Extreme Zombies, page 27
“I just want to wake up,” Richard cried.
Gina positioned the bolt cutters over his one remaining toe. “And I just wanted to provide for Paul.”
“But I di—”
“And this little piggy cried wee wee wee—”
CRUNCH.
Richard screamed.
“—all the way home.”
He shrieked something unintelligible, and his eyes rolled up into his head. He writhed on the mattress, the veins in his neck standing out.
“You brought this on yourself,” Gina reminded him as she reached for a lighter to cauterize the wound.
Richard had been her boss, before Hamelin’s Revenge—before the dead started coming back to life.
Gina and Paul had met in college, and got married after graduating. They’d been together three years and were just beginning to explore the idea of starting a family when Paul had his accident. It left him quadriplegic. He had limited use of his right arm and couldn’t feel anything below his chest. Overnight, both of their lives were irrevocably changed. Gone were Gina’s dreams of being a stay-at-home mom. She’d had to support them both, which meant a better job with more pay and excellent health insurance. She’d found all three as Richard’s assistant.
Gina had spent her days working for Richard and her nights caring for Paul. Richard had been a wonderful employer at first—gregarious, funny, kind and sympathetic. He’d seemed genuinely interested in her situation, and had offered gentle consolation. But his comfort and caring had come with a price. One day, his breath reeking of lunchtime bourbon, Richard asked about Paul’s needs. When Gina finished explaining, he asked about her own needs. He then suggested that he was the man to satisfy those needs. She’d thought he was joking at first, and blushing, had stammered that Paul could still get reflexive erections and they had no trouble in the bedroom.
And then Richard touched her. When Gina resisted, he reminded her of her situation. She needed this job. The visiting nurse who cared for Paul during the day didn’t come cheap, nor did any of his medicines or other needs. Sure, Gina could sue him for sexual harassment, but could she really afford to? Worse, what would such a public display do to her husband? Surely he was already feeling inadequate. Did she really want to put this on his conscious, as well?
Gina succumbed. They did it right there in the office. She’d cried the first time, as Richard grunted and huffed above her. She’d cried the second time, too. And the third. And each time, Gina died a little bit more inside.
Until the dead came back to life, giving her a chance to live again.
She’d called Richard before the phones had gone out, telling him to come over, pleading with him to escape with her. They’d be safe together. They could make it to one of the military encampments. Could he please hurry?
He’d shown up an hour later, his BMW packed full of supplies. He smiled when she opened the door, touched her cheek, caressed her hair and told her he was glad she’d called.
“What about your husband?”
“He’s already dead,” Gina replied. “He’s one of them now.”
And then she’d hit Richard in the head with a flashlight. The first blow didn’t knock him out. It took five tries. Each one was more satisfying than the previous.
The thing Gina had always loved most about Paul was his heart. Her mother, who’d adored Paul, had often said the same thing.
“You married a good one, Gina. He’s got a big heart.”
Her mother had been right. Paul’s heart was big. She stood staring at it through the hole in his chest. Paul moaned, slumping forward in his wheelchair. She’d strapped him into it with bungee cords and duct tape, so that he couldn’t get out. He was no longer dead from the chest down. Death had cured him of that. He could move again.
She moved closer and he moaned again, snapping at the air with his teeth. Gina thought of all the other times she’d stood over him like this. She remembered the times they’d made love in the wheelchair—straddling him with her legs wrapped around the chair’s back, Paul nuzzling her breasts, Gina kissing the top of his head as she thrust up and down on him. Afterward, they’d stay like that, skin on skin, sweat drying to a sheen.
Paul moaned a third time, breaking her reverie. She glanced down and noticed that another one of his fingernails had fallen off. She couldn’t stop him from decaying, but when he ate, it seemed to slow the process down.
She reached into her pocket, pulled out the plastic baggie, and unzipped it. Richard’s piggy toe lay inside. It was still slightly warm to the touch. She fed Paul the toe, ignoring the smacking sounds his lips made as he chewed greedily.
“We’ll have something different tomorrow.” Her voice cracked. “A nice finger. Would you like that?”
Paul didn’t respond. She hadn’t expected him to. Gina liked to think that he still understood her, that he still remembered their love for each other, but deep down inside, she knew better.
Eventually, Gina grew tired. Yawning, she went around the house and snuffed out the candles. Richard was still passed out when she examined his newest bandage. She double-checked the barricades on the doors and windows. Finally, she said goodnight to what was left of the man who had captured her heart, while in the other room, her captive awoke and cried softly in the dark.
Brian Keene is the author of over twenty books, including Darkness on the Edge of Town, Urban Gothic, Dark Hollow, Dead Sea, and many more. He also writes comic books such as The Last Zombie and Dead of Night: Devil Slayer. His work has been translated into German, Spanish, Polish, French, and Taiwanese. Several of his novels and stories have been optioned for film, one of which, The Ties That Bind, premiered on DVD in 2009 as a critically-acclaimed independent short. Keene’s work has been praised in such diverse places as The New York Times, The History Channel, The Howard Stern Show, CNN.com, Publishers Weekly, Fangoria, and Rue Morgue. Keene lives in the backwoods of Central Pennsylvania with his wife, sons, dog, and cats. You can communicate with him online at www.briankeene.com or on Twitter at twitter.com/BrianKeene.
May the Lord accept the sacrifice at your hands, for the praise and glory of his name, for our good, and the good of all . . .
For the Good of All
Yvonne Navarro
Fida can hear their moans through the floor.
The boarders are restless and hungry—they’re always hungry—but there isn’t much she can do about that. Broxton House doesn’t do bed and breakfast anymore, doesn’t even rent to new boarders. Hell, nobody needs to rent now that a good seventy percent of the city population is gone. If a person wants to move, they move; all you need to do is make sure the new place is empty of both the living and the dead. The law now says if you live in it, you own it, period. Squatting is okay, taking it by force isn’t. People work jobs just like before, but they make less money, and there’s a clear division in classes. Fida’s in the lower class, and that’s fine with her. She grows most of her food and has learned to live without the electricity she can’t afford anyway. There’s a weekly flea market in the parking lot of the abandoned high school two suburbs over, nice and safe within a secure eight-foot iron fence. Someone with a sense of humor dubbed it the “Lock ’n’ Swap” and the name stuck; Fida goes over and does small sewing jobs. She picked up the talent from her grandmother (who died decades before this zombie mess) and it earns her money for firewood in the winter, candles, enough gasoline to go to a different church each Sunday, and the few other things she can’t make on her own.
Fida is ready when the priest knocks on her door at a quarter to twelve, even though he’s fifteen minutes early. She’s glad he didn’t forget or decide not to come, because when that happens—and it does occasionally—it always shakes up her faith. Faith is all she has, and she mustn’t let it waver. Too much depends upon it.
“Good afternoon, Miss . . . ” He falters for a moment because she never told him her last name.
“Just call me Fida,” she tells him. “Long e, rhymes with Rita.” She steps to the side and motions at him. “Please, come inside.”
He nods and Fida can see the relief in his eyes as he steps over the threshold. His car, a heavy sedan that, like almost everyone’s, has mesh soldered over the windows, is parked at the curb. It had probably seemed like a very long way from the sidewalk to her door. No one without an armed escort wants to be outside too long nowadays.
Fida judiciously bolts the door, then leads him into the drawing room. “Make yourself comfortable.” He obliges by settling on one of the two floral-printed couches and passing a white handkerchief across his forehead. It’s impossible to tell if it’s the June heat or fear that makes him sweat. Some people just do.
She’s made a simple lunch, homemade flatbread baked pizza-style over a grating in the fireplace of the old-fashioned kitchen, then topped with a sliced tomato and green pepper from her little greenhouse (she’s privately called it Lock ’n’ Grow since hearing the nickname of the swap meet). She hasn’t had mozzarella cheese in years, but a sprinkling of dry Parmesan before it goes over the heat works well. She serves it to him along with a glass of room-temperature water freshened by a small sprig of mint. A good man should have a good meal before he gets on about his business. A man such as Father Stane.
They eat without saying much of anything. After about ten minutes, Fida can see the priest finally relaxing. Even though she’s herded the boarders to the far end of the house, they have a tendency to fight amongst themselves and now and then one of them gets loud. Occasionally a snarl sails along the upstairs air currents and drifts through the unused heating vents. The first time this happens, Father Stane visibly twitches; when all Fida does is meet his gaze and shrug, he appears to accept that she has made her home safe. The next couple of noises make him raise an eyebrow, but his deep brown eyes are wise and he knows that the time for discussion isn’t long in coming. She can tell by his black hair and heavy bone structure that he is perhaps Slavic or Serbian. A man from the old country, where the faith is ancient and strong. Excellent.
Fida sets the dishes aside and folds her hands on her lap. “I appreciate you coming all this way,” she says. “I know it’s troublesome to travel alone.”
Father Stane tilts his head. “Indeed. You said there was something important you wanted to discuss.”
Fida nods, then picks at the rough edges of her fingernails as she considers the phrasing of her question. “Father, do you believe in forgiveness?”
“Of course,” he answers without hesitation. “Forgiveness is the core of our faith. Christ died for us, so that we would all be redeemed.” He studies her. “You attended my Mass last Sunday, but I won’t presume you’re Christian.”
“I’m Catholic.”
“But do you believe? These are difficult times, Fida. Even the strongest man or woman of faith can stumble.”
“I do believe, very strongly.”
He nods. “Then what is it you wanted to discuss?”
Fida takes a deep breath. “Do you believe in redemption? That souls can be saved?”
“Of course,” he says again. He leans forward. “Do you need to make a confession? Is that why you asked me to come here—for privacy?” She shakes her head, but he continues anyway. “These are terrible times, Fida. A lot of people have done . . . questionable things, just to stay alive.” He reaches over and gives her a paternal pat on the hand. “Many don’t want to be public about it. They feel hypocritical. I understand.”
Hypocritical . . . like Jesus and the Pharisees and scribes? No, she does not equate herself with them. “I only try to save people,” she replies, and both of them look toward the ceiling at the sound of a faraway thump.
Father Stane sits back. “Ah,” he says. “You have . . . ” He hesitates, unsure of his terminology.
“Boarders,” Fida answers for him. “They all lived here . . . ” Another pause. “Before.”
The priest’s forehead furrows. “They came back?”
She nods. “They came home. I don’t believe that the living dead are just monsters, creatures without thought or purpose. They have memory. They seek comfort.” Her hands are squeezing tightly together now, almost in supplication. “They didn’t ask for this. They want to be rescued, to be saved.”
Father Stane rubs his chin. “Have you considered that their return might just be instinct? There have been studies—”
Fida waves away his words. “You mean the experiment labs, where they’re dissected like lab rats, treated with chemicals and used as targets for the security forces to try out their latest and greatest weapons.” Heat climbs up her face. “And let’s not forget that the science centers are the perfect place for people to drop off their relatives—parents, spouses, children, for God’s sake—then walk away with a clean conscience, saying that what they’re doing is for the good of all. You mentioned hypocrites? Those are the hypocrites, Father Stane. Those are the monsters. The ones who won’t take responsibility for people they once loved.” She crosses her arms so tightly that the muscles in her shoulders spasm. “So much for until death do us part. The living dead, Father Stane. The living dead.”
He takes a drink of water and puts it back on the coffee table, carefully centering it on a coaster. “All right. Let’s say they are still alive, after a fashion. Then what?”
“They need to be saved,” she tells him firmly. “Forgiven, like Jesus forgave us all at the Last Supper. It was his body and blood—”
“Metaphorically,” the priest reminds her.
“Obviously, Father. I was about to say ‘via the bread and wine.’ ” Fida squashes her irritation, then picks up again. “That’s how mankind was forgiven, through his love and sacrifice. That’s how we continue to be forgiven.” She rises and crosses the drawing room, lifts a photo album from a mahogany side table next to the fireplace. She brings it back and opens it in front of Father Stane, pointing to the pictures.
“This is Patrick. A good Irish boy, first room at the top of the stairs. He’s been out of work so he’s a bit behind on his rent.” She flips the page. “This is Manuella. She lives . . . lived here with her boy, Reynaldo, in the biggest room at the back. Reynaldo’s gone, though. He was only six.” Father Stane nods his head sympathetically. She taps a fingernail against a picture of a sallow-skinned Asian man; his eyes are thin and mean and a gang tattoo curves around the back of his bald skull. “This is Cade. I have to admit that he tries my patience sometimes.” She lifts her chin. “Still, I have hope.”
“I see.”
“Do you?” Her eyes burn as she flips a couple more pages, locking her voice, determined not to show too much emotion. “Jesse and Tina. They’re only sixteen. She’s four months pregnant and they’re hiding from her father, who told her he was going to kill Jesse.” Another turn of the page. “Max is a heroin addict, always trying to kick the habit and always blowing it. He’s come back here four times because he knows I’ll help him keep on trying. And the last one is Sylvie. She’s thirteen and a runaway.”
Father Stane frowns at her. “You let a thirteen-year-old runaway stay here?”
Fida’s gaze doesn’t waver. “Her mother turned her out as a prostitute when she was eleven.”
The priest’s jaw works but he says nothing as Fida puts the album back in its place. “These are my tenants, Father.”
“You talk about them as if things never changed.”
“I don’t think they have, at least not to them. In their minds, they’re just lost.” She sits back down and clasps her hands again. “Don’t you see? These are my family. My responsibility. If I don’t care for them, don’t keep them safe and try to save them, then I will be a hypocrite. No better than so many others.”
Father Stane nods and to his credit, she can see him struggling to comprehend her way of thinking. “So why did you call me here, Fida? What can I do to help you with this situation?”
He stumbles a bit on the word situation and Fida’s stomach twists inside. Does he believe, truly? His faith must be complete. It must be pure. If it isn’t, he might as well go on home now.
“Will you do something for me, Father?” On the other end of the couch is a large wicker basket covered with a simple, clean white cloth. She pulls the basket to her side and lifts the cotton; beneath is more freshly baked flatbread, five good loaves of it, and a round crystal decanter of dark red wine. “Bless this bread and wine,” she says. “Consecrate it with all your faith and everything you believe in. Like you do the Eucharist at Mass.”
“And then what?” he asks sternly. His gaze rolls upward. “You feed it to them? There is no forgiveness without confession. You know that.”
She shakes her head. “But we have to try. The body of Christ, the blood of Christ. Miracles have happened. That the dead can walk is in itself a miracle, don’t you think? Who’s to say that a—a reverse miracle can’t occur?”
“And if it doesn’t? Will you be the one to stop them?” He glances pointedly at the machete hanging at her belt.
Fida looks at her hands. Sometimes she feels so much sadness she can hardly speak the words. “To kill out of judgment is not my place.” He doesn’t reply and she turns her hands palm up. “It’s a small thing that I’m asking, Father. A sacrifice of symbology. A spreading of the Word, the faith, the Sacrament.”
“All right,” he says after a few moments, but he sounds tired. Is he doing it because he wants to, or because he feels it’s what will be necessary for him to leave and feel as if he’s done his best?
He reaches for the basket but she stands and lifts it with her. “Upstairs,” she says. “In Patrick’s room. They’re all down at the end, where Manuella stays.” She doesn’t add that the Mexican woman, whose skin and eyes have gone as gray as old cement and whose mouth is rimmed with the dried blood of her son, spends most of every day moaning and standing over the daybed where the boy used to sleep.
Fida can tell by the expression on Father Stane’s sturdy face that he wants to protest, but he doesn’t. This gives her reason to hope; a faithless man would have refused, would have asked how dangerous it was and was she sure that the creatures were safely locked away. But Father Stane is a good man. A faithful man.
