36 Hours (18 page)

“Mother.” I turned onto St. James. The two groups merged and followed. The street made a radical change. These guys weren’t too smart, right? So I went off into a lawn—Chelsie’s house, I remembered—and jumped the fence, landing hard on the other side. Saw spots. Rain covered me. My entire body ached. Vomited blood all over the grass.

My own house was on the other side. I stood, and peered through the gaps in the fence. The infected had come to a stop on the street. They noticed I was missing. I watched, then told myself I didn’t have much time. They’d go looking eventually. I had to get home before that. I carried myself to the back porch of Chelsie’s home; the back door was locked. A figure appeared behind the glass—her dad. Her dad came to the door-window and opened it, looking at me in the rain. I looked back. He smiled at me. Relief.

“Have you seen my daughter, Austin?”

“No.” I rushed for the fence.

Her dad came out into the rain. “What are-“

But I climbed the fence and fell over, landing on my back. Why couldn’t I just climb fences like a normal person? I ran underneath several poplars, and was in my backyard. The house rose after me. I heard the shrieks of the infected, the Anthony Barnhart

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breaking of wood, and I heard Chelsie’s dad screaming, and gunshots shaking the land, and I heard his scream cut off under the screeches of the infected. I sprinted up my lawn and to the small door leading into the garage. I twisted the handle. Locked. Slippery with rain. I hunched over and crawled through the doggy door.

I was in the garage.

4:00 p.m.

“Get away from me.”

My father

Reunion

The sweet smell of gasoline enveloped my senses. Our garage always smelt of gasoline, ever since our dog had knocked over a gallon and let it seep into the wood of the shelves. The garage door was down, but hazel light came in through the door window. Rain thudded dully on the roof. The Malibu and Transport came out of the darkness; I ran my hand over the cold metal of the vehicles, making my way to the door into the house.

The doggy door flipped back; I spun around and the dog ran in. I cringed back. But he wasn’t infected. He jumped up on me and licked my face, his wet tongue trailing drool all over my clothes. I pushed him down, stepped up and tried the door. Locked. I rummaged for the key under the step, after a few tries pushed it into the lock, twisted. The door swung open, a cool draft from the kitchen overpowering me. Hard to believe that just hours before I had left without a thought in the world—not a word to death or nightmares or even Hartford, the heart of it all. How appropriate. All because of Hartford, and the world was tumbling down.

“Stay,” I told the dog, keeping him in the garage. I shut and locked the door. He’d bark if anyone came close. A good warning. “Mom? Dad?” My own voice moved through the rooms. The grandfather clock ticked back the seconds. Ice clattered in the refrigerator. I moved over the tile, into the den. Dad kept his NASCAR memoirs in here, not to mention the filing cabinet with all our records, and the computer. We never turned off the computer. It’s dark screen seemed odd. “Mom?” I called. “Dad?” My feet took me into the parlor. Anthony Barnhart

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Rain on the roof. Never-ending rain.

I peeked into the living room. The furniture lay quiet. Like tombs. Steps led up to the bedrooms, two baths and the closet with the washer and drier.

“Mom? Dad?”

Another stairwell went down into the basement. But no one ever went down there. I headed up when I heard something move about down in the basement. I snuck back down, opened the door to the basement, and crept down the steps. The workroom with all of Dad’s tools was barricaded by a shut and locked door—he didn’t trust Ashlie—or me—with his tools. In the room to the right, the pool table sat with the balls all swash-buckled over the green felt. My friends and I always held tournaments, goofed off and hung out around the table.

Was Les alive? Hannah? And Amanda? Was she okay? Or were they infected too?

Was I alone?

Light floated from the door to the family room. The television was in there. It was a small, packed room. It had been my room once, but I had moved back upstairs. The lights were out with the power—what was pushing light under the door? My heart hammered in my chest. I reached out for the doorknob. Shuffling beyond. Pushing open the door. A magna-flashlight glared at me, stinging my eyes. I stepped into the room, around the flashlight; too bright to see. And then my eyes cleared, and I saw Mom in the corner, her back to me; something was in her hands.

“Mom?” I croaked, too happy to see her. She wasn’t attacking me. She was-She turned her head towards me. I saw purple rashes on her skin, and her eyes were sinking. Her lips quivered, reflecting horribly in the light from the flashlight between her crossed legs. She glared bullets at me and hissed, ”
Get
away from me.
”

I had never heard that terrible voice from her before. I stepped away, too frightened to react.

She showed her hands. A revolver. She loaded a bullet into it. Small caliber. And another. “There’s only two, Austin. Only two. One for me. And one for your father.”

“Mom…”

No.

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No.

No.

“It was meant to be,” she told me. “This was supposed to happen. I don’t want to be like them.”

I just stared at her.

“I’m sorry it has to end like this.” She put the gun to her forehead. “I’m sick. Very sick. I can feel the changes now.” The cold barrel illuminated beads of sweat on her face. The forehead I kissed every morning before school. I stepped towards her. “Don’t, Austin. Don’t get close. Please. I don’t have much time. He bit me.” She squeezed her eyes shut, the revolver to her head. “I love you. Don’t get too close. Protect your sister. I don’t think he knows.”

“Mom!”

The revolver barked; the back of her head splattered all over the wall and she pitched to the side, landing hard. The pistol rolled out of her hands. I screamed and dove for her, landing next to her. But her eyes were vacant. Blood gushed all over the carpet. Those terrible, awful, loveless eyes stared at me, blank and unrevealing. I shuddered and tore away, lunging for the door. I spewed vomit all over my pants and fell out of the room, swinging the door shut. I fell to the ground, cowering, pulling my knees up to me. She was dead. She had killed herself. I had seen it. Tears fell down my face. Now I knew how Hannah had felt.

A sound from upstairs. I got to my feet and ran up the stairs, faced the door. I could imagine them coming in. Oh well. What was the point anymore?

Protect your sister.

I don’t think he knows.

The front door splintered, then burst open, tearing the screen door down. Figures were coming inside. Abandoning the door, thinking only of Ashlie, I sprinted up the steps and burst into Ashlie’s room. Dad hovered over the bed; Ashlie was sleeping.

“Dad!”

He whipped around and screeched.

He was one of them.

My own father—kin, flesh-and-blood—came at me, swiping. I ducked out of the room and ran down the steps. People were coming in the front door. I ran into the den, bashing my knee on the desk. Dad appeared at the top of the steps, howling a blood-curdling scream. I yanked at the garage door; locked; yanked Anthony Barnhart

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harder. The lock popped and I ran out into the garage, into the darkness. Around the back of the vehicles. And I found it. The axe that Dad used to cut firewood and to hack up the trees he would fell at his brother’s house. I took it off the rack.

Dad stood in the doorway, staring at me. He saw me moving and came down the step, around the vehicles.

I ran towards the doggy door. Suddenly the doggy door flew back and Chelsie’s dad’s head appeared, foaming, yellow-toothed. Without a second thought I swung the axe down; the blade slapped into the soft tissue at the neck and his head fell to the floor. Les told me skin was like toilet paper compared to wood. Now I knew what he meant.

Dad was behind me, rushing. I pulled the axe up and whipped around, swinging it wildly.

The broad of the axe connected with his shoulder, throwing him against his truck. He snarled and fell to the ground, squirming to stand. Energy sapped from my arms and legs. I swung the blade down, chopping off part of his leg. Blood sprayed up at me. Dad howled—but it wasn’t Dad, it wasn’t Dad!—and he leapt towards me, but fell to the ground, writhing. I stepped back, gasping for air. “Sorry, Daddy.” And the axe went down, into his forehead; his cap fell back and blood and brain matter stained the cold concrete flooring. I let the axe be and sauntered away, seeing spots.

Mom committed suicide.

I killed my own daddy.

I went back inside. Goldie was nowhere to be seen.

Les, Hannah and Amanda stood at the kitchen entrance. Amanda’s side was covered in blood. She held onto her arm tight. Hannah looked at me and started crying. Les dangled the keys from a limp hand.

I shut the door, leaned on it. “What happened to you guys?”

“You were right. It was overrun.”

“Only three of you?”

“There was nine when we left. The guy in the wheelchair never even got on the roof. Are you okay?”

“Mom and Dad are dead.” The words were numbing. Surreal. Unbelievable. Les took me into the living room. I fell onto the leather couch. Listened to the rain outside.

“Do you want to play some pool?” I asked him.

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5:00 p.m.

The Story of the Seasons

The Escape from Homer’s Grocery

What’s that noise in the bathroom?

“Stay away from the windows,” I said as I sat on the couch. I could hear Les and Amanda moving about, hastily, digging through the cupboards. Les stood over me and watched them; from where I sat, I couldn’t see. I turned and looked out one of the windows. Mom always opened the blinds in the morning to let in the sun and the songs of birds. Spring had come. I love Spring. The beautiful colors and the blossoming trees and all that is sacred coming to light. The seasons, they remind me of the Story. The Story I find myself in, the Story
all
of us find ourselves in. A Story of summer. A Story of a wonderful creation, a Story of love and acceptance, joy and happiness. A Story of discovery and excitement. Then summer fades; fall is on the horizon. Trees go bare. Leaves crinkle and crack, crisp, fall to be trampled. The grass browns. The world dies. Winter. A time of mourning, shivering in the cold, longing, desiring the return of summer. Then Spring! Wonderful spring! Joy!

Laughter! Colors! Cooling, refreshing, cleansing rain. A magnificent circle of a Story; we’re in winter; on the verge of spring? “Is this the first flower opening?”

Les took a shot at me: “What’s that?”

I shook my head. “Nothing. Never mind.” Is this the End? The Apocalypse?

Coming of Alpha and Omega? Tyler’s words ran over my mind:
I just have
this deep and innate feeling that the End is here, and I’m excited. I am excited
about being here.
“Excited now, Tyler?”

Les stared at me as if I were crazy.
What’s going through your head, boy?

“Austin!” Hannah yelped. “Do you have any bandages? Gauze?”

I stood, divorcing myself from my thoughts. I brushed away from Les, muttering, “Close and lock all the windows. Draw the blinds. Lock the doors. Don’t go downstairs.” I didn’t tell him why. My shoes clattered over the tile flooring. The garage door was unlocked. I locked it tight. They’d come from the front door; Les checked to make sure it was locked. Amanda sat on the kitchen Anthony Barnhart

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island, clasping a hand over her arms. Faint trails of blood echoed between her fingers. Her face was a contorted mask. Several soiled towels lay next to her, clothed in blood.

Hannah put another one on and said, “We need something permanent. We’re running out of towels.”

“Did it touch the artery?”

“It hurts,” Amanda said.

I remembered Pacino:
it’s the bites… it’s the bites that kill you
… I looked her in the eyes, trying to hold my fear, trying to keep the color and blush in my face.
It’s the bites…
“How did you get hurt? Did you get bitten?”

A moment of silence. Then Amanda said, “No. I got hurt getting in the Jeep.”

“How did it get overrun?”

Hannah snapped, “Bandages, Austin.”

I nodded, in a daze. Nothing made sense. All the stress and overwhelming anxiety clouded over me, and although I could see, more sharply than ever before, the world was a mist, a fog, and I felt detached. Rerunning in my mind was a tape reel, and I kept seeing my father, standing over Ashlie’s bed. I kept seeing the axe in my hands, bloodied; and I saw Mom, eyes sinking, glowing; her tan skin burning, and I kept hearing the gunshot, over and over and over, the sound echoing, and I could see so vividly her body falling backwards and deep wells of blood stained the wall. This ran over and over in my mind, and the cloud lifted, somehow, I can’t imagine when, and I stood upstairs, standing over Ashlie. My shirt was covered with blood. The world was going to Hell. And Ashlie slept soundly, cuddled up in her covers, oblivious.
So peaceful
. I felt someone behind me, the way you can tell when you’re being watched. I didn’t react; through the reflection in the window, I saw Les standing behind me. I looked back down to Ashlie. Les looked out into the hallway and shut the door. He locked it and walked across the room. Ashlie’s Christmas lights ran the rim of her room; a television turned to station 18, now only static, sat on her dresser beside her PS2.
Crazy Taxi
,
Kingdom Hearts, The Haunted Mansion
. A striped 1970’s chair sat by her two-door-closet, and on a table beside it was a half-used plastic container of fake nails and glue, some opened and drying-out nail polish. He sat in the chair, staring at a wall of Kodak pictures. Ashlie would take pictures from CIY and youth events, from camps and just pictures of hanging out with friends, and would paste them on the wall. I turned my own head towards them and saw pictures of Drake and Chad, Andrew and Les, Anthony Barnhart