Chapter
20
“Don’t be sorry, it’s my fault. I should have known if a guy like me talked to a girl like you, somebody would end up dead.” – Dale, Tucker and Dale vs. Evil (2010)
The five of us—Azazel included—sat in uneasy silence for the next twenty minutes. While I navigated a series of meandering gravel and dirt roads through Homochitto National Forest—attempting to put as much distance between us and our most recent horrors as possible and doing my best to avoid zombies, corpses, and abandoned vehicles along the way—George and Casey rested (or tried to) on the dining benches behind me. Azazel napped inside her carrier, which now sat on the floor beside the sofa, and Clare lay above her in the fetal position, her face buried in the blanket her mother had so recently used.
Given Jill’s oozing infection, I wanted to caution my wife about her chosen mourning spot. Better to burn the bedding and sanitize the couch before curling up on it. But I doubted she’d listen to me—or even hear the words coming out of my mouth. As usual, I just had to hope for the best.
Each of us, except perhaps my snoozing tiger, spent the trip quietly attempting to come to terms with the fucked-up memories of the previous twenty-four hours. Clare was having an even tougher time than the rest of us.
By the time we reached U.S. Route 84, however, she’d ceased crying altogether. I feared she’d shifted from sadness to shock, but before I could check on her, she shuffled toward the front, reclaimed her seat, and set Azazel’s carrier on her lap. After what had befallen her mother, she was obviously reluctant to leave our kitty far from her grasp.
I glanced at her, noting her reddened eyes and tear-streaked face. “This is a stupid question, I know, but how’re you doing?”
She sniffled then met my sympathetic gaze. “Not great.” She shrugged. “What can I say? I miss her, Joe. I know she could be a real pain in the ass, especially to you, but… she was still my mom. I can’t believe she’s gone. And I can’t get over the fact that I totally failed her.”
“No, baby, you didn’t,” I replied, snatching a glimpse of the tree-lined highway before meeting my wife’s eyes again. “You drove all the way to Baton Rouge to save her. It’s not your fault the damn zombies came early, and it’s definitely not your fault that one of ’em scratched her.”
“Maybe,” she said, sniffling again. “But I should’ve stopped her from staying outside. You should’ve let me. I mean, what if there is a cure? How do you think I’ll feel then?”
I sighed, turning back to the windshield. “I really doubt there’s a cure. I doubt they’ll ever find one. But, baby, even if they do, your mom wouldn’t have survived that long.” I gazed at Clare again. “You would’ve lost your mother anyway, and if I’d let you try to bring her back inside the van, I would’ve lost you.”
She offered me a melancholy smile, sniffled once more, but shed no additional tears. “I know you’re right… but it doesn’t make it any easier.” She gazed down at Azazel’s carrier, then stared straight ahead, the conversation clearly over.
I glanced back to see if George and Casey had been listening to us, but they’d each crossed their forearms on the table and laid their heads atop their wrists. Didn’t seem like a comfortable way to sleep, but I imagined they were too tired to care.
A few minutes later, as we neared the town of Meadville, Mississippi, Clare broke the silence again.
“So much has happened…” She paused, as if bracing herself for fresh tears. “I didn’t get a chance to ask you about your conversation with John. I heard snippets, but not everything. What did he say before you got cut off?”
I smirked. “You mean, before we were swarmed by a raging horde of kiddie zombies?”
She winced.
Realizing my mistake, I hurried to explain, “He told us not to come for him. He and Laney had already fled St. Louis. Apparently, they were in Indiana, headed up north.”
“Didn’t I hear him mention James?”
“Yeah, he said he hadn’t heard from him. Guess the Detroit area got hit pretty hard. Course, I’m sure all the cities are toast.”
“I hope they’re OK.”
“I’m sure they are,” I replied, not sure of anything. “James’ll get them outta there.”
Them referred to James, my middle brother, as well as his three grown daughters.
Helen, the oldest, had graduated from college about five months earlier and since become a personal trainer. Not the sort that could merely customize workouts and bust her clients’ butts at the gym, but the kind that possessed all the knowledge necessary, from nutrition to psychology, to help other people become their best selves. Before the zombies arrived and fucked up her career (among other things), she’d been working with several top athletes, including some recognizable names from the Lions, Tigers, and Pistons.
Rexy, the middle child, was an artist and mathematics whiz who’d been majoring in theater before the shitstorm hit. Though a bit more creative and empathetic than her sisters, she hadn’t, ironically, strived to become an actress upon graduation. Instead, she preferred to work behind the scenes, specializing in set construction. In other words, she was handy with power tools.
Lola, the youngest and still a high-school senior, was definitely the daredevil of the bunch—always game for anything. She’d excelled in gymnastics at a young age, skydived at twelve, gone on a solo camping trip at fourteen, and, at fifteen, broken her ankle attempting to leap between two buildings on her high-school campus. By the time she’d reached her senior year, she’d experienced no less than three car accidents, each of which had resulted in multiple rollovers but, thankfully, minor injuries. No one in the family knew how she’d managed those—or survived them—but such near-death scrapes only bolstered her daredevil status
