Gary Brandner - Walkers

Joana whirled and fought her way through the bead curtain and ran toward the rear of the house. There had to be another way out.

She ran down the hallway to a bedroom. A king-size bed, freshly made and unslept-in, took up most of the floor space. There was a window, but steel burglar bars on the outside made escape that way impossible. Out in the dining room beads clattered and bounced on the floor as Peter tore through the curtain.

Joana flew out of the bedroom and almost ran into Peter in the hall. He reached for her, and she felt the cold, doughy touch of his hand on her bare arm before she pulled free.

The next door she came to was the bathroom. Without hesitating, Joana flung herself inside, slammed the door, and rolled the bolt into place. There was a soft thump as Peter hit the door on the outside.

For a moment she cowered back against the wall, breathing hard, staring fearfully at the locked door. As she watched, the panel shook under a booming blow from the other side. Joana flinched. She looked wildly about the room for a means of escape.

Boom!

She swept aside the shower curtain. There was a window at eye level, but it was only eight inches from top to bottom. She could never get through that.

Boom! Something gave in the door with a loud crack.

Joana tore open the wall cabinet, searching for anything that could help her. A weapon. Anything. Electric shaver, talc, cologne, aspirin, toothpaste, hair spray. No good. Nothing she could use. And what good were weapons against the walkers, anyway? She remembered Glen hitting and hitting the man back behind her house until his skull was jellied, and still he came on.

Boom! A long vertical crack split the door panel.

Joana dropped to her knees and yanked open the door to the cabinet under the sink. Toilet paper, cleanser, brushes, a sponge, a bottle of pills, rubbing alcohol.

Boom! The crack widened. Splinters of wood peppered the bathroom floor.

Joana seized the bottle of alcohol. On the label in black capitals was printed flammable. Would fire mean anything to a walker? Effective or not, it was the only thing available to her, and it might distract the creature long enough for her to get past it and out of the house.

Boom! A big chunk of the door smashed inward. For an instant Joana was frozen where she stood. As she watched, the panel shuddered again, more wood broke away, and a fist came through. The flesh of the hand, pulpy from decay, hung loose and torn from the battering. Bones and wire like tendons were clearly visible.

Boom! The hole in the door grew. The swollen, mindless face that had been Peter Landau's was there looking at her. The ruined hand reached in through the broken door and fumbled for the bolt.

Fighting for control, Joana unscrewed the cap from the bottle of alcohol. She took a drinking glass from a holder next to the sink and poured it full of the clear liquid. The pungent odor of the alcohol squeezed tears from her eyes.

Peter had found the bolt now, but the mangled hand could not manipulate it. The hand withdrew, and the other, the good one, came through the hole.

Joana set the bottle and the glass of alcohol down long enough to search through her pockets.

Dear God, let there be matches.

At the instant Peter rattled the bolt back into the door Joana's fingers closed over a book of paper matches. The doorknob turned. The shattered door was knocked inward. For a fraction of a second the dead creature was framed in the doorway. Joana took up the full glass and dashed the alcohol into the purpled face, wetting down the front of the shirt at the same time. She dropped the glass and, as it crashed on the tile floor, struck a match. She threw the match at Peter. It bounced off his shoulder and went out.

A scream rose in Joana's throat. She fought it down. The thing was in the bathroom with her now with its hands reaching for her, one of them whole, the other a shattered wreck of bone and tendon. The reek of alcohol was strong, but the odor of death was stronger. Joana struck another match. Gripping it between thumb and forefinger, she reached out and forced herself to hold the flame against the alcohol-soaked shirt.

She held it there one second, two seconds. Abruptly the shirt and the swollen head whopped into light blue flame. The creature reacted with what remained of human instinct. It staggered backward, arms beating at the flames that licked across the chest.

Joana ran past Peter into the hallway. Behind her, there was a whimpering cry as Peter lurched out of the bathroom and came after her.

She made it through the front door and flew down the steps, taking them two and three at a time. The inhuman voice wailed behind her. When she reached the street she turned to see the flaming figure of a man stumble out of the house, the arms still reaching for her.

A car coming up the street from Laurel Canyon jammed to a stop as the driver caught sight of the fleeing girl and the burning man. Someone across the way, hearing the commotion, came out of his house. Then someone else. And another. The people ran into the street, gathering into a small crowd at the foot of Peter's stairs.

Above them, the thing that had been Peter Landau, the decaying flesh crisped and splitting under the flames, stumbled at the stop of the stairs, fell, and bounced in a tumbling fiery mass all the way to the street. Several people tried to approach the burning figure, but could not get close in the intense heat.

"Get a blanket!" someone shouted.

"Never mind," said somebody else. "Nothing can help him now."

Joana sagged against the side of the Datsun. The flames crackled merrily. Peter's flesh sizzled and split. The viscera steamed. Joana turned her head away.

As the flames subsided, one of the neighbors came down with a garden hose and sprayed water over the body. Much of the face was burned away, leaving a grisly smile of exposed jawbone and strong white teeth.

Joana braced herself and walked over to look down at the steaming remains. Later she would think about Peter Landau, remember him as he had been, and grieve for him. Right now all she could think was, There lies number four. It's over. I've won.

The heat broke Sunday morning as winds from offshore carried mist and high clouds inland, driving the Santa Ana back to the desert. In the evening Joana and Glen sat close together on the couch. A Woody Allen movie was playing on television, but neither of them laughed, because neither of them was really watching the picture.

"It's over," Joana said, as though to herself. "It's really over. Why don't I feel happier about it?"

"It's been a rough time," Glen said.

"For sure."

They were silent for several minutes, then Joana spoke again.

"Do you realize it's been only eleven days? Eleven days since I went for that swim at the Marina Village and this whole ghastly nightmare started. It seems like the walkers have been following me forever."

"It will take a while," Glen said. "You don't get over something like that in a day. You'll need some time for reentry to the real world."

"Ah, yes, the real world. Where the dead stay dead, and only the living walk."

After a moment Glen said, "It was bad with Peter, wasn't it."

"It was the worst. Because I knew him. Or I knew who he was before he became that… thing. The others were bad enough, but I never knew them when they were alive. They were just zombies. They might as well have never lived. I'm talking too much, aren't I?"

"Go ahead, if it makes you feel better."

"It doesn't really. I'm just running on nervous energy. The only thing that will make me feel better is time."

"Was there any trouble with the police about Peter's death?"