DISEASE: A Zombie Novel (22 page)

Lot.

The woman speaking with Opie. She is the reason Danny is gone. Alex gently holds down the panic that Casey’s successor is nowhere to be found. He still feels the grip of terror caused by realizing he might be alone.

Intense quiet surrounds him, punctuated by the sharp voices of hollow people nearby.

Opie looks over at the blank-eyed child sitting near the fire. He’s struck once again by how similar his resemblance is to Danny. Lot rubs the boy’s shoulders and he can see a horrid squealing monkey once again saddles her back. It clouds her thinking and he welcomes it.

She intoxicated the people with her will, propelled them from their natural comfort zones and now a hangover is looming. The mental anguish caused by the knowledge that they went too far will need a powerful poultice. What better cure than the body of a God?

There’s a knock at the door and Opie crosses the room to open it, revealing Thick Marge and Julie. He motions for them to enter.

“Danny’s locked in the kitchen cooler, still unconscious. Julie looked him over.”

Lot’s eyes dart to the nurse.

“Why is he receiving medical attention?”

“I asked her to see to him, Lot,” Opie breaks the tension. “I was unsure how to proceed and thought it best.”

“No. It wasn’t best, Opie. He’s a traitor, a—” Lot catches herself.

Julie speaks up awkwardly in the silence.

“I just looked him over. He’s in bad shape. There isn’t anything I can really do. The bullet wound is a real obstacle. I can’t tell if there’s internal hemorrhaging, but he probably won’t bleed to death outright. However, there’s no way he’ll escape infection. If I give him antibiotics there’s a slim chance—”

“No,” Lot cuts her off. “Regardless if he killed the boy he’s still a deviant. He still attacked me, and he will be executed. We must conserve supplies for those who warrant saving.”

Thick Marge glances at Alex. “Is the boy harmed?”

Lot shakes her head. “I’m unsure of the extent of his injuries. He won’t allow anyone to examine him.”

“I can try,” Julie suggests.

“No,” Lot says.

Opie rubs his face, seemingly ready to say something but hesitant to speak. When he feels the women’s full attention he finally says what’s on his mind. Lot, I understand the delicate nature of the situation. I can appreciate the fact that we have no clue what Danny did to this poor child before he was captured—” what a crock of shit, he thinks. “—But can we be sure the child hasn’t been bitten? He could pose a danger to the entire community. I think it’s best if he’s inspected immediately.”

Oblivious to the conversation around him, Alex plays with a strap on the tattered knapsack he holds on his lap. In his other hand he still grips the baseball bat he came in with.

“He’s under my quarantine,” Lot snaps.

Julie discreetly locks her eyes on Opie’s, concerned. Thick Marge digs into her front pocket and pulls out a padlock key. “For the cooler,” she presses it into Lot’s outstretched hand. “What should we do with the pris- Danny?”

Thick Marge can’t stop staring at the boy and Opie can see doubt etching itself around her eyes.

“Forget about the prisoner for now,” Lot demands. “I’ll deal with him in time. Now please, leave me with the child. He’s been traumatized enough.”

Lot shoos away Opie, Julie, and Thick Marge, recklessly desperate to be rid of them. As soon as the door shuts, she locks it and turns toward Alex. On her way across the room she tosses the key handed to her onto a small side table.

She sits down next to Alex and smiles, noticing the untouched plate of food.

“You must be hungry, Alex. If you don’t want what’s on your plate maybe I can interest you in some of that special maple syrup instead? And you can let me check you over to make sure that you aren’t hurt in any way.”

***

Opie, Julie, and Thick Marge tread the hallway in a small pool of candlelight. Thick Marge’s feet carry her on autopilot, her mind still reeling from the implications of Alex’s survival. A gentle hand on her shoulder pulls her to the surface.

“Don’t worry, Marge,” says Opie. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I feel like we’ve gone nuts.”

Julie nods agreement.

Thick Marge hugs herself as she walks. “That kid doesn’t have a mark on him, not one at least that would come from having a grown man wrap his hands around the boy’s neck.”

Opie nods thoughtfully. “I see what you mean.”

The three stop walking, as if the weight of the conversation is too heavy to bear while moving.

Thick Marge’s troubled eyes seek solace from Opie and he shakes his head. “Don’t forget Danny killed other people. Just because he isn’t a child murderer, doesn’t mean he’s not guilty. And he confessed to you, told you that he choked the boy to death. How were you supposed to know he’d lie about it?”

“But should we really be convicting one of our own without a trial? A
real
trial? I was standing right there, weapon in hand, like some sort of heathen. The crowd was screaming for blood and it felt good. I
wanted
to hurt him.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself, Marge.”

“It’s just, I don’t know, I feel like there’s something else going on here we don’t know about.”

Opie and Thick Marge stare at each other. She’s treading in dangerous water, knows it.

“I’m not saying Danny is innocent,” she backpedals. “I mean, why take the boy in the first place? But what I
am
saying is that we were overzealous, bloodthirsty, inhuman. We—”

Opie holds up his hand and Thick Marge swallows hard.

“Marge, you were led down a dark path—we all were.”

Marge stares at Opie and nods slowly, then resumes walking, chewing on his implication.

Opie smiles to himself. Now that the mustard seed has been planted, it will grow quickly. If he plants a few more, he’ll have a reaping.

Julie scuttles behind him. He peeks back and smiles slightly. She smiles back. If he’s to spread his wings he’ll need all the support he can get.

The courtyard is silent, unmarred by the night’s execution proceedings. Hannah sits in the dirt, her head resting against the wall, not asleep, but not quite awake. Dried tears mar her cheeks and her hypnagogic mind replays better times.

The soil churns at her feet. Earthworms and beetles rain from a rising corpse, tumbling dead from ears, mouth, and chest wound. Nothing lives long that has feasted upon the unsavory flesh of the living dead.

It turns dirt-smeared lenses toward the woman who sits on the ground. She flashes into awareness.
Jamal
. A bittersweet smile spreads over her lips. She couldn’t let him die, but somewhere she knows he’s gone—was gone hours ago. It’s a fact she’s unable to face.

Jamal’s body crawls forward, one hand after the other, dragging him from his shallow grave. He is slow and awkward as muscles and joints crack loudly, like dried corn in a kettle. Hannah opens her arms, welcoming the rebirth of her only son, her eyes glistening. It took longer than she thought it would for him to rise.

Jamal stumbles, jerking to his feet. His bulging eyes lock in on her and he shuffles forward, an unholy grimace laced across his face. His lips are drawn back tightly, revealing a dying insect that clings to deadened gums.

Vertebrae crackle along Jamal’s spine as he hunches down, arms outstretched. Hannah smiles at her son, fresh tears dripping down her cheeks, unable to look away. His jaws snap open and he leans forward to sink his teeth into her flesh. Skin and cartilage stretch and tear away as he rips her nose from her face.
Slishk
. Her hands involuntarily flutter beside her.

His strong, unflinching fingers push into her soft belly. They grip her pulsing intestines and jerk them from her body. As he stuffs handfuls of quivering meat down his greedy throat, Hannah can do nothing. He sits on her, consuming her still living flesh but she has no screams for the mindless eating machine, only love.

The courtyard door squeaks on unattended hinges. There’s a small grunt as a pint-sized girl puts her back into pushing the handle. She holds the door with one hand and stretches out her arms, trying to reach for something in the dark.

Unable to find it, she wedges her foot in front of the door and stretches out her entire body until her fingers grasp their reward: a brick. The girl uses it to prop open the entryway and then steps inside.

She isn’t allowed in here, no kids are, but that doesn’t stop her from sneaking in on nights she thinks she can get away with it. A quick midnight munch and she’ll be back inside before the grownups ever know. They are all at that meeting, or whatever it is.

Besides, tonight is supposed to be a bread night. The meeting took over everything, and she’s hungry. They don’t get to eat a lot of bread anymore. It used to be once a week, now it’s closer to once a month. She heard her stupid uncle say, “Flour is worth its weight in gold nowadays.” She doesn’t see why anybody would want gold anyway.

Maybe everyone should start saying that other things are worth their weight in flour. “That cookie is worth its weight in flour.” It would be way more accurate because cookies are actually made out of flour.

She tiptoes over to the strawberries in the bright moonlight. She can make out where the fruit-laden plants are, but not whether they’re ripe. As she plucks a piece of fruit from the stem, she wishes she brought a candle or something with her, oh well. She pops the berry into her mouth and chews. Ripe, yum.

Munch, munch, munch. Two more berries. They’re good, but still, she misses cookies. Oreos were her favorite. She used to trade most of her lunch away for them in school. Her parents didn’t believe in sugar, so Oreos were never on the menu. She showed them though, she ate sugar every chance she got, without them knowing of course. Now she’s stuck with stupid Uncle Jim who doesn’t care what she eats, as long as it’s food. God, she misses her parents so much.

A rustling noise from the corner grinds her munching to a halt and the unconscious smile of small pleasures drops from her face, replaced with curiosity. She had heard that some squirrels lived in here once. They’d gotten into stuff, so the adults got rid of them a long time ago, but maybe they’re back? The girl smiles again. Squirrels are so cute!

She would love to have a pet! She had a dog once, Maximutt. Mom named the dog. Dad told her that mom’s sense of humor was one of the reasons he’d married her—she misses her parents every second of every day.

She misses Maximutt too, he was the best dog,
ever
. She remembers when stupid Uncle Jim got rid of him. There was a gnawing hunger in her belly so bad it was all she could think about. They hadn’t eaten in days, and it’d been weeks since their last proper meal. Stupid Uncle Jim told her they couldn’t afford to keep Maximutt around. Said that they couldn’t feed the dog anymore, that if they found any food they had to eat it all themselves.

When Uncle Jim told her he was going to let Maximutt go in a field to fend for himself she cried. She begged and yelled, cussed even, but his mind was made up, and she was honestly too weak from hunger to do anything about it. How she hated Uncle Jim for letting Maximutt go. Especially since that very evening he was able to hunt down a wild pig and kill it.

She’d stayed behind in the car when stupid Uncle Jim took Maximutt to the field and he found the pig on his way back. He’d even cut it up and everything so she didn’t have to see. Poor piggy. There had been more than enough for Maximutt to have some too. She would have refused to eat, if she hadn’t been so, so, so hungry.

The noise stops and the little girl steps forward, straining to listen, the moonlight playing tricks on her eyes. She squints; thinks she sees something and a cloud slides away from the moon, focusing her vision.

Five feet from her is a monster crouched over a woman. Its face is all distorted and it’s covered in blood. Guts hang from its fingers and mouth and the woman reaches out a blood-slicked hand toward the girl. She moves her mouth slightly, but no sound comes out.

The girl tries to scream but the strawberry slides down her throat and lodges, allowing only a choked, raspy to gag escape. She panics, clawing at her throat. Her eyes bulge and her face grows as red as the tomatoes in the garden.

The monster turns. Fresh meat. The girl runs. She trips, her face turning from red to blue and she crawls toward the door, gagging, the creature staggering behind. Its distended stomach, swollen from the feed, leads the way.

The girl’s lungs ache. She needs air. Air! She tries to cough but can’t. She feels a hand in her hair, and then suddenly she is weightless. The monster drags her toward its mouth. She kicks as sparkles of unconsciousness threaten her vision.

The kick glances off the monster and it pulls the blue-lipped girl up, its jaws wide and hungry. It tears into her exposed throat. For one brief, glorious second the girl can breathe again. Sweet, delicious air floods her lungs and her chest expands. With a second bite the creature gashes open her jugular and blood shoots out over its face and body.

The girl is gone in seconds. Steps behind, Hannah’s eyes blink in the moonlight.

***

Lot smiles at Alex and brushes dirt off his cheek, her fingers lingering just a little too long. His skin is so smooth, so young, so perfect. She feels that well-known, concupiscent zing ride through her body. It’s been years since a boy this perfect has been at her fingertips, and having thought she lost him makes him all the more appetizing.

Ambrosia. Lot licks her lips and smiles. It’s nearly torture to sit here next to him, waiting, his innocent eyes staring up at her.

Alex tightly holds the knapsack on his lap. It’s hard for him to decipher people’s thoughts from their faces, but he knows he doesn’t like the look in Lot’s eyes. There’s something about it—it’s the same look that was in the eyes of the pack of feral dogs he and Casey once crossed paths with. Wild, hungry, and dangerous. It’s the same look Lot had on her face when she invited him into her bed. He hadn’t recognized it then, but he does now.

She places a hand on his arm and he retreats from her touch. “We’ll have to get you out of these dirty clothes. I want to check you over, to be sure you’re not injured.”

Alex tightens his fingers on his knapsack, feeling each individual thread bending under his grip. He’s afraid to take his eyes off Lot and his heart pounds. The room suddenly feels too small, as though the walls have jumped closer, and the bat, which Lot took and placed in a corner, seems too far away. She’s watching him, and he has the distinct sensation he’s being hunted.

“If you aren’t hungry, why don’t I remove these dishes, get them out of our way?”

The rumble in Alex’s belly is distant as Lot lifts the dishes from the table. Her prodding eyes turn his blood to itching, burning lava. It smolders under his skin, threatening to incinerate his body. He can’t stand her looking at him, and just when he thinks he may go up in a ball of flames, she turns away with the dishes.

Lot crosses the room, carrying Alex’s untouched dinner to the hall. He sucks in cooling breath, relief, for the moment, her back is turned. With agile fingers he unzips his knapsack. Inside, the Arnold-head rolls its eyes. Alex rips the balled up t-shirt from the face and drops it back into the knapsack. The bag shakes as the head tries to bite through.

Alex holds it steady.

“What are you up to, little boy?” Lot’s voice grates on Alex. She’s back and flashes a smile down at him. It is too wide, too toothy, too bright. Her teeth are slightly crowded, her crow’s feet deep canyons. Her skin is papery, quickly losing its glow, the fatty deposits of youth drained away from her cheekbones. Her face blazes in front of his eyes, every line, every hair, every pore shrieking at him.

Alex holds the bag up to her. She raises her brows, plucked a little too thin, and asks a question, but Alex can’t hear it over her grotesque details. She reaches out to take his bag.

He pulls it back, away from her grip.

She says something again and Alex grips the bag tensely. He lifts it and her face pushes toward his, her voice dribbling over her lips.

“Yes?” Her thin, worn hand grazes the knapsack, attempts to take it again. Alex wrenches it back. She smiles, but it’s wavering, strained and plastic. She taps her foot. Impatient. Alex has seen that movement before, with many other people.

“Do you have something in there for me, Alex?”

The Arnold-head inside works its teeth against the fabric of the bag and Alex curls his fingers tighter around the outside. He holds it out for Lot once again.

She clicks her tongue and crouches down next to him. He shoves the bag at her. She sighs and nods and reaches her hand toward the opening, her fingers sliding in the top.

KNOCK. KNOCK.

She pulls her hand from bag and stands. Alex’s face falls, someone is at the door.

“One minute, Alex.”

The knock sounds again and Lot cringes. She storms across the room, throwing the lock in anger, but as she wrenches open the door she changes, becomes cool, calm, and collected. On the other side stands Patrick, a young man about Danny’s age. He’s scratching wax from his ear and holding the untouched dinner she left in the hallway.

“Sorry to disturb you, ma’am.”

“Yes, it’s fine. What would you like?”

“Odette sent me up to see if you needed anything else before she goes to bed. Are you done with this?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

“But you didn’t touch any of it.”

Lot flicks her wrist at him. What’s wrong with this idiot? She takes a breath.

“It’s no longer needed, you can take it away.”

“Okay.” The young man stands there dumbly staring at her. She resists the urge to slap his hand away from his ear.

“Is that everything?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Then have a good night.”

Lot shuts the door without waiting for a reply. She locks it and is back with Alex in seconds. She slides in next to him. If he’s done playing games, she wants to see what he has to give her. Danny used to bring her gifts all the time, anything he could think of that would please her. He worshiped the very ground she walked on. It seems Alex is on the same track and it’s delightful. She feels like a kid at Christmas.

He holds out the bag again and Lot plunges her hand in without hesitation, groping for her prize. A sharp pain courses through her finger and she snaps her arm back, yelping. Her finger drips with fresh blood—her blood.

“What’s in there?” she snarls.

Lot tears the sack from Alex’s grip and angrily turns out its contents. The Arnold head hits the floor with a thump. No longer encumbered by the balled up t-shirt, it bares its bloody teeth in a ghastly almost-smile.

Lot sharply draws in air. She backs away from the disembodied head as though it could leap onto her person and tear her limb from limb. Her face draws back in sheer horror and revulsion and she grasps at her chest with involuntary, anxiety driven movements. Her mouth sputters but no words come out.

Alex throws himself to the floor, scrambling, collecting everything that fell from his bag. The marbles, Danny’s watch, his book, the aftershave… Where is the can opener… matchbook… t-shirt? He spins around, his eyes scanning the ground until he locates everything. He tosses them into the bag, leaving Arnold’s teeth-gnashing head where it lay.

Lot stares down at her bitten finger, fish-eyed, as though it might not be true, but it is. She splays her bitten hand out for support, grabbing a bedpost and almost loses her balance; her other arm still confined to the sling around her neck. Her knees go weak, she doubles over and vomits on the floor.

Behind her, Alex snags the padlock key from the side table and pockets it. With a slight hesitation he also swipes the bottle of maple syrup that still sits out, and throws that into his bag.

Lot turns her face, which is blank with shock, to Alex. He races for Casey’s bat and while slinging his bag over his shoulder, lifts it from the floor. Lot abruptly realizes what’s happening.

“You.”

Alex dashes for the door then fumbles with the lock. Lot staggers forward, her shock erupting volcanically into anger and her face contorting with pure rage.