Glory (Book 2) (7 page)

He continued down the hall. He kept hold of the spoon.

He still didn't know what he was doing. Though, by now, it didn't matter. He was deep into the airport and couldn't easily get out of it.

It was strangely silent. A dull hiss was all that he could make out. He supposed that it was better than the screams from the creature, but it was still somewhat unsettling.

He took a deep breath. And another.

Then he heard something.

This time, it hadn't sounded like one o
f
the
m
. It wasn't a scream. If anything, it sounded like crying.

Chapter 4

John walked out of the basement and looked around. His house wasn't as bad as he had expected. There were a few things knocked over. But not much more than that.

He made his way down the hallway and entered the living room. He stopped as soon as he saw the broken window
.
Someone had come in through there and tried to kill him and his wife
.
That thought sent a chill down his back. So did the blood that was around the window frame.

John took a closer look. He could see hand prints pressed against the wood. There were long stretches of blood that had come from the man's fingers.

He stepped closer to the window. This time, it was to get a better view of outside. He gasped as soon as he saw it all. If his house hadn't been as bad as he had expected, outside was much worse than he had. Cars. Bodies. Death. Blood.

And people had done this to each other? His neighbours?

John turned his back to the window. There was no reason for him to stand there and look through it anymore. He had seen all that he needed to. Aside from the destruction, there was no help anywhere in sight. He and his wife were alone.

He saw the phone lying on the floor and rushed over to it. It hadn't occurred to him before, but maybe his wife had been wrong about the police. Maybe she had dialed the wrong number, pressed a wrong button. He picked it up, turned it on and phone
d
911
.
He placed the phone by his ear, hoping to hear someone on the other end.

There wasn't even a dial tone. The phone was silent.

John looked around the room. He wasn't sure what he was looking for, but there had to be something that could help him
.
Anything.

There was. He saw a lamp. It reminded him of the light downstairs and that, in turn, made him think of the power and how it was out.

That's why the phone didn't work! It was a cordless and couldn't work without electricity!

He went to the kitchen. They had an older phone there. One that didn't run on electricity. It was hanging on the wall.

He picked it up and pressed the phone to his ear. He listened for a dial tone. Again, there was nothing.

He pressed down on the base a few times.

Still nothing.

The phone was out. Just like the power.

John felt another chill run through him. With everything not working, it meant that the trouble was wide-spread. Possibly across the whole country. Maybe the world.

It also meant that he wasn't going to be able to call anyone for help. Or contact his children.

He placed the phone back onto the base and turned to the fridge. It no longer hummed like it usually did. He knew the things inside it were going to go bad soon.

He opened the door and pulled out a carton of milk. He sipped straight from of the box, knowing that his wife wasn't around to stop him. She hated when he did that
.
Use a glass, John. You're not an animal!

He took another sip. Then he grabbed a glass and filled it. This wasn't for him. It was for Alice. He hoped that she'd drink it. So far she had had nothing but pop. And even that hadn't been very much.

He went back into the fridge and took out some cheese and meat, a loaf of bread.

She might like a sandwich too.

John placed the things on the table and turned around. He wasn't finished up here yet. He needed to get something to keep his wife warm in that damp basement. And he needed to go to the washroom. For both of those things, he'd have to go upstairs.

He went to the staircase in the front hall and walked up it. He made sure to take the same slow and careful steps that he had to get up from the basement. He couldn't risk falling.

He didn't.

John paused at the top of the stairs and took a few deep breaths. He was surprised that he felt so exhausted. He couldn't run up the stairs anymore, but he usually didn't have any trouble walking up them. He supposed that it had to do with all that had happened in the past little while. His body was stressed. He hadn't had much sleep. And the sleep that he had gotten had been on a workbench. Plus, he hadn't eaten anything.

It could also be that he was getting old
.
No, he'
d
gotte
n
old.

John caught his breath and walked into his bedroom. There was nothing wrong in there. None of the people from outside had gotten into it. That made him feel a bit better.

Then he heard footsteps.

He turned around quickly to see where the sound had come from. His heart began to race.

Again there was nothing. Just his imagination playing tricks on him.

He looked back into the room and saw his bed. He wished that he could take a little nap in it
.
Just a little on
e
. But he wasn't going to leave his wife downstairs while he slept. Besides, even though they hadn't yet, he didn't know if any of those crazy people would come up here. He'd give it another day or two.

He walked to the closet and grabbed a sweater for him and his wife. He didn't care which one he picked for himself, but he made sure to grab Alice's favourite. It might help her snap out of it. He tucked them under his arm and started to leave the room.

Before he got out, he saw a framed photograph on his bedside table. It was of him and his family. They were all in it - even the grandchildren. He remembered that he thought of getting one earlier
.
It might help her too
,
he thought
.
Though it might cause more harm than good
.
He'd try it anyway.

He picked up the photograph and headed downstairs.

After he got the stuff for the sandwiches and glass of milk from the kitchen, he walked back to the basement door. His heart stopped when he noticed that he had left it open. He hadn't heard anything when he was upstairs, but if one of those creatures had gotten into the house and gone downstairs there would be nothing that Alice could do to save herself. He didn't know if he'd be able to do much against them either, but he liked to think that he could protect his wife - if only a little bit.

That thought played through his mind
.
The creatures coming into the basement. John standing to fight them. His old hands raised in front of him
.
He knew he wouldn't stand a chance...unless he had something to protect himself with.

John considered going back into the kitchen and grabbing a knife; maybe even a cleaver. But, before he did, he remembered some of the tools he had downstairs. There was one in particular that he thought would work best
.
His hammer.

The idea of swinging it at someone in an attempt to crack in their head
-
to kill the
m
- was bizarre. Yet the world was bizarre now. He had to think about his and his wife's safety.

If one of those people came…

He didn't finish the thought.

It was a lot more difficult for John to make it down the stairs with all of the things in his hands. Of course, he could have made a few trips to get them all down there; but that didn't seem like all that good of an idea. He'd have more chance to fall if he kept going up and down the stairs.

He simply needed to take his time, needed to be careful.

When he got to the bottom he looked over at his wife. She was still sitting where he had left her, clutching the can of pop.

"Alice," he called to her, "I've brought you a few things." He walked over to her and placed the items on the workbench.

Alice didn't look at any of them. She kept her eyes focused on the wall.

He pulled the can of pop out of her hand and replaced it with the glass of milk. "Here you are, honey. You should drink some of this."

Her fingers surrounded the glass, but he knew she wasn't going to raise it to her lips, wasn't going to sip from it. She was just going to sit there.

John took the glass back and raised it for her. "Come on, honey. Just a little bit." He tilted the glass forward and the milk rushed to her closed mouth. It ran down her chin. John swore to himself and wiped it away.

"Okay, honey," he said. "Not yet. How about a sandwich?"

She didn't respond.

But surely she'd eat somethin
g
, he thought
.
"Let me make you one."

He took the ingredients and started putting the sandwich together. It wasn't anything special. Just bread, cheese and meat. It would be good, nonetheless. He carefully put the sandwich together and, when it was finished, placed it to her mouth. As with the milk, her lips didn't part.

"Please, Alice. One bite."

Nothing.

John felt a wave of panic rush through him. His wife wouldn't drink. She wouldn't eat. He knew that she couldn't survive very long this way. She'd die of starvation.

"Please, Alice!"

Still nothing.

John calmed himself down. There wasn't anything he could do about his wife at the moment. She wasn't going to respond. He'd give her some time. He'd hope for the best.

He took a bite of the sandwich and lowered it to the workbench.

As he did, he swore to himself again
.
He had forgotten to go to the washroom!

Almost as if on cue, John heard a dripping sound. At first, he thought that his mind had been playing tricks on him again. But the sound continued. Then he smelled something.

"Alice," he said. He looked under the table and saw a puddle forming at her feet. "Oh, Alice."

He stood up and walked beside her. He placed his hand on her shoulder and tried to shake her out of her stupor. She continued to urinate of the floor, through her clothes.

John waited for her to stop. She had had to go (just like he did) and hadn't been able to control it
.
Stuck in that dreamworld of hers.

John rubbed her shoulders and told her that everything was going to be okay. He'd go upstairs and get her some new clothes. Plus a towel to clean her up.

"I was going to go up there anyway," he added. Not that it mattered. He would have gone up for her, regardless.

He leaned over and kissed his wife. Then he stood to leave.

As he did, he remembered the hammer. He needed to take that with him. It was hanging above the workbench. He reached over and grabbed it.

The hammer. His protection.

"I'll be back soon," he told his wife.

She continued to ignore him, staring off at nothing.

*

When he got back, John placed the towels and clothes onto the table. He put the hammer beside those. He had also brought down a bucket and filled it in the sink beside the washing machine. He went back to his wife and placed the bucket beside her.

"Alice," he said. "Can you stand?" He was sure that his wife wasn't going to say anything, but he wanted to try.

She didn't respond.

He grabbed hold of her hands and tried to get her up. She wouldn't move.

He went behind her and wrapped his arms around her. He tried to lift her. No luck.

"Alice, please," he said, knowing that it was pointless. His wife wasn't going to listen to him. She wasn't going to help. "All right, honey." He'd have to clean and change her while she remained seated.

He grabbed hold of her shirt and pulled it up over her head. Surprisingly, there was very little resistance.  Her arms went up over her head and he was easily able to take it off.

Taking off her pants would be a bit more difficult. Alice wouldn't move off of the chair. His fingers grabbed at the her pants' button and fumbled for a moment before it came undone. He pulled down at the pants, each side bit by bit, until he got them over her waist and underneath her hips.

John reached under her and pulled again. He could smell the urine more now that he was so close to it. But he didn't pay it much attention. He was worried about his wife more than anything else. He tugged until her pants came out from underneath her and slid them down her legs.

He took off his wife's bra and panties next.

Her socks were last.

As she sat there naked, John looked her over. He wasn't embarrassed by what he saw. There was some indignity in it, he knew. But this was the woman that he had loved for years. He simply wanted to take care of her.

He dipped one of the washcloths in the bucket. Then he began wiping her down. He talked to her gently as he did. He told her that everything was going to be okay, that he'd figure it all out. Though these were things that he hoped, not things he necessarily believed.

When he finished, he dried her off and put the fresh set of clothes back on her.

"There we go," he said.  "That's better."