Only The Dead Don't Die (2 page)

An amber-orange glow flitted through the partially closed blinds and lingered on Scarlett’s face, gently prodding her to wake up. She turned over on the bed, letting out a long leisurely stretch and reached for the alarm clock.
It can’t be 8:30—in the evening?
Still not convinced of the time, she stumbled about the condo searching for her cell phone.
Jeez Louise, where did I put it this time?

Scarlett stopped in the hallway of her condo recollecting her thoughts; she remembered Cyndi driving her home after the oral surgery. And sirens, there had been lots of sirens. And ghastly nightmares. She grimaced. The dreams had been so vivid it was as if she had dreamt in 3-D: horrid, grotesque creatures growling and grabbing at her
. Ugh
! She tried shaking off the creepy feeling, but the dreams continued to disturb her.

Cyndi will make me feel better; she always does
.
Better find my phone
, Cyndi was probably worried-sick by now.
She really hates it when I don’t call her.
Scarlett checked all the usual places: her purse, all of her purses, under the couch cushions, the dresser drawers, and the kitchen cupboards. She had been so out of it, no telling where she had put the phone.

It was getting late.
I should probably check the mail.
A short walk and some fresh air sounded really fantastic. Scarlett quickly threw on a pair of jeans, donned her Sketchers, and scurried out the front door. The iron gate to the condo’s courtyard stood wide open for some reason; she assumed a solicitor had been by. Scarlett took in a deep breath of fresh air and almost choked.
I smell a fire
, she worried while casually strolling to the complex’s mailbox center and caught a glimpse of the sun dissolving like a giant ice cube, melting orange-pink streaks into the horizon.

When she walked by Building C, a neighbor appeared to be wrapping a rather huge chain around the iron gate enclosing his courtyard. He must
really
be tired of the solicitors,
she mused
,
dismissing the neighbor’s irrational behavior.
That’s the crazy hermit guy that never talks to anyone.
However, because he happened to be the first person she had seen in several days, Scarlett shouted a cheery, “Lovely evening, isn’t it?”

The neighbor stared at her as if she was
an ax murderer or something and dropped the chain, which clattered onto the walkway; then, he literally ran inside his condo and slammed the door.
Not exactly the response I was hoping for.
Scarlett chuckled.
Jeez, I must look a fright
. In her rush to check the mail, she hadn’t bothered to change out of her bloodstained pajama top that was speckled with dried blood from the gauze pads she had used after the surgery. She hadn’t even bothered to brush her hair.
Uh,
I probably would’ve slammed the door on me too! At least I threw on some jeans.
She laughed,
ignoring the sense of uneasiness that seemed to drift elusively in the air. Something didn’t seem quite right, but she couldn’t put her finger on it.

No mail?
She began making her way back and for some reason; it suddenly dawned on her where her cell phone was
. Laundry basket! Jeez, why did I put it there?
A rustling noise in the decorative hedge along the sidewalk caught her attention; she glanced back to see the whole hedge of bushes quivering. In the fading rays of the setting sun, she could make out three figures walking rather clumsily towards her.

“Glrrrrrrr . . .” an eerie groaning noise made the skin on the back of her neck crawl. Then someone else joined in, “Glrrrrrrrrr . . .” only in a deeper voice. She glanced back again. She felt a feeling of uneasiness and picked up the pace. Now all three of them were groaning in slightly different guttural growls, not quite in unison, and they seemed to be staggering in a rather awkward gait—towards her. As if they wanted her?

Scarlett’s gut instinct took over. And she ran. And she did not stop until she was inside her condo. She slammed the door, locking it instantly, then leaned heavily against the door.

She let out a gasp of relief.
Really?
She hadn’t felt that scared since she was thirteen and that stupid girl (what was her name?) had locked her in the bathroom and hadn’t let her out until she had shouted “Bloody Mary” three times. The whole “Bloody Mary” thing had scared her to death. Of course, that had been a silly urban legend, and for a fleeting moment, she felt that same irrational fear. She forced out a laugh to relieve the uneasiness that still lingered.

Common sense told her it was her imagination working overtime, or perhaps those painkillers had left her feeling a bit psychotic. Then a foreboding feeling swept over her. Now that she thought about it, those people resembled the shadowy figures in her dreams.
The people with no faces!

Scarlett needed to talk to someone—now, like Cyndi or Maggie, her best friend. Or Kevin, her mind whispered.
No, not Kevin, you idiot. Where’s my flippin’ phone?
Laundry basket, a voice from inside reminded her.
She dashed to the closet never so happy to find her phone.

Unfortunately, the phone was in dire need of a charge. At least, she knew it was Friday, Friday
night. Is it possible to lose track of time for five days? The low battery icon flashed; shrugging, she connected the charger.

Really, five days?
She checked the bottle of antibiotics. Only two of the seven pills were left. Apparently, she had eaten four cans of soup these past five days as she checked out the kitchen.
Guess I was sleepwalking and sleep-eating. This place is a mess.
She attempted to recollect the past few days, but the more she tried to remember the more her head throbbed.

So, instead of a long, comforting phone call to Cyndi or Maggie, she cleaned the condo at 9:30 in the evening, which provided a much-needed distraction from the creepy feeling that lingered in the back of her mind.

Her head began pounding again, begging her to take another painkiller. She refused. Scarlett tried to focus on positive thoughts, thinking about how great it was going to be teaching math and physical education to fifth graders at her new teaching position at Roseville Elementary. She tried to convince herself that she didn’t need Kevin: he snored, he didn’t want children, and he always had to have things
his
way. Unfortunately, the “positive thinking” trick wasn’t working as random thoughts of Kevin kept bombarding her. She felt utterly hopeless and heartbroken and was unable to shake the feeling of doom that continued to consume her. And the tears came, again.

She grabbed the cell, knowing it was too late to call anyone. “Wow!” she exclaimed. She had 67 texts, but there were no texts from Cyndi: zero, zippo, zilch.
That’s so unlike Cyndi.
Her sister usually texted her ten times a day, a very annoying habit of hers.

“What?” Why had Kevin texted her?
The nerve of that man!
He probably just got back from Jamaica with his wannabe Paris-Hilton-girlfriend.
He probably wants to pick up all of his things. Well, he can wait.
Scarlett absolutely could not deal with him now; she wasn’t ready to. In a moment of anguish, she threw the cell on the sofa, which she instantly regretted. The phone bounced off the rose-colored cushion, slid across the hardwood floor, and crashed into the fireplace hearth. An unmistakable crackling noise followed.
Now that’s just flippin’ great!

She plopped on the sofa and pouted like a two-year-old while fidgeting with the television remote. Needing something to cheer her up, she decided to watch a few episodes of
Whose Line?
The show always made her laugh. The TV screen swarmed in a chaotic mass of black and white scratchy-static. “Isn’t that great?” She decided to take a very, long, indulging, hot shower.

It was almost sunset.
Time to bring her in
, Dean sighed disappointedly and slowly glided the boat towards Markley’s Cove. He had finally finished rebuilding the six cylinder motor and had taken the boat out to Lake Berryessa this morning. He was having such a pleasant day and wasn’t ready for his first outing in the
Twinkle Me Mary
to end.

In no hurry, he slowly drifted the boat towards the shoreline, lost in a daydream of Mary. How he missed her. He turned the bend only to catch up to the long line of boats ahead of him.
Looks like I don’t have to end my day just yet, after all.
Dean smiled, letting the boat drift to the side. Rather than waiting in the line of queuing boats, he’d wait it out by the tree-lined shore.

It was going to take a while, an hour or so from the looks of it, and today he didn’t mind waiting, not at all. He reached into his blue Igloo cooler and pulled out a Spam sandwich and a Diet Coke. He sure didn’t drink like he used too. That was probably a good thing, he thought. Basking in the cooling evening breeze, he gazed at the rippling water not really seeing it; instead, he found himself thinking about the first time they had taken their son, Kyle, fishing.

A commotion at the launching area disrupted him from his pleasant daydream, and he reluctantly came back to reality, such as it was.
Screaming?
It sounded like someone was in a heap of trouble. More screaming. Crazy—hysterical screaming. Dean reluctantly pointed the Glastron towards the cove, thinking he should probably check out the situation.

As he entered the cove’s “No Wake Zone,” he noticed what looked to be mass confusion at the boat launching area. A gunshot rattled through the air, and his Coke can went flying over the side of the boat. “Hell’s bells!”
Did someone just shoot at me?
Something was going on. More gunshots peppered the early evening, and he found himself automatically ducking in self-defense mode.

With one hand on the wheel, he searched his pack and grabbed the binoculars. Peering through the Bushnells, he was surprised to see people running around all helter-skelter like. Then he saw a lot of red. Blood-red! More screaming. It was like a
Friday the 13th
movie, and he most certainly didn’t want to play the part of a disposable extra.

Actually, the whole scene reminded him of the Rite Aid incident a few days ago.
Not here!
He figured he was safe here on the lake, away from the city. The flu outbreak had escalated into what the CDC called a full-fledged epidemic, but Dean figured he could ride out the flu-panic if he stayed away from the cities. He probably should have waited until next week to take the boat out, but the boat was ready NOW. What if next week never came?

More gunshots riddled the area.
Dad-blast-it
!
Why today, of all days?
He ducked again, unable to spot the shooter. But from what he’d seen, there sure looked to be an awful lot of bodies on the ground. Or had they just dropped to the ground to take cover?
So many mass shootings. What’s this world coming to?

Feeling like a target, he turned the boat around and then hunched down in the seat and spied the scene from a distance, but the setting sun had dipped behind the Vaca Mountains, distorting his view to a glaring golden-haze. Then he caught a glimpse of something.
No, that’s not possible.
He hastily wiped the binocular’s lenses and tried again. He zoomed in as best he could and saw several people on the paved launching area, kneeling over on the pavement. A man appeared to be . . .
No, that can’t be.
Dean tried refocusing the lenses, but it was of no use. He waited.
Better safe than sorry
, hearing the voice of his dear ole granddaddy warning him.

Dean remained huddled in the boat and convinced himself that he couldn’t have possibly seen what he thought he’d just seen. It had been an illusion of sorts, the sun playing tricks on the lenses and his eyes. That was it of course. He tapped his chest lightly, relieved that he wasn’t the hysterical type.
Yep
, it was someone administering CPR.
That’s all it was.
Not the other thing his brain had seen: something disturbing. Of course,
that
would have been impossible.

Dean waited about twenty more minutes, waiting for the sirens, but there were none. He glanced at his watch again. There hadn’t been any more gunshots or screaming for the last fifteen minutes. Someone must have subdued the shooter, he thought.
That’s what I would’ve done.
He tried the binoculars again, but the sunlight was almost gone, and all he managed to get was a shadowy view of people walking about aimlessly, more like jerking about than walking. Despite all the people milling about, the entire launch area was inordinately quiet. Calm.

He pulled the boat back around and headed for the dock again. It would be dark soon. A smart man would get his boat loaded on the trailer and get the hell out of here before it was completely dark. He saw someone standing at the end of the dock, waving him in, giving him the “all clear.” Dean was relieved.

As his boat drifted closer, Dean shouted, “Did they catch the shooter?” It was almost too dark now, and Dean worried about his trip home; it would be a long trip back in the dark on the windy, narrow, country roads. The young man, a teenager, continued to wait for him at the end of the dock.

It was too dark for his old eyes. “Could use a hand here,” Dean said somewhat perturbed, wondering why the teen just seemed to be staring at him and not bothering to lend a helping hand.

The teen cocked his head to the side in what looked to be a very uncomfortable position and continued to stand at the edge of the dock. Suddenly the teen started growling, of all things and began twitching about like he was smack dab in the middle of a swarm of hungry mosquitos. A loud splash followed, and the teen floundered about in the shallow water.

Guess that’s one way to get rid of those pesky bloodsuckers.
If there was one thing Dean hated, it was mosquitos. Dean busied himself, trying to secure the boat, not worried about the teen; after all, the water was shallow by the dock, maybe three to four feet at most. While the teen thrashed in the water in a bout of tomfoolery, Dean attempted to secure the boat to the dock and eyed a group of people scuttling their way down the dock towards him, probably the teen’s friends.
Time to get outta of Dodge.
These kids look like they’re up to no good.

Dean grabbed his cooler, and when he turned to step onto the dock, suddenly
they
were all there, at the end of the dock staring down at Dean.
Something’s not right here.
The teen still thrashed about in the water like a fish that refused to be tonight’s dinner. Dean finally found his flashlight and aimed it at the dock. There must have been two dozen of
them
gawpin’ at him: growling, moaning, jerking about with blood-smeared faces like the girl in Rite Aid parking lot.

That was it—
they
all looked like
they
had gone rabid! That’s when Dean quickly started up the motor and raced his way to the middle of Lake Berryessa.

And Dean camped out on the
Twinkle Me Mary
for the next two days . . .