The Seventh Day (9 page)

My feet dig in as I push hard, sprinting to
the open door and his reaching hand. When I leap in, he floors it, closing the
door with the force of the moving vehicle.

We both sit, breathing heavily and staring
at the field of moving people in our way. We ignore them bouncing off the hood
or sliding off the doors as we hurry past.

He drives to the gas station, parking next
to a pump and looking around as he turns the truck off. There’s sweat on his
brow. I can see it in the dark.

“Here, take my gun and hold it on that
door. If you see me running, just shoot whatever’s behind me.” He jumps out and
runs inside. He doesn't wait for me to argue that the person might not be
infected and I might not be able to see that.

My heart is still racing and my mouth is dry
since he decided to kill/knockout the guy at the warehouse, so adding the
prospect of me murdering people doesn't make it better. But when he runs back
out of the gas station with four gas cans, I’m grateful to see his old face is
alone. I lower my shaking hands when nothing and no one follows him out.

“Lucky we didn't get enough food; we have
room for gas now.” He pumps gas into the truck and fills the cans in the back
of the truck too. He climbs in, giving me a weird look. “Feels funny not
paying.”

I don't comment. Funny isn’t a word I would
use to describe a single moment of this trip.
Of this life.

We drive across the railroad tracks, closer
to downtown. He pulls over before we get too close and turns the truck off. We
sit in silence, not awkward but tense silence.
The kind where
you can feel the friction sparkling on your skin.
I shiver, scanning the
area for movement but there is none. No one is near us, or if they are, they’re
hiding. Biters don't hide.

He points. “One block that way is the
pharmacy I go to. It’s as close as I want to get to downtown.”

I nod, not sure what I’m agreeing to just
yet.

“You are gonna tiptoe along the sidewalk.
It’s one block. Just in case I can’t get in from the back. I’ll distract them
in the back so you can sneak in the front if that's the case.”

My jaw drops, that's pretty much my version
of a response. He rolls his eyes. “You run faster than I do, kid, and you see
better. And I might have a dizzy spell so this is the plan. You run to the
pharmacy, Drakes—you now it?”

I nod again, even less certain of what I’m
agreeing to.

“Well good, you run to Drakes and I will be
there to open the front door for you if I can get in the back. If not, you
smash and grab.”

My eyes narrow.
“Why do I get the distinct impression I am bait?”

“You are if I need you to run to draw them
away from me once we’re inside, or if they follow me in the back. If the
streets are full of them, you run as hard as you can. They won’t catch you. I
know that. So if the streets full, you run and make noise and draw them away.
If there are none I’ll meet you at the door. This is my version of a running
backup plan.” He says it so matter-of-factly I can hardly stand it. “You are
bait and you need to be quick about it if things go bad. We can’t live without
some antibiotics. That's simple science.”

My response is a gulp but my hand slips to
the handle. He’s right on all accounts. I can run faster, hide easier, see
better, avoid dizzy spells, and we will die without the medicine. Simple cuts
and wounds could be deadly without meds. I shiver again as I open the door and
step out into the frosty dawn that is approaching. The sun is rising, bringing
us a whole new day of hell on earth.

Gripping my jacket to me tightly, I cross
in front of the truck as he starts the huge vehicle back up and slowly drives
by me, leaving me to make the block.

The memory of my coach teaching us to
tiptoe run, landing on the soft part of the foot, fills my head. Using that
technique I move silently through the empty streets. There isn’t a sound,
beyond the distant hum of the engine, my heartbeat, and the creeping of the
morning fog in the cool breeze.

On the crest of the small hill I pause,
listening for them.

Nothing moves. Even the truck is gone or
just silent. I slip past a couple rundown houses and a place that used to be a
bakery once upon a time and tiptoe down the hill to the street where the old
pharmacy is.

There is something in the cool wind,
loneliness I suppose. A solitary piece of paper blows past me, scuttling along
the road and startling me. I watch it drag and flip along the lonely pavement,
wondering if this is what it feels like to witness tumbleweed in an old western
movie.

I pause at the bottom of the hill. I’m at a
crossroads, with the pharmacy across from me on the old frontage street that
used to be busy, again once upon a time. Now this is the dingy side of town
where no one really comes—except the old timers like Mr. Milson who have
been using this pharmacy since Jesus was in short
pants
,
as my dad always says.

My eyes catch movement in the dark shadows
along the sidewalk next to the pharmacy. Slowly, I step into the shadow of the
old bakery and press my body to the gray siding that used to be white.

The shadow of the person walking stays straight.
It doesn't jerk or twitch. It doesn't pause, listening for me. Surprisingly, it
walks casually. I narrow my gaze, attempting to see clearly but the dim morning
light isn’t enough to let me see. When he comes to the corner I finally
breathe, sighing.

Mr. Milson stands at the edge of the road,
looking both ways as if he’s perplexed about where I am. When I step from the
shadows he smiles. He looks relieved but it doesn't last long. His chubby hand
lifts, pausing me from walking forward.

He steps back into a shadow, waiting for whatever
it is to be gone. I follow his lead, not sure what he sees.

The sound hits my senses first, making me
tense everywhere.

It gets louder as it gets closer. I
recognize it as a vehicle when it’s nearly on top of us, but not a vehicle I’ve
ever heard before.

The building I’m leaning against rumbles as
the vehicle draws nearer. It shakes so hard I too shudder along with it. My
teeth are chattering along with the rest of me. The noise is so
loud,
I swear it’s a jet and not a vehicle.

My breath is lodged in my chest, remaining
the only unmoving part of me. I squeeze my eyes shut as it’s on top of us and
through my lashes I see a tank. I grip tighter to the wall, squeezing my eyes
shut. Through the strands of eyelashes dancing in the wind I see a herd of biters
chasing a tank. I wait, as if I am hiding from the bulls in Pamplona. Bulls
might have been less surprising to see than a tank.

Mr. Milson too remains hidden as the rigid
bodies of the undead chase the tank through the hollowed streets of Laurel. A
sight I never imagined I would see. His head peeks from behind the shadows,
nodding at me after a moment of no one passing by us, not even a straggler.

I let the air out of my lungs and run
across the road, braving the exposure of the street and not looking to see if I
am in danger.

I slam into the wall next to him, again
gripping to the side of a building.

“They’re gone.” He steps away from the
shadow, leaving me there. I pry my shaking hands from the building and follow
him to the front door of the old pharmacy.

“The back door was sealed up tight.” He
looks around constantly, lifting a tire iron from his side and breaking the
door open with surprisingly little noise. He gives me a look, nodding at the
open door once he’s got it completely open. I slink to his side as he steps
into the darkness, not making a sound. I follow him, hearing only the sound of
my heart beating in my ears. He closes the door when I’m inside, blocking it
off with a row of carts.

The noise echoes off the walls, reminding
me that we are not alone. “Wonder who was driving the tank?”

He nods, peering out into the streets. “I
was hopeful it’s military but one tank doesn't seem right. And why lead the
sick away? Why not kill them? That just seems weird.”

My insides clench. “Maybe they have a cure.”

His solemn face lifts to meet mine.
“Maybe.” He placates me like I am a small child in need of soothing. “I’ll get
the meds. You find all the food you can. Meal replacements and candy bars and
energy bars. Get painkillers and muscle relaxants, and all the things you girls
need for your monthly situation.” His cheeks brighten. “Get some of everything.”

I nod, really not wanting to talk about the
monthly situation. He stalks off, ending the conversation there thankfully, so
I grab a cart and wheel it around. The selection in the old pharmacy isn’t
great but there are more bars than I expected to find. I grab boxes of every
kind of medicine. I have three carts full with everything I could find when
he’s done. He waves me to the back of the store. When I get back behind the
counter I see the open door to the truck. I pause, not liking the door being
open. He smiles when he sees my face. “I went out already.”

Taking his word for it, I follow him out
and load the contents into the truck. Daylight is upon us. I don't like taking
things from the stores in town, even if no one is here with us. I think the
worst part is that it’s broad daylight and the whole place feels barren.

I can’t help but wonder what will happen to
this town if we don't walk around in it. It will surely become a ghost town.
The only difference between it and real ghost towns is that the ghosts here
will eat you.

“So my house and then your house, and then
we’re on our way back up the hill.” I nod at his softly spoken sentence. “We’ve
been awfully lucky so far. Hope that continues.”

I don't nod at that one. I don't want to
jinx us. He shouldn't have even said the damned sentence if you ask me. No one
says how lucky
they
've been mid-mission.

When we start the truck I expect them to
come in hordes, droves of biters but not one makes its way to us. In fact, even
the streets are empty as he drives up into the suburbs on the hillside, the
opposite side of town from my house. But when we get into the neighborhoods we
see several of them—biters. They look cold, no frozen. They look like the
cold is killing them, and even as they jerk their heads I notice it’s slower
than before. It takes them longer to reanimate.

We cruise up the small hill to the street
he lives on. I remember coming once to grab their snowmobile with my dad. They
had asked us to bring it up because their truck was full.

He slows down, making it easier for me to
see them—really see them. A man standing in a yard, where frost-like snow
coats the grass, lifts his head. His eyes narrow as his head jerks to the right
hard, three times. He swings into motion, his mouth moving and his hands
grabbing, regardless of the fact we are moving too fast for him to catch us.

“They’re getting slow from the cold. Just
like I said they would.”

I almost sigh and beg him to stop saying
things that sound cocky—that's how the people who are alive in the middle
of the movie always die. And we aren’t even close to the middle yet. The middle
of the movie would mean we knew who the bad guy was. So far that could be
anyone.

Even our own planet.
Mother Nature probably does hate us, so this entire thing might be
some seriously vindictive vengeance on her part.

But if it’s not her, there’s always
science. Scientists are always making mistakes and then overconfidently assuming
they can control things they can’t.

And then there is the world war that never
seems to end. Terrorists hate us, all of us.

The list is essentially endless and filled
with speculative assassins trying to end the world we live in.

Glancing around the quiet suburb I have to
admit they have succeeded. Doors are left open to houses with no signs of
activity. Looters or biters have clearly been through the area. Vehicles are
parked in bizarre places with doors open and glass smashed. Bloodstains mar siding
on houses and windows. Garbage drifts across pristine grass, no doubt mowed
recently in preparation for winter. My dad always loves the last mow of the
year. He trims the grass only slightly, leaving it a bit longer for the winter.

Seeing the perfect lawns makes me miss him
even more.

Mr. Milson slows the truck down considerably,
letting the biter get closer. My insides twist and turn, and I refuse to look
anywhere but where bloodshot eyes are.

“Nope, definitely no one there,” he
mutters, sighing in obvious disappointment.

I trust his judgment, refusing to part my
gaze from the thing that was once a man in a suit. He swings the truck around,
running down the biter closest to us. The truck bounces as the huge tires find
their way over the remains of the man. I gag under my breath, not wanting Mr.
Milson to know I disapprove of his cavalier opinion of the biters. He ends
lives too easily. I fully believe the man in the warehouse is dead on the cold
concrete, where we left him to die alone in the dark. Seeing Mr. Milson this
way makes me wonder what else he is cavalier about. It also makes me think we
can’t stay with the Milsons. I don't even want to ride back to the mountain
with him. My safety feels gone, sacrificed in the dark the way that man’s life
was.