Dredging Up Memories (25 page)

“I thought it would work. It did in one of those James Bond movies. Bond just pointed his gun and fired, and the tank blew up all the bad guys.”

“You saw it in a movie?”

“Yeah.”

The thump on the front window brought us from our discussion. Again, Hetch backed the van up, this time along the road. The dead followed him, their bodies rotting and their moans much like an angry mob’s yells.

“Did you see that in a movie too?”

He laughed, which is more than I could do.

“No. It’s a diversion, a tactic used all the time. Kind of like when some women I used to know wanted the boss to notice them, they dressed a little differently, more seductively. It always distracted the men—all of us—and pissed off the other girls in the office. For a while, though, the distraction worked in getting those women what they wanted.”

“Does that mean you’re a woman and you’re going to use your wares to distract them?” I pointed at the steadily progressing horde.

“No—you’re going to distract them.”

“I am?”

Again, he laughed. 

“You’re going to go right up to the store. I’m going to hop out, and you are going to drive off—slowly. This will lead them away from me. Shoot a couple of them. If noise is as much of a distraction as movement, then that could draw a few more of them away as well.”

I understood his thinking, but I wasn’t too keen on it right then. This was his first time out in the world since almost dying. What if he wasn’t ready? It was like pushing your kid on a bike and letting go before he had his feet peddling. The kid was usually ready, but the parent never was.

“I don’t know about this. It’s too risky.”

“We need more than what you brought back, and unless wherever you got it from still has more, do you have any better suggestions?”

Wherever I got it from?
It did have more before I burned the place down. I was certain of that. But I wouldn’t tell him. No. That secret was mine.

“Fine, but I’m only giving you a few minutes in there. You look around. If it appears too dangerous, get out of there. You got it?”

“Got it, boss.”

He gave a cheesy salute and then sped up, pulling away from the dead as they gave chase. Fifty yards away, if that, he slammed on the breaks. The tires barked on the blacktop.

“Trade places,” he said, opened his door, and got out.

I rounded the van and got in the driver’s side.

“Now, turn around and go back.”

The road was a four-lane. It was easy enough to make a U-turn. When I did, I saw the biters. There were so many more than I expected. They marched toward us, a shambling mass of rotting limbs. I cracked the window enough to hear the chorus line of moans and groans, the sounds of pleading coming from the souls trapped inside.

“Walker, go.”

I don’t know why I listened to him, but I eased off the break and pressed onto the gas. The van picked up speed, and I swerved off the road to keep from hitting them. We passed them on my right. There must have been hundreds of them.

“This isn’t going to work,” I said, my nerves tingling and my stomach fluttering with millions of butterfly wings.

“It’s worth a shot.”

“Not if one of us—or both of us—gets killed.”

Hetch said nothing, which was probably a good thing. He had to be thinking the same thing. But he was willing to take the risk, take a chance that we may not survive so that we may, well, have a
chance
to survive. I still wasn’t so keen on the idea, but I also wasn’t the one who had almost died because of a bite from one of those things.

I inhaled a deep breath and mashed the gas harder.

We reached the parking lot, and I swerved in, striking a biter and knocking her over in the process. She landed hard against the sidewalk, her head splitting open. There were still plenty of them swarming the place, but we had a clear path to the front of the building. I floored it, reaching the doors in seconds.

”Take this,” I said and handed him my pistol.

He glanced at the gun, hesitant to take it, I guess.

“Hetch, take the gun.”

Finally, he took it, though I’m still not too sure he wanted to, and then he got out of the van and hurried to the doors. I watched him run, feeling like the dad dropping his kid off for his first day of school. I suddenly felt very lost and alone inside. My stomach knotted, and sweat began to bead along my forehead. The van felt stuffy and small and confining.

Hetch had to shove one of the doors open, but then he was gone. I sat there for a few seconds more, hoping he would come back having decided he wasn’t quite ready for school yet. Then the dead began to beat on the back of the van. I drove off and back into the street but much slower than before.

On the road, I led as many of them away from the parking lot as I could. In the rearview, I could see a couple hundred biters straggling behind the van.

“This is taking too long,” I said to no one. “I need to get back.” With that, I did another U-turn, but the dead walked the width of the road. There was no plowing through that many biters. A moment of nervous tension welled up in my chest. I would never make it around that mass. We were going to die there, me inside the van and Hetch somewhere in Wal-Mart.

But there was a break in the bodies along the edge of the road. I turned the van toward that gap and then eased onto the shoulder. I gave the van enough gas to keep from bogging down in the grass. I hit several of the biters but not enough to slow me down. When I was able to get back on the road, I realized I had gone a lot further from Wal-Mart than I had intended.

Back in the parking lot, I pulled up where I had left Hetch. I started to get out, to run inside and see if I could find him. But if the biters came back, we would both be stuck. As it was, we still had a fighting chance. There weren’t as many biters still in the parking lot, and the few that were there, I could easily take down with a machete or the front end of the van.

A minute passed. Then another. My chest tightened. My mouth became dry. Four minutes passed, and I was on edge, looking in the mirrors and checking the front of the store. I began to sweat not because I was hot but because I was worried. In the fifth minute, the dead began to make their way back to the parking lot. I started to get out of the van.

There was no need to.

Hetch pushed a door open. He pulled a buggy full with all sorts of things and then went back inside. One of the biters started for the door. I got out of the van and pulled the machete free. Hetch shoved the door open a second time, pulling with him another cart. 

The biter, a grizzled-looking old guy with wisps of gray hair on his head, shuffled forward. He was close enough to Hetch to get a good chomp down on him. Then he did something I didn’t expect. He stopped and turned away. He came toward me, his eyes a horrible white, his bottom lip torn free, exposing black gums and gray teeth. His nose was nothing more than flat skin. I brought the machete across his head, where it sank into the side of his skull. I pulled the blade free as the old man dropped to the ground.

“Come on,” I yelled and rounded the van. I pulled open the side door. By then, Hetch was there with the first buggy. I unloaded it quickly as he ran back for the other. It rattled on the concrete, one wheel spinning and bumping along.

I looked back. The biters were getting closer.

“We have to hurry,” I yelled and slung bag after bag after bag into the van.

We shoved the carts away and hopped in. The dead converged on us. They slapped at the windows and the doors and the sides and back of the van. It was like a sea of dead, and we were stuck in the middle of it, drowning as the waves tossed us about.

“What are we going to do?” Hetch asked. His eyes were wide and wild. He was breathing hard, and I thought he would hyperventilate where he sat.

“We have to get rid of some of them.”

“How?”

“Shoot them. Stab them. We have to get out of this crowd before the rest of them get on top of us.”

We rolled down the windows just enough to shoot the first few surrounding the van. They crumpled away, each one taking a couple with them when they fell. I gave the engine some gas, and we lurched forward, knocking over several biters in the process. The back tire spun on one of the bodies, caught traction, and then we were moving across the lot. Out on the road, we circled around the coming horde, Hetch with his window down and firing away when one of the biters was too close. He missed more than he hit.

I don’t know how we made it out of there, but we did. Back on the road out of Newberry, we sat quietly for a few minutes, the adrenaline rush of the previous hour slowly calming down enough for us to think things through a little.

“What happened back there?” I asked.

“We got supplies.”

“No. Not that. That biter had you. You were a goner. Then it stopped and turned for me. What was that all about?”

“I don’t know.” He sounded like a child. His face seemed to become small, his eyes grew distant. “But it happened in the store too.”

“What do you mean?”

“There was a kid. I don’t know, maybe a teenager.”

“Was he alive?”

“No. No. He was very dead. Probably had been for some time. He was near the back of the store. I didn’t hear him at first, but when I did…he was almost too close to do anything. Then, just like the old man, he stopped and turned away. I was so startled at first that I did nothing, just kind of watched him limp away. Then I got mad and knocked him down and kicked his skull in.”

“He didn’t try to bite you?” I asked.

“No. He just turned away.”

“I wonder what that’s all about.”

“You don’t think it has anything to do with me being bit, do you?”

I shrugged. “Why would it?”

“Maybe I’m still infected, but since I didn’t die…I don’t know.”

“Me neither.”

Whatever the reason, Hetch had survived not one but two close calls that day. We were done gathering supplies, hopefully for a while.

That lonely drunk from a few weeks earlier, now completely sobered up, realized one important thing about this new world: Being a loner was a deadly thing. Having someone in your corner, someone who can create a diversion or do the dirty work, was a salvation unlike any other.

Twenty-Nine Weeks and Three Days After it Started…

We never talked about that day at the grocery store again. We may have thought on it, but discussing it was off limits, an unwritten and unverbalized agreement between us. Instead, we focused on protecting the house, keeping the biters at bay. But one thing we didn’t do, one thing that I had held sacred until it became too dangerous to worry about, was bury the dead. We left them around the yard. They made a sort of barrier that protected us from the biters. Maybe they could smell the rotting bodies, and that was enough to keep them at bay even when they saw us out there, which wasn’t too often as it grew colder.

Still, burying the dead was the right thing to do, but I could no longer do it. Sometimes, I would look at the bodies, the flies buzzing around them, the stench of them clotting the air, and feel a heavy guilt settle on my shoulders. I wondered about their lives, who they were before they died, how they died, if they were with loved ones or alone, like I had been for so long. I wondered if they had been in a group, and if so, was there anyone else left from that group? I wondered who they were.

I would stare out the window at them when Hetch wasn’t looking. I would pick one of the bodies out and try and imagine their lives before the fall of the world. I would try and look into their lives if that makes any sense. What were they like before death claimed them the first time? It was a maddening thing to do, but it was almost an obsession, one I kept to myself.

Occasionally, we ran into other survivors, but the world had become a wary place—strangers weren’t to be trusted more now than before the world died a collective death. They weren’t to be trusted at all.

For the most part, we eased into a systematic schedule—
a life
if that’s what you would call it. Defend the house and scavenge when needed. We made several runs to Newberry, the tactic always the same, the results far better than the first time around. We tried to take out more of the biters each time around in hopes that the next time we went, it would be easier. It wasn’t a bad life, all things considered.

That all changed two days ago when I remembered something we had talked about when we first met.

“Get your shoes on, Hetch.”

It was early morning, and it was cold outside. Winter had arrived, and she came with a vengeance. He was lying on the couch, a cover pulled up to his chin.

We were thankful for the fireplace, but even with it burning low, it was still somewhat cool in the house.

“What?”

“Get your shoes on.”

“Where are we going?”

“To check on your friend.”

His eyes came fully open. “My friend?” He swung his feet off the couch, shoving the cover aside.

“Yeah, your friend. What’s his name? Dean?”

“Dean’s dead.”

“Are you sure?”

He hesitated.

“You said as much when we talked about it before,” I said. “Get your shoes on.”

Hetch was wrong about one thing. He said the house he left Dean in was a couple blocks over. It wasn’t. It was around the corner of the U-shaped neighborhood, just beyond the gated boat dock. It was then that I noticed the odd-looking windmill sitting near the water’s edge of the cove. It was around forty feet tall. Its six blades moved slowly.

“What’s wrong, Hank?”

“Nothing.”

“Seriously? You stopped cold. Is it the windmill?”

“Yeah.”

“What about it?”

“That’s how we still have water.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive. Without electricity, there’s no water. The windmill pumps when the wind blows. There’s probably a rod down the shaft that traps the water and pulls it up as the water pumps.”

“How do you know that?”

“I grew up in the country—it’s similar to the concept of a hand pump near a well.”

“So as long as there is water and wind, we’ll be able to take baths?”

“Yeah,” I said then added, “but I wouldn’t drink the stuff unless it’s boiled.”

And there was a lot of truth to that—who knew how many biters were in that water? Thinking about it now, I don’t know how I didn’t see it before or why I didn’t even question why there was actual running water in the house. I guess I just trusted the letter that had been left behind. But to never actually see the windmill—as if it were a background prop in a movie—I don’t see how I could have missed it.

We moved on and dispatched of what few biters we saw along the way.

“Right there,” Hetch said and pointed to a yard with no fence, the house a quaint little structure with three steps up to the porch and a wooden door painted white. The windows weren’t boarded up—the inhabitants of that particular house either fled early enough or died way before they had a chance to run.

“Come on,” I said.

“I’m not going in there.”

I started to argue but bit my tongue. I had seen loved ones change, and I understood how he felt.

“Okay,” I said. “Stay on the porch. If you see any biters, let me know.”

Hetch stared at me, blinking several times.

“What?” I asked.

He gave a shrug. “What if he’s…?”

I lifted my machete. “Then I’ll take care of it.”

I went up the steps, tried the knob.

“I locked it behind me,” he said.

I have to give him credit; he was thinking when he left his buddy behind.

Back to the door, I kicked it hard just to the right of the knob. The jamb didn’t splinter, but it gave. The next kick split the wood, and the door snapped open, striking the wall hard enough to make it bounce back. I stood in the doorway, listening, waiting. Nothing moved from inside.

Dust motes swirled in the sunlight. A slight breeze blew in off the lake, sending a shiver along my spine. I stepped inside, the clops of my boots echoing off the hardwood floor in the silent house. Three steps in, I stopped and listened. Nothing. No sounds at all.

The house was neat and clean, and the furniture wasn’t dusty—it looked like the family would come home that afternoon as if nothing happened.

I peered down the hall. An axe hung from a bar in a doorway.  There was a small splotch of blackish red blood beneath it. A few steps later and I was by the door, my heart beating hard. I felt like a crime show cop, one about to break in on the bad guys, gun drawn, except I had a machete.

I silently counted to three, spun into the doorway, machete above my head. A biter lay dead on the floor, his head split open. I gathered he had been Dean at one time.

I let out a slight chuckle, one of relief.

Back outside, Hetch looked at me with raised brows. “Well?”

“Did you rig that hatchet?”

“Yeah.”

“It worked.” I clapped him on the back, a “good job” gesture.

We started back toward where we were staying. In my mind, it was my house. The owners would never be back. That much I was certain of. But it was still just where we were staying, a rental but for free and with no eviction date.

We were barely passed the boat ramp when the screaming started.

I spun around. Across the water on a road not too far away was a child. She was running from a mass of biters. The road was a hundred or so yards away by boat, but I had no clue how far on foot.

“Come on,” I yelled and pushed the gate to the boat landing open. The houses didn’t butt up against the water, and I made my way through the backs of the yards, stumbling and almost falling several times. The embankment circled around into a cove. I could see the road going in the same direction—they would eventually meet at some point.

The girl’s screams grew louder. I looked up. She was so small, maybe five or six. I thought of Humphrey, of the little girl I never met who had loved that little bear so much that it appeared in a family portrait. And the girl’s screams held me in desperation.

I ran harder. I could see the last yard coming up on a street. Then I realized I could have run up the road Hetch and I had been on, and I would have run right into the same area.

Hindsight…

My boots hit the road, and I had my pistol out. The girl had slowed, and they were gaining on her.

I fired my pistol…

…

…

…

…and her screaming stopped.

…

…

Her screaming stopped.

…

…

…

Like so many times before, time slowed. I saw the girl’s head snap back. Her arms went out to her sides and then trailed behind her as she fell. She had long, brown hair that probably hadn’t been brushed in months. She wore a pair of stained pink pants and a white shirt that was more dirt than anything else. Her skin was just as dirty as her clothes. If not for her screams, I would have mistaken her for a biter.

And that’s what my hand and eyes had done.

I’m almost positive of that.

Almost.

I stared at the little body lying on the ground, red blood pooling beneath her head like a halo. My heart stopped. My brain stopped. My breathing stopped.

I believe I dropped my gun before I fell to my knees.

The little girl was dead.

I had killed her.

…

…

Not for the first time, all I wanted was to die as well.

Tears welled up in my eyes, making everything blurry. But I could still see that red halo around the little girl’s head from a hole I put there. Seconds earlier, I took aim and fired. Seconds before that, she was a living, breathing child who had somehow made it this long through the end of the world.

And she was dead.

…

…

I didn’t see the biters descend on her, each one taking a pound of flesh for what it was worth. It didn’t register that those who couldn’t get to her were coming for me. I didn’t hear Hetch yelling my name—or maybe I did, but it didn’t get past my ears.

I did hear the gunshot.

It was enough to drag me out of my sudden stupor.

Another gunshot followed, and one of the biters dropped beside me.

They were near—so close several of them had dropped to their knees and were crawling toward me.

I tried to get to my feet, fell back on my butt. I scrabbled away like a crab but not putting much distance between the biters and me. I had to stand. I had to run. I had to pull out my gun and shoot as many as I could. But there was no gun. I had dropped it.

The machete was in my hand, like an extension of my arm. I didn’t realize it until the first of the dead were right on top of me. I went to punch him. The blade split right through the old man’s skull. I pulled the machete free. I’m not sure if I was more surprised I still had it or that I had just split open the skull of another biter who had been inches from me. It didn’t matter.

I tried to stand again, but something was wrong. There was a pain in my thigh that screamed at me—like being hit by a baseball coming at you at ninety miles an hour. I swung the machete, clipping the dead at the knees and then slicing off the tops of their skulls after they hit the ground.

There were so many of them, coming in droves, their groans so loud I could hear them in my skull.

“Get up, Hank,” Hetch yelled. He sounded so far away. Part of me wondered why he wasn’t helping me. Why was he sitting back while I got swarmed?

Somehow, I managed to get to my feet. The pain in my thigh intensified. The biters kept coming.

I swung the machete.

There were a few gunshots, but really, what did I expect? Hetch only had a pistol with fifteen rounds in it. There were a lot more than fifteen biters. And, as he said before, giving him a gun was just a waste of ammo.

My arms grew tired, but I swung and swung, felling as many of the dead as I could. Somehow, I managed to get further from Hetch than closer to him. I had gotten turned around with each swing and thrust of the machete. I struck something with my foot as I turned to take down what had been a young man in life but was just another soul-trapped, rotting corpse now. The metal sound of my gun skittering across the hard scrabble road caught my attention. I drove the machete into another skull and limped toward the pistol.

Pain caught up to me, and I stumbled and fell to the ground inches from the gun. It was all I could do to grab it, turn, and fall onto my back. From there, I emptied the pistol into the dead as they approached.

One. Two. Three. Four. They went down, my aim true, the bullets as deadly as ever. I sat up and spun on one knee. Another went down by the blade of the machete. Then another one. I fired another shot and then circled around the bodies and the thinned-out group of biters. The hoard was manageable, but still, there were a dozen or so left. Six shots took out the closest to me. My machete took out the rest.

But there were still two more. Two more…

They crouched over the little girl, the terrified little child who might have escaped if not for my intervention.