36 Hours (26 page)

“My name’s Austin. My friends are in the cab.”

“You just tore up my field.”

“Is that why you’re chasing us?”

Anthony Barnhart

36 Hours

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He shook his head and a smile creased his lips. “I’m chasing you because you’re not one of them.”

Pity swept over me. This man was all alone, with no more than a shotgun, maybe a quarter of a mile from his house, in a world where death lurked in the shadows, all just to find out our names? I had compassion but wasn’t without incredulity. “What do you want, a ride? Want to come with us? You can ride here in the back if you like? We’re headed-“

“No, no. They’re all over the place, even in the woods. You can’t get away from them.”

“So why did you come?”

“You’re trying to do me a favor? I’ll get killed if I go with you. Come with me.”

“How is where you are any better than where we are?”

“It’s safe. I wouldn’t be alive now if it… if it weren’t
safe
.”

“Where are you staying?”

Lightning and thunder. My eyes swept over to the fence. Dozens of them beat and hammered at its base.

“I’m staying at my farmhouse. It’s all boarded up, locked tight. No break-ins, and… Look. Do you want to be driving around here at night? Where you gonna go, through the woods? You think they’re not back there? Oh, they’re in the woods. They hear us right now. Right beyond those woods, what do you expect to find? You’re rubbing up against Cassano’s Pizza and Clearcreek Plaza. I haven’t seen any survivors come running this way – only you
going in
. Don’t kill yourselves. Stay with me where it’s warm and we’ve got food and at least wait until morning. Then maybe these things will be so tired they have to sleep and you can go on your way – if you have any certain place in mind.”

Driving in the storm, through a ruined wasteland of Hell didn’t seem too appetizing. Yet I couldn’t speak for the others. He seemed like a nice man, not too hostile, caring and sensitive. I closed my eyes, feeling the rain. The sounds of their banging and harassing and shouts and hollers floated from the fence line. I knew the man – was he a farmer? He said this was
his
field – was right. We were kidding ourselves. Surviving was hard enough when it was
light
out; we’d been too overridden with desire to live that we’d thrown our foots into a bear trap.

The man picked up his gun. “Please.”

I nodded. “All right. Here, get in.”

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He handed me the shotgun and right then I felt at ease. A boulder lifted off my shoulders and I felt like I rose four feet off the ground. He climbed up into the truck and I handed him his gun. His own face looked to be regaining color, even in the cold, sleeting winds. I knocked hard on the back window of the truck and Ashlie rolled it open. “Turn around. We’re holing up.” She looked at me with bare wonder. I shook my head. “He’s got a place. Food and warmth.” The idea of warmth aroused me. “Come on, Les, move it!”

The man and I crouched down in the truck. It slid around in the mud, splashing the tires, and ambled across the field. I looked at the fence and in a flash of lightning could see that more than just a dozen had gathered. They were coming from the suburbs, drawn, no doubt, by our voices and the truck engine, a relic of old times.

We bounced over the rugged field. The man offered his wet hand. “Austin, you say?” I nodded, taking it firm. He yelled over a clash of thunder, “Morris!

Glen Morris! Look!” He pushed my hand away and leaned up, pointing over the roof of the cab. I followed, and the headlights tore through the rain, dancing over a two-story late-1800s farmhouse. “There she is.”

Rain poured off the low, slanting roof in pits and waterfalls. Mud cropped against creaking wooden baseboards; holes had been punched into the lichenenriched porch boards. Wooden boards draped the windows, but the front door was wide open. A lightning bolt etched across a rolling spring thunderhead spread over the house, casting it in looping shadows; a single window on the top story had its shutters open, pointing out across the field and onto 741. He’d probably heard our truck engine and threw them open. And, yes, the infected were still banging and jumping all over the wrought-iron fence. I remember driving past that fence on the way to school and work. Good days. Les touched the brakes; the truck fishtailed; we held on to avoid spilling over the edge. The engine silenced and the doors flew open; Hannah and Ashlie came out the passenger door as Les fumbled into the rain. I hopped over the ledge, telling Ash everything would be okay for now. The man joined Les, the smooth shotgun resting faithfully in his hands.

“In here,” he said, running up onto the porch. He went through the door. Les tramped after him.

Hannah said, “She can only hobble.”

I spun. “What?”

“Her ankle, Austin.”

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I took Ash by her feet. “Lift.” Hannah put her hands under her armpits and we raised her up into the rain. Ashlie groaned. “Am I hurting you?”

“You’re squeezing it too hard.”

“Which one?”

“The left…” She spit rainwater from her mouth.

I readjusted. “How’s that?”

Hannah had been looking over her shoulder. The sight of those once-human corpses ringing their death mallets against the fence sent shivers up her spine. She blurted, “Austin, forget it, let’s go. Please.” I saw the fear in her eyes, amidst the rivers of tranquil sadness – she was thinking of Peyton, thinking,
He
could be with them. Banging on that fence. Trying to get me… Trying to get me
like he did at the school…

“Yes. Okay. Let’s move.” We sloshed our feet through the sucking mud, around the front of the truck.

The farmer came out the front door. Les’ shadow behind him. “What’s taking you so long? You don’t want to stand around out here!”

We tramped up the porch. Les took my place and I told Morris, “Her ankle’s mashed pretty bad.”

“How?”

“We were chased from our home.”

His eyes flashed a burning crimson. “I have some medical supplies. It is a farm, you know.”

I nodded, drawing a deep breath of rainy air. Smelt like iron. He grabbed me by the shoulder and pulled me into the warmth and dryness of the front parlor. The door creaked shut behind me; there was a grinding noise and he slid a massive iron bar padlock over the door. I closed my eyes, hearing the rain on the roof, and in the distance, across Pennyroyal, in the Victorian estates, there were screams and sputters of gunfire and the whimpering snarls of the psychotically dying.

9:00 p.m.

Legends

Starbucks and Short-Wave

The Pantry Door

Anthony Barnhart

36 Hours

164

Les and Hannah shimmied through the parlor, shadows crawling over the elaborate staircase climbing to the second story. Cryptic black-and-white photos adorned the walls. A grandfather clock stood silent beside the entryway into the living room; the hands refused to move, lazy – dead. A sentry standing guard before a futile world. The rain on the roof reverberated through the entire woodwork of the 1800s farmhouse; every drop rattled against flaking shingles like nails dropped on sheet metal. I wrinkled my nose; the sulfurous stench of nightly rain crept in through the cracks and boards of the walls, laying down a fog of chill. And it
stank
– that old country farm kind of stink, the kind mixed with vinegar and cattle and pigsty.

“Put her in the living room,” Morris said, moving around Les and Hannah.

“Come.” He went underneath an archway, abused with scratches and indentations plowed into the wood over the years. He turned to the side, hunched over, and suddenly the room flared with intense light. He held up the oil lantern; the melting glow spread through the room, dancing over a 1940s piano, a simple brick fireplace, a couch and chair. A cupboard in the corner. Peeling wallpaper and browning paint. “Just lay her down on the couch. Hold on.” He went into the parlor, paused, glanced into the kitchen, then went up the stairwell.

“Easy now,” Les said to Hannah as they lowered Ash onto the brown-yellowstriped couch. Hannah backed away. “Is your ankle any better?”

Ash shook her head.

I hadn’t noticed how cold it was. The water on my clothes made them stick to me. Everybody was wet.

Thunder outside.

The farmer returned, setting down a red cross kit. He opened it up on a coffee table beside the couch. “What will she need? Sorry. The wife did all the medical stuff. I just tended the corn.”

“Gauze,” Hannah said. “Maybe some Tylenol?”

“How’s aspirin? We have lots of aspirin.” He tossed her what she wanted. She unrolled the gauze.

She said to Les, “Water. Get her some water?”

The farmer stood. “I can get that.”

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Les beat him to it. “No. You’ve already done so much. Why don’t you rest for a few moments?”

The farmer hesitated, then moved over to the chair, sitting down. Distracted. Hannah wrapped the gauze around Ashlie’s ankle. I hovered over, incredulous. As she was wrapping, she stopped, glared at me. “Can you give me some room?” I said something smart and she said, “I can’t do this right with you breathing down my neck, Austin.” I raised my hands in surrender and backed off, backing into a desk.

Les brings the water in. Ashlie swallows the pills. She never liked swallowing pills, but this time, she didn’t complain. She gulped the glass down and asked for more. Les shrugged and returned to the kitchen.

Morris looked over at me. “Austin, right?” A nod. “Come with me. Let’s get you a change of clothes.”

I looked over at Hannah and she seemed to say,
Go
. I nodded. “All right.”

He took me upstairs. The floorboards creaked and groaned. Morris said, “My family has owned this farmhouse for generations, ever since but a few years after the Smiths began this small Quaker village. Did you know Clearcreek started off as a Quaker settlement? Hah! I wonder what they would make of
this
.” We reached the landing. He grunted over the last step. “I imagine they’d call it the end of the world. Armageddon or Apocalypse or whatever the heck it is to them. Crazy, isn’t it?”

The landing turned into a corridor and swept directly backwards to a door. There was one door to the left and right, shut tight. Morris fiddled with the door at the back of the hall. “Lock always gets stuck…”

“You’re not a man of Hannah, Mr. Morris?” I asked him. He laughed. “I know what I see. What I taste and touch and feel. Hannah is something that doesn’t go over well with me.”

“You’re a rare breed.”

He finally opened the door. Thunder. “That I know – my wife, she… She was a woman of Hannah. Always went to church, she did. Sturdy Catholic all her life. Communion and alms and the whole shebang. Don’t read me wrong. People always assume, think they know everything. Don’t start assuming. I have nothing wrong with Hannah or religion. I actually encourage it. Lots of good has come from religion. The morals are wonderful. Love one another. Live for one another. If they were really carried out as the writers intended, then we’d have a Utopian society.”

Anthony Barnhart

36 Hours

166

We entered the room. An icy chill swam over me and goose bumps scaled my arms. I rubbed my arms, felt the prickling nerves. Two dressers sat to either side of the room, and in the middle was a classical King size bed, made perfectly, covers taught, pillows fluffed. The paint was a sharp ruby red, the floor polished wood; and an Arabian rug lay on the floor next to the open window. The blinds blew back and forth in the wind and rain came through, forming pools of water on the floor. My heart shimmered – for a moment I thought I saw watery footprints leading to the other side of the room. Morris strode right through, up against the window.

“Did you leave it open?”

“Yes. I opened it when I heard your truck. I got excited and forgot to shut it. Ran right out the front door.”

“Kind of foolish.”

He smiled. “Even a man of realism is dumb when the heat turns on. Come over here.”

I joined him; he pointed out the window. “Look at ‘em. Nasty little demons.”

The infected were climbing the fence, tottering over the top; skin and clothes tore on the barbed wire, but they felt no pain, no emotion, no exertion. They fell over the other side and splashed through the mud, running towards the farmhouse. Arctic chills screamed through me. A more-than-strange noise popped out of my throat. Close the window! Close the window! My mouth glued taught. Morris crossed his arms, staring out, shaking his head, a man of science and mathematics. “Hard to believe, isn’t it? Those things were once people. God-fearing, dreaming, wonderful people. Moms. Dads. Children. Hah!

Voters. Look at them now. God. It’s awful. Have you seen their eyes? You can be fooled, almost, until you see their eyes, see the emptiness, the vacancy – and you know there’s no soul anymore. It changes them. They become something –

someone – else.”

My voice cracked.
“Shut the window.”

Morris obliged. The rain stopped slashing at my clothes. He locked the window firm and said, “This place is safe. Those rich peacocks in their rich Victorian homes with their rich Japanese cars and four-course meals are rotting because they took up arms with French forks and spoons taken from ancient Chinese Tupperware ornaments. Hah! Always complaining because the ruddy farm in spring and summer made their mansions look undesirable. Look at them now, running around, bleeding and foaming, doing God-knows what all over Anthony Barnhart

36 Hours

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town. Hah! Maybe the Quakers were onto something – maybe this
is
judgment, eh? God sending those poor suckers to Hell. Hah! Maybe I am finding some Hannah after all – don’t they say Hannah is forged in calamity and adversity?”

He chuckled to himself. “Oh. Sorry. How silly of me. Austin. Did you want some new clothes? I’ve got some.” He pulled a plaid shirt from a dresser. “Put that on. See how it fits. I’ll be downstairs. Check in on the others. And don’t worry. This place is stocked, I’ve told you. Food. Water. Heat. It’s a wonderful hideaway. They pretty much leave us alone.” A glint in the corner of his mouth.