The Dead Saga (Novella Part 2): Odium Origins (4 page)

I don’t know how long I sit there, but the blood has begun to dry on my clothes by the time I decide to stand back up. I check my phone after laying Daryl down carefully next to Brown Eyes. I kiss her cold lips and close her eyelids for her, and say goodbye to them both.

There’s no signal on my phone, not even a busy signal, and strangely as I stumble around and find myself back outside, the outside seems much calmer than when I went in. I peer around carefully, checking for the…people, but seeing and hearing nothing.

I walk silently, sticking to the shadows and away from the dead bodies that still litter the ground. My mind fumbles with what to do and where to go. I traipse without intention, coming to a stop as I lean against the side of a stall to get my bearings on everything that has happened. I realize that I’m standing by the popcorn stand, and I reach in without even thinking and grab a handful and fill my mouth.

The saltiness is refreshing after the bitter taste of bile and rot that has filled it for the last couple of hours, and strangely it settles my anxious stomach. I grab another handful, thinking through a plan that could be either genius or stupid—because it seems obvious to me now what this is.

Daryl had it both right and wrong when he said this was Armageddon: this is a zombie apocalypse. These aren’t people—not anymore. They’re the dead, and they’re walking around again. Without my best friend, and Brown Eyes, nothing seems important anymore, apart from killing as many of these things as possible and putting an end to this and their misery before it destroys any more lives.

I rub my hand down my pants and grab one of the cans of soda from the stand, not bothering to leave a dollar for it since no one is there to accept. I swallow the entire thing down and grab another, all the time my eyes and ears and watching and listening for movement. I throw a couple of the cans into my backpack for later and set off for the army base in the mountains. My uncle used to tell me about it when he looked after me while Mom worked her night shifts. I’m grateful that neither of them are alive to see all of this happening now.

As I pass the entrance, the large fairground sign overhead swinging in the light evening breeze, I hear soft crying coming from between the parked cars. My hand clutches my bow tighter and I move toward it. My head screams at me to go in the opposite direction, but my heart tells me that I have to do the right thing; I have to try to save people if I can. That’s how I was brought up—to be a man and help others that can’t defend themselves. I’m a lover, not a fighter—but I can be a fighter if I need to be. And right now that’s who and what I need to be.

I edge toward the sound of crying, my heart pummeling the inside of my chest. I crouch next to the front of a car, count to three, and peer around it. A woman with curly hair gives a short, sharp scream before scrambling backwards and falling on her ass.

“Please don’t, please,” she begs loudly.

“Shhh,” I whisper angrily, aware of the noise she’s making.

“Please, please!” she says again, continuing to scramble away.

“Lady, shush, please,” I say louder to try to get her to calm down.

A figure appears from behind her, and for a second I think it’s another survivor. For a second I’m glad to have someone to help me calm this crazy woman down—that is until the figure steps forward and growls.

The woman screams loudly, unsure which direction to go in now, since both of her exits appear to be blocked.

“Aah, crap.” I stand up and take aim with my bow. As the zombie steps forward and I make a hundred percent certain that it is in fact a zombie and not another survivor, I release my arrow and hit it between the eyes.

It sticks into its forehead, but doesn’t go deep enough to stop it in its tracks, so I grab another arrow and fire again. This one embeds itself into its head, and it pauses in its lurching before hitting the ground like a sack of potatoes.

The woman screams again, her hands covering her face.

“Shut up! You’re going to bring every one of these things to us,” I shout-whisper.

The woman stops screaming but continues to sob. She clamps a shaky hand across her mouth, but doesn’t move to stand up. I reach down and pull my arrows from the zombie’s head, not relishing in the sensations of them tugging on the skull as I wrench it free. I shake off the excess blood with a grimace, my stomach feeling queasy as the stench rises and fills my nose. The woman gags and I look across to her.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

She stares at me, her eyes wide. “What’s happening?” Her chin trembles.

“I don’t really know.” I hold out a hand. She takes it and I pull her to her feet. Taking a look around us to make sure no more are on their way, I reply. “But I think it’s the apocalypse.”

She snorts out a dry laugh. “Don’t…don’t be stupid.” She says it, but by the look of fear on her face it’s obvious that she knows I’m right, she just doesn’t want to admit it yet.

“Whatever, I’ve gotta go. Where’s your car?” I ask.

She points to the one with the zombie lying prone next to it.

“Figures.” I huff, grab its arms, and drag it out of the way. “You good now?”

She shakes her head. “No.” She looks around us. “What do we do now?”

I shrug. “I honestly don’t know. Get to your loved ones and find somewhere safe to wait this thing out, I guess.” I shrug again and turn to leave. A thought hits me and I turn back around. “Were you here with them? Your loved ones—your family I mean?”

She nods frantically, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears.

I look at the ground and then back up to her. “Do you want to come with me?” I ask almost reluctantly.

She watches me for a second or two before nodding. “Yes, I don’t want to be on my own. I mean, I can be useful, I won’t be a burden. I can shoot, and I can fight. I know you’re just a kid, but you seem to know what you’re doing.”

I nod. “I’m not a kid anymore, not after what I’ve seen today,” I say darkly. “Let’s go then.” I jerk a thumb to her car, not wanting to talk about it anymore. We need to get out of the open and away from here—away from civilization in general.

We both climb into her car, a silver Prius. I buckle up and watch her do the same.

“I’m Jessica,” she says, turning to me.

“I’m Mathew, but my friends call me Matty.”

“It doesn’t feel right leaving them here,” she says, to herself more than me.

I don’t say anything, but wait for her to come to terms with her loss. I had a little time to mourn—though I know I’ll need to mourn again soon, just not right now. Right now I need to get away from here, I need to get to safety. When five minutes passes and we still haven’t moved, I turn to her.

“We have to go, Jessica.”

She wipes away the tears from her cheeks. “I don’t know if I can. My babies are in there.” She looks toward the fairground. “My whole family.” She sniffles.

I think about Daryl and Brown Eyes lying dead inside the House of Glass. I think about the man smashing his head against the glass, and the faceless man, and all the other zombie people. I think about the mother and child on the Ferris wheel and my gut twists painfully, and then I swallow down my sadness and anger.

“They’re not your babies anymore. Your babies are in here now.” I reach across and touch her chest where her heart should be.

She flinches against my touch but doesn’t move away, silent tears still pouring from her eyes.

“And in here.” I touch her head, and she moans quietly against her loss. “They would want you to survive, to live.”

I pull my hand back, placing it back in my lap, and wait again. After a minute she starts the engine and begins to back out of the space carefully. She goes to flip on her lights but I stop her before she does.

“Not yet—wait till we get further away first.”

She nods and continues to drive, dodging the cars and bodies the best she can in the dark. As we get to the main highway, she looks across to me.

“Where to?” She flips her lights on, illuminating the zombie-ridden road in front of us. She gasps and quickly turns them off again as one by one the zombies look toward us.

“Away from here as quick as you can would be a start,” I say as she steps on the accelerator and we speed away from the funfair.

I look out my passenger window, watching the funfair fade into the distance. Thoughts of my best friend and a girl whose name I never knew are burned into my memory forever.

“Rest in peace, Daryl and Brown Eyes,” I murmur.

“Pardon?” Jessica glances nervously at me.

I shake my head sadly. “Nothing.”

I look down at the pots soaking in the sink, my hands already red and sore from all the scrubbing I’ve been doing. Two more plates and one pan to go. I can’t contain my sigh. I scratch at the crusted food on the side of the pan with my fingernail to see if it needs a little longer to soak—finding that it does since the cooked-on food doesn’t budge. I sigh again, though I know I probably shouldn’t complain: after all, I was the one who offered to host the dinner party for Ken’s work colleagues. If it helped Ken, then it helped him, us—me. If it meant he was happy and he left me to my own devices—left me to my books—then I was happy.

When work was quiet, he hung around the house all day, bossing me and the cat around and leaving dirty laundry all over the floor. It’s always better when he’s at work. Everything just runs a little smoother.

“Susan!” Ken hollers from the dining room, his loud voice echoing down the hall to me.

I roll my eyes at the sudsy water and grip the edge of the sink. His voice is like nails down a blackboard to me—everything about the man has become unbearable. Maybe that’s the problem: maybe
I’m
the problem and not him. I look down at the dirty water again, my shoulders slumping, and sigh once more.

“What is it, Ken?” I ask, already knowing what it is. It’s the same routine every night, regardless of if I’ve been slaving over the oven for most of the day. Or if I’ve cleaned the entire house from top to bottom, so that everything was set up for him to impress his boss. Yes, it’s the same routine every single night: I cook, I clean, he rules over me and the cat with an iron fist. So I know what is coming next, though I ask anyway.

“Su-san!” he hollers again as if he didn’t hear my reply, punctuating my name in that way he knows irritates me.

I dry my hands on a dishtowel, turn away from the dirty pots, and head toward the living room where my husband and his boss are—better be quick before he really loses his temper with me. I make my face more pleasant as I go into the room, turning my frown upside down and giving a smile to his colleague and then to him.

“Yes, sweetie, what can I get for you?”

He scowls at me, his jowls wobbling as he talks. “I was just telling Phil here what great chocolate chip brownies you make. Thought you could whip us up a batch.”

“Sweetie, it’s eleven thirty. I was just about to head to bed—once I’ve finished the kitchen, anyway.” I can’t keep the lament out of my words.

Ken offers his boss a courteous smile, hefts his large frame out of his chair, and turns to me, looking me dead center so I know he isn’t messing around.

“Susan, I want you to take that sweet ass of yours to the kitchen and make us some chocolate chip brownies. I won’t ask you again.” His nostrils flare as he adds on the last line, and it takes everything I have to not gulp loudly.

He’s right: I don’t want him to ask me again. I remember the last time he had to ask me to do something twice. Still have the damn scar on my right palm from it. Who knew the bottom of a pan stayed so hot even after ten minutes? Besides, maybe I should just be grateful that the rest of his co-workers have left and there’s only him and his boss Phil left to cook for.

I blink back from the painful memory, my palm feeling sore. “Sure, sweetie, I’ll go make some, I’m sorry. I’ll have to pop out to the store and get the ingredients though.” I smile at him, glad to see his anger subsiding.

“Ken, it really isn’t necessary,” Phil says from the opposite chair as he puffs on a fat cigar.

Ken has purposely let Phil smoke in the house, knowing how much I hate it, but I don’t say anything—I never do. I’ll just have to do an intensive clean tomorrow when Ken is out at work, because he hates the smell too, and he’s only allowing it to further aggravate me.

I manage contain the groan of pent-up frustration residing in the pit of my stomach, and glance down at Phil. “It’s completely fine. I should have made them earlier today. Besides, they really are delicious, I’m sure you’ll love them.” I pat Ken on the arm, and he sits back down in his chair without another word.

“There’s some things on the grocery list you should pick up while you’re there too.” He scowls at me, but instead of explaining that I was going to go tomorrow, I nod and smile.

“Oh, and bring us some more drinks before you leave for the store.” Ken looks back at Phil and continues his conversation, dismissing me. I pick up their empty glasses and head back to the kitchen.

I take back two fresh scotches on the rocks before I leave for the store, the time hitting just past midnight as I climb into our car. I drive through the darkened streets, the roads empty of anyone else stupid enough to be out at this time on a Tuesday night, and can’t help the stray tears that trail down my cheeks. I don’t even know how my life got to this, how I ended up in such a loveless marriage with a man I can’t stand to be around—a vile, overweight bully who loves to torment me.

He didn’t used to be like this—
we
didn’t used to be like this. We loved each other once, before a freak accident forced Ken out of his job. He used to drive all around the country selling high end products to big companies, but after his accident, he ended up out of work for three years. For some reason, he blamed me. Or maybe he was just envious and jealous of me because I had a job. Either way, when he finally landed a decent job that would pay the bills he forced me to quit mine, insisting that we didn’t need my wage now and saying that he had to prove to everyone that he was still the man of the house after relying on me for so long.

So now he’s bitter and angry, full of spite and hate for me, and I for him. I don’t even care that he hits me, that he mentally abuses me; after living the past two years with him bullying me, my resolve has gone and all I care about is making it through the next day without pissing him off some more. Anything for the easy life.

I should leave him, yet for some reason I don’t. I’m still here no matter what he does to try and destroy our marriage. Is it the fear of him or the fear of the unknown that drives me back to him after all the abuse?