Z Children (Book 1): Awakening (22 page)

I don’t
understand!
I
almost opened my mouth, almost yelled at the sky, demanding answers from a God
I wasn’t sure existed… not if He’d let children turn into devils and good men
die without ever living. Tears poured down my face, wetting the collar of my
shirt. It felt like I cried for hours.

The low hum of
an engine snapped me out of self-pity. I peered around the corner, seeing a
Volvo station wagon pull up next to pump 2. There were four people in it… two
of them were kids. Did they know what was happening? Were they already on the
run?

The woman in the
driver’s seat opened her door and I saw splashes of vomit hit the dark asphalt;
the older man in the passenger’s seat patted her back comfortingly. I wondered
if they were father and daughter… and that thought made me realize that I would
never see my own dad gray-haired. Fresh tears gathered in my eyes. I blinked
several times, trying to clear my sight.

They were both
out of the car now- the man and woman.

“I’ll see if
there’s an attendant.”

“I can go.”

“You can hardly
walk right now, Dad.”

“Hey, I got one
good leg.”

My chest
tightened as the woman started walking towards the convenience store. But, like
a coward, I didn’t step out of the shadows to warn her. She was going to see
Dad, see the remains of him. Would he be ‘awake’… like Clary’s mother in
Murphy’s and Grandma? Would he become one of
them
?

No. No. No.

Dad was dead.
And he’d stay dead. He wasn’t going to become one of those freaking things. I just
wanted to get away from here, get the hell away from here.

I made my legs
work, broke into a sprint. But I froze after only a few steps. Dad’s car was
parked behind the gas station. He always left the flathead screwdriver on top
of the rear wheel. I didn’t have my driver’s license. I hadn’t even had a
single driving lesson yet, but I’d watched Dad drive often enough. Even if I
crashed and died, it would beat the hell out of running from memories.

“Thanks, Daddy.”
I murmured, finding the screwdriver easily. Once sitting in the car, I locked
the doors and nearly let myself escape into sadness again. Shouts from the
front of the station kept me from wallowing. I heard the screech of tires and I
closed my eyes, hoping that the woman and her family would be okay. I hadn’t
been brave; I should have told her what she’d find behind the store door.

I inserted the
screwdriver into the ignition key slot and turned it towards the gauges. The
old wagon sputtered to life and I shifted the car into drive. Depressing the
gas pedal, I lurched forward violently. “Shit!”  I slammed down on the
brake with unnecessary force and my chest rammed into the steering wheel.
“Ugh.” I groaned, leaning against the holey, dark cloth of the seat and rubbing
my sternum. Another bruise. My own stupid fault. Buckling this time, I lifted
my foot off the brake and pressed gently on the gas.

The Toyota eased
forward at a turtle’s pace, not because the car couldn’t go faster, but because
I was afraid of hitting something and then being left to the mercy of those
things. It was hard holding back the tears. I had lost everything. Mom,
Grandma, and now Dad. I was alone.
I’m only 12!
I cried out in my head.
I’m
not old enough!
Then the other half of my brain kicked in. The adult half.
The half that had to take over when Mom left and Grandma lost it.

Grow up girl!
You’re alive and kicking. Better to be young and alive than old and a walking
corpse!
I hated my brain. But it was right. I’d been acting the adult for too long to
resort to being a child again. Especially with the stakes so high.

I sat straighter
in the worn-out seat of the death trap and picked up the pace a little. Home
was just a few miles away. I was going to be fine.

Still… if I was
just a little older, Dad could have taught me to drive. We could have practiced
in the school bus lot before band practice. I could hear his voice in my head,
telling me to calm down, that driving was a piece of cake, and I didn’t need to
be nervous. He’d call me Baby Bird.

He’d call me
Baby Bird.

Crying again and
my eyesight was, once again, blurry- obscured by a haze much like the film on
the monster children’s eyes.

I was at the
front of the building now, the daycare in sight.

“Holy crap on a
cracker!”

The road was
flooded with small children. The Volvo was moving slowly, trying to avoid the
small bodies. In the daycare parking lot, an auburn-haired woman in a green
dress was circling, her vacant expression focused on nothing. Black blood oozed
from a head wound.

I was still
moving forward, approaching the road.

The Volvo was
speeding now, having cleared the monster kids.

I took a right,
pointing the hood of the Toyota towards home. Maybe I could stay there, keep
safe in the basement. If not? I had no freaking idea.

I kept my eyes
firmly ahead, not wanting to see the macabre scenes unfolding around me.

I could hear the
occasional scream of a new victim and see movement out of the corners of my
eye, but as of yet, none of the monsters seemed to care about the slow-moving
car. Monsters. There really were monsters and I was on my own. If I ever got
the chance to be safe again, live in a house with a bedroom- a bedroom that had
a closet- I knew I’d want a light on every night, now that I knew what could be
lurking between hanging dresses and winter coats.

The trip took
forever. I’d been driving slow, slow like pouring cold honey out of a jar, but
I was finally pulling into my driveway. The broken concrete crunched under the
worn tires of the Toyota. It sounded good to my ears, like it had so many times
before; it meant I was home. Just a few more feet. I pushed on the brake pedal
and gasped as it sank toward the floor.

“Pump the
brakes! Pump the brakes!” I shouted out loud, as if my body would respond
better to an audible command.

Dad had never
fixed the damn brakes and now I was going to run into the falling-down shack of
a carport! I pumped the brakes again. Once, twice, a third time. Finally,
pressure built and I felt a firmness in the pedal. I pushed down hard with both
feet, one atop the other. The old junker jerked to a stop and the engine
sputtered as I rotated the screwdriver towards me to kill the engine.

“Stupid, stupid
car. Stupid Dad not fixing the car. Stupid Mom taking the good car when she
abandoned us. Stupid!” I could tell my voice was on the edge of hysteria as I
murmured how stupid the entire world was. I didn’t want to move. So I sat in
the darkness of the carport, looking at the three-foot retaining wall that
supported the roof above. It was only a few inches away from the Toyota’s front
bumper. “Stupid carport.” I leaned against the steering wheel, my forehead
sweaty against the back of my hands.

After a few
minutes, I began to relax and realize that I had made it; I’d made it home.

Craning my neck
and resting an ear against the window pane, I listened intently but couldn’t
hear anything. Not a peep. Not a sound. Quiet. Totally quiet. Could it be over?
Did something happen to make it stop?

The adult in me
came back full force. No. It wasn’t over. It was just beginning. Everyone was
dead and the neighborhood kids did it! They’d tired of skipping rope and
blowing bubbles, and they’d just decided to kill everyone.

Freakish little
monsters running around and killing innocent people like… Dad. I felt the anger
rise in me. Frustration and anger. Anger over mom leaving. Anger over losing
Grandma. But mostly anger for having my childhood ripped away.

That hadn’t
happened just today though; that had been happening for years. My childhood
being taken away, piece by piece, until I was a half-formed puzzle not worth
keeping any longer.

“Screw this
shit,” I yelled, swung the door wide open, and stepped out of the car. “If
those little monsters want me, they are going to have to fight for their
lunch!”

I looked around
the dilapidated carport for a weapon, but most of the old rusty tools Dad had
hung on the metal support legs were just too big for me to use.

Finally, my eyes
came to rest on something I could handle. It was half-buried under old shingles
piled next to the house’s foundation, only a few feet away from the carport.
Grandpa’s old machete, the one he’d used to split firewood with. Dad had taken
it when Grandpa died, saying he was going to get a wood stove installed to
supplement the heating bill. Like everything else Dad dreamed about, he hadn’t
followed through.

I felt the tears
trying to make another appearance, but my brain pushed them aside. I didn’t
have time to succumb. Walking to the shingles, I pulled the machete out. Its
length was caked with dirty and rust, but it was good enough- good enough to
kill something if necessary. It wasn’t a full-sized one; it was short with a
plastic grip. Maybe it wasn’t high quality, but it was perfect for me. Bonnie,
monster slayer, zombie slasher.

I wasn’t going
to be a statistic, not now. Not ever.

Standing there,
it struck me that I was standing in the open, just loitering in the yard, not a
care in the freaking world. Idiot.

Nothing moved.
It was almost too quiet. Like time had stopped and I was the only one around.

Then I heard the
scream. It was distant, but distinct.

A woman; her
screams assaulting me, punch after punch against my ears.

I ran.

I ran across the
short expanse of dying grass, past the dilapidated carport, and up onto the
stoop to the kitchen door. The key was beneath the ratty welcome mat. I fumbled
with it, trying to get the door open as quickly as possible. Once inside, I
turned the deadbolt and leaned against the expanse of the door’s cool painted
surface and tried to catch my breath. Machete or not, I didn’t want to be
outside. I might be a zombie killer, but I wasn’t a stupid zombie killer.
Looking around the kitchen, I breathed in the scent of home- washed and
unwashed laundry, cheap vanilla candles, and the lingering smell of yesterday’s
dinner. I wanted to stay here, to be among my own things and the memories. But
that was a child’s fancy. And the adult in me told me so. I had to leave. I had
to put as much distance between my body and danger as possible.

But I couldn’t
go without supplies.

Leaving the machete
on the stained kitchen counter, I went to my room and grabbed the only pack I
had- the threadbare, holey sack which served as my book bag. Quickly, I dumped
its contents onto the floor, not really caring that my homework was getting
messed up. With bag in hand, I went to the pantry and looked at the paltry
supplies.
Why could this not have happened after I returned with groceries?

I stuck with
non-perishable items- the last pack of breakfast pastries, the remaining cereal,
two cans of beef stew, a sleeve of saltines, some white bread, and a jar of
potted meat. The cupboard was basically bare now and the realization of just
how poor we were sunk in.

“This blows.
Like really, really, blows chunks.” I breathed out the words, deflated and
tired. Speaking brought my parched throat front and center.   

Frowning, I dug
through the garbage to find the milk jug I had thrown away yesterday. Grandma
and her strays. I guess I wouldn’t have to share my dairy with cats anymore.
That was a teensy silver lining. I’d forgo milk for the rest of my life though,
if Grandma would magically appear in the kitchen, totally confused and wearing
her nightie.

I didn’t have a
canteen so the milk jug would have to substitute. After rinsing it out several
times, I filled it with cold well water, chugged half, and then filled the
container again. We’d never gotten onto the city system. Dad always said it was
too expensive to upgrade. Didn’t matter though. Water was water… even if it did
taste dense and mineral-rich, leaving an unpleasant film on the tongue.

What else… what
else do I need?
I
twirled in the kitchen once, coming full circle to face the exit towards the
hallway.
Anything. Anything and everything. Whatever might come in handy.

I began rifling
through the house, taking whatever I thought I would need- twelve dollars from
the birthday jar, a pocket knife from Dad’s dresser, a few changes of clothes,
Grandma’s copy of the bible, an old family photo album. I was trying to be
systematic, hit every room and every closet- even the ones I normally left
alone, like Dad’s second closet in his bedroom, the one he said was private.
I’d never looked in there, some kids might have out of curiosity, but I hadn’t.
I had just kept imagining a stack of girlie magazines. And the implications of
that would be… awkward.

Taking a deep
breath, I wrapped my hand around the knob and turned. I sighed in relief when I
wasn’t met with porn star posters and playboy.

I rifled through
Dad’s things like a thief. I didn’t try to be careful, tossing things aside
roughly and not even flinching when something shattered inside of a small
drawstring sack. There wasn’t anything useful and I found myself wondering why
the closet had been private. There were clothes, pictures, worn-out work boots,
just a bunch of normal things. Normal things for a normal dad.