Dead Quarantine (19 page)

Sarah faced the door. What might be behind
it might make her break her promise. She knocked. And she
cried.

Behind that door was the unmistakable moan
of the living dead. Her mother or baby brother. No, not her
brother. He could barely walk at ten months and he most likely
would be locked inside his room. It was her mom. She had to know.
She had to get inside, even if it killed her. She thought about
Ralph's words. If things turned out for the worst, he would wait
for her. She wiped away her tears. Before she took him up on any
offer, she had to take care of this first.

She walked around to the back of the house.
A distance away stood the shed her father kept his tools in.
Cobwebs covered the entrance. Since his death five years ago,
neither she nor her mom had entered the shed. It was his place of
retreat away from his family, from the bratty little kid she was.
Her lips quivered. He was not a bad dad. He just sucked at being
social. He never hit her and he made sure no one dared to touch
her. This quickly changed after he died. She didn't want to linger
on those thoughts. Too much misery waited in that house already to
also deal with the ghosts of the past.

She wiped the cobwebs aside and plodded
inside the shed. Next to his wooden workbench she saw what she
needed. She picked the lumber axe up. Carrying it in both hands,
she strode to the back door. Her mom left it open during the day, a
habit she kept even after her father's death. She slowly swung the
door open and pussyfooted through the living room, careful not to
knock anything over. She closed in on the incessant moaning at the
front door. It was her mother with her back turned to her. She had
her long, blond hair hanging loose and she had on her favorite
calf-length, pink nightgown with side split to the knee.

Sarah raised the axe. Her hands trembled and
the ax swayed in the air—the weight of it increased by what she had
to do.

“Mom?”

Slowly her mother turned around. Tears
streamed from Sarah eyes. She swung the ax, cleaving her mother's
head in two. The zombie staggered two steps forward and then
slumped down against Sarah, pushing her back. Her mother's blood
covered her body. Sarah faltered to the wall. She leaned on one
hand, and the other limply hung at the side of her body, dragging
the axe on the floor. She hung her head, eyes closed, forcing the
sobs and tears away. She was not finished yet; the worst was still
to come.

Sarah went up to her brother’s room. Little
Benny. He had been a late addition to the family, the blooming of a
short relationship her mother had with some guy. He had been
another loser in a string that came before him. The day he heard he
would be a daddy was the day he enlisted in the Army.

She entered his room. He lay in his bed. A
tiny boy in such a large bed. The railing kept him from rolling
off. He seemed okay, sleeping, most likely dreaming about better
days. She dared not hope that he was all right. But there he was
with no mark on him. She couldn't help but hope, and for once she
let go of her guard. She ran up to him, whispering his name in
astonishment. She lifted him out of bed and held him close in her
arms. All color drained from her face and twitched from a happy one
to a crying one. He was cold, so cold. He stirred in her arms and
bit down hard. Reflexively, she dropped him. He fell on his head
with a loud crack that broke her heart and his tiny head.

In a daze, she plodded back down to her
father's shed. She got a spade and started digging a large and
small hole. She was alone on the world. No family. No real friends.
Just one acquaintance. She was not sure if she would join him or
dig a third hole. She put all thoughts aside and kept digging.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Sitting behind the counter, rocking as he stared at the wall, Ralph
didn't hear the moan from the zombie that rose up. It was only when
its shade fell over him that he looked up, befuddled.

“Steward?”

It was Steward all right, although a dead
Steward who had returned from his eternal slumber to exact his
revenge on his killer. It took some time for it to register in
Ralph's mind. By the time his survival instinct kicked in, it was
too late. Steward had a hold of him, pinning him down with his
weight. His teeth snapped together, dying to get some meat. Ralph
pushed with all his weight. He twisted his torso and slammed the
large man against the wall. Prescription drugs rained on them from
the wall cabinet.

Ralph pushed himself away and scrambled
back, pushing with his feet as he went. He touched something cold.
He swiped the floor and grabbed his gun. The zombie was rising up
again. Ralph swung the gun, aimed, and shot. The bullet pierced the
wall ten inches above the head. He grabbed the gun with both hands
as the zombie came plodding toward him. He squeezed out bullet
after bullet until he heard a click. The zombie shuddered with the
impact until the last one blew the cap of its head off. It slumped
to its knees and stayed that way only a foot away from where Ralph
sat on the ground.

Ralph quickly got up, struggling with the
gun to get the clip out and the other one in. He fumbled with his
fingers, his heart beating faster with each failed try. The other
one. The red cap guy must be around somewhere. He didn't know how
much time he had. He finally got the clip out. It clattered on the
titled floor. Ralph’s heart beat in his eardrums. He rammed the
spare clip in and aimed.

Not a single zombie left standing. The red
cap man still lay in the same spot where he shot him, still dead,
not animated dead. His mind raced; he couldn't focus. He couldn't
explain it. He had already lost too much time. He quickly gathered
the medicine from the list. And before he left, he grabbed his
hammer, which had been strewn on the floor near a pool of
blood.

In the car, he sighed. He prayed that Ginny
was okay and raced home. What would normally take five minutes, he
did in two. There were no cops around to pull him over. They were
dead. The world had turned upside down, rules didn't apply, and
laws were extinct. He stopped the car, wheels screeching.

His father's car was parked on the curb. He
walked over and put his hand on the hood. The engine was still hot.
He was so grateful that his family was back together; it knocked
the worry away from him. He banged his fist on the door, but no one
answered. He tried the knob and pushed the door a little bit open.
Dread clawed up from his belly, each touch making his body feel
clammy. His heart beat a second beat for every other second. His
mind felt confused between a happy state and downright terror that
everything good would be snuffed out from him within a second.

“Mom? Dad?”

He pushed the door farther open. The hall
was empty. He had to find them. Ralph closed the door behind him.
He didn’t make a sound. He hoped to hear his mother asking who was
there; he strode to the living room and kitchen. Everything was
like it was, but his father's jacket was neatly draped over the
dining room table chair and his keys sat on top of the table. He
put the bag next to the keys. The hammer he kept tight in his
hand.

The sight of the jacket and keys should have
put him at ease. With his father having had the time to leisurely
do so, they had to be safe, but it didn't put him at ease at all.
The silence in the house did not sit well with him. Something was
wrong. The house was too quite. If the jacket and keys were not
here, then it could have been that his dad and mom were outside,
but they were not.

He went upstairs. The bedroom doors were
closed, so was Ginny's. This was where they should be. Inside with
Ginny. He put a hand on the knob. What if nothing was going on that
the both of them just sat on Ginny's bed, consoling her, and he
came waltzing in covered in blood with a hammer raised high. He
hesitated. He pushed the door open and stuck his head in.

Mom lay on Ginny's bed. Her throat ripped
out. His dad lay in a pool of blood facedown. Ginny stood with her
back to him, standing over his dad. Fresh blood dripped from her
fingers. Dread rushed him, paralyzing him. He squeaked her name,
Ginny.

She slowly turned around. Her face was
covered in blood. Her eyes had a film of white over them. Her lips
were crusted. Her skin was gray. His sister was no more. She had
been dead for a day. She lurched forward, stretching out one bloody
finger. The distance closed steadily and he could not move. Ginny
cocked her head sideways and moaned.

He should do it—kick the door open and slam
his hammer in her face—but he couldn't. It was Ginny, sweet little
Ginny. There had to be a cure to make her normal. To get her back.
His mother, who was lying on the bed, stirred. His father pushed
himself up. His whole family was dead. They were walking toward
him, wanting him to join them. Forever together, roaming the world
in search of human flesh.

Ginny’s left arm reached through the
opening, grabbing his arm and pushing the door open with her body.
Mom and dad were right behind her. Ginny pulled his hand close and
bore her teeth in the ball of his hand. The pain shot through him.
He cried out. The pain slapped him out of it and woke him up to
reality. They were not his family anymore. In death, they were
monsters out to get the living. A virus took them away from him.
The zombie biting him wasn't Ginny anymore.

He slammed the hammer on top of its head,
cracking the skull. The zombie went down at his feet.

His dad, who was fifty pounds heavier than
Ralph, grabbed his shoulders and pulled him closer. Its teeth tore
through the fabric of his jacket and shirt and broke his skin. The
clothes kept the zombie from being able to rip a chuck off. Ralph
pushed hard. The zombie staggered back. He swung the hammer,
breaking its jaw. It could not bite anymore. He still held onto
him, though. His mother came around his dad and grabbed Ralph's
hand holding the hammer. She bit his forearm. He yelped. He gritted
his teeth and waited for the inevitable end.

Pinned down, he knew it would only be a
matter of time before they finished him and made him their meal.
Someone rushed up the stairs, making a lot of noise, which drew
their attention. His mom stopped biting him and raised her head. It
still held his arm. He couldn't use his hand. His dad pushed his
head against his neck, trying to bite him, but it only made it
difficult for him to glance sideways. An axe soured through the air
and cleaved his mother’s head in two. She slumped to the carpet. He
pushed the zombie gnawing at his neck and smashed an eye in. It
fell backward. Ralph slid down the wall onto the floor.

“I'm sorry, so, so sorry,” Sarah said. “I
should have come sooner.”

He turned his head. She was covered in
blood; her arm was bitten—tiny uneven teeth marks. Her hands had
dirt on them—just like his soon would. And she had cried. He could
see where the tears had run over her dirty face. She had cried like
he was crying now. He rested his head back against the wall,
sobbing. She hugged him, cradled him, and moved him away from the
corpses of his family.

Sarah helped him to the sofa and sat next to
him. He sat dazed, looking nowhere. The image of what had just
happened kept spinning in his mind, building up the sorrow. He felt
as if he would lose himself if he said nothing, did nothing, to get
his mind off his distress. Finally, it was Sarah that said
something, but that did not keep him away from the dark
thoughts.

“I...I also had to kill my family. They
didn't get better at all—just like yours.”

He grabbed her hand. “No, my mom got better
and I think my father never got ill. It was my sister that got to
them.”

Ralph pointed at the bag on the dining
table. “I went to get some medicine for Ginny; I didn't know she
was already dead. My mom never told me.” He wiped the tears away.
Anger rose in his voice. “My father came home while I was gone. Had
I come back sooner, this wouldn't have happened. They would still
be alive.”

She held him tighter.

“My brother bit me. Does it mean we'll turn
like them?”

“I don't know.”

She sighed. “If it happens, please shoot
me.”

“Only if you die and turn, not everybody
turns. I killed two men today.” He felt her body stiffen next to
him, and she squeezed his hand holding hers. “It was in self
defense,” he quickly added. “One turned, the other stayed dead.
Both were okay, not everyone turns.”

He looked at her and saw a confused look on
her.

“Nothing is clear about how it works. We may
die or live, and no one knows the how and why.”

Sarah stood up, grabbed the bag from the
table, and turned it upside down. From the pile, she took one box
and opened it, popped out two pills. She returned with the pills
and two glasses of water and gave Ralph one glass and a pill.
“Swallow. For the pain.”

He followed her example and swallowed the
pill, flushing it down with water.

“Do you have any bandages?'

“Upstairs in the bathroom cabinet.”

Sarah went upstairs for the medicine kit. He
didn't want to do it, but sooner or later he had to go up and drag
his parents and Ginny outside to bury them. And after he did that,
what would they do? Play house in this city full of death? Move
out? To where? And what was the point of surviving? He wondered if
the doctor on the radio was still alive. She said that one percent
would be immune, which would mean close to seventy million
worldwide. In the USA alone that would be three million, but how
many died the first day? How many really would still be breathing
within the first few weeks? Considering how many times he had
already brushed with death, it wouldn't be many. The doctor also
said about four percent were resistant. That would increase the
odds for humanity a little, fifteen million possibly alive. He
would be surprised if a tenth of them survived the first week. He
had no idea about himself. Was he immune or resistant? If he was
the former, he doubted a few bites would hurt him, but if he were
the latter, then it wasn't so certain that he would be safe.