Holiday of the Dead (36 page)

Quickly, she began dragging the brush through her long, raven hair.

The knock at the door was changing just as she was.  It was becoming less of a 'knock' and more of a concerned 'pounding.'

"Ma'am!  I'm going to have to insist you come to the door!"

She had pulled on her pink and white summer dress and was staring into the mirror, trying to raise some colour by pinching her cheeks.  It wasn't working.  She was simply not going to be a beauty today.  Her eyes were set in deep, pained sockets and her skin was sallow white.

Well, it had been a rough couple of days.  They were going to have to take what they got and be thankful for it.  Chuckling at her own folly, she walked to the door and pulled it open, leaning casually against the jamb.

"Can I help you?"

One week ago the sight of her visitors would have panicked her.  Today, they were refreshingly armed and dangerous.  That was a good thing.  The walking dead didn't use tools or weapons.

She smiled her obligatory smile, revealing those peroxide-whitened teeth that so offset the black of her hair.  Her gentlemen callers could have been termed the police, she guessed.  Not that there was any formal civic organization anymore.  There were two of them, and as always she thumbed through the mental Rolodex of character types to file and categorize them.  Must know your audience before you can cater to them.  Mustn't step out of character, not even for a second.

The closest of the two – the knocker – was the easiest.  An older man, he wore a trim and tailored uniform, fully matching, and had a cool, competent manner.  Cinched around his slightly enlarging belly was a thick belt and holster containing a heavy-looking revolver.  The man’s sweat-filmed hand never drifted far from it.  She pegged him as a real cop, probably the only one on this tiny island.  He had likely worn that uniform for years before Armageddon, and really didn't think much about it at this point.  He had a carefully trimmed moustache and the wide, expressive eyes that bespoke of years of 'being a friend to the community.'  She would’ve been happier if he had taken that hand away from the gun, but other than that she instinctively trusted and liked him.

"Good afternoon Ma'am.  Do you have a few minutes?"  The voice was crisp and clipped.  He had questioned strangers like this a million times.

Do I have a few minutes?  Buddy, I have the rest of freaking time!

The second man fit even more firmly into one of her predefined social pigeonholes.  He was just out of high school, not educated and not likely destined for any.  He probably worked out furiously and ineffectively, trying to keep the pounds somewhere south of ‘obese.’  With little self-control, dieting was out of the question.  If she went to his gym and opened his locker, she knew there would be a nude picture pinned up on the inner door.  Not that he was really attracted to this girl, but he wanted the other guys to know he was the type of man who likes a naked woman.  Probably listened to the twangiest country music he could find.  Or maybe he's a rocker, his CD collection divided between new heavy metal and old Lynyrd Skynyrd.  The shotgun he still held jammed against his shoulder was both a weapon and part of his personal disguise.  The gun made him a man, even though he clutched it the way a child holds a security blanket.

"I do.  What can I do for you gentlemen?"  Again, the disarming white teeth came out.

The knocker smiled back, just for a moment before catching himself.  He then carried on in his carefully crafted, easygoing formality.

"Well, first of all, we were wondering who you are?  Do you know this is private property?"

"Yes.  It's mine.  Or rather, it was my husband's parents. So now … I mean there is no will or anything.  But I have a right to be here, I think.  I'm Mira Effayant."

The knocker looked at her extended hand carefully; trying to judge its pliability and warmth.  Finally, he smeared his palm down his pant leg to rid it of most of the damp and deftly took her hand.

"Sheriff … Well, just Roger Wilkins, now.  Pleased to meet you Mrs. Effayant.  You understand, of course, that we want to check on anybody who shows up suddenly on this island.  Given …"

"Yeah,” she agreed.  "Understood."

"So, if I might ask.  How did you get here?  I've been watching what’s happening from the church bell tower with a telescope.  Tough to tell from this distance but, I was fairly sure that there’d be nobody coming from the mainland anymore.  Are there any more survivors?"

She inhaled deeply, and then let it out rather sharply.  "Maybe.  But not with me.  I arrived alone."

He nodded, giving her time to elaborate.  Instead she turned to more immediate matters.

"Having survived this long, I'd really appreciate not being blown to bloody ribbons by your friend."  Her eyes glanced over his shoulder to the left.

He turned and snapped his fingers at the heavy kid, who shifted the muzzle of the gun a little, but didn't lower it.

"I dunno.  She don't look too good to me."

Briefly, Mira's eyebrows knitted.  
I don't look good!  The fourth horseman just passed the Norman Rockwell painting of my life through its digestive tract, and you don't think I look good!  At least I once looked good, fat boy.

"She's fine, you damn dolt!  She can talk.  She hasn't attacked us.  Put it up."

The kid gritted his teeth, clearly not happy about being dressed down in front of Mira, and he slid into an even more specific notch in Mira's mental Rolodex.  The category she called 'the little big man.'  A large part of his self-esteem comes from his perceived position in the male hierarchy.  She should have guessed from the outfit.  Clearly, he felt he had been 'deputized' by Roger, but he had to come up with his own uniform.  He had a white t-shirt, with a camouflage coat over it.  There was a badge affixed to the left breast and he had a black hunter-style hat with a second badge of some sort attached.  Clearly, he couldn't find anything for below the waist, so he had just grabbed something that was at least part of a uniform, even if not the right one.  Brown shorts.  She wondered if he had worked for UPS himself or if he had stolen them from someone who no longer cared so much about his modesty. He was the kind of kid who always took boxing or karate, but never got good at them.  He surely had a collection of knives and pointy, Chinese looking things.  He dropped the stock of the gun from his shoulder in a swinging, underhand arc and caught it with his right hand.  Clearly a well-practiced manoeuvre.  He probably practiced it in front of a mirror the way she practiced her disarming smile.

Wilkins looked sour as he turned back.

"I'm sorry.  But I'm sure you understand we've had a difficult couple of days ourselves.  There was a small cemetery here on the island.  We had some work to do to secure the island for the living."

"Of course."  Mira replied, acutely aware of how desperately they were applying layers to the thin veneer of civilization that coated the current reality.  
Of course I understand being threatened.  If fat boy had shot me, my last words would be forgiving and sympathetic.  Because my own uniform doesn't come off.  Not until I'm cold and … Dead?

"I'd invite you in but I have nothing to offer.  And I wasn't exactly clean when I arrived.  I'd like time to get in order before I have guests."

"We'll be fine right here, ma'am.  But if we could steal some of your time, it would be appreciated.  We've talked to nobody from the mainland since this started.  The Internet went down almost immediately, and the news was very confused and uninformative before it went off the air.  You’ll know things we won't, and if nothing else would offer a fresh perspective on what we already know."

She was not really in the mood for a talk, but it was a nice June day.  Blue skies, dotted with white clouds.  The sound of sparrows filled the air, along with one cardinal, all puffed up in his scarlet finery, chirping out his dominance over this area of the island.  The concrete smile nearly cracked with tears as she listened.

The birds are singing.

The dead walk the Earth and the birds are singing.

But she gestured to the two chairs perched about the small drink table on the porch.  Wilkins made a 'ladies first' gesture in return.   She sat, sweeping her skirt beneath her primly as she landed.  Without even offering to the boy, Roger sat in the other chair, sighed deeply, as if dreading what was coming next, and spoke:

"Is it safe to assume your husband will not be joining us?"

Her eyes slammed shut suddenly.  Blunt.  Very blunt.  But then, how could he have phrased it?  Her cold breath hitched as disjointed flashes of her journey here projected against her lids.

The long, weeping drive with that horrible smear of Jeff's blood on the part of the windshield the wipers won't swipe.  The sick baby that wouldn't stop crying.  Jeff pounding on the moving figures, holding them at bay as the tank filled.  And the bites.  Oh, Jesus the horrible bites on his arms as he smashed their bones with the baseball bat.  But they didn't stop.  You could shatter them down to skin bags of broken bones and they just … Won't … Stop.

"Mansfield," she whispered, staring at the wood planking of the porch.  Then, clearing her throat, she spoke more clearly.  "We came from Columbus.  A huge city, full of … We had to go.  It was death to stay there.  We made it to the car …"

She and Jeff and ran from the house. She had the baby and he had that old wooden slugger Jeff’s father had given him a few years back. A week ago that bat had been worth more than a thousand dollars. It was signed by Johnny Bench, Tony Perez and Pete Rose (whoever they were). Now it was worth nothing in dollars, but if it could just get them to the car it would be worth all her remaining possessions and a thousand times more. Their little suburban neighbourhood had become a horror show.  Friends and neighbours, all came.  It was like they knew.  They knew there was fresh meat in the house.  The car was parked on the street.  Thirty feet of shambling feet and blunt teeth away from the front door.  They ran for it, Jeff smashing the walkers out of their path with the bat.  She running behind, head low, the baby wrapped like it was the dead of winter, though it was unusually hot, for June.  They made it to the car, and they left their little three-bedroom single family home with city taxes but a good, suburban school district behind.

"Jeff was an airline pilot.” She shook her head, realizing she was speaking in a disjointed manner. “Jeff is my husband. Was my husband.  We g-g-got in our car and started driving north.  His folks were from Shaker Heights and they owned this vacation home here.” She looked up at Roger, as if seeking approval. “We thought it might be safe here. You know, sixteen miles off the shore …”

"Yes,” Wilkins soothed.  "It was a good plan.  Please continue."

"But we didn't have … I mean who thinks of these things?  Keeping your gas tank full in case the dead come back?  That would be crazy.  It
still
sounds crazy."  Her voice started to hitch.

"So you ran out of gas?"

"No.  We saw immediately that we were low.  But to stop and take, how many minutes outside the safety of the locked car?  To fill the tank?  We'd have been dead in seconds in the city.  So we drove, figuring we would find something outside of town.  Where the population was lower.  And the number of-f-f-f …"

Calm and easy, Wilkin put a hand on hers.

"Yes.  Again, you were very smart."

"But we weren't!  Once we left town there was no power anywhere.  Hundreds of gallons of gas in those big tanks under the parking lots, and no way to get it.  How were we to do it?  Siphon?  Get out and look for a hose?  Then find a tool to pry up the covers.  There were fewer walkers out of the city, but there were some.  We couldn't leave the car for long enough to do all that.  So we kept driving.  We kept driving and the gauge kept getting lower and lower.  Finally there was a place with power."

"Mansfield,” he offered.

She nodded.  "I've always thought of that as a small town, but … how many walking death factories constitute a lot?  It was as bad as Columbus.  The walkers were everywhere.  But we had no choice.  The baby was sick, had been since before this all happened, but now she was untreated and on the run.  We had to get to … stable ground."

Jeff had left the safety of the car to pump the gas.  He still had to pay for it!  How’s that for irony?  He swiped his card but it wouldn't work.  He had to smash into the station itself and flip on all the pumps.  How he knew to do that she had no idea, but he did.  But all the breaking glass was a hell of a racket …

"They can still hear, you know,” she observed.  It was out of the blue, from Roger's point of view, but he accepted it.

"I never thought about it.  I suppose they can."

She looked at him more intently.  "No. You don’t get it. They can
hear
!"

The walkers came from all directions.  They weren't fast, but they were relentless.  Jeff got the nozzle in the tank and started pumping before the first one got near.  He battered it back with a hit that would have been a home run even in a major league park.  It actually flew about five feet then landed skidding for another five.  Its face was smashed and oozing blood.  Not really bleeding.  Bleeding requires a beating heart.  But oozing.  Its jawbone was broken and hanging from the left side of its face.  Its tongue, the colour of a day old bruise, lolled below its face … and then it stood up, and came for him again.  He batted it again, then spun to pound the one coming up behind him.  The numbers on the gauge spun, .731, .854, .967, 1.001 gallons …

"If they can hear, can they feel?  Can they see and taste and
feel
?"

There were about six of them now.  Jeff spun from one to the next, battering them away, going through the whole bunch of them while the first recovered it's feet and came toward him again.  It was a game of who can last the longest and it was a losing game.  Jeff was getting winded, tired.  But whatever drove the muscles of the walkers was inexhaustible. They would just keep coming and coming and coming.  And there were lots of them.  More arriving every second.  1.98, 2.07, 2.84, the numbers spun.  "That's enough!"  She screamed.  "We have enough!  Come back in!  Please come back in!"