Summer Of 68: A Zombie Novel (9 page)

Chapter Ten

Jake and Russell trotted through the brush, kicking their way down the path’s incline. The refreshing sounds of the creek’s trickling water beckoned their little legs, pushing them forward and into a brisk jog. In no time flat, they reached the bottom.

Thoughts of the day’s bounty flashed before their eyes. Fish and crawdads, warm breezes and cool water, was all that they needed for a perfect day. 

“Hold on,” Jake said, just as Russell took the lead.

Russell came to an abrupt stop, a couple of feet ahead of Jake. He looked back. His eyes were wide and alert, giving the appearance of a deer caught in headlights.

Sounds of the natural world swirled past with ease. Leaves rustled on the trees, competing against the whispering breeze and nearly mute in the face of the creek, trickling out of sight just beyond the crest.

Russell wouldn’t, or couldn’t blink as he stared at his brother. He was jumpy and easily filled with fear, undoubtedly the result of his mother’s constant concern.

“Wait,” Jake mouthed. His little heart raced, propelled by the thrill of excitement and the dense and sour taste of fear, which competed with one another, struggling to become the prime emotion that coursed through his veins.

“What is it?” Russell asked. His voice was low with certain.

Jake shook his head. He honestly didn’t know, but there was something in the air that didn’t feel right, an electric charge of sorts.

“What is it?” Russell repeated. This time his voice was louder. The little boy sounded as though he demanded an answer. He definitely took after his mama.

“Wait here,” Jake said. He pushed his way past his brother and through the brush. Reaching a clearing, he abruptly stopped.

Up ahead a couple of yards, he spied a makeshift tent. It was constructed from a tattered, hole-ridden tarp that had been slung across an old and rotten tree branch. Scattered across the ground, lay the gutted remains of empty cans, along with a couple of empty bottles of booze. The sun glinted off the amber tinted glass. Everything about the scene seemed to gravitate around the charred husk of an old fire pit, swirling around like the planets to the sun.

Russell came along, despite being told not to, and peeked around his brother’s shoulder. “What is it?” he asked, his curious nature was slow to return as fear remained a dominate force.

“I think it’s a camp,” Jake said in a whisper. He was mindful and weary of the volume in which he spoke.

“But who would want to camp like this?” Russell asked disgustedly, as he looked around at all the trash scattered about.

Jake wondered the same thing. He thought back to the couple of times their family was together long enough to go camping. As a unit, they spent their time at Mount Shasta. It was never extravagant, but from what he was seeing now, they were camping like royalty.

“Maybe they’re homeless…” Jake thought aloud.

“Maybe they’re gone,” Russell’s voice was low, cautious and unsure, shifty eyes looked around.

Jake patted his brother on the back, hoping to reassure him of something he wasn’t positive of himself.

“What if they’re not? What if they’re still around here, somewhere? What do you want to do?” Russell’s voice was timid as his eyes reflected the rubbish around them.

After a pause, Jake gulped. “Let’s keep going.”

“What?” Russell was aghast. 

Jake nodded and moved forward. Every step he took, he could feel his confidence return. “Yeah, let’s go.” He stopped, realizing that Russell hadn’t budged. In fact, Russell was starting to look sickened by fear.

“Are you okay?” Jake asked.

Russell nodded, looking around. “Yeah,” he said in a submissive tone.

Jake didn’t believe him. Though he was certain they were alone, Russell was likely to believe in monsters under the bed, but insisted that wasn’t why he wanted to sleep with the light on.

“If you’re not, we can go home,” Jake said, begrudgingly.

To his surprise, the youngest remained strong.

“Let’s go,” Russell said. His voice low, cautious not to alert who or what might’ve been lurking out of sight.

Every second lost, was another foot gained. As quick as they could, the Martin brother’s put as much distance between the forgotten camp and themselves as they possibly could. Jake looked back, glancing to his brother. Russell’s expression was all but white. His eyes were shallow, sunken back. He looked forward and didn’t blink, lips drawn back into a grimace. There was a glimmer in his eyes, one which sold out his fear—the sense of excitement and adventure.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Jake asked.

“I just hope they’re not around anymore.”

“I don’t think they are,” he said, shaking his head.

“How can you be so sure?”

“Everything back there looked pretty old. Really, brother…I
don’t
think we have to worry about anything.” Jake smiled, hoping to look reassuring.

Russell smirked as if he could easily see through the façade.

Ahead, the twinkling gleam of running water sparkled from between the overgrowth, like a hidden jewel. The sounds of the creek, slowly, but surely intensified, obliterating any and all of their fears. The boys hurried forward. The glimmering sunlight danced across the water’s surface, reflecting like a million little diamonds. The sight of it warmed their faces, as though to tell them that everything was going to be all right.

Russell smiled his toothy grin. Color and life flushing back into his cheeks.

Together, they rushed headlong into the warm and rocky sand, flinging their poles aside, as they quickly shed their shoes and emptied their pockets in a mad dash to see who could beat who.

A little ways up stream, the sound of splashing water brought them both to an abrupt halt.

Jake turned, looking for the origin the splashing, and imagined the fear Russell undoubtedly felt. They strained their ears against the natural world, and struggled to make sense of it. The sound was forceful, not entirely violent. It would come and go with the occasional splash and whoosh, akin to someone treading against the current, wading against the flow.               

Jake’s mind raced, forcing his thoughts back to the camp. Was it possible for the homeless person, or people, to still be around?

“Is that them?” Russell’s voice trembled, vocalizing his brother’s fear.

“Shush!” Jake demanded, pulling his finger across his lips. “Be quiet!”

Jake dropped down into a crouch, and scurried forward, careful not to be seen. His legs wobbled with every step. He inched along, covering several feet in his impromptu crawl. He didn’t stop until the cover of brush thinned and the water bloomed into sight.

He sighed, realizing that he had held his breath the entire time. The rush of oxygen back into his lungs was welcomed, and slightly eased his nerves. He looked downstream, and saw that the frothy water looked different than it did a couple of seconds before. This water was dark and murky—not unlike churned up mud, which would’ve left it hazy and brown. No. This looked more like blood, glistening like an oil slick against the surface before disappearing below.

Footsteps—they rang deafeningly through his ears. He spun around, expecting the worst and was relieved to see Russell coming up behind him. They nodded to each other in a silent understanding, turned back to the water, and watched in horror as more of the unknown filth whisked by.

The terror in their tiny hearts fought to escape, rattling their ribs like a caged beast.  

“Put your shoes back on,” Jake said as he waddled past Russell, back to their discarded belongings.

Russell did as he was told without protest.

As they hurried to leave, new sounds emerged from upstream. It drifted towards them, skimming across the water’s surface before dissipating skyward. These sounds were human in nature. The two children froze, their shoes hanging halfway onto their sandy feet.

Whatever it was, it sounded like a weak and breathy groan, heavy with fluid. They had never heard anything like it before, and whatever they
thought
it might be, the mournful sound reached the children’s ears like a beckoning wag of the finger.

Russell pulled his shoes on and jumped to his feet, all caution and fear lost upon the sound. “I think someone’s hurt,” he said.  

Jake didn’t protest. As a boy scout, it was his duty to help those in distress. Without hesitation, he took the lead.

“Let’s go,” he said, grabbing Russell by the arm.

They raced forward, across the sand. They pictured someone hurt. Maybe, just maybe, it was a hiker with a sprained ankle. Anything that could have justified a groan such as that, was worthy of their investigation.

They hit the rocky beach, and followed the bend alongside the stream. What they discovered and the reality of the situation was far grimmer than either of them could have ever imagined. It was a reality birthed from the monsters beneath their beds.

What they found was a man, half submerged beneath the stream. Only his shoulders and head broke through the bubbly surface. His face and hair were similarly soaked and were as dingy and gray as his clothing reflected below. His hair was long, and draped against an elongated frown, chiseled across his gaunt face. His skin was tightly drawn upon bone, leaving his expression dire.

Inside both children, an ancient and primordial fear rose. It started first in their hearts, flooding their throats with the bittersweet taste of fear. Without doubt, this was one of the men from the homeless camp and the mere appearance of which, rekindled their fears anew. Of course, such fears weren’t simply resigned to appearance. This man carried with him the aura of something different—something neither Jake nor Russell could understand, fathom, or grasp.

The man pushed himself forward, back towards the land. He locked his gnarled fingers in the soft and spongy dirt located at the water’s edge. With another throaty groan, he hoisted himself upright, but before he could heave himself back to solid ground, the soil crumbled beneath him, causing him to drift back, deeper into the current.

Undeterred, the man trudged on. With sick and frail arms, he grabbed ahold of the soft earth and as he fought against the current, he floated forward. The motion created a gentle splashing sound—it was this very sound that first garnered the attention of Jake and Russell.

The man moaned victoriously, his fingers found purchase upon the grass. Realizing he could be freed from the watery confines of the creek, he commenced his struggles anew, thrashing back and forth in a series of fruitless struggles to make it to shore.

There was no doubt about it, something was horribly wrong with this man.

He’s off his rocker,
Jake thought. Both Russell and himself, watched from a safe distance.              

Jake reckoned the man to be around the same age as his parents, maybe a bit older, give or take a couple of years. It was strange and perplexing, even to a child—the way he moved against the stream as if he had ever been in water before. Or why he fought to pull himself onto the shore, when there was a perfectly good stretch of sand a couple of yards away that he could’ve easily walked up. Most haunting for the boy was the man’s trance—the cold and dazed look in his eyes as he focused his dismal attention on whatever lay hidden in the yellowed grass, growing along the water’s edge. Whatever it was, it appeared to be his driving force, his motivation and the source of all his woes.

The man moaned. It was uncertain whether it was the result of sickness or ecstasy, and continued in his battle for landfall, unaware of the two children watching him from the brush, not more than ten or so feet away.

Russell grabbed his brother’s arm. His vice grip was enough to make the eight-year-old wince. He pulled himself closer, until their shoulders touched. With a sidelong glance, Jake saw the first of what would’ve been many tears swell behind his little brother’s eyes.

After an unrelenting bout of trial and error, the man finally gained a firm grasp, launching himself forward and succeeded, heaving his waterlogged girth from the stream. Hitting ground, he buried his face into the patch of grass—the focal point of his struggles, oblivious to the remaining half of his torso, which remained submerged beneath the rushing current of water.

He hissed dryly, wagging his head back and forth, like a dog with a toy. The motion jostled the neighboring reeds, shaking them like maracas stalks nearby. The sound was vicious and like thunder. Jake and Russell flinched at every thrust of his head.

Shaken to the core of their humanity, they found the strength feebly to subdue their cries long enough for the man to slam his head back, arching his neck as he swallowed something down. It was followed prior by a wet elastic snap, and another sickly moan. The man’s cries were muffled by an object protruding from his lips, and promptly swallowed down and swooped back around for another bite.

He fell back, the water splashing up around him as though he were a heavy stone.

Blood glistened, dribbling down his gullet. It was soon diluted, washed clean by the ebbing current. Between his teeth, he barred a particularly large chunk of meat. His jaws snapped shut, chomping the fibrous tissue in half. Joyous and without difficulty, he gulped it down.