36 Hours (17 page)

“So where are we going? The courtyard?”

He stopped, and I nearly ran into him. He placed his ear to a vent, then turned his head, and peered below. Muttered something under his lips. Then he raised his hand, clenched it into a fist, and slammed it hard into the grill. The grill plopped out, but strained the girders supporting the tiles; I gave a shout as the tile under my right arm gave way, and I pitched forward, bashing my head on a Anthony Barnhart

36 Hours

105

pole, then flipped around and fell, spinning wildly; I landed hard on the ground, in the darkness, body stinging.

I lay crumpled in a fetal position, against something warm and hard. Wood. Bryon landed next to me.

Then something came at us from the shadows, swiping, growling; a woman who stank of garlic and dried blood. I writhed back, seeing her shadow sweep towards me; a bright flash of light, a clap of thunder so loud it sent lightning into my eardrums, and blood burst out back behind the woman’s skull, spraying the wall. She tumbled down and collapsed to the ground. Bryon lifted me up; I smelt the acrid reek of gunpowder.

“Found it in the office,” he said, and turned to the lock. He raised the gun and blew it away.

We moved out from the cell, and I took a flashlight off the wall, turned it on. The figures in the cells threw themselves against the bars, screaming at us. Bryon made sure there were no more in the cell we had escaped from, and then he moved to the back. Away from me. I protested, and he told me to get close to the door.

I did as I was told. I could hear voices behind the door. Footsteps towards us.
Oh no…

Gunshots came and light danced over the grimy walls. “Bryon!” I yelled over the screams of the infected.

He wheeled around, racing at me, screaming, “Go! Go! Go!”

“They’re coming!”

“I know!”

I spun around and dove for the door; but it burst open, swinging wildly, hitting me in the forehead, opening up the brutal wound that had clotted. Blood streamed into my eye, stinging. I fell to the floor as the cops blew through; they tripped over me in the dark and sprawled out over the floor. Bryon grabbed my hand and ripped me to my feet. The flashlight beam spreading from my shaking hands flew over the grounded officers, then up into the room, where the infected were rushing at us like zombies from hell.

“Austin! Austin!” Bryon was already running; my feet followed. One of the cops got to his feet, pointed the gun at my back.

“Austin! Down!” Bryon fired a shot as I threw myself into a chair. The bullet cackled over me and hit the cop in the shoulder, throwing him down. The cop’s gun skittered into darkness. I got to my feet and ran after Bryon. He had Anthony Barnhart

36 Hours

106

disappeared down the hallway. I gave one last look back to see the infected swarming over the cops, tearing them up alive; their screams shook the Station and blood covered the floor. Vomit at the back of my throat. And I was in the hallway. Bryon nowhere.

I fell against the wall, breathing hard. “Bryon? Bryon!” My wails echoed back to me.

The bloodstained office window.

No. I was not going to end up like that. I wasn’t going to get shot in the head. Bryon whirled around the corner. “They’re coming in the front! We’re trapped!”

“The courtyard!” I took him through the doors and down the corridor. Bryon locked the doors and followed.

“They’re coming in through the entrance,” Bryon said. We neared the windows. “I don’t know what-“

Something slammed against the windows next to us. We fell back to see infected smearing blood and bile over the mirrors, pressing up against it. I recognized one of them as a regular IGA customer. A nice, aged old man. Funny. Cracked lots of jokes. Made us laugh. Now blood dribbled from his mouth and an eye dangled from the socket, drenching that entire side of his face a deep red, lacerated by raindrops from the raging storm outside. Bryon choked, “They’re surrounding us…”

They threw themselves against the glass again. The pane with the webbed crack groaned.

“It’s going to break,” I said.

So we took off, through the door into the courtyard. Rain hammered down. The plants were matted under a small network of muddy fingers, and the tree rocked back and forth, ominous in the dashing lightning. Taylor turned to face us and ran towards us, screaming; Bryon raised the gun and shot her in the head; her head flipped back, the back of the scalp blown to the ground. The chain wrenched her back and she turned as she fell, revealing the bloody hole. I couldn’t help it, and vomited all over the mud. Bryon went past and stepped onto a picnic table, grabbing a rain gutter, and pulling himself onto the roof. I followed, and he tugged me up.

We stood up there in the rain, and I thought to myself,
This is great. We’re
going to get struck dead by lightning
.

Anthony Barnhart

36 Hours

107

Bryon stared at the library across a wide quarter-mile stretch of green lawn. The remains of the Bronco smoked in the cold drizzle. Rain dripped down his face as he said, “I guess we can go to the library now.”

“We should go to the park. Into the woods.”

“I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.”

“There’ll be people in the library. Maybe infected. Look at all the cars by the entrance.”

“The woods, eh?”

“We run past the library-“ I had to pause. Thunder droned out my voice. “Run past the library, then back behind the subdivisions, and we’re at north park.”

“It’s a long way to run.”

“It’s what I’m doing. You volunteered to come.”

“All right. Whatever, man.” And he jumped down to the ground without giving it a second thought. He sprang lightly to his feet and took off across the lawn, becoming a shadowy figure in the rain, then disappearing to the falling sheets. I was alone. Shivering.

It was so far down. At least ten feet. “Screw it.” I didn’t think. And I found myself falling. The ground rushing up at me.
Should’ve stayed on the roof…
I hit hard and rolled, feeling the wet grass sticking to my flesh and clothes. My right knee burned like sulfur. I came to and ran across the lawn, through the rain; behind me I heard several shouts and cries, one sounding like the scream of Pacino, but didn’t dare to look back. I emerged into the parking lot and Bryon appeared next to the bushes that lined the library. It was dark inside the windows.

“Still want to go through the park? It’s unlocked. The doors.”

“If anyone in there was worth thinking about, they would have locked the doors.”

I could hear the shouts of the infected from the Station coming closer.

“Sounds like you drew a crowd.”

“They’re only going to arouse more. Come on.”

We took off into the rain.

3:00 p.m.

North Park

Anthony Barnhart

36 Hours

108

The woods

Chelsie’s dad

The moist earth squished beneath our shoes as we made our way around the back of library. The wide-branched oak tree with the benches underneath it—

my old Spanish teacher would come out here and read after school, on the benches, under the tree, warming in May sun—came out of the dreaded rain, drenched in fog. One of the benches had been knocked over, and at the base of the tree, the mulch had footprints filling with water. Bryon took us past, and the tree and the library vanished. The cries of the infected were gone with it, too, and soon we came upon several houses, cryptic, and abandoned. One was halfburnt to the ground; a woman lay sprawled on the ground, a revolver in her hand, and a hole through her head. She had taken the easy way out. Crossing between two homes, we jumped a fence. A dog came out of a doghouse, shivering and pale, watching us with droopy eyes. He cowered back into the doghouse when thunder shook the earth. Bryon scaled the fence, and I followed, cutting my pants on the pointed scaffolds lining the wooden boards. A line of trees rose out of the mist, and by now we were soaked and cold and covered with goose-bumps. Clothes stuck to our skin.

“North Park is just beyond these trees,” I said.

The pine trees sheltered us from the rain, and we walked over a browning bed of fallen pine needles. Birds called to each other in the branches above, and soon we exited onto a road. There were no vehicles, as the road was barely traveled, but a tree on the median had been torn down and left dappling over the right side of the road. The road banked right to our right, leading to several apartments and to the multilaned avenue that ran south to our school and Franklin, and north to Downtown Arlington. Left was more packed homes in a packed subdivision. We ran across the road, mere shadows in the drenching rainfall—ah, spring showers, never better—and came to a low mount. We lumbered over it and slid down the other side, coming to an empty parking lot. No one visited North Park in the morning hours—it was for students and white-collar joggers. It was decent, and while not the best, it was the talk-of-thetown when it came to places to hang out. It sported a never-before-used amphitheatre, basketball and tennis courts, a pond overflowing with frogs and tadpoles—no fishing, please!—and a skateboarding enclosure. Oh. And for you Anthony Barnhart

36 Hours

109

white-collar folk, a concrete path that wound its way around North Park—a shred under a mile.

Rain ran in rivers over the pavement, but then we were in the grass, ascending a hill, the steep sides covered in runny mulch. Down the other side. The amphitheatre came at us, plastered against the thick woods that ran down to the wooden bridge, then jutted right into my subdivision. From there, over the gravel pathway, up the crooked steps, past the Gazebo, down and up the street, past St. James, and my house would be there. I was nearly there. My heart leapt. Almost there… Almost there…

“Are we going through the woods?” Bryon asked.

“Yes. How many times have you been here?”

“Once or twice.”

“I’ll show us the way.”

The amphitheatre rose to our left, and then I found the trail, even though it could hardly be made out in the heavy rain. I knew this place like the back of my hand. Chad, Drake, Les and I had hung out here hundreds of times—no exaggeration—in the last two years. The ground was filled with rainwater, and stuck to our feet, making sucking, slurping noises as we walked. The trees formed thick, overgrown barriers to our sides, and the path wounded through the forest, and what with all the rain reminded me of the Congo. I could feel the eyes of a tiger, or a gorilla, prancing over me. Except tigers and gorillas weren’t our worries. No. Not at all.

“We’re almost-“

Bryon grabbed my shoulder, fingers digging into my like hooked claws.

“Quiet.”

My leaping heart fell to my stomach, then up into my throat. “What?”

“Listen.”

Just the rain. The rain falling through the canopy, sprinkling on the path before us, on the newly-sprouting leaves of the trees and woods and plants, the rushing creek bellowing like an ancient blow horn somewhere down the trail. It would be gushing with water. But the creek. And the rain. I turned my head and looked at him—his eyes were wide, and his face was pale and covered with goose-bumps under dripping rainwater.

He looked down at me. “They’re all around us. In the woods.”

They’re all around us. In the woods…

Anthony Barnhart

36 Hours

110

A horrendous shriek shook the heavens to our left, and one called out to our right. Another behind us. Then all at once, lost in the thunder. Bryon shoved me down and bolted down the path. I fell and landed hard in the mud, ankle and elbow searing with pain. I grunted and got to my feet. The screams, the screeches, all around us. The woods shuddering as they moved forward. Bryon shouted. I saw him vanish down the path, and then I, too, followed. I slipped and slid over the mud, but somehow didn’t fall. The screams made me want to join, but my mouth was clenched tight, jaws crying. Then they stopped. The shrieks quit.

Just the rain.

I came to a stop, breathing hard.

Just the rain.

And I saw it. Blood splashed the tree to my right, and was all over the ferns and leaves. Blood on the other side, too. Dripping and smearing in the rain. Footprints at my feet, some filled with maroon water, came to a halt, then were dragged into the woods. I swallowed and tried to peer through the dense foliage. Couldn’t see three feet in.
The Congo. People died in the Congo
. And weren’t there cannibals in the Congo? Oh, this was all too-Something emerged from the woods forty or so feet behind me, on the path. I turned and saw Bryon standing there. One of his arms was gone, leaving a stump that gushed blood all over his shirt, down his pants, to the ground. His eyes were sunken, and his goose-bumps were purple-red. His lips unfurled, revealing golden teeth, golden with hatred. His fingers came into claws, and he hunched over, foaming at the mouth. He stared at me. Then rushed. I swiveled and ran down the path. I could hear him coming towards me, slipping and falling in the rain. I dove into the woods in the hope of escaping. Bryon was trying to kill me. I saw figures in the woods, all around; they screamed and shouted, but were held back by the dense network of dangling and coiled foliage. They were trapped in weeds and brambles, caught by vines, tripped over roots poking from the ground. Bryon ran into the woods, following me, trying to wind his way through the woods. I came out of the trees, onto the path.

The creek roared, and the bridge loomed up. I ran to the bridge, and over the wooden planks, resounding hollow beneath me. A man came at me from across the bridge, growling and snarling. I hit him with my shoulder, grabbed his shirt, and through him against the railing; he fell back, swiping at me, and I grabbed Anthony Barnhart

36 Hours

111

his legs and threw them over; he flailed and fell, landing in the runny waters, bashing his head on a rock, leaving a blood smear.

Bryon and the other infected swarmed from the woods, onto the bridge. I bolted across, to the gravel pathway, up the crooked steps, past the empty gazebo lost in the drilling rain shower. I had never run so fast. I had never felt my legs burn so bad, my chest collapsing with the energy sapped from my muscle. I was too close to give up, to become like them. Too close, too close, too close. I had always ridden my bike down the street to North Park; it was steep, and so I had always walked the bike. If I only had the bike now. Or my Jeep. I would rush away so fast, and leave them behind me. A glance over my shoulder. They were still following, rounding the corner from North Park. I tore onto the road that led right to my house. A car had slammed into a patio window of a home, and the glass had been blown out onto the street. Shards crunched under my shoes. St. James appeared, the crooked sign hanging limp as ever, sparkling with rain drips. The infected were gaining on me. They couldn’t feel pain, couldn’t die—my energy was sagging, I was about to fall over and just go to sleep, to give up all hope, but no! I pushed on. And then I saw more of them. Blocking my way from around the bend to my house.