The Zombie Letters (26 page)

Like a hold that broke in his mind, Dennis screamed . . .

The voice was unlike anything in the real world. Much like the eternally frozen sun in the impossibly blue sky, his scream carried on forever. It would travel to the end of the reality, to the boundaries of this place that exists and doesn’t exist at the same time. Others eons away will hear the echoes of that sound in the skies of their afterlives and share a second pondering what kind of madness could cause it. The thought would be quickly dismissed as they moved forward with their eternal paradises.

And here . . . Dennis would still be screaming.

IV

              Christian Wayne Garner leapt out of the chair and darted across the room when the man in the bed shot upright with a weak, but terrible scream. The tall guy snatched at the bed sheets, wildly tearing the linen off of himself. His dazed eyes fluttered back and forth, not seeing the worried young man looking straight into his eyes. Christian placed both hands on Dennis’ shoulders and moved his face wherever his bloodshot eyes darted.

              “Hey . . . hey, buddy. You see me? Hey . . .” Christian said in a soothing tone that was rare for him. His wife felt a stab of sadness hearing that. Christian Garner could sound so genuine and comforting to strangers. Only to strangers. “That’s it, pal,” he whispered. Dennis’ eyes began to focus on him. “Name’s Chrsitian. Wife’s Ama. You’re okay. Bad dream is all. Been givin’ you low doses of morphine for the pain. Morphine’s not only a great painkiller, but one hell of a creepy-dream factory. It happens. You’re alright, okay? You’re
alright
.”

              “Where am I?” Dennis said, using all the strength he had to hold onto Christian’s arms in an attempt to stay sitting up.

              “Well, judging by the photographs on the walls, we’re at your place.”

              “How’d you . . . jeez, I feel so dizzy.”

              “Wanna lie back down?” Ana Garner said, entering the room.

              “No . . . need to get moving as soon as I can. You found me?”

              Christian sighed and lowered his head with his eyes closed. Ana placed a gentle hand on her husband’s shoulder. For a second, Dennis thought he saw Christian shrink away from her. That look on Christian’s face . . . Dennis had seen that look a lot in himself the past few months. Christian didn’t have to say anything. Dennis had felt it too. He supposed that everyone had . . . that this look of utter hurt and defeat is just the universal human countenance now. “Had a friend that lived a few miles from your house. Survivalist like you.”

              “What happened to him?”

              “Found his whole skeleton tied to a tree. I knew it was him because he had a surgery awhile back . . . steel plate screwed into his hip and two rods in his ankle. They were still attached.”

              Dennis looked puzzled. “
Tied
to a tree?”

              “He wasn’t killed by the infected,” Ana said. “In a sense. Someone tied him to that tree and robbed him. The house was destroyed. So horrible. I could hear the booms in the distance before we got there. We thought it was thunder at first. They destroyed everything and left him to die.”

              “Honey . . . get the man some water,” Christian said to his wife. He had ferocity in his eyes that kind of frightened Dennis. The way he looked at her with such a silent rage . . . the second it hit Dennis, it was normal again. Even the tone he used with his wife was subtly different. It was more pronounced. Shorter and to the point with just a miniscule bump in volume. Kind of how someone talks to a toddler in the corner. Perhaps sensing that Dennis was contemplating this, Christian Garner blew her a kiss. It looked unnatural for him. Ana returned with a plastic cup full of cloudy water. Dennis brought it to his lips . . . the cup shaking in his hands.

              “Here. Let me help you with that,” Ana quietly said. Christian smoothly gave her another nondescript stare. The same dark flame burned just behind his eyes . . . somewhere between his rational mind and what the world saw through the soul’s windows. That look isn’t a hard one to decipher. At least it wasn’t for Dennis Jackson. It is the same look parents give children who are acting up in the car or at the store. No ass-whooping in public, but
wait ‘till your father gets home.
Wait ‘till no one’s looking.
She cast her eyes away from her husband and politely retired herself to the kitchen.

              “Here . . .” Christian held the bottom half of Jacob’s sippy cup and held it steady as Dennis clumsily drank it. He nodded thankfully to the man who rescued him. Dennis moved the sheets that were still pooled around him. His hand was stitched up crudely with thick sewing thread, but it seemed to have worked. Eight stitches right in the pad of his palm. There were three white bandages on one leg and two on the other . . . made from white bed sheets and medical tape they must have found in the garage. Dennis had a whole box of the stuff just in case. The bandages were an odd wake-up call. He didn’t realize he had been shot so many times. Being shot was a strange feeling. Almost a
violated
feeling in a way; being entered against his will by something just about guaranteed to kill him. That was the intention. Bullets were not made to defend jack shit and whoever told themselves that were either lying or fo
olish. Bullets were made to
murder. Period.

              As if Christian were reading Dennis’ odd state of mind, he said, “don’t worry. You only took two. One in the hand, one in the leg. The other bandages you got after . . . when we found you. There were three goddamn dogs fightin’ over your legs like they were squeaky toys. Up until the last minute, I thought you were dead. Thank god I shooed those mutts off you ‘cause I saw that you were breathing. Barely. We brought you in here, re-secured both entrance doors and
viola.
Patched you up like Raggedy Ann.”

              Dennis frowned a bit. “I appreciate everything you and your wife have done, Mr. Garner.”

              “It’s Christian, my friend.”

              “I feel so rude. I haven’t even told you my name. I’m Dennis.”

              “Got a last name?” Ana shouted from the kitchen.

              “Jackson.”

              “Any family?” she said, walking into the living room again with a damp washrag hanging over her shoulder. She was a stunning-looking woman. A little homely in the wardrobe department, but lovely. If she wore a bit more makeup or dressed a little less frumpy (for lack of a better word), she would be a knockout. Dennis knew somewhere inside of him that she didn’t look homely by choice. She
used
to dress nicely, but someone didn’t like that. The man with the cold stare and soothing voice. Quite a paradox. A dangerous one. Ana smiled and tugged at the little towel over her shoulder. “Sorry I took one of your towels. I was amazed to see that you actually have running water.”

              “Yeah . . .” Dennis said, getting out of the bed with wobbly legs. Christian attempted to help him up, but Dennis’ body language suggested a polite refusal. The white linen-wraps on his bare legs had bled through a little, but they had stopped. They’d cut off the legs of his pants getting to the wounds. Pretty impressive field dressing. At any other point, Dennis Jackson would have laughed at himself standing there in cut-off short-shorts, but instead he hobbled to the back bedroom and started stuffing a box of clothes into a large, black duffel bag.

              “What are you doing?” Christian said as he entered the room.

              “They took my family. Shot at me because they thought I was one of those
things.
I don’t care where they are. I’m going to find them.”

              “Who?”

              “Military took my wife and kids away. Their vehicle drove off East. There’s a National Guard armory about fifteen miles from here. Thanks for looking after me. I won’t be coming back here for quite awhile. Maybe not at all. Feel free to stay here. Take care of the ol’ place for me,” Dennis spoke in a rushed monotone as he tossed handfuls of clothing into the bag. The clothes came out of a separate box in the closet. They looked like they had been pre-sorted. Christian looked closer and saw two bulletproof vests and a chainmail sleeve in the box. “Make yourselves at home. You seem like . . . good people. There’s a map of where I put land mines outside. It’s in the den. Well, one map for the ones in the back yard and another for the mines in the driveway. I suggest you take a look at them before you go wandering around.”

              Christian smiled. “Oh, I know. Already memorized it. How’d you think we got you out of the driveway? X-Ray vision?” Christian Garner attempted to talk the still-wounded and limping man out of it. Dennis wouldn’t budge. He said that United States military forces had taken his loved ones away and they’d attempted to kill him, thinking he was one of those flesh-eaters.

              “I’m going with you,” Christian said as he snatched a large, sharpened machete Dennis had hanging on the wall by the door. Christian swung it through the air, smiling as he heard it whistle.

              “The hell you are,” Dennis said with a bite of a tone. “I’m going to find my family and I’m walking out in the open with bad legs, only two Ricky-bombs and coming down off of a pretty heavy morphine-high. Stay here where it’s safe.”

              Christian’s face dropped . . . and so did his voice.
Now
he sounded like he looked. “I don’t think you heard me, Mr. Jackson.”

              Dennis stopped and stared at Christian. He knew the man had some kind of strange and uneasy shit inside of him, but it was actually scary how quickly he could tap into it. Split second. If the guy hadn’t nursed him back to health and been so respectful with his home, Dennis would see him as quite a dangerous personality. Maybe he still was. Still . . . just to be sure, he loaded an extra Ricky-bomb he found in the back of the closet and stuffed it into the bag. Another Stiletto switchblade in his belt, too. No such thing as being
too
safe. It’s like people saying they have too much fun or too much money. One can never have too many knives. No such thing. Now way, no how, Scarecrow. “Excuse me?” Dennis said.

              “We have nothing here. You’re the first person we have found in too long. Look . . . I don’t know how many human beings are left, but the ones that
are
left need to stick together. Go wherever. I’m goin’ with you. Ana is going with you. I ain’t got a date anywhere. The Steelers are pretty much retired now and I’d like to help you find your wife and children. You have to understand. That solves three things. I stick with a survivor, I help you . . . and in a corny way? You give me purpose. If you want a selfish reason as to why I am offering to help you, that’s fine. It seems like the military is collecting people . . . or quarantining them. I would rather be there than out here. So . . . don’t mean to be rude or unreasonable, but you got company whether you like it or not.”

              Dennis agreed, as did Ana. Actually, Christian pretty much
told
both of them that they were all going. Dennis couldn’t put a finger on the guy. Garner was doing something so selfless and kind for him, yet speaking to his little wifey like someone would talk to shit on their shoe. A man capable of such kindness and at the same time so much hatred was a little disquieting. Extremely disquieting. Dennis partly agreed aside from the obvious fact that he didn’t stand a chance in hell alone. The other part of it was those Garners. Christian seemed . . . off. There was a crooked wire somewhere with him. Ana’s kindness, in Dennis’ mind, merited that he look after her just in case. When Dennis was out, she had cleaned the baby’s room and placed all his stuffed animals at the foot of the bed for him. She had even hung one of Ryan’s drawings on the refrigerator. It didn’t strike Dennis as odd. Ana was just one of those people with that light around her. She was made to be a mother. None of this was Dennis’ business, though. They are both grown people. Some husbands are just shitty to wives. Sad, but that’s life. There is a line to cross, though. If Christian does so much as raise his voice to her unprovoked or laid a hand on her, Dennis would make it his business. You treat a woman with respect. End of fucking story. Any man that doesn’t, or God forbid he
abuses
a woman . . . he is a man that needs to be taken down a few pegs. More than a few. Any man who hurts a woman should be given something permanent right on his face so everybody he crosses from that point on knows what he’s done. Men like that should be marked with something they cannot take off.

              Still . . . Christian offered and Dennis wasn’t stupid. The guy knew that he didn’t have to nurse Dennis back to health to have the house. He could have left the man in the driveway to die and they could live out their lives relatively safely in the bottoms. Christian
had
to have a genuine kindness inside of him. Even to someone blowing smoke up Dennis’ ass to distract from the fact that he was more than likely a wife-beater, no one would risk their lives and go out into the now-dangerous world for bullshit reasons like that. Christian seemed like the antisocial type, though he was very well-spoken and didn’t seem socially awkward at all. He liked to sit at the kitchen table undisturbed and play solitaire. Ana said he played it constantly, even back when he was in med school. He did it especially when he was concentrating on something . . . or something was worrying him. He always had the cards laid out perfectly lined up on the kitchen table. Whenever he moved one, he moved it like a surgeon. It was actually quite intriguing to watch. Ana said that someone could take a ruler and measure the spaces between the stacks he set up. They were aligned perfectly. He even shuffled them and placed the stack so perfectly straight, it looked like a machine did it.