What We Left Behind (10 page)

I march down to him, softly shaking the baseball bat in my hands, wanting to get accustomed to the weight and gain a feel for where the wood ends. In my mind, the bat is an extension of my arm. Rather than gripping the baseball bat, I’m playing with it, flexing my fingers, loosening and then tightening my grip. I swing the bat around, relishing the feel of the wood. There’s a slight swoosh as the bat passes through the air, and I feel a sense of power. I feel confident, capable.

Jane’s right. As soon as I get within five or six feet, Zee springs into life. It’s an astonishing transformation. His stiff, rigid gait is replaced with the fury of a wild animal. Zee leaps at me. Even without eyes, he comes straight for me. It’s too late for any second thoughts about the gun.

I swing with the bat, but not wildly. I’m hard-pressed to explain why, but I’m calm. There’s something strangely odd about life being measured in terms of seconds instead of years or decades, and that gives my mind singular focus. I can see an astonishing amount of detail. Veins strain on his neck. Some kind of fungus or moss clings to one side of his face. His teeth are sharp, more like those of a wolf than a man. The snarl on his lips is reminiscent of a wildcat pouncing on its prey.

I swing, but I’m not trying to kill him with a single blow. My life is at stake, and yet I’ve moved beyond fear for my own soul. I know composure will win over raw aggression. On the surface, hitting Zee with everything I’ve got seems like a good idea, but a miss sees me dying in his hands. I swing with precision rather than a surge of strength.

Like a matador, I step to one side as the baseball bat whips through the air.

The bat connects with the side of his head. I feel the wood vibrate with the blow, shaking in my hands. My strike has knocked his lunge off course, sending him to my left.

Zee collapses face-first into the grass. He’s stunned by the blow, but not dead. Maggots infest his back, eating at his flesh.

Zee tries to get to his feet, but I’m not going to give him a second chance. His head hangs low as his back and shoulders arch. Now is the time for aggression. I bring my bat down hard, swinging with every ounce of strength I can muster. The baseball bat descends like an axe. The wooden cap at the tip of the bat connects with the back of his head and his skull caves in, crumpling beneath my blow. His lifeless body slumps into the long grass. Dark black goo oozes from the crushed remains of his head.

I’m exhausted. The entire encounter unfolded in seconds, but I feel like I’ve just run four or five miles.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see movement. Another zombie stumbles from the shadows of the forest into the sunlight. I blink and realize there are three of them, but I don’t panic. I’m in the groove. I feel invincible, unstoppable.

Jane’s screaming at me to shoot them. I glance at her. She’s got her gun drawn but she can’t fire for risk of hitting me.

I smile.

I’ve got this.

Three zombies come running in fast. They’re not blind. They’re not slow. They’re hungry. But they’ve met me on the wrong day. My father lies dying in a cellar back at camp. My best friend sits behind me, counting on me to protect her. The injustice of our world burns within my soul. Jane’s right. We shouldn’t have to deal with this, but we do, and I will. Nothing can quench my rage.

I scream, running at the zombies with my baseball bat held high and to one side. It’s no longer an axe. It’s a broadsword.

The first zombie lunges at me as we close on each other, both of us running as hard as we can. His eyes are wide with anger. He bares his teeth and roars in response to my screaming. On one level, it’s terrifying to be this close to Zee, on the other, I refuse to be afraid anymore. Courage is a choice, not a feeling.

I’m already swinging. I’m not thinking. I’m reacting.

The barrel of my baseball bat connects with his temple and I hear a sickening crack. I can feel the bones in his skull breaking as the bat reverberates in my hands. I’ve hit him so hard my fingers hurt from the jarring impact. His body collapses onto the grass. He doesn’t fall; rather he crumples into a heap, folding in on himself.

The next zombie is not more than ten feet away. She leaps over a tuft of grass, bounding toward me. I know there are all types of zombies—male, female, old, young—but it’s a shock to see a rabid woman charging at me. In my mind, this is Deanne.

There’s no time to reset my swing. I’ll never raise my baseball bat in time, so I rock backwards, swinging with an uppercut, bringing my bat racing between her outstretched arms. The tip of the bat catches her under the chin, smashing her jaw. Broken teeth fly in the grass. She reels to one side. Her head flies backwards as her legs collapse beneath her.

“Damn you, Deanne. Why?” I yell, hitting her again as she crawls through the grass, but it’s a glancing blow, catching the side of her head.

“Why did you give in?” I yell, swinging again. But I miss her completely. I’m exhausted. “Why did you let them take you?”

I cannot understand how she could be so selfish. Seeing Zee as a person, as someone who once was as I now am, it just seems horribly wrong. Traitor.

My heart is racing. I’m breathing hard. Sweat drips from my brow. The burst of adrenaline that saw me through the first few attacks begins to wane, and I’m aware how tiring it is to muster so much force with each blow.

The last zombie is missing an arm, but I’m aware he’s no less dangerous. He runs with a limp. There’s a cadence to his lope, and I raise the baseball bat beside my head, ready to hit a home run, knowing it’s all about the timing.

A bony hand grabs my ankle.

I look down.

Deanne, or whoever the hell she once was, has wrapped her spindly fingers around my ankle. She jerks at my foot. Her fingers feel like steel handcuffs. Deanne crawls on her elbows, gurgling as zombie blood drips from her shattered jaw.

I try to shake her free, but I lose my footing and fall backwards into the long grass.

The zombie with the lope towers over me, blocking out the sun.

Jane fires, but she misses.

Her shot echoes off the hills.

Zee smiles. Although I know it’s simply the way his face has decayed, the zombie crouching over me seems to be grinning with his rotten teeth—gloating over his kill. His eyes have retreated into their sockets, while the skin on his face is gaunt and stretched tight over his cheekbones. He reaches for my head with his one remaining arm. Like Deanne, his fingers are long and spindly, little more than bones.

Deanne gnaws on my boot. She’s grinding what’s left of her upper teeth against the leather sides of my boot and I’m regretting not wearing leg greaves. An inch higher, and she’ll grind through soft flesh.

I try to push up the hill to get to higher ground, working with my boots, but the grass is slick and gives beneath me, causing me to slide down toward Deanne. She claws her way up my trousers, climbing along my legs.

The other zombie falls to his knees, bending over me, ready to feed. Saliva drips on my chest.

Jane screams and fires three more times, but only one shot hits.

Zee twitches as though he’s been bitten by wasp, but it’s not more than a momentary distraction for him. He stretches out with his one vice-like hand, reaching for my neck.

I’ve still got the baseball bat, but he’s too close and Deanne is clambering over my waist. I don’t have enough room to swing at him or to strike at her, so I shove the bat in his chest, using it like an oar. He raises his one good arm to grab the bat, but I lash out again and he loses his balance and falls backwards on the grass. He slides a few feet down the slope and writhes around, desperate to get back to his feet and feed.

“Deanne,” I yell, shoving the end of my baseball bat in her face and pushing her off me, “I expected more from you.”

Within a second, they’ll both be back on me, but I scramble up the slope and get to my feet. Deanne’s the least of my worries. She’s moving slowly, still crawling on the ground.

I turn to the one-armed zombie and bring my bat thundering down on his head as he grabs at my jacket. His skull collapses beneath the blow and his fingers release their grip.

Deanne won’t give up.

She can’t win, but she can’t see that. She crawls on toward me. I begin pounding on her head with the baseball bat, hitting her repeatedly. She’s dead after the first or second hit, but I continue mashing her brains into the soil.

“Damn you, Deanne. Damn you for giving up,” I scream in a rage.

Finally, exhausted, I relent.

My hair hangs down over my face. As I stand there swaying, my heart is beating at a million miles an hour.

Jane is sobbing.

Through the trees, I can see two more zombies approaching. Their dark silhouettes are menacing. I reach for my gun, but it’s gone. I’ve lost it in the grass. In a panic, I look around, but the gun is nowhere to be seen.

I’ve got to be brave. I can’t give up. I can’t end up like them. I won’t.

“You want some of this?” I cry, shaking the dark zombie blood from my baseball bat. Tears stream down my cheeks. “Come on then. Bring it!”

They’re running. I can see Zee crashing through the undergrowth in the forest. I don’t know how long I can do this. I’m on the verge of collapsing from exhaustion, but I can’t surrender. I won’t become another Deanne.

“Your gun,” Jane yells. “Use your gun.”

“I lost it,” I reply, but my words are barely audible. I doubt Jane can hear me.

I’ve got to be strong. I have no choice.

I strike at the grass on the hillside like a batter shaking himself off by hitting at home plate as he waits for the opening pitch. My dad loved baseball. I thought it was a silly game, but today I’ll play ball.

“Batter up,” I yell, raising the bat high behind my shoulder, pointing it up at the sky as I’ve seen so many times on television.

David and Steve run out of the forest. Those dark shapes—it was them returning for us. I’m so relieved I could laugh.

The muscles in my arms give out and suddenly the baseball bat is hanging by my side. They run up the grassy slope with their packs bouncing on their backs.

Steve calls out, “Are you okay? Have you been bitten?”

I shake my head, too tired to answer.

“Hell’s bells,” David says, struggling for breath. He’s not looking at me. He’s surveying the carnage around me.

Steve runs up and hugs me. It feels so good to have his arms wrapped around me.

“I’m alive,” I whisper. I’m not sure why I say that, but I do. I think Steve understands as he tightens his grip. At that moment, it feels as though he’ll never let go and that’s fine with me.

“Four to one,” David says, counting the bodies and apparently keeping score. “I’m going to have to raise my game.”

I laugh, but it’s a nervous laugh. My hands are shaking.

“Come on,” Steve says. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

“Try not to stare,” David says as we walk down the center of a concrete road. Weeds grow up through the cracks, some of them reaching over shoulder height.

We’re less than a mile into the suburbs, and already I’m feeling trapped. I feel as though we’ll never get out of here alive. Everything about the city screams dead-end, and the eyes staring at me are unnerving.

“You’re sure they can’t get us?” I ask, glancing at the dead eyes staring down upon us. We walk up to a hotel on the outskirts of town. There are easily a hundred zombies on the first floor pressing themselves hard against the glass. The sign reads
White Creek Inn
—Conference Center
.

Like me, Steve can’t help but look at the gaunt faces in the window. They turn slowly, moving in unison. Dark eyes watch us intently as we walk by.

“I’ve been here half a dozen times,” David replies. “They’re harmless.”

They don’t look harmless to me. They look starved. But he’s right. We shouldn’t make eye contact. To look at them provokes a response and they begin tapping at the window. They’re not striking the glass, more like bumping into it. I guess their zombie-fried brains can’t perceive the glass barrier between us and them. It must feel like an invisible force field.

“It’s plate glass,” David says. “They’d need to throw a chair at it or something.”

Or throw another zombie at it, I think, looking at several broken glass shutters above the horde. The stench wafting through the air is nauseating.

I look away. It’s hard, but I keep my eyes on David’s pack as we walk along. David’s carrying two packs, one on his back, the other on his chest, giving Jane some relief. But I’m worried. If we run into Zee in the open, he’s going to have his hands full dumping them. He’s holding a machete in one hand, but I hate to think how difficult it will be to drop those packs in a hurry.

“They can’t get out,” David says. “A couple of months ago, we did a sweep of this area. We were looking for weapons, but we took the time to send out some bait. A couple of the older guys lured them up there and we locked the door. They’re not going anywhere, and it sure makes life considerably easier for us on the ground.

“I’m not sure if zombies are territorial or just lazy, but they don’t tend to wander too far without reason. They’ll chase our scent for miles, but if you lose them, they’ll spend weeks on a patch of grass no bigger than a tennis court.”

“How did you trap them?” I ask.

“By letting a horde get stupidly close,” David replies.

“That’s crazy,” Jane says.

“Oh,” David says as an afterthought. “See that? That’s our first waypoint.”

“You’re not serious?” I ask.

David points at a mound of gravel on the driveway leading to an underground car park. A broken windshield wiper sticks out of the gravel. There are a bunch of sticks and wiper blades lined up on the ground, ready for use.

“Might seem crazy,” David says. “But those trapped zombies mask our smell. That’s why the streets are clear.”

“Smart,” Steve says, although I’m not so sure. The look on my face must betray my skepticism as David smiles.

“Keep calm,” he says with an air of confidence. “They’re only zombies.”

Only? I’m trying to think of what could be worse? Nah. Nope. Nothing. I cannot think of a single thing worse than a world overrun by zombies.