Among the Living (12 page)

You only let him in because he was your son. You let him in because you couldn’t believe he was one of them. The moment you opened the door, you knew it was a bad idea. It’s one thing to see it on the news; it’s another to see it in a loved one’s eyes.

It wasn’t even his hand knocking. He used his head to bang on the door. He came in with a mumble, then a clawing hand that tried to grab you. The gun was in the waist of your pants, but you didn’t want to pull it, refused to believe what your eyes were showing you.

You batted his hand aside, but he came on, mouth a rictus of horror from which a blue tongue protruded. Breath fouler than a hunk of bacon left to rot or a port-a-potty forgotten in the sun. You couldn’t help but wonder if the flesh hanging from broken front teeth was human, those strands that swayed with his shambling steps.

The gun came up in two hands, the way you’ve seen it a million times on TV. It was pointed at his head, but you couldn’t finish God’s work. You stepped back and felt the stairs against the back of your leg. You tried not to stumble, but the horror before you made your feet unsure. Your flesh was crawling, heart pounding in your ears. Great ragged breaths through open mouth made your head swim.

You backed up the stairs until you reached the top. Undaunted, your son followed, that arm stretched toward you. You misjudged the last step and came down hard on your backside. His hand reached for your ankle, and you scooted back; a little gasp of horror bubbled out. Then you had a good and proper scream when your back hit the wall.

You rolled to your feet; adrenaline amped you up faster than a double shot of espresso. You made it to the living room, but the next flight of stairs proved your undoing. You were sure he was right behind you, like you had sprouted a pair of eyes in the back of your head. But you fought the urge to look back until you hit the second little step, the short flight that separated the kitchen from the living room. Your head snapped around in desperation.

Your foot caught on the lip of the room, and you staggered to one knee. Not so young and spry anymore; that ship sailed at least a decade ago. Your hand went to the carpet, and you tried to propel yourself forward, but your feet tangled together and you went down hard. John, your pride and joy, the goofy-haired kid you used to take fishing, fell on top of you.

He moved fast, and when you went down, he fell on you like a pile of bricks. Both hands on his shoulders, you tried push him off. You turned your head to the side because that foul breath brought bile to the back of your throat. You choked it down, but then your eye caught his, all dried up like a prune. At least the other one must work, your mind tried to assure itself. Can’t really hunt down old pop with no sight, now can ya, son?

Then the puke was there, burning hot. It spewed out of your mouth, and as you pulled back from his descending teeth, a splash of it went up your nose. It was the last insult as you tried not to vomit again while preventing your son from tearing into your neck. The plan didn’t work out.

His head thrust in, and you beat at it but didn’t have a chance. The pain and sickening tearing sound almost made you pass out. You tried to scream, but there was no vocal cord left.

Gun came up, last resort, didn’t want to use it on your own son, but is he really the boy you raised to be a man? Nope, he’s a mindless creature that is only interested in feeding on you. You swung the gun around, and wasn’t it a shock that something went right, just one thing in the whole terrible minute that just passed? The gun struck him across the temple with all the force of a man at death’s door. It connected with a crunch that sent the thing tumbling to your side.

There was a loud boom as you twisted the gun to your side and put one right between his eyes. Then a sickening splash as the bullet exited with most of your son’s brains behind it. You didn’t look, just rolled your head upright and stared at the ceiling while the blood poured out of your ruined neck.

What time will Alice be home? She can’t find you both like this, can’t see her son now twice dead and husband soon to be undead. You have to use the gun again, just put an end to it all by gently squeezing that trigger. She will be shocked, heartbroken, hurt and disgusted, but it beats the hell out of the alternative.

Your arm stiffens as your stomach turns to lead. It feels like you are being pulled feet first from a hot bath and straight into a pile of ice. The order goes out from your brain, but your arms are no longer working. You try to lift your hand, you lift with all your might, but the gun is suddenly as heavy as an anvil. Blood loss is killing you as your vitality pumps out of your body.

Your heart thumps like a bellows, feels like it’s going to rip free. Then it stutters, beats once more, and goes silent. The world turns to ash before your eyes; a gray ring filters the light from the room. You guess it’s your corneas dying. You try to breathe one last time, to taste clean air before the end arrives, but your chest is stuck in exhale and refuses to comply.

Your brain grows foggy; things blur. You feel your tongue dry up in your mouth and are reminded of the first sight of your son when you opened the door an eternity ago. Your brain’s last thought arrives like a revelation.

Time to feed.

* * *

The car purrs down the residential network of interconnecting streets like a tamed motorcycle engine. Her view is crystal clear through the expansive front window. The compact is plush, with electronics doodads everywhere, and the new car smell still hangs around a year after purchase. She glances at the colorful GPS even though she has been on this little stretch a thousand times.

Alice can’t wait to get home and watch last night’s primetime offering while zipping through all the inane commercials. She hopes Ken will work at the computer so she isn’t interrupted. Ken means well, but his stupid jokes about her cop dramas have worn out her last TV nerve.

Her mind wanders over the plot lines from last week when a kid on a skateboard rockets across the street right in front of her. She slams on her brakes, which brings the silver car to a screeching halt. Boxes of food flop over in the back of the car. All that time carefully stacking them up, and now she will have to do it again. Dammit!

The kid keeps going, braided hair flopping in a long ponytail down the child’s back. She swerves when she reaches the curve and does some trick where the skateboard pops off the ground, spins to the right and then races down the sidewalk. Her head whips back, and their eyes meet. Scared, wide-open, mouth an O of horror, probably aware now of just how close she came to plowing into the automobile. Damned kids. One of these days she is going to hit one.

Now all of her food will be out of order, all of the supplies she picked up after getting regular groceries for Ken. Her sudden anger is tempered at the thought of her new diet. She is even more excited about the counselor she met with today.

She had a fifteen-minute session to discuss her goals, all the while the lacquer-nailed, stick-thin woman driving home how important Alice is. How she deserves to look the way she wants. How her husband will see her in a new light. But more importantly, he will want to see her skinny body in a lacy film of lingerie. He won’t be able to take his eyes off me. She smiles to herself, remembering fondly. Just like the first years of our marriage.

Susan understood her, understood her need to lose the baby fat she gained after little Anthony was born. Little Anthony who is now seventeen years old and thinks he knows everything. Her sweet boy who rarely comes home. Where did they go wrong? He had everything he asked for, every gadget he could imagine. A new iPod every year. The laptop that cost $2,000, the one that he had to have for classes even though all it is used for now is games. How could he be so standoffish? If she had acted like that when she was a kid, her father would have laid down the law.

Although her trip to the clinic had been fulfilling, Alice felt unfocused.

Then the counselor had become somewhat distracted. She kept glancing at a computer screen and fingering a cell phone. She snuck peeks out the front window as if she were expecting someone. In fact, the entire trip had felt off somehow. The grocery store was emptier than usual, and the other shoppers slipped from aisle to aisle like wraiths. The checkouts were nearly deserted, and Alice had to resort to a self check stand to pay for her groceries. This had taken a good fifteen minutes, but it beat waiting in line behind seven people.

Even the receptionist seemed on edge behind her desk and computer screen. She wore a shiny bright blue shirt that set off her ocean eyes, but Alice was distracted by the way her buttons were open nearly to her waist, displaying an obscene amount of her perfectly tanned globes. Who dresses like that at work? she wondered with a trace of jealousy.

The kid jumps on her board and is away. Alice speeds off and switches the radio on. She finds a talk show and listens to the chatter that more and more is centered on the mystery of the Queen Anne neighborhood. The gas leak and people getting sick, some being brought out in ambulances.

And it is so close to her house. She saw an Army truck trundle by a few hours ago and heard men shouting in the distance. She even had to cut around the hill to get across town, and it had added a good ten minutes to her drive.

Alice rounds the corner and pulls into her parking space. The house is set back with a long wooden fence in front that blocks the view from the road. It adds privacy and also allows friends and family members to park out front. Still the neighbors are far too close in this neighborhood, just like most houses in this part of Seattle, which borders Fremont.

Ken’s gas-guzzler is in the driveway, parked too far to the left so that it takes up part of her spot. She frowns but pulls around and backs in slowly, her car dwarfed by the big Suburban. The back is open, so he is probably bringing in some wood for the new floor in the kitchen.

She’s been ignoring the radio, but a distressed caller catches her attention. She lets the car idle for a moment and turns up the volume.

“My son had a cut, not too deep, or so I thought. When it wouldn’t stop bleeding, my wife made me take him to the hospital, but when we got there we were turned away. They said a chemical spill inside forced them to close their doors but a nearby clinic might be able to get us in.”

“Did they say what sort of chemicals?”

“Chemical, they only mentioned one. I tried to get some information out of the guy, but he just walked back inside. I thought I saw a soldier with a …”

She cuts the engine and wiggles out of the car. Just another wacko on the radio. They don’t turn you away at the hospital, that’s ridiculous. She slaps the little electronic key into her purse and strides around the car. Her hip bumps into the side as she rounds it. She grunts and rubs the spot. She won’t miss the weight when it’s gone, not one little bit.

She gathers the spilled food containers and hauls them to the front door. It’s open, so she walks in, calling, “Ken, honey, can you help me bring in some bags?”

* * *

Cold.

Cold glass crunches in your joints. Slivers of the stuff slide through your blood vessels. Each time you try to move, it is pure agony. Your guts are clenched up like they are stuffed with a wad of towels, but they make hollow gurgling noises as if they have never been full. You feel a river of shit spreading down your leg, warm against your cold appendages.

Blood.

It is growing cool against your neck. You move your head just a bit, and more of the stuff leaks out. A squish as you raise your head, another as you it drop it in agony. Heavy weight drags at your hand. You raise an arm, and it thumps down as well.

Confusion.

A jumble of half-thoughts that seem to fade with each slow second. Memories of recent events, a boom, a hole in someone’s head. Someone you knew, dead. The smell of the gunpowder burned your nose, bitter and hot, but that memory is snatched away even as it forms.

Silence.

There should be a thump in your chest, but it just isn’t there. You can’t even breathe; your lungs should rise and lower. How will you get oxygen to your brain? Panic grips you, but you can’t move. A scream rips through your mouth, only no sound emerges, and you are aware at some level that you need air in your lungs to exhale past your vocal cords in order to form that particular sound. The sound of a dead man screaming. Nothing comes out, so you lie there with your mouth wide open.

The pain passes, and it leaves numbness behind. You can sense your arms and legs, your head still attached, but they feel like they are injected with Novocaine just like when you go to the dentist. Then the memory of drilling is gone, the smell of ground teeth evaporates, and you want to bite your tongue in half.

Every fiber of your being wants to clench up, curl into a ball and die. Then the memory of dying slaps your brain and—just like that—is snatched away as well. You wonder if you will be able to think once the gnawing in your gut is gone. It’s like a hollow just opened up, as if you have never eaten in your life.

You manage to move, to shift one leg then the other. Your arms are next, then hands. How are they working with no blood in your veins? Doesn’t matter. In fact, as soon as that question arrives, it too is lost.

Some level of brain activity acknowledges what is happening. The synapses are dying, and as they perish, you lose more and more of yourself. You pull yourself up, out of the pool of blood, away from the body beside you. He looks familiar, but in a moment, you don’t even care who he is as the memory fades to nothingness.