Among the Living (38 page)

He slams his door shut and sinks into the plush interior. He leans over and looks at every button on the door to find the one that will unlock the car in case the driver’s-side door is the only one left open. What am I doing? he wonders and leans across the console to open the door for her instead of trying to find a button.

She makes it to the door. Her hand reaches in and touches the seat. Wan light from the sides of the garage door hits her beautiful face, which is painted in terror, eyes wide with fear and utter revulsion. Her mouth opens in horror as one of them grabs her hair and drags her down. She screams, and Les tries to maneuver the big gun in the small space. “You fucking monster, I’m going to kill all of you!” he screams in rage as Angela howls in pain. He can barely see the other two shapes bobbing around in the dark. He knows it is too late and there is nothing he can do for her. He slams the door shut and pounds the steering wheel in frustration. He hits buttons on his side until he hears the doors lock, and then he screams as loud as he can until there is no breath left in his body. Then he drags in another breath and does it again.

The line has not moved one foot while I was gone. I have two Cokes and a couple of bottles of water in hand. Erin takes one of the sodas and drains half of it in one lusty gurgle that impresses me. I manage a quarter of mine before she toasts me with the tip of her plastic bottle.

We have been inside for at least fifteen minutes, and we haven’t heard anything from the overhead speakers. No one has come out to assure us that everything will be okay. People mill around nervously, and there is chatter, but it is hushed. Others keep to themselves, glance at their cell phones, check laptops or just watch the calm water on which the ferry rests. To avoid the long line at the unmanned counter, I purchase our tickets at an automated machine.

A woman has been standing near us for the last few minutes, ever since she wandered in, looking dejected. She has a cardigan draped over the top of her dress, and I’m pretty sure I can see spots of dried blood behind it.

She glances at me, then looks away quickly but not before her eyes settle on one of the bottles of water I am hoarding. I look away, but then I remember some of the horror I have witnessed today. I wonder if she has lost someone or if she got away from one of the things. I turn to her and hold out a bottle.

“I ... thank you,” she says, and I think she is about to break into tears. She is older than I, a bit overweight and what I would think of as frumpy. But her smile is genuine, and it makes me smile in return.

“Did you have an encounter with one of them?” I ask in a tentative voice. I don’t want to push her away, but if I am going to report on this entire story, I need to talk to people.

“Yes.” She pauses to take a sip of the water. When the first drink rolls down her throat, she looks into the bottle and gives a little sigh, tilts it back and nearly drains it. “I haven’t had anything to eat or drink since this morning. I just forgot about that stuff.”

I wait because she deserves it. I don’t want to intrude on her life, and yet I want to hear her story. A terrible thing has happened to her; I can tell by the fear and despair in her eyes. She is distant, in shock. I wish I could help, but the best thing I can do, I think, is to just wait.

“My name is Alice. Alice Paulson.” She speaks in a small, quiet voice. She has her glasses shoved right up against her eyes, and it gives her something of a piggish look, but I imagine she was very attractive in her youth. “I came home from the ... from the grocery store, and I was bringing in bags. He was lying in a heap on the floor next to our son ... and I couldn’t believe he was home for a change.”

She takes a breath, then exhales slowly. “There was a gun on the floor, next to Ken and I saw that ... that he was dead. He had a big hole in his ...” She pauses for a moment and presses her hand to her nose to stop a sob.

Erin looks up at me, but I gesture with one hand in a downward motion that I hope means let’s give her a minute.

“Ken wasn’t himself. He attacked me, and I ran into the bedroom. I slammed the door in his face, but he bashed it down. He came at me, but I was climbing out the back window so I could run to my car.” She looks up at me after a pause and then goes on.

“His throat was a mess. I mean, it was torn and chewed on. He was covered in blood, and I don’t know how he could walk, how he could even move. I got away from his attack, but barely. He was so strong … like he was on drugs or something.”

I nod at the familiarity of her story after witnessing the same phenomenon not half an hour ago.

“Then I ran to the car. It was parked on the street. But he was right there. He knocked me down and tried to attack me again. He tried to ... He tried to eat me.”

Erin holds my hand to her side again, pressing her breast against my upper arm.

“I got away when one of the neighbors hit him in the head with a skateboard. She was just a teenager, and I used to see her on the thing all the time. She cut me off a few times, and I would get mad, but now I wish I could talk to her just one more time and tell her how brave she was.”

She sobs to herself for a few seconds, and Erin reaches over and rubs her shoulder and upper arm.

“I got away and ran to the house. We found my keys …” the story is a little disjointed, but I don’t say anything. “… and went back outside, but he wasn’t there. I got in the car, and as the girl tried to get in, Ken attacked her again, and bit her. Killed her.”

“I’m so sorry for your loss.” They are the only words I can think of.

“I didn’t get her name. I have no idea who she was, but she died. I just wandered after that. I drove to town and thought it would be calming to see the water. Then I thought it would be nice to get on a ferry and just, you know, go.” She looks down, and I feel uncomfortable.

“When this is all over, I bet you will be able to go back and find out what the girl’s name is. I bet she has some identification on her. We can track down her family, and we can tell them how brave she was.”

“No point. I think she is one of them now.”

A small crowd has gathered around us, and some of them start telling stories as well—stories of loss, pain, sorrow. I listen as Erin slips her hand around my waist. After a while, Alice wanders away and sits by herself. When her eyes find mine again, she tilts the water bottle at me, and I smile.

* * *

Another fifteen minutes pass, and no workers show up. I check the schedule for the sixth or seventh time. The ferry should be departing in a few minutes, but they still aren’t even boarding. Others stand around and, like me, look impatient. There is a scream from outside, and some go to look. Down below the terminal, cars sit in straight lines waiting to board.

Some National Guardsmen pull up in a Humvee. They jump out and start talking to drivers in the parking lot, motioning for them leave. The problem is that the lot is not designed for that. Cars can’t just turn around and leave.

A man covered in blood runs into the terminal. There are gunshots below, and people duck, drop behind cars, look around in fear. A couple of deaders have moved into the parking lot, but the Guards draw firearms and make short work of them. Score one for the good guys. Or are we? The deaders don’t know any better. They are just being treated like cattle. Then more deaders arrive and gunshots call out. Another man and his female companion run into the terminal, and they are breathless.

“What the fuck!” the guy yells. The woman looks around at all the expectant faces. There are at least thirty of us here, and not one of us is moving. The man walks up to the closed ticket window and bangs on it as hard as he can, but there is no answer.

“Where is everyone? Those things are out there. We need to get on the ferry and get out of town goddamn pronto.”

I couldn’t agree more.

“We don’t know.” Alice sits up and offers her wavering voice. “We are all waiting.”

“Well those things ain’t waiting.” And he leaves in a huff. There is a scream as he slams the door open and one of the deaders lurches toward him.

The man backs up in a panic, hands in front of his face, palms out in surrender.

The deader doesn’t look interested in surrender. His bloody mouth drools glistening crimson saliva. He moves with quick steps and makes a grab for the loudmouth, who steps aside and plants one big fist in the deader’s face. There is a pop, and momentum from the swing translates to force that throws the man to the floor. I hear a crack and wonder if it was the attacker’s jawbone.

The man steps forward and kicks the deader in the head as hard as he can, a great big reared-back kick that connects like he is aiming right at a goalie. The deader flies back and lies in a heap for a moment, and the man backs up. The deader struggles to his feet. The woman who came in with the fighter makes a panicked move through the door, but she re-emerges with a gray-skinned man pushing her. He has one hand wrapped around her throat, and he is grabbing at her chest. He pulls down, tearing off her top and the pink bra beneath, leaving her exposed. I think to look away, because that is what polite men do, but I can’t. I don’t care about her losing her top; it is the attacker that interests me.

One of the men waiting in line advances on the deader, and I am right behind. I wish I had some sort of weapon. Looking around, I see something I may be able to use. My new companion pulls the guy off by his hair and throws him to the floor. I scoop up one of the supports for the rope that defines the line, a heavy silver pole with a weighted base. I unsnap the hook as I swing it up so that the thick yellow dividing rope falls to the ground in a pile.

I hate what I am about to do. The deader is trying to get to his feet, and as I start the overhead swing, I see that he is an older man in shorts and an AC/DC t-shirt that has seen better days. He is probably a father. Maybe he has a daughter or two. Perhaps he is a good man who goes to church and would never hurt a fly. Is it his fault that he has been changed by this cursed virus? I swing for all I am worth anyway, and the heavy end of the pole makes contact with a sickening crunch.

When I hit the guy, his head dents inward. He stops moving and just falls forward as if the strings that controlled his puppet body have been severed. I want to throw up again. The sound was terrible—like a hammer hitting a melon.

“Nice swing, buddy.” The man I helped holds out his hand. It is rough and strong when I shake it. “Name’s Trevor.” He is taller than I am and wears a cowboy hat, cowboy boots, jeans and a Lone Star State t-shirt. His porn-star mustache covers most of his upper and lower lips.

“Mike.”

“I drive a truck, see, had a big ol’ delivery for Vashon. Beer. They love their beer over there. Anyway, I was going to take the ferry, but I been waiting here a long time, and I don’t think that damn thing is going to sail. I say we get people out of here before one of those things gets in and we can’t stop it.”

“We should wait here.” A woman with a large black hat that droops over her head speaks up. She is clad in a black dress that covers her from neck to ankle. It is slit up both sides so her white legs flash free. She must be warm in that thing in the July heat.

“You can wait for one a’ the things. I’m gonna take my chances finding a place I can hole up in with some guns. Right, Mikey?”

“He’s right.” Erin joins me. “We have nowhere to go from here except to the sea. We should find a hiding place until this is cleared up or the CDC or whoever can get in here and start administering vaccines.”

A pair of men dressed in camouflage gear stumbles in the door. One of them, the larger of the two, is supporting a soldier who is bleeding from his arm. His other arm, the one that appears uninjured, is draped over the big man’s shoulder for support. They both collapse and set their machine guns on the ground. I go to their side, but I’m not sure what to do. Erin joins me, and we both crouch next to them.

“Do you need a bandage?” I ask and notice that I am not sickened by the blood like I was earlier today.

“I got it,” the guy says. He is a black man younger than I am. I put his age around twenty-six, if that. He takes a white-wrapped package from a pouch on his belt and rips it open with his teeth. He helps the other guy peel off his shirt, and that’s when I realize it’s not a man but an older woman. Her jacket top is covered in blood down the injured side, and I can see the puncture wound in her bared arm, right below a big tattoo of Olive Oyl, the girl from Popeye.

I back up in a flash, thinking she may have been bitten.

“I’m fine. I think a bullet nicked me,” she groans as he lifts her t-shirt sleeve and applies the bandage. It has an adhesive back that covers a large area. He presses it hard and puts her hand on top of it while she makes a face at the pain.

Another guy crashes through the terminal door, and it is clear he isn’t one of us. He snarls like an animal as he sees all the people lined up like cattle for the slaughter. The soldier grabs his machine gun and does something to the side, maybe hits a safety. Erin drags the woman back from the door as the other soldier opens fire.

In the terminal, the sound is nothing like it was outside. In here, the shots echo around the room in sharp booming retorts that make my ears ring. The deader scoots back, a little crab walk on his butt, and then comes to his feet in a rush. The first couple of shots were in haste and they struck the man in the chest. Somehow the thing stays on his feet, so the man aims and drills one right through the skull.