Zombie Waltz (Book 1) Page 13

  I jump back up and pull the lid closed on us just in time to crush the fingers of the first zombie grabbing the can’s lip. The ghouls start banging on the lid and walls of the dumpster. If they had half a wit between them they would lift the lid and we would be a meal in a box, but they don’t seem to have any reasoning skills at all.

  “What the fuck? Why’d we get in here? We’re trapped!” Faith says, with more than a slight twinge of panic in her voice.

  “…didn't have any time.” I say feeling dizzy. “At least it’ s empty” I kind of laugh -I feel silly, like ridiculous- and my hand is swollen and looks like it weighs a hundred pounds, but it doesn’t hurt anymore. In fact it feels numb like a big cartoon balloon at the end of my arm.

  The scratching at the dumpster grows louder and more intense over the next few moments. It cannot be this loud outside but in here it is like a sea of noise. Faith and I just cling to each other in the darkness. It subsides slowly, but it never quite diminishes. The majority of the mob probably got distracted by something else to chase, and is gone. Some still scratch and claw at the metal to get at us, but probably only a few. We could fight them, maybe, but I am exhausted and my hand throbs.

  I feel safer now. I also feel incredibly emotional. I want to bawl from frustration and my mind is all mixed up. What I am thinking about; what I am really thinking about, is Levi. Not his death, but his life. His wife and the children he lost. I can feel the pressure of tears pressing against my eyes. I want to get my mind off of him so I try to walk back over the events since the zombie busted right through the wall and into my bedroom.

  There has been so much blood, so many guns, so much wrong, it takes a while to rehash it all. Faith is silent throughout. I think maybe she is doing the same thing; logging the days now with a moments safety to think. It is several minutes before either of us speaks again. After I run my mind over the events in the mortuary, I finally get to my bleeding hand.

  I can feel the blood smearing in between my fingers. I think I'm dying right now. Maybe it is best. It surprises me to think that. “Faith I am cut bad on my huhhand.” I stutter. I must have shut my eyes because there is a strange gap of space until I continue, “That fence is…”

  I try to finish but the words won’t come. I try to think, to hear Faith, to see her, but…nope nothing. Just the blackness.

  I imagine Faith sleeping next to my corpse. Then I wake before her and I lean close to her neck. It is soft and not quite pink. There is an occasional deeply orange freckle in the pale skin and the tiniest little blonde hairs running in rows up the nape of her neck. I sink my deranged smile into her soft white delicious neck, and then there is only blackness.

  Stupid and Dumb

  In the darkness, wherever, I see a spark. Something stings my cheek. It feels warm but hurts at the same time. It’s an annoyance because it’s keeping me from falling. I just want to go down to the darkest bottom and know nothing. The stinging’s coming in pulses. A spike of pain with every thump my heart beats. Between each sting I think it will slip away and give me peace. The darkness pulls down but with every jolt on my cheek it recedes. I feel something wet and cold on my fingertips.

  I realize I can open my eyes and do. A strange sickly yellow light pours into them. In the corner of the dumpster lies a glow stick.

  Faith is hovering over me in front of the strange light, slapping my face hard. “Oww, what’s your problem?” I ask confused and angry.

  She talks to me like a drill sergeant, “You will not shut your eyes again!” I don’t think she’s ever talked to me this way before. “You cannot. Not until I say you can. Now sit up. You will drink this stuff right now. It’s very bad smelling and worse tasting but you will drink all of it. Do you hear me?”

  “I will. I will, but you h ave to answer something. Why? Why’re you always picking on me?” I say hoarsely, “Why did you do this to yourself? You could have been safe, taken care of like a queen in that place with those people. Why stick with me? It's not that I'm not crazy about you...because I am, but why...why me? I'm Just…”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “No. I can’t stop asking myself why. Why are you even here with me? Every time I open my eyes and I don’t see you I think you’re gone…or were never there at all.”

  “Shut up. I am in charge now!” She demands. She has a hold of my hand and starts unwinding the wrapping. It works, she has shut me up. I don't think I could say a word now if someone held another gun to my head and begged me to. “I don't want you to EVER say that to me again. You are just....just…you don’t understand…I can’t stand the thought of losing you…you are all I have now. Okay? So, don’t say I’d be better off without you, because I won’t.”

  “You’d…”

  “No.” She looks so different, so frightening in this strangely glowing dark. She’s heaving and her face is a mask of steel, but some of the demonic inflection is sifting out of her voice as she continues, “Whether you believe it or not my life was not perfect before this…happened. I am happy here with you…well maybe not here. But with you. I want to stick with you. Can’t you just accept that?”

  “Yes, but why?” I plead.

  “Okay , I will tell you, but first you are going to you have to do something for me. Drink this.” She shoves a small cap full of the most putrid smelling substance ever under my nose. I think I'm going to be sick. I try to turn but I'm weak and she’s still pulling on my hand. She jerks me back, “I can't let this go so you have to take your right hand and pinch your nose and then I will pour it into your mouth.” I follow her orders. It’s not like she’s giving me a choice anyway because the stuff is under my nose again, and I plug it.

  When I do, my mouth comes open without me ordering it to and in goes the stuff. She pushes up on my lower jaw. I swallow hard. She didn’t sell the stuff short. It’s vile.

  I start to heave and she squeezes her free hand over my mouth. “No, you need it. You can’t spit it up.” I breathe slowly in through my nose and out through Faith’s fingers. She lets go after a moment and turns back to my hand again. She has my arm yanked so far forward that my elbow is cradled in her armpit and she’s clamped down on it. I can’t feel my fingers. I continue to breathe. I concentrate on trying to feel each breath, and the urge to puke passes.

  After a brief moment of relaxation, the urge returns and I almost let go. I struggle but am able to hold it in. I breathe in my nose and out my mouth slowly with my head tilted down. When the urge comes, I shake my head hard and try to breathe again. This feels like it takes about fifteen years. I still can't work it out. Did I miss something? Why does she care so much? She is sitting in front of me with her back turned and is doing a lot of something to my hand.

  After my stomach’ s finally settled, I gather the courage and speak again, “What was that horrible stuff?” She laughs. The scratching outside continues. She doesn't respond so I continue, apparently allowed to speak now, “Really, I have to know.”

  “Why? Do you have dietary restrictions or something?”

  “No, it was just really awful and I have got to know what it was.”

  “You don't really want to know.”

  “Yes I do!” I am still a bit confused and disoriented and momentarily forget some of my instructions. I try to pull my hand away.

  Then the drill sergeant returns, “Do NOT do that again!” She doesn't exactly yell, but I feel like a 3 month old puppy in trouble when she says it, so I freeze. “It's called a GI Tonic; it’s to keep you from going into shock from blood loss, or possible overdose or anything like that but...”

  “But what?”

  “Well, I’m sure it normally doesn't taste that bad...uh that stuff is not for humans.”

  “What the hell.” I say, and again stupidly try to pull my hand.

  She squeaks, “Ouch.” then squeezes it even harder. “Dead Boy, I will beat the shit out of you if you do that again. I am trying to stitch your hand up.”

  I start to fee
l woozy thinking about the scared boy with the cut on his hand and how terrible it looked. Then I start thinking about the needle poking into my skin and then coming out and the thread pulling through and my head gets fuzzy. “That boy we met got his wound the s..a..me..way its...the..ex.x.x.a.c.t.t.t.t...sa.a.a.m.m.e...w..o..u.. nddd...ddd…”

  “Les…LES! LES!!! DEAD BOY, stay awake!” She screams so loud it brings me back from whatever dark place I was going. The scratching outside the can returns with her scream, but I barely notice that.

  “S...Sorry” I stutter.

  “It's fine. Look , its nasty but it won’t hurt you. I told you all this stuff came from a veterinary clinic. It probably just tastes like that because it’s actually for...dogs.”

  “It was just gross.”

  “They probably make it taste like that to make the dogs like it.”

  “What they don't like pancake syrup?” I joke and then laugh out loud.

  “I don't really know Les, I am not a vet.” She says with a more relaxed voice.

  “It works though, right?”

  “Do you think I’d have given it to you if it didn’t?”

  “No…but” I start to mumble.

  “I know I was only an internist, but I did graduate from medical school.”

  “Well you do great work in my book, Doc.” I smile, but she can't see it.

  “Don't call me that. In fact when we meet people we aren't going to tell them that I am doctor anymore. We should probably try to hide your bite. I don't feel like running into a street full of Zombies to get away from live humans again.”

  “I don’t think I’m going to be able to hide my scars.”

  “I’ m sure that some people will discover your bite wound, but I don’t want it to be the first thing they notice about you.” It was, in fact, the first thing she noticed about me.

  That sentiment brings me back to my former question. I think hard before I speak. Why? It's driving me crazy. Finally she returns my hand to me. She moves to the other side of the dumpster with her glow stick. Between us is the green suitcase flung open and medical supplies thrown all over.

  She’ s busying herself repacking it and then stops to crying. She turns around and leans up against the wall of the filthy dumpster to looks at me. Even in here, in this creepy light she’s beautiful. More so because of the sadness painted on her face as the tears roll like rivers down both cheeks.

  The scratching outside continues. I look at my hand in the dim light. It was a bad cut. She had to stitch a lot, and I realize now that I made her poke herself. Then the scenario of me waking to her being a zombie plays through my head. That doesn’t bother me as much. If anyone is going to eat me then it might as well be Faith. I chuckle at my insane thoughts, and then snap back to reality as I look up at the sadness in her eyes and watch as it intensifies. “Faith, I’m sorry please…”

  “No, it’s okay.” she says putt ing a Band-Aid on her thumb. She then gives me a weak smile. The tears continue, the scratching continues, and my thinking continues. It’s calming, almost lulling in the rhythmic noise of the insanely stupid zombies, desperately beating their corpses against the outside of this dumpster. When Faith seems calm again, I try.

  “Why are you sticking with me, Faith?”

  She looks like she’ s mad for a moment but then smiles, and in a sultry voice snickers at me and says, “What's the matter, Dead Boy? You don't like me back?”

  “Uh…actually you scare the shit out of me sometimes, but I think I am falling in love with you.”

  She blushes so deeply, I can see it in the glowing light, and her smile spreads into a grin. “Then let’s make love.” She says. She pounces on me, kissing me. It’s thrilling. She kisses me as deeply as anyone ever has, letting her hands find whatever they want. She is like an animal. She is toxic. I let her for a long time. Then realizing she’s just dodging the question, I push her off.

  “Wait, seriously...” she’ s stronger than me. She pushes me down and I can’t talk with her tongue in my mouth. It’s probably the blood loss.

  I summon my strength, “No , Faith, I just...” She relents and pushes off, giving in. God, I’m a stupid dumb moronic idiot. I think I might’ve just passed up what could’ve been heaven in a dumpster.

  She backs away a little bit, but hold s my hand. She’s sitting right in front of the light again. There’s this oddly beautiful golden aura illuminating only her when she speaks. I take it back. I don't want to know anymore, but it’s too late because she has already started talking.

  “You want to know why...right? Why I care so much for you? Besides the time we have spent together…”

  Not anymore fuck no that was a dumb question , “Yes, I have to know because...” I trail off on my own like a coward. But I make it back into the fray, “Because I don't think you know me that well.”

  “You're wrong.” She says, fiercely interrupting my whole train of thought.

  “I'm sorry?” And I really am because she starts crying again. Like I said stupid and dumb.

  “You talk in your sleep. That’s how I know you so well.”

  “Get the fuck out!” It is a horrible and accidental pun, but it doesn't even faze her.

  “I know you way better than you think. You said that you were a loser in there. That's not true. Not completely. I know about the kid you saved from drowning, and that you never told anyone.” Oh so it’s a ghost story now...I am dead and this is hell.

  She continues, “I know about the time you kissed your cousin when you were both thirteen.”

  “You have to stop...I can't” I say.

  “No, you will listen!” Drill sergeant Faith says. “I know everything, Les. I know about the time you stole your father’s money...what…it was like 350 dollars. Never got caught though...did you?”

  “Stop please!” I whine pathetically.

  “No , you hit your brother with that baseball bat. Just to impress your friends, and you barely spoke to each other for a year after that. He was your twin. You said you didn’t cry at your father’s funeral. You didn’t cry at your brothers either. You felt numb.” She’s crying as she talks.

  “NO!!! Please!” I start to cry. I haven’t cried in front of someone since my mother died. I blubber out the tears of seven years of stiff upper lips; it takes a while for me to calm down. Pitilessly though, she waits.

  “I know…” She tries to start again but I am frantic. I don't understand how she knows, but I can't take hearing my life story come from her lips.

  “No , Faith I can't. I don't want to know anymore. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Please.” I'm panicked and pleading. For the first time in my useless life, I’m truly begging.

  “I'm sorry but I have to do this. There is just a little more. I promise.” She is tender and sweet, but I am frightened by what skeleton she is going to yank from my luxuriously extended walk-in closet and throw at me next. My back is stuck to the side of the dumpster.

  “You slept for three days, and you talked almost the whole time. You also cried, yelled, and barked. But mostly you talked. I also know that you are an artist…a painter, and that's all you have ever wanted to do…”

  “No Faith. You don't have to do this. Please.”

  “No…I have to , Les, right now. Then we can never talk about these things again if you want.”

  Slowly, weakly and full of dread I say, “Okay.”

  “I know that you can paint anything I can point at. I know you have a photographic memory; you memorized me behind that gun.” I shake my head furiously at her. How does she know? “Yes you did. You talked about me...a lot actually. You described me, what you imagined me looking like naked. You secretly fantasized about a future together. Well I need that…that fantasy.”

  She looks thoughtful for a second, “You said you could neve r harm something so perfectly beautiful. Through all the things you said about me, you said nothing about the gun in your face. You said nothing about the man that attacked you. You said nothing about
any of your wounds or pain.”

  She’ s smiling, even in the dark I can tell, but I feel like my heart is separated, still beating on the operating table. I start to cry again and she moves real close, big full lips, closed mouth and says “Shhh…in your sleep you said you would love me if you could.” She gets real close to my ear and faintly whispers “You can.”

  This time she doesn't let me get loose again, not that I am trying anymore. She pulls my shirt off, or what’s left of it. She’s as tempting in this disgustingly deranged scene as anyone has ever been. There is no more world outside of here, just me and just her. I dive into her and forget that we are in a dumpster, covered in gore and blood.

  Ivan

  “We have to get him back.” Mr. Petrova mumbles.

  “ Sir?” Nick says, waiting behind his right shoulder as he leans over the balcony rail, scanning each way down the street; all the while mumbling to himself. His face is contorted with rage. He has not been the same since Dead Boy escaped. He has lost his focus, his calm.

  Nick never liked Mr. Petrova. At first, Nick really wanted to like him, but small things about him made it impossible.

  Nick walks up to the railing facing him. Mr. Petrova looks past him as if he doesn’t see, “Wherever the son-of-a-whore could be hiding…” then finally takes notice of Nick standing there and refocuses his gaze on him.

  Looking into Mr. Petrova ’s face yesterday would have been easy. His calm demeanor and almost vacant expression never seemed to change. Nick would have seen no agitation or worry there.

  Now, he’s a picture of lunacy. His eyes bulge wide open and dart around –as if he is on serious drugs. His normally clean shaven chin is stubbly and rough looking and there are dark circles under his eyes. His usually pristinely combed and parted hair is now a disheveled mess. Nick realizes, even through the waves of destruction and death since they have been in the mortuary that Mr. Petrova’s hair has never been out of place. He finally speaks to Nick after considering him for an awkward amount of time, “Nicholas, has there been any word? Have they found him?”

  “No one has come back yet sir…um…Patrick wants…”