Only The Dead Don't Die (3 page)

Scarlett sulked the morning away and busied herself with chores, attempting to block out the night’s menagerie of macabre dreams, visions of shadowy figures and death and pain. Feeling the need to talk to someone, she found the phone just as she had left it: shattered on the hearth. She had almost convinced herself that the shattered phone had been part of last night's bizarre dreams.

Does it still work
? She played with the phone until the fragmented screen finally lit.
Yes!
But the contact icon didn’t respond, and the numeric keypad did not function at all. She tapped on the voicemail messages: no sound. She couldn’t even text.
Think I actually killed it
, and she repeatedly tapped the screen. On a whim, she tried the text messages. Yesterday she couldn’t bear to hear from Kevin; today, she’d talk to
anyone
.

First message: “R U OK?”
Right, I’m just a sparkling firefly you
,
you piece of shi
— Scarlett stopped herself, holding her breath as she reread the series of texts from Kevin. A sense of fear, dread, and panic pricked her pounding heart. She was unable to make sense of whatever it was that had Kevin behaving so strangely, almost irrational.

12:33 PM: Be there as soon as I can, pack a suitcase. Grab all the food and camping gear!

2:06 PM: Don’t go anywhere without me!

6:45 PM: It’s taking longer than I thought. The roads are blocked.

8:37 PM: Don’t leave the house!!!

10:02 PM: Things don’t look so good here

10:05 PM: Please forgive me

10:05 PM: Levi Stadium

10:06 PM: always loved u

10:06 PM: so softy

Is he trying to say he’s sorry
? Scarlett stared at his messages in disbelief as the cracked screen dimmed. Then as if the cell phone made one final attempt for its life, it flickered and went black. It was the scariest black she’d ever seen. Something very wrong must have happened to cause Kevin to send such cryptic, almost desperate texts.

Uh, is this some sort of a sick joke
? She almost hoped. Maybe one of his Facebook friends was messing with her. After Kevin had dumped her, she had heard a few stories about how his friends were saying she wasn’t good enough for him. Some of the things they had said were downright cruel. How could people be so mean? Didn’t they understand how heartbroken she was? At that point, she had decided to refrain from all social media including email, cell phone, Facebook, and Twitter. Well, for as long as she could stand it.

But what if something really
was
wrong? What if Kevin was in trouble and needed her help? In a moment of panic, Scarlett hastily opened the living room blinds; she needed the reassurance that the world was still out there, for a deja vu sensation almost convinced her that she had somehow become a victim of that eerie, inexplicable television series,
Lost
.
Wow, I’ve got the heebie-jeebies!

Across the street from her condo, the huge apartment complex usually buzzed with traffic and pedestrians. From her view, the streets were completely empty except for debris: a lot of debris.
It looked like “the morning after” one of those block parties we used to have when we were teenagers
. She stared out the window a bit puzzled. Papers drifted about in the breeze, and trash littered the sidewalks, lawns, and streets. Strangely, there were no cars. After staring out the window for several minutes, she was relieved to see a group of people, meander around the corner. They seemed to be hanging out on the street corner: loitering.
Guess that’s what teenagers do these days.
She closed the blinds, satisfied.

In dire need to talk to someone, she decided to have a chat with her neighbor, Miss Purlie. She could use Miss Purlie’s phone to call the cable company and maybe even call her sister. In an instant, she was out the front door. Once again, the courtyard gate was open. She realized that in her haste last night, she must have left it open. Scarlett ran over to the next row of condos.

Purlie or “Miss Purlie” (as she insisted) was a dear, southern, black woman who had emigrated from Louisiana to California during “The Second Great Migration” way back in the 1940s. Yes, she was “purty damn old” as Miss Purlie often muttered. Scarlett loved to listen to her stories about the good old days. The things that woman had endured, such a grueling lifestyle.
And I think I have it bad because I can’t watch TV or use my cell phone.
Funny thing, that despite all the modern technology, Miss Purlie still resorted to doing things the old-fashioned way. She didn’t believe in computers and cell phones and Twitter and YouTube and all those “modern-day distractions of the devil” as labeled by the southern woman. Why, Miss Purlie actually had a landline, absolutely astonishing.

Scarlett found herself rapping on the front door a bit too anxiously. “I’ll shoot first and ask questions later,” Miss Purlie hollered from inside.

“Miss Purlie, it’s me, Scarlett,” she almost cried. “I need to use your phone.”

“Lordy, Lordy, child, what the devil you doing out there,” Miss Purlie said with alarm as she tore open the front door. “Get on in, quick now—before one of ‘ems a hearin’ ya.”

Scarlett felt rather silly for panicking; unfortunately, the expression on Miss Purlie’s face did nothing to alleviate her apprehension: her eyes were as wide and round as bottle caps.

“Miss Purlie, everything all right?” The southern lady stood there as if in a daze, and then a whopping sneeze seemed to snap her out of it.

Instead of saying “Bless you,” all Scarlett could think to say was: “Uh, why do you have a
gun
?” Scarlett edged around towards the kitchen avoiding the barrel of the shotgun that wavered in the southern woman’s hand. “Miss Purlie?”

Suddenly Purlie was back, “Child, now why you didn’t go with all them others?” She rested the shotgun on the couch.

I think she’s losing it.
“What do you mean ‘all them others?’ ”

“The evacuation and soldiers . . . all them Army trucks, with them loud, godforsaken sirens, and, and guns. Reckon ‘twas the most guns I ever did see.” Purlie stood there and continued to mumble and tremble uncontrollably.

“You need to sit down Miss Purlie.” Scarlett led her to the antique rocking chair overlooking the courtyard. “Everything’s fine. Can I get you a glass of water?”

Purlie sat in the rocker as if in autopilot mode. The silence deafening the room practically begged Scarlett to go screaming out the front door. Finally, the familiar creak of the rocker replaced the silence as Purlie’s glossy-white, Maryjane shoes scuffed against the hardwood floor.

“Actually, I need to use your phone for a minute, if you don’t mind?” Miss Purlie didn’t say anything. She seemed to be lost in thought as she rocked in the old rocker, eyes vacant, far away. Miss Purlie’s odd behavior certainly was not relieving Scarlett’s building anxiety. At that point, Scarlett’s already frayed nerves unraveled a bit further as she attempted to convince both of them that everything was fine—“just fine and dandy” as Miss Purlie would have chanted on an ordinary day. And today definitely did not seem normal: not in the least.

“I’ll get you a nice, cold glass of water and you’ll feel better.” The domed ceiling light in the living room dimmed and flickered off. “Don’t worry, I’ll change the bulb for you,” Scarlett offered.

“By the way, how’s your grandson these days?” Still no response. “How is your dear Lionel?” Scarlett asked again while she flipped the kitchen light switch several times. “Did you forget to pay your electricity bill again?” Scarlett handed Purlie a glass of water.

Purlie finally reached for the glass, and Scarlett noticed the light had returned to her watery, bloodshot eyes. “Why, he shoulda been here by now.” Miss Purlie finally spoke. “He’s a comin’ to take me away from this madness. Said, he’d be here soon. Said, don’t answer the door or those soldiers might take me away.” She seemed to be rambling to herself more than talking to Scarlett.

Scarlett knelt beside the rocker and asked slowly, “When was that? Miss Purlie, is Lionel visiting you today?”
I should probably call 911—what if she had a stroke?

“Lionel rang me up Wens-dee morning, said—no Bible Study today Granny. Said, pack yo bags Granny, I’m fixin’ to take you someplace safe. Only he done never showed up.” Her wrinkled upper lip pursed and quivered, and she let out another sneeze.

Scarlett handed her a box of tissues and noticed the vintage suitcase by the couch. Actually, it was more like a trunk, a steamer trunk, made of leather. Scarlett couldn’t help but wonder how much Purlie could get for it on eBay. She could buy herself a brand new set of designer luggage. Of course, Mrs. Purlie would probably never part with the old relic.

“It’s too late—it’s too late—” Mrs. Purlie ranted. “Only the
dead
don’t die. . .”

Scarlett tried to think of something to say to ease the uncomfortable tension. Then Purlie let out a moan, “Oh, I’m a comin’ Floyd! Gimme a minute, cain’t you see we got company right now?”

Uh, Floyd had been dead for some time.
Scarlett ran for the phone.
Time to call 911
. The landline phone was dead. She jiggled the receiver repeatedly and still no dial tone. Her frantic fingers traced the telephone’s cord until she found it plugged securely into the wall’s phone jack; nothing appeared to be wrong with the phone. Had Purlie forgotten to pay the phone bill too?

Miss Purlie continued to ramble in a trance-like state, shouting to Floyd as if he was in the next room. Scarlett swore she heard a rattling noise, the sound of a door handle jiggling—coming from the bedroom. With abrupt force, Purlie lurched out of the rocker, letting it crash into the living room wall leaving an indention in the paint. Then Purlie snatched the shotgun and dashed to the bedroom, slamming the door behind her without saying a single word.

Scarlett stood there, unable to take her eyes off the empty rocker banging against the wall. She absolutely could not handle it a moment longer. Scarlett ran outside mumbling, “What’s going on around here?”

She hated to abandon Purlie like that, yet what else could she do for her? Scarlett decided to go door to door until she found someone to call 911. Three doors down, the blast of a shotgun stopped her dead in her tracks. “Dear God, Miss Purlie!”
Don’t tell me
.
No—she didn’t?

Scarlett ran back to Purlie’s home; she stood outside the door for a moment, afraid to go inside, afraid of what she might find. With a pounding heart, she finally brushed aside her fear and opened the front door.

“Miss Purlie?” she asked in a thin, whispery voice.

Scarlett didn’t find her in the living room or the kitchen or the bathroom. She poked her head into the bedroom, “Miss Purlie, you in there?”

There on the blood-splattered bed, face down in a pool of blood was Miss Purlie—or what was left of her. She’d somehow managed to blow off a chunk of her head. Scarlett only recognized the southern lady by the blue-floral, Sunday dress and glossy-white, Maryjane shoes she still wore. Scarlett scrambled to the bathroom and hugged the toilet. After several agonizing minutes of relinquishing her breakfast, she sat paralyzed on the closed toilet lid until she gathered the courage to go back out there. And then, Scarlett ran home.

After Miss Purlie’s shocking suicide, all Scarlett had managed to do was sit on the sofa and stare blankly at the pale-pink living room walls in a near state of shock. She ignored her shouting thoughts that demanded her to pull herself together.

Although still dazed, she finally forced herself off the sofa. She had to face the fact that dear Miss Purlie was indeed dead, and she wasn’t resolving anything by flipping out or by simply ignoring it.
Time to go to the Police Station and report Miss Purlie’s death
. Besides, half the day was gone, and she still needed to call the cable company and SMUD, for the power was out at her place too.
Wow, when things start going wrong, they
really
go wrong.
She was certainly ready for her luck to change.

Scarlett splashed her face with cold water. “You look absolutely terrible,” the mirror blared rudely, so she applied a light coat of makeup, enough to make her
not
look like a corpse. She winced,
wrong choice of words.
On impulse, she applied a thick layer of ruby-red lipstick. What if she ran into Kevin? He always hated it when she didn’t wear lipstick.

She promised herself that once she had reported Miss Purlie’s death, it would be easier to focus on her
new
life: a life without Kevin. School was starting soon, and there’d be plenty of conferences and meetings to attend and plenty of distractions to keep her occupied.
I should pay a visit to the school, check-in with my new principal, Mr. Antonio Perez.

After the Police Station
(maybe they can tell me why the power’s out),
she decided to hit Best Buy
. What a great excuse to get that new iPhone . . . That’s it. I have a plan.
“I’ll feel much better after a chat with Cyndi,” she sighed.

Her dedicated sister had always been her rock and always knew the right things to say when Scarlett was feeling down. Cyndi, nine years older, had practically raised her after both of their parents had perished in a car accident. Aunt Marge had taken care of the two sisters until Cyndi had secured her first job upon graduating from college; then, Cyndi had put Scarlett through college.
Think I’ll give Cyndi a visit.
She should drive to Pinole tomorrow and take her sister to lunch before her classes started next week.

With renewed conviction, Scarlett scrambled to the garage and absentmindedly tapped the garage door button. Nothing happened. “Duh, power’s out,” she mocked, flicking the side of her head with her fingers.
Now that’s just flippin’ great!
She had no idea how to open the garage door. Of course, there’s a way to open the door manually in the event of a power outage; Kevin had opened the door before, but she hadn’t paid any attention.

She ran back into the dark garage with a flashlight and examined the garage door contraption. “How the . . . what’s this?” She tugged on the cord. “Viola.” Light flooded into the garage as she manually opened the door. She did it, and she didn’t even have to call Kevin and ask for help.
There I go again. Forget him, besides I don’t have a phone; therefore, I can’t call him—you dingbat.

Determined to get back to the real world, to fight back the dark cloud of depression that had settled in her head like a dreary, early morning fog, she sped off in her cute, red KIA Forte Koup, a car a teacher’s salary could afford. Turning out of the complex, she instantly felt a renewed zest for life, an empowerment of sorts—the confidence and courage to live her life without a man.

“No traffic, not a single car,” she muttered, an uneasiness began to creep in again until she turned on Washington Boulevard, a main thoroughfare.
That’s more like it.
Scarlett never thought she’d be so happy to see traffic. Both directions of the intersection were stuck in a massive quagmire as the traffic signal ahead flashed red, reminding her that the power was out; she automatically took her foot off the gas, in no hurry to become part of the gridlock. When she finally did catch up to the traffic jam, she preoccupied herself with positive thoughts: her new students and fellow teachers, the first week’s lessons and . . . did she dare say it?
A life without Kevin. Stop thinking about him!

She sipped at the water bottle and noticed the traffic hadn’t moved. Usually, cars or rather their impatient drivers inched forward every few seconds or so. And, even stranger, a glance in the review mirror revealed no vehicles had pulled up behind her. She loathed those annoying tailgaters that bullied her to inch forward as close to the bumper in front of her allowed, leaving only inches between bumpers.

No longer self-absorbed with her own selfish thoughts, she examined the intersection and noticed that several vehicles ahead of her weren’t facing the right direction. “Now what?” she muttered under her breath. Vehicles were facing all sorts of directions. Upon closer inspection, the scene appeared rather odd, for many of the vehicles’ doors were open. That’s when she noticed that all the cars appeared to be driverless. She didn’t see a single person. She assumed everyone was checking out the scene of the accident.
Hmm, did the accident just happen?
She hadn’t heard any sirens yet.

Should she back up and try a different route? Curiosity won, she stepped out of the car, hesitated a moment, then walked towards the intersection, not so much to find the actual accident, but to see where everyone had gone.

Besides the smell of smoke, a putrid odor lingered in the hot afternoon air, strong enough to make her gag as she wrinkled her nose in disgust. “Jeez Louise,” She pulled her blouse over her nose and continued walking between the driverless vehicles.

She paused a few seconds before passing a Toyota Camry, all four doors and the hood and trunk were open.
She stepped over a purse and started to retrieve it when she noticed several suitcases on the pavement ahead. All kinds of items were scattered about the street. She saw a laptop, a cell phone, a doll, and several plastic bags of groceries. It was like the drivers decided to have some sort of impromptu yard sale in the middle of the flippin’ street.
This is really strange.

Finally, she spotted two people a few cars ahead, huddled down with their backs towards her. She was so excited that she burst out, “So what’s going on? Did anyone call 911 yet?” The two people ignored her and appeared to be administering CPR to a person sprawled out on the street. Scarlett ran to them as fast as she could, “Anyone call 911?” she panted.

It had taken several seconds before the man acknowledged her. He jerked his head around and glared at her. His neck was hunched over in an awkward position as if he were trying to cradle one of those old-fashioned landline telephone receivers (like Miss Purlie’s) between his neck and shoulder. Scarlett hurried over to him and noticed that the front of his striped blue and green shirt was soaked with blood.

“Dear God!” He must have been in the accident.
What should I do?
Frantically, she hurried to him, stepping over the discarded items in the street. The man seemed to want her help desperately as he somewhat drunkard-ly stumbled towards her. Then he stopped for a moment and raised his hands in the air as if he might be letting out a huge yawn, but instead of the expected stretching-yawning sound one usually makes, he let out a hellish, low-gurgling sound—the kind of sound that ran chills down her spine.

And she froze: not because of that bloodcurdling sound, and not because of the bloody mess that stained his clothes, and not because she realized that he only had one arm (his other arm appeared to have been ripped off at the elbow by something sharp and jagged). She froze, because as he hobbled closer, she saw that the left side of his face was—gone. Flaps of flesh hung loosely and waggled as he stumbled towards her. She could actually see the skeletal bones of his jaw and teeth behind the torn gaps of his flesh.

The grotesque man continued to stagger closer, tripping over the opened suitcase that stood between them. Scarlett knew she needed to call the paramedics, yet all she wanted to do was scream. When the disfigured man reached out his trembling hand for help, Scarlett automatically responded by reaching her hand out to him. Abruptly, out of the blue, he plunged at her, headfirst. Pure primordial instinct kicked in, and Scarlett managed to jump sideways, avoiding the impact.

“Glrrrrrr . . .” The injured man growled. She carefully avoided eye contact with the hideously disfigured man while she frantically sought out protection and was relieved to see an SUV a few feet away: door open. In a flash, she jumped into the SUV and slammed the door.
Uh, so now what?

Scarlett struggled with her conscience. Apparently, the man was in desperate need of help.
Why am I so petrified?
She stared in disbelief as the grotesque man continued to stumble his way towards her. A jolt of fear went down her spine when he began pounding on the partially opened passenger’s side window with his bloody stump of an arm, leaving smears of reddish-brown streaks across the glass.

“Are you flippin’ kidding me?” The man began a rhythmic pounding on the window, all the while groaning the same eerie growling sound she had heard the other night when checking the mail. Scarlett looked for the key to the SUV, but then realized it was pointless because the SUV was sandwiched between other vehicles. The pounding increased in frequency, and she glanced at the man in bewilderment only to see another person beating on the window in the same slow, rhythmic motion. Now there was a woman, who didn’t look to be in much better shape than the man, pounding at the window too.

Instinctively, Scarlett tapped her chest in an attempt to calm her racing heart. She scooted over to the driver’s side and realized to her horror that the window was down, completely. Strangely, the two injured people didn’t seem to notice that the other window was down; they seemed too obsessed with bashing in the window.

She searched again for the key when she noticed the pounding rhythm had quickened. “Oh, shit!” she screamed in utter disbelief. Now there were three of them beating at the window. In a few seconds, the window would certainly shatter. What would she do then? She kept trying to convince herself that they just wanted help; after all, they were just people. Hurt people, but
people
nonetheless.

A crackling sound warned her a second before the tempered glass window shattered into a thousand crystal-like shards and glittered into the SUV, tinkling onto the white leather upholstery and spilling onto the floorboard in all its glittery glory.

Scarlett tried to open the driver’s side door. “Are you flippin’ kidding me?” The door was jammed from the truck it had previously crashed into. She scrambled into the backseat just as three pairs of bloodstained hands (minus one) clawed at her. She managed to kick open the door as a gnarled hand grabbed a handful of her hair, yanking her head back with incredible strength. At that point, running on pure adrenaline, Scarlett reclaimed her hair by yanking back harder and jumped out of the SUV. She stared in utter horror as one of the injured men actually lunged from the front seat to the backseat with surprising (awkward) agility for someone so injured. With only inches from the maniacal man’s grasp, she slammed the door and winced upon hearing the unmistakable sickening sound of bones crunching. She worried if that had been the man with only one hand, because if so—now he didn’t have any hands.

Scarlett ran like some crazed quarterback that had gotten stuck with the football and was about to be tackled to death. She didn’t stop running until she found her car, pausing only long enough to see that the three severely injured people remained in the SUV as if trapped.

“That was absolutely insane,” she screeched. Now Scarlett could no longer doubt the dreadful suspicion that had been haunting her the past few days.
What’s happening here in Roseville?

When she finally turned onto Junction Boulevard, the entire block of the Police Station was completely barricaded with what appeared to be miniature stations.
Are those guard posts?
“What’s going on?” she muttered while frantically searching for someone, anyone. Not a single person was in sight.
Is that a, a machine gun
? Each of the guard posts had mounted machine guns pointing towards the street, pointing towards her. She let out a gasp. The street was stained the color of deep crimson.
Are those piles of—of—of bones?

She slammed the car into reverse and turned down the very next unblocked street she could find and kept driving aimlessly around until she reached an upscale neighborhood. Everything suddenly appeared normal. She resisted the urge to run up to the front door of one of the lovely homes in need to see a friendly—normal person.

Irrationally, Scarlett imagined if she knocked on the front door of one of the fancy homes, she’d be invited in for tea and crumpets. She turned onto another street. It appeared normal as well.
Great, I’m so lost
. She decided to drive around until she found a familiar main street. “Damn, Kevin was right. I should’ve bought a GPS.”

She continued driving around the subdivision while racking her brain of the possibilities. Something horrific had happened. But what? A chemical spill?
Is that what this is all about?
Maybe these injured people were the hapless victims of a chemical spill? They just needed help. She rationalized a variety of scenarios until her brain hurt.