DISEASE: A Zombie Novel (8 page)

Dead.

“No!” Danny’s voice cracks. Casey’s body lies at his feet and she stares straight ahead, her spark extinguished. Her forehead gapes, greyish jelly leaking onto the bloodstained marble. The world buzzes around Danny as though he’s on a different vibration—he doesn’t feel like this is reality.

Inside the lobby Alex bursts free of Lot’s grip. Tears begin to stream from his blue eyes, soaking his cheeks. He throws himself at the foyer, knapsack dragging on the floor behind him and reaches his thin arms through the cage. He grips one of Casey’s fingers.

Danny stares down at the child. Utter horror stains the boy’s face and scratchy, inarticulate moans of sheer anguish escape his lips. The moaning is more disturbing than if he were crying normally.

Danny turns his moonlike eyes to Lot, his world wavering, as though he’s moving through thick water. The guards still have their guns raised, fingers on the triggers. There are already two dead bodies decorating the foyer, what’s one more?

Danny’s gaze is drawn to Casey once again. He stares at her face. Her large, brown eyes are lifeless and her mouth is slightly agape. He’s seen so many dead bodies in his life, but this is more horrible than any other. The boy grips Casey’s hand, his body curving around it, cradling it through the cage. He drops his face into her dead palm and sobs rise from his body in huge, noiseless gasps. Danny chokes back a rising feeling of dread.

“Strip!”

The word slices like a whip. The swish of pounding blood overtakes the buzz in his ears and he clenches his jaw so tightly it’s a wonder his teeth don’t crack.

He grips the cage wall and shakes it.

“SHE WASN’T BITTEN!”

Thick Marge crosses her arms and glares back defiantly. “I’m sorry Danny. Not even your preferential treatment around here extends that far.”

If there weren’t a cage keeping him in, Danny would punch her square in the jaw. He would knock all her goddamn teeth down her fat throat and then use her face as a stomping ground. He grips the cage so hard that his fingers begin to bleed. His body shakes with rage and he pins Thick Marge down with hateful eyes. She looks worried for a split second that the cage won’t hold, but it’s solid.

From the corner of his eye, Danny catches Lot as she kneels next to Alex. His chest tightens and he lets his arms fall limply to his sides as he turns to face them. Lot rubs the boy’s back and she gently tries to pull him from Casey’s body. Danny’s shoulders slouch forward, every ounce of grief and anger suddenly turning inward on him. His insides feel rotten.

Lot looks up at the blond man trapped in the cage. “I’m sorry, Danny.”

He has seen the look a million times, it’s an elaborate mask she wears, making her seem as though she cares deeply, but for the first time in his life he sees cracks, and he knows she’s anything but sorry. The buzzing returns to his ears and he thinks for a moment that this must all be a dream.

“STRIP!” Arnold commands.

Danny’s fingers feel like rubber as he unhooks his belt.

Lot gently tries to guide Alex away from Casey’s body again. The child resists. He claws for the cage, refuses to release Casey’s hand. The guard that shot Casey grips the boy’s shoulder firmly and pulls. Alex turns violently and kicks the guard in the kneecap as hard as he can. The guard sprawls onto the floor and barely has time to lift his hand in defense as the boy attacks like a wild animal, growling.

Alex sinks his teeth into the guard’s flesh. Blood stains the boy’s lips and leaks down his chin. The terrified guard howls and rolls around, as though he’s on fire. He screams at the top of his lungs, panicked. “Get him off! Get him off!”

Alex threatens the crowd with his teeth. His mop of matted hair bounces and wild eyes peer out from a dirty face. He jumps and darts around people as they dive away from him. Uneasiness and fear are palpable.

CASEY IS DEAD.

The boy spins in place, unsure where to go. Unfriendly faces hover all around him. Guns are everywhere.

CASEY IS DEAD.

The grey-haired woman glides closer. She reaches out a hand. Alex steps back. Won’t let her touch him. Won’t let anyone touch him.

CASEY IS DEAD.

He clings to his knapsack, hot tears leaking down his face and then jets off into the darkness, disappearing into the bowels of the hotel.

***

He doesn’t know how he was able to do it, but somehow Danny managed to drag himself to his room. He knows he should feel upset in some way, but instead he just feels numb. He lights an oil lamp in the corner and sits on the end of the double bed. The sheets are clean but dingy, just like the rest of the room.

The lamp burns brightly, its dark smoke staining the ceiling of the hotel bedroom. Almost everything in the room that could be removed and used for another purpose has been, save for the bed and a full-length, inset mirror that Danny now stares into.

He barely recognizes himself. The disheveled hair, the unshaven, bloodstained face, and haunted, sleep deprived eyes that stare back can’t be his own. This day can’t be his life.

He looks down at a worn water jug at his feet. Somewhere he is vaguely aware of being thirsty, but the urge to sleep, to shut down and leave this world behind, is much too powerful. He flops back onto the neatly made bed and closes his eyes.

***

Opie stares out a viewing hole at the horde of living corpses decorating the front lawn of the hotel. The fire in the grass is burning lower than before, but it’s still bright enough to attract The Risen.

Abel is only blackened bones in the dirt now. With nothing left to feed on, The Risen wander aimlessly. Occasionally, they snap and swat at each other, but somehow they recognize the living from the living dead. Some may appear to be slow and stupid, but many are fast, and all are dangerous.

Frustrated, Opie clicks shut the peephole and surveys the lobby. It’s a total mess with pools of blood clotting on the floor. The larger population must be protected at the cost of the individual, but this feels different to him. He watches as Lawrence’s and Casey’s bodies are extracted from the foyer.

Opie can’t remember a time when Lot was so invested in what happened in the foyer cage. She always trusts the judgment of the guards on duty and she certainly never has a direct hand in the death of anyone bitten. She leaves that dirty work to others; this was a rare public display.

Opie knows Lot better than most. He knows everything that happened tonight has some sort of end game, and he can bet what it is. He knew
something
was going to happen the second Danny showed up with that woman and boy. Lot is an expert at seizing opportunities, at manipulating those around her, and she doesn’t waste time.

This plays a big part in her influence, but also in the growing whispers surrounding her. It’s become a regular necessity to deal with “political dissidents”. Opie has an ear for this sort of thing and tonight’s events are sure to start up the underground gossip wagon. Already he has heard three different recollections of what happened here tonight.

What really sticks with Opie is Alex. He isn’t shocked to see Lot’s interest in the child (she certainly has a type), but it’s been a while, years in fact, since Opie’s had to cover her tracks. Now that child is running loose in the hotel and there’s much unwanted attention on the situation. Opie’s stomach burns.

All of this uncomfortably reminds him of when his many suspicions about Lot were confirmed. He hadn’t known, not for sure, not until that very moment when Danny, then a distraught little boy, reached out. Opie felt bad, but not bad enough to stop it. Besides, it was the way of the world and it was better the child learn that quickly than harbor a delusion that someone would, or should, save him.

He had scolded Danny, acted as if he didn’t believe a word the boy said. Opie shamed him so badly that Lot’s secret remains well kept to this day. It was then he realized he had never needed to sell his soul to the devil. His soul, he thought, had been slowly and willingly leaked away day by day. Finally, it was just gone, with barely a shrug of the shoulders.

Opie rarely allows his mind to drift near Lot’s true nature. He knows her for what she is and knows he will never do anything about it. Not as long as it benefits him not to, that is.

Acid bubbles in his stomach. The residue of Opie’s humanness often has trouble mixing with his need to put himself first. He can’t stop thinking about the new blond-haired, blue-eyed boy, but doesn’t really matter how he feels, it will be what it will be.

***

Darkness blankets Alex. It’s comforting and if he could, he would fade into the wall pressed against his back.

CASEY IS DEAD.

His muscles are stiff and his joints ache from hours of crouching, wedged between long forgotten janitorial supplies. The smell of cleaning fluid, spilled ages ago itches his nose. Still, he refuses to move, won’t gratify himself with a sneeze. It’s unsafe.

The doorknob turns. He can’t see it, but he can hear it. It scratches. It booms.

CASEY IS DEAD.

The door opens, just a crack, not enough to escape. Alex stays still.

CASEY IS DEAD.

He breathes heavily as the door opens a bit more and candlelight reaches its fingers into the closet. The pulsating light ricochets off the walls, distorting everything. Alex squints, his eyes adjusting slowly. A face floats behind the glare of flame, he’s seen it before: Lot.

She lowers herself to sit cross-legged in front of the door, her body blocking the way out. In her hand is a plate that she shoves a short distance into the closet. On it rests a sandwich, crusts cut off.

Alex stares at the plate. His heart pounds furiously in his chest and his knees creak as he readjusts himself for a better view of the food. His belly aches so deeply that it’s hard to remember that CASEY IS DEAD.

He sways on his feet slightly, rocking.

The sandwich, just an arm’s length away, beckons him. Thick slices of bread leak globs of dark red jam onto a bright white plate that seems almost phosphorescent. His stomach rumbles and it’s all he can hear.

Alex shoots a dirty arm out of the darkness and swipes the sandwich, leaving the plate wobbling on the floor and crams the sandwich into his mouth. The bread is warm, heavenly, fresh. Sweet, sticky strawberry jam coats his eager tongue. He barely chews, can’t take the time to savor, his stomach demands food.

And then it is gone. Eaten. And he is still famished.

Alex, squatting like a true Tarzan-child, grabs the plate and licks the crumbs and leftover jelly from it. It isn’t enough, his stomach screams, he can’t get enough.

“I made that just for you, Alex.” Lot is speaking. It’s supersonic. Her mouth is moving, her head is shaking and it’s so loud Alex thinks his eardrums will burst. He jerks his head to the side.
Try a little harder, Alex,
he thinks as he squints at her, stares at the words coming from her face.

“Don’t be afraid. You won’t be punished for what you did to the guard who shot Casey.”

CASEY IS DEAD.

Alex’s vision washes black, just for a second. He feels the bullet in Casey’s head, the searing, unbearable pain, as if it hit his own. Hot tears threaten to corrode his eyes. He fights them; jerks his head to the side.
Try a little harder, Alex.

Lot is still talking.
Casey
, he hears,
Casey
. The words slur together, a blaring, off-beat orchestra. It’s too hard to focus as his stomach growls.

Alex stares at Lot, rocking slightly, not blinking. She stands and steps aside, leaving an opening. Alex ignores the pain in his screaming muscles, it’s time to go. Lot holds up a hand. Her nails are clean, round, not ragged. Her hands are washed, soft, cared for.

Alex looks up at her, she flashes her teeth. Her hand invites him to pass and he pushes by. Beyond the blaring candlelight the corridors are dark, long, open mouths—unending black holes that lack the comfort of the tiny closet. His stomach growls again.

Lot crouches down next to the hesitant boy. He is scared, exhausted, and beat to dust. “Why don’t I make you a nice hot dinner, with all the trimmings, just for tonight, and I’ll help you on your way tomorrow.”

Alex looks up at her.
She has sandwiches.
Her hand extends. After what seems like eons he slowly gives her his own small, grimy paw.

She gathers up the empty plate and then hand in hand they walk away from the closet, the thick abyss eventually swallowing everything, even the guttering light of Lot’s candle.

***

Danny lies on his bed, unmoving, staring blankly at the ceiling, his mind lost in the yawning catacombs of deep thought. He doesn’t know how long he’s been lying here or even if he’s fallen asleep. He traces his fingers along his wristwatch, not even noticing he’s doing it. All he knows is the dark spinning of his mind, and then suddenly, he is aware again.

A pang of guilt shoots through his core. What did he think he was doing anyway? He wishes he could rewind, he wishes he never brought Casey here. He wants to stop thinking, wants to move, wants to do something.

The watch ticks, it’s seconds going by too slowly. On its side is a small knob that winds it, but he always forgets. The watch was his father’s, and his grandfather’s before him, and he presumes, his great-grandfather’s. The waning noise makes the night’s events even more unbearable.

Danny thinks back to when he was a few years younger than Alex. He was only seven then, it was his father’s funeral. With the watch hidden in his pocket, he sat alone in the front pew, where he could see his reflection in the shiny black veneer of the coffin. Next to it stood Lot, preaching to the small congregation. No one came to comfort him as he mourned quietly, tears streaming down his face.

He remembers feeling each tick of the watch as the long hand swung around the dial, the space between each second causing his heart to seize up. He was deathly afraid the uneven beat would stop, that the watch would die. All it really needed was to be rewound, but in his grief-stricken state, it felt like a living thing with a pulse, as though the watch were his father, and if the watch died his father was really gone, for good.