The Lazarus Impact (14 page)

“We can be at my parents’ in a matter of hours,” Amy adds.

Michael reluctantly agrees. “Fine. Let’s go.”

“Alright hop in!” Marcus says as he swipes the gym bag off the floor. He tosses it in the truck bed with some tools and supplies. He secures everything down with bungee cords. He clips the lock on the outside of the garage with a pair of bolt cutters, yanks open the roll gate, and gets into the driver’s seat. The engine growls to a start, and heavy metal once again fills the air.

As soon as they approach the highway entrance ramp Michael begins to scoff at Marcus. Cars are parked, abandoned and jammed in nearly every square inch of asphalt leading onto the interstate. Dead bodies cover what little pavement can be seen, rotted, mangled and torn from limb to limb. Looking out from the truck’s high vantage point, there’s gridlock frozen in both directions as far as the eye can see.

“This is some path that the Lord doth provide.” Michael remarks.

“Shh,” Amy elbows him. She wishes she could turn her face to look out the window in anger, but she’s stuck sitting bitch between Michael and Marcus, with her knees aimed toward Michael so Marcus has enough room to shift.

Marcus ignores Michael’s intolerance. Instead he eyeballs the sleek bodied American sports car that’s spun around in front of him, and the pimped-out, low-riding rice rocket just beside it. Both cars are extremely low to the ground, and sitting at the rear of the traffic snarl. Marcus backs the truck up a few car lengths and revs the engine with a sinister grin, peering at Michael.

“What are you doing?” Michael asks.

“Put your seatbelts on. It’s gonna be a bumpy ride.” Marcus laughs as he cranks up the metal.

He drops the truck into gear and it screams and thunders its way to the two cars at the back of the traffic jam. Its four foot tires hit the front end of the sports car like a ramp, and it barrels up the hood of the sports car with ease, using the door panels of the import beside it to guide it upward and keep from toppling over. They soar through the air for a moment and then slam down onto the roofs of the cars ahead of them. They crunch underneath the beastly truck as Marcus moves forward on top of all the traffic.

There is constant up and down – trunk, roof, hood, trunk, roof, hood... The thuds, the shattering of glass, the screeching of metal, and the blaring riffs of the greatest heavy metal band that ever lived combine into a hellish harmony. It all begins to give Michael motion sickness. His stomach turns with each gut wrenching lurch the truck makes. He closes his eyes tight and clenches the muscles in his abdomen to keep from vomiting in his mask.

Amy sees the queasy look on Michael’s face and allows a smile.
This ought to keep him quiet and respectful for a while
. He would get a sour stomach just from certain subway lines, not to mention boats and airplanes. “This path works for me!” she hollers over the crunching cars and blasting music, holding onto the dash like it’s a handlebar on a rollercoaster.

CHAPTER 27

Puke was everywhere. It was on his favorite comics and porn mags; it gunked up his game controllers and his keyboard, and it was all over his clothes. Brandon woke up to the smell of it, mixing with the scent of the warm skunked beer bottles that sat beside his head on the cold metal floor. It was almost enough to make him hurl again. His head pounded and throbbed with a pain that felt like his brain was split in two and dangling out a gaping hole in his head. For the first time in his life he was hung over.

The barfing was uncontrollable at times. The whole bunker was spinning and he was a terrible shot in his video games. He didn’t remember to shut anything off when he fell asleep either. The bulbs were baking his skin, making him sweat profusely even in the winter underground. The agony seemed to last for days. He gobbled down some aspirin and burned through several bottles of water, both on himself and in cleaning up the mess he made. He was angry at how much supply he wasted on the episode.
I’ll never drink again!

The power cuts out. Low on gas, Brandon knows it’s time to venture out into the zombie apocalypse to refuel.
It’s a five mile hike in each direction through a bloody battlefield of cannibals
.
But I’m prepared for it
.
Shit, I’m excited for it!
With the hangover fading into memory, and the loose bowels finally working their way out of his system, he packs up his fastest, lightest and best weapons for the mission. The rifle, which can sling over his shoulder; a small hatchet, whose handle slips nicely through the wide belt loop on his jeans; and a gas can in each hand.
The way back will be difficult
. His arms are weak, and carrying a full gas container in each hand means he’ll have to stop to rest often, and stay extra alert, since his weapons won’t be at the ready.
A few more gallons of fuel isn’t much, but I can make several trips if needed, and start a stockpile in here or the shed
.

With his mask on and his courage up, Brandon emerges from his bomb shelter. He quickly closes the hatch and drags some loose branches and tree debris over it to hide the entrance. It’s quiet, and the bloated bodies of his parents still rot away in death where they fell. He pays them no mind, or at least he tries.
Those aren’t your parents
.
Don’t look
.
Don’t even glance
. But he has to. Crows are plucking away at their eyes and stomachs, feasting on them like vultures. Their skin has turned an eerie shade of marbled greenish white, freezing them in decomposition. As Brandon’s stomach begins to flutter with sorrow, and tears begin to well up in his eyes, he turns the other way.
Fuck it
.
I’m on my own
.
I don’t need anyone
.

Brandon realizes quickly that this won’t be like his zombie games, where the characters always start out in some heavily populated urban area, with things exploding and swarms of undead looming around each tight street corner. In a way it depresses him. He looks forward to the thrill of watching brains explode out the back of zombies’ heads. But he’s in the rural and suburban sprawl of Pennsylvania. If he’s lucky he’ll see one or two Zs on his gas trip, unless, of course, he goes to the mall. In the movies the mall is always jammed with zombies. But the closest mall is 15 miles at least, and probably wasn’t even busy when the outbreak started on Christmas. Brandon will have to seek them out in the neighborhoods if he wants to see any action.
I’ll have to hunt them, but only on the way to the station
.
Not on the way back when I’m loaded with gas
.

As he walks through his neighborhood he can’t help but think back to video footage he saw of tornado damage. Some homes are perfectly okay, while others are completely shredded to shit. The scenery looks like all of his post apocalyptic games. All that’s missing are the monsters. He keeps a sharp eye out for them.

At one house he sees some dead folks roaming around in a sunroom through the windows. The home is completely intact. There’s no damage like at his house and others. But the front door is wide open, leading into the sunroom porch. He starts throwing rocks toward it to draw the zombies’ attention, hoping they’ll shamble out into the daylight where he can watch their brains exit the back of their heads.
It’s no fun if you can’t see it
. A few throws later a man emerges from the open doorway. Brandon, sprawled out on the asphalt, looks like a corpse himself, only he has his eye trained down the barrel of his father’s rifle, propping it up on an empty gas can to keep it steady. He squeezes the trigger and misses. The bullet whizzes past the man and shatters the windows behind. An undead woman comes out of the glassed porch then. They both wander around, confused, but after Brandon’s second missed shot, they begin to follow the sound of the gun. They’re walking right toward him. Brandon’s third shot hits the man’s knee and drops him to the driveway pavement. The fourth is a headshot, but since he’s already on the ground, there’s no flying brain.
One down
.

The woman begins to walk faster toward Brandon, realizing he is food. He fires and hits her shoulder, knocking her backward. She regains her footing and keeps coming. Another shot hits the neck. Blood gushes everywhere, and a string of crimson whips into the air. Brandon quickly adjusts and lets the final shot fly.
Right between the eyes
. Her brains spray out the back of her head so far that some of it lands on the doorstep, sailing all the way up from the bottom of the driveway.

“Yes!” he cheers. Brandon laughs hysterically in victory, but he knows it was a poor showing.
Seven rounds for two zombies
.
My aim needs to improve
. Real life is not like the video games. The gun has kickback instead of just vibrating like a game controller. His shoulder hurts because of it. He can’t zoom in when using his gun sights either, like in the video games, so his glasses are necessary. And reloading doesn’t happen with the push of a button. It takes time, concentration, two hands.
I need to work on my speed
.

Brandon heads up to the front door and enters the sunroom. His missed shots left shards of broken window all over the floor. The door leading to the inside of the house is closed and locked. But a window beside it is shattered as well, and now left wide open. His bullets went clear through the sunroom and into the actual home.
The two zombies must’ve wandered in, trying to get into the house
. He hears commotion inside the house. He realizes there may be people alive inside.

“Hello?” he shouts. He hears nothing in response. “Anyone in there?” He hears words he can’t understand.
Another language
.
Not the grunts of a corpse
. He reaches into the window opening and unlocks the front door. He steps inside. He hears thuds and footsteps coming from upstairs. Then the sound of a woman coughing, and more unknown words coming from a man. He can’t understand what they mean, but he sure knows they sound frantic. “Hello?” he says again as he approaches the bottom stair.

Suddenly a man with a gas mask turns the corner from the top of the stairs and charges at him with a handgun raised in the air. Brandon turns and runs for the door as the bullets fly past his head. He runs back down the driveway, grabs his gas cans and keeps on going. He hears more gunshots from behind. He runs in a zigzag pattern to avoid getting hit. He turns and fires back wildly, without even really aiming. He fumbles with his gas cans and rifle, but he keeps running. Then he hears screaming.
I hit him?
He turns to see the man keeled over on the ground in pain.

“Oh shit. Oh shit,” he says, realizing he just killed a real person.
But was it?
It’s a man behind a mask
.
An enemy who shot at me first
.
And there was coughing too
.
They were infected
.
Did my misfired shots break the windows and cause the poisonous air to get in?
Did I cause the coughing?
Did they think I was breaking in to attack them? Maybe they didn’t understand my words, like I couldn’t understand theirs
.
It was all a misunderstanding
.
It was an accident
. In a video game he would lose points, or lose the information and items that the uninfected would provide for him. This is the real world though. There are consequences here, like punishment and jail time. He runs, and runs, and runs.

But would there be jail? Will I get caught?
He looks around.
I’m in a ghost town
.
There are no rules
.
There is no law, only survival
. The wave of guilt suddenly washes away as fast as it came upon him.
I can do whatever the fuck I want! The world has bigger problems now
. He slows to a jog, then a trot, then a walk. He shakes the incident from his mind.
Back to the task at hand
.
Back to getting gas for the generator
.

CHAPTER 28

Willy draws the curtains back from the window, bathing the rest of the grotesque room with light. Sheryl peeks out the window. Two cannibals are at the car, scratching at the windows to get at Rocky. His barking is incessant.

“There’s more coming,” Willy says, looking off across the parking lot. Several zombies slowly make their way toward the car from all around. “And you need target practice. Since we’re stuck here, you may as well start shooting.”

Sheryl takes aim at one near the car. Even with a pistol it’s difficult to shoot with a bad arm, but setting up like this is easier than before, when the zombies were streaming into the room to attack them.

“Not them ones. We got to get those close range. Don’t want to shoot out our car windows,” Willy instructs.

Sheryl turns toward the others. All is silent but Rocky’s barking and the scratching at the apartment door from the evil that lingers in the hall. Sheryl tunes it all out, like she used to tune out the boys’ fighting while she was trying to pay bills or cook dinner. Her heart sinks a little at the thought, but she exhales an even breath and squeezes the trigger. She blinks at the noise and kick of the gun, but she hits her target. The shot to the zombie’s upper back spins it around. Now she can see its bloodied, ravenous face. She squeezes off another shot and hits it in the eye.

“Good shooting,” Willy congratulates her. He takes the rifle down from across his back and puts the shotgun down. Sheryl watches him, confused. “Shotgun is like a spray of small pellets. Not too good over long distances.” Sheryl gives him an understanding nod. “Rifle is for hunting at a distance.”

Willy uses the butt of the gun to knock out the remaining shards of glass left clinging to the window. He takes a knee and balances the rifle on the sill. He aims and fires. A distant beast drops in death. Willy spins and fires another shot. Another bull’s eye. Then a third.

“You’re like a sniper,” Sheryl compliments.

“Used to be a sharp shooter. Was in the military. Marines.” He pulls his sleeve back to show his tattoo as proof. “Keep practicing. You needa become one yourself.”

Sheryl takes aim again and fires, this time at a more distant creature, hitting its kneecap and dropping it to the ground. Willy notices her face contorted in frustration.

“It’s alright. If he can’t stand he can’t walk, and if he can’t walk he can’t get to us. Right now that’s just as good as a headshot. Just need to clear a path to the car,” Willy says between shots, reassuring Sheryl with confidence-boosting compliments.

They each reload and continue their target practice. When the zombies are too far for Sheryl to hit with her pistol, Willy shows her how to use the rifle. After a while, when the lot is somewhat clear except for the two zombies by the car, he instructs her to look for some rope. But there is none. Willy joins her in the search. He quickly decides to tie a bunch of sheets together as a substitute. He looks around the floor near the windows for something sturdy, something anchored down. He starts to pull the covers off the baseboard heaters, exposing the pipes that carry the hot water through the apartment. He threads the sheets around them and ties a tight knot, giving it a few tugs to test for strength.

“That’ll do,” he says. “Check around for supplies and such. Can never have too much.”

Together they pack some dried goods and bottled fluids into a suitcase they find in one of the closets. Sheryl raids the medicine cabinet for some basics as well. There she notices the herpes medication prescribed to the bitch that stole her husband.
Good thing I stopped fucking him after he started fucking you
, she thinks to herself as she closes the mirrored door. The sight of her own masked face staring back startles her, and she gasps. At times she forgets she’s even wearing it.

Willy lowers the suitcase down with the opposite end of the tied sheets, and he begins to climb down. The two remaining zombies by the car suddenly switch their attention from Rocky to him.

“Lookout!” Sheryl warns him.

“I’ll hang here. When they get away from the car you shoot ‘em,” Willy says.

“What if I miss?”

“Don’t,” Willy says after a pause. He looks all around as he dangles. The shotgun and rifle slung across his back begin to slide and spin on their strap. He finds footing on the outer windowsill of the second floor apartment.

Sheryl fires and kills the first one, but the second one is nearly at the building already. The cannibal positions itself directly beneath Willy, and Sheryl can’t get a line of sight on it. Willy is in the way. She runs over from the living room to the bedroom window and opens it wider. There’s a better angle from there. She can see the zombie grabbing for Willy’s shoe. She takes aim and fires; a clean headshot.

Willy climbs down the rest of the way and carries the suitcase of supplies to the car as Sheryl starts to make her way down the sheets. Her good hand is shaking with nerves, and her injured arm is useless, so she places her feet on the second floor windowsill where Willy did, breathing heavily and trying to steady her panic. Willy is beneath her now, keeping one eye on her and the other on the parking lot. A few of the wounded zombies with broken, twisted limbs that Sheryl mowed over with the car drag themselves over. Willy can see the hunger in their faces.

“Keep comin’ now. You can do it. This is the easy part,” Willy coaches her.

Just then there is a slam on the window in front of Sheryl. The entire pane of glass rattles and shakes. She screams at the sight of the zombie behind it, scratching and clawing at the window in a feverish attempt to eat her. The fog of its putrid breath on the thin glass obscures the horrific vision. Sheryl’s face is only inches from the beast but the sudden start makes her lose her footing. She slips off the sill. Her grip was already loosened on the sheets while she was catching her breath. She grabs for the makeshift rope but it’s too late. She falls backwards, away from the building, with her eyes fixed on the demon above. But an instant later she feels the bony, weathered, yet muscled embrace of Willy’s arms as she falls into them. He caught her like a child.

He slowly places her feet down on the pavement. She doesn’t have to thank him. He already knows she’s grateful. Sheryl hands Willy the keys and they hurry to the car. Rocky greets them with excited whimpers and slimy licks. They drive off.

#

After burning west at top speed for a while, an array of lights start flashing on the police cruiser’s dashboard. The engine is hot, and fuel is low. The signs on the highway say the next gas station is 11 miles away. The car sounds like death, but they press on, their eyes glued to the odometer. Willy is sure they can make it. A few mile markers later and they see the pull off up ahead.

“Think we can even fill up there? Everything is electronic. How do you get gas out when there’s no power?” Sheryl asks. Willy isn’t concerned.