The Undead Situation (21 page)

Just the thought of Frank sobered me. I needed to clear my mind, because thinking about him wasn’t going to change anything or speed up time.

After forcibly removing myself from the comfortable couch, I walked around the house. After only a few minutes I found myself in the bedroom, looking at a collection of photos on a long, oak dresser. All of the photos had Pamela, some with other people, but most of them at recognizable locations: a pyramid, the Eiffel Tower, Big Ben. She looked young and thin in the majority, but the same plump woman I knew graced a few of them. Pam was a world traveler, then.

The bed wore a pristine white comforter, and two white-lace covered end tables sat on either side. Useless lamps rested on both. One had a worn paperback on it. I walked over and picked it up. It was a silly romance novel about a duchess falling in love with a thief. Forbidden love.

Noises from the bathroom ceased, and I turned to see the door swing open. Blaze came out in a loose white undershirt and a pair of small men’s boxers. Shocked by her lack of clothing, I turned back around and stared intently at the satin lampshade in front of me.

Her bare feet scuffed over the carpet as she went over to the bed, then came the rustling of covers pulled back. From the corner of my eye, I saw her pale body slide beneath.

“I’m going to sleep.” She plumped up a pillow before laying her wet head on it.

“I’ll take a shower then.”

I walked out of the bedroom and into the bath. A high up, rectangular window produced a muted natural light. The bathroom had a white, feminine theme.

Gripping the edge of the counter, I stared into the big mirror. Someone looked like they’d been in traffic for twenty hours straight, had an absurdly long flight layover, or taken a trip to hell and back. That someone was me. My face was scabbed and puffy from hitting the wall at the prison.

Weeks of golden stubble graced my jaw. I’d never been great at growing a beard for some reason, so I didn’t look like a mountain man. My eyes were saggy and dull—the usual hard, crisp green muted and reluctant. Even my naturally reddish hair looked flat. I inhaled deeply then exhaled. My lungs protested from the action, but it hurt nicely so I did it again.

Careful so as not to enrage my myriad of angry wounds, I stripped off my dirty clothes and tossed them onto the pink tiled floor. The cool air of the bathroom refreshed my skin, and I relished in the normalcy of what I was about to do.

Since I was seventeen I’d been taking cold showers, so when the icy water struck my back I didn’t even wince. The water felt blissful, and I didn’t mind sorting through a profound collection of girly shower products.

Scalp Nourishing Conditioner? Sure, I
’
d try it.

Body Slimming Scrub? Well, I certainly needed some scrubbing.

Skin Enriching Body Wash? I
’
d love to be enriched.

By the time I applied everything I could, I felt like a million bucks. There was even a Costco package of toothbrushes under the sink that I helped myself to. I wrapped a towel around my waist and sat on the bathroom counter.

Everything about making it to Frank’s cabin hadn’t been what I had expected. When he first convinced me of his plan, I thought it would be a breeze. Who knew I’d meet other survivors? I thought I was the only survivor. That showed how closed-minded and self righteous I was.

To me, there was an unreasonable amount of obstacles between me and my destination. People, emotions, situations—they all stopped me. I hadn’t planned on any of it.

Speaking of plans, I hadn’t planned on meeting someone like Blaze or meeting up with Frank again. But it happened, and a part of me was grateful for it.

A battery-operated clock directly across from me claimed it was 7:00 p.m. In a few hours, it would be dark, and I wanted to leave before then. Woefully, I redressed and exited the bathroom.

Blaze was out cold.

As I stood in the doorway, I noted when she was asleep, and didn’t have a cigarette in her mouth, she wasn
’
t too bad to look at. The subtle scowl was replaced with a calm slackness I rarely saw. She looked younger then, and I wondered how old she really was.

I wished the Mustang were here. The radios were in it, and I wanted to leave one for her so she knew where I was going. Not like she would have to guess very hard.

Booted up, I left the house and began my walk back to the library. I passed Joseph, a man I’d met earlier, and told him about Blaze in the house. He said he’d patrol it, since I had no way to lock it up. Maybe a community of survivors wasn’t such a bad thing, as long as they weren’t out of their minds.

Nah, I thought. They’ll go crazy eventually.

The sun was turning golden to the west, while dark, foreboding clouds rolled in from the north. Summer had glorious thunder and lightning storms. The air was always electric and smelled wet. Soon the hot asphalt would be wet, releasing its quintessential summery scent. As a rule, when I was a teenager, I’d stop and relish in such things.

Not this time. There was something more important on my mind: Frank.

* * *

“I’m sorry, Mr. Sinclair. I’ve done all I can,” Dr. Kalman said. “He isn’t going to make it.”

Bile rose in my throat. I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to die right then.

When I arrived at the library, Pamela welcomed me with a sad smile and a pat on the back. She even offered me a small speech about the afterlife, but I couldn’t pay attention to a word of it.

I walked into the makeshift hospital room and knew, right then, that Frank really was going to die.

He isn
’
t going to make it. Dr. Kalman’s words ran through my head as I stared at Frank. Each limb was tied twice to the gurney, and a rope encircled his waist.

Did this kind of thing happen often in Sultan? I couldn’t help but wonder since they seemed so prepped for it. Someone wasn’t going to make it, and a loved one wanted to see them one last time before they turned into…

Frank opened his eyes and found me sitting on a folding chair next to him. His pant leg was torn up to the hip, bloody leg bandaged, but it didn’t matter.

“What are you doing here, boy? I figured you’d be with your lady friend.” He grinned weakly, then lifted his chin to look at his restraints. “I understand.”

“Understand?”

“The map to my cabin is in my knapsack in the car. I wrote some extra directions down, just in case.”

“What do you understand?”

He spoke right over me. “You’ll know it right when you see it. There’s color-coded deadbolts on the door. The keys are in my knapsack, too. Color coded.”

I bolted out of my chair. “What do you understand?”

Lips pursed, he shut his eyes and heaved a long sigh. “I’m gonna die, Cyrus. I understand that. Doc said some of the buckshot hit the femoral artery, or some doctor bullshit. I don’t know, but it don’t matter. It’s time I checked out.”

Tried as I might to deny it, it was true. My only friend—the only man I respected—was about to die in a library because of a crazy lady on a back road to Sultan.

“You’ll take care of me when I go, right? I wouldn’t want a stranger doing me in. I’d appreciate it, boy.”

I nodded.

* * *

Francis fell in and out of consciousness for the next few hours. I waited by his bedside, listening to every jumbled word that came out of his mouth. At one point it grew dark, and Pamela brought in a Coleman lantern. It cast an unfriendly white-blue glow on everything, creating deep, cavernous shadows around us.

Then he stopped talking. Moving. Breathing. Minutes passed before violent thrashing and gnashing teeth ensued. Francis Jackson Bordeaux was undead. His eyes were cloudy and white, his skin grayed. All he wanted now was to eat me.

Pain shot up my arm as I released my 9mm from its holster and pointed it, hand shaking, at Frank’s head.

I pulled the trigger. “I’m sorry.” And I left.

People I’d known for less than a day tried to stop me and give their consolations. Deep down it enraged me, and I wanted to take a shotgun to each of their heads, screaming, and then beat their bodies into a pulp.

But all they saw was a stony face unwilling to give them the time of day. As it should be. Indulging my fantasies meant wasting ammunition, let’s be honest. Sometimes it’s a matter of practicality that you didn’t go busting caps everywhere.

I threw open the Mustang door and roared off back to Pam’s house, ready to pick up Blaze and get the hell out of there. If I never saw Sultan again, it would be far too soon.

Somewhere in the backseat I heard scratching, and I knew it was Pickle disputing the jerky motions of the car.

Blaze was waiting outside on the curb, sitting with her elbows resting on her knees. The guy I talked to, Joseph, sat next to her. He had a walkie-talkie dangling from his neck, so I assumed they both knew the news. Even if they didn’t, I was in no fucking mood to talk about it.

Feeling bitter and livid, I slammed on the brakes and skidded in the middle of the road, stopping right in front of the pair.

“Get the fuck in. We’re leaving.”

Joseph dropped his head and stared at the cement. A portable lantern to his right illuminated the small space he and Blaze occupied and showed the uncomfortable expression on his face

Almost as though she had an off switch, her face went blank as Wright stood and stalked to the passenger side and got in swiftly. Not a word escaped her lips as we sped off. The headlights revealed survivors gathering on the roadside, waving and shouting for us to stop. Their pleas fell on deaf ears as I turned onto Highway 2, a grand stretch of clear asphalt in front of me.

As we cleared the outskirts of Sultan, the thunderstorm I predicted came to fruition. It was loud and irate, dropping water on us like bricks, clapping its thunder until my ears rang. Lighting flashed and exposed snapshots of the forest flanking the road.

Only minutes flew by, but it seemed like forever. My jaw hurt from clenching my teeth. My head felt big and sore, like I had a record breaking head cold. I had to make a conscious decision to keep breathing. The scent of ozone filled my nostrils each time I inhaled and I took it all in, focusing on it rather than on other problems.

Rain fell too hard for the windshield wipers to keep up. Visibility was poor. My face was almost pressed against the windshield as I tried to make out the road. Not like it mattered, since there wasn’t a single car in sight. What did matter, now, though? Frank was dead. I might not be able to find our way to the cabin, despite his repeated directions and the map. It should’ve been apparent to everyone on the fucking planet that I was as inept as a quadriplegic trying to ice skate. No offense.

Just to add to my misery, the Mustang began to slow. I looked at the gas gauge and saw the car was running on fumes. Actually, it wasn’t running anymore.

We glided to a stop.

Then I snapped. I didn’t realize I was screaming and beating the steering wheel until Blaze grabbed my hands and forced me to stop. Wrath consuming me, I pushed her away and shoved the door open, walking into the cold night. The Mustang’s headlights cut through the darkness and illuminated some of the barren road.

“It’s my fucking fault!” I roared at the sky, then kicked the wheel of the car.

A car door opened and slammed, but I didn’t pay attention. Rain pelted my entire body, drenching my hair and clothing. A brief thunderclap stopped my rant, but then I was back at it once again.

“I should’ve known. I should’ve known whatever was in that house was fucked up! I could’ve put it together, but I didn’t. Now Frank is dead. I shot him!”

Through the white noise of rainfall, boots splashed. Blaze stood across from me. The two headlights separated us and lit her face. Raven hair clung to her cheeks and water sluiced down her nose. I watched as a drop caught the light and fell.

“This isn’t how it was supposed to go.” I paced back and forth. “We were supposed to just make it. We’re too good to just get shot like that! We know how to get guns, how to analyze situations. What the fuck is this? Why—why is this—I just—”

Despite it being a good dinner bell for the undead, I screamed until my throat went raw. Once my rage petered out, I went to the hood of the Mustang and slammed both fists against the metal as hard as I could. Pain went through my forearms and up into my shoulders.

“I can’t handle this pressure. Somehow, Gabe became my responsibility. I thought Frank was unstoppable, but he’s an old man. I was responsible for him, too, but I was blind. I’m fucking ignorant when it comes to being a leader!” I was too far gone, because then I added, “And I’m responsible for you now, too. And I’m going to fuck up with you, just like I did with them.”

A gentle hand pressed against my shoulder. Embarrassment edged its way into my rage. Naturally I had to have the first hissy fit in my life in front of an ex-Marine named Beatrice Wright, in the rain, during the undead apocalypse. Normally even if I was in turmoil on the inside, I wouldn’t show it. I was flawless at everything I did: killing, surviving, and keeping things inside. Normally, I was fundamentally perfect. In my opinion.