36 Hours (9 page)

Somehow I found myself crawling through the darkness, away from the light. I came to the soft brick of the house. I remembered going into the cellar once. The memory from a year past reflected in my eyes, and I crawled around blindly, feeling the cold brick wall. A spider scurried over my hand. I flicked it away, head bashing against the deck above. It barely missed the long tip of a nail. Close call. What a sucky way to die. Impaled by a nail because of a dumb spider. My hand brushed grimy glass: the window. I couldn’t see inside. I wrestled with the window, but it didn’t budge. So I just slammed my fist into it as hard as I could. The glass was weak, and easily shattered. I heard footsteps above, going towards the gap. Had to get in before they saw me! I squirmed my way forward, into the window. My stomach brushed over broken glass, tearing at the skin. I didn’t care. I kicked with my feet, sending clouds of dust up to massage the under boards. And I fell through, tumbling, landing hard on several boxes, arm dangling down to the side, fingertips brushing the cold floor. I made it.

The room stunk of old garbage, and carried a rotting odor that made my nose wrinkle. My eyes slowly adjusted, and I saw again, so freshly, that evening so long ago. When everything was normal. How I wanted so bad to go back to those times. Remarkable, even more so, is how I wanted to be in school right now sitting through Study Hall. The walls were grimy and filthy, tugging close, Anthony Barnhart

36 Hours

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seeming to shut on you like eerie mandibles. I got to my feet, and had to duck to avoid bashing the ceiling. I feared more nails. My feet padded cautiously over the cool floor, reaching several wooden steps leading up to a hatch. The hatch, I knew, ran into the parlor closet. Hidden from view. A nice hiding spot. The infected hadn’t found it yet, and I hoped they wouldn’t. I ran back to the boxes, climbed over them, and looked into the darkness. The light shone through the cracks in the board, and the hole bled warm sunlight. They weren’t coming after me. I had escaped.

I had escaped. Relief first. Then physical pain.

I sat down on the boxes, noticing how bad my legs and arms hurt. I touched them lightly. Not broken, just swollen in places. Bruised. A hump was swelling over the top of my head, and there was a nasty cut next to my eye. I am guessing it was caused by the splintering wood. Splinters had cut into me, leaving dark welts, but none stuck into my skin. Some clung to the clothes, but I pulled them off, arm muscles aching, fingers sluggish. Then a hand went up my shirt, to the back, and I felt warm, sticky liquid. Blood. I probed my back, and found several rough areas where skin had been broken as if beaten with electric sandpaper. So it wasn’t a puncture wound. Just skin shredded off the surface, and bleeding. Nothing bad. Remarkable how I hadn’t broken my back. Though my head hurt like nothing else. Migraine and a half. Oh, and the neck! How could I forget the neck! To move it sent shivers of pain scolding up my spine, a barbed mace revolving round and round inside my skull. I stood and went over to the steps, legs throbbing. Burning. Some steps had broken through, and all were rotting in the gloom. I took them cautiously, and reached the hatch. I pushed on it, but it didn’t budge. They stored their Christmas gloves and boots in a box, and put it over the crawlspace hatch. I pushed harder and the box flipped over in the closet, spilling its contents against a vacuum cleaner. I pulled myself through, and stood rigid against the closet door. Quiet out there.

I opened the door, and stepped into the parlor.

The grandfather clock ticked.

Bloody footprints and shoeprints drenched the carpet. A couch was overturned.

The front parlor window had been broken in many places, glass covering the floor and the walk outside.

The front door hung loose on flimsy hinges.

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The stairs were covered with those bloody prints, too. Les and Hannah were still on the roof. The house seemed empty. I could join them.

A hand fell and brushed the keys on my belt.
The Jeep.
I could go home. I could just leave this hellish place. I didn’t want to go upstairs. I didn’t want to leave them, but what if they had
changed?

I stared into the mirror against the far wall, and saw my weary, haggard face. The mirror reflected the wall behind me. A shadow draped the wall. I swung around just as an infected woman walked out from around the corridor. She glared at me in surprise, as if to say,
You!
She charged. I dove out of the way, rolling over the floor, body complaining. She skidded into the wall and screeched. Blood dripped from her jaws.
Les. Hannah. Their blood
. Anger. She came at me again. This time I stood, and grabbed a lamp on a small couch table. Her clawed hands reached for me. I side-stepped and swung the lamp, smashing her hard in the back of the head. She stumbled into a bookcase and fell, sprawled over the ground. She stared up at me, still thirsty for my flesh. Blood formed a pool underneath her head.
King was alive.
I hurled the lamp down and bashed in her face. Her arms still quivered. I grabbed the bookcase sides with both hands and yanked it hard; it fell, books spilling, and collapsed atop the woman. Her arm stuck out from the side, and continued to reach for me. I stepped aside. Blood spun webs from underneath the book-case. Then I realized she wasn’t alone. More shadows coming towards me from the living room.

The Jeep.

The blood in her mouth.

The shadows, so much resembling a hunched duo of Les and Hannah. I ran for the front door, jumping through, and to the Jeep. An infected stood on the other side of the Cherokee, another crawling through the living room window. He turned and watched me. I grabbed the driver’s side door and wrenched it open. He snarled and came after me; the girl on the other side rushed at me. Down the street, more infected turned towards the fray. The door opened. The man swung at me. I had done some Tae-bo lessons, and I utilized it; I kicked him squarely in the chest, sending him to the ground. I jumped into the Jeep and shut the door. Locked it tight. All the other doors were unlocked. The infected were coming fast. I leaned over and locked them, shockingly swift, for how scared I really was.

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I unlatched the keys off my belt and shoved them into the ignition, turned. The Jeep engine sputtered. The dashboard came to life. ¾ tank of gas. More than enough. I threw it into reverse. And somehow I could hear them. The frantic cries. I reversed, rolling backwards, wheels thudding over a crouched infected. The frail garage door filled the windshield, and I looked up, and saw Les and Hannah on the roof, waving their arms, yelling at me to help them. But how could I? The urge to run filled my bones.

Les.

Hannah.

Infected banged at the windows; one fumbled at the back door latch.
It was
unlocked.
Then one jumped on the hood, howling at me, and raised a fist, and slammed it into the windshield. The glass webbed out and chunks of glass fell. The infected grandma raised her bleeding fist to strike again. I threw the stick back into
Drive
and hammered the gas pedal. The Jeep lurched, the front end smashing into the garage door; the flimsy door broke apart and fell, meaning no more than to keep out animals. The infected was thrown forward, into the collapsing garage door, and caught under the tearing linoleum. I reversed and ran over her head, sending brain matter and blood gushing over my tires. Les and Hannah got the point, and jumped. They landed on the hood, looked at me with shock, and climbed onto the top. Reverse. Pulled out of the driveway, slowly to make sure they didn’t fall off. The infected from down the street were almost to us. Those in the driveway reached up from the sides, scratching at Les and Hannah. One grabbed Les’ leg and tried to pull him down. I didn’t see it, until Hannah leapt down and punched the infected violently in the face, sending him to the pavement. Another infected came forward and Hannah grabbed the woman by the hair and bashed her face hard into the Jeep; the infected stumbled back. Les opened the trunk door and jumped in. Hannah followed. It hung open; we never could get it to close from inside the Jeep. Infected reached through at them. I hit the gas and the Jeep bounded forward, leaving them in a crowd of spitting dirt and pebbles. I weaved around the smoldering accident and accelerated down the road. Past fallen lamp lights and bodies, taking a wild turn and driving like a madman. The street was narrow. Sometimes I had to go up into the lawn. I ran over a dog, the Jeep shaking. Not even Hannah complained. And when I hit an infected 8-year-old meandering in the street, no one said anything, but only smiled.

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The infected disappeared behind us and I stopped us on the curb. Reaching back, I unlocked one of the back doors. “Shut the trunk door and get in.”

Hannah did so, and got in. Les crawled up with her.

“Austin, they’re coming.” He pointed between two houses on our left. About a dozen infected lumbered over a wooden fence and came after us, snarling and gurgling. The front door to a quaint little cottage opened and a teenage girl, stripped naked and covered with blood, ran after us. Oh, their horrible eyes. I drove away, gritting my teeth. Les and Hannah breathed hard in the back.

“Thank God you came,” Les said, panting, out of breath. “They had gotten onto the roof. The satellite ladder.”

“That place was like the fall of the Alamo,” I murmured. No one said anything else after that.

11:00 a.m.

AmeriStop

Homer’s Grocery

I ♥ My Mom

The pandemonium that had engulfed the streets just hours before had been erased, leaving nothing in its wake but the footfalls of disaster. Telephone wires lay sprawled over the ground, hissing sparks; light poles had fallen over the road, bulbs shattered; cars had flipped over and crashed, gone into houses; doors hung open, windows busted; dead littered the lawn and street and sidewalk; several houses had rotted down to nothing, charred by flames, and some still burned; smoke rose in coughing pillars, far in the distance; one of the skyscrapers, barely discernible above the roofs of homes, could be seen belching acrid smoke, reminiscent of September 11. I couldn’t go above thirty, for I had to dodge fallen poles and wrecks.

I went around a wreck and saw with my own eyes a woman hanging from the window, head and one arm gone, leaving bloody stumps and a thick pool of blood running over the street. I turned my head and turned right, throwing on my blinker. I sighed. Why did I need a blinker? I turned it off and drove towards the intersection. A seven-car wreck formed a ring around the dark stoplights, a crown of death and smoke.

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Hannah gawked out her window. “Where
is
everyone?”

Probably inside where it’s safe, I thought. Where they know they stand a better chance of living. Where they can sleep and eat in relative safety, even if their dreams are fraught with nightmares. Where they board up the windows and doors, thinking it will keep them out, though eventuality will eventually draw them from their seclusions, or starve or dehydrate them to the point of death. And I imagined that many had committed suicide. Suicide. Who could blame them? It seemed half-appetizing right now. And I thought that we probably weren’t the only ones who had fled by vehicle, seeing all the wrecks. The Jeep pulled up the hill towards the intersection. AmeriStop gas station came up on our left. The intersection was utterly cluttered. Couldn’t get through. I pulled into AmeriStop and went slowly. A car had been abandoned at the pumps, and several filled the parking spaces. The front panel windows had been shattered, strewing glass all over the magazine and utilities racks. There were no infected to be seen anywhere. From AmeriStop, we could look in every direction. Franklin was quiet, and no cars came; the earlier sirens of police cars and fire engines had vanished. Instead it was only the chugging of the engine and the brisk spring wind. While I couldn’t see the Chickapeek Wildlife Reserve, I imagined many had fled into its depths, into the rolling wilds, to escape the carnage. They would starve, I knew. Not many animals lived there, just forest. Beyond the reserve, thick clouds of smoke rose from the stretching farmland that bordered Caesar’s Creek. South, I imagined Carter Lake glistening under the sun, a false haven. And all the subdivisions, dozens and dozens, thousands of homes, were no better off than the one we had just left, known as the Royals (thought there was another Royals Subdivision just north of AmeriStop). The cruisers from the police station across the street were gone, and one had crashed in the intersection. The front door of the station was wide open, and blood streamed out from the door. And the horrendous sight, the skyscrapers and towering buildings of Downtown Arlington stood up against a sky of swirling clouds and striking blue; some had gaping holes, others burning fires. Smoke rose, twirling amongst the buildings, rising from the streets of Downtown Arlington. The highway, I imagined, was a bloody mess of neverending car crashes. And here we were, in a small part of Clearcreek, Ohio, knowing that this was but a taste of the horrors spreading like wildfire across the Globe.

“Let’s stop here,” Les said, “and get something to eat.”

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I stopped the car in front of the doors, warily eyed the area. Quiet. “Looks safe.”

“What if they follow us?” Hannah asked.

“How will they know we came up here?” Les remarked.

I stopped the engine, began removing the keys, but decided against it. Kept them in the ignition. Hope the infected couldn’t drive. I got out, tense, and felt the breeze ruffle my hair.

Hannah and Les opened their doors, and before they shut them, I said, “Keep them open. Just in case.” They read my mind. Didn’t want to get caught out.

“Les. Don’t lock your door this time.”

He nodded.

I went in through the doorway; Les and Hannah stepped through the tattered glass windows. Les picked up a magazine and flipped through it. The place was completely empty. The small eatery was vacant, the tables and chairs unmoving; a chair was flipped over. No one behind the desk, no one serving ice cream. I peered in through the glass display case, down into the buckets that held the ice cream. All were melted. I shook my head and went down the frozen food section. Some of the doors to the freezers were open, and the electricity had shorted out anyways. I guessed the electricity had finally drawn its last breath. Hannah went down an aisle, grabbing candy and chips and pretzels and seeds. Some boxes of Oreos and Pringles. Some dry cereal. She stuffed it under her arms. Les continued to leaf through some magazines.