Best New Zombie Tales: Vol. 1 Part 22

"May I look at this, Andrew?"

Three vaguely human figures with balloon-heads and disproportionate limbs stand on a crayola-green lawn. The sun is a crude mandala with radiating beams of light. A month ago the people would have been rendered in near-photographic detail and perspective, every anatomical detail exact.

"This is wonderful, Andrew."

He doesn't acknowledge this praise, but continues to squint at the paper and slow-moving point of his crayon. From the looks of it, he's trying to sketch a deer, but his hand, stripped of its unearthly deftness, is producing what more resembles a mutated, horned dog.

"Who are these people in your picture?"

Andrew continues his tortuous rendering of the dog-deer. The crayonburnt siennasuddenly snaps in two. For a moment Andrew stares at the stump of crayola in his clenched fist, and I see (or imagine I see) an expression of confusion, loss and fear cross his solemn gray face.

Only it's not my imagination. You don't have to be a neurologist to see that the virus hasn't had the same effect on Andrew it has on people whose brain chemistry functioned normally in life. The little boy once irretrievably lost is emerging from his inner world, a bit more each day. My son. All I need is a little more time.

After I strap Andrew in bed I shuffle down the hall to the bathroom. Too tired for even a shower, I reach for the Extra Strength Tylenol behind the mirrored cabinet. I see my drawn, haggard reflection and stop.

During the hot, unspeakable hour it took me to butcher the undead woman in the bas.e.m.e.nt, I must have absently wiped away a drop of sweat. Smeared across my right eyebrow is a thin comma of dried blood.

I awake in bed from a torch-lit nightmare, hearing a terrible pounding and angry, shouting voices.

Except it isn't a dream. No polite doorbell this time. Downstairs, I hear fists battering against the front door.

"Open the door, Frank!"

I slip on a robe and hurry downstairs, splinters of ice lodged in my chest. Idiot! Of course they'd seen the blood!

"Don't make this any harder than it has to be, Frank. Open the G.o.dd.a.m.ned door!"

I pad up to the door and peer through the tiny lens. Al Sprouse's face glares back, eyes gleaming with hatred and fear, lips pulled back in a feral grimace. The lawn is filled with men carrying high-powered flashlights and weapons.

"We know what you're feeding in the bas.e.m.e.nt," Al bellows, only inches away. "That thing isn't your kid. Not anymore. You know the law, Frank."

I back up, trembling uncontrollably.

"It's not natural," Richie chimes in. "And by harboring it you're endangering all of us. We all signed the agreement."

So sue me, you chicken-s.h.i.+t a.s.shole. My son's not dead.

I blink, realizing I've spoken the words aloud, angrily. "If I could just show you," I add, ashamed of the waver in my voice, "you'd understand. He's not like the others."

"Okay, okay," Al's voice drops to a soothing, diplomatic tone. "Unlock the door and we'll take a look at your boy. If what you say is true, he needs to be checked out by doctors. You have my word on that, Frank."

Shaking now from anguish and rage instead of fear, I step back toward the door. Al and his mob believe my son is a mindless monster deserving of nothing more than a bullet through the brain. And like all the so-called specialists and CDC witch doctors, he doesn't even have the guts to come out and say it.

I remove the handgun from my robe pocket and c.o.c.k it. On the other side of the door, I hear Al grab the doork.n.o.b eagerly, thinking the click is the door's deadbolt being retracted.

I fire once, point-blank. Al screams and I hear a body fall. Shouts follow. A shadow crosses the picture window and I fire twice, shattering gla.s.s. Richie screams and falls.

Someone opens fire on the house. Splinters of wood explode from the door. A bullet drones past my right ear and an invisible hand tugs at the hem of my bathrobe. A flaming bottle pinwheels through the gaping hole in the window. It smashes against the coffee table and sprays liquid fire across the sofa and carpet. From beyond the kitchen, a hollow booming and metal screech as the garage door is breached with ball-peen hammers and axes.

I turn and flee up the stairs, hearing more shouts and gunfire. At least they've stopped beating against the door.

Upstairs I burst into Andrew's room and bolt the door shut, breathing in great huffs of air like an asthma victim having an attack. Andrew is struggling to sit up, his eyes wide and alarmed. I can't begin to imagine what my face looks like. I unstrap him and set him on the floor behind me.

Grunting with the effort, I pry loose the plywood panel covering his window and peer out. The lawn below is a sea of bobbing lights. A shout goes up and pale faces stare up at me. I duck, but no one fires. After a minute I peer down again.

Several men are lighting crude torches and tossing them through the shattered living room window. They're not going to drag us from the house and chance eating a bullet. They're simply going to burn it to the ground.

For G.o.d knows how long I can only stare out at the milling people on the lawn, hypnotized by fear.

Then the smell of smoke begins to fill the small room. I strip the sheet off Andrew's bed and stuff it into the crack below the door. Still, it isn't long before the air turns acrid and I start coughing.

For a moment I entertain a fantasy: I see myself pluck Andrew up from the floor and tuck him under one arm like a Hollywood firefighter. I unlock his bedroom door, ignoring the searing heat lapping at the other side, and force it open. Dodging crackling walls of flame, I carry him down the steps and navigate the fire-engulfed house to the garage. We pile into the Taurus, Andrew curled in the back seat and me behind the wheel. I key the engine and we rocket through the remains of the garage door in an explosion of plastic and metal, scattering men like bowling pins as we roar off into the night But that's strictly Ambrose Bierce "Incident at Owl Creek" bulls.h.i.+t. The house is going up like a Roman candle and a mob of armed men surround it.

Suddenly the exhaustion hits me and all the strength drains out of my legs like water. I feel a deceptive, defeated calm. There are five shots left in the pistol. Better a quick bullet than the agony of fire.

I can hear the inferno below us, consuming the house and the last remnants of our old life. The floor is growing hotter, beginning to smoke.

I sit beside Andrew and draw him into my arms, resting his head against my shoulder. My hand is shaking so bad I almost drop the gun. Then my son's expression registers and it falls to the floor with a clatter.

Andrew is looking at me. Not through me. His small, sad eyes are filled with confusion, like those of a child that has just awoken from a long, fitful sleep. In that galvanizing instant every atom of my being cries out with joy that the long-awaited connection has finally been made.

"Daddy?"

And in the next, the house collapses around us.

Sign of the Times.

JOHN GROVER.

Monroe Ma.s.sachusetts Daily Gazette.

Excerpt from page 5B:.

Public Awareness Editorial.

Today marks the one-year anniversary since the horrible accident at the Brickner Laboratories that unleashed the plague. This airborne virus spread wildly across the United States bringing the recently dead back to life. The undead stalked and killed many citizens creating even more victims like themselves.

With official orders from the President, the National Guard, along with armed swat teams, contained this unholy threat, ridding the country of most of the walking dead. Some managed to escape the martial efforts but were seen as little threat as public awareness of the epidemic grew and Americans took the necessary precautions to protect themselves.

Today very few of these walking threats have been spotted but undoubtedly there are a few that remain among us. Although the virus is no longer spreading, the dead still rise. Anyone who dies presently rises and attacks the living. For this reason it has become common practice to see brick fireplaces or cremation fires in the backyards of most American homes.

A new law has been formed that states any human being in the United States, be they friend, relative or family member, who pa.s.ses on must be burned and cremated within the hour. This is of the utmost importance, citing the hazardous implications that may occur. Government and church officials have bestowed the right of family to give their loved ones the last rites in the case of death and properly dispose of the body.

Funerals as we know them have become non-existent. It is now commonplace to witness a family quietly praying in their backyard as they place a white sheet wrapped form into a fiery resting place.

Today, as of nine am, restoration of the Brickner Laboratories has begun. The first layer of foundation has been poured as the work crews ready to frame the new building.

Virginia sighed before crumbling the newspaper and tossing it into the kitchen trash bucket. Standing in front of the sink, the faucet dripping sporadically, she stared out into the backyard. Her eyes traced the brick structure that loomed at the far end of the yard, poised just before the wheat fields that seemed to stretch on forever.

Richard had it built six months after the plague-virus struck the country. Just in case, he said. You never knew when it would be necessary. Better to be prepared than be stupid.Was that movement in the field? Had there been a glimpse of something, a shape, a shadow, sluggishly pus.h.i.+ng through the wheat? Perhaps one of them, searching mindlessly, lumbering with primal response, propelled by basic motor functions with a single desire; destroy anything alive.

Virginia wasn't sure and honestly, she didn't care. To her right a strainer full of stainless steel pots sat drying. She caught her reflection in them as she turned to leave the sink. Her auburn hair was streaked with gray and the bun she tied it back with was becoming unraveled. Strands sprung from every side of her head and most times she would be aghast with this but now, it wasn't worth the effort.

Bags wore heavy beneath her blue eyes and there was a sadness in them, that of a life gone by, of a world gone to h.e.l.l. She was tired, tired of it all.

Her thin hands took hold of the yellow ap.r.o.n she wore and rubbed it swiftly. Removing the ap.r.o.n, she threw it over the pots and pans, hiding the image of herself she could no longer bear to see.

"Ginny!" Richard called from the parlor.

His voice grated right through her and she shuddered slightly when she heard it.

"Where's my iced tea, babe?" he bellowed. "You know I need one with my shows."

Shaking her head, she walked to the fridge and retrieved the pitcher of iced tea; the sound of the ice cubes jingling around in it annoyed her.

Handing him a tall cold gla.s.s, she sat in the rocking chair across from him. Taking a sip he grinned widely at her. "Thanks babe."

She hated that grin. Even more, she hated when he called her babe.

Twenty-two years of cooking meals, scrubbing floors, cleaning toilets, sewing torn trousers and loose b.u.t.tons, bringing gla.s.ses of iced tea and hearing the words "thanks babe" in return and what did she have to show for it?

Nothing. Not a shred of fulfillment, her entire life had simply pa.s.sed her by and she was tired, oh so tired. My soul is empty, she thought. I am so drained. I might as well be one of them out there.

It wasn't as if Richard was a bad man. He had never laid a hand on her or even raised his voice. There again, that was part of the problem. He was so nonchalant about everything, never growing angry, never getting riled up, never getting depressed. It was as if there was no emotion at all. Show something G.o.dd.a.m.n it, anything! Show that you're moved by something.

If only he had wanted children. She craved to be a part of something bigger, to give a part of herself to something that would grow and bloom rather than remain in servitude to someone so occupied with themselves.

Children were out of the question. For G.o.d's sake, they might have taken some of the attention away from him. A wife's duty was to her husband he believed firmly. The subject was closed.

For another hour she sat mute in her chair, rocking steadily as Richard remained fixated on his shows. Even they were all the same, pointless and dull.

How did I marry such a boring man?

Virginia could barely stand to look at him now as her eyes tried to find something, anything else in the room to stare at.

"Babe, could I get another iced tea?"

The rocking chair stopped in mid rock, the voice drilled through her and she crinkled her nose with disdain. She had had about enough.

Getting up, she walked over to his outstretched hand and took the gla.s.s without saying a word.

Virginia stood in front of the kitchen window again and stared at the bricked furnace in the backyard. The bricks seemed to wiggle about as she watched them. She wasn't sure how long she stood there but the call finally jarred her out of her trance.

"Ginny, where's my tea?"

"Oh, it's coming," she mumbled.

She left the kitchen and walked down the hall. Into her bathroom she strolled and opened the vanity mirror before her. She avoided looking at her own reflection.

She grasped the prescription sleeping pills in her palm. She'd been using them for months now. Along with everything else she was having trouble sleeping as well.

She dropped the white powder into the tall gla.s.s, watching it dissolve. Grinding the pills actually took effort and this surprised her. Had she really grown so weak?

Handing Richard the gla.s.s she watched him grin that sickening, mocking grin of his and returned to her chair. She waited, studying his face, his hands, every line and wrinkle on him.

The moments pa.s.sed and she watched as his eyes grew heavy and his head bobbed slightly.

Her chair rocked back and forth rhythmically, it seemed like an eternity before the pills took full affect but eventually they did.

The gla.s.s tumbled to the floor, half melted ice cubes rolling across the rug. His body slumped down in the chair, his head lobbing to one side.

She smiled. For the first time in so long she smiled. For a few minutes she sat there, without saying a word. She stopped rocking and stared at her slumbering husband. Even in his sleep he was totally aggravating.

Getting up she walked back to the kitchen, catching the backyard furnace in the corner of her eye, and stepped out onto the back porch. There was time now.

She basked in the gentle breeze that stirred, watching the wheat ripple. No rush, take everything slow. "Now it's my turn to live," she said. "No one will ever know. All I have to do is drag him over to it."

Returning to the kitchen she searched the junk drawer in the far corner, finally discovering the box of long matches she'd been looking for.

She made her way towards the fireplace, clutching the matches tightly and looked down, its sooty opening like an ashen mouth yawning at her. They had only used it once, Richard insisted on roasting hotdogs in it. Just to see what it would be like. "No more orders, no more demands. It's my time now."

Bending, she began tossing pieces of wood into the furnace from the pile on the ground. From the indented shelf at waist level she grabbed the small can of charcoal fluid and squirt it generously over the wood.

With one strike the match ignited and without hesitation she launched it into the furnace.

A dull poof resounded in her ears. "I'll just say he had a heart attack. Died in his sleep. Of course officer, you know the law. I had to get him into the fire as soon as possible... No one will ever know."

Another smile drew on her face. It felt good. "My life again. Mine." The fatigue was not as bad as before. Hope was returning. She could not wait to begin her new life. For the first time in years she was actually excited about something.

As the fire roared to its start, the scent of rot drifted in the breeze, filling her nostrils.

Virginia watched the hot ash sail past her face as she heard the thras.h.i.+ng of the gra.s.s behind her. She turned ever so slowly And an undead man lunged on top of her! The two hit the ground hard.

A scream escaped as she struggled to get out from under the undead stranger. His cold hands reached around her throat, the flesh hanging off in leathery ribbons as he gnashed at her with yellow and black teeth.

Many times he tried to bite into her throat or face but she had managed to swerve away from his snapping jaws, his torn lips twisted in some perverse smile. Bracing one arm against his head, she searched the ground. She eyed the woodpile beside her and with some luck felt one slip into her hand.

With one hard swing she connected with his head, splinters shattering, fragments of flesh with them. Managing to roll him off she stood up as he squirmed on the ground.