Dead Things (20 page)

The invader moves fast, finding the hindbrain in less than thirty minutes time from entry. Technically, the body barely has time to mount an immune response. Yet the invader makes sure some of its troops linger throughout the Jessica’s body, especially near her lymph nodes.

It wants to be discovered. It expects to be discovered. That’s all part of the plan too. It wants to cause as much damage to the immune system as possible.

Why? Because it doesn’t want to be like its cousin, the parasite responsible for the resurrection of cadavers.

Its cousin (one day the microbe will have a nice sanitary name like NAP Type 2) is the milder form. It shuns attention. It has been living in Jessica’s brain since she was a child—just as it inhabits most people, hiding in their grey matter, cocooned in a cyst, like toxoplasma gondii, which infected billions of cat owners prior to the New Order. When Type 2 does break out, a rare occurrence in the living, it is immediately checked by the immune system. The infected might exhibit symptoms of the flu, or they may not show any signs at all. Only natural death unlocks its secrets, just as Heston hypothesized.

The version tearing Jessica apart, Type 1, has mutated to exploit the immune system. This evolutionary improvement increases both its virulence and the opportunity for contagion. It does not want to stay hidden in the brain like Type 2, kept in check by a jealous co-star. This invader is a media whore, and unlike its camera-shy relative, it is ready for its close-up. It will have its time on the stage, the director be damned.

And the stage? The brain.

This is where the invader takes up permanent residency, building its base in the brain stem, spreading throughout the cerebellum and along the top edges of the brain to the motor cortex, the area responsible for bilateral movement and locomotion.

The brain. This is where the invader will reign, driving the decedent’s actions through chemical manipulation. It hijacks the hypothalamus, stimulating the ventromedial nucleus, mimicking the triggers for hunger. It spurs the need for food intake—although most of the devoured flesh spills from the monsters’ torn cheeks or rots in their esophagus or stomach.

The brain. This is where the invader will reproduce, using the facial and glossopharyngeal nerves to carry it from the brainstem to the decedent’s mouth, just a bite from finding a home in its next victim.

The brain. This is the organ that must be destroyed to halt the trespasser and its host in their tracks.

Jessica can feel her body being rampaged. She can feel it losing the war and her mind losing control. Her appetite is growing. “I don’t want to become one of them,” she says to Wright.

Wright hands her the shotgun. She reminds her that there’s only one round. She’s got just one shot, so to speak.

Jessica isn’t worried. “It’s a shotgun,” she jokes. “There’s some room for error.” She agrees she will wait until they are clear. She smiles, tells Wright to tell Anne goodbye.

She’s looking forward to heaven. She can’t wait to find out how Harry Potter ends.

**

Wright awakens the others during the darkness of the morning hours. There are a number of questions. “Where’s Jessica?” “Where’s Ian?” Wright provides them the opening details of the plan.

Once the crying subsides, Wright carries on with the briefing.

When they jump from the bathroom window, they’ll need to move quietly, and they’ll need to move quickly. They should run flat out for half an hour. Wright will keep pace with the slowest. After that they can slow to a jog. Once at the highway, they will track north. She tells them to count mile markers. They will rendezvous ten miles north, near the closest overpass.

Van is out first. He drops silently, no sign of the monsters. He hears shouts in the distance. The howls have drawn them away.
Poor Ian
, he thinks.

Anne’s bag almost hits him in the head. He grabs it, steadies Anne as she jumps. She grunts when she hits, but Van has her up and moving in a beat. Van thinks he hears Burt, then Wright, drop from the window. He doesn’t wait to find out. They can handle themselves. Van will watch the sky as they run, keeping the coming light on the right side of his body.

They run, following the line of a deer path. Van’s heart is beating hard in the cage of his chest. He opens his mouth wide, an effort to silence his panting. He keeps a hand out, ensuring Anne is at his side. Branches and brush whip their legs.

There’s a gunshot. A shotgun blast.

Anne crumples, starts to sob. Van quickly puts a hand over her mouth, an arm around her waist. “Not here,” he whispers. They have to keep moving. There will be time enough later to mourn Jessica’s death.

**

It is funny that Ian would choose to play decoy, to lead the creatures away from his friends. Funny because of a similar choice eighteen years earlier. A choice that would save Ian’s young life.

Once Peter is past the Loop, he progresses more swiftly. It takes him just under an hour to reach the front steps of his brownstone. He trips up the steps, spilling onto the porch below the bay window. He curses, holds his knee, goes for the keys.

The door opens before he can get to it. “Oh my God, are you hurt?” a young woman asks. She embraces a child and runs to greet him. Her hand goes to his face, cradling it to make sure it is indeed him.

The Mayor declares martial law. The newscasters warn to stay inside, doors locked, curtains drawn, and lights down when possible. But there is a terror plain on their faces that belies this advice.

An internal voice tells Peter they are wrong. The voice tells Peter to get out of this city. Go south, it says. Fast.

She packs while Peter readies the car. She grabs a photo album, some of Peter’s clothes. She grabs what he’s thrown on the bed, what he wore today, a navy striped tie and dress shirt, and then jeans, socks, underwear, whatever. She can hardly think straight, she doesn’t know how to prepare.

Peter decides to take Mr. Carr, their elderly and solitary neighbor, with them.

He helps his wife carry the suitcases down the stairs. Ian is crying. He wants his stuffed Curious George. The front room is darkened, and Peter can’t find Ian’s stuffed animal. His wife tries to help and makes the mistake of turning on the light.

“Turn it off,” he says, with a hushed intensity.

She does so without delay, but has the damage been done?

Peter creeps to the bay window, peers through the curtains. On the street three men stand under the lit street lamp. One turns, meets his glance directly. He lurches towards their home. The others follow.

Shit. Peter turns, hurries his wife and son to the rear of the living room. She tries to grab the suitcases. He tells her to leave them.

There’s pounding on the steps, next at the door.

She urges Ian to be quiet as the shadows cross the window. Three, four, now five of them. One slaps the window with an open hand, then slaps harder. It breaks. They come through.

These people care not for pain. They tear themselves apart coming over the broken glass. Peter cannot fight them. They are not people. They are wild animals. He rushes his wife and son into the closet.

“Don’t wait for me. Get to your mother’s!” he shouts. “I love you!” He slams the door and begins furiously screaming at these things, these intruders.

He has their attention. Shit. He runs.

They follow.

Peter returns to his home nearly twelve hours later.

He spent the night on the roof of the corner store. From that vantage point he spied them, dozens, if not hundreds, stumbling about like drunken Cubs fans, with one key difference: Cubs fans generally don’t eat other fans. The crying peaked toward midnight. But both it, and the crowd, thin towards morning.

He uses alleys and gangways to get home, hiding in dumpsters and underneath cars.

Home. Not anymore. The living room is in shambles. There’s no sign of his family, nothing but a hastily scribed note. The lettering is bleary with her tears, yet still legible. It says: “Peter, Mr. Carr found us. We are driving to mother’s. We are fine. God, where are you? I love you. I’ll love you forever. J”

Their bags are gone. The car is gone. They are off to Kentucky. Their flight from this place is confirmed, Peter sighs. Thank God. Time for him to leave, too.

He steps gingerly out the front door, picks up the messenger bike, and rides off.

**

Wright and Burt track the mile markers, counting ten on their journey north. There’s no underpass, though, so they keep walking, keeping to the high weeds. Four miles further they find an overpass. But no Van. No Anne.

“Where do you think they are?” Burt asks. “You don’t think they went the wrong way?”

Wright shrugs her shoulders. “Your guess is as good as mine.” She can only hope they went the wrong way. She hopes it’s not something worse. She turns 360 degrees for a sign, anything that might—

And then she sees it, a hint of Van’s red, hooded sweatshirt deep in the meadow. She sighs in relief. Van’s inside it.

The four sit quietly for the next several hours, waiting for Ian. His diversion worked, but he should have rejoined the group by now.

Finally Wright tells them they need to move. They need to return to the woods where they’ll set up camp for the night.

**

Wright decrees no fire this night. It’s still too dangerous. So, they chat low in the coming darkness, heads hung.

Anne talks about Jessica. She says she’s the sister she never had. She catches herself:
was
the sister she never had. She was so sweet. The others agree. She already misses her, Anne sobs, more than she misses home.

Like I miss Ian
, Wright thinks. She’s only catching portions of the conversation. She’s too consumed with pain. She can barely wrap her mind around Jessica and Ian’s legacies, both barely adults, both sacrificing for the greater good. She should have sacrificed herself. She shouldn’t have let Ian do it.

She tried to talk Ian out of it. She said it was too risky. She should be the one to play the role of the pied piper of the damned.

But Ian was resolute. He said no. The group needed her if they were going to survive. The stakes were too high for Wright to decide to risk all their lives. The risks were not too high, however, for Ian to gamble his own. He argued with fervor. While he might not be as strong, he’s definitely faster and more agile than Wright. Plus he doesn’t know how to use a pistol or a machete. He can’t navigate like Wright. And he ultimately consumes much more food than her. Without him, there would be more rations for the others. He closed by saying, “The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few. Or the one.”

“Isn’t that from
Star Trek
?” she asked, half laughing, half crying.

“Yeah.
Wrath of Khan
. I kind of stole it,” Ian admitted with a smirk.

It was a soft, long kiss. His lips were firm, and they silenced her escaping breath. For moments, they stood chest to chest, locked together in an iron embrace. Then Ian suddenly pulled away and squeezed her shoulders. He turned down the hall, leaving Wright with just the synchronized drumming of their hearts, a sound that still resonates inside her.

She wants to say something about Ian now. She
should
say something about him, but the words don’t come. She feels like she’s going to puke. Her heart is breaking.

But Wright doesn’t need to say anything yet. Van wants to talk.

“I’ve known Ian almost all my life,” Van starts. “He’s not perfect, although he’d like you to think that. He’s too much of a straightedge. He’s a pain in the ass. But he’s always been my best friend. Whenever I needed an alibi, he was there, either to help me craft one or serve as one. Whenever I’ve faced trouble, he’s been the one to bail me out. He’s the only one to ever give me his ear, even when I’m talking smack.

“Ian’s never once thought about himself. He’s saved my ass over and over and over.” Van’s voice cracks, “And now he’s saved us all.”

They nod in unison, sighing heavily.

“
I’m
a pain in the ass?” says a voice somewhere behind Wright. “Van, you should walk in my shoes.”

“Ian!” they cry in harmony.

Wright spins, spotting his face in the moonlight, and draws him close. He is filthy, but she hugs him anyway. Her embrace is firm, but momentary. She realizes the others are approaching, and releases him. She wipes tears from her cheeks.

Ian says there’s not much of a story to tell. He made a racket and got the ghouls’ attention. He headed south, monsters in tow. But the creatures spread wide as they tracked him, and Ian had to push farther before turning east and driving north.

Or at least that’s the version Ian will leave them with. He’s left out some parts. Actually, most parts. The scary parts.