36 Hours (22 page)

“No!” Hannah yelled.

Les grabbed Ash and tore her away, restraining her. She kicked and screamed. I stepped into the foyer. “Ashlie! Calm down!”

She started hollering, wailing again, waling against Les. Hannah didn’t know what to do; neither did I.

“
Ashlie! STOP IT!
”

For some reason, that shut her up.

Anthony Barnhart

36 Hours

137

Les tightened his grip.

“You don’t want to go out there, Ashlie. Trust me.”

Les let her go; her feet touched the ground. Hannah blockaded the door. Les was ready to grab her if she ran again, ran to the garage door, or back door, wherever. “Why not?” a hoarse voice issued forth.

“It’s Hell.”

She shot me a look begging to know
how come
.

“This morning, we were at school, and something happened. I don’t know. But people, they were going insane, going crazy, killing each other. Some kind of disease, or virus, I don’t know. But if you get bit, you get sick, and if you get sick, you die. But you don’t stay dead. You wake back up. You get up, but it’s not you. You’re someone – no,
something
– else. Something primal, primitive, murderous. I don’t know if those who have turned, if those who have been infected, I don’t know if they’re alive or dead. But Dad got sick, he died, and he turned. He bit Mom, and Mom, she knew what was happening, so she killed herself. Dad tried to get to you, but I got to him first. But it wasn’t Dad. Dad was gone long before this new thing, this new creature, beast, fiend, whatever, came. And they’re all over the place.”

A pause. Incredulous. “All over Clearcreek?”

“All over the world,” Les said in her ear.

“Not just here,” I added. “Everywhere. Cities. Towns. Villages. No place is unaffected. It’s a global plague, an epidemic.”

“How do I know you’re not making this up?”

“Mom is downstairs. Look out the window.”

She slowly walked into the study, pulled back the drapes. She stared across the street, saw the broken door and windows of the house opposite us. Above the trees rose several withering columns of smoke into the air. Some patches of blood stained the street; the Jeep was ramped up in the grass, much of the glass broken and smeared with handprints and blood. The front fender was bent and dented and splotched with strips of flesh, and the wheels and axels were twisted from rolling over bodies. The doors were wide open, and blood covered the backseat. Ashlie just stared, unbelieving, and closed the drapes. She didn’t move.

“Are we all that’s left?” she asked.

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“I don’t think so,” I said. “There’s probably millions of people hiding out, I imagine. But the numbers are dwindling. We’ve been all over Clearcreek. It’s just getting worse.”

Ashlie ran a hand through her hair. Shock and disbelief, I imagine, overshadowed the sorrow.

“We’re staying here. We don’t have a plan. But this is the longest we’ve survived any one place, and for the most part the subdivisions seem pretty deserted, at least for now.”
Weren’t so deserted when you ran through North
Park, though
. “But I’m sure… I’m sure they’re nearby.”

“What do they look like?”

I shook my head. “I can’t describe it. They look like people – except they’re different. Horrible.” Yet I had no idea, I had to admit, of the condition of the rest of the world. Seconds crawled by as my heart fluttered in vain hope – hope only to be dashed, I dare imagine – that there were armies fighting back; cures were being found; cities surviving; we were not alone. We would survive – live out the night and taste fresh air. HOPE!

“How many are there?”

“They’re all over. In the streets, buildings, shopping plazas. Nowhere is unaffected.”

Ashlie turned her gaze from the drab drapes and said straight to me, “Are we going to be okay?”

“For the night, I think so.”
You hope so.

Hope – so alluding.

You hope so.

But honestly, I didn’t think we’d survive that long. Why? One reason -

No one else had.

7:00 p.m.

No More

Prison of my own choosing

Zombies

Ashlie’s eyes glazed, went hollow, and for a moment I could look past them, into her soul, and felt sharp twangs of grief and shame wash over me. Tears Anthony Barnhart

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waddled up in her eyes again, and they came. Not tears of anger, not even tears of sorrow, but desperation seeping through. Hope failing. Les and Hannah, feeling awkward, went into the family room. I touched Ashlie’s arm, and pulled her close, hugging her tight, letting her cry into my shoulder. The tears were contagious: my throat knotted and all of a sudden memories, memories I didn’t even know I had, swept over me. Mom scratching my head at night. Dad calling on the phone – “What are you guys up to?” Going swimming in Miamisburg, Ashlie on Mom’s shoulder and me on Dad’s as we played chicken. Laughter. Love. Security and simplicity. I honestly can’t remember when the tears first crawled down my cheeks, but I
do
remember Ashlie holding onto
me
, and me crying into
her
shoulder. Christmas, tearing into the gifts, Mom squealing with excitement and Dad snapping pictures. Gone.

It’s too late now. Tears run down my face. Too late. Dad woke me up in the mornings for school, and before I got my license, would take me out to McDonald’s and then to school as a special weekend treat. Mom always bought the groceries, and would sometimes jump behind me and surprise me, making me jump mountains high, just to see me freak. After time you begin to take it all in as some routine, a religious, ceremonial courtesy; saying, “I love you,” and,

“Bye,” become acts of predetermined grace, not passion. Hugs were offhand lisps; nothing spectacular; goodnights preludes to yet another monotonous day. Dad paid the bills; Mom ran us around; Ashlie watched television. I went to North Park and hung out with Les, Chad and Drake. Supper meals were home cooked, with gravy and mashed potatoes, steak and macaroni-&-cheese. Tears now gushing down my face. Chest empty, hollow, incredibly heavy. Eyes closed, blinding, seeing spots as my lungs heaved and burst and screamed.
It’s all a joke, a dream, a nightmare, a night terror – you’ll wake up any minute.
They’re dead! They’re dead! They’re dead!
None of this could be real. Dad is coming in the room, he’s about to shake me awake. The birds will sing and Mom will laugh and school will be boring but we’ll all be alive, so alive, so very-
They’re dead. They’re dead. They’re dead!
Heart screaming, tearing at my ears, pouring forth as a guttural cry of anguish, unheard since Golgotha. Never again will Dad wake me up in the mornings or take me out to breakfast for my birthday, even if it meant his being late to the office. Never again will Mom play innocent jokes on me and never will I ever hear her laugh like a drunken hyena as she watches
Will & Grace
and
That 70’s Show
in her bedroom. Never again will my friends and I jump in the Jeep and drive to FuddAnthony Barnhart 36 Hours

140

Ruckers or China Cot age or Applebee’s just to celebrate for no reason other than life, love and friendships – life was gone, love crumbled, and friendships torn apart. No more celebrations, no more parties. No more quiet sleep and singing. No more playing out in the rain or dancing through the woods. No more peace and joy and happiness; harmony but a myth, tranquility a dream pierced by searing arrows.

Hannah suddenly overshadowed me. “I don’t know, maybe you should sleep or something.”

I already slept
. I didn’t answer her. Why should I? What was the point? We’re all dead men anyways.

“Austin?”

I pushed Ash away and snarled, “
What?
”

Hannah just stared at me, and I realized the voice did not belong to her. Les stood on the stairs. He said, “It’s already getting dark. Is it supposed to get so dark this early?”

Hannah threw up, “It’s the smoke and ash from the fires. It’s Pompeii out there.”

Ashlie moaned, “Can they get inside?”

“All the doors are locked,” Les replied. “We’ve checked them so many times. I don’t think they’ll come in here.”

“What about the windows? They’re locked?” Nods. “The dining room. The bay windows-“

“The shades are drawn,” I said softly. “We’ve checked over everything. We can stay here a few days. We have food. We have water in the garage. Mom went to Sam’s club and bought lots of Diet Rite and Diet Coke, Dr. Pepper, and some water. I say we stick to the colas, then the water. And we should turn on the faucets and try to conserve as much water as possible-“ Head spinning, thoughts seared through me. My heart began to beat again. “Let’s get the Tupperware in the kitchen and fill it with water. Ash, want to do that? Make sure all the lids match – we don’t want the water to evaporate.”

Ash nodded and went into the kitchen, hunching next to the counter, digging within.

“Les: go downstairs, and in the utility room by the bathroom there are boxes of winter clothes. Let’s bring them up. We’ll cover the windows with the thick jackets and coats so
maybe
we can light some candles without the light filtering outside. I don’t know if they’ll be able to tell a difference if light is coming out Anthony Barnhart

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of the windows, but why make an experiment of it? We’ll sleep upstairs tonight, in my parents’ bedroom. It has a big bed and a closet.”

Les skipped downstairs. I turned around. We needed to fortify the place. Make it the modern-age Alamo.

“What can I do?”

Hannah looked at me with those darling eyes. Pausing, I answered, “In the kitchen is the knife drawer. Next to the microwave are some more knives. I want each person to have a pair of knives. Take the rest and put them in Mom and Dad’s bedroom.” I bucked my head towards Ash who was scrimmaging through the cabinets. “Tell her that you have to pierce the skull.”

“I don’t think I can kill anyone.”

“These aren’t people. The people you knew are dead. I didn’t kill my father. Dad had passed before.”

She bit her bottom lip and tears began to well.

“It wasn’t Peyton, Hannah. Listen to me. Peyton was trampled.
He
didn’t get up.
Something else
got up.”

She shook her head. “
What
got up? That’s what I want to know! No one has an answer!”

“Neither do I. But you know my dad – he’s the most loving and gentle person in the world. And Peyton loved you to death. The world is dying. Those people out in the cities, on the streets, those aren’t
people
. They are monsters.”

She whispered something under her breath. I didn’t catch it.

“What?”

“Zombies.” Her voice was grave. “They die and come back to life. They’re zombies.”

All the horror zombie flicks I’d ever seen hit me.
Day of the Dead
.
28 Days
Later
.
Dawn of the Dead
. I had seen
Dawn of the Dead
in the theatre with Chad, Drake and Les. We had all watched
28 Days Later
at 25 Rosebud Avenue, where Chris King fell. We laughed. Great fun. Good stories.
These aren’t
stories, Hannah. These aren’t fairy-tales. This is no movie
. A shudder swept through me, an icy December chill. Hannah’s mysterious words crept into my ears, screaming bloody Mary –
zombies
.

“Yes,” I agreed. “Zombies.”

She ducked past and went into the kitchen. She talked with Ash, and handed her two knives. Ashlie stared at the steak knives with global eyes. Her hands began to shake and she set them on the counter. Hannah filled a Tupperware Anthony Barnhart

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container full of knives and walked through the den; she handed me a butcher knife and a steak-cutter. I slid them into my pockets, points up. “Don’t forget yours. Give some to Les. He’ll be up in a few minutes.”

She traveled upstairs. I entered the kitchen, picked up Ash’s two knives.

“Stand up,” I commanded. She didn’t move. “Ashlie.” She stood and I went around her, sliding the knives into her pockets. She began to protest, but I gripped her shoulder. “No. You have to have them. I can’t stand to lose anyone else. Especially you.” She stared at the window in front of her. Day was growing dim, and she could see her bare reflection. Shadows began to seethe in the corners of the kitchen and a façade of kismet settled over, a quiet October breeze. “Did Hannah tell you where you have to get them?” She nodded. “Go for the eyes.”

“Is that how you did Amanda?”

I shuddered. The memories. Amanda clawing at me. “You don’t understand. You haven’t seen them.”

Her back was towards me. “
Amanda
, Austin. She was a sister to you. Are you saying she tried to kill you? Amanda tried to kill you?”

“It wasn’t Amanda.”

“You thought she was sick so you stabbed her in the face, is that it?” Her heels whipped her around and she stared at me. “You pinned her in the bathroom and you stabbed her to death.”

A knot withered in my throat. “You can’t understand because you haven’t-“

“I know Amanda! She’s my best friend and one of yours!”

I grabbed her violently by the arm, every nerve screaming to take her upstairs, throw open the door, throw her the hollow shell that Ams had once been – the beautiful princess, the church-goddess, now an empty, purple-skinned, deepthroated shrieking fiend, suspended in death, shot through the chest with a knife handle sticking out of her skull. I would throw her in the bathroom, scream,

“Look! Look at your best friend! Tell me what you see!”
But despite her cold eyes, and the cold revolution of my intemperate soul, I couldn’t do it. My hand relaxed, and I let it go. My knuckles crackled. She was half-bent over the countertop, pale-faced; had she seen the fury and anger and fear behind my veil of seniority and disguised trepidation? Had she seen the horror and the hopelessness?

I stepped backwards, into the island, smeared with flakes of dried blood. My head swirled. A tear popped. “You didn’t see her,” I wheezed. “Oh Gosh, you Anthony Barnhart