Zombie Fallout 5: Alive in a Dead World (28 page)

Paul pulled the door open, loudly cursing at
himself as he dragged the door over the top of his shot foot.
“Motherfucker!” he screamed. A fresh stream of blood spewed out as
the bandage and wet scab was neatly pulled off.

Mrs. Deneaux looked over quickly. Paul was
standing in the doorway to the house immediately to her left. He
was swearing about something, but she had no idea what and no time
to figure it out. She started to make her way over towards him.
“You need to cover me!” she shouted.

Paul looked up, red veins criss-crossing his
eyes so much, it was almost a solid color. “What?” he asked,
finally focusing, the anger and pain welled in his features.

“You need to shoot, shithead!” Deneaux
yelled.

“Where’s my gun?” Paul asked, more to himself
than to her, but she heard him.

Deneaux was certain if she wasn’t so pressed
for time and bullets, she would have shot him dead for being so
damn useless.

Paul scrambled around. His rifle was on the
sofa. He didn’t remember putting it there, but he couldn’t pin it
on anyone else moving it, so at some point he must have, although
for the life of him, he couldn’t remember when.

He got back to the doorway. Deneaux was
holding her own, but she had put her pistol away and was now using
the rifle. Paul’s first shot knee-capped the closest zombie to her.
Effective, but far from a kill shot.

It did, however, give Mrs. Deneaux the
opening she needed. Paul noted that the old crone moved with some
serious step when she needed to.

“Keep firing!” Mrs. D intoned. “You’re about
as useless as a reformed alcoholic at a wine tasting.”

Paul started shooting again, but his mind
could not race to catch up with her dig.

Mrs. Deneaux pushed past him. Zombies were
racing across the lawn trying to get to her. “Shut the damn door!”
she said, leaning up against the wall.

Paul was stoned, but not that far gone, and
the door was closed before her words had completely finished.

“Haven’t had that much interest in these old
bones in a long while,” Mrs. Deneaux said as she smiled, her
tobacco-stained teeth shining dully.

Paul thought he heard one of her cheek
muscles groan from the effort of the foreign maneuver. “Where’s
Brian?”

Paul noted that she paused a half a beat too
long before she answered, which was only a side to side shaking of
her head.

“What happened to you?” she said, pointing
down to his foot, which was now sautéing in a small stew of his own
blood.

“Hunting accident,” he answered as he made
sure the door was locked. Paul moved away from it as the first of
the zombies made contact with the screen door beyond. He shuffled
over to the couch and sat down.

Mrs. Deneaux sat in the closer chair. She
kept peeking out the living room window until one of the zombies
saw her and ran through a small bush to press his face up against
the screen. She quickly pulled the shade down, plunging the room
into an uncomfortable darkness.

“What happened to him?” Paul wanted
clarification. When she answered that they had been ambushed by
some zombies and he had gotten eaten defending her, he didn’t
completely believe the story, but some part of him was relieved
that he had not succumbed to the infection. Paul would have felt
directly responsible for Brian’s demise if that had been the case.
If he hadn’t shot himself, he might have been able to get some
antibiotics.

What Paul wasn’t factoring into the equation
was if he had not gotten hurt, he may have found some medicine and
actually been back hours earlier to help defend their encampment.
Every time his mind wandered into the realm of different
possibilities, he kept reining it in so that it would not stray too
far.

“Now what?” Paul asked.

“Do you have any more of what you’ve been
drinking?”

Paul shook his head in the negative.

“We wait. Do they have any food? I’m
starving,” Mrs. Deneaux said, heading for the kitchen.

Paul did not answer her as she walked by and
began to open cabinets up.

“Talbot always said God had a hell of twisted
sense of humor,” Paul mumbled.

Paul could hear Deneaux rummaging around for
some utensils and a can opener.

“Cold soup will have to do,” she said.

“I hope you don’t get botulism. That can
wreak havoc on someone your age,” Paul said it softly, but with no
other noise in the house the acoustics were actually pretty
nice.

“Maybe you should try it first,” Deneaux said
as she slurped in a large swallow of Italian Wedding soup.

Paul got back in and leaned against the
entrance to the kitchen. Deneaux summarily ignored him as she kept
slurping the soup.

“Alright, so we both know, you just fed me a
big heaping of bullshit. Why don’t you be straight with me
now?”

Deneaux looked up from her spoon, her eyes
cold and calculating. “What exactly are you talking about?” The
creepy smile came back.

“Brian. What really happened to him?”

“I told you. Zombies got him.”

Paul kept looking at her, trying to somehow
divine the answer, but Deneaux was a practiced and skilled liar. It
would take much more than his amateurish attempt to get her to
confess to anything.

“I think that’s only part of the story and I
don’t believe or trust you. You can tell me. There isn’t a court or
even a jury left to convict you.”

“Once I feel like confessing, you’ll be the
first to know,” she said resuming her slurping.

“Suit yourself,” he said.

Paul grabbed his meager medical supplies from
the table and went back to the couch. He re-wrapped his foot, which
was on fire and took three aspirins for his splitting headache. He
put his head down on the cushion and fell asleep to the sweet
serenading of Deneaux’s slurps.

When he woke up, seemingly minutes later, the
room was as black as Deneaux’s heart. He sat up quickly, not quite
able to remember where he was or in what state of danger he might
be finding himself.

“Good nap?” Deneaux asked without
feeling.

Paul looked to where her voice emanated. Eyes
darker than the room they sat in stared back at him.

“What’s going on?” Paul sat up quickly,
reaching for his rifle.

“You looking for this?” she said, ratcheting
a round into the chamber.

Paul’s heart sank as his blood pressure
soared.

“Relax, you look like a rabbit trapped in a
fox den. I was just keeping watch on the zombies outside and you’re
the only one of us with any ammo left. Is that crawler on the steps
the one that did you in?”

“Did me in?”

“The bite on your foot.”

“It’s not a bite,” Paul said, starting to
rise.

“Do not get up,” she said coolly.

Paul didn’t. “She bit my boot, not my foot,”
he said, trying to explain.

“Then what’s all the blood about?” she
asked.

“I did not get bit!” Paul said heatedly.

“What really happened?”

“I told you!”

“You told me nothing. What if I were to say
that I did not believe you or trust you?”

Paul fumed.

“Come, come Mr. Ginson, turnabout is fair
play.”

“What are you planning on doing?”

“Why, whatever I please. You yourself said
there isn’t even a jury to convict me.”

“I know what I said,” Paul replied
angrily.

“Yes, Michael, they both died trying to save
me,” Deneaux’s words were laced with syrup. “And he’d believe me
because he’d have to. What’s the alternative? That an old crone
like me killed two strapping young men? Huh? Who would believe
that?”

“Mike’s smart, he’d suspect you were
lying.”

“Suspect away, you can’t try someone on
suspicion,” she laughed. “I should know.”

“So you’re just going to shoot me in cold
blood, is that it?”

“I had rather hoped to wait until you turned
into a zombie, but if you keep trying to get off that couch, I will
have to put you down like a cur.”

“I’m telling you for the fiftieth time, I did
not get bit!”

“Keep your voice down, or your friends will
come back.”

It took Paul a moment to realize what she had
said. “The zombies are gone?”

“Yes, your back-up left while the virus was
spreading around inside of you. Obviously, because you were not
worth eating anymore.”

So what does that say about you, you
fucking battleaxe?
Paul thought, but wisely kept to
himself.

“Listen, Deneaux, I did not get bit. I shot
myself, okay? I fucking shot myself.”

“Oh, that’s rich,” she laughed. “Sad, if
true, but rich. Worthy of a hearty laugh, I’ll make sure to do one
over your shallow grave.”

Paul hastily pulled his bandage off.

“Easy,” Deneaux said from across the room.
“Don’t go getting any ideas, I didn’t say ‘bright’ because I have
yet to see you have one, and I didn’t think you were getting ready
to buck that trend.”

“Look at my damn foot! Does that look like a
bite?!” Paul was nearly shrieking.

A high intensity flashlight blasted Paul in
the face. His headache, which had been on the decline, came back
with a vengeance. “You did that on purpose,” he said, shielding his
eyes from the handheld sun.

“Of course, I did. Hold your foot up.”

Paul sat back on the couch and put his foot
in the air. Deneaux stared long and hard at the wound. It was long
minutes before she spoke.

“It’s amazing you’ve survived this long.”

“So you believe me now?” Paul asked.

“I do.”

“Can I have my gun back?”

“I think I’ll hold onto it for a while
longer. At least we know you’ll be safer.”

“You’re a…”

“Careful, the number one cause of accidental
shootings is careful aim.”

Paul wasn’t entirely sure what that meant,
but she was holding the gun. “I’m getting some food.” Paul stood
up.

“There are more candles on the table,” she
told him before she opened the shade a bit to get a look out into
the night.

“All the people left on the planet and I get
stuck with her, I had more fun by myself last night.” The more he
thought about that, the truer it rang. Of course, he had been with
half a bottle of pain pills. “Should have saved those for tonight.
Might have actually made her worthwhile company.”

“What are you going on about in there?”
Deneaux asked.

“Just wondered what this peanut butter would
taste like on some bread,” Paul said as he ate the thick, rich
goodness off a tablespoon. It was the small things that hit the
hardest. Paul thought the last time he had fresh bread was the day
of the apocalypse. He had gone to a Subway and gotten a six-inch
meatball sub. “Should have gotten the damn foot-long,” he said
wistfully, popping another spoonful into his mouth.

“Bitch, where are you!” Paul heard from
outside the house.

Deneaux was standing up by the window now,
her half a smoke hanging from her lip. One word emanated
resoundingly from her mouth, “Shit.”

“What’s going on?” Paul said, coming up
beside her. He could not help but notice that an ashtray would be
offended by her aroma of smoke.

“It’s Brian.”

“Brian? You said zombies got him,” Paul said
as he got a closer look out the window. The person ambling down the
roadway looked somewhat like their traveling companion, but the
abundance of blood on his face and clothing made identification
almost impossible.

He did not look so much like he was on
death’s door as possibly he had passed over the threshold; and when
he realized he had not quite finished his business back in the
mortal world, he had come back a step to do so.

“I’ve seen zombies that look better than
him,” Paul added, a little frightened.

“Bitch!” Brian yelled again. “I know what you
did, well I got the best of him, you friggin’ hag! He couldn’t kill
me!” Brian yelled, thumping his chest as the blood welled up in his
mouth.

Paul made a move to open the door.

“Don’t you dare!” Deneaux said as she leveled
the rifle on him.

“What the hell is the matter with you? What
did you do?” Paul asked in alarm.

“He’s a dead man. Look at him.”

“What is he talking about, Deneaux? You said
zombies got him and that he was dead.”

“Zombies did get him. Can you not see that?”
she said defensively.

“He doesn’t look dead.”

“He’s a dead man walking,” she added
flippantly.

“I’m going to help him,” Paul said, reaching
for the door handle.

“You open that door and you’ll be joining
him.”

“Fuck you, Deneaux, I’d rather be with a
person that’s about to become a zombie than with you anyway.” Paul
walked out the door, Brian was still a good fifty feet down the
road but immediately saw Paul.

“Paul?” Brian asked, blood and sweat stinging
his eyes and making it difficult to see.

“Hey, Brian,” Paul said, walking cautiously
towards him, not sure if he should be expecting a bullet in his
back for his trouble. “Are you alright?”

“Do I fucking look alright?” he asked
heatedly, blood spilling from his nose and ears.

“No, you don’t, man, I’m sorry.”

“That bitch set me up,” Brian continued
without any prompts from Paul. “I was sleeping and zombies must
have been coming or some shit, but she throws a stick at me to wake
me up. I look over and she’s hiding behind this small bush, and I’m
thinking what is this crazy bitch doing? At first, I thought maybe
I had just woken up and caught her taking a piss, but to take a
piss, you have to be human!” he yelled the last word. “And I’m not
convinced of that. She threw the stick, hoping that I would make a
noise or that the noise of the stick hitting the ground would cause
the zombie to attack me. It was on me before I could even sit
up.”

Paul couldn’t imagine the horror, the guy was
burning up with a fever, probably had the strength of a newborn
kitten and a zombie comes and attacks. Guilt began to heft on his
shoulders that he had not at least gone back to stand guard duty.
He had spent the night getting stoned, staring at candles. Brian
was beyond antibiotics at this point, Paul could count at least two
bites on Brian’s face alone.