What We Left Behind (9 page)

David drops his pack and runs up the track. His arms are swinging, his legs pumping, but it seems to take an age for him to cover the twenty feet to the clearing. Dirt kicks up from his boots. He doesn’t slow as he approaches, increasing his speed as he sprints in toward Jane still wrestling with the zombie.

David jumps, launching himself at Zee and kicking the zombie in the rib cage. He times his strike perfectly, kicking the zombie roughly in the center of its body mass and sending it hurling through the air.

The zombie rolls through the long grass, clawing at the dirt. It scrambles to its feet, but David is quicker. He strikes at the zombie’s neck with his machete. I expect to see the creature’s head go flying with a single blow, but it takes several swings to sever the neck. David hacks at the creature as its arms grab at him, tearing his jacket. Dark black blood squirts into the air from the severed arteries on the side of Zee’s neck.

Finally, the zombie falls. David is relentless. He doesn’t stop hacking until the zombie’s head rolls away from its body.

Steve stands between us.

Somehow, he’s got my baseball bat. He’s holding the bat like he’s ready to hit a home run. His arms tremble, causing the bat to shake. It’s only then I realize he’s protecting me. He’s thinking there may be more coming and he’s positioned himself between me and them.

David kicks the zombie head and it rolls down the hill into the trees. The decapitated body lies twitching in the grass.

“Jane!” I say, working through the paralysis in my mind.

I rush forward, dropping my pack a few feet away from her.

Jane sits up. Blood drips from her neck, running down from the back of her head. I go to help when David says, “No. Don’t touch her. Not yet.”

“But, I—”

“Steve,” he says. “Watch the approach.”

Steve drops his pack beside mine and jogs into the clearing. He’s manic. I can see his head turning this way and that. He squats a little, flexing his legs and holding my baseball bat with white, clenched knuckles.

“Get me some soap and water,” David barks. This isn’t a request, it’s a command, and I can see his training in the marauders kicking in.

I open my pack and grab a bar of soap along with my canteen. I thought the soap and water was for Jane, but David signals with a nod of his head. I hand him the soap and slowly pour the precious water over his hands. I am bewildered by how detached he is from Jane. He leaves her sitting there with blood dripping down her neck.

Jane is dazed. She’s in shock and doesn’t say anything.

David works up a lather, scrubbing up to his elbows. It’s only now I realize he had Zee juice all over him.

“My face?” he asks. He’s not being vain, I get that. I point to his left cheek. There’s a dark patch of zombie blood on his scruffy beard. He leans forward, turning his head to one side, and rubs some of the soap in his beard. I can see what he wants. I pour a little water on the side of his face, washing the zombie blood away as he works at his beard with the soap.

“Good?” he asks.

“Good.”

David rinses his hands a final time and shakes them dry.

“Okay, let’s look at you,” he says to Jane with a voice that is astonishingly calm, even given all we’ve been through, but his hands are shaking. He’s following procedure. I am in awe of his discipline under pressure. I’m a wreck.

I’ve always looked down on the marauders, seeing them as little more than a necessity, a blunt tool, like a hammer—only good for hitting nails. In the commune, we need a diversity of skills, not lots and lots of hammers, so it was always easy to think of the marauders as dull. David has refuted that notion, showing me otherwise. I’ll never see them the same again.

Jane mumbles incoherently. Her skin is pale. David reaches down gently and touches at her neck. She turns to one side so we can look at her injuries. There’s a lot of blood, but it’s not from her neck.

David takes a clean, damp rag and gently pours water on her hair and neck, wiping away the blood with the rag. He reaches around behind her head and washes more blood away with water from the canteen.

“You’ve taken a nasty blow to the back of your head,” he says. “But there are no bite marks.”

Blood stains a fallen log behind her, marking where her head struck.

“I feel sick,” she says.

“You’ve got a concussion,” David replies, speaking softly. For a big, gruff marauder, he’s surprisingly tender and considerate as he cares for her wounds. “Show me your greaves.”

Jane raises her arms. Huge chunks have been torn out of her leather coverings but her arms are fine.

“You’re going to be okay,” he says, and I sigh with relief. “You’ve taken a knock to the head, but you kept your wits about you. You protected your neck. You fought him off. Good girl. You did good. You did real good.”

David kisses her on the forehead, the cheeks, and the lips as she sits there almost catatonic, still deep in shock.

“Look at me,” he says, turning her head gently so she faces him. Her pupils are dilated. “I’m right here. I’m not going to let anything happen to you. It’s okay. It’s all over.”

Jane cries.

“How is our approach?” David asks, and it takes me a second to realize he’s talking to Steve. I’m so caught up in what has happened to Jane that a pack of wild wolves could have surrounded us and I would never know.

“All quiet,” Steve says, which is a relief.

David pulls a shirt from his backpack and tears it into strips to make bandages. He wraps a bandage around Jane’s head.

“We just need to keep your wound clean, let a scab form, and you’ll be fine.”

The way David speaks, I believe him. I don’t care about reality. I don’t care that her wound could have been infected with anything from Zee juice to regular old kill-you-in-five-days bacteria. David has spoken. For me, that’s enough.

David helps Jane to her feet as I ask, “Was that—Was that a runner?”

“Hell no,” David replies. “Runners are fast.”

I am beside myself with panic.

“How many?” I ask, still stuttering. “How many zombies have you killed?”

“Counting that one?” David asks with a smart-ass grin. “One.”

“To hell with Deanne,” Jane says, and I know what she means. Zombies don’t give a crap about us. They see us as their next meal. Why should we care? Why should we see them as human? Sure, once they were, but they gave up that right when they surrendered.

No one should turn. That’s the mantra that’s drummed into us at school. We’re told it’s simple math. Zee only has as much advantage as we collectively give him. If people were strong, if they refused to turn, taking their own lives before joining the Undead, Zee’s recruitment program would fail.

People are selfish, that’s what we’re told. But I think there’s more to it than that. I think everyone holds on to hope. No one wants to turn, but they hold on to life for too long and suddenly it’s too late.

Although none of my teachers will admit it, some people have no choice. They’re set on by Zee and turn in an instant. Dad says the transition is trauma induced, that the body is overwhelmed by shock and Zee juice takes hold. Regardless, I swear I won’t end up like Deanne. If there’s going to be a bullet rattling around in my skull, I want it to be from my own gun. I won’t betray my friends.

The sun sits low in the sky.

Jane sits with her back against the trunk of a lonely oak tree on the side of a gentle hill. There’s clear visibility for almost a hundred yards in every direction. The grass is knee-high and sways with the breeze. David says it’s perfect because all approaches are visible.

David and Steve have gone into the suburbs to scout ahead. They’re looking for a path to a safe zone cleared out by the marauders a couple of weeks ago. A sea of rooftops stretches out below us. Streets intersect the urban jungle in a futile attempt to impose order on a world overrun by chaos. Some of the roofs have collapsed, but most of them look normal, which is unnerving. Nothing is normal.

I told David I didn’t like the idea of splitting up, but it’s pretty clear Jane needs rest. She’s vomited a couple of times and has complained about being dizzy. We should take her back to the commune, but that almost certainly condemns my dad to die. I’m sure David and Steve know we should return, but they haven’t said anything, at least not to me. I’m hoping a rest will allow Jane to recover, but I’m being selfish. I try to justify this in my mind and feel guilty about pressing on, but it seems as though I have no choice.

I’m supposed to fire a shot if we get in trouble even though that will attract more zombies. I guess getting David and Steve back outweighs all other considerations, but the thought of being overrun while we wait for them scares me. I’d rather they hadn’t left us alone on the side of a hill.

I kick at the dusty ground beside my pack. It’s a relief not to be carrying it for a while, and I realize David’s giving both Jane and me a rest.

David told me I’m not allowed to sit down. He said by standing I’m forced to move around. I’m supposed to walk around watching all the approaches, but I want to talk to Jane.

I stand in front of Jane, knowing she can see beyond me, down the hill, while I can see the sloping meadow leading to the old oak.

“It all seemed so simple last night,” I say, struggling with guilt. “I thought I’d waltz on into town, shoot a few zombies in the head, and grab the tablets. What an idiot!”

Jane laughs.

“It’s not your fault,” she says. “Whatever happens out here, don’t think it’s your fault. It’s not. We came because we wanted to help.”

“I’m stupid,” I say. “I have no idea what I’m doing. I should have gone to Marge. I should have pleaded with her to send Ferguson out to raid the clinic.”

“Do you seriously think he would have gone?” Jane asks. “He would have stalled. He would have given any number of excuses to delay. He doesn’t believe there’s a cure. He wouldn’t risk the lives of his men on something he sees as pointless.”

I’m quiet.

“We shouldn’t have to deal with this,” Jane says, and I know what she means. She’s not referring to the zombie attack or the tension between Ferguson and my dad. She’s referring to the apocalypse as a whole. “None of this should have ever happened. We’re teenagers. We should be worrying about zits and finals. We shouldn’t be hiding from monsters. We should be hanging out at the mall or swimming at the beach.”

I smile.

“That’s why I came,” Jane continues. “Sure, David roped me into this, but seriously, if there’s a chance we could turn back the clock, why wouldn’t we try?”

She pauses for a moment and then says, “Damn it, I’m an American! It’s my God-given right to stress about final exams and what I’m going to wear to the prom!”

I laugh. Oh, to be plagued by such problems.

A low growl carries on the wind.

A zombie staggers across the field.

I look around. I’m learning. First thing is to assess if Zee is alone.

Jane pulls out her gun. She’s got a Glock. I think it must be David’s. Perhaps he gave it to her as a present, as I haven’t seen any of the other teens packing such serious firepower.

The Glock looks pristine. It has all the hallmarks of something lifted by the marauders. Jane’s got an extended magazine protruding from the pistol grip. Her Glock holds thirty-one rounds, giving her some serious mojo compared to my revolver, an ancient six-shooter. Even with misses, she could easily take out a dozen zombies before she has to switch to another mag. I almost feel sorry for Zee. Almost.

Jane’s weak. She sits slumped against the tree with her gun drawn. She’s pointing it at Zee but she’s no fool. She won’t fire until she’s confident of a kill.

“I’ve got this,” I say, pulling out my old rusty revolver. I swing open the cylinder, checking that all six rounds are there, remembering my training. I’m supposed to count down from six with each shot so it’s no surprise when my gun runs dry. Misfires count as a shot.

“The gun’s gonna kick,” I mumble to myself, mentally walking through my survival exercises. I’ve gone through this scenario dozens of times inside the safe confines of the commune, but only ever with a dry fire, saving bullets for Zee. This time that soft click is going to be lost in a blaze of violence.

Zee moves slowly. I’m sure he’s seen us or smelled us or whatever he does to find us, but he’s moving on a slight angle, following a worn animal path through the grass. His teeth clack together involuntarily, which is creepy. It’s as though he’s sampling the air, already tasting us on the breeze.

Zee stops. He sniffs the air. He’s close enough that I can see his face quite clearly. Dark pits mark where his eyes were once set. He’s blind. Scars line his face.

Zee is going to pass about ten feet in front of us. For a moment, I’m tempted to think we can hide, although I remember David’s admonition:
It
’s not the zombie you see that gets you.
If we hide from him, we can’t see where he is or what he’s doing. Even if he had eyes, he’d rely on scent, not sight. If we hide, we give him the advantage.

I look at the breeze blowing across the grass, moving in a wave over the supple blades.

“Shoot him,” Jane says.

Zee turns toward the sound of her voice.

The attack on Jane is still fresh in my mind. My fingers tremble. The gun shakes in my hand. Fear is overwhelming.

“Haze, what are you waiting for? Shoot him in the head.”

I can’t.

In the back of my mind, I can still see myself cowering on the track, trembling in fear as Jane was attacked. I feel sick. I can’t go on like this.

I flick the safety catch back on and slip the gun into the holster in the small of my back. Something has to change.

“Hazel! What the hell are you doing?”

“Growing up,” I say, reaching down and tearing a baseball bat from the Velcro straps on the side of my pack.

“Don’t be stupid,” Jane cries. “They’re too fast. He may look slow, but he’s not. You let him get near you and he’ll rush you.”

“Not today,” I reply, my fingers tightening around the baseball bat.

Zee lurches up the hill. His hands are out in front of him. On one arm, his hand is little more than bones.