Controlling the Dead (2 page)

“Marge, search them for weapons.”

A little old woman pokes her head up from behind a couch and scurries over to us, wringing her hands. She surveys both of us, but her eyes are on me. I start to get uncomfortable when she won’t stop staring at my face.

Marge finally starts with Reece in her search. “We’re not going to hurt you,” Reece explains.

The old man’s face turns red. “Only rob us blind!”

“No, we—” I start, but he levels his gun as if to shoot, and my stomach skyrockets to my throat.

“I didn’t tell you to speak, wench!”

Marge pops up from Reece’s boots with her fists on her hips. “Bill, that’s no way to speak to a lady!” She stares him down with a look that can possibly shrivel the rest of the hair on his head. Bill’s eyes never leave me as his mouth scrunches up like my status as a lady is questionable.

“Fine,” Bill grumbles. “What’s your business then?”

“My little lady friend thought there was a zombie up here. She has a thing about that,” Reece informs Bill.

“What were you doing down there in the first place?” he questions Reece.

I stay silent, watching the two men in their exchange. Marge has a small pile of weapons at her side. “We are looking for someone and any information we can get on what he does.”

The old man’s eye twitches in what I will call some sort of recognition.

Marge finds Reece’s sawed-off, holding it up for all to see. Bill’s eyes widen momentarily before peering at Reece. “I’ve always wanted to saw off my shotgun.” Contemplation laces Bill’s voice.

“I’ll show you whatever you want as long as I can put my arms down. They’re killing me.”

A snort bubbles through my nose as I try not to laugh. Marge smiles as she takes my guns from the shoulder straps of my new pack. Small hands feel around my waistband, and her brow furrows. Any humor I have dies, and my face heats.

She lifts my hoodie, removing the book. “Oh dear,” she whispers.

A long moment passes, and Reece sighs beside me. “There’s such a thing as talking, Kan.”

I shoot him a glare and hope he shuts up.

“For God’s sake!” Bill lowers his shotgun and motions to the couch. “Sit down.”

Marge grins at me. Reece drops his arms like they are putty. Picture frames sit on every available surface. Bill and Marge have been together a very long time. This realization makes my chest tighten.

Reece and I sit on the couch simultaneously. Bill plops down in front of us, laying his double barrel across his lap. He might have eased up, but he’s still tense with vigilant suspicion. Marge rummages through the kitchen before bringing slices of whatever had been cooling.

“No,” Bill protests.

Marge ignores him, handing me a piece of bread. “It’s not real bananas, just flavoring, but tastes the same.”

I glance down at the treasure in my hand. Banana bread is gold in my opinion. I should get a private room for this experience. “Thanks,” I manage with my rough voice.

“Don’t get used to it.” Bill glares at us. This whole situation is familiar, and it makes me sad to see them closing themselves off.

“We won’t over stay our welcome,” I assure him. “But you seem like you might know something about Mago.” I try to be nonchalant, but I can’t let his flash of recognition from earlier go.

“I don’t care to know anything about him. He keeps to himself with those things walking around with him.” He shifts, but claps his hands to cover up any nervousness. “Hurry up, you need to leave.”

I glance sideways to Reece as he chews. He shrugs as if content with only getting a piece of faux-banana bread. Reece might get angry, but I go out on a limb because I’m sure to be right. One minute he tells us to sit and the next wants us to leave. “I know to an extent you’re happy to see us. You don’t have to live here in hiding. There’s a community. With people, some are close to your age. Livestock and fresh produce—”

“Kan,” Reece starts as Marge gasps in excitement.

Bill stands up, gripping his shotgun. “Get your stuff and get out.” Tension thickens in the room as Reece and I comply, and I drop my banana bread in our haste.

“But Bill!”

“Shut up, Marge.”

Tears well in her eyes as the hope she just experienced drains. “I’m sorry,” I tell her. Bill swings the door open. Reece hands me my Bersa pistols and machete. I follow him, but turn to look at them one more time. “West side of Nashville—”

“He’s in the swamps!” Bill roars, slamming the door in my face. Great. That doesn’t really tell me much.

When I turn around, Reece peers up at me from a few steps down. His bushy eyebrows are visible even in the dark stairway.

“What?”

“You had to ruin our banana bread gig, didn’t you?” We laugh, and if he’s joking around then being mad at my big mouth is far from his mind.

*

Reece and I decide to check out the map and head to the swamps tomorrow. I’m not sure what to make of Bill and Marge just yet. I’m sad for them, but seeing them together at such an advanced age, especially in times like now, makes me feel something I can’t quite place.

We head to this old apartment in a bed and breakfast. We stay here because we can see out the windows and have a good view of the street in front and the back alley. It’s spacious with Fleur de Lis patterned wallpaper. Dust covers every surface, including the light blue, lace curtains.

I open an old bag of white cheddar popcorn, going into the bathroom to change my shirt.

Looking at myself in the mirror, my hair’s a tangled mess. My eyes are no longer swollen, but are still purple, with cheeks to match. Sometimes it still hurts to bend over from the damage done to my abdomen, which is turning a purple-yellowish color. My neck is the worst. It is uncomfortable to swallow and of course, my voice pipes are suffering. Being strangled, beaten, and raped will do this to a person. Considering myself lucky I’m still alive, I put the sunglasses and a zippered hoodie on, raising the hood.

Reece scoffs but it hints at laughter. A beer gut pokes out of the vest he sports without a shirt, because of the warm weather. Not that the cold would stop him. His blue jeans are full of holes, falling over his black biker boots.

I smirk as he hands me some water. Gulping it, I stride out to the balcony beyond the kitschy French-decorated sitting room.

We’ve picked up more weapons and ammunition along the way. I liked the Bersa pistols I had before, so I opted to stick with them. A brand new pack replaces my old battered one that the base confiscated. A lot of other supplies and goodies rest in a pile in the corner of the apartment.

For the balcony, I use my crossbow. I don’t want to draw more putrids to the alley, just shoot the ones walking around. The only reason I have the crossbow is because someone was thoughtful enough to bring it to me during the whole army base fiasco. We killed and almost died ourselves to save someone who didn’t want to leave the base. It inadvertently killed people, innocent people, I’m sure. My mind drifts to the playground at the base. The belly laugh of a toddler on a merry-go-round sounds in my ears as if I stand right in front of it. I stuff it down.

Reece sits and crosses his ankles on the cast iron patio table, munching on the stale popcorn. A map of New Orleans, held down by guns, stretches across the table. He watches me shoot a couple of putrids with arrows. Dead weight hits the ground in deep thumps. The sounds join in with their moans, resonating through the alley.

“You shouldn’t be so angry all the time,” he comments, rubbing his tattooed arm before continuing his munch-a-thon.

“I’m not angry,” I snap, but I don’t mean it. I’m more than angry. The newly acquired nightmares raise my anxiety level so high, I get easily fatigued. I keep waiting for something to trigger a panic attack.

“You can’t fool me, Kan,” he states, and I turn to stare at him. His beaded goatee sways with the breeze. “I used to be a counselor for a boys home in Detroit. I recognize the signs. I’ve been watching you rip doors off hinges and take down zombies like the PGA we’ve been drinking.” Sighing, he continues, “All the while hiding under that hood and those sunglasses. You came here to hide. Not only to hide, but mostly. I humor you. I won’t ask you what really happened to you. I get the gist of it, but… I don’t know. I’m not going to push you….” He lets his thoughts trail off into nothing.

I close my mouth from gaping. He completely catches me off guard. Reece never talks about his past life. Maybe if I don’t acknowledge it, he’ll extend the same courtesy and back off. “Oh yeah, you want me to talk it out.”

“Better than reading it from a book.”

Glaring at him, I see something out of the corner of my eye. “Did you see that?” I ask in a short breath. Reece peers over the balcony and shakes his head. “Someone’s looking at us from around that corner.” I point. His head whips in that direction. Sure enough, something bobs into view.

C
HAPTER
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“Shit!” A certain anticipation slithers through me like an old friend. It can easily be Bill or Marge, but I dismiss the idea. I doubt they’d go out after dark. I look around knowing I don’t have time to take the stairs and swap the crossbow for a gun on the table. Finding a gutter going down the side of the apartment, I climb over the railing while sticking the gun in the back of my pants.

Reece sees what I’m going to do. “Wait,” he says, reaching out at me. It’s too late. Already on the gutter, I make my way down when the frail metal groans. I look up to see my weight making it pop away from the top gutter.

The gutter pitches me backward, and I jerk instantly as it catches on a sturdier bracket. I let out a breath as my weight pulls at my hands, but I hold tight. The sidewalk is still a good ways down. I look up at Reece, grinning,

“Shit, that was—” The bracket snaps and the ground hurtles toward me. I brace myself, feeling the sharp sting in my feet as my legs jolt from the impact, sending a shockwave through my body. I stand up and grab my stomach from the discomfort, shaking out my legs.

“Idiot!” Reece calls down, but I turn and dash off.

“Hurry up, Reece!” I shout over my shoulder. I round the corner into an alley and don’t see anything. I slow to listen, looking the dark alley over. A putrid wearing a tattered dress with half a scalp of stringy hair starts crossing the street toward me, but I ignore it. A ding draws my attention to our intruder. The sharp sound echoes through the alley. I step softly toward an overflowing dumpster. The trash is almost five years overdue for pickup. “Hello. I want to talk,” I call, trying to sound nonthreatening.

The person apparently doesn’t want to talk. They take off, and so do I, getting close enough to see a boy around thirteen or fourteen. I grab the back of his shirt and swing him around.

“Who are you?” I ask. He stares at me wide-eyed and fearful. Sweat beads down his dark skinned temples as his chest rises and falls. All of my endurance training pays off, I breathe as if I’m on a Sunday stroll in Central Park.

Reece catches up to me, huffing. The boy jerks back when he sees Reece. I grab his arm before he runs away. “We aren’t going to hurt you,” I reassure him. “Are you the only one?” He shakes his head, keeping his eye on Reece as if he’s the biggest threat. I hold back a scoff and might sound irritated as I go on, “I’m looking for a man named Mago. I need to talk to him. It’s important.”

Big hands come into my line of sight as they latch onto me in a death grip. I crack out a scream when I realize it’s a famished. Drool drips from the zombie’s mouth. His skin and lips are blue with the milky white and bloodshot eyes of the living dead. My hands come up to keep it at a distance. Reece’s gun cocks as he prepares to shoot it.

The boy comes alive and screams, “Wait! No need ta shoot ‘em.”

What? He’s not the one Zombie Smurf wants to eat. The boy grabs it as the zombie releases its hold on me. I gasp as I rub my upper arms. “No, no!” The boy chides the zombie as he pulls something squirming out of his pocket, feeding it to the eager zombie.

I notice then the zombie’s clothes are clean and so is the boy. The zombie wears a sleeveless shirt and cutoff shorts. The boy has on a striped polo with khaki shorts. Neither one of them wear shoes. The boy’s little afro surrounds his head, neat and tidy.

I glance at Reece and exchange a befuddled look. We know we are in the right place, but I’m freaking out a little. I will my heart and breath to slow.

The boy eyes the gun Reece still has on his zombie. “No. I take ya ta Mago. Don’t shoot ‘em.”

Reece lowers the gun, never taking his eyes off the zombie. He nods to the boy, “Right now.” Reece uses his scary tone with a side of heavy demand.

The boy turns to lead the way. The zombie stands in the same place for several blocks. “Um… You’re forgetting your zombie,” I mention.

He looks at it. “Nah, not mine. He make ‘is way befo’ da swamp dog’s eat ‘im.”

Reece and I exchange more confused glances. Lifting a shoulder to Reece, I figure everywhere has different zombie etiquette, even though this goes against my grain. “What’s your name?” I ask by way of conversation.

“T. Paul.”

*

I don’t know how long we hike, but Bill was right. We head straight out of town and through some woods. Now we’re in a swamp. It smells swampy, like moss, stagnant water and reptile. The earth squishes beneath our feet and it’s so dark the stars peek through the treetops. I never take my glasses off, though. My legs ache to stop and my abdomen hates me. The dryness in my throat needs something because it burns. Reece huffs a little, and I begin to dread the walk back. “Where are we going?” The extra hoarseness in my voice makes Reece glance at me.

“Down the bayou,” he answers, which doesn’t reassure me any.

“We could have driven, it would have been faster,” I gripe.

I’m sure this never occurred to T. Paul from his silence. “I git someone ta take ya back.” That’s a relief.

More or less than two hours later, a light gleams in between trees and mossy stringy thingies. Sludge covers my boots, which irritates me. I walk through an invisible wall of gnats, effectively breathing some up my nose. By the time we come to a small housing development, I’ve sneezed out half my brain and I’m not in a mood to be friendly to anyone. Especially since there are numerous guns trained on us by several men.