36 Hours (23 page)

36 Hours

143

didn’t see her, Ashlie… You didn’t see her…” Knees caving in, I slumped against the island and slid to the floor, coiling my legs up around me. I buried my head in my knees and croaked, “If you would’ve seen her… It wasn’t her…

She wasn’t beautiful… They change, Ashlie… I don’t know how or why but they
change
. It wasn’t Amanda…”

Ashlie hovered over me, unsure of what to do. She felt the knives in her pockets. My words burned into her. Cold iron. Les came up from down below, carrying a box of winter jackets. He saw me on the floor, fetal, and Ashlie looking more lost than anything, and he decided to work on the windows in the bedrooms first – we would be spending the night there.
Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.

My head popped up. Ash went around me for the garage door. I leapt up in an instant. “What are you doing!!!”

She stood poised by the door next to the refrigerator. She eyed me. “Goldie.”

The hope, the newfound glory, of my heart faded as one does eyeing the Roman army before him. “That’s not the dog.”

Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.

“He wants in. It’s his suppertime. Listen to it. It’s Goldie.”

I strained myself to listen, and not only listen, but
reason
. It
was
seven fifteen. Goldie was always in by that time, sniffing the trash cans and lying down next to the leather couch for an evening nap. So far the infected didn’t seem to hit the animals; they thirsted only for the blood of humans. My skipping heart prayed that she not open that door, believing with everything that it was an infected, that they’d found us, heard my whining and Ashlie’s bickering, heard our trading shouts, and moved in for the kill. But the heart, while full of glory, is deceitful, too, and I forced my head – my mind – to take on the track and do a lap of logic.
Scratch. Scratch. Scratch
. Organized scratching. Not frantic like the assaults of the infected. Placid, uncaring; whatever – whoever – was scratching did so every few moments, hoping for someone to come. Not trying to break in.

I moved around the island and drew my knife.

“You’re not going to kill him?” Alarm laced her tone.

“No! I love Goldie. I’m just being sure.”

“Austin…”

“You haven’t seen them.”

Anthony Barnhart

36 Hours

144

The doorknob was chilled from the spring night air. I twisted it. Locked. Stupid. I quickly unlocked it. Sweat dappled the blade of my knife.
Just the dog.
Leave him outside. He’ll be fine… But Ashlie will cry and cry and open it up
when we sleep… She hasn’t
seen
them…
I twisted the doorknob and opened it wide. The garage was dark, littered with shadows, pitch. My heart screamed. The cuckoo clock chimed – always fifteen off. Shadows submerged at my feet, shuddering; I jumped against the door and Goldie slinked inside. My heart calmed down. Just-Ashlie jumped back, hands flailing. “Austin! Look at him!”

Goldie limped against the counter. Ashlie’s face was paler than a full moon, and crazier. Goldie’s tongue dipped from his mouth, throbbing yellow. His eyes rolled back and forth, the mangy coat shimmering in the musky shadows. He meandered away from the counter, leaving a bloody smear. He turned around the island and I saw a massive gash in his side, drenching his golden coat in a crimson tide.

Ashlie looked at me and launched backwards; I spun around, drawing the knife high; he came at me from the depths of the garage, throwing his body against mine; I hit the doorframe, the knife dropping away, and fell into the inky darkness, head banging against the side of the van, screaming, seeing spots. The figure stood in the doorway, a hideous silhouette. A stump was left for an arm, blood sprinkling down onto the concrete like a cool spring shower.

“Ashlie! Get outta here!” I hollered.

The infected jumped at me; I rolled sideways and went underneath the van. Tubing and wires snapped and crackled at my clothes, tearing shreds and drawing bloody lines across my back. I could hear the infected scrambling against the side of the van, a high-pitched wail filling the garage. My hands groped back behind my head; pulling backstrokes on the concrete, my fingers brushed against the rubber tires. Something warm and sticky dropped onto my ankles; fetid, warm air wafted over my shoes. I kicked upwards, as hard as I could; my knees seared, but my feet connected with something solid, sending it up into the bottom of the van. A horrendous holler.

Wiggling myself free, I stood against the van and went rigid, daring not to breathe. My heart roared.

Silence.

“Les! Hannah!”
Ashlie screamed inside.
“Oh my gosh oh my gosh oh my-
“

Anthony Barnhart

36 Hours

145

Sharp movements on the other side of the van. A shadow blotted the doorway to the kitchen.
Ashlie. Les. Hannah. You’ll lose them all…

I ran forward in the darkness, slamming into the smooth paint of the Chevy truck. I hammered my fists into the frame, yelling and screaming, making as much noise as I could, and frightening myself. The infected snarled and ran around the side of the van; I jumped into the bed of the truck and out the other side, landing on something soft. It imploded a little and something cold splashed on my shoe. I ignored it, falling downwards, groping. I felt fabric, but that’s not what I wanted. Cold, icy liquid, thick, putrefying, turning to jello. The infected launched at me; he hit me hard and I slammed down into the body of my father. The infected’s acrid breath rolled over me, a stench from Hell. My elbow backed into his face, sending his head reeling backwards. I spun around and threw him – how, I don’t know, the adrenaline was surging – into the sports box. I pushed myself backwards and felt cold night air coming from the doggy door leading outside. My hand brushed something solid. I picked it up. Heavy. The infected tottered forward, reaching out after me. From the window of the garage door leading to the lawn, I saw the glint in the fiery eyes; the wild red hair, blood covering the face, deep-sunken eyes, craters of a soulless void. She had once been a woman with wonderful strawberry-blonde hair; now the hair was frizzy and matted with blood, and her eyes rang with a hollow, incessant death-cry. She came after me, fingers – some had fake nails glued-on, but most were broken – rushing at my throat. I gave out a cry and heaved the axe through the air, broad-siding her across the face. She spun into the wall; I did a 360 and hammered the blade of the axe into her neck. The handle shuddered, and the body collapsed; the head flung against the wall and came to a rest beside the doggy door.

Moonlight covered the face; the lips twisted back and forth, in a grotesque never-ending scream, and the eyes lolled. Muscles in the neck twitched. I kicked the head out the doggy door. Never thought I’d do that. I threw the axe to the floor and raced for the door. My body emerged into the dim kitchen light when I thought,
Keep the axe…
I turned to go get it but saw an infected coming through the doggy-door, almost out. When it saw me, it shrieked. Not only one. Through the blinds on the door window I could see several shapes weaving back and forth, pressing against the door. “Oh my-“ The door burst open; the infected coming through the doggy-door was hurled against Goldie’s doghouse Dad had built and the others gushed in.

Anthony Barnhart

36 Hours

146

You know those nightmares when you stand at the door of salvation, and Hell is on your footfalls, but you just can’t quite make it? Your legs freeze up and all you can do is watch as the Hell-mongers bent on your distraught corpse? That’s exactly what I felt like. The haven I had known as home was a step back; shut the door and leave it shut; they poured into the garage, becoming lost in the darkness. Their shrieks and catcalls and grovel pierces shattered the stillness. I somehow fell back into the kitchen, into the counter, and subconsciously threw the door shut, locking it.

BANG. BANG. BANG.

The house was deserted. A trail of blood led into the den, where Goldie made his last walk to his death. The Tupperware was spilled out everywhere. “Ash!

Les! Hannah!” I roared, screaming. My parched voice lacerated with pain. No response.
BANG. BANG. BANG.
“Ash! Les!” The three of them came down the steps, Les leading the way, knife in hand. They came into the kitchen. I pointed at the door, mortified.
BANG. BANG. BANG.

“Block it!” Hannah shouted, grabbing a chair. She handed it to me and I pushed it against the wall.

The poundings grew more furious. Ash stared at the wall, disbelieving. To Les and Hannah, “They got in at Les’ place! They’ll get in here! A chair isn’t going to-“

Part of the doorframe splintered.

“Table! Table!” Hannah shouted.

Hannah and Ash grabbed one side of the table and Les and I grabbed the other. We dragged it in front of the door and put it against the door. The infected shrieked and bickered beyond the door. It splintered some more. We backed away from the table. With each pounding it slid backward some.

“It’s not working,” Les smothered.

I grabbed two chairs and put them together, then put them against the counter, facing the table. The door splintered and opened a little, a small gap peeking through. Ashlie stood against the wall, gawking into the gap, where light from the kitchen illuminated the dark, sullen eyes and bloodied faces of the infected
zombies
. But the table pushed against the chair, and the chairs pushed against the counter, and it held sturdy. The zombies threw themselves harder against the door, but it wouldn’t move. The force of their impacts was sent through the table into the chairs and into the counter, into the frame of the house. My physics teacher would
love
this.

Anthony Barnhart

36 Hours

147

“They know we’re here,” Hannah cried. “They’re not going to stop…”

“This is it,” Les said under his voice. “It all comes down to this.” He stared at the knife in his hand.

“No! This is
not
it! This is
not
it!”

The table quivered; the midline snapped and splintered and the door burst farther open. I stood in the kitchen area, and Les, Hannah and Ash stood in the dining room. The infected lurched their arms through, mottled purple with dried bloods and tears and cuts. The fingers groped along the wall, the door, the table, sliding this way and that.
Animals. Pack hunters
. Were we fighting zombies?

Running from monsters? Or are we battling people? Injured, sick people?

I drew the knife out of my pocket. They’d be coming in… “Everyone, to the-“

Shattering glass tore my words to pieces. The bay dining room windows burst open, glass flying into the air, over the walls, onto the floor, thousands of transparent shields glittering like stars in a goddess sea. Arms and legs tangled in the blinds, the infected screaming. A hoarse wind blew into the dining room, ruffling the shirts of my friends. The infected writhed back and forth in the blinds, but more stumbled through at their feet, swiping into the air. Les took off into the living room; an infected got through, grabbing Ashlie; terror! Hannah drew her knife and swung it, drawing a deep line across the infected man’s throat. Blood gushed all over Ashlie; Hannah grabbed her by the arm and tore her away. The infected spun around, slit neck spurting blood all over the wall. The infected swarmed from the bay windows; the garage door splintered open; the chair legs bent and popped and crumpled in; the table overturned; they clambered over our obstacles, driven by instinct and willpower, bloodlust. I took off through the den. Goldie’s blood trail went upstairs. I heard Ashlie’s door shut and knew they wouldn’t let me in; forgive them, but they were too frightened. I would’ve done no better. I took off downstairs. The infected tore through the den and living room, ransacking everything. I sprinted down the steps and into the pool room.

The downstairs window – the one we’d forgotten – was broken inwards. A zombie with no legs, only burnt stubs, crawled towards me past the pool table. I ran around the other side, grabbing a pool stick. I looked at the slender shaft and gripped it in one hand; in the other, the knife. A pair of infected, a woman and a female teenager, both bloodied and covered with wounds from the bites that drew them down, beckoned me at the foot of the steps. Anthony Barnhart

36 Hours

148

I kicked their partner in the face, and he shrieked at me, snapping. The other two rushed me; pointed the narrow end of the pool stick at them and shoved it forward; the woman shrieked as the stick pierced her gut; she writhed back; the stick yanked from my hands; she turned, knocking the infected teen to the floor. The woman went around the pool table; I leapt into the bathroom and slammed the door shut, locking it tight.

Sweat dripped from me, stained my clothes, ranked in my pits, ate my breath, stung my eyes. My whole body quaked in morbid terror. The one place of hope, of utter abandon and recklessness, fell like a stack of distant cards. Frantic clawing on the door. Pounding. Trying to get in. I went into the utility room, through two doors, and into a small storage area. Winter mitts and boots and scarves lay scattered over the floor where Les had gathered up the winter coats. Everything had been so simple then. I removed the crawlspace door and wedged my way inside. The rocky floor tore at my ankles. I lifted the door and set it back in place, enclosing myself in darkness. An echoing, futile
crash
; the infected had broken into the bathroom.

I inched my way, so slowly, through the perpetual darkness, brushing against boxes of Christmas ornaments and Thanksgiving decorations and Halloween manicures. My eyes couldn’t even adjust, the darkness was so blinding. Above me I could hear footfalls and scurrying as the infected swept through the house; dry tears wallowed, but they refused to come; fear had the upper hand and beat them down. My only concern was ashamedly my own skin. I stared at the door back into the utility room – or where I
thought
it was, as I couldn’t see – and could take note of the zombies searching. They never grabbed at the door. Finally they left the utility room, and I crawled my way into the deep recesses of the crawlspace.