ZWD: King of an Empty City (30 page)

             
They were adults. Next to Ashley was a woman I’d meet later, Mrs. Greenbaum, who was looking very concerned. As we stepped into the lobby, they all started clapping. I hated them all. I wanted to kill them all. I didn’t just want to kill them; I wanted to kill them slowly and painfully. I was offended that they were here. Looking over them my stomach knotted up, and I had to look down at the floor to keep from acting on my burning hatred of this crowd. Sightseers at the apocalypse!

             
As some people came over to us, I put my hand on Steve’s shoulder. “I’ll meet you outside,” I said and stepped into the bathroom while concerned people swarmed over him. In the bathroom, I turned the hot water on in the sink and let it run. I wanted it to be very hot. I slumped over the sink and let the slowly building steam warm me and I listened to the muffled sounds that fought their way in through the door. On any day of the old world, it could have been a simple day at the mall around Christmastime. I don’t miss those days. Not anymore.

             
Someone came into the bathroom as I was drying my face. I didn’t bother to dry my hair or my neck, I just needed to wash my face and give Steve some time. The guy who stepped in was a bearded guy, short with aquiline features and very blue eyes. His hair was curly and looked like he’d been wearing a cap for days.

             
“Hi,” he started. “I just wanted to say I think it’s a wonderful thing you’re doing here.” He was kissing my ass right off the bat. Great, he wanted something. I said nothing; I didn’t even look at him. I was tired and just propped my elbows over the sink and hung my head down, closing my eyes.

             
“I was wondering if I could help in any way? I’ve thought about doing something like this myself but, you know, one man.”

“It only takes one man,” I said evenly, my fury boiling up in me again. I stood and faced him. “One man can commit murder, one man can move a mountain, one man can change the world in the name of love. One man can do a whole hell of a lot. You . . . just have to do something. What have you been doing?” I asked.

             
“What do you mean?”

              “I mean all this time you’ve been thinking about it, what have you been doing?”

              “Trying to survive, to eat.”

              “So why aren’t you doing something now?” I asked, moving closer to him. Was I trying to intimidate him, yes, I was trying to scare the hell out of him, and I could see it was working.

              “I’m afraid you’ve lost me.”

              “I’ll spell it out for you. I got kids up there now fighting, killing, and dying. Where were you for the past few months? I committed to these kids to build first an army, then a government. Where were you? What were you doing?” I asked him, leaning in close. “You’ve been trying to survive. They’re kids. They’ve been trying to survive. They’ve been looking for help every day. Where were you? They’ve been killing zombies daily since I met them. How many have you killed? Hmm? How many?”

He tried to answer, so I backed away from him and sat on the sink.

              “I’ve killed a few.”

              “Give me a number.”

              “Four or five,” he said. I laughed.

              “When? When the outbreak started? Were you one of those who ran a few over with his car? Or did you get lucky and kill a few when the barriers fell?”

              “Does it matter when I killed them?”

“No, no it doesn’t. Not really.” My small outburst had blown out my anger. “So what do you want?”

              “I want to help, like I said.”

              “You want to be in the army?”

              “Yes. I can fight some.”

              “Can you take orders from kids?”

              “What do you mean?”

              “My generals are kids, like that young man who I brought down. The one who was bitten, who’s dying, he’s one of my generals. Could you take orders from kids?”

              “You’re serious.”

I got angry all over again. “I’m deadly fucking serious. You’ve killed four or five zombies in the past few months. He’s killed four or five zombies in the past fucking hour. I got kids up there eight years old killing zombies with hammers and knives. Putting their lives on the line while you’ve been down here sipping water and listening to the action on the baby monitor like it’s a fucking baseball game on the radio. Yes, I am deadly fucking serious. I put more stock in those kids and their ability than I do yours. You want to help? You want to be a part of this? Then you take orders from kids! Can you do that?”

              “It doesn’t sound like I have a choice.”

              “You don’t, not with me, not with us. Good luck on your own, but this isn’t a democracy yet, it’s a militia. And it will stay that way till we’re safe and clear of zombies. You want to be a part of it, you follow orders. Clear and simple?”

“What do you want me to do?”

Suddenly I felt heavy. Something else to add to the to-do list, create a military academy to train fighters. I really wanted to hate this guy. I wanted him to give me a reason to kill him. I wanted to tell him and everyone else out there how disgusted I was that they were letting children do their dirty work while they were home safe, hiding. But here he was asking to help, asking to face the dangers. Asking to be a part of us. Perhaps they all were, but he was the one who came forward.

             
“If you’re serious about joining us, then in two days’ time, meet us at the main gate of Philander Smith College early in the morning. Go outside and find Ashley, tell her you need to start a signup sheet for fighter training. Tell everyone who’s interested to sign up and be there first thing that morning. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go kill one of my generals.” I walked out of the bathroom, leaving him there.

Steve and Jamie were still wrapped around each other and everyone had given them a little room. I walked by and touched him on the shoulder, saying, “Come on, guys,” and walked out the door. They came out a moment later and we walked around the building to the Arch Street side, which has a path that leads to the building’s community garden. The residents used to have several raised garden beds that they messed with and sometimes when they grew a lot of something, they sold the excess on the side of the road. We’d bought big beefsteak tomatoes from them several times. Outside, I felt around in my pockets for a cigar, forgetting I’d quit. When I didn’t find any, Steve reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a pack of Swisher Sweet Grape.

             
“Keep them,” he said. I nodded and pointed to the garden path. “Grab some privacy, you two. I’ll get you when I finish this,” I said, holding up a cigar. They disappeared into the secluded area and I sat down on a small retaining wall. You know how earlier I said I was used to the cold? How I could probably walk around barefoot and it wouldn’t bother me since I’d spent so much time in the elements? That’s bullshit. I was freezing my ass off out there. Arkansas winters aren’t extremely cold, but they are damp. A damp that seeps into your bones and makes you miserable. I tried to think of something to do to keep me moving. I checked my pockets on the off-chance that something needed my attention. I pulled out the picture of Maggie and Patrick. I then stepped over to this big pecan tree next to the street and leaned against it so I could see better under the streetlights. Patrick was one of the black truck guys. I’d seen him with them many times, but where else had I seen him? I knew I’d seen him someplace else. I looked at the writing on the back, but there was nothing there except names. I look at the photo again. I studied the things in the background, their faces, and I had nothing.

                  From inside the building I heard a gunshot. Something almost went wrong but they were all fine, I told myself. It was another mercy killing. They found another hopeless survivor. Rather than dwell on what might be going on, I pushed all those thoughts out of my head. With the cigar finished, I went to the path and called them; we needed to get going. There was another gunshot from inside and Steve came out holding Jamie’s hand.

                  “You want to come with us partway?” I asked her and she nodded her head, eyes filled with tears. We walked together side-by-side for the first block and I felt like a third wheel. When we crossed Seventeenth Street, I fell back a few yards behind them. Steve started coughing. He was starting to turn. The closer we got, the more frequently he coughed. It wasn’t a heavy coughing, but he was doing it more and more. The closer we got to Mount Holly, the heavier I felt. I joined them again at Fourteenth Street and we walked the remaining block in silence. At the cemetery wall, I suggested that Jamie head back. They kissed again and Steve climbed the old stone fence that marked the south end of Mount Holly. Jamie turned back to Paris Towers and I watched her walk for a block before I went over the fence.

                  We walked over to the tomb where the skulls had been stacked up. He read a few of the names aloud, touching the skull of each person he knew. I turned to the stone angel that was looking down on us and pleaded in my mind for any other way.

                  “You know,” he said, “I was always the third-stringer, a benchwarmer. I was never the star athlete. I was never great at anything, till all this. I was good at killing zombies.”

                  “Yes, you were,” I said, turning from the angel that was ignoring me. “You’re exceptional at killing zombies. Did you know I dubbed you, Donny, and Joseph ‘SEAL TEAM Six’?”

                   “Really?”

                  `“Yes. I was very impressed with the way you handled yourselves and the confidence with which you killed zombies. I’d planned for you guys to be instructors for the other kids.”

“That’s not really going to work out, I don’t think,” he smiled, “not now.”

“You made an impression already with those kids. You should have seen the way Roland and Augie were hero-worshiping you when you gave them the hammer and knife. A lot of the kids look up to you.”

              “Ha, heroes have to die young, I guess,” he joked. I moved around behind him and he knew what I was doing. “Should I get on my knees?” he asked, coughing some more. “Dig my own grave?”

              “It’s your moment, Steve, what do you prefer?”

He took off his jacket and laid it open on the ground. He started emptying his pockets and dropping everything into the coat. His gun, knives, lighters, string, flashlight, and all the other stuff he’d used so well for killing zombies.

“My name is Steven, Steven William Trenton,” he said over his shoulder to me. “Make certain that’s on my skull, ok?”

              “I’ll write it myself.”

              “You know, all the way over here I’ve been trying to think of some cool last words. I couldn’t come up with anything.” He dropped down on one knee.

              “Yeah, seems like most of the good lines are taken. Just say what you feel,” I said, taking the gun from my pocket and checking the chamber.

              “How about, ‘This world sucks.’”

              “It’s kind of lame, true but lame. As far as last words go, I mean.”

              “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

              He went down on his other knee and we were both silent, trying to think of some cool last words he could say. I was drawing a blank.

              “You know I’m not even a Motörhead fan? I prefer Garth Brooks,” he said at last.

              “Then use something from him.”

              “What? I’ve got friends in low places?”

              “And I love them all?” I suggested.

He thought about it for a moment, then nodded his head. “I like it. Tell them my last words were, ‘I’ve got friends in low places, and I love every last one of them.’”

              “Will do, Steven William Trenton.” And I pulled the trigger. I couldn’t let the conversation go on much longer or I wouldn’t have been able to do it at all. I vomited at the angel’s feet, then pulled out another cigar. I didn’t light it, I just chewed on the plastic tip. Every now and then a burst of grape flavor seeped into my mouth. The hardest thing for me to do was cut off his head. Using my machete, I brought it up several times and stopped. Steve was a good kid and a friend. Eventually, I took him to one of the crypts. It was a large stone crypt with an iron gate and I placed him in there on top of the tomb, then closed the gate behind me. He’d be safe in there from animals and other things for a while, at least till I could come back to collect his skull to add it to the wall of the fallen.

              At his jacket, I fell to my knees and started weeping. Bawling, actually. I let out all the anger and frustration, all the sorrow, everything I’d been feeling. I never heard footsteps behind me. I simply felt Jamie’s hand on my shoulder, then her arm around my neck. She fell to her knees beside me. We wept together for a long time and when we had nothing left to weep, we went back to Paris Towers.

Jamie and I came in through one of the fire exit doors on the ground floor. We slipped into the lobby mostly undetected and I slunk onto a couch against the far wall of the lobby while she sought out Ashley. We’d just gotten there before the rest of the troops came out of the stairwell next to the elevators. They were welcomed like Roman heroes returning from war, victorious and draped in glory. They didn’t look like that, though. They looked dog-tired and were covered in blood and gore. They filed out led by my girl, then Eddie and the rest. None of them acted like they were proud heroes, either, with the exception of Donny, who when he was greeted by the applauding and cheering crowd, raised his fist above his head and howled. As they filtered out of the stairs, Andy carried a bundle wrapped in a sheet over his shoulder. He had tears in his eyes and I knew we’d lost another kid.