36 Hours (29 page)

She cut me off, not removing her eyes from the pitted ceiling. “Do you think they know? Know they’re sick?”

Dad chasing me.
“No. They’re dead, Ashlie.”

“How do you know?”

“Their vital systems end, and one to five minutes later they – no, the virus within them, the bacteria or disease or whatever the heck it is – returns.” Odd look. “Vital systems are breathing, heartbeat, brain processes. When they end, you die. These people, they aren’t really people, in the strictest sense of the word.”

She rang her hands together. “Not even ninety-nine per-“

My voice rose, shouting; veins throbbing;
Dad coming after me, Mom cursing,

“Get away from me…”
My subconscious took over and my throat rasped; I exploded, “They’re dead, Ash! What the heck is wrong with you? Why can’t you just
get
it? Dad is
dead
! Mom is
dead
! Your best friend is dead! They’re not coming back! What the heck is wrong with you!”

Anthony Barnhart

36 Hours

180

Ashlie refused to look at me, but rolled over on the couch. The banging on the walls dripped to a cease fire, and in the silence I could hear her soft crying. Throat knotted. Heart turned to stone. Soul clammed up. Les stood in the archway. “Austin?” I didn’t answer. “You’d better see something.”

“No, not right-“

He hurried to the chair and grabbed me by the wrist, fingernails digging into my skin. “
Now
.”

Urgency lacerated his tone, and I stood. Glancing over at my crying sister, I plodded after him into the kitchen. The counters were dull and gray, wooden cedar; a single solid oak table sat off to the side, with candle-sticks in the middle. A toaster oven, a knife display, some rather interesting old trinkets a cooker would never find use for dotted the shelves and counters. The oil lantern shed dull light over everything, sitting on the counter by the boarded-up window. And the room, it was – frighteningly cold.

Les walked over to the pantry door. “Watch.” He gripped the doorknob, twisted.

Without hesitation something – someone – threw themselves against the other side of the door, twisting and clawing on the gossamer wood. I shoved my hand down into my pocket and drew out the knife I’d taken from home; the blade glinted in the lantern light. The person behind the pantry sounded big, huge, heavy; panting came from under the door as it tried to escape, scraping the door. I gripped the knife handle tightly. Les rapped the door; a shriek issued forth, hollow and degrading. Shivers traced like a mace into the back of my skull. Les hissed, taking the swinging lantern, “Farmer Brown isn’t telling us everything.”

The two of us bolted from the kitchen, raced around the stairwell baluster, and sprinted up the wooden steps. One of the side doors was open; the lantern in Les’ hands danced over racks of hunting rifles. The hallway seemed to grow longer and narrower, the ceiling began to close in all around us. We came to a halt and I knocked on the bedroom door; light issued forth from the crack beneath the heavy door.

“Morris!” I yelled. “Morris! Get out here!”

Ashlie is downstairs alone with that thing in the pantry!

“Morris!” I banged even harder.

Anthony Barnhart

36 Hours

181

Les leaves fast, bolting back the way we came; I reel back, curse, and swing my foot into the door. It creaks and groans. I hit it again, throwing all my weight against it. Swearing, I leaned back and hurled every fiber of my being into that door; the hinges cracked, busted, the cryptic lock snapped, and the door burst open; something filled my vision and pain bit through me like a cracked whip; stars floated before me and I was thrown against the wall, sliding down to the floor; nausea grilled me and I wanted to vomit. I opened my eyes, but they burned, and all I saw were splotches of black and color. I pressed a hand against my face and felt warmth spreading down from my forehead. Morris said, “Oh, it’s you! Oh my gosh! Hah! I thought you were one-“

Hannah howled from the room, crying out. Anger blushed through me and I sent my foot into Morris’ shin. He swaggered back, cursed like a sailor, and drove his foot into my stomach. I pitched forward, spraying bloody puke all over the wall; my insides ripped like toilet paper and a second hurl lit me up like fire.

Morris stepped back, tried to shut the door; I rolled onto my back and shoved my foot into the opening. Morris stood behind the door, pushing hard, but my shoe kept the door from closing. Les bounded over me, blasting into the door; it reeled to the side, hurling Morris into one of the bedroom dressers; Les swung around; Morris cracks one across his chest and Les stumbles back, toppling onto the bed. Morris came at him; Les drove his two feet into his torso, and the man doubled backwards. I meagerly found my way to my feet, warm liquid sliding down my face, over my cheeks and jaw bones and the pits of my nose and eyes. The man launches atop Les; a flash of silver light, and as the man falls atop of him, Les drives the knife blade up into the soft flesh of Morris’ chest. Morris screeched, leaping back; Les followed through, swiping the blade through the air, drawing a vicious cut over Morris’ arm. Terror filled Morris’ eyes, and he reached for the blade; Les side-stepped and struck twice really fast into Morris’

chest; he went around Morris, who was heaving and bleeding and on the verge of feinting, and drove the knife into his armpit; blood sprayed all over the carpet. Les released the blade and pushed Morris forward; Morris toppled to the floor with a groan, and blood stained the carpet red, moving in a rippling sea of body fluid.

I entered the room, dazed. I rubbed my eyes and opened them, and saw Les hovering over the farmer’s corpse; Hannah stood in the corner of the room, Anthony Barnhart

36 Hours

182

sobbing, shaking, pulling on a shirt. Blood drenched Les’ clothes in swirling arcs. “Les!” I shout. “Les!”

He shook his head, staring at the body. “He was going to rape her, Austin.”

“Les.”

“He was crazy.”

“Les, are you hurt?”

He shook his head. “No. A little… winded.”

“How bad am I?”

He looked at me. “You’ve got a bad cut on your forehead.”

Les ran over to Hannah; she praised him, thanked him. I opened a dresser drawer and pulled out some of Virginia’s stockings, and wrapped them around my scalp as tight as I could to prevent the bleeding. Groaned. Each heartbeat sent waves of sulfuric agony shooting through every nerve of my brain, a migraine like none other, making me want to spit, scream, vomit, die and sleep all at the same time. Hannah continued to thank Les over and over, and as I watched Les accepting it with the humblest gratitude, rage and envy, jealousy and resentment flooded me and I forgot the pain of the physique for the pain of the heart.

Our thoughts were shat ered; Ashlie screaming downstairs. I led the cavalry charge down the steps. I hit the bottom landing and saw that the wood above the iron bar on the front door had splintered, reaching inwards, the infected snarling and beating it with all their might. The house shook with their rage. I ran into the living room.

Ashlie’s face was pale. “They’re breaking through the front door!”

“Can you walk?” I demand.

She gets to her feet and wobbles forward. “Get upstairs. Hannah! Take her upstairs, into the bedroom!”

Les stood at the foot of the steps, gawking at a bloodied, purplish hand reaching through, feeling the air. “They sound like animals.”

I muttered, “Morris was crazy. This place is no better than Willow or Wellington. Les. Hannah and Ash are on their way, get some guns, and get to the bedroom. The guns-“

“In the gun room, I saw them.” He ramped up the stairs. I bolted into the den, feeling around blindly without the lantern. Suddenly I found it, turned up the volume. There was silence. I picked the short-wave radio Anthony Barnhart

36 Hours

183

up in my hands and carried it out to the front of the stairs. I hit transmit and said, “Pilot? Pilot!”

Moments of silence, then:
Hello? Hello? Thank God!

“Where are you?” The infected screeched at the doorway.

“The Clearcreek YMCA! Where are YOU?”

“Across the street, buddy. We’re coming for you. Stay put.”

A dry laugh.
I’m not going anywhere. I think there are still some below…”

A hand shot through the front door as another part splintered into sawdust and twisted knots of wood; it brushed through my hair and I danced away, up the stairs.

I’m not going anywhere. I think there are still some below…

10:00 p.m.

Reflections

Her Smiling Face

The Business Complex

Hannah took the gun in her hands, feeling its weight, eyes moving uncertainly as I entered the room. Les handed one to Ashlie and pushed one towards me. I took it, and was mildly surprised at how heavy it was. Les told us they were loaded, don’t shoot someone by accident. Ash stated matter-of-factly, “They’re going to get in. We can’t stay here.” For a moment no one spoke; we just listened the beating of the farmhouse. There was no more hope in her voice, no rising to the occasion of a better life. She was drained, marrow-dry. Les snarled, “The truck. We need to get to the truck.”

“We can’t go downstairs.”

“The roof. Look. Let’s open this window…” He passed the farmer’s corpse and slid the window open. Rain lashed out and lightning sent icy shivers through the room, wanton light massaging the farmer’s decrepit body. He leaned out. “The roof slopes down. But where’s the truck? Other side of the house. It’s okay. We’re fine. We’ll just crawl out, walk over the roof – careful, they’re slippery, not fitted too well, either – and jump down to the truck.”

“All the while praying,” I muttered, “that we can get inside the truck, start the engine, and drive to safety without being killed or eaten first. Okay. Good plan. You going out there first?”

Anthony Barnhart

36 Hours

184

A hesitant sparkle in his eye. “Yes.”

“Whoa,” Hannah jerked, tugging on his shirt. “We can’t drive without the keys.”

Les cursed. I’d never heard him curse. “I don’t have them.”

“Where are they?” Ash ordered.

Shrieks downstairs.

“Down there,” he muttered.

No one moved.

Finally I gripped the gun tight and went out the door, leaving them behind me.

“Shut the door,” I hissed. “If you don’t hear me calling, don’t open. It might be me – and it might not.” Ashlie looked at me as if I were going to the moon, never to return. Les was stoic at the window, feeling guilty for leaving the keys. He told me they were on the desk in the living room. Hannah shut the door, trapping me in the blackness of the ancient hallway. Sweat slid down my palms. I was shaking. My finger rattled over the trigger, but not tight enough to spew a shot. Struggling and banging and frantic hollers echoed at the foot of the stairs; slowly I descended, one step at a time, telling myself,
Hurry up
, but only going slower. I choked on my own heart it was lodged so thick in my throat. At the last few stairs I looked at the front door and saw two pairs of yellow eyes, two once-human figures trying to break their way in. They opened their mouths when they saw me, and everything in me told me,
Just go upstairs… They won’t get in…
No. Lies. I raised the gun. One reached out a hand, as if to touch me; the gun coughed, burning my ears; the hand splashed up against the wall and the beast cried out. Another shot and a bullet drilled through both of their heads; the two bodies slumped down and another infected soul threw itself at the door, working furiously.
Don’t waste your time here.

I wheeled around the staircase, keeping an eye on the door. How long did I have? A shudder went through me. The walls were shaking as the infected threw themselves against them; the gunshots only riled their rage, and they tried all the harder. Dust flittered down from the rafters; with very breath some tingled at the back of my throat and I wanted to puke or scrape it raw. The icy kitchen counters hovered in a transcendent stare; I turned my eyes, but froze. My feet came to a halt. The roaring noise around me faded into a bitter, screeching silence, and my mouth burnt with bile.

The basement door was open.

Anthony Barnhart

36 Hours

185

The lock had shattered, and it lay on the floor. An oil lantern cast shady light down into the doorway, but it melted into pitch blackness. Go. Go. Just the next room. Get the keys. Get out of here. Safety. All hinges on
you
.

I forced myself to move into the family room, but the afterimage of the open door remained shocked in my mind. The fire burned low, almost in ashy embers; bare whispers of warmth emanated, but my frost-bitten hands felt it as if it were the first tastes of ecclesiastical paradise. I turned to the desk and hunched down, looking for the keys. I slid the laptop aside, thinking Les might have set them down when we were online. But – There! They were sitting on a ledge above the desk. I swooped them up, relief biting; I stared at several pictures on the mantel. Many were black-and-white, dating to 1800s days, when the farm was still built. But most were pictures of the farmer, snapshots of the kids, and his wife, growing heavier through the years, though once a beautiful maiden. In one picture the farmer stood with his wife, the kids in front of them, under a bright sky, shining tall, and smiling as much, the wind against their skin. The keys. I kept staring at the picture; my eyes zoned out, looking
past
the image, and suddenly through the reflection of the glass cover I see the wife in the reflection: behind me.

I swung around. The frazzled wife stood by the fireplace. The back of her head was torn and bleeding, and blood coated all of her face, except for those empty brown eyes. Her polka-dot dress was blanched in blood as well, running as a medieval corset down her side. Those hollow eyes locked with mine and a cold whisper of something benign and evil took over. Our eyes met – a clash of righteousness against a shield of brazen wretchedness – and she lunged forward, a dull foot kicking the chair to the side. I backed into the wall, grabbed a picture frame, threw it at her; it bounced off her head; she reached towards me; I slid to the ground, rolling, her thick body sweltering all around me. The cackling of the infected all around the house poured into my ears, a waterfall: the wife fumbled around the desk, knocking over the laptop. Her feet smashed the glass pictures, shards drawing deep welts of blood over stockings.