“The Soulless” IV

It’s been two hours since we sped away from the toxic-smelling gas station. 

What a goddamn horrible situation. 

We are on a country road and have found that it is safe to stop and get out, there aren’t as many of them here. In the last hour we’ve only seen one, he seemed lost, sort of disoriented. 

We’re stopped now, I’m on the roof of the car, looking out, Frank’s gun at my side, glinting in this blank expanse of sky and sun. It’s a weak sun, giving us little heat to relish in. Anya is looking around in the car, sometimes she reminds me of a little girl. She sort of plays around with things when she isn’t scared, she examines them with her big, doe eyes. Frank is off in the distance pissing. 

“Hey, there, you wanna let me outta here?” I hear someone ask below. Anya shrieks and hops out of the car, she wriggles her way up onto the roof with me. I lean over and look into the window. In the back seat, a tired-looking man, bound by silver handcuffs, is lying on the floor. 

I slip off the roof and unlock the backdoor with the keys, my hand is resting softly on the gun. Whoever he is, he’s probably an asshole. 

“Who are you?” I ask. The man readjusts himself so he’s sitting in the seat. 

“Oh, howdy…” The man sputters while gulping some air. On his forehead is a large bruise, it’s all covered in brown blood. His eyes are puffy, giant blue sacks hang beneath them. 

“Who are you?” I sound like a no-nonsense jerk. I learned that from my dad. Anya is holding tight to me, squinting at the man from behind the safety of my elbow. I like that she looks to me for protection. I will protect her, too. She can’t do shit to anyone with those little wrists. 

“My name is Jeb Orson,” he tells me. “I was picked up last night. This man kept charging at the car, I remember that. Well, I was pretty drunk, I’ll tell ya,” he chuckles softly and continues. “The cop gets out, see, and this person starts- well, eating him! All night this goes on! Well, I’m pretty fucking lucky I was drunk outta my mind ‘er I woulda shit myself!” 

“Did you just wake up?” I ask him, I try not to lighten my tone, but it lightens anyway. I’m bored with the tough guy routine. The guy’s a plain drunk, perhaps a reflection of what I might be in a few years. 

“Gotta piss!” He eyes the field we’re parked beside. I nod and move to the side. Anya backs up more than necessary, still wary of our new companion. “The key to these is on the key ring for the car. Couldya click-click?” 

I search for it and hesitantly begin to unlock him.

“Listen, I’m not gonna hurt you or your girlfriend, I just gotta piss. Unless you wanna unzip m’pants for me? I’m not a murderer, I was just blind drunk- and probably causing quite the disturbance!” He’s right. So I unlock him and place the cuffs on the roof of the car with the keys- but I hold onto the gun. 

…My girlfriend? 

He shows no decency, he unzips his pants and pisses right in front of us, burps, wipes his hands together and turns around. 

“Where we headed?” He asks cheerfully. 

“To her camp,” I motion to Anya. “I’m Tom Lestrange. This is Anya Panova and we’re with this cop, Frank Something. He’s over there… somewhere.” 

“Interesting!” Jeb doesn’t seem to understand the situation, he’s too bright and gleeful. 

“We had to,” I tell him seriously. “We’re under attack. There’s this sickness.” 

“Hmm, what do ya know!” Jeb says dismissing the whole matter. He rocks on his heels for a few minutes then returns to his place in the back seat. I look at him for a long time with my eyebrows knitted. I can’t understand his ease–perhaps, he’s far beyond caring. He probably long ago lost his will to live, his motive for breathing, his need for survival.   

I’m sitting in the driver’s seat. My leg is propped up on the open car door. Anya is searching through my bag. She finds my wallet and begins to look through it in a childish sort of way, examining each of the pretty cards. Inside she finds some crumpled pictures.

One is of my mom and dad, it’s folded through the center, the crease is now white. The other is a picture of the entire family, it was taken after I turned 18. 

My dad, with his hard, insensitive brown eyes, stares directly at the camera. He didn’t smile for photos. I remember just how the photo session went. 

“Dammit Grace, I don’t even wanna do this!” My dad roared yet he stood there while she fixed his tie and brushed off his shoulders. She ran her fingers through his hair. Most of his hair was missing yet it was still jet black, it was black the day he died, too.

“I know, I know! Would ya just smile for this one, please!” She laughed to herself as she turned to the mirror. She truly wanted him to smile but she had given up believing he would do the small things she asked. So my mother made it a joke and laughed off his anger and his disagreeable nature. 

“Where the hell is that Goddamn son of mine?” After three sons, my father only really acknowledged one. Joel, the first born, was his favorite, and my father never hesitated to show it. Joel, although has accomplished a lot in his life, has also made some mistakes- but they’d never amount to the mistakes Billy and I have made. Never. 

“He’ll be here, Paul.” Billy had taken to calling my dad by his first name that winter. Although my father never said anything, whenever he heard it, he’d glance over at Billy with an unmistakable look of disdain. Billy did it because he liked to joke around and piss off our dad. That’s Billy for you.

I sat, looking over it all, in an uncomfortable chair. My mom made me wear a green vest and these awkward fitting pants. She insisted I looked handsome. I remember not caring. The only thing I cared about was Joel arriving so we could take the picture and I could leave. I was gonna get laid that night for the first time ever. I can’t remember the girl’s name- but damn. 

Joel finally came in. My dad pulled away from my mom’s comb-like fingers. He greeted Joel with a hug, a smile and a heavy pat on the back. 

Joel never noticed his fairly obvious advantage over Billy and myself. He never noticed the look of pride Dad would give him, he never noticed the blatant denial of his failures. 

“Hiya, boys!” That still pisses me off. Joel always refers to Billy and I as “the boys”, as if he is disconnected from us, like he’s our uncle instead of our brother. He’s not very much older, only seven years older than myself and three years older than Billy. But, there’s always been a chasm, a divide. It was Dad and Joel having manly talks and somewhere across the world, Billy and I were merely existing. 

He was always an asshole. He was always a vain, self-inolved jerk and he learned it all from the wealth of attention my father gave him. My father always encouraged Billy and I to “be more like Joel”. I never wanted to be like Joel. But, despite my every intention to not end up like Joel, I’m on the same path. Billy took the initiative, Billy took all the classes Dad told him not to. Billy is really living. 

The photographer, my father’s friend since childhood, Wally, called us all together.

Click. 

The result. My mother over-smiling, but still pretty in her favorite amethyst dress. She had wanted to take a family photo for so long. Beside her my father sits, looking almost angry at Wally.  Behind them, we three stand. I’m behind my mother. I have on a cocky smile like I just won an award. It’s my, “Look, ma, I’m a jackass,” signature smile. I laugh at the picture because I had highlights in my hair then. It was all the rage.

On the other side, behind my dad is Billy, who is almost cringing. He always looked most like our Mom, with bright green eyes and dingy brown hair, slightly curly. 

In the middle, the focal point of the picture, upon my father’s request, is the tall, lean, blond, Joel Lestrange, with an even, toothy smile. 

And that’s my family, summed-up pretty well by an hour long photo session six years ago. 

I’m thankful when Anya places the photo back. 

“Haven’t you got a girl?’ She asks in a worried tone.

I look at her. My expression begs, “Are you joking? Look at me.”

“Help!” I hear Frank across the field and I jump out of the car. I’ve never moved so quickly, I’m on top the roof with the gun ready. “No! You idiot! Start the car!” 

I pause. Then I see what Frank is sprinting so quickly from. Behind him, maybe twenty zombies are chasing him. I have never seen a man run so fast, his face is so red. I trip and fall, slam into the driver seat. I start the engine and watch intently while Frank slips on the wet grass, head-first into the police car. He lets out a painful scream. The zombies weren’t far behind, they all slam into the car.

One falls in.