Life Among The Dead (9 page)

A step back is needed to reveal the poster that covers the entire door. A naked, blonde model sits indian style eating a banana. Her head is turned so the act can be seen in profile as she forever holds the fruit in her mouth.

“
Thoughtful of her.” Becka says with a nervous laugh.

The room is very drab. Everything is either black, gray, or is colored military green. The blonde is the one exception.

“
Congrats. You’re the brightest thing in the room for once.”

Other posters adorn the walls of bands Becka has never heard of, or ever wished to. They all have angry sounding names. She walks to a dresser and begins her search. If there isn’t a weapon in this room she will be very surprised. She finds the gloomy setting to be oddly reassuring.

The dresser is littered with candles and ceramic skulls. She opens the drawers and finds only clothes that match the colors of the room.

“
Even your underwear is black.” She makes a sound of disgust at the boy away at college. Becka pulls on the bottom drawer, but it won’t budge more than a few inches. She bends down and tries to peer into it. Metallic objects are visible, she just can’t access them. She believes one of the items must be sticking up, jamming it from opening. This happened at her home all the time in the kitchen whenever she went for a cooking utensil.

Becka squeezes her hand into the drawer and feels around the foreign things. She hopes to find the jam and push it down so the drawer will open freely. Her hand recoils.

“
Fuck.” She exclaims. Something sharp has poked her. Blood oozes from a small puncture in her index finger. She quickly places the infirmed digit into her mouth.
I won’t be doing that again,
she says to herself. On top of the dresser among the macabre decorations she locates a CD case. Becka uses the clear plastic to push down the objects in the drawer. A cache of weapons greets her. Most of them are of Asian descent; nun chucks, a sai, throwing stars.

“
What are you a fucking ninja turtle?”

There are jars labeled with chemical symbols she doesn’t dare touch, let alone open. There are small arrows, and a length of plastic pipe. All of it is useless to her. She removes the one item from the arsenal that she believes may be useful. It’s a straight razor that she slides into her pocket as she shuts the drawer.

She turns, looking around the room from her crouched position. She wonders where the boy would keep more weapons. She sets her sights on the lazily made bed; its sheets are bunched and lumpy. She throws back the covering to get a look underneath; a musty smell makes her gag. She only finds a box and a nasty infestation of dust bunnies.

She needs to use both hands to slide the heavy container out into the light of day. The brown cardboard is creased and worn. It looks as if at one time the box had fallen apart and was mended with silver duct tape. The flaps that conceal the contents are well used and move easily, they just flop down at the sides as she opens it. Breasts again.

“
Sorry Blondie. It looks like Billy has been cheating on you.” Becka consoles the fruit aficionado taped to the door. The box is filled with pornographic magazines, each brandishing a title that either names a certain sexual act, or asserts the ‘reader’ as a stud for choosing that particular periodical to masturbate to. Among the smut, Becka finds an unopened box of condoms.

“
Money well spent.” She is about to shove the box of shame back into its home but decides the effort would be wasted. She stands up, biting her bottom lips as she ponders the depressing abode.

A heavy piece of black fabric hangs on the wall. Becka pushes it aside and discovers a closet. There is no door, just the piece of material separating it from the rest of the room. Inside hangs a long black coat, and a couple of windbreakers, also black.

“
Surprise. Surprise.” She mocks, pushing the garments aside to uncover a long black object on the floor, nestled on top of a row of combat boots. It’s much lighter than she expected. Her finger traces over silver inlaid symbols that look to be Chinese. She had never held a katana before. She never really had a reason to.

Becka grips the scabbard with her left hand and the handle with her right. Slowly she frees the long blade. She finds the sliding sound it makes to be very cool,
just like the movies.
She returns the steel into its housing and slings the sword over her shoulder by its leather strap.

Satisfied that she has retrieved the most useful item in the room, she is ready to leave. This brings harsh reality into view. It dawns on her, leaving this musty lair means facing the zombies, and Stevie.

She pauses at the door with her hand on the knob. Eye level with the enormous breasts she takes in a few quick breaths.

“
OK.” She opens the door wide. The hall is empty except for Stevie’s moans. Her heart races as she walks over the squeaky floor, she can feel it throb in her temples and in the small wound on her finger. She glances at the smear of blood that had dried into the crevices of her fingerprint.

Stealthily, she moves to the bathroom, which divides the distance between Billy’s room and Derek’s mom’s. From here she can see Stevie is still pinned to the king sized bed, writhing like something from an entomologist‘s collection.

The door precludes her from seeing his head, but she can see his naked legs, the cuff of his jeans still cling to one of his ankles. His skin is mostly gone and she can see the muscle below has been eaten. Some areas are stripped to the bone. His genitals are gone, devoured. Just a short time ago they were in her own mouth. The thought of this hits her with a wave of nausea. She breaks out in a cold sweat. The icy beads on her forehead conflict with the hot prickly feeling she has all over her flushing body.

She barges into the bathroom in a beeline to the toilet. Her hand is clasped over her mouth in an attempt to stave back the vomit. A fluffy pink cozy covers the lid of the bowl. She lifts the plush cover as she crouches in front of the receptacle. Her last ounce of self-control is used to gather her long black hair in one hand, pulling it aside.

She lets it out. The acidic bile scours her throat as she retches. The lid falls, unable to remain vertical with the thick pink decoration in the way. Her regurgitation douses the flat surface. Vomit splashes in every direction. Her pants are instantly soaked through.

In between her heaves she cries. Her tears are not for her ruined clothes or for the awful, sick feeling. She cries for Stevie. She weeps for what she had done. Her stomach runs empty and she lays her head on the filthy toilet. She cries for what she still has to do.

Becka stands up. Her pants adhere to her thighs. She takes a pink hand towel from the side of the sink and wipes her mouth. Passing the mirror on her way out of the restroom she can barely look at herself. The cheerleader is a mess. Her hair is in tangles and she has sweated through her dirty clothes. Millions of minute glittering particles cling to her, making her skin feel gritty. Aside all these flaws, it isn’t her appearance she can’t stand the sight of. She can’t face what she is about to do. She can’t watch herself depart on this task. She has to kill Stevie again.

Standing outside the master bedroom that used to be off limits to the trio, Becka unsheathes the sword that now seems to weigh a ton. She leans against the door to keep her friend out of sight, but she can still hear him. The most popular girl in school forces herself to enter.

Stevie is lethargically flailing his limbs, apparently puzzled as to how to get off the bed. He is positioned differently than when Becka had previously looked in at the boy.
He must have heard me in the bathroom.
He has swung himself around and his upper portion now dangles off the corner of the bed. His eyes track his once friend as she enters. He tries to reach for her though she keeps her distance.

Becka slowly gets closer to his head. She looks into the eyes of her brilliant friend who used to help her with her schoolwork. His eyes are empty now.
Stevie isn’t home.
This creature is not her friend. She won’t allow herself to think otherwise.

The zombie continues to grab at the air. His moans sound more urgent, his flailing more erratic. He is hungry and wants only to slake his appetite. Becka raises the sword over her head.

“
I’m so sorry.”

The blade falls into his forehead. It buries itself a mere inch or two. He has no reaction. He feels no pain. The boy’s legs are trying to push his body off the bed, his heels dig into the blood soaked comforter.

The blade is stuck. Becka tries to pull it free, but Stevie’s skull won’t let it go. As she wrestles with the sword she realizes the only way to remove the katana is to slide it towards her and slice his head as if it were a loaf of bread. She drags the steel out.

The wound is a deep red furrow that doesn’t bleed. She brings the sword down on to his head again, parallel to the last strike. This blow doesn’t go much further than the last. Stevie is getting more impatient, his food is almost taunting him. He twists his body still reaching for her, desperate to gain a few more inches.

The sword is wrenched out of Becka’s hands by his movement. She backs up. The katana remains in Stevie’s head, lost to her now as he contorts impossibly in his efforts to get a hold of her. The wound around the bedpost is stretching, the skin widening and tearing from strain.

The cheerleader looks around the room in a panic. His moans and actions are getting to her. She wants to silence him. She looks for anything she can use to put him to rest.

A wooden chair sits against the wall. She grabs the seat with both hands and lunges at the dead boy. The chair crashes down on his head over and over. She strikes until the boy stops moving and his limbs fall limp.

Becka collapses into a weakened heap. She looks at what she has just done, the results of her handiwork. Stevie’s head is misshapen. The bones are shattered below a sack of broken skin. It doesn’t even look like the teenager she once knew. She feels sick to her stomach, but forces herself to toss the crimson encrusted bedspread over her friend’s now still body. She leaves him and heads to the bathroom once more. She feels the need to be clean.

13

Dan sits on the roof pondering the situation. He wonders what time it is. He doesn’t wear a watch. Usually he just uses his cell phone.
That’s long gone.
The girl, Barbara, remains clinging to the chimney.

The soldier lights yet another cigarette with the cherry of his last. He flicks the stub as far as he can over the side of the house, hoping it hits one of the dead below. The man pulls out his locket.

Dan gazes at his wife’s picture, remembering that day. She was decorating the Christmas tree and he had snuck up with the camera for a candid shot. Her beautiful green eyes sparkle in her captured surprise. He now looks to the empty space on the other half, the spot reserved for his son or daughter’s picture. His head nods slowly as a determined look sculpts his face. He kisses the image of Heather. “I’m coming home, baby. I just have to figure out how.”

He looks to the near catatonic girl as he begins to crawl along the peak of the roof. “I’ll be right back, Barb.”

“
Kay.” Is all she can say in response. It’s actually more than he expected from her.

Dan is heading to the side of the house facing the city. He peers across the alley to the neighboring roof. Its peak is forty feet away.
No go,
he contends.

He carefully turns to face the other direction. Across the street something catches his eye. He swears he saw a curtain move. He doesn’t know if it’s in his head, or if there is an actual breathing audience out there. He disregards the possible spectator.
There are just too many non-breathers to worry about.

Dan has to skirt around the girl to reach the other side. He finds the neighbor’s home over here is closer, only twenty feet to the lowest part, a built on garage. The roof to the garage is pitched slightly, but he knows he can clear the distance. The only foreseeable drawback is the yard itself. This next one isn’t closed off to the street. Their alley is open. He has a plan now that he believes can’t fail. He derives his confidence on the homes color.
It’s green.

He starts to search his pockets. He knows he must have at least one usefully dispensable item as his mind catalogs the objects he feels.
Keys? No. Jerky? No. Locket? Definitely not.
His hand feels a bulge in one of his cargo pockets. He removes it not knowing what it could be. Even after the thing is before his eyes he wonders why he is carrying a television remote.
The party!
He remembers getting it a Jimmy’s.

He points the black wand at the plume of smoke that is Jimmy’s backyard and hits power. He watches the dead intently for a moment, they don’t move. They remain around Barbara’s house, pacing aimlessly. He tries to turn up the volume and hitting power again and again.
Am I too far?
He wonders.
Is the power out?

He can’t recall how their electricity is made in Waterloo. He doesn’t know if it would go out if people weren’t around to run the plant. Not like Newcastle where his uncle lives.

Newcastle’s power comes from Parson’s Dam, one of the largest in the world. His uncle always talked about it and how it could run on its own for many years without a soul. ‘Indefinite power’ he would proudly proclaim as the principal shareholder. That’s how he got his money.