Craig Dilouie: The Killing Floor

Ray blinks. “Mom? What are you doing here?”

“I’m so glad you’re home, sweetie.”

“Are you a ghost?”

His mother laughs. “Of course I ain’t a ghost.”

“Mom, you’ll never guess what I did.”

His mother checks out the kitchen, wearing a sad frown. “Does it smell musty in here? This place needs a good cleaning. So much dust.”

“I’m a cop now. A real cop.”

“So much work to do—did you say you’re a police officer now?”

“That’s right, Mom. At the refugee camp.”

“Oh,” she says with a worried expression. “Well, you do what you think is best.”

His smile falters. “No, Ma, listen. We just blew up the Veterans Bridge. The Infected were coming out of Pittsburgh because of the fire, and we had to blow the bridge to stop them from crossing over and coming after the camp. I volunteered. I was one of the few who survived.”

“Oh,” his mother says again, touching her face. “Whatever you think is best, Ray.”

“Stop saying that!” he roars. The creature inside him awakens and turns over, pulling at his internal organs. The shock strikes his body like lightning. He wakes up on the floor curled into a ball, still screaming. “Don’t say that to me anymore!”

Several monstrous foghorns blast in unison outside, one of them close. The house trembles from the vibrations. The windows shiver in their frames. Glasses and plates rattle in the cupboards. A distant car alarm honks.

His shouting expended the last of his energy, but broke the sudden delirium. Mom’s not here . They put her in one of those mass graves outside of town. Mrs. Leona Young died during the Screaming, drowning in the bathtub as Ray slept one off downstairs in his basement apartment. So many people died during the Screaming that nobody could give his mother a proper burial. The public health department came to pick up her body for disposal in one of the mass graves the county dug outside of town. The health workers were unable to lift her three hundred pounds, and settled on dragging her from the house on a mattress. We’re going to need a bigger hole for this one, ha ha. Even in death, Leona could not find dignity.

“Don’t give up on me, Momma,” he says, crawling out of the kitchen.

Whatever he thought was best was never any good, but she loved him anyway. All that mother’s love, unconditional, abundant, wasted.

The couch in the living room looks deep and inviting. Gritting his teeth, Ray starts his journey across the dusty-smelling carpet, pausing often to rest. He tries to spit, but his mouth is dry. Maybe I should just give it up. What does it matter where I die? But he makes it. He may have lived like a dog, but he does not intend to die like one. He pulls his body up onto the couch and sits gasping, his face burning with fever as his immune system wars against the invader in his blood. Outside, the light is failing fast. Night is falling for the last time on Ray’s world. Time enough for one last smoke, and then good night and good luck. He puts a wilted cigarette between his lips and lights it, staring out the big picture windows at the empty street outside.

Ray looks around, surprised to see no TV. He notices an unopened can of beer on the end table, hiding in plain sight, and blinks away a tear.

“Merry fucking Christmas,” he says.

He opens the beer and smells it. Sips it. Pours some on the bulge in his shirt.

“You like that, you little bastard?”

The growth throbs in response.

The brew is warm and a little flat and not his brand but it is the best beer he ever drank in his life. Finding an unopened beer is almost enough to make him believe in a kind and merciful God. After savoring a few sips, he chugs half of it and belches.

The can falls from his hand to spill foaming onto the carpet.

“Get out of here,” he whimpers, waving his good arm. “Go. Git.”

The picture windows are filled with Infected. They stand motionless, peering in with dark eyes, their breath steaming the glass.

Why don’t they attack?

“Leave me alone,” he cries. “Just let me die in peace.”

Are they real, or am I seeing things again?

Ray curls into a ball on the couch and closes his eyes, pressing a pillow against his face.

Lord, have mercy , he prays. Don’t let them eat me.

As he loses consciousness, he begins to change.

Outside, the Infected scream in the dark, slapping their hands against the glass.

Todd

The convoy grinds west along U.S. Route 22 with the headlights off, navigating by moonlight. Near the front of the battered yellow school bus leading the convoy, the boy huddles against Anne’s shoulder, her leather jacket draped over his body, lulled into a gentle doze by the droning engine. Three weeks ago, he was acing tests and dodging bullies in high school; now he is a veteran fighter in a war that is just getting started but has already changed him. Some of the other survivors weep in the dark. Outside, the Infected suffer their own pain. He can hear them wailing in the trees, mourning the lost world, until falling silent one by one as sleep overtakes them.

Pressed against the warmth of Anne’s body, Todd feels safe.

“Where have you been?” he whispers.

She does not answer; he wonders if he spoke the words or only thought them.

“Going back and forth on the earth, and walking up and down it,” Anne finally says.

“That sounds like a quote. Who said that?”

“Satan,” Anne tells him. The angel of light who was cast out of heaven for hubris.

Todd used to coolly remark the apocalypse beat high school, but now realizes how stupid it was to say such a thing to people who lost everything. For most of his life, he had intelligence but little experience; he envied the natural gravitas of adults, whose sense of themselves ran deep with time. Now he understands. He senses the pain behind Anne’s answer. She is no longer just a mother figure for him. She is a woman battling her own demons.

“Why did you leave us?”

Anne fought hard to get Todd and the others to the refugee camp, riding out of Pittsburgh in the back of a Bradley fighting vehicle, only to disappear just as they found it.

“My family died,” she says. “They died because of me. I don’t get to come back.”

“But you did. You found us at the bridge.”

“Blind luck,” she tells him. “I was just passing through with some other survivors. I’m their guardian angel now. In any case, that’s not what I meant.”

“I know what you meant,” he whispers.

Something large collides with the bus, with a metallic boom followed by a flurry of screams. Todd clutches at Anne, wide eyed and gasping, his arteries turned into wires carrying electric current instead of blood. The monster snorts like a giant pig, grotesquely loud, its hooves clashing on the asphalt. The driver roars, stomping on the gas. Todd feels the sudden pull of gravity as the bus lurches hard to the left. The hooves strike the side of the bus, making the entire vehicle shiver. The boy buries his face against Anne’s shoulder, biting her jacket. Then the thing falls behind, its hooves clattering, shrieking in the dark.

“What about me?” he cries. “Do I get to come back?”

Anne shushes him and strokes his hair until he regains control of his breathing and his heart stops hammering in his chest. It’s all right , the voices shout in the dark. We’re all right now. What about the others? They’re still behind us, thank God. Someone else says, What was that thing? What was it? Nobody answers. Nobody talks about the monsters. To talk about them is to give them your power. You start a conversation ready to fight to survive and end it ready to give up. Todd smells tobacco burning as survivors light cigarettes in the dark. As the others settle into an uneasy silence, Anne tells him, in a warm whisper close to his ear, a story about a woman who was a simple housewife—a loving mother, a devoted wife, a respected neighbor—who had everything until suddenly she didn’t. When Infection arrived, she refused to accept what was happening. She sent her husband out into the storm of violence on a fool’s errand. She left her kids with a neighbor to go search for her husband and realized, too late, she had left them to die. The woman wanted to die herself but could not overcome her instinctive need to survive. And so she made her survival a mission—a mission of vengeance.