Containment (36 page)

Thinking and worrying about it was starting to make Danny’s head hurt a little. He closed his eyes and tried to will the pressure away from his temples. He was starting to feel a little queasy too. He didn’t like all the anxiety from himself or the others, but it didn’t appear as if things would be getting any better any time soon.

He was pondering what he might be able to do when Jules said to him, “My head’s starting to hurt like my tummy.”

Danny opened his eyes and said quietly, “Mine hurt too.” He quieted his thoughts enough for him to realize that it wasn’t the tension or the fear that was causing the discomfort; there was a familiar buzzing, a dull, low hum that permeated the air all around them. He immediately knew what it was.

He said to Neil, who was still staring blankly at the wall, “Neil, I think they’re back.”

Not looking away from his spot on the wall, Neil asked, “Who’s back?”

“Them. The zombies...zekes...whatever you want to call them. I think they found us.”

Neil nodded his head and said coldly, “Yeah, it was just a matter of time really.”

“Shouldn’t we go tell the others? Shouldn’t we be doing something?”

Neil knew that Danny was right and felt the cold shame of his disregard cool his mood and his response even further. The memory of his failed marriage and his presently failing relationship with Meghan were weighing on him heavily.

He rose to his feet and stood still for a moment or two longer while Danny and Jules watched him, not sure what to do next. Silently, he walked out of the room and down the hall.

Jules asked Danny, “Are we gonna be alright?”

Danny nodded his head reassuringly and said as much for himself as for her, “Yeah. Neil will take care of us. He always has. I think maybe we should pack our stuff.”

If asked, Neil probably wouldn’t have been able to confirm that he was up to the task of making decisions anymore. In the swirling tempest of his self-loathing, he had no faith in his judgment or anything else of his for that matter. With his thoughts as heavy as hammers, he banged the martyr nails through his hands on his own self-imposed cross.

He slunk down the hall toward the others, who were running all about the house gathering supplies and figuring out the best way in which to carry the materials with them after they made their exodus to their temporary promised land. No one seemed to notice him coming into the room, at least no one appeared to look up and acknowledge him. Maybe they were all just being polite and not casting their accusing glares at him. Silently and alone, he walked out onto the back deck and looked out toward the east.

The mountains were engulfed in the heavy, grey clouds of autumn. Their peaks, rising just above the ashen soup, bore only the slightest dusting of snow, but there, plain as day, was the white evidence of winter’s impending approach.

Bad news seemed to greet him at every turn. How did that happen exactly? For a while it felt like he had his act together. For a change, people were looking to him for answers rather than for a sycophantic nod. And the funny thing was that he always seemed to have the answers and was able to steer all of them to safety.

All of them, except for Tony, Rachel, Kim, and now Dave and Malachi. Jesus, maybe they were all just fools for listening and he was even more foolish for opening his mouth in the first place. It had probably all been sheer luck and it felt like it was starting to run out on them.

He spent the rest of the day mindlessly going through the motions of packing his gear and preparing himself to be on the move again. He did most of this in the back room with the kids and away from everyone else, in a self-imposed exile.

In the other rooms of the house, everyone else was frantically going about collecting supplies. As the pile of backpacks started to form alongside an arsenal of weapons at the foot of the stairs near the front door, everyone’s mood began to match Neil’s.

The days they had spent in the house had become comfortable and were beginning to become predictable. And perhaps most importantly, they all felt safe and somewhat secure. There was plenty of food and water again. With scavenged batteries, they even had some entertainment with music and handheld video games. The house had taken on a lot of the same qualities as a home; a welcome change for all of them.

Those warm feelings were all coming to an abrupt and disappointing end, a fact that had shaken their collective morale. If morose were aromatic, the air would be heavy with it. It was just lucky that their circumstances prevented any of them from dwelling for too long on their present reality.

And once again they all came to the harsh conclusion that there never seemed to be enough time. Stepping just inside the front door, Jerry yelled, catching them all by surprise, “Tiiiiiiime to go!! Nowwwww!! They’re just up the road a ways! C’mon everyone! We gotta go!”

Emma was the first to the top of the stairs. Her eyes protested as loudly as cannons but all she could do was shake her head and pull her parka over her shoulders.

Meghan and Dr. Caldwell emerged from the downstairs bedroom now serving as a hospital ward for their lone patient. Rhetorically, Dr. Caldwell asked, “So soon? Really?”

“Yeah. They’re quite a distance up the road and movin’ slow.” To Meghan he answered the question that was forming but hadn’t been found by her voice yet, “And they’re definitely headed in our direction. They came around a corner and then turned toward us.”

She asked Dr. Caldwell, “Can we move him?”

“Safely? Probably not. But I don’t see that we have much of a choice as it is.”

With just a hint of emotion and a dash of hope, Meghan suggested, “We don’t have to run. Maybe we could just wait it out. Maybe they’ll pass us by.”

“Are you willing to gamble that chance with all of our lives to save Art’s? With your own? With Jules’? The cold honest truth is that even if we don’t move him, there is a better than average chance that he’s going to lose this battle anyway. He’s lost an awful lot of blood and it doesn’t seem to be stopping. And if infection sets in, there’s really nothing I can do about that other than give him the little bit of penicillin that we’ve been able to scrounge.”

Jerry said, “And I think as heavy as that blood scent is, it might just attract them to us anyway. I don’t think there is any hiding from them.”

“How many are there?” Dr. Caldwell asked. “Can we stand our ground? Maybe buy Art some time?”

“Dozens at least. Probably more. I couldn’t see the back of the pack because of the fog, the distance, and because they just kept coming around that corner. Hell, there might be more of them out there heading our way from other directions that just haven’t come into sight yet.”

Dr. Caldwell lamented, “We never seem to be able to catch a break.”

Meghan asked, “Where’s Neil?”

“I don’t know.” Jerry shrugged. “I’ve been out front on watch for the past couple of hours. Last time I saw him he was upstairs.”

Truly concerned for more than just the obvious reason, Meghan asked, “Is he alright?”

Jerry wasn’t happy with Meghan’s actions or her apparent decision to side with Art over Neil. He didn’t even bother to conceal his disappointment saying, “I really wouldn’t know. Maybe you should go ask?”

Trying to defuse the conversation a bit, Dr. Caldwell suggested, “Jerry, you better get back to it. And keep yourself safe. Don’t get tunnel vision and forget to watch all around. As you said, there could be more of them coming from every direction.”

“On it,” Jerry assured him, and went back out front, this time with his rifle in his hands instead of on his shoulders.

Claire came down the stairs silently with her coat on and her backpack slung over her shoulders and went outside to join Jerry. She shot an accusing look at Meghan as she did.

Dr. Caldwell and Meghan returned to the makeshift hospital room. Once inside the cramped room, Meghan said, “I don’t know what I’ve done. I didn’t know I had done anything really. I don’t remember choosing sides or one man over the other. I didn’t mean to start some kind of internal feud. I guess I didn’t even know that was happening in the first place. Now, I’ve got everyone mad at me and I’ve hurt Neil.”

“And yet here we are,” summed up Dr. Caldwell.

“Have I really hurt him that badly? I didn’t mean to. Hell, I didn’t even know that I was.”

Dr. Caldwell only looked up briefly from applying a clean dressing to the still oozing wound just below Art’s waist. He didn’t say anything.

She continued, “How did it all go so bad so fast? If it matters, I don’t think I did choose. I just saw someone who needed my help.”

“Was that before or after Art had been shot?”

“What does that mean?”

“Can you hand me the scissors?”

Meghan lifted the medical scissors from the dresser and put them in Dr. Caldwell’s hands. She asked him again, “Are you saying that...? Wait, what
are
you saying? Really, why should I feel guilty?”

“Do you?”

“Well yeah. Look at the mess that I apparently caused. How can I fix it?”

“Meghan, I don’t claim to be a relationship guru. That’s just not my specialty. I fix people when they’re physically hurt. I can help mend broken bones and, hopefully, gunshot wounds, but I can’t heal a broken heart or hurt feelings. I was never good at that sort of thing. Ask my wife.” With that comment, the doctor paused and thought about what he’d just said. He hadn’t thought about her in days, which brought on a degree of guilt. He thought about the last time that he had been insensitive to her and about his stubborn pride in refusing to admit it. He thought about how foolish he’d been and how he regretted not having gotten the chance to say that he was sorry for hurting her feelings.

He said to Meghan, “I can only say that the past few weeks has taught me that if you have something that needs to be said to someone that you care about, then you should probably say it before it’s too late.”

Meghan started to walk out of the room, but turned back to Dr. Caldwell. “But I don’t know how.”

“That, my friend, is just something you’ll have to figure out for yourself.”

He muttered under his breath, “Lord have mercy. This man is already heavy.” Gerald was, of course, referring to the stricken Art. Jerry, Emma, and he were toting the travois like a three-handled stretcher, electing not to have it dragged behind a single person.

They needed to move faster and quieter than the traditional method would allow. For the moment, they were doing just that; moving fast and quiet. The distance between themselves and the likely hundreds of ghouls hot on their tracks was growing little by little. The tortured, hollow groans and the buzzing in Jerry’s, Claire’s, Danny’s, and Jules’ chests were becoming more and more faint. A couple of well-timed turns at a pair of corners placed their hunters out of sight but definitely not out of mind.

Emma said, “We’re not going to be able to keep this up forever. My arms are already starting to hurt. And my legs, well let’s just say our recent diet and my poor aerobic activity before all of this went down are not making my muscles like me very much.”

To that Evelyn stepped up next to Emma and offered to relieve her of her duty. Emma shook her head and said in her best exercise instructor voice, “It’s okay. I’ll work through the burn. Thanks though. My point is that we’re not going to be able to haul his ass around indefinitely.”

Emma thought to herself that Evelyn was easily twice her age and her arms were no bigger around than Jules’ were. Gerald too was older by just as many years. She could see the strain in his face as he struggled to maintain the pace while not dropping Art. Thankfully, Dr. Caldwell was able to sedate Art enough so that the jostling nature of his transport would not solicit the whimpering groans that would give them all away. As it was, Art was no more expressive than the fiends that were chasing them.

Stopping to catch his own breath a bit, Dr. Caldwell answered her dryly, “We have to find another hiding spot to rest up and maybe drop off their radar. That’s all. It’s worked before.” He looked behind them at the empty street and finished, “Things are already starting to get better. See, we’ve left them all behind.”

Emma answered, half-joking, “Easy for you to say. You’re not acting the part of a pack mule.” She smiled at the doctor and even managed a wink.

The joking and discussion came to an abrupt end as they rounded the next corner. In the middle of the street and staggering straight for them was another mob of perhaps twenty of the undead creatures. Their slow and clumsy gait gathered both steam and purpose as their enraged eyes caught sight of their approaching warm meal.

Claire, leading the others, shouted, “Shit!” and stopped dead in her tracks. Most of these things had once been soldiers. Their camouflaged uniforms were rank and filthy, decaying almost as quickly as the occupants were. The one nearest her was missing part of his left arm, though the rotting stump was hungrily reaching out toward her. Another of them was dragging behind it, like a modern electronic umbilicus, the wire and silent phone receiver to the pack radio set on his back. Each had been gnawed and mutilated to death. Claire took several steps backward to join the others who were standing as immobile and indecisive as she.