DISEASE: A Zombie Novel (17 page)

They’ve only been walking for a short while and Danny’s side throbs unceasingly. Each step allows the gods of the underworld to strum their fiery fingers across every nerve bundle in his body. He stares ahead, his arms bound behind his back, his head swimming in a thick fog of shock. Deer flies bite through his shirt and sucking what blood he has left. A rough prod from behind keeps his feet moving.

Shadows stutter through the trees. It’s hard for Danny to focus; they might not be real. Black whispers. No one else notices; they have their hands full with two gravely injured men. A valiant effort is being made to bring everyone home alive.

Habib drags between Jamal and Thick Marge, barely conscious. He’s the lucky one. Brody and Dennis toil under Rob’s weight, trying to guide him forward as quickly as possible. He whimpers and moans unceasingly. Noises gargle from the hole where his mouth and face used to be. Hamburger. There was discussion of putting Rob out of his misery, but no one was willing to do it. He has to be given a fighting chance.

More shadows. Danny’s sure he sees them now and stops. Arnold jams the muzzle of his gun between his ribs and his face deforms as thick ropes of pain constrict him.

“Get going,” his captor gripes, while looking down at his compass.

Danny feels like a horse leading a cart in a demented sideshow. “This is the place.”

Arnold’s head shoots up and he halts the group.

“Where’s the body?”

“Over there.”

Danny nods toward a bunch of low-lying bushes.

“Where?” Arnold isn’t easily fooled. A creeping anxiety trickles through Danny’s subconscious. He swallows hard, mouth dry, heart pounding, oozing precious blood onto his already saturated shirt. He shivers.

“I’d point for you but you’ve got me tied up. If you’d be kind enough to cut the zip-tie—”

“Shut up.” Arnold approaches the bushes uneasily and peers through the branches, trying to catch a glimpse of the boy’s body through the twigs and thicket.

He cautiously leans closer. A bird shoots out toward the sky with a loud rustle and he jumps back, heart pounding. With a glance back at Danny, who’s unsteady on his feet and barely reacts, Arnold shakes his head thinking they’ll be lucky to get him back to Lot alive. He turns back to the bush.

Someone screams—the high-pitch of pure fear. With a hand on his knife Arnold spins around to see a ghoul clawing at Brody’s leg. Teeth rip through thigh muscle, blood geysers through the air. Skeletal fingers pry deep, scraping bone and Brody collapses, shrieking in terror and pain.

Dennis drops his hold on Rob-hamburger-face and fumbles for his weapon. It slips from his fingers into the mud and he backs away from the ghoul that tears Brody to shreds.

Left alone, Rob panics, running in blind zigzags.

More creatures pour in from the surrounding forest. They lurch for Thick Marge and she whips out her machete. Next to her Jamal lets go of Habib and the semi-conscious man slumps to the ground.

A creature barrels for Arnold. It’s fast, but he sidesteps it. It spins on a dime and goes for him again. He jumps out of the way, tries to get behind it, but where he turns, it turns.

He buries his blade in its decayed sinuses and uses the knife as a handle to control the ghoul’s head, keeping its teeth away. It swings its arms tirelessly, grasping for its prey.

Rob hits Arnold from behind.

The impact sends them both plunging to the ground, the creature going down with them, a tangle of arms and legs. Arnold loses his grip on his knife. Snapping teeth whisper by.

Arnold revolts. He kicks Rob to the side and shoves the creature’s repulsive face and menacing teeth away with his hands. The skin on the ghoul’s face splits and peels like an over-ripe tomato, uncovering decayed muscle. Arnold is left with handfuls of rotten meat.

The creature sinks its teeth deeply into his arm.

Terror sweeps through the group. Creatures grapple mercilessly with the living, never slowed, never tired, never-ending. Danny stands untouched as chaos swirls around him. He backs slowly away from the madness.

The sharp stick of a large-bladed hunting knife pokes him in the back. The point presses almost hard enough to pierce the skin. He stiffens.

“Over my dead body,” Thick Marge growls in his ear and shoves him to his knees. A decayed carcass slams down right in front of Danny, a knife in its eye. Arnold kicks it once, for good measure, and turns to put down another.

Thick Marge plunges her knife through the skull of another ghoul that crawls on the ground. It’s missing a leg, lost somewhere in the skirmish.

Arnold knifes the last creature. He wheezes, trying to catch his breath, trying to subdue panic. Dead bodies litter the surrounding area. All that’s left of Habib and Rob are stains on the ground. They’ve been completely torn to shreds.

Brody isn’t so lucky. He reaches out, begging weakly for help. Great lengths of intestine pool around his body. Half the skin on his scalp and face are missing. The lower half of his body is hanging by threads. There’s no good reason the poor man should still be alive.

Arnold closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. When he opens them Dennis is standing over Brody.

Brody looks up at Dennis, eyes wide, not understanding. “Help me stand up, would you, please?”

Dennis frowns and looks back at Arnold. Arnold nods—it has to be done. Dennis squats and fishes his lost knife out of the mud. Brody reaches up. “Just help me get to my feet man, would ya?”

Dennis holds his friend’s head gently in his lap and draws his knife across Brody’s neck. It’s quick and merciful. Brody’s hand falls to the ground and he is still.

Arnold turns his eyes to his arm. It hurts like a bitch. A huge chunk of flesh is missing. Half of the USMC tattoo on his forearm is gone, the eagle missing its head and half its body. Dismembered wings bleed hot and sticky down the side of the earth still clasped in its talons.

Arnold calmly walks to Thick Marge, stepping around the kneeling Danny, and puts a hand on her shoulder.

“I’m bit, Marge.” The statement falls flatly from his mouth. He can hear his own words, but they don’t sound real. Thick Marge glances at Arnold’s bleeding arm while keeping Danny in her crosshairs. “How long?”

“An hour, maybe two if I’m lucky. Then I’ll turn. Could be less, much less. I doubt longer.”

She nods.

“Jesus,” Jamal chokes.

Arnold feels like something suddenly kick-starts. He crash lands back into his own body, ready to live, ready to fight. His heart races. “I could be immune you know. I’ve heard of that. They say the dead rise because hell is full, but I’m not going to hell. I’m a good man. I could have a chance.”

Thick Marge closes her eyes for just a second and shakes her head. “Javier…”

“No!” he shouts, pounds on his chest. “I have a chance! I am a God-fearing man!”

Jamal crosses his arms, hugging himself. “You’re done for, man. You know that. God has nothing to do with this. Terrorists engineered this bacteria—”

Arnold spins around to face Jamal. He usually tries to keep his emotions in check, to always be level headed, but now he hollers at the other man.

“Shut up. You have no clue what you’re talking about!” Spittle flies from his lips. “There were no terrorists, this—”

“Shouting won’t solve anything,” Dennis inserts himself between the two men and pushes them apart. “All it’ll do is bring more of The Risen straight to us.”

Arnold turns to face Marge. They’ve worked together for almost two years, but she looks away. “Javier, you know how this has to go.”

Jamal hugs himself a little tighter. “Oh God.”

Desperation claws at Arnold’s bowels. “Cut off my arm!”

“What?” cries Thick Marge. They stare at each other.

“Won’t work,” Danny’s cuts in.

Dennis places a foot on Danny’s shoulder and shoves, tipping him back into the mud. “Who the fuck asked ya? Shit-bag.”

“Hurry up. Let’s do it. Cut off my arm.” Arnold frantically rolls up his shirtsleeve. A fine network of red, ultra-thin spider veins already stem from the deep ring of teeth marks. He rips his rope belt off. Loops it around his arm and tightens it with his teeth.

“Okay. Let’s do this,” agrees Thick Marge.

Jamal and Dennis share a surprised glance. Thick Marge grabs her machete and checks the sharpness of the blade. It will do. She points at Dennis. “Watch the prisoner.” Dennis obeys. Danny lies in the muck, too battered to rise.

“Jamal, sit on Javier’s chest. Javier… lie down.”

Arnold drops to the ground, feeling like his chest will explode any second. Jamal sits on top of him.

Thick Marge breathes evenly. She painstakingly lines up her blade with his arm. Down slowly. Up slowly. In a straight line, practicing the blow. She raises it high into the air, ready.

“Wait!” Arnold looks up at Jamal. “You better have a cigarette ready for me when this is over, you always seem to have them, don’t hold out on me now.”

Jamal pulls a gold and green pack of Jack Hatter’s from his breast pocket and shakes it. The three remaining cigarettes in it rattle around. Arnold smiles. “You’ll have to let me in on your secret after this.” Arnold hasn’t smoked in six years, but this is as good of an excuse as any to start again. He reaches out and grabs a stick, bites down on it. His muffled words push around the wood. “Okay. Do it.” He turns his scared, sweating face away.

Thick Marge adjusts her grip on the large knife and takes one more deep breath. With all her might she brings the blade down. Skin splits and bone crunches as it slices through Arnold’s throat, going halfway through his neck. Jamal fires up from his friend’s chest, shocked. “Holy shit!”

Arnold blinks once. Thick Marge brings the blade down again, this time finishing the job. The knife sinks into the wet ground as blood pours from an empty neck. The severed head rolls a few inches away.

Dirt and blood clot Thick Marge’s blade. Complete silence follows her every move as she wipes it clean on the fabric of her pants. Even Danny is shocked. She turns to face her two remaining teammates, prepared for their accusing eyes, but there’s no time for judgment.

Another creature crashes through the brush, gunning for Jamal. Dennis lunges for it, wielding his knife, just as Jamal dodges, unwittingly putting himself in the path of the blade. He stares down at the knife as it penetrates his chest. His eyes are so wide they look as though they could fall from their sockets. Dennis stutters stupidly, his hand falling away from the handle.

Thick Marge’s plunges her machete through the ghoul’s eye and out the back of its skull. The creature falls to the ground. Jamal falls too, his hands fluttering toward the protruding knife. He tries to speak but can’t.

There is surprisingly little blood.

***

Alex waited patiently for hours. He fought off sleep, fought off the ache and burning in his thin muscles, fought through alternating waves of anxiety and boredom. The rain stopped some time ago, but his clothes are still damp and now he strains his ears, listening for Danny’s voice. For the all-clear, but there is nothing.

He extends his sap covered finger and lightly touches it to an ant. Godlike, he lifts his finger from the bark of the tree, ripping the ant away from everything it knows. Alex turns his finger over and examines the tiny insect. Coffee colored and shiny, six legs kicking vigorously, two pinchers opening wide, ready to clamp. He pops his finger in his mouth, covering the bug with saliva, and sucks it into his stomach. Food is food, and this comes with a nice pine flavor.

Finally, he has no choice. Alex works himself down the small pine that has been his safe-haven, knapsack and all and stands at the bottom of the tree. Beams of sun filter down. They are bright and hazy with pollen floating lazily through them. Birds chirp. They are loud. Almost too loud, and Danny isn’t here.

Alex’s heart skips a beat as he realizes he’s alone.

Alone.

Alone.

Alone.

He turns, takes a step forward, then moves back to his original spot. Left looks the same as right. He can hear the valves of his own heart opening and closing and tears burn hotly behind his eyes, hysteria hiding just behind the veil.

Alex jerks his head and spins in place. It all looks the same. A stick snaps under his foot and he jumps, almost leaving his skin behind.

Relieved the noise was nothing other then himself, he stares at the ground where he was just standing, noticing faint indentations in the mud. He drops to his knees and narrows his vision. The tracks are his footsteps from earlier, not quite washed out from the rain. His face brightens. He knows which way to go now, he’s not alone, Danny will be waiting for him and things will be okay.

***

Alex trots along his newfound path for a while, every now and then stopping to inspect for signs that he’s still going the right way. His world is alive with the sounds of birds and insects but he’s locked on the feeble trail.

Leaves shuffle and branches break sending cold fear to crush his heart. He scans the area. The filmy trees that loom overhead, their wave branches far out of reach. The forest floor is grey and shadow smothers the ground, where only moss survives. There’s no place to hide.

Far in the distance, a figure with a pronounced limp drags aimlessly closer. Alex dodges behind a tree, flattening himself against it, his breath catching in his chest. The only thing separating him from the creature is the trunk.

He digs his fingers into the bark behind him, his head jerking nervously. The creature nears slowly, dragging its bad leg. It was a woman at one time, once pretty, now grotesque. Its long hair is matted with dried blood and forest junk and its scalp is peeled back in two places, revealing white skull beneath. Tarnished gold jingles on one arm and a diamond wedding ring still sparkles from a finger that is half bone. One mud-caked, black designer pump with a red sole remains attached to a foot, it makes the creature’s limp worse.

It turns its rotted face in Alex’s direction. He presses himself flatter against the tree and doesn’t breathe. The thing’s eyes bulge. Black pus oozes from ripped corneas and drizzles down cheekbones, where it pools above an exposed jawbone. She looks like she’s weeping. The creature-woman passes by, just inches away.