The King of Clayfield - 01 (17 page)

"Oh my God, you shot him."

Jen and I
 
dragged the
 
body out of the way.

"It is best not to think of them as people," she said.

"But they--" Brian started.

"They're not people anymore!" Jen
 
said.

"It's
 
okay, sweetie," Brian said. "I'm not judging you, I'm just...well...you were so brave. Thank you."

Jen nodded and forced a smile.

We moved the
 
dining room table to block the basement entrance.

They continued to
 
pound against the door, and every time they did, the table would jostle. Brian crawled into the living room next to the fire, and Jen went with him to check out his wound. I stayed in the dining room piling up every heavy thing I could find on and around the basement door.

When I finally got into the living room, Jen stood.

"It broke the skin," she said. "Get him drunk. I don't care what that website says; get him plastered."

She noticed me looking at her. She adjusted her towel and handed me the rifle.

"Get your eyes back in
 
your head," she said. "I'm going to get dried and dressed. I'll look for a first aid kit for that ankle."

I watched her walk down the hall. When she got to the bathroom door, she turned and looked at me before going inside.

"I saw that,"
 
Brian said. "You two--"

"Where do you keep your booze?" I interrupted. "You've got some drinking to do."

Brian was pouring his third shot of Maker's Mark when Jen returned from the bathroom. She was wearing Brian's gray jogging suit. I handed her the rifle.

"I'm going to change back into my regular clothes in case we have to leave soon," I said.

"Where are my clothes?" she asked.

"In the basement," Brian said. He downed the third shot. "You know, you two should be drinking, too. I mean, he's right there, bleeding in the floor. Jesus, there's a dead man in my dining room."

Jen took a drink from the bottle and held
 
it out
 
to me.

"I'm still
 
feeling
 
the wine," I said. "I'll have something when I get back."

I hadn't realized how bad I smelled until I
 
changed back into my dirty clothes. It wasn't so much from sweat, although there was that, but I reeked of smoke from our fire at Blaine's
 
and from the fires in town. I wondered how Brian stood to be around us without insisting
 
we bathe and change. He was a good host. I was disappointed; I'd been looking forward to a shower. I didn't want to risk it now. We might need to make a quick getaway.

When I came back, Jen was putting a bandage around Brian's ankle. I went in the dining room and checked the basement door. It was holding, but I could hear them on the other side of the door on the stairs. I could hear movement below us, too.

"Brian, where's the breaker box? Maybe we could kill the lights down there with that."

"Garage," Brian replied.

I started to the garage and, on my way,
 
peeked through the curtain of
 
the front window. The crowd on the lawn was gone. They were all likely in the basement by then. I changed my mind. I'd leave
 
the light
 
on down there. By morning, everyone that gathered outside would have gone
 
into the basement. Maybe they wouldn't be able to find their way out.

Jen looked up at me when I returned.

"His ankle is starting to swell."

"Does it hurt?" I asked.

"I have
 
enough
 
whisky in me that you could pull my teeth," Brian replied.

Jen stood and moved close to me.

"I think we should watch him," she whispered. "I ain't dealt with bites."

"When he falls asleep, we can tie him to a heavy piece of furniture, just in case," I said.

"You two talking about me?" Brian said from the couch.

"Yep," Jen said.

"Do what you've got to do, Jen," he said. "You've always been nice to me. I trust you."

"We'll sleep in here tonight," I said. "The garage isn't far, if we need to go. We should take turns keeping watch."

"Okay," Jen said. "You sleep first, since you are feeling your wine."

I nodded, "Wake me around one."

I stretched out on the floor in front of the gas logs. I didn't think I'd sleep because of what had just happened and the noise downstairs, but much too soon Jen was shaking me awake.

"Brian has a fever."

I sat up, trying to clear the sleep out of my head.

"What time is it?"

"After midnight."

I went over to the couch and put my hand on his forehead. He was hot, but not hot like the others.

"Maybe it's a fluke," I said. "Maybe he just came down with something."

Jen shook her head.

"Then let's strap him down," I said. "Find
 
some rope or--"

She shook her head again.

"Why?" I said.

"And then what?" she said, on the verge of tears. "And then I just tie him down and shoot him? Is that it?"

"Jen, I--"

"No," she said.

"Jen, maybe he
 
just has a bug. Maybe he has a fever from the bite, but not the virus."

"I don't want to
 
see him turn," she said.

"Okay," I said. "I'll sit with him. You go sleep. You don't have to stay in here, but stay close."

She stood and stared at us both, then
 
went down the hallway and into the bathroom.
 
I saw the light come on under the door.

I felt
 
his head again.

"Brian, does your head hurt?"

He didn't answer.
 
I took a candle and opened doors until I found a bedroom. I checked the closet for a belt. I found a bathrobe, and I took the belt from it. I went back and tied one of his arms to the couch leg. Then I sat in the chair opposite the couch with the rifle across my lap and watched him. Eventually, I fell asleep.

I
 
awoke gradually to a tapping sound. My sleeping mind tried partnering the noise with a dream, but it was just too loud and persistent for me to stay asleep. I opened my eyes, and I was looking down at my lap and the rifle in the orange glow of the gas logs. I had a crick in my neck, and I felt like an ass for falling asleep on watch. It was still dark outside. I looked around for the source of the noise.
 

One of our downstairs visitors had somehow figured out how to operate the knob to the basement door. The door
 
would open
 
an inch, hit the dining table, and then shut. Open shut open shut
tap tap tap tap
.

I looked at Brian. He was still sleeping on the couch. I rubbed my neck and stood to push the door closed again. When I stepped into the dining room, I became aware of another sound. It was a rustling noise, very soft, in the darkness near the kitchen. I backed out of the room to get
 
a candle from the mantle of the fireplace. They'd all burned down to just stubs, and only two were still lit.
 
I
 
grabbed
 
one in a wide, glass dish and went back into the dining room, straining to see. The rustling increased, and then stopped.

"Please, be a mouse," I whispered.

I decided right then that the first thing I would do when morning came would be to
 
find a damn flashlight. For the moment, however, I would have to make do. The curtains and shades were closed, so I thought I could risk turning on the light for just a second to see if anything was there. I felt on the wall for the switch. I flipped it on quickly, and then off again.

The man had moved. He was now a few feet from where we'd left him, and there was a smear of blood connecting the two spots.

"Okay," I whispered to myself. "Okay okay okay okay."

My hands were shaking.

I turned the light on again, and then off again. He had definitely moved.

"Okay. Shit. Okay."

I put the candle on the floor then grabbed one of the dining room chairs from the pile of stuff in front of the basement door. I approached
 
him like a lion tamer, using the chair as a shield, rifle aimed forward from my hip,
 
and scooting the candle along with my foot as I went.

When I got close enough, I poked him with the end of the
 
gun. He didn't move. I poked him again, but still nothing. I started to think it was my imagination. Maybe
 
Jen moved him again while
 
I was changing or sleeping. I left the candle and went to
 
find her. There was still light coming out from under the
 
bathroom door. I knocked.

"Jen?"

"What?" She sounded hoarse.

"The man
 
in the dining room...Did you move him?"

Silence.

Then, "No."

The light went out, and the door opened.

"Is he gone?"

"No," I said. "Just moved."

"Just?"
 

We both walked softly back to the dining room and looked around the corner. He was where I'd left him, the little candle
 
flickering
 
a yellow light over
 
his body.
 

"Shit," she whispered. "He's still alive."

"I haven't
 
actually seen him move," I said.

"But obviously he has."

"We
 
need to get him out of here," I said. "Let's drag him outside."

She looked exhausted.

"I don't know how much of this I can take," she said.

"Let's drag him
 
out, and then you go get in
 
Brian's bed and sleep.
 
We can wait
 
for you to get rested before we leave here."

She turned and looked at Brian.

"How is he?"

I shrugged, "Sleeping. I was thinking that it might be kind of early for
 
him to be showing symptoms anyway, right?"

"I don't know," she said. "Bites might be different."

The rustling started again. We turned toward the kitchen and the man on the
 
floor looked like he was having a seizure. His body jerked and rolled around.
 
I stared.
 
Jen grabbed the
 
rifle from me and started to shoot, but a spasm brought
 
the man's arm up and he knocked the candle over. Then it was dark.
 
Jen fired anyway, and there was a
 
flash from the end of the gun. The rustling continued.
 
There was a
 
click.

"Shit," she said. "We never reloaded it. We're empty. Go get the shotgun; it's
 
in the truck."

I left her, grabbing the other candle on my way.
 
When I returned with the 12 gauge,
 
I could see Jen's head poking up from behind the couch. She motioned for me to be quiet then pointed to the dining room.

He was standing there staring at the basement door as it opened, then
 
closed, then opened again. His mouth
 
hung open, and bloody drool dripped from his bottom lip. His eyes seemed vacant.

Jen made a shooting motion with her hands.

I didn't do it. I mean, he was right there. It wasn't like the
 
group I fired into at the court square. This was a man only a few feet away. It felt different. I knew if I shot him at this range with the 12 gauge, I would be taking his life, such as it was, and I couldn't bring myself to do it.
 

Brian shifted on the couch, and the man's head turned toward him. The man made a noise similar to the old woman we'd encountered; it sounded like a growling cat.