What We Left Behind (3 page)

“Shhh,” Jane says, hitting him on the shoulder.

“I guess,” Steve says. “Dad led us between the tents. I kept tripping on guide ropes in the dark. They weren’t smart enough to duck, so the sentry would zero in on them. Didn’t kill them, but the bullets slowed them, breaking arms, ribs. They were so close I could hear their bones cracking as bullets thumped into them.

“Fires started throughout the camp, lighting up the night. Nylon doesn’t burn that well, but everything else inside sure does. People were screaming. It was only when they stopped screaming you knew they’d turned.

“Dad took us sideways. Most of the survivors were trying to get away from them so they ran toward the soldiers and the soldiers mowed them down. My dad was smart. He led us to one side, out into the shadows.”

Steve is proud of his dad; that’s clear from the way he’s speaking. His dad may have fallen to Zee, but right then, he saved his family, and that is something to be proud of, I think. Most people are ashamed of anyone that’s turned. Maybe this is why Steve is so reluctant to use the word “zombie.” He still loves his dad.

“I could see the trees. I thought we’d be safe there, but they were waiting.”

I swallow the lump in my throat.

“Waiting?” Jane asks.

“They’re not dumb. That’s another thing that annoys me about the movies. They’re stupid in the movies, wandering around yelling, ‘brains, Brains, BRAINS!’”

No one spoke.

“Dad pointed at them from behind a fence. Mom was still counting, resetting her count every time a bullet whizzed by overhead. I’m not sure how long we waited there. It was probably less than a minute, but with the screaming and crying and moaning behind us getting closer every second, it felt like forever.

“I couldn’t see anything. I crawled up next to dad and he pointed at the dark shadows. He slipped his bug-out pack off his shoulder and pushed a pistol into my hand, whispering, ‘Head shot.’

“My hands were shaking, but I knew what to do. I pulled back on the slide and felt a round load in the darkness. Mom whispered, ‘One,’ and we ran out across the grass toward the trees, and that’s when they came at us.

“Most of them were waiting in the tree line. They’d only sent a few runners into the camp to flush out the game. The soldiers had panicked at the first scream, reacting as though it was a horde descending on them, but it wasn’t. The soldiers never saw the real threat in the dark of the forest.”

Jane asks, “They coordinated their attack? How is that possible?”

Steve shrugs.

“I grabbed my sister’s hand and ran through the long grass after dad. I didn’t want to fall too far behind him, but my sister couldn’t keep up. It was only then I realized Mom was gone. She wasn’t behind us anymore—she wasn’t counting.”

Tears come to my eyes as Steve continues, lost in the moment.

“I dragged Missy behind me, but I lost sight of dad, and that’s when they swarmed.”

He pauses again, and I want to hit him, but he isn’t stopping on purpose. It’s difficult for him to relive those memories. I doubt he’s told anyone about this.

“Damn movies! In the movies, everything’s so easy. Head shot at fifty yards. Wait till they’re closer and it’s even easier. Reality is way different. At fifty yards you might as well shoot at the Moon. And up close, they’re moving so fast and jerking from side to side, and you’re shaking with fear and adrenaline. They’re impossible to hit. They get faster as they get closer. The reaction time up close is too short. By the time your brain makes the connection and you squeeze the trigger, they’ve moved. Suddenly, they’re closer than you think, and they’re flying at you.”

“Did you?” David asks.

“I fired three times,” Steve replies. “And each time the recoil ruined my aim, made my hand go flying. There was no time for a fourth shot.”

Steve breathed deeply, steeling himself for what was to come.

“I thought it was a he, but it was a she.”

I note “them” has become “it.”

“She lunged at my throat, knocking me back into the long grass. Her hands felt like they were made from steel. She grabbed my shoulders and pinned me to the dirt. Saliva dripped from her chin. She was salivating, just like a dog. And then, BAM! She’s gone. All I can see is dad standing there holding his gun where her right temple had been just moments ago. Her body folded, collapsing to one side. Blood and brains splattered everywhere, but I was okay.

“My sister was screaming. That must have been what brought dad back. He picked her up and ran with her on his hip, and I scrambled after him.

“There were thirty, maybe forty zombies in the woods, but it was a smorgasbord behind us. There were easier kills back there, so they went for the weak.”

David can’t believe what he’s hearing. He says, “You saw that? You saw them thinking about who they’d attack?”

“Yes.”

“They went for the others? But not you?” David asks, seeking the clarification we all want.

Steve nods. I’m confused. Like the others, I’ve never heard of Zee reasoning before, but we normally only see them in ones or twos. The hordes tend to keep to the towns.

“They let you go?” David asks. Like the rest of us, he’s incredulous. He wants to make sure he’s heard Steve correctly.

“They’re like hyenas,” Steve replies. “Like lions. They go for the weakest gazelle in the herd.”

“Damn,” Jane says.

“My dad shot three of them,” Steve continues. “And they gave us a wide berth.”

“But they’re attracted to sound,” David says. “They should have been drawn to the gunfire. They should have overwhelmed you.”

“There was so much noise,” Steve replies. “I—I saw them staring.”

“Staring?” I ask.

“Yeah, the older ones watched us as we made our way through the trees. They were moaning, but they never moved. Their heads turned, following us as we crept on. Dad could have shot at them, but there were so many. They let us go, so we never fired. It was as though there was some kind of unspoken understanding between us.”

Jane said what we were all thinking. “I’ve never heard anything like this before!”

“I know, crazy, huh?” Steve pauses for a moment and I can almost see the next thought strike his mind. “You think I’m lying?”

“No,” I blurt out. “It just sounds so—”

“Bizarre,” Jane says.

David says, “I’ve never heard of zombies orchestrating attacks.”

“Most people never get to see them up close,” Steve replies. “Or if they do, they don’t live to talk about it.”

“Yeah,” I add. “I guess most people are too busy running for their lives to stop and notice.”

Steve says, “They look dumb. They act dumb. But give them the chance and they’ll outsmart you. I think that’s why they’re so effective. Everyone underestimates them.”

Steve sighs. We wait, wanting to hear anything he has to say. To my surprise, his face brightens. He looks me in the eye and smiles.

“So, that’s why I hate zombie movies,” Steve says in conclusion, suddenly sounding all chirpy and taking us off guard with the shift in his persona.

David doesn’t seem surprised by this transformation, adding, “I hate the way they make life look so easy, as though there are trucks full of Twinkies in every ditch, and gas stations just waiting to be raided.”

“Yeah,” Steve replies.

Neither Jane nor I say anything. We look at each other knowingly. Steve has just bared his soul, and neither of us takes that lightly.

“And gasoline,” David continues oblivious. “They’re always siphoning gasoline out of cars years after the outbreak. I guess no one told them gasoline breaks down and separates.”

“Diesel, though,” Steve counters. “Diesel is good.”

“Diesel is better, but it breaks down too. Find any now, and you might as well drain the La Brea Tar Pits.”

“Oh, and survivors turning on each other,” Steve adds, getting back into the swing of the conversation.

David lights up with that one. “Don’t get me started on the whole we’re-the-real-monsters bullshit. I ain’t never seen a survivor suck someone’s brains out through their eye socket.”

Steve laughs. His face seems to glow, although I can’t help but notice the glazed look in his eyes. He desperately wants to become caught up in the moment like David and forget about the past, but I think he’s faking it. I think it’s all a show. Steve wants to be like David. I’d like to tell him he doesn’t have to be anyone other than himself, but that would be too weird right now.

Jane says, “I hated the cannibal cliché. As if people eating people is somehow worse than zombies eating people.”

“Besides, it’s far easier to raise pigs and chickens for food,” Steve replies and we all laugh.

“They always do something really stupid in these movies,” David says. “Like going into a dark room alone, or putting down their gun, or dropping their guard because it’s a nice day and the sun is out.”

“I used to yell at the screen,” Steve confesses.

“Me too,” says Jane.

“And people liked these movies?” I ask.

David replies, “People like to be scared.”

“I don’t,” I say.

“Me neither,” Jane says.

David laughs. Jane and I are serious.

“Hey,” a voice calls out from below us. “We’re in curfew. Time to go home.”

The guard is right. It’s only now I realize how dark it is. With no moon and no cloud cover, it’s pitch black among the trees. In our small clearing, we can still see in the starlight, but dark shadows hide the path home. The sound of a zombie moaning carries on the wind. Zee has heard the guard calling to us. Zee is always watching, waiting, hunting.

I slip in the back door quietly.

A fire glows in the hearth, throwing out warmth and heat with the crackle of burning wood. One of the older women sees me and casts a disapproving glare. She’s assuming I’m like most of the other teens, sneaking off and making out under the cover of darkness, but that’s not why I’m late. We were all genuinely taken by Steve’s story. I don’t think any of us realized how late it was. She’ll tell my dad, but I don’t care.

My dad is arguing with someone. I can hear him through the walls of his office at the back of the first floor. Everyone’s listening. Twenty-seven people live in the main house and I think they’re all in the living room, but no one’s talking. It’s eerie seeing so many people sitting silently next to each other, everyone desperate to catch what’s being said in another room. As my dad is at the center of this, I find their attention unnerving and wonder if dad’s in trouble.

“You don’t have the right to make that call,” my dad says. I know him well enough to recognize it’s passion in his voice, not anger.

“I won’t stand by and let you jeopardize all we’ve built,” another voice yells from behind the closed door. It’s Ferguson, David’s father. He’s not known for his patience or his subtlety.

“We let the community decide,” a woman’s voice says. This is Marge. She’s the leader of the commune. Her voice is soft, barely carrying through the wall.

“You want to roll the freak show out there?” Ferguson asks.

Marge replies, “I have confidence in our collective wisdom.” It’s hard to hear her voice, so I’m guessing a little at her reply.

Ferguson storms out of the room, slamming the door behind him. A couple of the marauders are waiting for him like puppy dogs eager to please their master.

“Call everyone in,” Ferguson says. “Sentries on watch, but everyone else needs to be here.”

Like all the men, Ferguson keeps his hair shaved close to his head, only he looks particularly mean. It’s hard to tell how old he is as any gray hair is little more than stubble, and the sun weathers all the men before their time. I think he’s in his late fifties, perhaps his early sixties. He has thin lips and a perpetual scowl that always makes me feel like I’ve done something wrong just by breathing near him.

This is serious, I think. Dad’s got himself in trouble, but I don’t understand why Marge wants to call him in front of the commune as a whole.

“Haze, what’s going on?” Jane asks quietly as she comes up beside me.

“I’m not sure.”

David joins his father in spreading word between the huts. People are already assembling on the oval. Torches light up the night. Bats swoop down, catching moths and mosquitos brought in by the people and the lights.

“Your dad’s so weird,” Steve says, which sounds cruel but I know what he means. Steve isn’t being cruel or petty. My dad is weird in a geeky, nerdy kind of way. He’s normally quite shy and quiet, but like any dad, he can hold his own in an argument. If we weren’t in the middle of a zombie apocalypse, my dad would be dressing up like a zombie for Comic-Con and dragging me along with him as some zombie-killing teen queen. I can’t see myself doing cosplay. It takes a special kind of I-don’t-give-a-damn attitude to pull off cosplay with style, and I’m not sure I have that. Dad, though, he cares more about what’s right than what people think of him.

“I bet it’s one of his experiments,” Steve says.

There are no secrets in the commune. As much as my father tries to keep his work quiet, people know. In some ways, it would be better if he conducted his experiments with the zombies in the open. There would be fewer rumors, less speculation, less paranoia.

“Hasn’t he got heads in jars or something?” Jane asks.

I nod, a little embarrassed. Everyone assumes I see them all the time, but I don’t, as they’re normally kept in the workshop in the back of the house. Sometimes, if dad’s experimenting on them, I’ll see a few heads on the bookcase in his office, but he knows how creepy they are and quickly covers them with a cloth whenever I walk in. I’ve seen him scoop up body parts after the school yard “demonstrations.” Execution is a better word, not that anyone cares.

A couple of the marauders help my dad with a wooden handcart. Normally, we use these when we harvest apples or pumpkins. There’s a dark blanket draped over the contents of the cart, hiding it from sight. Dad is admonishing the two men helping him, telling them to slow down, to be careful.

The oval is surrounded by a curved hillside. Concrete bleachers set into the hill once allowed spectators to watch Little League. Nobody plays anymore. There’s no time. Occasionally, we teens will have a hit on a Sunday afternoon, but you don’t want to hit a home run. You’ll never get your ball back. And the older folks seem to look down on us. I guess we’re not supposed to have fun in the apocalypse. I think that’s silly. What is life without relaxing a little and fooling around?