Mark Tufo - Alive in a Dead World

“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.