What We Left Behind (20 page)

I back away from the windows and bump into a desk, knocking my baseball bat onto the ground.

Zombies crowd around me. Their arms are outstretched, grabbing for me, but I keep the desk between us.

I fire.

Another shot misses and I find myself squeezing at a dead trigger.

“I’m out,” I say as though someone is listening. I could have sworn I had three or four more rounds loaded, and I squeeze at the trigger again and again only to be greeted with a dull click each time.

I try to grab more bullets but a zombie jumps through the window, knocking the desk to one side. The box of shells spills out into the walkway and the scattered bullets fall through the grating to the concrete so far below.

“No! No!”

I throw my gun at the closest zombie, but she barely flinches as it catches her on the side of the head.

I dive for my baseball bat as two zombies lunge for me. They grab my boots, dragging me across the floor, pulling me away from the baseball bat. I lash out with my legs, but Zee is too strong.

I twist and turn, fighting to get away, pulling myself across the linoleum floor. My fingers scrabble at the bat, knocking it further from my grasp.

A zombie towers over me, pinning me to the ground. He snarls, diving for my neck. I throw my arm up to protect myself, trying to use the greaves on my forearm to buy myself a few precious seconds, only my greaves are gone.

Rotten teeth tear through my shirt and sink into my right forearm. I scream in agony.

Blood sprays from my arm as I thrash around, trying to shift the weight of the zombie clambering over me. He bites again and again at my arm, each time tearing into the muscle. I can feel his teeth grinding against bone. I twist and roll to one side. The fingers of my left hand catch hold of the baseball bat and I swing.

I’m clumsy. The handle of the bat catches the zombie on the side of his jaw, but it’s enough to dislodge him and I scramble to my feet.

Blood runs from my right arm, but I don’t care.

I am enraged.

I charge at the zombie with the fresh blood dripping from his mouth, smashing my baseball bat into the side of his head. The bat reverberates in my hands as his skull cracks open.

The wood on the bat splits, slowly breaking apart with each thundering blow, but there are two more zombies to kill.

I yell at the top of my lungs—screaming as I charge at them—swinging my bat wildly. With a burst of strength, I beat them to death in a matter of seconds, wielding my baseball bat as though it were a sword. The bat splinters and breaks just above the handle, but even with the barrel of the bat hanging loose, I continue to strike at the fallen zombies, pulverizing their bloody skulls. I’m still screaming. It’s not until long after they’re dead that I slow to a halt, out of breath.

I’m weary, dizzy. Staggering to one side, I grab at the edge of the desk to steady myself. I feel lightheaded.

The old zombie stands outside the office watching as several more zombies begin climbing in through the broken windows.

“Come on,” I yell, lost in a rage. “I’ll take you on. I’m not afraid. I’ll kill all of you!”

But my words are an empty threat. I have nothing left. Already, my right arm feels numb. I grab a dusty old cloth and wrap it around my arm, trying to stem the flow of blood.

The zombies stop where they are. Slowly, they pull back from the window. The old zombie walks up to them, snarling and growling, and they back away like young lions being warned from fallen prey by an old lioness. She turns to me and stares with cold dark eyes.

“So you think you’ve got me?” I say, not expecting a response. “You think I’m yours?”

I toss the broken bat on one of the desks and pick up my gun. With a flick of the wrist, the cylinder opens and I hit the ejector. Empty shell casings scatter across the bloody floor.

“You think you’ve won?” I ask, pulling the necklace from around my neck. “Not so fast. There’s one more bullet. There’s one more thing I have to do for humanity.”

With trembling hands, I load the bullet from the leather pouch on my necklace, slipping it into an empty chamber. I snap the cylinder of the gun back into place. Slowly, I pull back on the hammer, watching as this one, last bullet moves into place under the hammer.

The old zombie snarls. She looks at the gun in my hand.

“Yes,” I say, smiling at the old hag standing outside the window. I point at the gun. “You know what this is. You know what this can do.”

I’m exhausted. I sit on the edge of a desk facing her as I speak, leaning up against the office wall next to the steel door that leads to the parking lot.

“You’ve won this battle, but you’ll lose the war. We will not surrender.”

I don’t think she can understand me. I’m speaking for myself, not for her.

“We will win. We will outlast you.”

My eyes look down at the gun in my frail fingers. Blood drips to the floor. I feel awful. Waves of nausea sweep over me and it’s all I can do not to vomit. I don’t know how much blood I’ve lost, but warm, deep red blood drips between my fingers as I grab at the bandage on my wounded forearm.

My eyes feel heavy. I blink and an eternity seems to pass.

Light floods in as my eyelids flicker open, and the old zombie is standing in front of me, not more than two feet away. I’m confused. She’s inside the office.

For me, barely a second has passed, but I must have been out cold for a minute or two, leaning against the brick wall. In an instant, I have my gun raised and pointed squarely at the center of her forehead. The barrel presses against her wretched green skin, but she doesn’t blink. I expect her to fight for the gun, but she doesn’t. I swear she’s curious or perhaps she’s tempting me, daring me to pull the trigger and waste my final bullet. She sneers, almost laughing at me.

I’m turning. I don’t want to admit it, but I know I am. This is what they warned us about. People hold on to life for too long, hoping for just another moment, but they hope for too much.

I whip the gun back, swinging it away from her and pressing the barrel against my temple. I remember what they taught me in the commune. Hold the gun up, keep your hand high so the bullet drives down into your brain. Don’t wait. Don’t hesitate. Pull the trigger. But life is not so easily overcome. I try to squeeze the trigger, but my fingers are weak. The metal trigger is stiff and unyielding.

The old hag moves closer. I can feel her fetid breath on my face. She looks deep into my eyes, staring in one eye and then the other, as though she is looking for something, some spark of life or my coming death.

“I have to,” I say.

My finger tightens on the trigger as another zombie stumbles into view on the stairs.

“Steve!?”

I scramble back, almost falling from the edge of the desk as I pull myself along the aging wood away from the old zombie.

The hag doesn’t move. She looks at Steve and then back at me.

“Oh, Steve. No, please, not you.”

Steve stumbles into the office. His face is pale. Blood stains his shirt and runs down onto his trousers. His motion is stiff. His feet shuffle. His arms are out in front of him. He reaches for me.

I point the gun at him.

“I can’t. I can’t kill you. I’m sorry. I can’t.”

I point my gun with its lone bullet back at the hag and then bring it around once more on Steve. I have just one bullet. One shot.

“Forgive me,” I say, knowing what must happen. There is only one way this can end. My heart pounds in my chest. I have one chance at retaining my humanity. I can’t give that up. There’s only one person I can shoot.

“Good-bye,” I say in barely a whisper.

I push the barrel of the gun against my temple and squeeze the trigger as Steve says, “Haze.”

My blood runs cold.

Zee can’t speak.

I look and Steve has a handful of plastic packs clenched in his outstretched fist.

“No,” he mumbles. “Don’t.”

The old hag snarls. Her eyes go wide. She leaps at me with her teeth bared. I pull the trigger, bringing my gun to bear on her, and her head jerks backwards as my last bullet tears through her skull. Blood, brains, and bone burst from the back of her head.

Her body slumps to one side, collapsing on an overturned chair.

Steve stumbles over, holding the tablets out for me.

“It hurts,” he says, “but works.”

His words are clipped. Speech is a struggle.

I drop the gun and grab a packet of worm tablets, tearing them open and tossing three or four tablets in my mouth. They taste revolting. They’re dry and bitter. I chew them, crunching them between my molars, struggling to swallow them.

Steve bumps into me, which I think is his way of hugging me. His arms are stiff, but I can see him flexing his fingers. Slowly, he works his elbow into motion. We both sit on the edge of the desk as our bodies fight off the parasitic infection.

I feel drowsy, but I fight the urge to sleep by tending to his wounds. I cut the pocket off my shorts and use my handkerchief to bandage his arm. I have to use my teeth to pull the bandage tight.

“You got to six,” I say.

“Huh,” he replies. “You sound . . . disappointed.”

I laugh, which seems strangely human amidst the inhuman carnage around us.

Saliva drips from the corner of his mouth. I wipe the dribble away gently with my left hand. I’m slowly regaining feeling in my right arm and the muscle aches. My fingers throb. I cradle my arm, grimacing in pain.

“How did you find them?”

“The boxes,” Steve says. He’s still having trouble talking, but I understand enough to complete his sentences.

“The boxes you knocked into the aisle?”

Steve nods.

“Well, I’ll be. I didn’t even look at them.”

“Me neither,” he says, taking a deep breath. “I leaned.”

“You leaned over one while shooting?”

He nods and I say, “Hah.”

“Fell out.”

“And you’re shooting at zombies, not noticing dozens of packets of tablets scattered across the concrete in front of you.”

“Yes.”

“Well, you realized before you got to seven.”

I lean over and kiss him on the cheek.

“I like that,” he says.

“Oh, there’s plenty more where that came from,” I say. I squeeze his hand. It’s crazy, really. There are hundreds of zombies in and around the animal hospital, but the numbers don’t matter in my mind. Being with Steve I can’t help but feel everything’s going to be all right.

Zombies walk past the shattered windows. They ignore us, stumbling along the road outside. At first, I’m tempted to panic, but they don’t seem to notice us. I’m not sure how long we sit here, but I feel too weak to move. I’ve lost so much blood. I need to rest. The color comes back into Steve’s cheeks. He holds my hand as we sit silently for what seems like a few hours. It’s probably only ten to fifteen minutes, but time is intangible as our bodies take up the fight at a cellular level.

There are footsteps on the metal stairs.

Steve’s gun is in his holster. I draw his gun with my left hand, knowing I’m going to be a lousy shot as a southpaw but I have to do something. I check that the live round is chambered as a zombie steps into view. As I bring the gun to bear, I pause. There’s something strange about Zee. He sees us, but he doesn’t care. He sniffs at the air and seems more interested in the breeze coming in through the window. I keep Steve’s gun trained on him as he walks through the office and climbs out through the broken window frame.

“They think we’ve turned,” I say.

“Gotta get.”

“The tablets,” I say, feeling a surge of adrenaline. “Wait here.”

“Careful,” Steve says.

I take his gun with me, but I don’t think I’ll need it. I walk slowly down the stairs. There are fifty or sixty zombies milling around on the warehouse floor, which is unnerving, but they don’t look up. I walk around under the stairs and crouch, gathering scattered bullets, grabbing five rounds and loading them into the pistol. A zombie stands on a bullet beside me. I look up at her as she walks on. I don’t bother grabbing any more bullets. What we need are those tablets.

I find the boxes in the aisle where Steve fell. Packets of tablets lie scattered across the warehouse floor, so I scoop them up and put them back in the box. Each box must hold hundreds, if not thousands, of worm tablets. Three boxes are all I can manage. I take them with me back up to the office.

More zombies have climbed into the office. They are feasting on their fallen comrades. Blood stains the floor.

Steve’s in the corner by the filing cabinets, keeping a wary eye on them, but they pay him no attention. I’m cautious, but Zee is preoccupied. I creep past them and toss the boxes out through the window. Steve joins me. He’s moving more freely and climbs out of the window without any trouble. Once we’re outside, I grab two boxes, holding one on top of the other in front of me. Steve picks up the third box.

“And now?” Steve asks.

“We get these back to the commune,” I say.

“How long do you think it will last?” Steve whispers, watching as another zombie walks past, ignoring us.

“I don’t know. And I don’t want to wait to find out.”

“Me neither.”

We start walking up the hill toward the car dealership. There’s a wagon at the top of the hill.

“Marauders,” Steve says, spotting them before I do. “They must be out looking for us.”

Dozens of men line the hill. They’ve taken up positions with their rifles drawn, and a rather somber thought strikes me.

“Ah,” I say. “What do you think they make of two zombies walking toward them carrying boxes?”

There are still several zombies wandering around us. One of them keeps pace with us, walking beside me not more than a foot to my left.

“I dare say it has them scratching their heads.”

Steve stops and puts down his box. He pulls off his shirt and ties it onto a long branch lying on the side of the road. He makes a flag, only instead of a white flag of surrender, it’s a grubby gray color with red bloodstains.

He waves the flag back and forth a few times before picking up his box again. We march up the hill with the makeshift flag resting over his shoulder. Two zombies walk along with us as though it is perfectly natural to go for a stroll with a couple of humans.