What could I do? I couldn’t tell her what I knew, about the Z Gene and how I was a carrier; how it was people with blood like mine that had killed the world.
And her family.
Instead I said some line about how the situation was no one’s fault, and that there was nothing she could do, and how we would see the end of this.
She smiled, but her eyes told me that her expression was patronizing. Unblinking she said, “Kid, there is no hope. We are already dead. The whole world is. Saying otherwise is just lying to get through the day. Look at James. Look at Steven. Look at Christi and Meagan. Edward. Look at you!”
“Me?” I asked, surprised. For a terrible moment I feared she knew. Knew that I was a carrier. Knew that I was sick with the disease that contaminated the world. But when she smiled again, I assured myself that she couldn’t have known such a thing, and that something even more base was happening inside her.
She leaned in and said in a voice that sounded like some sort of madness had taken her, “You’re dead as well. We all are. Don’t feel bad, kid. It’ll be over for us soon enough.”
I think it was the way she said it. Sure, the words were offensive, but it was the look in her eyes that made it hard to sleep for weeks. The look was without emotion; without expectation; without depth. She was stone and plastic and glass. She was heartless, though her words dripped with a quiet resignation that hinted at a festering sore in her soul.
“Kyle,” I muttered. “My name’s Kyle.”
“Bertha Mason,” she replied. “Nice to meet you Kyle.”
◊◊◊
Wouldn’t you know it, she was absolutely right. By the time it was dark, all of the shufflers in the lot behind the garage were gone.
“What if we opened the doors?” I asked. “Would the ones inside wander off as well?”
Bertha pulled the window open and grabbed the ladder. “Time to go,” she announced, as though I had not spoken a word. She slid the ladder out the portal and struggled to gently set the feet in the grass. Then, without waiting to see if I was coming, Bertha swung a leg out the window and started down the ladder.
“Wait,” I hissed. “How do you know there aren’t any shufflers around?” I went to the window and tried to see into the darkened space surrounding the building. “How can you be sure there isn’t some brain-eater just beyond the bushes? How can you be sure you’re safe?”
The look of disappointment returned as she confessed, “I can’t.” She gave a weak smile and added, “There’s no telling if you’re ever safe here, but you can’t stay still. You either move or you die. So get moving, kid.”
Down she climbed. I took a last look at Edward, his lolling head still flopping about dangerously, barely attached, and then followed her down the ladder.
By the time I hit the ground, Bertha was slinking off around the building and headed for the street.
“Wait,” I pleaded in a hushed tone. Either she didn’t hear me, or she didn’t care to respond, because she just kept skulking away into the night. I pursued her, wondering where she might be taking us.
I didn’t have to wait long.
Three buildings down, Bertha tapped lightly three times on a door to another garage, paused, and then repeated the three taps. The door flew open and we quickly passed inside. Within, I was greeted by a small band of men and women, looking dirty, worn, and tired.
“Heard the ruckus over there,” said the man nearest us. “Glad to see you’re alive and well. Who the hell is this?”
“Sebastian, this is Kyle. He tried to take shelter in Edward’s shop.”
“Then you had a bit of a surprise, didn’t ya?” the man asked with a dark laugh. “Sebastian,” he said, offering his hand. I took it and found his grip to be aggressively firm. “How’s the family?” he asked Bertha, still squeezing my hand excessively.
“He attacked them with a crowbar,” Bertha muttered, as though I had just been accused of kicking the family dog.
Sebastian turned his glare back on me and clamped his grasp even harder. “Really?” he asked in a serpentine voice. “Bashed up our family then?” he asked me.
I yanked my hand out of his and looked him straight in the eye when I replied, “Yes. Yes I did. I bashed-in every face I could with a wrecking bar, and I would have kept it up only I thought Bertha was trying to save me, not preserve her dead family like a group of demented stray cats she likes to leave food out for…”
Pain flashed and my vision failed then rose back out of an obscure haze. My eyes wouldn’t focus right away, but when they did I saw another man standing over me, shaking his hand.
“That’s Richard,” Sebastian voice informed me. “He just so happens to be Bertha’s brother and family to most of the people you just assaulted.”
I muttered a curse and reminded them that all of those people were dead already.
“Sure they are,” Sebastian apparently conceded, “to you. But to us, those used to be our friends, our family, our loved ones. To us, you just hit some of our favorite people with a construction bar. Try to understand how that must feel. Didn’t you have any family that was turned?”
Family? No. Friends? Peter. Dr. Carver. Wood.
Sissy.
Plenty of people I knew had been turned and needed to be put down. It was harder to do some than others, but for most it was just like killing any other zombie.
But none of them were family first. Sissy was the closest, but
