Z Children (Book 1): Awakening (20 page)

My friend
Karla’s mom would toss things if they were almost expired. She only lived a few
blocks away, but it was another world- expensive houses, manicured lawns,
security systems, groceries delivered to folk’s doorsteps. Karla had never held
my small house or patched clothing against me, but I still always felt a little
ashamed each time she’d show up with a bag or two filled with food. Course, we
always had our best meals those days too.

Once, Karla had
brought over a 10 pound roast with potatoes and all the trimmings. The meat was
expiring the next day, but had been frozen since purchase. Our whole house had
smelled amazing. And we’d been sad once the leftovers had been eaten.

I methodically
stacked canned vegetables into the cart now. They weren’t as tasty or healthy
as fresh, but they stayed good longer- and when you can only buy groceries once
a month, shelf-life was important. Grandma picked up one of the cans, making a
face. “I hate beets,” she whined.

“You don’t have
to eat them, Grandma, but I love them. Look though, I got some of that
succotash you like.” That seemed to appease her, and she put the beets back into
the cart and started following me down the aisle.

“Don’t forget
about my ice cream.”

“We’re going to
get it at Dad’s work, remember?” Repeating myself didn’t bother me, although I
often wondered what it must be like to lose yourself, begin to lose your mind I
mean- your memory and all of that. It must be a terrible feeling, in the lucid
moments. “We might have to take the food home first though.”

“As long as we
get some ice cream.”

One track mind
much, Grandma?

Peanut butter was
next; we didn’t normally splurge on jelly, but this month, grape was on sale.
That would give Dad a change at least, from plain peanut butter on wheat every
day for lunch. I kept shopping, adding several loaves of bread (bound for our
freezer to keep them from going stale), more oatmeal and breakfast pastries,
cereal, coffee, creamer, canned tuna.  

The fridge
section I always saved for last. Sometimes, I skipped it all together. It was
amazing how quickly a budget could be destroyed in those aisles. Meats and
dairy products were pricey and I always worried something would happen on the
bus ride home. Before I’d gotten smart about shopping, I’d spent the majority
of the grocery money on perishables. I’d learned my lesson the first time the
bus had broken down, all of our food getting warm at my feet. Now though, I was
armed with an insulated bag and the smarts to buy only a few cold items.

Looking down at
my list, there were only four items left: milk, eggs, margarine and meat. I
hesitated, opening the glass door to the milk section. A gallon was almost five
dollars now. We might have to switch to powdered milk if the price kept rising.
I skipped the eggs, since the milk was more than I’d expected it to be, and I
found the cheapest, largest tub of margarine on the shelf. That would give us
plenty for toast and if we ran out of sauce, we could just do butter and
seasoning on our pasta. “We’re almost done, Grandma. Just need to get some meat
now. How about we get some ground sausage? You can make Grandpa’s special gravy
maybe?”

“Why would I
make it? Joe’s got two hands and it’s his recipe.” Like a little child, Grandma
was pushing the cart back and forth, jostling my neatly stacked cans. She was
worse today than she had been in a long time.

“Grandpa Joe
passed away. Remember, Grandma?”

She looked at
me, her eyes beginning to water. “I know. I know.” She’d murmured.

I frowned,
feeling both bad for her and bad for myself. “How about bacon instead?” I tried
to take her mind off of Grandpa, redirect her attention to where we were and
who I was. “Dad would like that and it’s been two weeks since we’ve had
anything but hotdogs and canned soup.”

As we stood over
the breakfast meats, Grandma’s hands shifting packages and checking the fat
content as if it was the most important job she’d ever been tasked with, I
heard a crash. Not a – my child knocked over a soda display crash – but a metal
against hard floor impact that made me jump. Grandma didn’t seem to hear it;
she was too hyper-focused on the bacon.

A blood-curdling,
gut-wrenching scream of terror shortly followed the resounding bang.

“What in
heaven’s name!” The sleeve of thick-sliced bacon slid from Grandma’s grip. “I
tell you what, Joe, it’s the drugs. The drugs and the liquor that’s got all
these young’ns whipped up into a tizzy.”

“Grandma,
Grandpa Joe isn’t here. It’s just me, Bonnie.”

“Joe?” Grandma
spun around, searching nearby for the tall frame of my deceased Grandpa. “Joe!”
Her voice was frantic now; her scream for Joe was in chorus with another yell that
made my heart skip a beat.

The second
scream did nothing to calm Grandma’s nerves. I patted her arm, all the while
searching the store for the source of the agonizing yells. “It’s okay, Grandma.
It’s okay.” I murmured; trying to soothe my own brittle nerves as much as those
of the little, white-haired lady beside me.

“Clary, Clary,
it’s Momma. Sweetie, Baby, stop. Please stop.”  The voice was desperate,
full of fear. “Please, Baby. I know you aren’t feeling well. I’ll let you pick
out any kind of treat you want, Baby. Just please stop.”

A woman in dark
wash jeans and a burgundy blouse stumbled out of aisle five.
Pasta-Sauce-Canned
Vegetables.
Her jeans and shirt were damp, but the dark coloring of the clothes
made it hard to discern the liquid spilled on them.
Just marinara or maybe
olive oil.
Bonnie assumed.
Some jar must have broken. Maybe her daughter
threw a fit and tossed some things around. Brat needs a spanking. Daddy would
never let me act like that, let alone offer me ice cream. No wonder so many
little kids act like animals.

I was about to
comfort Grandma and turn back to the bacon, when a small girl came stomping out
of the same aisle. Her mouth was painted red and her face was contorted in pure
hatred. I wasn’t the only person staring now. The belligerent, bloody child had
attracted a crowd of store clerks, shoppers, and cashiers. “Clary, Clary…
please, Baby. Baby, what’s wrong with you?”

The woman’s body
was pressed up against the beef display now; her hands were behind her, pushing
into packages of ground chuck as she desperately tried to get further away from
her own offspring. I wasn’t sure why, but the thought inappropriately popped
into my head that I could understand a mother leaving a child who behaved like
that… I mean… if I had been like that, I could understand my own mother
leaving.

The woman’s
shrieks sliced into my thoughts, bringing me back to an unreal reality where
the brunette girl Clary was mounting her mother’s body, her small face buried
against delicate neck. The squelching sound that accompanied the girl ripping
away a dripping chunk of flesh turned my stomach like a tilt-a-whirl on acid.

“Grandma, I
think we need to go home.” I pulled on her hand roughly. She was still calling
for Grandpa. I wanted to slap her, scream at her, but that wouldn’t help. For a
split second, I debated leaving her. She’d lived a good long life and… well, I
hadn’t! I wanted to get out of this town, do something big with my life, not
get attacked in the pork aisle with a demented senior citizen.

My daddy would
call it selfishness and completely immoral, to think something like that. Then
again, Daddy had never come face-to-face with a cannibal kid in the middle of
Murphy’s. “Grandma, come on!” I raised my voice, trying to get her attention
without getting the attention of Clary- the girl still gorging on her momma.

I pulled harder,
and like a stubborn mule, Grandma began to move.

It was
impossible not to look behind us as I forced Grandma towards the exit. Clary’s
mother was slumped on the lower rack of pork, her face nearly obscured by bite
marks and blood. Others were yelling and running now, falling over display
racks of corn chips and salsa.

“Hurry, Grandma.
Please.” I emphasized the please, a harsh whisper that barely evoked the terror
churning in my belly. Coaxing Grandma along, I faced the rear of the store and
walked backwards.

She was crying
now, murmuring Grandpa’s name over and over; her face was pale. I’d never seen
her look so scared or so helpless. Even on her worst days, she’d normally work
her way back to a childlike happiness after an episode. “It’s okay. It’s okay.
We’re going to be fine.”

The frenzy in
the store had reached a palatable fever pitch. Product was all over the waxy
linoleum floors. It was almost deranged art- the dirty white canvas beneath our
feet now coated in splashes of pudding, juice, and syrups, then those spilled
liquids sprinkled with rainbow cereals and coffee grounds.

Screams and
shouts and curse words were now joined by music. Johnny Cash’s lyrics seemed to
meld perfectly with the scene. A ring of fire. And I had certainly fallen in.

Clary wasn’t the
only killer kid now. There were others.

Racing down
aisles, attacking adults without prejudice for gender or color. One child
mounted the top of the bread display on the other side of the store from us;
his toes curled around the edge of the coated metal; his gaze searched the
store for his next target…

My heart felt
like it would beat from my chest. I had to calm down. I had to breathe. We had
to keep moving. My heart- once beating like a racing stallion- now stopped. It
stopped dead and, had I been hooked to monitoring equipment, I was positive the
absence of a beat would mean I had flat-lined. That I had died, standing there
in the middle of inexplicable chaos, I had died because that boy atop the bread
display was looking directly at us.

“We have to
run!” I pulled harder, but she only moved a fraction faster. “Please.” I
whimpered, losing my will to yell at her.

He was leaping,
dropping down from the display and landing on all fours like a feral, dexterous
cat. His movements were unreal, unbelievable when matched with his slight
frame. His sleek black hair was wet with sweat, pushed against his forehead as
if he’d recently broken a high fever. Was that what this was? An infection…
some mutated, virulent strand of flu? If only I’d read more, studied more.
Maybe I’d know what was happening.

I wanted to be a
nurse. Nurses could always find jobs, because people would always get sick. I
could easily graduate and move out of this crappy town, start a new life for
myself, and then send money back to Dad. Maybe he’d even move too, if I could
support him some day. Thank him for all his hard work.

We were glued to
the floor. I hadn’t even realized that I’d stopped forcing Grandma toward the
exit. I had seen death coming, and I had frozen. I wasn’t smart enough to be a
nurse. If I was, the boy with black hair racing towards me would have made me
run faster, not stop for a hug. I almost laughed. Hysteria. I was hysterical.
The only thing more ridiculous would be to spread my arms wide for an embrace
with the blood-soaked child intent on ripping me to stringy bits.

My yank on
Grandma’s arm wasn’t kind, it was brutal and she yelped in pain. She’d be
bruised tomorrow- a large black and purple thing that would make it look like I
abused her- but if she were alive to complain, that would be fine with me.

We were almost
to the exit.

And that’s when
the demon with the jet black hair jumped on Grandma’s back, his nails clawing
into her too-large blue cardigan. He’d been so fast. So fast… it had taken him
mere seconds to cover the distance across the store. The scream that filled
Murphy’s came from my mouth now. Frantically, I searched for a weapon, anything
that I could hit the kid with. But we were surrounded by useless things-
magazines, gift cards, a stack of little Debbie products.

Grandma was on
the ground, having buckled beneath the child’s weight. She was whimpering and
screaming, blood seeming to spill from a dozen wounds. I had to help her. I had
to.  The boy atop Grandma was bent over her, nibbling on her upper left
arm. 

I began to kick
Grandma’s attacker. My first strike wasn’t effective; his mouth stayed glued to
her aged body. So I kicked again, moving slightly closer and gritting my teeth.
My shoe made contact with his midsection the second time. And once I’d felt his
soft body give way, heard his surprised intake of air, and his subsequent
growl, I knew I’d keep kicking until he would never hurt my Grandma again.
 

The boy rolled
off of her body, but he was damaged, hurt, he couldn’t get away. And I wasn’t
ready to show mercy. I closed the enlarged gap between us and resumed kicking
him, every once and a while lifting my foot perpendicular to the ground and
slamming it down onto his head.

He was smaller
than me, slight even, no more than five. And I pummeled him until his body was
battered, bruised, and barely recognizable.

It all happened
in a matter of seconds, but in my mind, the play-by-play was infinitely longer.
When I realized the boy was dead, that I’d taken his life, I went absolutely
still, waiting for the guilt to build in my body like an inflating hot air
balloon. It did not. I didn’t feel guilty.