it’s a flippin’ buffet or something. When I switched out the t-shirt for the sweater I’ve got pressed against me now, I stole a little peek at the wound. Can’t believe I’d actually almost convinced myself that maybe it wasn’t really so bad. That maybe it was just a flesh wound that was bleeding like hell.
But looking into that bite was like gazing into a canyon of meat. Crags of torn muscle jutted out from the walls of the chasm and I could see glints of bone down there, like the fossil of some extinct beast preserved for all eternity. And at the bottom of the canyon there was this crimson lake that seemed to throb and pulse with subterranean forces.
I saw a fish leap out of that pool, it’s scales flashing brilliant silver in the mid-day sun before splashing back into the thick, red liquid. And, nestled between a clump of gristle and a severed artery, a lizard poked its head out as if making sure no predators were circling overhead before committing itself to basking on the canyon walls.
And then I felt like I was falling, the wind buffeting my hair and whistling in my ears as the bottom of the chasm grew closer with each passing second. There was no fear, no moments of regret or wishing my life had turned out differently: I saw myself reflected in the lake of blood below and was perfectly content to simply watch as my scarlet twin grew ever larger.
When I hit bottom there was a blinding flash of pain that dissolved the world into an infinite field of white. I heard screaming, the sound distant and hollow like it was reaching me from the far end of a cavern or tunnel.
The scream grew louder and I began to feel a burning in my throat; at the same time I realized that the voice calling out in such agony and torment was my own the blank whiteness shattered like an exploding light bulb. These tiny shards of reality pierced the wound in my side, brought everything back into sharp focus real quick like.
But for a moment, delirium and substance must’ve bled into one another: and in that fraction of a second I thought I saw Josie standing across the room, her entire body glowing like a lantern in the fog, as beautiful and serene as in those final moments of her life. Maybe even more so.
“Josie”, I croaked as I stretched my hand toward her, “Josie, baby, I l…. ”
But then I saw him as well: the boy. I saw the flesh peeling away from his small round face, hints of bone and teeth where lips should have been. And his eyes, glaring at me, challenging me, hating me with every ounce of his being.
“I… I’m sorry.” Tears spill from the corners of my eyes and I wrap my arms around my stomach as if I can somehow hold back the tide of blood flowing from my body. “I’m so, so sorry.”
Funny thing is, if anyone was around to ask, I couldn’t really say if I’m talkin’ to Josie… or the boy.
CHAPTER FIVE: JOSIE
When I first met Carl, I was traveling alone. Somehow, the idea had gotten into my head that I should try to make my way across the country, all the way to what used to be California. Maybe I was lured by thoughts of palm trees and beaches; maybe there was still some mythical appeal to this land by the ocean. Or maybe, it was more practical.
Winters are bad enough when you have to strip clothes off the rotters you’ve killed just to have one extra layer between your skin and the bite of the wind. You think about lighting a fire, of rubbing your hands over the crackling flames and deeply inhaling an aroma that would bring back memories of camping and bubbling marshmallows impaled on a stick. But you know better. A campfire would draw them in from miles around; they would slowly tighten the circle until there was no hope of escape. So you shiver and try to ignore the stench wafting up from the sweatshirt you just pulled over your head: you cope and survive.
But, if that wasn’t bad enough, the winter also works against you in other ways. Once the temperature dips below freezing, freshies stave off deterioration much longer. Without decomp breaking down muscle tissue, they can stay fast and cagey almost indefinitely; and even the rotters’ slow march toward mulch is put on hold.
Some argue that you can hear them better as they crunch through the icy crust of the snow; and that, if it piles up deeply enough, it slows down the freshies enough to give you more of a fighting chance. But these idiots have apparently never experienced what an Illinois winter can do to the human body.
You see, the cold can devour you as quickly as one of those damn zombies. It starts with the soft parts of your face, your nose and cheeks, the earlobes and lips…. At first, it almost feels as if your skin is tightening, as if it were trying to pull away from the danger and hide deep within the warm safety of the skull. Undaunted, the wind continues its attack with invisible teeth and soon you begin to feel needles of pain, like tiny pieces of flesh are being stripped away. The pain quickly grows into a burning sensation and you flirt with the idea of rubbing snow across your skin to find a modicum of comfort. After a while, however, it recedes and there is only numbness; at this point, you know these parts of your face have been totally devoured and no longer exist. The cycle then starts over then as the cold begins to feast on your toes and fingers, its hunger insatiable….
It had been nearly two hours since I’d left my last shelter and, as these thoughts went through my head, I began to wonder if I’d made a mistake. With its single point of entrance and exit, the old silo hadn’t been exactly the safest of strongholds; but it did provide a screen from the wind and a place where I could stretch out free of snow. But, as I laid there listening to the little pops and creaks of the metal, I began imaging a veritable army of corpses tightening around the outside of my resting place.
I could picture them trudging through the snow, their numbers growing with each passing moment, coming closer… and closer… ever closer.
What at first had seemed like a cavernous room now began to feel as dark and constricting as a coffin. It was almost as if I could feel the walls pressing in and the air suddenly seemed thin and dry, making each breath an act of sheer will power.
That screech echoing through the darkness: was that a wire raking against the outside of the silo? Or broken and jagged fingernails scratching against the metal, desperately searching for purchase?
My heart pounded in my chest and I clutched my tire iron closer to me, the metal warm and slick in my moist palms.
“Damn it, girl, you had to go and drop the gun didn’t you? Shit…. ”
I pictured the shotgun, laying at the bottom of what could have either been a very large stream or an extremely small river. Probably trapped beneath ice by then, the way the temperature had been dropping. And I knew exactly how it felt: cold, isolated, and useless.
Something clanged against the outside of my shelter, the sound causing a queasy warmth to spread through my stomach. I held my breath and listened for it to repeat, for even the smallest ting or pop.
“Girl, you need to get up and get your ass out of here. You want to die in this place?”
The voice in my head sounded reasonable, but I laid there for several minutes with images of rotting flesh and gnashing teeth looping through my mind.
Could I really bring myself to kill them if I had to? And how many were out there? Just one? Ten?
“Be a whole lot more if you don’t get your ass moving.”
I stood and walked to the entrance of the silo, holding the cold metal lever in one hand with the tire iron raised above my head in the other. Waiting. Listening.
My heart pounded in my chest and I could feel beads of sweat forming on my brow.
Another scraping sound, so soft that it could have been nothing more than a twig swaying in the wind.
But was it really?
I threw open the door and my head instinctively whipped back as I winced in pain. Tears streamed from the corner of my eyes and I backed away, swinging the tire iron wildly before me.
When the door was flung open sunlight had flooded into the previously darkened silo. Intensified by the reflective blanket of snow, I found myself blind. Vulnerable. And trapped.
There was a sound in the doorway. A soft crunching that could only be feet breaking through icy crust. At the same time, a stench wafted in, a smell that reminded me of coming back from spring break only to find we had left steaks sitting on the counter in our dorm room.
I continued backing away, swinging the tire iron at what I imagined to be head level; trying to blink away the flashbulb-like explosions that obscured my vision.
But, inside, I knew that it was pointless. The little voice that had urged me to leave while I still had the
