After the Bite (3 page)

“I should’ve died, here,” Henry said.

“No,” Jack said. “You shouldn
’t have.”

“I wonder sometimes
, what things would’ve been like if you hadn’t been there. If I had just gone down the river and disappeared.”

“Why would you want to think about something like that?” Jack
said.

“Because the world finally caught me, I guess.”

“You really think it would’ve been better if you had died?”

“I can
’t help it, sometimes,” Henry said. Jack could fight the tears no longer, and he wrapped his arms around his brother.

“You
’re stupid! Don’t you understand that I need you?”

Henry hugged his brother.

“Yeah,” Henry said. “And that’s why I’m still here. Why I didn’t go down the river.”

“Brothers until death,” Jack said.

****

The electricity stayed on for a while, but
Jack had given up on his movies and games. He spent most of his days just trying to get by. He and Henry made a few trips out to the local store for food and supplies, and because they lived in a quiet area, they did so with relative ease, defending themselves with a baseball bat and a shovel they had found in the garage.

On
one of their trips, Jack’s baseball bat broke when he clubbed a zombie in the head. He and Henry made it home safely, but the bat was useless.

“Maybe it
’s time to get the revolver out,” Jack said in the living room. He looked out the window to make sure nothing had followed them, and saw only the empty street.

“It
’s pretty old,” Henry said. “I hope it still works.”

“It probably works better than a broken baseball bat,” Jack said. The
y made their way to their father’s closet.

“It
’s on the top shelf,” Henry said. “In a little black box.”

Jack found the box, barely reachable, and lowered it from the shelf. He opened it, and there lay the revolver, as well as a few boxes of ammo.

“Know how to load it?” Henry asked.

“I think so,” Jack said. He took the gun from the box and opened the chamber, which was more difficult than it
looked in the various TV shows or movies or games he’d seen. He loaded it with six rounds and tried to close the chamber. It didn’t move at first, so he pushed harder. The chamber snapped shut, and the gun fell from his hand and onto the floor. It fired, and Jack flinched at the deafening sound and kept his eyes sealed shut as he felt drops of warm liquid splash his face.

The next few seconds were a blur.

He opened his eyes, unable to breathe, unable to hear, wishing he was unable to see. There lay Henry with a large chunk of his head missing, slumped against the wall. One of his eyes was gone and the other was open, staring forward at nothing, to Jack it looked permanently accusing. A trail of blood ran down the wall from a splatter where the bullet had entered Henry’s head, and bits of blood and bone and brain were everywhere.

Jack screamed. He couldn
’t hear himself for the longest time, but it didn’t matter. He cradled his brother’s body, hated himself for this thing, this stupid, pointless thing. He wanted everything to be all right; he wanted to gather the bits of brain and bone, scrape them back up and put them together, to believe that Henry would be okay if he held it long enough. But he knew it was too late, and in a way had always been too late. His brother was gone, his family and his hope and his life and that day at the river and the closeness that had followed were all gone, left summarized by a stain on the wall of his parents’ bedroom.

Jack grabbed the revolver and put it to his head. He didn
’t hesitate to pull the trigger and be with Henry, but nothing happened. The fall had broken the gun, the hammer wouldn’t move and the trigger wouldn’t pull all the way. Jack threw it across the room, still screaming. He held his brother’s body, rocking back and forth, and screamed until he couldn’t, and then he cried, and then he sobbed, and eventually he fell asleep.

****

A few days went by before Jack felt like he had gotten a hold on himself, though he knew deep down that he never really would. He made no sound, he ate very little and drank even less, and he thought about everything.

He wrapped Henry
’s body in the bedsheets that had adorned Henry’s bed for as long as he could remember. Very carefully, he carried his brother’s body out of the house, across the yard, and all the way to the river.

When he got there, he stepped into the water. It only came up to his waist, now. He let Henry
’s body float on top of the water, holding it with an almost taunting ease.

“Brothers until death,” he said. It was his final goodbye, and he stood in the water long after he could no longer see that angelic white figure floating
on it, long after his brother had gone down the river and disappeared.

“You won
’t,” he said. “You won’t disappear.”

When Jack got back home, he found an empty notebook and a pen, and he began to write. Finally he had something worth writing. He wouldn
’t let Henry disappear, wouldn’t let the bloodstain on the wall be the summary of his brother’s life, or of his own.

At the top of the paper, he began.

The River: The Story of My Brother

I
t didn’t matter that what he wrote wouldn’t make him any money. He had finally found his calling. He would write volumes, and he would set them beneath the stain on the wall, and then he would leave. The world had finally gotten to him, and he would leave home, leave his paraphernalia and collectibles and everything else behind. But the story would be there, so anyone passing by could read it and know more than just a stain on a bedroom wall. They would know that somewhere in time, two brothers played in a river, and the world could never catch them.

On the Road

It was very hot in
the abandoned filling station on the outskirts of Chicago, where Larry Ellington had pulled over to take a shit and scavenge for useful items.

He stood up from the porcelain throne
and went to wash his hands. His eyes fell over a quarter-operated condom dispenser mounted on the wall by the sink. He couldn’t help but chuckle when he saw some of the flavor choices, although his voice had a hollowness to it. When Larry finished cleaning up, he realized there were no paper towels. He chose to use the front of his pants as he exited the bathroom.

A good ten feet away from the bathroom door was the
register counter. All sorts of goodies lay on it, begging to be purchased, but Larry was more interested in what was behind it.

As he walked around the counter, he saw the mutilated body of the clerk and a cardboard box hanging partially out from a cubby under the counter. Inside was a clump of brand new plastic sacks, inscribed with brick letter
s:
KUM & GO
. He opened one and inched toward the cigarette rack. Larry grabbed a carton of Winston Lights and dropped it into the bag. He thought for a second and then grabbed another. He wasn’t a chain smoker, but things had become very stressful lately, so he grabbed a third carton.

A
small display of metal flip-top lighters sat in a little plastic tray on the counter. Larry snatched one up and inspected it. The top made a metallic click as he flipped it up. The flame shot up brilliantly, dancing about. He took the last cigarette from the pack in his breast pocket, lifted it to his mouth, and inhaled generously as he lit the cigarette. The end glowed brightly, and it burned a half inch toward Larry’s mouth, then he took it out. He closed his eyes, enjoyed the taste. He opened his mouth and watched the smoke swirl out past his lips into the air around him. One more drag, and he was able to form two near-perfect smoke rings. The third was a little ragged, but still a ring in Larry’s book.

With the cigarette in his mouth, Larry moved around the store, gathering items for his voyage. He took a collapsible cooler, filled it with ice, and grabbed some sandwich meat from a deli cooler. He passed the beer cooler, but decided against taking any.
He really wanted some beer to help get him through this, but it just wasn’t smart to be inebriated. Some chips, cookies, and granola bars made it into the plastic bags. Larry stood near the drink coolers, leaning partially on the ice cold door, taking the final drag of his cigarette. He dropped the butt on the tiled floor. It landed in the filthy grout, followed by Larry’s foot, crushing the heat out.

In the cooler behind Larry, a variety of Sobe flavors sat in wait on the bottom two shelves. He opened the door, bent, and grabbed a Strawberry Banana drink.
Then he took his things and headed for the door.

His car was parked out front, and he tossed his loot into the passenger
’s seat, set the drink in the cup holder, and went to the back seat. He opened the door, retrieved the nearly empty gas can, and headed toward the closest pump. The machine beeped as he slid his debit card through the reader. Larry set the can on the ground and filled it to the neck. He closed the lid tightly, then placed the can in the back seat of his car. The gas sloshed around inside, and Larry shut the door and then sat down in the driver’s seat. He turned the key, the engine rumbled, and then Larry tapped the gas and headed down the disarrayed street.

Some amount of time had pas
sed when Larry turned on the radio for some tunes. The radio was silent as it had been for several days, so he turned it off and continued driving down the road. He finished his drink, set it down, then put on the brakes. He came to a complete stop in the middle of the road, but there was no one behind him to worry about. No honking horns, no obscene gestures. It was convenient but somewhat eerie. Larry withdrew a cigarette from one of the boxes that had spilled out onto the passenger’s seat and lit it with his polished metal lighter. He took a drag and moved his foot from the brake to the gas pedal.

As he was driving, Larry
’s mind remained full. He wondered about his friend, Evan. Was he safe? Was he even alive? Had he stayed in Chicago when this mess began? Larry had questions, but no answers. It was getting dark, and he was growing sleepy.

Pretty soon he decided to pull over, off the side of the road, under a large tree. Larry turned off the car, pocketed his keys, and went around to the back. The seat cover came off the back seat, and Larry la
y down in the floorboard with the cover over him. It was not the most comfortable of beds, but if a zombie happened around his car, he would not be noticed.

With the morning came a light drizzle. Small drops pitter-pattered on the roof of the car, and it dripped down the windows. Larry looked at his watch, and gave a despaired sigh. It was nearly nine a.m. He sat up,
stepped through the rain, and plopped into the driver’s seat.

For a few minutes, he stared out the window. It was just him and his car, and an abandoned car a little way behind him, and another in front. There were no zombies in the immediate area. He turned the car on and took off down the road. Along the way, there was a burning house, and the nearby zombies were flocking to it. Most of them walked right into the flames.

A few hours later, Larry parked the car in the driveway of an abandoned house. He wondered how long he could make it here as he carried his bags and the gas can to the front door. He’d slipped the empty Sobe bottle in one of the three sacks, and it clinked lightly with each step.

The door was not locked;
it wasn’t even blocked off or barricaded. The previous owners must’ve fled, and Larry wondered how they were doing now. Had they escaped the city?

Larry spent the day in this house. He barricaded the doors and windows on the ground floor, then ate
a sandwich and chips on the bed in the master bedroom. He ate in solitude, thinking about how he was going to die alone. Maybe not here, but somewhere, he was going to be all alone when he took his final breath. Tears began to fall from his eyes.

Some noises startled Larry. It was the sound of hands beating against the door. Larry stood up, chewing the last remnants of his dinner, a little excited. He rushed out of the room and down the stairs to see the visitors. They were hungry, and wanted in. Larry realized he had barricaded the doors and windows, but left almost all of the lights on.
Perhaps he would die here after all. Then he recalled the zombies rushing into the burning house from before.

While he went for the gas can and the Sobe bottle, Larry heard a window shatter. He
hurried back up the stairs and tore up a towel he found in the bathroom. The pungent gas splashed into the bottle, and some on the carpet. Larry stuffed the smaller towel piece into the neck of the bottle, then went into the bedroom across the hall.

It was a child
’s bedroom. Toys cluttered the floor. The bed was unmade, and the light was off. Larry opened the window. There was a gathering of at least a half dozen zombies at the front of the house. Larry took out his lighter. It gleamed in the setting sun as the flame leapt from within. He felt the heat from it as he held it to the shredded cloth. The flame began to creep along the makeshift wick. Larry held the bottle carefully, his hand shaking from the mixed emotions: Fear, worry, excitement, sadness.

Larry chucked the bottle as hard as he could. It broke open on the birdbath in the center of the yard. The gas spilled everywhere, engulfing a huge chunk of the front lawn in flames. The zombies almost immediately took notice, and quickly gained interest. He watched as the zombies dived into the orange flames. Their bodies bubbled in the heat. Larry went to bed shortly after the barbeque.

In the morning, the patches of grass had been charred. The bodies were unrecognizable black masses.

Larry spent another day alone, and come late afternoon a zombie broke in. It was one zombie, but its cries called others, and it was time for Larry to leave. The house was through with him. He got up from the bed
, where dozens of cigarette butts had been carelessly thrown. He gathered his bags of food, the remaining carton and a half of cigarettes, and the gas can. Larry looked closely at the carpet, found the spot where he had spilled gasoline the night before, and dropped his cigarette onto it. The carpet began to catch. Larry headed downstairs as the fire began to spread across the hall. He went into the kitchen and turned the light off, and when the zombies broke the door down, they headed straight up the stairs. When it was clear, Larry ran through the door and to his car. The engine roared to life, and Larry took to the road again.

Larry didn
’t like the nomadic lifestyle too much, but it seemed pretty fond of him. He lit another cigarette and savored its flavor. He made it last for as long as possible, since he didn’t know when he’d be able to find more. He smoked it to the filter, even burning his finger a time or two.

Finally, it burned out. With his eyes on the road and his right hand on the wheel, he flicked the useless butt into the passenger
’s seat. He continued his solitary journey, driving down the road as the flavor faded with the smoke.