K. T. Swartz (5 page)

Trees with heavy bows hung over the rusting hunks of metal. Mindless bystanders stood in the street, on the sidewalk, and on the front porches of some of the homes. She pedaled around them, the only sound the chain cranking over the bicycle’s gears. A few heads turned but she kept moving, didn’t take her eyes off the street, off the zombies in front of her. The ones behind were no longer a threat and wouldn’t be for awhile.

She rode in silence, with only memories for company, and they weren’t very exciting memories either. This street was so familiar. There was the house built in the 1800's she loved – had at one time wished she had the money to buy – and there was her high school for years, where she met her husband for the first time. He was beautiful and wild, one of those rare people who moved among cliques like a fish through water, while she was the quiet kid in the back of the class.
The cemetery where her grandparents were buried was off this road too, a quiet place with old, towering trees and grey headstones. When she ran cross-country, the cemetery was her favorite place to run. Now, the front gates were locked, so she went right on by. And found herself veering more toward Main Street, because one store sat heavy on her mind.

‘The best bakery in town was no chain. For as long as I can remember Barrett’s Bakery has been on Main Street; it sat between an old vinyl record shop – now apartments – and a Catholic church. The store only took cash and they were open only until one, but never had I ever smelled anything so warm or tasted anything so sweet in my life, as if ‘fresh’ and ‘bliss’ had been kneaded into each donut with loving care. My favorite was the cinnamon swirl donuts, with their centers just slightly warm and gooey. Barrett’s donuts melted in my mouth. A dozen just wasn’t enough, because I could eat them all in one sitting.

When I was a kid, mom used to take me and my brother to Barrett’s, where she’d let us get a couple donuts and a carton of two percent milk, and then we’d walk to the Constitution Square and sit at a picnic bench and have breakfast there, under the oak trees, among some of the first buildings ever built this side of the Appalachian Mountains. I never thought I’d see Barrett’s out of business. I never thought I’d see it empty and abandoned, as I did today.

Of all the buildings in Danville, this one means the most, because I could never be unhappy sharing breakfast with my family. It was just impossible.

To stand there in front of Barrett’s, to know I’ll never have another one of their donuts – and never get to sit under those oak trees with my brother and mom – was enough to get me off my bike. Barrett’s is special to me, and I’ll be damned if I’d let those fucking zombies keep it.’

The white stone building was still relatively intact. The front windows were broken though. But the business hours still showed in cut-out letters next to the door. She stopped the bike; put down the kickstand. With the crowbar and avoiding the broken glass, she pried open the door. Looked over her shoulder. The fading light affecting their weak eyes, zombies stood motionless in the Constitution Square. What she was about to attempt was just plain stupid, but the compulsion was too strong. She had to do this quickly if she wanted to make it across town by nightfall. Had Jeremy been with her, he would have told her to put nostalgia on the backburner. But there were memories to save. He wouldn’t understand. She’d lost too much, with too little gained. She just needed something to help with this crushing, overwhelming sense of sorrow.

She stepped inside, lightly set her toes on broken glass. Nothing moved. She turned on her flashlight. The store was quiet as she let her eyes adjust to the weak light. The mural over the counter still showed the happy, heavyset bakers holding trays of freshly baked pastries. The glass counters were shattered; mold-covered piles of old food left the room with a musty, stale odor. The stench of spoiled milk made her nose wrinkle.

The vending machines were busted, the ice machine empty of all but mold living in the corners. She slid past a freezer that once held cartons of milk and juice and frozen pies. She flashed the light down the aisle. The simple, cash-only register lay on its side; she moved through the back. The baking tables were overturned; flour dusted the floor, left drag marks across the tiles. Eggshells – crushed and moldy – littered the floor. Her beam of light danced across the walls, caught a shadow that rocked back and forth.

The baker still wore his hairnet and apron; coupled with his cloudy eyes and rotten skin, the effect almost made her laugh. The zombie stayed where he was, just staring at nothing. She let her light play around him. A large freezer stood open, full of ruined cartons of milk and gallons of liquid and dry ingredients.

The room angled to the right, but she pointed the light at the floor, illuminated her path as she tiptoed to the staring zombie. His head lolled toward her, and she froze. Tightened her grip on her crowbar. But he didn’t move. He turned back to staring at nothing, his head bobbing slightly, as if keeping the beat to a song she couldn’t hear. She lifted her crowbar over her head. His skull shattered on impact, like a glass ball under her heel. Brain matter splattered the wall; fetid liquid left streaks across the metal baker’s racks. And the zombie folded in a heap. A soft moan made her jump.

The voice floated around the corner. Through the doorway to the kitchens, a shadow slipped across the floor. A chief’s hat, tipped dangerously to the side, preceded the bloated baker that shuffled into view. She held still; let the zombie drag his body forward. She flicked the light into his eyes. His pupils dilated.

‘Traveling by myself gives me an opportunity to study the monsters up close. I don’t have to worry about anyone giving away my presence, and I can do stupid things like shine light in zombies’ eyes, but as dumb as that might be, it’s shown me one undeniable fact. Not all zombies are dead.’

Though his pupils shrank, the zombie only paused for an instant. No flinching, no moan of displeasure. He only rocked back on his heels before stumbling forward. He lifted his hands, fingers hanging limply as he strode across the floor. Flour coated his shoes, trailed behind him. She set the flashlight on the baker’s rack. Only when he closed the distance between them did she slam the crowbar into his forehead, knocking his baker’s hat off. His knees buckled. Flour blew like dust clouds around his body, lightly dusted his shirt as if he were a sugar cookie.

She wiped the gore off on her pant leg and turned the flashlight face down, where only the plastic rim glowed. No other sound but her breathing reached her ears. Flashlight in hand, she stepped lightly to the doorway, knelt to peek inside. Here was a room she’d seen before, because the picture window showed the street outside. Watching the bakers was always a treat: those men and women kneading, twisting, and folding the dough. They cut out gingerbread men, donut holes, and her many favorites. The machines were silent though, the last of the batter gone, ruined by time.

Alone, she stood in the doorway; let her light play across the walls. To land on a closed door in the back. She headed for it, read the sign ‘Employees Only’. Knocked and then tried the knob. The office was tossed upside down. Papers and books covered everything. The chair was stained black; the stuffing ruptured from the leather like foam blood. The real stuff splattered the walls and awards the bakery had won. She knelt, flipped through the books. Had no idea why she bothered, except to appease the silly idea nagging at her. She went through everything, righted the chair, and shoved the desk against the wall.

There were too many papers spread everywhere for her to accurately determine where everything went, but she scooped them all up and stuffed them back in the file cabinets. Something heavy thunked against metal. She lifted the papers up. Several notebooks sat in the bottom, half buried under hanging folders. She flipped through them, and her eyes widened.

‘I felt like I was holding bricks of gold in my hands – or well, the cure to end zombification – right that instant. Those notebooks were dated and tagged by Mr. Samuel Barrett.

They are his notes, with recipes and ingredients listed on each page. I still can’t believe it. After all this time, the donut recipes are intact and not lost on a computer. Considering how anti-tech the bakery was, I should have expected finding hard copies. And to me, to find something like this, is the greatest treasure yet. It’s so silly, but reclaiming a piece of my childhood brought tears to my eyes. Maybe not everything is lost after all.’

She shoved the notebooks in her pack and ran for the broken window. But in the fading light the street moved with undead. She froze as three zombies stumbled by the window. The bakery went dark, the flashlight returning to her belt. At early dusk, had this been a different year – a different time – she could have mistaken them for drunken old men in the street.

She hunched her shoulders, let her arms swing free. Her shuffling steps took her to the busted-out window. Only one of the drunken trio stopped to look her way. All her weight on her toes, she held still. They passed by, gave her time to slip out onto the sidewalk. A moan came around the corner. Hungry fingers followed. The trio shambled to a stop as a fourth dragged himself across the church’s small grassy lawn. Blind eyes locked onto her. She didn’t move, but it still came closer. So did the three behind her. They acted as if they could smell her. Why?

She looked down. Flour coated her clothes, stuck to the wet smears of gore. That dusty, white powder even floated by her nose. She darted for the bike. Pushed away from the zombies as she kicked at the stand. A chorus of moans chased after her; heads turned up and down the street. She fought the urge to look behind her as the bike gained speed down the declining road. Main Street didn’t stay flat, and she was thankful for it.

At the stoplight, she veered right and passed a middle school and a National Guard armory on Stanford Ave. The old outdoor playhouse was empty now, where once a pool had been in its place. The road forked, and at the second streetlight, she turned right, onto Gose Pike. Her tires flew by the recycling center and a trailer park, where an A-frame house caught her eye. She slowed to a stop. The house would have to do if she wanted the third bag up tonight. So much time had been wasted at the bakery, but the reward would someday pay off.

Her bike against the mailbox, she filled the plastic bag, then the leather bag. A security light off the eaves at the A-frame’s apex was perfect. Without having to go inside, she climbed the window ledges, stood on her tiptoes to reach the next floor. Nothing moved within, so she boosted herself up, her boots scrambling against the siding. Her fingernails dug into the window’s aluminum track. She grimaced. Grabbed the security light with one hand and balanced herself on the narrow ledge. The blood bag sloshed in her ears. She slung the rope over the light, tied it off. Cut the narrow gash through both layers. Avoiding the tiny, steady drips, she dropped her pack onto the ground. She landed beside it and rolled. Froze on her toes as the sound of feet dragged through gravel. Pack over her shoulders, she grabbed her bike and pedaled up the hill.

On its crest, she looked to the house. Already the blood bag attracted the starving. The trailer park behind it no doubt was full of the shambling dead. Their moans sent a shudder through her. So many people dead, and there was nothing she could do to help them. She turned her attention to the road, but another thought had her pedaling through the field left of the trailer park, to a quarry she’d only ever seen from a car. She stood up on the pedals to avoid the bumps and sudden dips across the uneven dirt. Tall grasses swished by her knees; large seed pods popped lightly against her jeans.

The front tire skipped on a stone. She hissed, jerking the handlebars aside as the ground suddenly dropped away. Pebbles splashed into the cloudy, green water far below. She stared down the cliff, to the abandoned machinery and trailers and rusting trucks. Her heels dug into the loose dirt, dragged the bike away from the edge. No undead came to greet her as she walked her bike down the slope. Only silence hid in the shadows of giant earthmovers and backhoes and cranes. Work trucks sat by dark trailers. She parked her bike, turned her flashlight on, and got out her 9mm.

The first trailer was locked. A crowbar to the door handle fixed that. The knob rolled down the wooden stairs and stopped in the dirt. She knocked. No sound reached her ears. Taking a deep breath, she flung open the door and jumped back, but only flies buzzed around her. Then came the smell of death, a thick stale odor that settled over the area like fog. It weighed against her shoulders, filled her lungs until each breath was labored and foul-tasting on her tongue. She climbed the steps, flashlight beam cutting through the darkness, her 9mm behind it.

The light slipped through the door, splashed across linoleum, to the secretary’s desk. An out-dated calendar hung on the wall; a computer sat on the desk, only good as a paperweight now. She angled the picture of a man and two kids toward her. The smell of death grew stronger, stirred up like dust when she moved across the floor. She turned, her light searching, but only a table sat with an unoffending coffeemaker and a hot plate on it. Expired liquid creamer had grown thick and chunky in the container; the coffee grounds moldy. She opened the mini fridge and gagged at the smell of so many rotten foods. It only added to the bouquet of odors. She closed the door and stood.