36 Hours (5 page)

Now I went towards the bar. Curiosity drew me. Perplexed. The dog’s nuzzle pointed from around the bar, mouth slack. The fur glowed dark red, matted down with blood. The tongue, thick and swollen, lay splattered over the bloody tile. The knife held rigid in my hands. Then the dog’s head pulled back a moment, then returned to where it was. The fur had a dent where its head had been resting. Now the angle was different. I peered over the counter. A teen from across the street wore nothing but shorts, and had three ragged slashes down his mottled back. Hair drenched with sweat and blood dangled down his scalp. I let out a muffled cough. The head snapped up. Flesh, fur, meat and muscle hung from his jaws, blood dripping down his chin and running down his neck. Those sunken eyes stared at me as if in wonder, then the jaws opened in a gruesome screech. He straightened up and lunged at me; I backed away from the bar, but he fell over it. Bloody claws scraped at me as his legs kicked. I drew the knife out; he hollered at me, and I sunk the blade down into his neck, pressing down with force and feeling the flesh and tissue shear under the tip and blade of the dagger; blood squirted all over my shirt. He twitched once, then lay still. Blood gushed up and around the knife. I let it there and collapsed onto the couch, breathing so hard I felt my lungs would burst. The Anthony Barnhart

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blood smeared all over my hands and shirt when I found the stupidity to try and wipe it off.

Sunlight from the window caressed my face. It was broken, a gaping hole looking into the room. Glass shards covered the floor, glittering like jewels in the morning light. A fine wind breathed in, and I welcomed it. The street was deserted. I saw a man run down the sidewalk, obviously in fright. But he was not chased. Why was he running? Then I knew. We all had to run. No one was safe. Hartford was a nightmare. It succumbed. And I had a thought, a fear, a revelation:
we will succumb, too.

All of us.

9:00 a.m.

Chris King no more

Dead are not dead

What happened to Hannah’s brother

So I went back upstairs. What else to do? I didn’t feel like waiting for death by the broken window. The door was locked. I felt fear ripple through them when I jiggled the door-knob. They got the message when I knocked and let me inside. Hannah looked at me. “Did you change your mind?” Then she saw the blood spattered over my clothes, her hand flashed up over her mouth, and she fell back against Les. Les just gaped at me in shock. Hannah turned and dropped back to the bed, and started to cry again. Hands folded over her head, tears dripped between tender fingers.

“What in the name of everything sacred happened?” Les mouthed, jaw dropping as if all the muscles suddenly popped loose. My breath still came in ragged breaths. The blood was warm on my hands.

“You were right. There was someone out there.” My own voice surprised me—

my soul was churning, mind screaming, and all that came was a detached drone. Les nodded. “Is the person still there?”

Shook my head. “No.”

“Do you want some water?”

“Yeah.” I allowed myself into the bathroom, ran water over my hands. The light above me bobbed. Surprising, with all the accidents and fires and mayhem, the electricity was still running. Then I remembered that Spring Fal s was Anthony Barnhart

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hooked onto a back-up electricity generator. It had a couple of hours of electricity stored on it, so we had… I looked at my watch. Only about another two hours and the electricity would short out. By noon, we’d be without power. And night. I pushed it from my mind. Didn’t want to worry about that. My stomach growled, and bladder cried. I relieved myself.
Knock knock
on the door. Les. “Is it safe to go downstairs?”

“Should be. Just don’t look in the living room.”

“Why?”

“Not now. I don’t want to think about it.” I zipped up. When I washed my hands and left the bathroom, only Hannah was there. She stood before the window. The door was shut and locked. I went over to her and stood beside the window. We peered between the branches of a splendid oak. Fresh leaves blossomed and swayed in the wind. The street was deserted. Sirens in the distance, with honking. The faint whisper of screams. I didn’t understand why we were so alone. Then I figured, we weren’t. Survivors – more than just us! – had to be out there.

“Do you know why,” Hannah said, surprising me, “do you know why my brother wasn’t with me?”

I didn’t answer.

“Do you think I would’ve left Peyton?” Her eyes bore into me, dangerous.

“Do you think I would have abandoned my brother?”

“No.”

“I loved him. I loved him so much. I don’t care how many times he hit me, knowing that I didn’t like it. I always complained about how much it hurt, and how I hated it.” She rubbed her arm. “I didn’t like it. But it didn’t hurt, not really. He never would hurt me. He didn’t do it to hurt me so much as to tease me. He felt comfortable teasing me. He loved me. And no matter how
much
he drove me insane, no matter how
angry
and
irritated
it drove me, I always loved him. I missed him on school vacations.” She shook her head, tears swelling. She looked directly at me. Voice choppy, choked. “I loved my brother, Austin. You know I wouldn’t have left him behind.”

“I know that,” I said, not knowing what else to say. She managed through weak sobs, “I tried… You know I… But it… He…”

“It’s okay…”

“No. No. Don’t say that. It’s not okay.” She wiped tears away with her hand.

“Austin… I
watched
him. I
saw
what happened to him. I
saw
it. I
saw
my Anthony Barnhart

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brother.” And she said no more, but the cries overcame her, and she went over to Les’ navy beanbag chair and dropped down, curling into a fetal position facing the wall. Tears crawled down her face, stained the wooden panel flooring. I saw her shivering under those clothes, shaking in mourning, I heard her choking wails and cries. I saw her stringy hair sticking to her face as her eyes bulged and throat rasped and tongue swelled. My heart melted. Knocks at the door. At first I didn’t move, but I walked over and opened it.

“It’s Chris King,” Les told me, in a daze. “He rode our bus. His license was suspended for-“

“Who?” The name was unfamiliar. “Outside? For God’s sake, let him-“

“No,” Les told me. “He’s downstairs.”

A hoarse whisper. “Oh.”

He saw Hannah, said to me, “Come into my room with me.”

“And leave her?”

“She’s safe. We need to talk. Come on.”

So we shut the door, left Jack’s room, and walked down the hallway, into Les’

room. An XP sat dark and sullen against the wall. The digital clock slowly ticked its red neon numbers. Les’ clothes hung from a hook, and the bed was a gnarled mess of twisted blankets and thrown pillows. Les shut the door and locked it tight.

“Did you lock Hannah in?”

“Yeah.” He peered out the window. “It’s a ghost town.”

“It doesn’t feel right.”

“I know. What do you think happens to them?”

I rolled out the leather computer chair. Dropped onto the cushions. “I’ve no idea.”

“It’s like it just… latches onto people.”

I remembered the school. The never-ending nightmares. Those who were bit became the demons, became the killing machines, devoid of humanity. Bodies without souls. “I don’t know. I guess. It’s not random, though.”

“No?”

“Everyone who turns into these…things… has come into contact with them. I mean, they’ve been attacked.”

“So if you’re attacked, you join them?”

“That’s not possible. I think this is a disease or something.”

“Then what’ve you been rambling about?”

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“It’s a disease. A communicable disease. Through saliva. Blood. I don’t know.”

“Body fluids?”

“Something like that.”

“So if you get the body fluids in you… Then you become them. Right?”

I cocked an eye. “Tell me again, Les, how in the world should I know?”

He sighed. “It’s just-“

“Do you hear that?” I raced to the window. He was right behind me. A truck drove by, frantically swerving down the road. In the bed an infected was crawling towards the cab; the back cab window slid open and the barrel of a shotgun poked out. A blast of white light, and the infected lit up with plumes of meaty red and purple flung into the air; the infected fell backwards, flipped over the back rail of the truck, fell to the street. The barrel pulled back into the cab and the truck went down the road, out of sight. Over in seconds.

“I guess,” Les said, “they’re still around.”

“We can’t let our guard down.”

“I wonder if the phones work.” We went downstairs. I turned my eyes from the carnage. He dropped the phone. “Just silence. Not even static. Nothing.”

My nose wrinkled. “That smell.”

“It’s the scent of death.”

“Nice parody. Didn’t need it.”

“I know.”

“Please stop.”

He crossed his arms. The blood ran beside our feet, through the kitchen, into the dining room. The blood seemed to turn to jello, becoming thick in spots, like the glazed film over spoiled milk. Except it smelt worse. Les rubbed his eyes and went into the family room. I rummaged through the cup-boards, looking for a snack. Screw my diet. I discovered a box of Cheezits, popped a few in my mouth. Stale. I swallowed some more. Les went into the front room, peering out the bay window, shaking his head. I dropped the box and stepped over the river of blood.

And I looked, followed the river, into the living room. Blood stained the bar in dripping torrents, splattered like wet paint. And it was bare.

Heart pounding. Heart racing. Heart thumping. No. No. Impossible. No. The knife. Falling. Into the throat. Blood gushing. Gushing. Body falling. Chris King Anthony Barnhart

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is no more. No. No. Chris King
is not here
. Terror. I don’t know how I did it. I don’t know how my body wasn’t literally paralyzed with fear. But my foot stepped out. And the other followed. The walls to either side slid past, too fast, yet morbidly slow. And the room opened. It was empty. The dog’s head lie there, tongue lolled out past its teeth, blood drenching the fur. The bar stank of vomit and urine and feces, blended with the sweet and sour odor of drying blood.

I walked around the bar, bracing myself, running it over and over in my mind: the swift attack, me falling, as King’s claws rip me to pieces. I walked around the bar. And looked down. The dog’s side was torn open, as if hands dropped in and pulled. Flesh ragged at the sides. Blood formed a pool within the cavity, bones smeared and sticking out; organs open and spilling yellow puss. I swiveled away.

And saw a bloody trail leading back to and out the window. My own legs yanked me towards the window, and I stood leaning out between the shards. The wind ruffled my hair. The street was deserted except for the infected who had caught five shotguns hells in his chest, turning it to mauled meat. Back to the bar. King was gone. How? How did a dead body rise up and just walk out? How? How?

How?

I turned to go, swung my gaze by the window.

The infected in the street wobbled to his feet, hunched over, bleeding.

“What the-“ The blood stained his clothes as he turned around in the middle of the street. Blood gushed from the wounds in his chest, dripping down his pants, splattering on the pavement. The head on the stocky shoulders turned back and forth in the middle of the intersection, eyes alive.
Alive
. The dead were alive. I had seen the bullets. I had seen them tearing through him. I had seen his body ruptured and broken. I had seen him fall from the truck. I had seen him die.
And now he was getting to his feet.

Swallowed. Perspiration littered my forehead. I felt weak. My arms shook. Knees knocked. And my muscles turned to milky mush, slush like the snow after it fell and became soiled by the exhaust of tractor trailers and snow plows. I always thought that the rubbery sensation was a lie—an exaggeration, a metaphor. A twist on the truth. But, no. I teetered backwards; grabbed a light for support. It crashed against the wall, the bulb shattered. The noise roared. I regained my balance, ears burning.

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The infected in the street stared right at me. Those awful eyes.
Alive
. The mouth opened. Stained teeth. Blood dripping down the maw. Feral eyes. It knew.

“Oh no…” I turned and ran for the steps. My feet slipped on the blood and I fell face-first, bashing my forehead over the door-frame. Stars floated in front of my eyes. My feet twisted, losing traction in the blood. I fell backwards, landing hard. Blood trickled from a swelling on my forehead, staining my eyes, burning like acid. I tried to blink it away, saw red. One arm groped at the wall, the other reached for the lip of the bar, to pull myself up. My elbow brushed the rigid dog head; I let out a scream, gut ural and wicked. My feet slipped and tore through the heavy blood. The light from the window blew over me, and it went dark, the shadow of a hunched figure throwing itself against the glass. Shattering. It was in the room. I propelled myself against the back door, lifted myself up. The infected came at me. An old man. Not Mr. Smith, or Mr. Gray. No one I knew. Didn’t care. He was after me.

He was going to kill me.

My hands flailed against the doorknob to the back door, and I ripped myself up. The infected loomed. I pressed myself against the door and kicked my legs out, catching him in the chest. The infected flung backwards and tumbled over the couch. My hands tore frantically at the back door behind the bar; it was locked, so I pulled harder. It tore from the moorings and I sprinted onto the deck. Birds flapped away. I ran down the deck. The door came open. The infected was at the door, looking left, then right at me. I slapped bloody hands against the kitchen window. Les appeared in the kitchen. Saw my terrified face, rushed forward and opened it. The infected came at me, snarling, heaving like an ape. I jumped through the open window headfirst, bashed my already-battered hand on the table. I twisted over, pain, cramps. My legs dangled out the window. Les shouted; the infected grabbed my foot, clawed; I fell to the floor, escaping the creature’s grasp. Les stood over me; he swung a pan out and bashed the infected in the face as it tried to come through. It tottered back out on the deck.