Mark Tufo - Alive in a Dead World

Paul cautiously pulled Brian’s shirt up; deep red lines radiated out from the entry wound in Brian’s stomach. “We need to get you some meds,” Paul said.

“How could he be sick so fast?” Mrs. Deneaux asked.

“What do you mean? He got shot,” Paul said with some heat.

“I understand that. But he shouldn’t already be showing these signs of infection. It takes at least one or two days to get those symptoms. Something else is going on here.”

Paul stepped back, Brian’s shirt fell back in place. Brian felt like decisions were being made regarding him, but fever was beginning to cloud his judgment and all he wanted to do right now was lie down.

“Sergeant Wamsley reporting for duty,” Brian said as he went to the ground, mostly under his own power. Paul placed his head on a small patch of moss.

“He’s burning up. We need to get him some help,” Paul said.

“I think it’s too late,” Mrs. Deneaux said coolly, finally getting to light her smoke up.

“What are you saying?”

“You can’t really be that dense, can you? I really would have thought Michael would have a better screening method for his friends.”

“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that and you’ll explain to me what I’m apparently missing.”

“He’s dying, and fast, from the looks of it,” she said, taking a large drag off her cigarette.

“We just need to get him some pills and he’ll be fine.”

“Nothing short of a medical team and a blood transfusion are going to save him now, but I’ll allow you your fantasy.”

“You’ll allow me? How fucking considerate!” Paul shouted.

“I’m wondering if he’s turning into a zombie,” Mrs. Deneaux pondered, completely ignoring Paul’s outburst.

Paul couldn’t help himself, but he moved from his protective stance next to Brian to one in which he had a better angle to see if any change had taken place.

“I see that you think that too,” Deneaux laughed.

“I didn’t, until you said it. We need to go get him something to help,” Paul said, fear fighting bile to be the first to root itself firmly in his throat.

“We? I think not. I’ll only slow you down and someone should stay here to keep watch over him,” Deneaux said, pointing to the prone figure of Brian with her cigarette holding finger.

Paul doubted her sincerity on the whole “keeping watch” part, but she was slower than a three-legged tortoise racing in molasses when it came to walking through the woods. “I’m not even sure where we are,” Paul said with some rising alarm. The thought of going out on his own was not sitting well. Paul looked all around, the trees suddenly looking very constricting.

“You can wait a few more hours until he dies. Then we can leave here together, dearie,” Deneaux said, completely catching Paul’s anxiety attack.

Paul trudged out of the woods and onto the roadway, trying his best to gauge their location. It would do no good to get what he needed only to find out he didn’t know his way back.

Paul heard Mrs. Deneaux cycle a round into her rifle. He fully expected to hear the shot ring out as she “took care” of Brian’s illness. And would that be so bad? he thought. Mrs. D was probably right, he was already a dead man . “And now I’m risking my life for him,” Paul muttered, stopping his forward progress. “He’d do the same for me. I think,” he said, going again.

“Twit,” Mrs. Deneaux said as she watched Paul’s conscience at work. “He’s as dead as this one,” she said as she casually kept the rifle pointed at Brian’s head.

She wasn’t overly concerned with her future survival. She was a survivor, always had been and she saw no reason why that would change now. She would give Paul two or three hours at the most to get what he needed and get back. If he wasn’t here, she was going to seek out a more hospitable location to spend the night and the next morning she would resume her search for Michael. Nothing ensured her continued existence more than staying with the penultimate survivor.

The only flaw she saw in Michael was his commitment to others, although that would work in her favor this time because he would not leave until he had the rest of his raiding party with him.

Brian stirred restlessly in his fever-soaked dreams, Mrs. Deneaux pushed his shirt up to watch the ever advancing infection as it branched to his heart. Once it got there, nothing could save him, except a priest and that would only be his eternal soul.

Paul felt completely exposed as he walked down the road. He looked longingly to the brush-covered street sides, but time was of the utmost importance. He hesitated. Who would know if I turned around now? I could tell Deneaux I didn’t find anything. She’d suspect and I’d know, he thought, chastising himself.

Paul had started walking again when he got a creeping sensation at the back of his neck. It was that same feeling he got so long ago at the gas station when that man had begun to approach him, when this whole thing had originally started. He had ignored that feeling then and almost fell into the same trap. “I’m going to be pissed if I turn around and there’s nothing there, I’m just scaring myself,” he said aloud much like people who enter a dark basement whistle so as to abate their fear.

At first, what he saw just didn’t register. Luckily, his lower reasoning abilities of survival kicked in. Two speeders, a large male and an even larger female, were bearing down on him. Paul involuntarily cried out as he began his own sprint. Cognitive thought slowly came back as Paul tried to do some basic calculations in his head. Had to have at least a couple of hundred yards head start on them, should I turn around and look? No I’ll lose time. He could swear on more than one occasion, he could feel fingernails narrowly miss his neck and he would put on another short burst of speed.

He had gone less than a quarter mile and knew his time of running was rapidly coming to a close. “Can’t…keep…this…up!” He huffed. He stole a quick glance over his shoulder, hoping the zombies had stopped their pursuit. No such luck, the lead zombie dressed in tattered camouflage gear was, at the most, twenty feet away.

I’m screwed , Paul thought. Okay, okay . His mind going into overdrive. What would Talbot do? Even in the dire situation, he smiled a little at the comparison to the popular What Would Jesus Do? slogan. Paul held his rifle up to his face, not sure what he was looking for or if he’d even be able to tell as the firearm swayed violently back and forth in his field of vision. I think I see red. Does that mean the safety is on or off? How many bullets do I have? What are the odds I could hit him with the rifle over my shoulder, about as good as you stopping and aiming . He swore he heard Mike say that last part.

Paul planted his left leg to turn and make a shot, the force of his forward momentum causing his ankle to roll. He fell and spun hard from the pain. Camo man had not broken stride as Paul rolled over two complete times. Tears had already welled up in Paul’s eyes as the Camo man lunged for him. Paul pulled the trigger of his rifle. He couldn’t have placed the shot any better if he had put the rifle on a gun stand and fired it off. The bullet struck Camo man squarely in the forehead. The zombie’s forward progress halted immediately as brackish, gray-green matter leaked out the entry hole, and the smell of sulfur-laden, stagnant water assailed his nostrils. Paul’s triumph was short-lived as the Amazonian woman who had been struggling to keep up was now gaining by leaps and bounds on the prostrate Paul.

Paul sat up to get a better shot, the pain in his ankle throbbing with every beat of his heart, which at this moment, meant it was pretty much a continuous pain. “Gotcha now, bitch!” Paul screamed as his well placed shot slammed the woman in her calf. Her immeasurable bulk slammed to the ground as the bottom half of her right leg snapped in two.