Savannah's Only Zombie (Book 2): A New Darkness (23 page)

This
book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are a
product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance
to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead (or undead), is
coincidental. Except for the people based on my family, I totally meant to do
that.

Copyright
© 2014 by Josh Vasquez

All
rights reserved.

To the real
CJ and Hailey, you guys are awesome.

I
could tell Mom and Dad were arguing about something. They always went into
their room and closed the door to argue. It was a rare occurrence; they hardly
ever argued. My sister, Hailey, who is eight, hadn’t quite caught on to this
yet. She continued to play obliviously with her toys. But I’m thirteen, I know
what’s going on in there. There was only one other reason they closed their
door like that, and well, that happened mostly late at night when I was
supposed
to be asleep. Gross.

I
guess I have it good though. I know a lot of kids, some of my friends, that
aren’t so lucky to have both parents together. And not only together, but
parents who were still madly in love with each other. Again, gross.

Hailey
put in the headphones of the cheap mp3 player I bought her last Christmas. I
could hear the music blaring from where I’m sitting near the wall of my
bedroom. Most likely one of the countless “teen” musicals she liked. Dad told
me to take her upstairs and play in my room. This was strange to me, because even
when they did go into their room to “discuss” things, they never told me to
take Hailey upstairs and play.

With
Hailey off in her own little world, I leaned in close to the wall and placed my
ear against it. My room was situated on the second floor directly above my
parent’s room. Most of the time the conversations were too muffled to make any
words out, but I was really curious this time. I held my breath as I listened.

It
was hard to understand what they were talking about; I kept hearing just a few
words and phrases. It sounded like my mother was crying. The sound of muffled
sobs traveled through the vibrations in the wall.

Why
is she crying?

The
only words that made any sense were spoken by my father.

“Leaving…
Not safe… Cabin…”

Leaving?
Where are we going?
I
thought.
What’s not safe? And why would we go to the cabin now? We still
have school tomorrow.

The
cabin was an old farmhouse that my family restored on some land my grandfather
inherited out past Statesboro, Georgia. It was our own little vacation spot.
We’d go up there a lot during the summer months. There was a small lake nearby
where we’d fish, kayak, and swim. In the cooler seasons, we’d go to hunt; we
had several stands throughout the woods.

But
now was not the time to go to the cabin, it was the middle of the semester.
Hailey and I were still in school, and Mom and G-Mom were both teachers.
Thanksgiving break wasn’t for another week. Why would we be going now?

I
went to press my ear back against the wall, but I felt a nagging presence to
the side of me.

It
was Hailey.

“What
are you doing?” she asked, her little eyebrows furrowed.

“Nothing,”
I answered, as I pulled myself back from the wall.

“Ooh…
Are you trying to listen in on Mom and Dad?”

I
shrugged her off and walked towards my dresser. I could feel her little,
icy-blue eyes follow me. I picked up a model car off the dresser, inspected it
nonchalantly, and then placed it back down in its spot. I turned back to face
her. She was still intently staring me down.

“What?”
I asked.

She
placed a hand on her hip, which was now slightly cocked out to the side. This
stance was a result of spending much time with our Aunt Laura when Hailey was
younger. I couldn’t help but crack a smile briefly. It was funny.

Hailey
was the spitting image of our mother. Especially since she just got her haircut
short, right at the shoulders; the same hairstyle my mother sported. Blonde
hair, blue eyes, same facial features, the only genetic trait she seemed to
inherit from my father’s side of the family was height. Hailey was short.

Physical
appearance is where the similarities between her and Mom ended, because Hailey
may have
looked
like Mom, but she
acted
just like Aunt Laura. The
same facial expressions, the same mannerisms,
the same witty comebacks
;
the girl was the essence of our aunt. Hailey was a combination of both my
Mother and Aunt. This is something that my Dad, Uncle, and myself have often
wondered was a good thing.

After
Aunt Laura graduated high school, she stayed home with Hailey during the day
and picked me up after school in the afternoons. Maybe all that
quality
time was where she gets it from. I’m told Hailey’s potty-training days were
quite the
experience
.

“I’m
telling.”

Hailey’s
voice interrupted my thoughts.

“Telling?
On what?” I asked.

‘That
you were listening,” she said, adding a certain younger sister emphasis to the
word
you
.

“I
couldn’t really hear anything,” I answered honestly.

She
seemed skeptical.

“What
did you hear?” she asked.

“If
I tell you, you can’t go tattle on me. Deal?”

She
nodded.

“They
were talking about the cabin. I’m not sure why. I couldn’t really hear them
through the wall,” I told her.

I
decided to leave out the part about leaving and it not being safe. And Mom’s
crying. No sense in sending my sister into a panic. The women of our family
were notorious for jumping to conclusions. Not just any conclusions either, but
the worst possible scenario conclusions.

“That’s
it?” she asked, disappointed with the information I gave her.

“Yep.”

“That’s
dumb,” she said with frustration in her voice.

She
turned back to her toys and music, shoving the ear buds back into her ears. I
watched as she plopped down and began to play again. 

I
heard a door open downstairs.

Leaving
Hailey, I ran out into the hall to the edge of the stairs. I leaned over the
banister, listening. I heard footsteps and the sniffling of what I assumed was
still my mother. I waited a minute before calling out.

“Can
we come down?”

There
was a Moment’s pause before I received any response.

“Yes,
CJ,” my Dad said. “I need your help.”

I
made my way down the stairs quickly, but slowed myself as I reached the bottom,
to avoid seeming eager. Most of all, I just wanted to know what was going on. I
hated being in the dark.

My
father stood near the bottom of the steps waiting for me. Like I said earlier,
Hailey received her height from his side of the family. I, on the other hand,
somehow received my maternal grandfather’s stature. I wasn’t taller than Dad
yet, but it wouldn’t be too long. Maybe next year I’ll finally inch him over him.

But
now, even as I stood on the bottom step, my Dad seemed to tower over me. The
look on his face was one of concern, a look he reserved mostly for serious
situations. He had his arms folded across his chest. Before I was born and
shortly after, he was an Army Ranger. His appearance hasn’t changed much since
then, with the exception of letting his “high and tight” grow out and putting
on a little extra weight from not being as active as he was. I guess when you
stop running and jumping out of helicopters, your body tends to slow down a
little.

He
smiled at me when I reached the ground level, but it seemed forced through his
set jaw line. It was as if he was trying to smile for my sake. I rarely saw my
father worry, so his stance really began to work a number on my imagination.

What
would have Dad so worried?
I thought.

His
Ranger days were now well behind him, and Dad found himself in a slightly
different line of work.

He
was a pastor.

Well,
Assistant-Pastor
, if you want to be technical, but from what I overheard,
they share the workload pretty evenly. It was more of just a title, than
anything; they were both full-fledged pastors.

During
his service, my father became a believer and surrendered to the call of
ministry. He attended seminary, once finished with the Rangers, and began
working on a degree in pastoral ministry. Not too long after graduating, we
moved to Florida where he worked as a youth pastor, but after a few years, we
moved back home to Savannah. He helped plant a small church in Pooler, a small
town outside of Savannah, where he currently works.

My
father was one of the strongest Christians I knew. He was always teaching me
about God and His characteristics. To be honest, it sometimes got a little
annoying on how my Dad always had a way pointing things to Jesus, but at the
same time, I knew he was right.

Dad
was always talking to me about God’s supremacy over all things. How no matter
how bad things got, God was in control. There was never a thing that was
outside of His reach and power. This was the reason why Dad never worried. This
was the reason why when crap went down, Dad played it cool and kept everything
together.

And
that was the reason why I was so scared that he was worried.

***

“What
is it Dad? What’s going on?” I asked.

“Come
with me,” he replied, ignoring my questions.

He
led me into their bedroom, where Mom was sitting on the bed. She had her back
turned to me, but she was talking on her phone. I could hear her nose sniffle
from the crying. I also noticed my Dad’s pistol sitting on his nightstand.

As
we passed the bed going towards the bathroom, I overheard my Mom talking to my
grandparents. They were on their way here and they had Aunt Laura with them.
This information was strange, because they hardly ever came out to our house,
especially on a weeknight. They lived about 45 minutes away, clear on the other
side of Savannah.

My
Dad walked into the bathroom and into their adjoining walk-in closet. Clothes
had been pulled out and piled on the floor. While my parents weren’t known for
keeping their closet clean, I knew this was messier than usual. Aunt Laura
might have a cow because she just helped my Mom reorganize this a month ago.
Dad stopped right past the door and turned to his left.

Now
I was really worried.

He
had taken me to the gun safe.

He
opened it after punching in the four-digit passcode and began pulling out our
guns. I watched as he pulled the two hunting rifles, a Savage .308 heavy barrel
and the Ruger .45 carbine. Next was my late great-grandfather’s 12 ga. double
barrel shotgun, which had seen better days but was still fun to shoot. Then
came some of our “heavier artillery.” Dad set out the Romanian AK-47 and his
DMPS 5.56 AR-15 from the gun safe. Lastly, he pulled out my .22 rimfire rifle
and handed it to me. The look on his face was solemn and focused. He knelt down
to my level and looked me in the eyes. He always did that when he was about to
say something important.

“CJ,”
he started. “Something is going on, and we’re going to have to leave the house.
We are going to head out to the cabin and hang out there for a few days. I want
you to take your .22, go upstairs, and get you and your sister packed for at
least three weeks. Clothes, toothbrushes, shoes, and belts, anything you have
to have. Son, leave the toys. Your sister can bring a few, but I’m going to
need you to leave your’s. Go and get this done. Quick.”

I
nodded slowly, processing my father’s requests, then threw the .22’s strap over
my shoulder and turned to walk back upstairs. As I got to the bathroom’s door,
I heard my Dad say my name one more time. I turned to look back at him.

“Son,
I love you.”

I
nodded again, told him ‘I love you too’ and turned to leave. Now I knew
something was wrong. My Dad wasn’t one of those Dads who hid their emotions or
feelings from his children. He was always telling us how much he loved us and
how much he loved our mother. I had it good. I knew a lot of kids whose
families weren’t like ours. But it wasn’t the fact that he told me he loved me.
It was the tone in his voice. I had never heard that tone of voice in my Dad
before, and hearing it, sent shivers racing down my spine. The tone I heard was
fear.

***

“Why
are we leaving? Why do I have to pack? I don’t want to leave. Are Opie and
Millie coming with us?”

My
sister was asking a thousand questions, questions I didn’t know the answers to.

Why
were we leaving? Why did I have to keep my gun close by? Why was Mom crying?

“I
don’t know, Hay. Just pack your stuff like Dad said. We’re going out to the
cabin,” was all I could offer.

It
seemed to do the trick, because she continued to pack and babble on about
something. Her voice became cloudy though, and very quickly, my brain toned her
out. I went into my room and began to empty out my drawers and closet into my
Florida Gators suitcase. I didn’t pay much attention to what I packed, but
rather just stuffed equal amounts of shirts, pants, underwear, and shoes. We
had some clothes at the cabin, so I wasn’t too concerned with outfits.