36 Hours (4 page)

The Jeep shook, an infected jumping onto the top. I could hear his scratching. Hannah looked up. I gritted my teeth. Slammed the brakes. The mutant flailed forward, hitting the hood, grasping at the smooth paint, fell next to my front tires. The Jeep bounded twice, crunching the body into the pavement. The wheels jammed. We were next to the entrance of a subdivision. The infected were pouring after us, running through lawns and backyards and coming right Anthony Barnhart

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for the windows. The wheels shook back and forth. No. No. The Jeep bounded forward, spraying the blood of the victim all over the sprinting infected.

“Traffic,” I muttered under my breath.

Smoke rose from Olde Clearcreek. Some buildings held shattered glass, others were billowing flames and smoke from the windows. Infected ran the sidewalks. Little children ran amok. The two little kid schools were on either side, and they emptied into Olde Clearcreek. The infected grabbed tiny boys and girls and attacked. The kids’ screams filled my ears even through the windows. Little kids always had such high-pitched shrieks. A little girl threw herself against the window; blood gushed from her scalp, stringing her clotted strands of hair. She stared at us through Hannah’s window, opened her mouth. I stamped the gas and sped away, rolling over her foot with the tires; she just watched us go, then turned on a panicking classmate.

Everyone was panicking.

A cloud of smoke blew over the Jeep, thinned. A seven-car pile-up blocked my way, the road home. I did a U-turn, ramping the sidewalk, nearly missing a light pole. I went back the other direction. A Honda erupted from the smoke, nearly hitting me. I turned right onto a road I knew fairly well. The road twisted and turned into a rolling mass of subdivision.

Some homes coughed smoke. I went around an accident in flames, the broiled body of a human flailing about, writhing in fire. People ran out of their homes. Infected wandered and at acked all who moved. One tried to get to us, but we were too fast, leaving him dwindling behind. I saw with my own eyes horrible things. Men and women beaten down by infected; some walking without arms, crawling without legs, moving despite the loss of blood; little children from the schools wondering like zombies; accident victims feebly fighting off vicious assailants; infected coming out of homes, drenched in blood. So terrible. I wanted to cry. Husbands killed by wives, children tearing at their parents. I want to cry now.

We pulled down another road. It was mostly quiet.
Quieter
. Another turn. People stood outside their doors, watching us, saw blood plastered over the wheels and staining the forest green paint. The confusion from Main Street had not reached them yet. I yanked the Jeep to a halt, pulling up into the driveway of Les’ home. I opened the door.

Hannah gawked at me. “What are you doing? Don’t go out there!”

“I have to get Les.” Les was home-schooled. He should be there. Anthony Barnhart

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“No…”

I slammed the door and raced up the steps to their front door. Rang the doorbell. Why not just go inside? Strange how one reacts under pressure. Tried the handle. Locked. Heard shouts and shrieks and horns and the roaring fire. Smoke leaked into the sky. The sky-scrapers in the distance were wearing smoke, ashes, fire and brimstone like the crowns of hell. A neighbor yelled, “What’s going on!”

“Get inside!”

Several infected appeared down by the street. They saw an older woman and ran for her.

I looked to Hannah and motioned for her to come.

She shook her head.

The door opened. I barely noticed. An infected clambered down a fence next door, came right at me. Les opened the door. I jumped inside. Saw Hannah. She was locking the Jeep doors. I slammed the front door and locked it with haste. Les stared at me in ultimate confusion. It was silent in his home. The walls were sound-proof.

Falling against the wall, I gasped for breath. Afraid I would slip into shock.

“What are you here for?” Les asked. I guess he saw the fear in my crystal ine eyes. “Are you okay?”

I shook my head no. “Les… Have you heard-“

“Heard what?”

“Outside?”

“It sounds like terrorists.” He reached for the door. I slapped his hands away. “No. You can’t go out there!”

“Why not?”

“Because
they’re
out there!”

The large bay window shuttered. Les peered over, and recoiled in shock. The neighbor I had talked to just moments before sprayed the window with blood from a wound on the neck. Rabid eyes. I shuddered to look. The palms pressed against the window. The eyes stared at us. Chest heaved. Blood dripped down the shirt.

“That’s Mr. Gray!” Les shouted. “We have to-“

“No.” I blocked his way to the door. “It isn’t Mr. Gray. Not anymore.”

“What?”

“Do you see him? See his eyes?”

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But Mr. Gray was gone. Blood smeared the window. Les went closer.

“Austin! It’s Hannah.”

“She’s in the Jeep.” I looked down at my legs and arms. They shook so hard I thought I’d fall.

“The Smiths down the street are trying to get in.”

I ran over to the window, standing beside him. Infected clambered over the car. An older man and woman. The spots of blood on the clothes implied Mr. Smith had killed his wife, and the two of them became infected and exploded from their little retirement home. Smith was atop the Jeep, pressing his head, hands, knees and feet against the cold top. His wife—what was left of her—

squatted next to Hannah’s door, wrestling the door-jamb, snarling into the window. More infected swarmed from the homes.

“Are all your doors locked?” I breathed.

“All of them. Since you locked this one.”

Honking, a car crash, shearing metal. Down the street. The floor rocked.

“We have to get her out of there.”

“The Smiths are nice people, I wouldn’t-“

“Les, just shut up and look at them! Here’s my plan—you have a paintball gun, don’t you?”

He nodded. “It’s in Jack’s room.”

“Get it. Shoot from the window, down at the Jeep. It should scatter your neighbors. And I’ll grab Hannah and we’ll come back in. Sound good?”

“That’s the dumbest idea I’ve ever heard. You’re going to get hurt.”

“I know. Do it.”

He rolled his eyes and raced up the steps. I stood by the front door, unlocking it. Grabbed the knob. Rested my shoulder against the door in case anyone—

any
thing
—tried to get in. Clattering and shuffling upstairs. A pause. Creaking. The upstairs window opening. Then I heard the pops from upstairs, and through the window heard the screeches of the infected as they scattered off the Jeep and ran for cover. I flung open the door and raced out there, to the Jeep. Hannah looked terrified, ashen-faced and red-eyed. I grabbed the doorknob. “Unlock it!”

She shook her head. The infected were out on the street. Les was still shooting, sending them this way and that. Paintballs splattered everywhere. “ Hannah!

You have to open the door!” She did, and I grabbed her arm, yanking her out. The paintballs ran out. The Smiths cocked their heads and stared at us; one revealed a maw of yel ow teeth.

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36 Hours

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They charged.

“Hannah! Faster!” We ran up to the door. I shoved Hannah inside. The Smiths ran past the Jeep, barreling right for us. No longer the innocent grandparents.

Monsters.

I dove inside and slammed the door shut, locking it. The door shook as the Smiths threw themselves against it. Dust fluttered off the hinges. I feared the hinges would snap and they’d stumble inside. But the door stopped shaking. Hannah had fallen to the ground. I went to the window. The Smiths meandered around the Jeep. A man was running down the sidewalk, running with no direction. The Smiths growled and ran at him. I turned my head and went over to Hannah.

“You okay?”

She nodded, curled upon the ground, holding back more tears. My heart pounded. Les came running from downstairs. The paintball gun was in his hands.

“Thanks,” I said. “Disaster avoided.”

Les said, “It’s not safe down here. That glass could break. Upstairs. Jack’s room has about fifteen hundred locks on the door, bolted windows and a bathroom.” We followed him up the twisting staircase and into Jack’s room. Les shut the door, twisted the lock. A desk, a dresser. Television. Bed. Jack was off at college. Left that morning. Windows overlooked the side yard and the street. The door to the bathroom was on one hinge. That window peered into the backyard. A toilet, a shower, some cabinets, a sink. Water.

I ran some into cupped hands and drank it down greedily. Les stood by the window, looking down at the street, the neighborhood homes. Hannah sat on the bed, staring at the wall, no doubt listening to the muffled sounds of Hell on earth. Dried my hands, exited the bathroom. Les said over his shoulder, “The Smiths are gone. There’s others, though. They look like demons out of hell.”

“Don’t let them see you.”

“They can’t get in here,” Les replied.

Shattering glass downstairs, hollers floating to the door. Hannah stared at the door-knob.

I croaked, “Sure about that?”

Anthony Barnhart

36 Hours

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Les ducked away from the window and sat down next to Hannah , pointing the gun at the door. I stood near the bathroom. It was comical, a paintball gun. What were we thinking? Silence. Then the sound of pots falling from the downstairs kitchen. Les’ dog started barking. Another sound in the barking. The barking stopped, cut off by a rising squeal, then tapering off in a mangy gurgle. Les’ eyes glazed over, and his Adam’s apple bobbed. Scuffling feet. Sweat dripped down my face. The fan overhead hung low, turned off. I yearned so much for its breeze. Hannah was whimpering; Les held the paintball gun and pointed it at the door. So scared.

Someone was moving around downstairs. Suddenly I looked over to Les, and mouthed,
Your mom?

He didn’t notice. I returned my gaze to the door. It seemed to loom bigger and bigger.

The feet tampered downstairs, then began coming up the steps.
Creak-creak-
creak
. Each step resounding, sending fear riveting through us. Hannah’s whimpering was growing louder. Tears swelled under her eyes. Who could really blame her? She opened her mouth, dragging for air. Les stared at her in horror. I rushed forward, lightly, and threw my hand over her mouth, muffling a cry. The footsteps stopped.

Silence. Eternity.

Then the person came for the door, and stopped right outside it. A jingling. The door-knob bent down, then rattled. The lock kept it from opening. It rattled harder, harder, harder. Quiet. The footsteps trotted backwards, and vanished. We listened for ages, for anything, ears drowning the noise outside the windows and jumping at every crack and nuisance outside Jack’s door. Minutes passed. I removed my hand from Hannah’s mouth. She dropped her head into her hands.

Les swallowed. His face was pale. I think his dog’s dwindling screams ran the treadmill in his mind. “Do you think he’s gone?” he whispered in a hoarse voice.

“How should I know?” I went over to the window. Smoke rose from many different places. Down the street, a van had slammed into a light pole, tearing it down. The driver was gone. Blood splattered the pavement. A few infected danced here and there, crawling like animals, along the sides of houses, but it seemed they exited down the street corner, heading towards the gut of Spring Falls—No, I thought. They were heading for Downtown South Arlington. Anthony Barnhart

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Where my dad worked. But he was at home. So was my mom and sick sister. I suddenly yearned so strongly for all of them. “We need to go.”

Hannah finally spoke. “Are you insane?”

“My family is at home. My dad has probably protected them. They’re worried about me.”

“Who cares if they’re worried?” Les said. “You’re safe here.”

“For how long?”

Hannah wailed, “It’s death out there!” Why did she need to be so loud?

I went to the other window. The keys were in my pocket. The Smiths had vanished. The Jeep just sat there in the driveway. “My Jeep has enough gas. The sick people” but were they
people
?—“seem to be leaving.” My fingers curled around the cool keys, running along the spliced grooves and ridges.

“Going where?”

“Towards South Arlington. I don’t know. But there’s not as many out there now.”

“We don’t know where the Smiths are, or Mr. Gray,” Les said. He looked at the door. “Or the person in the house.” He gripped the paintball gun even tighter. White knuckles.

They could argue all they wanted. I didn’t care. “I’m leaving.”

“Not me,” Les said.

Hannah said the same.

I only shrugged. “Well. You guys are smart, I guess. But to all his own.” I went for the door.

Les jumped in front of me. “No.”

“You can’t make me stay,” I said.

“Look. There’s someone or something out there. Maybe just outside the door.”

“They left.”

“You’re going to get us all killed.”

Hannah repeated, “It’s death out there!”

“Look out the window,” I said. “They’re leaving.”

“You don’t know that. There’s no way you can know that. Maybe they’re hiding.”

“And planning an ambush? These people act like animals, not people. No organization.”

“Stop talking. Just stop.”

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36 Hours

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I pushed him out of the way, but he shoved me back. I fell into the dresser. Pain streaking along my back. He towered over me, suddenly taller. I kicked him in the groin and shoved him down onto the bed; Hannah leapt out of the way. Fuming, I ripped open the door and ran into the dark hallway. Hannah raced forward, shouted, “Austin! Get back in here!” I kept my back to her.
SLAM
. Turned. The door was shut.
Click
. She locked it tight. She was crying again. I could hear it through the door. Les was saying something under his breath.

I tottered down the steps to the front door. I grabbed the cool handle. But I couldn’t go out. I thought of the two of them upstairs, refusing to move. Stubborn. And dying up there. Someway, somehow. And their bodies rotting, leaving retired skeletons. The bones yellowing with age. And me sitting at home drinking and eating, surviving the outbreak, and knowing I left them just to die. I let go of the door. Divorcing myself. I went into the kitchen. Can’t tell you why I didn’t go upstairs. But I opened a drawer and withdrew a dull steel butcher knife. When I headed back to the stairwell, I looked into the living room, and saw a stream of blood flowing from around the bar. The blood went past my feet. Such a dark red.