“The Soulless” XI

 

 We’re bundled up on the couches, Jeb tends to the fire. It’s silent except for the snaps and pops from the fireplace. The fire is really pretty. This soft blue and yellow glow, a golden, buttery glow. The logs are all black and shimmering. I want to look at it, but the heat bothers my eyes- like it’s something very special, something  you can’t look at, something sacred.

Frank is cursing at the radio, punching the table with frustration. 

“You’re not gon’ get it to work, Frank,” Jeb says as he smacks on a piece of stale, frostbitten bread. He sticks it over the fire to toast it and blows on it to cool. 

“Shut up, would ya?” Frank hisses without turning from the radio. He switches with the knob intently. Off. On. Off. On. Nothing. 

I hear Anya humming in the kitchen. Then the soft clapping of a helicopter. She drops a pan. A fucking helicopter. I hear them so often I hardly noticed its significance. 

“Guys! Guys! Tom! Frank! Look!” She, without hesitation, runs out of the porch, onto the front lawn. 

“Get ‘er back inside!” Frank yells coarsely. He grabs his gun and rushes to the porch. He climbs a pipe onto the roof and begins to wave. 

“They’ll never see him out there, damn fool. Here!” Jeb stretches a stick into the fire, it lights and he waddles to the porch, adjusting his pants. I run after him and grasp Anya’s arm. The helicopter has seen us and they’re dropping altitude. 

“Oh! oh!” Frank cries and runs inside to gather his things quickly. The helicopter whips around our hair and our clothes, I shield my eyes from the viper sharp wind. The ‘copter drops a rope ladder and it sounds musically as it hits the tree branches and the porch. I push Anya to it and she clings to it as if she were hundreds of feet in the air. They raise her into the helicopter and drop the rope again. 

I’m on the helicopter now, then Jeb and Frank. The helicopter sweeps over the dark land, rocking and singing, clapping. Anya holds onto me, she’s deathly afraid of heights. She creeps to the window, a little round one, and looks at the stars- brighter than I’ve ever seen them. 

“Good, eh!?” Frank smiles happily and grabs my jacket’s arm. He’s overjoyed. His brilliant smile and jubilant laugh fill the cabin, high over the engine’s squeals. 

“Who are ya?” Asks the copilot, turning to us: all bare and dirty. He’s wrapped in a tight leather jacket, protected by a shiny helmet and beetle-black glasses. His industrial face is almost too perfect, too clean amongst all this machinery. We say our names and he smiles. “We’ll get  ya there safe.” 

It all seems too good to be true. Safety, warmth. Yes, finally. Safety. But, I felt safe before, we were secluded in our little box, our little brown, basic box, with the crispy bacon and salty corned beef. I liked my chewy stash of old Oreo cookies I found in the back cabinet. I hid them from everyone and ate them in my dusty, cardboard hide-out. I liked all that, it was safe. Now, I have the feeling that I will never be safe again. We just left safety- we’re on our way to Hell.

“The Soulless” X

 

Little do they know in high school I was on the wrestling team. My father suggested I do a sport- well, actually, he told me to do a sport- and I had three options: football, baseball or wrestling. So, my freshmen year, I chose wrestling- and despite my lack of effort- I was pretty damn good.

So good, in fact, I continued to wrestle in college. Unfortunately a knee injury my sophomore year prevented me from taking it back up. It’s been years, but I could probably knock Ole Jeb on his ass despite his apparent mastery of the sport. 

“Alright.” I say, standing up and clapping my hands together. Anya rockets out of her chair and laughs giddily. “But,” I say. “Let’s do it outside.” 

There’s some silence. Yeah, yeah, the outside is “dangerous” but we haven’t seen one of those things in three days. The rain has stopped and the big, wet, lawn looks perfectly inviting. I open up the screen door, Jeb and I step out. 

The cool air hits me. I swear, its the best smelling thing ever. So fresh and lively, like Spring. Small clumps of snow linger at the base of trees. Anya opens up one of the windows so she can cheer us on. She’s all bright and spirited, leaning her elbows on the windowsill. Her left arm is pretty bad from when she hit it on the bumper, all gross and purple green, nearly black against her skin. 

“What’s going on!?” Frank yells as he enters the porch, leans out the window beside Anya. 

“They’re wrestling. Tom- Tom took the challenge!” She sputters from the cold and tightens her grip on the blanket. I hope that with my defeat of Jeb, we’ll no longer have him pestering us to wrestle. I look at Jeb dead in his watery, red and blue eyes and the baggy, vein blue sacks beneath them. His lips, sagging, dashed with grey and black whiskers. His yellow teeth, crooked and brown, peeking through. I dare him with my cocky smile, my curling eyebrow. I dare you, I think, I dare you to bring me down. You’ll regret it. 

It was like I was back on the blue mat, the cheers and things from the crowd. My coach, my team, I could feel  their breath, sighs of relief, their fear. The tension. 

That night, with the blinking of cameras, the team, the crowd. I did the same look to that kid. I remember his name, Jerry Rice. What a fucking stupid name. Jerry Rice. He had this ugly look on his face, like there was nothing to him except muscle. I could of had him. I could have taken him, smashed his face into that mat, slipped through his anaconda arms. I was fast, quick. Oh man. That bastard! That stupid bastard Jerry Rice. When my knee got twisted up. Hurt like a bitch and I was just pissed because I let this stupid muscle-head beat me. 

We start. It’s just like old times, for a second, my muscles are confused and I fight with him a little. Clumsy. But then, like an old computer, the memory starts to return slowly. Lock here, twist there. Same thing, it came to me naturally. It’s pretty fun, too. We’re covered in mud, slipping. Anya laughing, Frank reluctantly clapping. 

“Go!” She calls. Jeb begins to run away.

“Get back ‘ere!” I yell. It’s like I’m 14 again, wrestling with Billy. Anya runs out in the yard to help us. She picks up handfuls of snow and tosses them at us. Jeb knocks me over. I pretend he’s hurt my side.

“Oh!” I yelp and curl over. He instantly jumps back, worried, concerned. I spin around and take him at his knees. 

“You little…!” He hollers in between heavy breaths and laughter. Anya falls into the grass, she’s been laughing too much. Shivers, cold. Jeb and I are at it now, one after another. I’m surprised he’s able to fight me, he’s so old and worn down. 

Blast. 

A gun fire rings out. We see a snarling zombie, from across the road, fall. 

“Get in the house. Fun’s over.” Frank says stiffly. Anya skips in. I help Jeb up and we walk together back into the house. 

“I say it’s a tie, Jeb.” I whisper. 

“Tie.” Jeb smiles at me and winks. He’s like a good old Grandpa with a whole extra bit of life in him and I’m still fourteen.

“The Soulless” IX

Again, pardon the delay. Today I have not as good an excuse as teeth extraction, only I can say the hours being wasted on ‘The X-Files’ episodes are taxing. The relentless carnage produced by merely hearing those telephonic chimes so associated with the opening title sequence, have rotted away an entire layer of my brain. Therefor, I cannot remember what day it is, and also, when I do remember, I forget what that means. Decidedly, as I love ‘X-Files’ with an altruistic and unhealthy passion, I will blame the hydrocodon for short-term memory loss. Thank you, enjoy. 

I wake. I begin to move deliberately, worriedly accounting for all my limbs. First I think, 

Is my brain in my head? 

I touch my forehead, run my hand along my brow, down my nose. I open my eyes and inhale air, but it hurts. The same burn in your throat produced by alcohol is being caused by air. I need some water or something. When I try to stand, I feel the jolt of pain in my previously immobile right hand. My shoulder, I had been shot. I forgot. Momentarily, I believed I could have dreamt it all–but no, unfortunately. My shirt is covered in brown, red, the tried blood is caked onto my skin, in my hair. I try to open and close my fist, it is hard and my fingers are covered in sticky blood. I sit up, gradually, and see Anya sitting by her father, he’s dead. 

“Why did he act like that? What was wrong with him?” Anya begged no one in particular. 

“He was bitten, look at his arm. It must be one of the side effects, you know? Like with rabies, or something,” Frank says solemnly. 

“We’re surrounded by those things, if we put him out there, it’ll just attract them,” I manage. 

“Are you alright?” Frank asks. I realize now my wound had been bound by makeshift gauze. 

“Yeah, I guess. This sucks.” 

“No kidding.” Frank sighs. 

“Anya, I’m sorry…” I manage through a mouth that tastes like metal and feels like sandpaper. 

“He would have died anyway,” she replied, she stands up and walks towards me. She lends me a hand and we stand up. We walk into the living room together, not sure of what to think or say. 

A week goes by quickly. Everything returns to something mirroring normalcy. Anya reads to us. I’m still slightly nervous, checking windows all the time, making sure the doors are locked, watching for zombies, but we’ve seen none. Frank even walked outside a few times. He said he was going to try and hunt them, if he could. He said he walked in and out of the woods several times, attracting none and finding that they all had evacuated the area. 

I walk to Anya in her room. She is drawing a picture of something, but won’t show me what.  She says, “I’m very fond of Jeb, what do you make of him?” 

“I think he’s a nice guy.” 

“I think he’s a very nice guy, what do you think of Frank?” 

“Frank? He acts like a tough guy. We don’t know much about him. His family or anything,” I say. I sit on her bed and rest against the pale blue wall. 

“He doesn’t have a family. He lives by himself. His mother is still alive, she lives in a retirement home in Boca Raton, Florida,” Anya tells me, she smiles and then holds up the picture. It is a drawing of a deer. 

“That’s pretty good,” I say, quietly. I suddenly become flush and very self aware. I can feel everything. I am conscious of every body part. Every sound I make, audible or otherwise, is amplified and I think she can hear it, too. 

“This one won’t get eaten,” she laughs. “How’s your arm, Tom?” 

“It’s fine, luckily Frank knows something about first aid,” I say. 

“Luckily.”

The door, being open, is subject to Jeb’s investigation. He comes in dressed in clothes he had found in a trunk upstairs. 

“Do I look like Malvolio?” He asks. He is wearing several kinds of scarves and robes and yellow pants. A coonskin cap, too small for his large, boxy head, rests on the brim of his skull. Moths and dust fly from his arms every time he makes any extravagant gestures. 

“Oh, you do,” Anya assures, looking at me with a bemused smile. 

“Let’s give wrestling a go, Tom!” Jeb hisses. 

“Jeb,” I wiggle anxiously, “I just got shot in the damn arm; let it rest.” 

“Nah, nah, you’re overreacting! You barely got shot!” Jeb counters. 

“How does a person barely get shot, Jeb?” Anya tests. 

“It’s all in  your head!” Jeb waves his hand and a spider flies from the sleeve. I rotate my shoulder. He was right, the shot itself hurt more than the injury. The injury, despite the pain and trouble, hadn’t been that severe at all, and I had regained the majority of mobility over the weekend.

“You’re crazy, Jeb. Even with a busted arm I’d hurt you.” 

“Then put your money where your mouth is, Lestrange!” Jeb cackles. He begins to jig with excitement and Anya, completely mesmerized by the oddity whirling before her, says, 

“C’mon, Tom, give it a go.”

“The Soulless” VIII

My sincere apologies for the delayed post. It seems as of late, we here at Story Horde have all been pretty busy! Better late than never for some zombifaction!

As I round the corner into the porch, I glimpse the scene.

It’s my landlord.

He’s snarling. His arm is wrapped like a hungry anaconda around Jeb’s neck. Pressed to Jeb’s sweaty temple is the barrel of Mr. Panova’s gun. His hostel face is pocked with sores, his eyes are circled by purple skin.

“Daddy!” Anya screams.

“Who are you! I want you out of here! Get out of my house!” Mr. Panova hollers, he twists around, pointing the gun wantonly at us and the shoving it into Jeb’s neck. He backs up into a window, the glass rattles in its frame.

“Please, sir,” Jeb peeps. He can hardly breathe, his extra facial tissue is all bunched around his jaw line. His eyes are bulging with fear and lack of oxygen. I put my hands up and ease my way towards him.

“Daddy! What are you doing!” Anya screams. She falls to her knees.

“Not many people are going to survive! I am not going to die!” He shoots the gun into the air and we all jump. Jeb closes his eyes. “It’s loaded!”

“Mr. Panova, please, try and be reasonable. There are enough supplies in here for everyone to share until help comes,” I say slowly.

“No! No!”

“Daddy! What’s wrong with you?” Anya begs. One of the sores starts bleeding. He wipes it with he sleeve hurriedly.

“Get ‘im off o’ me!” Jeb orgles.

“Mr. Panova, you’ve got to tell me, were you bitten?” I ask, cautiously. I step forward.

“Get away from me, boy!” Mr. Panova shouts and shoots me in shoulder. I’m thrown back. Anya screams. Suddenly there’s a scuffle. There are three more gun shots. I curl into a little ball. There is yelling and a body drops to the floor with a sickening thump.