Rise of the Dead (10 page)

“There must be other survivors like us out there," insists Danielle. “There has to be someone who can help us.”

"They are probably in the same kind of situation we are,” I say. “Or much worse.” I regret bringing up the scene on the highway. The truth is, I really don't want to stay here. I don't want to give up on going home and finding my family. I don't want to relinquish what little control we still have over our fate. But I don't know what else to do when every road we take leads to the same dead end.

"I wish we had a better option than staying here, but it doesn't seem like we have anything else,” I admit.

"We're lucky we even made it through this so far," said Dom. "We can't keep running around the city, or we will eventually run out of luck."

There is that word again.
Luck
. I feel my face cringe.

Quentin walks over and pulls me up by the back of my shirt. "Come on," he said. "We need to get some real food in you, and you'll be feeling better."

I sigh and let him lead me out of the room and back down the dark hallway towards the kitchen. He clicks on a flashlight and then glances back at the break room.

“Look, man,” he whispers once he won’t be heard. “I get it. You're tired of trying to get somewhere and going nowhere instead.” He flashes the light around the hall. “But this here is probably as good as it gets right now. If you can't see that, it's only because you're still looking for something else, something that doesn't exist anymore."

I release a deep breath and expel all thoughts of finding some kind of normality again as the air leaves my lungs. I realize there is no going back to it. I have to figure out how to move on, even when I am trapped in the same place. As we continue down the dark hallway, Quentin directs the beam of the flashlight at the doors we pass until he locates the kitchen. We push through the sliding doors into a room full of stainless steel prep tables and appliances.

"Just what was it you did before this?" I ask Quentin.

He pulls a couple of bottles of beer from a cooler and hands me one without looking at me. He twists the cap off and gulps from the other bottle while he seems to think how or if he wants to answer me. He finishes half the bottle then wipes the moisture from his lips with the back of his palm.

"I worked in a grocery store," he grins.

"Come on," I press him. "You didn't learn to shoot like you do by working in a grocery store."

"No," he concedes. "Didn't pick that up from working there. My old man is a Navy SEAL instructor or was anyway. I was in the training program a while, too. Didn't quite have what it takes, though."

He stares down into the dark opening of the bottle of beer in his hands.

"I would have felt much better yesterday knowing we had a Navy SEAL with us," I confide.

Quentin laughs and shakes his head, and then sets the bottle of beer down on a prep counter behind him and retrieves the flashlight.

"You don't," he corrects me. He pulls open the door to a walk-in refrigerator and shines the light around at the contents.

"I'm just a washed out grocery store clerk,” he explains. He hauls out a big frozen rack of ribs and sets it down next to his beer. “But I do know how to cook a mean rack of barbecue ribs.”

"That's good because I’m not much of a cook,” I tell him.

Quentin twists at the red knobs on the oven and considers the unlit indicator light. I wonder how he plans to cook ribs, or anything for that matter, without power. Quentin glances up around the shelves for several moments, scanning the kitchen items. He locates some large metal catering trays. With his long arms lifts one off a shelf I would need a ladder to reach, and sets it down on the counter.

"So you weren't a chef,” he says. He opens a drawer and glances and pushes some utensils around. “I bet you were an accountant or something like that."

"No, but you're not far off,” I say. “I'm a statistician. Or was, I guess."

"Like batting averages and stuff?” he asks.

"Anything with probabilities," I say, not wanting to get into a confusing explanation.            “I make predictions based on statistical analysis."

"Sounds pretty boring," he says. “No offense.”

"It can be,” I shrug. I’m used to that reaction.

"Would have been helpful if someone could have predicted this shit,” he muses.

"I'm pretty sure people did predict this kind of thing. They have for the last fifty years. It was a cultural premonition of sorts."

"So what, those people saw this coming?” Quentin locates a large kitchen knife in a drawer and removes it and sets it on the counter, then opens the walk-in refrigerator and disappears inside.

"Well, sort of,” I say.

“You mind holding the light?” he asks and hands me the flashlight. I direct the beam while he shuffles around some boxes on the shelves, inspecting their labels.

“It's like someone writing about a plane crashing into a skyscraper before it happens,” I continue. “It's just a story to the writer, but then it really happens."

"But that's just a coincidence," he says.

“Right,” I agree.

He stops searching through the contents of the fridge and scratches his scalp. “You lost me, man,” he sighs.

“A long time ago, I read this book,” I explain. “The author researched a history of cultural premonitions and then theorized that perhaps when enough people start to think that a specific kind of disaster will happen, inevitably it does happen."

Quentin grabs a couple more racks of ribs from the fridge while he considers this then shakes his head. He moves through the doorway and sets them down on the prep table. “Are you saying, we like, created this, or something?” he asks.

"We don't know that. We only know we created the concept of walking dead bodies that go around and eat people a long time ago. Then one day, seemingly without explanation, they are suddenly real."

"Sounds like some bullshit to me," he says as he moves back into the walk-in fridge. I follow him with the flashlight beam as he searches the racks of meats and produce.

"Me too, but I've always been a skeptic about everything,” I admit. “Now, I’m not so sure, though. I see there are these things out there that defy any reasonable explanation. Dead bodies aren’t supposed to get up and walk around. It's not possible according to science. But, nevertheless, it is happening. So we, at least, have to accept that we don't understand as much as we thought.”

Quentin lifts a big cardboard box from the shelf and carries it out on his shoulder and sets it down beside the ribs. He slices open the packing tape on the box with the kitchen knife, then sets it down and retrieves his beer.

“It don’t really matter,” Quentin says finally. “No point in wondering why things are the way they are, man. You’ll just go crazy doing that now.” He leans against the fridge and drinks the rest of the bottle down. Quentin’s dark eyes consider me, and then he shakes his head. He sets his beer down and resumes opening the box on the counter. “Premonitions,” he laughs. “You think too much, man. For real.”

For the first time that I can remember, I don’t see the point in trying to figure out the answer. Even if I can explain what was happening and why, it wouldn’t change anything. The sudden feeling makes me feel helpless and uncomfortable. I look around for something to do but have no idea how to help Quentin cook without a stove or even a microwave. Nothing works anymore. “I’m going to see if they need help with the barricades,” I tell him as I head toward the hallway.

“It’s cool,” he says as he lights a burner for the catering trays. “I got this.”

At the rear doors, I find Chet and Devin have already stacked tons of heavy boxes in front of the loading bay door. If I didn’t already know there was an exit there, I would have guess there was one behind the wall of cardboard. It doesn't seem possible that the undead could force their way inside. Getting back out might not be a possibility, but surely we can wait it out until they starve, freeze in the harsh Chicago winter, or rot away. I wonder how long that would take.

"Think we got it blocked pretty good," says Chet. "Nothing's getting in."

Looking at the barricade, I let out a long sigh as though I’d been holding my breath for more than a day. We will all be safe here for a little while. Maybe even for a long time. I can let my guard down for a bit, for now. With that realization, I suddenly feel very drained. I didn't sleep more than two or three hours last night. The stress and lack of sleep are finally catching up to me. The flashlight flickers and then goes black.

“Got some more batteries back in the lunchroom,” he says.

“What happens when we use them all?” I wonder.

"We can use some of the propane torches they got around here for the show," says Chet.

"Good idea," I agree. “Thanks again for taking us in.”

"It's nothing, really. Not like this place is ours. We just work here. Besides, it would get pretty lonely here with just the two of us."

I can suddenly smell the aroma of cooked meat drifting in from the kitchen. "Quentin is getting some food together. We haven't had a real meal since this started. Hope you don’t mind.”

"I could eat a horse right now," says Chet. "I was kind of afraid to raid the kitchen yesterday in case this blew over. That's probably not going to happen."

"I am going to see about rounding our group up. How about you get those torches, and we'll meet back in the arena," I say. "You can get to know the rest of our group a bit better."

In the break room, I find Danielle whispering quietly beside Melanie. “Some studies suggest that patients who aren't conscious can still pick up the conversations around them,” Danielle says. “A lot of doctors believe it helps recovery too. Keep her company for me for a minute."

Danielle leaves the break room, and I'm sitting alone with the girl. I try to think of something that I could say, but I can't. Finally, I manage to say, "I've got a little girl, too."

I don't even know this child, so I try to close my eyes and imagine what I would say to Abby if I could. "I wish you were never left all alone out there in this chaos. I want to make everything better, but I can't."

I open my eyes, wanting to believe I am going to look down and see Abby there, but it isn't Abby. Just some kid I don't really know. Then I realize the thing that I am thinking about the most right now is what would I do if she opens her eyes right now, but isn't alive anymore. I put my hand on her chest and feel the slowed thudding of a heartbeat like the seconds of a clock counting down to zero. I wonder if Danielle was thinking the same thing and that was why she wanted me to stay with her. Suddenly her body starts to convulse. She tilts her head back, and her teeth start chattering. Her eyes roll back in her skull. I use my body to prevent her from falling off the couch, but I am afraid to touch her. She is coming back. Or, this is some kind of seizure.

"Danielle!" I yell.

I reach behind my back for the gun stowed in my waistband. I grip the handle and flip the safety off as I stand up, and then point it down at the girl's face. Her convulsing movements lose some intensity, then slow to nothing more than erratic twitches. After what seems like forever, she finally becomes still.

I call to Danielle again, not taking my eye off the girl. Feeling my palm slick with sweat around the handle of the gun, I wait to see her move or open her eyes or something.

"What happened?" asks Danielle as she comes back into the room. She is staring at me, wondering why I am pointing the gun at the girl who looks just the same as when she left her now. I hear footsteps in the hallway. Devin and Chet appear in the doorway behind Danielle.

"I don't know," I say. "She was having a seizure or something."

Without waiting to hear more, Danielle hurries to the couch, reaching her fingers to her neck to check the girl for a pulse.

"She's okay," Danielle says. She looks at me still standing there with the gun. "Please put that thing away."

I flip the safety and tuck the gun in the back of my waistband. "I thought she might be gone, or was coming back. I was so close to pulling the trigger."

"It's okay now," says Danielle. "Just relax, I'll take it from here."

"Maybe we should restrain her," I suggest. "Just in case."

"I don't know if that's a good idea. She shouldn't be restrained if she is having seizures."

"But what if she doesn't make it, and turns into one of those things," I say.

"If she has a brain injury already, I'm not even sure she could come back."

It makes sense, but she could still move her limbs during that seizure, so I wasn't so sure I believed it.

"We just need to make sure someone keeps an eye on her," says Danielle. "We need to do that anyway."

"Alright," I say. "But you should take a break and eat something. Quentin made some real food. I'll keep an eye on her."

Danielle looked at me uncertainly. I'm guessing she is a little uneasy about finding me so close to shooting a little girl that was still alive. "You need to eat, too. Go ahead, I can wait until later."

"I can stay with her." I turn to look at Devin. "My little sister has epilepsy," he says. "So I know what to do if it happens again."