilted back as if she were looking at the ceiling. After a moment that stretched on into infinity, a loud crack of a discharging bullet ceased the struggling shell that was her father. Her muscles tensed then relaxed, knowing that any suffering he felt was now over.

***

The pair of lovers walked out the front door and paused looking at the truck. Neither took the first step onto the concrete path to the street. Cara instigated a brisk pace that Bryant followed. When she reached the truck, she turned to face him. The words came out as a confession. “I made some kind of equanimity with my mother and things had started to change between us. I never did with my Dad.”

Bryant reached over and squeezed her shoulder. She turned her moist eyes up at his and asked him a simple question. Her tone was not accusatory, just curious. “Why did you shoot him?”

Bryant seemed taken aback, but recovered with such a simple answer that Cara had no idea how to respond. “You asked me to.” After a brief silence, he felt obligated to add, “Besides, it was the only way to give him peace.” No defensiveness entered his voice.

Cara let out a sound that could be interpreted as a laugh or a cry. Then she raised her hand to her mouth and bit down on her index finger to stifle the terrible noise.

Bryant gave her a questioning look. Suddenly, he did feel defensive. His sincere explanation received a reply of laughter (which was totally inappropriate) or more crying (which vicariously hurt him by causing her pain).

“I’m sorry, I just don’t know how to handle this.” She fought the urge to scream, to lash out, to expel her emotion through some physical manifestation, but she did not. She just reached out and held Bryant’s hand.

He assumed this was his cue to begin soothing her. “I know how it can hurt. I lost my father many years ago, albeit under more normal circumstances. The confusion that you feel is natural.” His mind raced through a million other comforting things to say, but none of them rang true, none of them seemed suitable. Eventually, he opened his mouth and the words that came out held such honesty, he could not keep them contained any longer. “I just don’t want to see you in pain because it feels like I’m dying when I know you’re hurting.”

Cara sprang forward wrapping her arms around him. Deep wracking sobs ripped through her. Bryant stroked her hair as he’d seen men do in movies, but he really did not know what to do. He was unsure of himself as a boyfriend (having never been with a mutually interested girl); he was unsure of his nerve (shaking at the prospect of having to face more creatures). For the next few minutes, he just held her for his own comfort as well as hers.

***

Eric sat beside the young man behind the console. He swallowed, afraid to utter the question that currently plagued him. “Any good news?” He hopefully asked.

The DJ had just returned the phone to the cradle and understood the subtext of the question he was just asked. The bizarre situation that the two survivors suddenly found themselves in wore on the nerves. Any negative news could potentially plunge them into a reckless despair that could kill them both. Luckily, the call just so happened to be hopeful.

Jeremy turned to the doctor, keeping his tone of voice grave. “There are survivors in the First Baptist Church downtown. I’m thinking of abandoning this place to go there. There aren’t many of them, but they’ve fortified the windows and doors. I think some of the survivors from the police station managed to make it there.”

Eric searched his face for traces of belief. For some reason, he did not think Jeremy was excited about the prospect of joining up with other survivors. “Do you really think that we can make it that far? I mean we’ve only got one gun and a few bullets.”

Jeremy seemed to think a moment, then his face brightened considerably. “Sure, they’re afraid of fire. We have a shed behind the station with a whole bunch of crap in it. I know there is a gas can for the lawnmower. We’ll make torches to get to the car.”

“What’ll we make the torches out of?” Eric prodded around the mechanics of his plan.

“Table legs, parts of a desk, the upholstery from that couch in there.” He motioned to the office.

Eric continued testing for flaws. “We can’t keep a lit torch in the car. How will we make it from the car to the church?”

“Are you trying to stump me?” Jeremy looked at him accusingly.

“I just want to make sure I don’t end up dead because I poked my head out the door with a half-thought out plan.” Eric explained in a condescending tone.

“We’ll have the people inside the church to help us get in.” He quickly added, “Plus, we’ll use the gun.” He smiled in a reassuring fashion. “Would it calm you down if I told you I’ve done this before?”

Eric incredulously looked at him and the DJ laughed. “If you don’t have a sense of humor about it, it’s pretty fucking overwhelming.”

Eric paused a moment to ponder. “Well, I know it was a joke, but do you think this has ever happened before?”

“Surely not. We would’ve heard about it. How (in the age of cell phones, internet, and every other electronic device) could something like this be kept hidden?”

“Government cover-up.” Eric quickly said it, but he felt trepidation at the response. His mind quickly seized the idea and raced to rationalize it as the DJ groaned. “No, really, an experimental virus that the government was developing for a bio-weapon . . .”“That’s beyond ridiculous. That’s re-God-damn-diculous.” He paused three times to let each syllable sink in. He flicked strands of his long hair from his eyes and continued. “Why don’t you say that cutting down the rainforest unleashed bacteria which we aren’t resistant to?”

Eric added, “No, no, no. Maybe, it’s aliens shooting beams at Earth or something.” The doctor noticed that both men were laughing. The sensation felt good. Oxygen filled their still living lungs, and for a brief moment, they felt relief.

Still laughing, though not as hard, Jeremy spoke. “We’re going to die, aren’t we?” Some of the levity left him which each word he spoke.

Eric immediately sobered up. “I think we can make it if they are really, really afraid of fire.”

Jeremy stood up and walked toward the door leading into the hall. “Well, let’s meet our destinies.”

***

Mark Willis, under the care of Martin Davis, hobbled down the catwalk of Fayette County High School. Brother Mark limped not because of an injured leg, but due to exhaustion and blood loss. He could simply do nothing but drag his feet in a vague impression of walking. Martin provided support taking a share of the man’s weight onto his shoulders, while Rick strutted (unhindered) several yards ahead, swinging a loaded shotgun and singing the chorus to a country song.

Martin did not want to think about the terrible ideas that came into his head, but could not force them into submission. Maybe they shouldn’t follow Rick. After all, his lackadaisical treatment of a dangerous weapon did not present the image of responsibility. Two people trusted their lives to this singing fool. “Should you be making so much noise?” Martin felt shocked at his own initiative. Passivity came to him naturally in most circumstances, but suddenly he was thinking differently. He thought that the end of the world might do that to people. Lost in his own thoughts, he had forgotten that he had asked Rick a question until the idiot responded.

“Hey, I’ve got a gun, so does everybody else. Those things are slow anyway. If there were fifty, we could shoot a few and outrun the rest.” He stated with inflated bravado. He stopped walking in front of the door and pulled on the handle while simultaneously pushing down on a metal latch with his thumb. Nothing moved. “They locked it.” He looked around to make sure no one else was coming. “We’ll have to break in.” Before his companions could protest, he started walking away.

Martin shook his head in disappointment and led the wounded preacher to the cafeteria windows where Rick peered in. At eight feet tall, the windows made one wall of the room. Martin spoke again, finding strength in the sound of his voice, the voice of reason. “Why are we doing this?”