DISEASE: A Zombie Novel (10 page)

“So says you, but I saw what I saw.”

“Since when is my word not good enough for you?”

Lot pauses, keeping her eyes steadily locked on him. They push on his resolve like lead weights and he squirms. “Danny, listen, I’m sorry if you had a connection with this woman but how could I risk—”

“How did my father die?”

“What? Danny, what’s wrong with you tonight?”

“Tell me!” he yells.

Lot looks over her shoulder at Alex. His eyes are open, watching everything. She presses her lips tightly together and shifts her attention back to Danny.

“Your father had ALS. It was tragic. I promised him before he passed that I would care for you as though you were my own son, you know this. You haven’t spoken about him in years, now, tell me what this is all about.”

Danny grinds his teeth. Memories of his father scorch him.
She’s a liar!
“You took away his wheelchair! You took everything away from him, including his son! You wouldn’t let me see him! You locked him away and let him die, alone!”

Lot’s face lights up as though she suddenly understands. “Danny, come here, sit.” She motions to a chair next to her but he ignores her request to sit. “We can talk about this. I can see the death of this boy’s guardian is weighing heavily on you. It’s bringing up memories and emotions from when you lost your father, things you’ve never dealt with.”

Danny looms over her, arms crossed and a scowl on his face. He’s not buying it.

“Your father could no longer use his wheelchair and we, together—him and I,
we
thought it best to spare you the indignities of his final days. He didn’t want his little boy to watch him slowly suffocate to death.”

“Really? Is that
really
what happened? Why would my father trust you to raise me? We only knew you for a few months!”

“Danny—”

“Do you plan to raise the boy? Just like you did me? Is that what you’ll do?
Exactly,
like me?”

“Please Danny, you’re obviously over-tired and emotional. When is the last time you slept? Or washed up? You’re a mess.” Lot flicks her wrist at him. It’s something she’s always done, as long as he can remember, a gesture he’s seen so many times before it’s almost comforting.

One moment in particular grabs at Danny just now: when she brought him to Paris for his tenth birthday. He wanted to know if he dropped a penny from the Eiffel Tower if it would really slice through someone’s head. They sat in a classy French bistro, eating cheese like every good tourist, and she flicked her wrist at him, closing the subject.

He remembers it so well because right after, she let him drink wine for the first time. It was sweet, and warmed his stomach. She allowed him to have a glass then, and a few back in the hotel room, as a birthday present. He’d enjoyed his evening with her that night, very much.

Danny’s cheeks burn and he feels dirty. “How could I be so naïve? I can’t believe I never saw it before! How could I be so dumb? It’s so obvious, everything you did to me—”

Lot slaps him across the face, her fingers matching the slap from Casey’s earlier. He didn’t even see her stand and it shocks him, stems the tide of anger. She’s never struck him before, not once.

“Stop it. You stop it right now! I don’t know what you’re accusing me of, but I won’t have it. I only ever did what was good for you! I did what
you
wanted and I loved you. I cared for you when no one else would. When no one else wanted your pathetic self,
I
protected you from the world! Even when The Plague descended upon us, I made sure you were untouched and safe.

“I’ve risked everything for you, done everything for you, given you everything a boy could possibly need; could possibly want — and this is how you repay me? By coming in here like a crazed lunatic in the middle of the night? Jealous of a child? Shame on you! It’s horrifying how delusional you are! How you twist things for attention! All I ever did was love you, and you throw that back in my face, you ungrateful brat.”

The venom spilling from Lot stings more than the slap. It’s enough to quash every morsel of rebellion Danny had been fostering. Is it true? Had Lot only done what he wanted? Because she loved him so much? Is he really just jealous? Twisting things? Wasn’t it him that wanted her affection? Hadn’t he begged for it so many times after she turned him away. Wouldn’t he gladly accept her affection now, in any form? Isn’t that really what he wants?

Danny staggers back, ashamed, humiliated, he thinks he might vomit. He is disgusted with himself. His world spins as he stands dumbly in the middle of Lot’s bedroom staring down at his feet, paralyzed, once again a browbeaten and powerless child.

“I—I’m sorry,” he doesn’t know what else to say.

Lot stalks across the room and tears open the door. She points crisply into the hallway. “Get out.”

Lot slams the door behind him and locks it. Once he’s gone she leans against it and closes her eyes for a moment. Her jaw locks hard as she thinks about the brazen intrusion. She’s no stranger to conflict, but this is new territory. After a few moments he opens her eyes and breathes. Well, she thinks, the beast has successfully been forced back into his cage, for now.

Lot turns away from the door. In her bed lies Alex, perfectly still, his eyes wide and alert. Lot hopes she’s right, that he understands very little of what’s happening around him.

“Close your eyes honey,” she soothes Alex. Things will be different with this one, she’ll make sure of it. “Go back to sleep.”

***

The solemn right of funeral begins. It’s one of those things that has taken on an even more sacred meaning as the world crumbles. So many people never have the chance to say goodbye to their loved ones. So many people never have closure; never know if their family and friends have survived. So many parents see a child for the last time as that child lumbers forward dangerously, like a deranged dancing bear, spreading disease forth with every step.

It doesn’t matter to anyone that lighting a funeral pyre will draw monstrosities from the unforgiving depths of the forest beyond. That ghastly, ulcered bodies will drag themselves across the field in search of flesh to consume. All that matters is that those who have passed will receive their last rights, that they will be honored, remembered, and that their bodies are gone, never to join the ranks of The Risen. It is a duty and a privilege to attend such an event.

Reverence, however, does not pull the wool over the eyes of those left behind. There is a hardness that has built up around the hearts of those still living, a realism. Regardless of ritual, the protection of the community comes first and foremost.

Heavily armed guards surround a rickety cart being drawn toward the exit. Two bodies wrapped in death shrouds adorn it. No chances will be taken today. Although each body has a head wound, one can never be too careful. If a kill shot is slightly off there is the slim possibility a corpse could reanimate. Precautions are always taken.

The cart is pushed through the small door at the front of the hotel. Grim faces squint against the blinding light of day. It’s still early, not quite noon yet, but the sun is unrelenting. The armed convoy makes its way to the pyre, built about a good distance from the hotel. It will burn for hours while the community watches from inside.

Lot understands just how much the people love their ritual.

More armed guards wait at the pyre, supervised by the ever-present Opie. He is Lot’s eyes and ears at all times. They’ve been building since dawn and although there are many watchful eyes, nervous looks are still tossed toward the forest from time to time. Most of the creatures from the previous night’s terrors have been destroyed, but this is still dangerous work. It’s never possible to tell when, or how many will show up.

Some days it seems as though killing one of The Risen only creates two more, like the heads of the Hydra, they just keep sprouting. Other days it feels like The Plague is lulling. For a long time, out here in the backwoods it had been safe, less of The Risen were around. Now, the population seems to be growing, as though they’ve reached a tipping point and will soon consume the earth itself.

The cart stops before the pyre and the practiced ritual of protection begins. Those with weapons stand guard, forming a circle around those who heave bodies under the baking sun. Pitchforks, knives, bows and arrows, all face outward, ready to take on any intruder. Danny’s rifle scans the field with the muzzle of his rifle, but his mind is elsewhere.

Lost in his own morose thoughts, a tap to the shoulder jolts him from his reverie. He turns his heavy eyes turn and they come to rest on Opie’s pinched face and beady eyes. Opie draws Danny’s attention to a form slowly crossing the field. A group of noisy crows circle above it, attracted by the cadaverous smell, but spooked by the semi-life that miraculously keeps its grip. A few guards murmur concern. “More will follow.”

A large-nosed man that stands next to Danny wipes trickles of sweat from his brow. “It’s possible it doesn’t even notice us.”

Danny wrinkles his face. “Unlikely.” He thrusts his gun toward Opie, motioning to trade it for Opie’s well-sharpened machete. Opie takes the gun from him, but is reluctant to hand over the knife. Danny snaps his fingers impatiently.

Opie raises his eyebrows, rudeness toward him is a new thing. It doesn’t matter though; it won’t have time to mature. Early that morning, he sat down with Lot. She was on edge, something even Opie rarely sees. “It’s time for Danny to go,” she told him. Silently and without fuss. Questions will be asked, but they can’t afford to keep him around anymore.

Opie was surprised. He can’t count how many times he advised Lot be finished with Danny, but she was stubborn. She felt she could control him, and seemed to enjoy the challenge of doing so. She was like a puppeteer with a marionette, but now it appears she is no longer enjoying the show.

He isn’t sure exactly what brought on this sudden change of heart, and he knew enough not to ask, but he has a feeling it has something to do with the boy, Alex. It will be difficult to make Danny disappear, it needs to be handled delicately, but his marching orders were well received.

He should be relieved, happy that their dysfunctional cycle will soon be at an end. The damaged man-child before him will no longer be Opie’s problem and that should have put a smile on his face. Instead, guilt’s gnawing teeth bite ever sharper. After tonight he will no longer be able to tell himself things have worked out for the best for this blond hair blue eyed boy, and Opie isn’t sure he can shoulder the same burden twice. He’s no longer a young man. Perhaps, he thinks, a time will come where he doesn’t have to clean up other people’s messes.

He hands his machete to Danny.
At least he doesn’t have a gun anymore
, Opie thinks.

The grotesque figure staggers across the field. It’s slow and labors to move, but it has a definite sense of purpose. Danny strides away from the pyre. Behind him, one of the guards scrunches his face in annoyance. The creature lumbers forward, a teenage boy, or girl, probably, but who really knows? Grey, mildewed skin clings desperately to muscle. One arm is missing, the end of its shiny clavicle protrudes out as though picked clean by the circling murder overhead.

The corpse hasn’t a shred of clothing; the chest is an open wound, its rotted entrails drag in the dirt, tangled with sticks and other brush. It probably ate until it burst, just like all the rest. Lips, hair, and nose have been lost, but the eyes still remain, lidless and bulging, corneal rips bleeding black, congealed ooze. It sees Danny.

He stops, knife dangling at his side; the corpse is about ten feet away. He waits as it pulls its rot-ridden limbs through the knee-high grass, grinding the remains of its menacing teeth.
Is this all that’s left?
Danny thinks. People like him, and Lot, and that mute kid, and this—
thing
? The entire world has gone to shit. What is everyone fighting so hard for when it’s obvious that God despises his own children?

SIX FEET.

FIVE FEET.

Danny stands tiredly, feeling as though he’s been alive for centuries. He thought he wanted a battle, a release for his anger, but now melancholy rolls over him like an unrelenting tidal bore. After last night’s failed confrontation he spent another night staring at the ceiling blankly until someone came to fetch him.

He joined the pyre building late and no one said a word, afraid of being dressed down by his often cruel temper. He took his place in the guard line, still wearing his wrinkled, bloodstained clothes from yesterday, Casey’s blood. He’s sure Opie will have something to say about that later.

Danny doesn’t even know why he cares if that Casey chick died. He barely knew her. He’s lost count of the number of people who have died around him, why is she any different? Why can’t he just continue on like he had before he met her? And, what does it matter what Lot wants to do with that stupid kid, at least he’s not out here.

FOUR FEET.

THREE FEET.

TWO.

The creature reaches up its remaining, almost skeletal arm. Its maw opens, tongue chewed and gone long ago. Its face is so close Danny can count its ruined teeth.

ONE.

It grasps Danny’s arm with its fingers and leans in for the kill.

SLICE!

Danny hacks the thing’s neck with the machete. His blade unexpectedly lodges in the vertebrae, leaving the creature to writhe at the end of the long knife, trying desperately to find purchase for its greedy teeth.

Danny almost loses his grip on the machete’s handle as he pulls it away from the reeking flesh. He steps back wildly, just in time. The corpse’s jaws wisp by as it lurches forward hungrily. Danny swings his knife, this time the head easily separates from the body, toppling backward. The body collapses, still twitching as its head hits the ground and bounces once. Its jaws gnash and its lidless eyes roll wildly. What’s left of its neck wags like some sort of putrid prehensile tail.

Danny holds the head steady with his boot and slowly pushes the tip of his machete into the creature’s eye. The blade pierces pupil and slides through brain. Black ooze covers it as he drags it back out of the rotten face. Sweating in the oppressive heat, Danny turns to face the funeral pyre. People still work at loading bodies and Opie is walking sternly toward him, clearly unimpressed with Danny, as always.