Chris Wakes Up (2 page)

What am I looking for? 

He stared into the sink, trying to make sense of the scattered objects. Familiar, but meaningless. The buzzing continued.

Something clicked in his head.
The blue box!
He opened it, found an adhesive dressing, then remembered what it was and what to do with it. He removed the backing, pressed the dressing against his skin, and sat on the bathroom floor, lost in thought and happy he’d been able to dress the wound. He sat with a smile on his face for what seemed an eternity before he was snapped from his thoughts by a sound outside his house.

“Hello?” a man’s voice called.

Chris closed his eyes, trying to place the voice, familiar but faceless. 

Who the hell is out on the streets with everything that’s going on out there?  Either a soldier, a fool, or both.

“Chris? Allison? You in there?”

Chris stood, then stumbled towards his front door, finding it hard to get his body to do what he wanted, like suddenly trying to drive stick when you only knew automatic. He opened the door to a brown haired man in his mid 30s. The man was smiling. At first. Then the man was staring at Chris, a nervous look on his face.

“Jesus Christ, what happened?” 

Chris tried to remember the man who obviously knew him, but his mind was coming up blank for a name.

The man came in, closed the door, and locked it. “What happened?”

Chris tried to tell him, but nothing came out other than his horrible groans. 

The man’s eyes doubled in size. 

“Oh my God,” he said, backing up toward the door, “Y . . .  You’re infected.”

The bees buzzed louder in Chris’s head and something clicked inside him, an intense, immediate hunger that had to be sated now. But not sated by food. His mouth salivated at the thought of biting in the man’s flesh. His stomach, round, large, looked as appealing to Chris as a juicy burger would have yesterday. Even though a part of him was surely disgusted by the notion of biting, much less eating a person, that part was drowned out by a hunger which seemed as natural as any other.

The man realized he was in danger and fumbled with the doorknob, trying to open the door as Chris moved towards him. The man’s hand managed to unlock the door and he pushed through it, then fell forward outside, tripping once, twice, then popping back up and turning back frantically towards Chris, before running across the street, and into the neighbor’s back yard. 

Chris looked up, saw smoke smothering much of the skyline. Something
had exploded
. Many things had, judging from the number of spirals graying the sky. Gunshots which sounded like artillery you’d hear in the background of a war movie, fired in the distance. There was a stench in the air, a sickly sweet smell Chris recognized on a primal level.

Death.

Part of him was alarmed, compelled to run back inside the house, and hold her hand. Maybe finish the job he’d set out to do, and not miss his brain this time.

Hold her hand. Hold . . .  Shit!

He couldn’t remember her name.

The buzzing continued, and he shook his head violently, annoyed.

Suddenly, a scream came from across the street in the direction the man had run. The buzzing grew louder, its tone slightly changing. He ambled toward the house across the street, led more by instinct than curiosity. As he rounded the rear of the house, he saw the man standing in front of a doghouse, waving a shovel at three of the infected, who were in much worse condition than Chris. They looked like they’d shuffled right off the set of a zombie movie. 

“Stay away from her!” the man screamed.

Her? 

That’s when Chris saw the huddled figure inside the doghouse – a young girl, maybe eight years old. She looked familiar, but he couldn’t remember her name. The three monsters were completely infected; skin mottled, bloody and rotting. Teeth were dark, stained in blood. Eyes red. They moved slowly, as if confused or drunk, but seemed no less dangerous. One of them caught hold of the shovel, managing to keep hold as another one of the creatures leaped onto the man, sinking his teeth into the man’s neck. Blood gushed from the man’s wound as the creature pulled its head back, tearing ragged strips of the man’s flesh.

Chris stared, repulsed, and . . . 
hungry.
 

The girl in the doghouse screamed, drawing the zombies’ attention. 

Two of the zombies broke away from the newly dead man as the third stayed on top, biting and swallowing chunks of the man’s face. They cornered the girl. She scurried back, screaming. 

Chris stared, helplessly. The bees were now agitated, deafening in his head, growing angrier by the second, as if in response to what was happening. He had to save the girl. He screamed, though it was more of a shriek, and all three of the zombies turned to look at him. 

Fuck,
he thought, realizing he had no weapon.

But they didn’t approach him. The one monster continued to feast on intestines as the other two bent down, clawing into the doghouse.

Chris stumbled toward the doghouse, picked up the shovel the dead man had dropped, and swung it into the skull of one of the two monsters. Its head imploded like a rotten pumpkin, blood and brain spilling from its broken shell as its body collapsed. The second monster turned, and Chris swung again, killing it in two blows.

The third zombie continued feasting on the dead man, pulling at his intestines like overcooked spaghetti, one eye on Chris the whole time, like a mad dog glaring at those who threatened its food. 

Stay away; my meal!

Chris bent down and looked into the doghouse. The girl cried out. 

He wanted to tell her to come out, it would be okay, he would help her. But he knew his mouth wouldn’t work. And to her, he probably seemed no different than the creatures who were trying to eat her. As he got closer to the entrance of the doghouse, she stopped screaming, as though she recognized him. The girl scrambled from the doghouse, running right to him and wrapping her arms around his waist, crying. The buzzing in his head again grew louder as he tried to remember the girl. He’d seen her before, but couldn’t remember where. She obviously knew him, and was looking to him for salvation. 

He picked her up, drawing attention from the last of the monsters, who looked up from its meal as if considering a snack. Chris growled at the monster and bared his teeth, a primal
don’t you fucking dare.

* *

Chris brought the girl inside his house and lay her on the sofa.

“What’s wrong with your head?” she asked as Chris bolted the door, checking the window to make sure no one had followed them. He saw three more creatures a few houses over, shuffling about, not seeming to have taken notice of them. He turned back to the girl, who was sitting, staring at him, clutching one of the pillows. He tried to answer her. His words came out as a groan and the girl’s eyes widened, but not with the same fear that the man had. Maybe the girl wasn’t aware enough to know what he was becoming; she merely sensed that
something
was wrong.

“Are you okay?” 

The buzzing in his head wasn’t as loud, but it was as pervasive as it had been, and seemed to change frequencies often, making it even more difficult for Chris to organize his thoughts. The sound was like someone were turning a radio station dial in his head, except the static was replaced by buzzing, and they could never find a channel with anything resembling a clear signal. He felt like half his brain was focused on trying to interpret the buzzing, and was therefore unable to handle other functions, such as remembering how to speak or names or faces. As he tried to figure out how he could talk to the girl, an image managed to break through the confusion – the magnetic message board on the fridge.

Chris went into the kitchen, removed the board from the fridge, then wiped the words, a shopping list, off with his shirt. He sat in the recliner across from the couch and wrote with the dry erase marker, “I’LL BE OK. MY NAME IS CHRIS. WHAT’S YOURS?”

He set the board on the coffee table, which sat between his chair and the couch. He watched her read it. Judging from her reaction, his words were not nearly as clear to her as they were to him. Maybe his brain was so damaged he couldn’t make proper words by mouth
or hand.
Or maybe she couldn’t read, though she seemed old enough. She wiped the board on her pink and blue tee shirt, and wrote back, “My name is Summer.”

Chris breathed a sigh of relief.

She wrote again, “I’m 9.”

He stared at her, stomach growling. Images flooded his mind: biting her, tearing into her flesh, chewing. He closed his eyes, trying to imagine something, anything else, to make the images, and the hunger, go away. More thoughts swam through his mind: reaching out, pulling her head back, biting her cheek, then into her soft stomach, tearing at her fatty flesh and swallowing it. He closed his eyes tighter, trying to cast the images out, only to have them sharpen. He opened his eyes and squeezed his injured arm, in a desperate attempt to create pain that would overrule his hunger and horrible thoughts. The surge of pain worked, and he was able to look at her again and keep the violent impulses under control . . .  for the moment.

Summer erased the board again, then wrote, “Are you sick? My parents got sick.”

He stared at her, not wanting to say yes, not wanting to scare her away. He tried to tell himself that he only wanted to keep her safe, to keep her in his house to protect her. And it was true . . .  of part of him. Another part had calculated that the minute she left, he could no longer eat her, so this monster inside him would keep her around as long as possible until it won the battle brewing in his head.

The bees were seething. 

Tell her yes, you’re sick. Scare her. Save her!

He swallowed, shook his head no; he wasn’t sick. 

He held out his hand, asking for the board. She wiped her words away and slid it across the table.

He wrote, “WHERE ARE YOUR PARENTS?”

He slid the board to her. The girl started to erase it, then laughed. Chris was confused.

“I don’t know why I’m writing,” she said, “
I
can talk just fine.”

Chris laughed. At least it started as a laugh, but came out sick and congested.

“My dad got sick and ran outside so he wouldn’t infect us. He was shot by soldiers two days ago. My mom locked me in the cellar and told me she was sick, too, and not to come out no matter what. She put a bunch of food and water in there, but in the middle of the night, someone came in and shot her. I heard voices asking if anyone else was in the house, but I was too scared to say anything. I came out this morning and was looking for anyone I knew.”

He held out his hand and she slid the board to him.

“DO YOU KNOW ME?” He held the board up.

“We live . . .  lived, four houses down, but no, I don’t know you or . . .  Is your wife here?”

Chris’s mind flashed on the body upstairs, trying to remember her name, which had been deleted from his brain and replaced by incessant buzzing. He shook his head and the girl seemed to understand.

How can I not remember her name? 

To not die beside her was a cruel enough fate, but to surrender her memory to whatever disease that was ravaging him? That was beyond cruel. 

“Does it hurt?” the girl asked, pointing to his head.

He nodded.

“Can I help?” she asked, standing up and walking towards him.

As she drew closer, his hunger stirred and his hands started to tremble. He put one on top of the other, trying to hold it down. He glared at her, shook his head, and tried to say, “No!”

Summer jumped back, startled, eyes wide.

“You
are sick
, aren’t you?”

 He stared at her, his inner-buzz near deafening. He wanted to shake his head no. Draw her closer. His eyes were glued to the part of her arm, just beneath the sleeve of her shirt. He wanted to grab it, sink his teeth in. Snap her neck, bite her throat, drink her blood. Then he’d tear open her soft stomach, shove his hands into her, and feast as the monster had done on the man across the street. Chris’s body began to shake as the buzzing grew louder and his humanity struggled to maintain control.

“Are you sick?” she asked again, eyes wide, so innocent.

She will believe anything I say. 

That vulnerability made him cry inside. If she left his house, she would be doomed by the first infected to find her. But if she stayed here, he was the danger. Reluctantly, he nodded his head yes, tears streaming down his face. He grabbed the board, erased the words quickly, and scribbled, “GO AWAY! HUNGRY!”

The girl stared at the board, eyes tearing up.

“Please, mister, don’t make me leave. It’s so scary out there. Do you have an attic? You could lock me in?”

“NOT SAFE.” he wrote, turning away from her, unable to look at her without surrendering to the violent images. The swarm had multiplied, buzzing with different frequencies, all clamoring to be heard.
To be understood.

He shook his head, as if it would silence the sound or numb his hunger.

“You’re not one of the bad ones,” the girl said, “I can tell.”

He slowly lifted his head, arms shaking violently now, and stared at her.

Why won’t she fucking leave?

Suddenly, a window in the kitchen shattered. The girl screamed.

Chris stood up and made his way to the kitchen, legs stiff and splintered in pain, every step an effort. One of the creatures had broken the sliding glass door and was pushing his way into the house, moaning loudly, crimson eyes looking past Chris and toward the living room as if catching a whiff of the girl’s fresh scent. The buzzing grew louder, as if it were no longer just in Chris’s head, but also being broadcast from the open mouth of the monster in his kitchen.

Chris screamed at the girl to run upstairs, but his warning came out as grunts, and the girl instead hid behind the couch. Chris grabbed a knife from the butcher block with both hands and rushed at the monster, shoving the blade deep into its face, and up through the top of its skull. The zombie fell to the ground, dagger still in its skull.