This Plague of Days Season One (The Zombie Apocalypse Serial) (39 page)

“He’s bad burrito,” Anna agreed.

Theo turned back to the window. “From what I saw, there are worse men than him. And they have him now.”

The man in the dress was back on the front step, still howling back and forth at the man in the Bermuda shorts.

“Those guys choose one song and play it to death,” Theo said.

The screen door Anna’s boyfriend had destroyed lay cast aside on the grass, like a small insult forgotten because of deeper wounds.

The man in Jack’s wedding dress shook a can of something. He stretched his arm up and sprayed paint back and forth in broad strokes. When he stepped back, a thick orange phosphorescent ‘X’ was visible across their front door.

“Wolf Pack!” the man in white yelled in triumph.

“Wolf Pack!” the man in Bermuda shorts answered. They howled at each other again. The sound rose, up and up, a terrifying animal sound.

Jack began to cry. She put a hand to her head and Anna moved forward to catch her in case she fainted. Jack stumbled forward into her husband and lay her head on his chest.

The curtains moved against the window pane under the steady eye of white light. The guard in Bermuda shorts caught the movement from the edge of his vision. Was that a trick of the light, or was someone watching them? He’d been watching that window and wondering.
 

He stood, dug a white hospital mask out of his back pocket and grabbed his shotgun.

Between what we were and where we've been

O
liver pulled himself up by the rough wooden workbench. He tried to disregard the sharp pain across his back and chest, but his breath was ragged.
 

How many ribs had Bently cracked? That could be nothing in the long run, if a jagged rib didn’t pop one of his lungs first. If the end of a broken rib did rip through the lining of a lung, deflating his balloon and pressing on his old heart, he’d die. He doubted Jackson had the skills or inclination to perform a thoracotomy to save him.

In the flickering light of his old lighter, his cold hands shook as he searched in vain for a weapon. Years of accumulated junk littered the workbench: Discarded training wheels for a bicycle; old rolls and scraps of wallpaper; coffee cans of screws and nails. A forgotten flower pot lay on its side.
 

Oliver would have preferred a long, flat screwdriver but all he could find were smaller ones. Perhaps Bently had already gone through the workbench, taking what he thought useful for their cache. Oliver almost fell reaching for a tiny Robinson screwdriver from a plastic rack.
 

At the top of the small flight of stairs, the tattooed boy was still cursing him, laughing at him and making gagging sounds through the door. Terrified Jackson would rush in and swing his crowbar any second, Oliver grabbed the small screwdriver. It was so small, the tool disappeared in his palm, but he would have to make do.
 

He fumbled and gasped as he knocked a can of screws over. The screws and nails scattered and clattered across the concrete floor towards the washer and dryer by the far wall. To his despair, the sound had carried to Jackson’s ears.

“What you doin’ down there, old man?”

Oliver snatched up the empty flower pot and, despite his pain, pushed off the workbench and launched himself back toward the stairs and off into the darkness to the left going by feel and memory. He’d hidden his treasure by the furnace.
 

The red plastic gas cans lay under a tarp. This was the inventory he’d told Bently to store in the Spencer’s house. The fuel was meant to power their escape to the promised haven of Theo’s father’s farm. It might save him now.
 

The old man felt the cool plastic under his hands in the dark. He could save himself if he had enough time, but time was slipping away.
 

His hope didn’t last long. His captor pounded down the stairs.
 

Oliver was fit, but he was still an old man. Even without a broken rib, he wouldn’t have tried attacking Jackson on his best day.
 

But there was another, long-shot option.

Jackson headed toward the laundry room. His lantern held high and swinging wildly, Oliver caught just enough thrown light in his corner of the basement to help him close on what he needed with a sure hand.
 

That moment saved Oliver from immolating himself. In his rush and desperation, he’d come close to using the lighter. Instead, he stabbed at a gas can with the screwdriver point. He had meant to stab it low, close to the floor, but as he stooped, pain shot through his chest and he heard something crack and shift.
 

The screwdriver, with all his lurching weight behind it, plunged through the thin plastic easier than he expected. Gas slopped out. Oliver gasped and dropped the flower pot. His hands on his knees, the old man stooped, each breath a misery. He shifted the flower pot with his foot till he heard gasoline splash into it.

The boy heard him. Jackson rushed forward but was hampered by a pile of cardboard boxes. He wound through the mess, holding the lantern and the crowbar higher, searching the basement.

Douglas Oliver straightened as best he could and leaned against the furnace. “I’m here.”

The boy slowed, cautious now. He saw Oliver bend down and heard his pained gasp. The boy smiled and came closer, bold and sure, raising the long crowbar.
 

The old man straightened again and held up something silver in the light.
 

Jackson faltered for a second, thinking his prisoner had a knife or a gun, but it was far too small for that.

“Time to die, old man.”

“Alright.”
 

The clay flower pot had a hole in its bottom. There wasn’t much gas in it, but Douglas Oliver swung it up from his knee and the fuel hit the teenager in the face.

Be killed or kill in days like these

“Somebody’s over there,” the man in Bermuda shorts said, pointing at the house across the street.

“Nah,” said the man in the white dress. “Your imagination. And the wine.”

He howled his wolf howl again but this time his fellow guard ignored him. “I’m almost sure I saw something.” He pointed again to Douglas Oliver’s house, at the living room window.
 

Jack stood behind that window, the horror building as she peered through a narrow gap in the curtains. It was as if the lens of a powerful microscope had been turned on her. The man in the white dress —
her
wedding
dress
— shrugged and gestured with a wine bottle, urging the other guard to have another drink.
 

No. Not a microscope. A
rifle
scope. The crosshairs would be aimed between her eyes. She could feel it like a real pressure between her eyes. “Oh, please. Oh, please…”

The guards argued. It was a soundless pantomime, but their gestures were clear. Jaimie began twirling the walking stick as he had seen Oliver do. Anna grabbed it and in a hoarse whisper told her brother to be still.

The man in Bermuda shorts put his shotgun down, sat back on the Spencer’s couch and adjusted his surgical mask so it now sat on top of his head. Anna, Theo and Jack let out a long sigh. Only then did they realize they had been holding their breath.
 

The man in Bermuda shorts stood and pulled his mask down. The man in Jack’s wedding dress sprang forward and picked up his shotgun from the ground by the front step. The guards hurried toward the Spencers.

A wide-brimmed hat stuffed on her head and a winter scarf across her face, Marjorie Bendham crossed the street carrying a small black suitcase and an umbrella in one hand. In her other hand she carried a large cooler that banged against her knee. The old woman made a beeline toward Douglas Oliver’s house.
 

“We’re Anne Frank and the neighbor’s an idiot,” Anna said.

“Head for the garage!” Theo ordered, “If we don’t get out of here, they’ll kill us.”

“Or
worse
,” Jack said.

Jaimie thought Mrs. Bendham looked like an older version of Mary Poppins. He loved that movie, especially the song about the very long word. He wished he could say it loud so he could sound precocious. All language was multidimensional music to Jaimie. Mary Poppin’s voice made it prettier.

If Mary Poppins were here, she would take the bull by the horns, or, as the Romans put it more elegantly:
Tenere lupum auribus. Hold the wolf by the ears.

Pray for God's mercy or the Red Queen's disease

T
hough the gas burned the tattooed boy’s eyes, he kept coming at Oliver. Gagging, spitting, cursing — but still coming. He hadn’t dropped the lantern or the crowbar.

Douglas Oliver retreated until his back was to the furnace. Gas spilled at his heels. The old man thought Jackson would run as soon as the gas hit him. At worst, he thought his guard would pause long enough for Oliver to hold up his silver lighter and threaten him. He thought he’d have a moment to relish the look of terror in the boy’s burning eyes. It had been the perfect plan.
 

Half-blind, Jackson swung out with the crowbar. Vicious after-images followed the arc of metal. It clanged against a thick furnace pipe by Oliver’s head.

“Get back or I’ll burn you alive!”
 

When angry, Jackson was not a listener. Instead, he swung again and barely missed.
 

Too stupid and mean to live,
thought Oliver.

Jackson, one eye squeezed shut and spitting gasoline, stepped close to his captive, too close to miss with his next swing. The boy raised his weapon over his head. In his left hand he was still gripping the lantern. That’s what saved Oliver. Despite his age and his pain, he had another hand free to fight.
 

Pulsing with adrenaline, the old man grabbed Jackson’s crowbar. Expecting a tug of war, Jackson yanked back to free the weapon. Oliver was no match for the younger man’s strength and couldn’t resist the pull. Instead he fell forward. His greater weight fell on the boy as he toppled backward. More by luck than design, Oliver brought up an elbow to fend off blows to his injured ribcage. The meat and bone and blade of his forearm smashed across his attacker’s throat.

The savage blow shocked and choked Jackson. The lantern dropped to the floor, its light a small circle. They were shadows moving in dim light, both wracked with pain and gasping for air. Oliver used all his weight, pushing through the burning, spreading pain. The crowbar clunked to the floor. The boy pushed away, got up and tripped over Oliver’s legs. He spun and twisted and tripped and fell into the pile of gas cans.
 

Oliver’s first instinct was to run, but when the boy gathered himself up, he’d be on him again before he made it to the stairs. He knew he was lucky Bently and the twins upstairs hadn’t been drawn to the noise yet. More likely, the men were content to drink and listen to what they presumed was his brutal beating and slow murder.

Oliver ignored his pain and groped through the dark to find the crowbar. His need for time left no room for pain.
 

Or so he thought.
 

The next moment proved what an arrogant idea that had been. As Oliver bent for the weapon, something hitched in his breathing and something in his back and ribs gave another horrendous crack.
 

Oliver couldn’t simply push the pain away. Pain pushes back. He fell to his knees too heavily. The bare, cold concrete felt like knives driving into his old kneecaps. Pain rocketed up through his bones. It made him shriek, gasp and cry out again. Dropping so heavily to his knees felt almost as horrific as the pain through his chest.
 

He’d heard getting gut shot was bad, but few things could compare to knee pain. He was too old for this fight. He was sure he wouldn’t have the chance to get any older.

Oliver could hear Jackson moving, finding his feet, scattering the gas cans. In a just world, the kid would have been knocked out in his fall. In a movie, the boy would be out cold on the concrete and Oliver would have time to plot something clever for the men upstairs.
 

Instead, the boy would pounce on him again and this time, Jackson would finish him. As he sought the crowbar, he imagined the sickening sound and the burst of pain if Jackson found the weapon first and brought it down with both hands, with all his strength, on the back of his neck.
 

Yes. His captor would paralyze him first. Somehow Oliver was sure of that. It was cruel, so he was sure the boy would do it. Then the boy would take his time.

Jackson was up, scrambling against the plastic drums. Thumping. Liquid sloshing. Scrambling in the dark, eyes still burning from the gas.

If Oliver had been thinking clearer, he would have grabbed for the lantern first. But he wasn’t thinking. He was panicking. When he did scoot forward to grab at it, it was to throw it at the boy.
 

He threw the lantern as hard as he could but, with broken ribs, it hurt to raise a hand past his shoulder. Oliver had hoped the lantern’s glass would shatter across Jackson’s face. Instead the boy caught it neatly, as if Oliver had given it to him in a gentle toss.

Jackson let out a triumphant cackle. “Old man, you are a tough old fool, but you’re a dead fool.” Jackson raised the lantern high. The circle of light expanded and there on the floor, just out of Oliver’s reach, the crowbar emerged from the gloom. He snatched it up and got up on one knee before the boy ran forward.
 

Jackson came at him, ready with the lantern to smash it down on Oliver’s head.

The old man didn’t have time to draw back the weapon. He’d meant to swing it like a club and kneecap the boy. He was too slow for that. Instead he thrust it forward like a sword. The sharp prying end jammed in deep, just below the boy’s kneecap.

Jackson shrieked and fell back. Lantern light caught the sheer pain. The boy’s face a topographical map of agonized surprise and white shock.