Husk (37 page)

Simon remained at my rear, shielding Sofa with his body. I waited until the doctor was a few yards away from the men and then reached out, sensing the filaments of my mental energy float through the room until they each fastened to an awaiting ghoul.

Attack
, I pushed out at them.
Rise up, kiddies. By God, let's give them what for.

And the room was anarchy.

The doc was the first to strike, pulling down the gunman on the left before he could offer more than an
erk!
of surprise. As the other yelled a curse, fumbling at his holster, I fired, one gun in each hand, emptying the clips, missing far more than I hit, but enough bullets finding their marks to bring him down with two belly punctures.

Meanwhile, each bed-ridden zombie had grabbed onto anything moving nearby. As the medicos found themselves suddenly snagged onto their invalids, a few caught by articles of clothing, a few already in the process of dying, my two soldiers swarmed forward and began snapping at anything with a pulse they could latch their teeth onto. I let Simon put Sofa down and join in the fray while I watched my relatives do what they did best, a happy parent watching his children jump around the jungle gym.

When the red dust settled and the only sound was of mastication, I wheeled my way to the nearest upright table and picked up a scalpel. I rode about the room, slicing at the bonds of my rotting brethren. As I freed each corpse, a crazy impulse took me and I yelled, “I am Spartacus!” at the top of my lungs, mentally asking each unfettered hostage to do the same as I giggled, the tethers of my sanity stretched near to snapping. They each moved their lips, but only Simon managed to inflate his lungs, gurgling
Aw em Splartkus!
over and over in a voice like dead leaves scuttling across pavement.

Finally, I had a platoon of twenty-seven volunteers (with more soon to rise), each pledging allegiance to the cause. I sent them on ahead to the hangar to raise some well-deserved havoc while Simon and I stayed behind.
Eat hearty
, I thought, as confused screams and sporadic gunfire filtered in through the doorway.

Simon held Sofa's cage up in front of me while I opened it to let Sofa slink out into my lap, slightly put out but no worse for wear. I held her collar, and as the echoes of warfare died down I drove us forward, pushing Simon forward in case there were still pockets of resistance.

I needn't have worried. My troops had made short work of anything that breathed, as the lake of blood that filled the room attested. Simon picked up a few heaping handfuls of entrails to nibble at while he led us on. I steered around the bulk of the slaughter to avoid getting my wheels caught up in any intestinal mud puddles.

Beyond the open hangar doors lay freedom. Outside, the sun was beginning to set, and the sky past the mountains foretold a night of purple beauty.

“One more thing,” I promised Sofa. “Then we go.”

We pushed into the Chapel.

Save for the zombies, the room was uninhabited, its guards having fled deeper into the complex or outside, becoming part of the buffet. It was silent, all eyes on me.

I looked out for the only pair I cared about.

Time enough for one last act of mercy.

I piloted my chair down the track to the controls and sent the lift down into the crowd. Ordering the zombies to stay clear, I asked Duane to step on, and elevated his salivating remains until he was standing next to me. It looked as if he had not eaten since reanimation. His skin was beginning to spoil. Patches had loosened and fallen off, and one eye had rolled back completely in his head. The other, milky with scratches, looked around the room, never settling, searching for food. But the gobbets of mind lodged in the crater of his skull still performed their tasks, covered with grime yet fresh and new as that of newborn children. His foggy appeals for food scratched at the walls of my consciousness.

Below me, I sought out Craig and Samantha, finding them wandering the far end of the pit, looking for anything to gnaw on. I threw them out my deepest apologies as they each looked up from their searches and watched me with uncomprehending eyes. I couldn't free them, and there was no way I was a good enough shot to even try to give them release through a well-placed bullet.

Then, the only person I had ever truly cared about in death and I slowly meandered from the Chapel and toward the setting sun, joined in my lap by the being I had the longest relationship with outside of my parents. Simon stalked his way behind us.

“This is it, Duane,” I said, nudging him past the slavering hordes of fellow zombies and out into the open air. His response was a hushed groan, his mind vacant of any thoughts save food. I ignored the request. I was selfish to the end, and didn't want my last few moments with Duane to consist of his feasting on human flesh.

“This is the end. For real this time. You wanted to be with me when the time came.”

We worked our way over the paved road and into the brush. I turned us about to look at the sun as it clocked out for the evening, its final rays peeking out over the range, burning away the last of the day with detonations of color I could barely discern.

I took his hand and kissed it.

“I never thanked you for your kindness, Duane. When I first met you. I thought you were an idiot. I never told you that.” I smiled, holding on to his fingers as he swayed. “I was so stupid. Don't get me wrong. You weren't much of an actor. But you were a good friend.”

I asked him to kneel. Simon took up a position behind him.

“This is the best I can do, Duane. If you are in there, somewhere. Please know that I pray this will release you.”

I looked away from his vacant eye and stared at the sun, its rim barely visible over the horizon. Dots of starlight began to poke through the darkening sky.

“I love you,” I said, and gave Simon the command. As I forced myself to stare at the last few glints of light, Simon efficiently scraped out the last scraps of Duane and swallowed them. A few meager surges of leftover consciousness escaped Simon's belly, wondering when food would ever come, dissipating into a low hum, and then silence as digestive juices eroded them into nothingness.

Duane's shell crumpled to the dirt.

I willed myself to cry. Just one solitary tear. Anything to mark the occasion.

Nothing.

I picked up Sofa and hugged her as best I could to my chest. I had done what I could, but this was as good as it was going to get. At least she wouldn't die alone in a room. This gave her a chance.

“No cat daycamp for you, babe,” I whispered in her ear. “Go on. Do what cats do best.”

I placed her on the ground. She looked at me, confused at the sweeping panorama spread out before her after years of being an indoor cat. Then, yards away, a lone gopher popped its head out from its burrow for a peek. Using instincts she didn't know she had, Sofa lowered herself to the ground, flattened back her ears, and slunk off to feast on the freshest dinner she'd had in ages.

Behind me in the hangar, I heard the unfocused shamblings of my relatives, now finished their frenzy and already desiring new prey. I wondered at the prudence of letting them go on. There wasn't a soul around for them to bite; if the planet was lucky, they'd likely scuffle off into the desert where the Utah sun would bake them into jerky. But perhaps an unlucky nomad would stumble onto one, and the bloodline would continue. There was always going to be a chance of survival.

Doubtless there were larger armaments hidden within the compound; given enough time, I could rummage around the levels until I found a stash of explosives, a bazooka, say, and wipe the whole family from existence.

But I was at the end. I'd let them be, and leave it to fate.

I wondered if I'd wake up on the other side of reality.

I wondered if the leviathans were disappointed in me.

I hoped they didn't hold grudges.

I gave Simon the order, ending my command.

Up in the brush, Sofa bounded onto a gopher hole, her rear waggling fiercely in the air as she groped her paws into the ground.

My cat's ass.

Please let that be the image I go out on.

Simon ripped me from my husk, squeezed me between his fingers, and tossed me out into the desert.

Fuck.

Aw fuck, I'm still here.

Can't even get my death right. Not even the second one.

Simon threw me into the desert all right. He also left my eyestalk attached.

My fault, I suppose.

I lay there for a few days, watching whatever happened to amble on past my unblinking eye.

A few gophers, a snake.

A few sets of feet, aimless in direction.

Sofa, once, looking trimmer. Going feral was definitely her thing.

After a great time, a coyote came by and mercifully gnawed my sight away.

I am not afraid now.

I miss Duane.

I miss Mom, weirdly.

Whatever this infection is, it's pitiless.

Not until all the pieces of my brain are ground into dust and fed to the four winds will I find release.

Should have found another way.

I just didn't want to be eaten.

Was that wrong?

I never did see the gods. If they're out there, they're ignoring me. Serves me right.

Right now, I'm a gray lump on a dusty cement road, covered in dirt.

Or I'm in a jar. Or many jars. Or a baggie. Shoveled up and tagged for later examination. Someone
must
have come by eventually.

Maybe I'm in a belly right now. A desert rattlesnake slithered up and gulped me down. Or that coyote snagged me in her teeth and brought me to her den, a delicious delicacy for her cubs. I mean, how often would they be treated to Mennonite food?

I have no conception beyond that which is me. I thought I had a perception of movement, I had a brief bout of excitement that I was being picked up and tossed about, but I may have been kidding myself.

Like Dixon told me, I never was one for introspection, but it looks like that's all I have left to do. That and rerun movies I've watched over and over again in my mind. I've already replayed
The Godfather
twice. Good stuff. Pacino was so cool.

I wonder if I learned anything from all this.

How long is this going to last?

How long is eternity?

I think I'm going to find out.

COREY REDEKOP
has held down many careers in his short time on this planet: actor, waiter, tree planter, disc jockey, cameraman, editor, lawyer (almost), and now the odd employment triangle of publicist/librarian/author. Any day now, he's sure he'll figure out what he wants to do with his life. Probably optometry. His debut novel,
Shelf Monkey
, is either a work of insane genius or an intolerable left-wing screed, depending on which review you read. You've likely never heard of it. That's okay. A self-deprecating individual blessed with rugged good looks and naturally infused with the scent of mountain pine, Corey abides in Fredericton, New Brunswick, where he spends a lot of time making himself look good on paper. Find him online at
CoreyRedekop.ca
and on Twitter
@CoreyRedekop
. Or he'll find you.

Copyright © Corey Redekop,
2012

Published by ECW Press

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

LIBRARY AND ARCHIVES CANADA CATALOGUING IN PUBLICATION

Redekop, Corey

Husk : a novel / Corey Redekop.

ISBN: 978-1-77041-032-9

ALSO ISSUED AS: 978-1-77090-265-7 (PDF); 978-1-77090-266-4 (EPUB)

I
. Title.

PS
8635.
E
338
H
88 2012
C
813'.6
C
2012-902682-4

Editor for the press: Jennifer Hale

Cover design: Dave Gee

Author image: Judd Dowhy

The publication of
Husk
has been generously supported by the Canada Council for the Arts which last year invested $20.1 million in writing and publishing throughout Canada, and by the Ontario Arts Council, an agency of the Government of Ontario. We also acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund for our publishing activities, and the contribution of the Government of Ontario through the Ontario Book Publishing Tax Credit. The marketing of this book was made possible with the support of the Ontario Media Development Corporation.