Zombie D.O.A. (22 page)

I suddenly heard the sound of a child’s laughter and when I looked left, I saw a little girl of about three. She was wearing a blue one-piece swimsuit with a single yellow flower on it. She wore her dark hair in a plait that ran down her back.

Even though I couldn’t see her face at this distance I knew immediately who she was. I started running towards her and as I did she started walking away. I tried to call to her, to tell her to wait but the effort of running seemed to be using up all my breath and I was unable to form the words I needed.

Just then there I heard the timpani roll of thunder and when I looked back it had clouded over. Forked lighting cut a swathe across
the
sky and it began to rain.

I woke with Tom’s hand on my shoulder. “Didn
’t want to alarm you,” he said.
“
But we got company.
“

It took me a second to make the adjustment from dream to wakefulness, but when I did, I realized that it was raining outside, raining hard.

Tom was at the window now, peeking from the side of the drapes. I started to get up, but Tom said, “Stay put, I got this.”

“What’s out there?” I asked.

“Couple of Z’s,” Tom said, “They come by every once in a while. Usually we just wait them out.”

Despite Tom’s instruction I got up and went over to the window. Tom moved aside so I could peek through. Standing on the front lawn were a woman and a young boy. They stood motionless, staring at the house, oblivious to the pouring rain.

“We call them Becka and Billy,” Tom said. “They’re pretty harmless, drove off most of our livestock though. Had to move our laying hens into one of the upstairs bedrooms.”

“You got any guns in the house, Tom?”

“Just the one,” he said, then after a while, “for us.”

Outside Becka and Billy continued their vigil.

“I’m heading on back to bed,” Tom said. “Close the shutters if you’re worried about B and B out there. Night Chris.”

At breakfast the next morn
ing I asked Tom about
Becka
and Billy
. “Like I said,” he replied, “Just a couple of Z’s swing by every once in a while, usually when it’s
raining
. They don’t mean no harm, so we just leave them be. For the most part we prefer to just live and let live.”

I was mopped up the last of my eggs with a piece of bread and took a sip of coffee. “Not to contradict you in your own home or anything, especially over breakfast, but I’ve yet to meet a Z that shares your philosophy.”

“That may be,” Tom said cheerily, “but a man’s principles are his own. Man starts flip-flopping on what he believes based on outside influences and he might as well run for congress.”

He had me there, so I let it drop. We sat in silence for a while, then Tom said, “You were calling out for Ruby in your sleep last night. That your wife?”

“My little girl.”

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to pry,” Tom mumbled.

“That’s okay,” I said. “It’s just...”

“Tell me when you’re ready,” Tom said, rising from the table, “if you want to.“

I spent six weeks with Tom and Betsy. Six weeks during which it felt almost like the world was a normal place again. I healed and I joined Tom on his provisioning runs and helped him in his vegetable garden.

Tom had a unique approach to dealing with Zombies, he treated them as though they weren’t there. He’d walk into a deserted supermarket, grab a trolley and walk the aisles with his shopping list, picking items from the shelves. I almost expected him to whip out his credit card as he passed the check out.

Another time, when we passed a sporting goods store and I suggested stopping and picking up some weapons, Tom said, “Violence just begets more violence, Chris. We had the biggest military and the most weapons on the planet on look where it got us. I leave the Zs to go about their business, and I go about mine.”  

The funny thing is that it seemed to work. I saw very few Z’s when I was out with Tom and the ones I did see, seemed to keep their distance.

Eventually I did tell him about Rosie and about Ruby. He remained dead silent during the telling, rocking in his porch chair and sipping from his glass of Irish whiskey.

At the end he said simply, “You’ll find her. I know you will.”

Afterwards we sat quietly enjoying the cool evening. It was a cloudless night and a new moon illuminated the yard and the fields beyond. A breeze murmured through the tulip trees whispering secrets only they could understand.

“So what about you and Betsy,” I asked eventually, “What are you going to do?”

“Do about what?”

“You know… all this.”

He took a sip from his glass and sat quietly as though contemplating his answer.

“You know, Chris,” he said eventually, “When I was in the Airborne, I had a feller used to bunk next to me, name of Quinton, Quinton del la Rue. Now Quinton wanted badly to be a writer. He always had his nose in a book, whether reading or writing. He reckoned he was going to be the next Truman Capote, and I read some of his stuff. It was good. He could have made it. Probably.

Thing is, on our third training jump, ol’ Quinton’s canopy, she fails to deploy. I was out the door right behind him and I can see him plummeting to earth, and I’m screaming, ‘Reserve! Reserve!’ but he never pulled her.

“He was 18 years old and he got a burial with full military honors. But all those dreams about being a writer, they died between the deck of a DC3 and the cold hard earth.

“Now I got fifty years on Quinton, and they been mostly good years. I sowed my wild oats, which in my case amounted to getting drunk on a six-pack I stole from my father one time, puking after trying my first and only cigarette, and trying to stick my hand down Sally Hinkel’s blouse at the drive-in and getting my face slapped.

“And then I met Betsy, and I just knew that this was it. This is what I was born for. To spend my life with this woman. You a religious man, Chris?”

“No.”

“Me neither, but I figure that if there’s someone up there watching us, what he wants most of all is for us be with the one person that completes us. And for me, that’s Betsy.

“I got fifty good years on poor ‘ol Quinton de la Rue, so when my time comes, I’m ready.”

“And Betsy?”

“We’ve spoken about it, she’s ready too.”

“Is that what you meant about the gun?”

“Uh huh, one bullet for me, one for her. We go together, like I said.”

We sat quietly for a time, and then he said, “But I don’t think it will come to that.”

“You don’t?”

“Nah, I don’t bother the Zs and they don’t bother me. And if worse comes to worse we got the cellar, stocked and fortified. We can survive down there oh, two, three weeks at least if need be.

“God, I hope you’re right, Tom.”

“Me, too,” he said.

Tom got up from his chair and stretched, “Well, it’s time to turn in,” he said “You about ready?”

“Just about,” I said, getting slowly to my feet. Most of the stiffness had worked its way out of my joints and muscles over the weeks, but I still felt the odd twinge here and there.

Tom was heading for the door when he stopped suddenly and took a deep breath. “You smell that?” he asked.

I sampled the air, not sure what I was supposed to smell.

“Rain,” Tom said, “there’s a storm coming.”

I looked up at the sky and it was as clear as cut-glass.

I’d been dreaming regularly while I was at Tom and Betsy’s house. In some ways, I welcomed the dreams. They weren’t always pleasant, but they weren’t bad either. I got to see Ruby, and I started to believe that the dreams had some meaning. That the beach an
d the house on the cliff were
real places and that Ruby was there, waiting for me.

In one variation of the dream, I found myself following Ruby up the path that led to the door of the house. In another I saw a road sign, rusted and lying on its side. But the dream would always get all jumpy like an old 8mm home movie before I had the chance to read it.

Tonight’s dream was what I’d come to call version one, the first one I’d had, and as had happened that time, I was awakened by the sound of thunder and saw Tom standing at the window.

“Tom,” I whispered into the darkness.

When he didn’t reply I got up and crossed the room to where he stood.

“Tom, what’s happening? I whispered into his ear. Tom said nothing, but moved aside to let me peek through the glass.

The yard was empty save for Becka and Billy standing there, looking bedraggled as the rain bucketed down on them. They stood motionless, their eyes glued to the house as though it were some mystical relic that had them entranced.

“It’s only…” I started to say and then a flash of lightning illuminated the field beyond and I saw what Tom had seen.

Zombies. Hundreds of them.

I let the curtain fall into place and said, in the calmest voice I could muster, “Tom, that cellar of yours, I suggest you get the door unlocked right now.”

I could hear him breathing in the darkness, rapid, short breaths, like he was about to have a heart attack.

“Tom!” I repeated, more urgently, “We’ve got to get to the cellar!” Still he didn’t respond, but stood there staring back at me, his eyes wide with fear.

“Ah, Christ,” I said, and grabbed a handful of his
pajama
sleeve. I pulled him towards the kitchen, and to the cellar door just off it. “Where’s the key, Tom?” I demanded, and when he didn’t respond, “Tom, where’s the….”

Tom didn’t answer, but pointed into the kitchen. It was dark in there, but I remembered that there was a key rack by the back door. I blundered in that direction, upending a chair on the way.

There were four sets of keys bunched together. I took them all then crossed the kitchen at a run.

The rain was still drumming a monotonous pattern on the roof as the moon suddenly broke through the clouds, throwing ghostly light in to the kitchen. There was a distant growl of thunder and the storm subsided. The rain suddenly dropped to a drizzle, then stopped entirely.

Tom was still standing by the cellar door and by the light now flooding into the kitchen, I could see that I’d misinterpreted his facial expression. It wasn’t fear on his face at all, but insanity. It was the face of a man hearing voices in the dark, the long and distant gaze of a seer.

I fought back the urge to slap him, to snap him out of it, and instead grabbed him by the shoulder and shook him violently.

“Which key is it, Tom? Which key?”

I could see I wasn’t going to get any response out of him so I tried a different tack.  “Where’s Betsy?” I asked.

Tom looked at me as though indulging a simpleton, and said, “She’s in bed, of course,” like that was the most natural place for her to be at a time like this.