Paul was stoned, but not that far gone, and the door was closed before her words had completely finished.
“Haven’t had that much interest in these old bones in a long while,” Mrs. Deneaux said as she smiled, her tobacco-stained teeth shining dully.
Paul thought he heard one of her cheek muscles groan from the effort of the foreign maneuver. “Where’s Brian?”
Paul noted that she paused a half a beat too long before she answered, which was only a side to side shaking of her head.
“What happened to you?” she said, pointing down to his foot, which was now sautéing in a small stew of his own blood.
“Hunting accident,” he answered as he made sure the door was locked. Paul moved away from it as the first of the zombies made contact with the screen door beyond. He shuffled over to the couch and sat down.
Mrs. Deneaux sat in the closer chair. She kept peeking out the living room window until one of the zombies saw her and ran through a small bush to press his face up against the screen. She quickly pulled the shade down, plunging the room into an uncomfortable darkness.
“What happened to him?” Paul wanted clarification. When she answered that they had been ambushed by some zombies and he had gotten eaten defending her, he didn’t completely believe the story, but some part of him was relieved that he had not succumbed to the infection. Paul would have felt directly responsible for Brian’s demise if that had been the case. If he hadn’t shot himself, he might have been able to get some antibiotics.
What Paul wasn’t factoring into the equation was if he had not gotten hurt, he may have found some medicine and actually been back hours earlier to help defend their encampment. Every time his mind wandered into the realm of different possibilities, he kept reining it in so that it would not stray too far.
“Now what?” Paul asked.
“Do you have any more of what you’ve been drinking?”
Paul shook his head in the negative.
“We wait. Do they have any food? I’m starving,” Mrs. Deneaux said, heading for the kitchen.
Paul did not answer her as she walked by and began to open cabinets up.
“Talbot always said God had a hell of twisted sense of humor,” Paul mumbled.
Paul could hear Deneaux rummaging around for some utensils and a can opener.
“Cold soup will have to do,” she said.
“I hope you don’t get botulism. That can wreak havoc on someone your age,” Paul said it softly, but with no other noise in the house the acoustics were actually pretty nice.
“Maybe you should try it first,” Deneaux said as she slurped in a large swallow of Italian Wedding soup.
Paul got back in and leaned against the entrance to the kitchen. Deneaux summarily ignored him as she kept slurping the soup.
“Alright, so we both know, you just fed me a big heaping of bullshit. Why don’t you be straight with me now?”
Deneaux looked up from her spoon, her eyes cold and calculating. “What exactly are you talking about?” The creepy smile came back.
“Brian. What really happened to him?”
“I told you. Zombies got him.”
Paul kept looking at her, trying to somehow divine the answer, but Deneaux was a practiced and skilled liar. It would take much more than his amateurish attempt to get her to confess to anything.
“I think that’s only part of the story and I don’t believe or trust you. You can tell me. There isn’t a court or even a jury left to convict you.”
“Once I feel like confessing, you’ll be the first to know,” she said resuming her slurping.
“Suit yourself,” he said.
Paul grabbed his meager medical supplies from the table and went back to the couch. He re-wrapped his foot, which was on fire and took three aspirins for his splitting headache. He put his head down on the cushion and fell asleep to the sweet serenading of Deneaux’s slurps.
When he woke up, seemingly minutes later, the room was as black as Deneaux’s heart. He sat up quickly, not quite able to remember where he was or in what state of danger he might be finding himself.
“Good nap?” Deneaux asked without feeling.
Paul looked to where her voice emanated. Eyes darker than the room they sat in stared back at him.
“What’s going on?” Paul sat up quickly, reaching for his rifle.
“You looking for this?” she said, ratcheting a round into the chamber.
Paul’s heart sank as his blood pressure soared.
“Relax, you look like a rabbit trapped in a fox den. I was just keeping watch on the zombies outside and you’re the only one of us with any ammo left. Is that crawler on the steps the one that did you in?”
“Did me in?”
“The bite on your foot.”
“It’s not a bite,” Paul said, starting to rise.
“Do not get up,” she said coolly.
Paul didn’t. “She bit my boot, not my foot,” he said, trying to explain.
“Then what’s all the blood about?” she asked.
“I did not get bit!” Paul said heatedly.
“What really happened?”
“I told you!”
“You told me nothing. What if I were to say that I did not believe you or trust you?”
Paul fumed.
“Come, come Mr. Ginson, turnabout is fair play.”
“What are you planning on doing?”
“Why, whatever I please. You yourself said there isn’t even a jury to convict me.”
“I know what I said,” Paul replied angrily.
“Yes, Michael, they both died trying to save me,” Deneaux’s words were laced with syrup. “And he’d believe me because he’d have to. What’s the alternative? That an old crone like me killed two strapping young men? Huh? Who would believe that?”
“Mike’s smart, he’d suspect you were lying.”
“Suspect away, you can’t try someone on suspicion,” she laughed. “I should know.”
“So you’re just going to shoot me in cold blood, is that it?”
“I had rather hoped to wait until you turned into a zombie, but if you keep trying to get off that couch, I will have to put you down like a cur.”
“I’m telling you for the fiftieth time, I did not get bit!”
“Keep your voice down, or your friends will come back.”
It took Paul a moment to realize what she had said. “The zombies are gone?”
“Yes, your back-up left while the virus was spreading around inside of you. Obviously, because you were not worth eating anymore.”
So what does that say about you, you fucking battleaxe? Paul thought, but wisely kept to himself.
“Listen, Deneaux, I did not get bit. I shot myself, okay? I fucking shot myself.”
“Oh, that’s rich,” she laughed. “Sad, if true, but rich. Worthy of a hearty laugh, I’ll make sure to do one over your shallow grave.”
Paul hastily pulled his bandage off.
“Easy,” Deneaux said from across the room. “Don’t go getting any ideas, I didn’t say ‘bright’ because I have yet to see you have one, and I didn’t think you were getting ready to buck that trend.”
“Look at my damn foot! Does that look like a bite?!” Paul was nearly shrieking.
A high intensity flashlight blasted Paul in the face. His headache, which had been on the decline, came back with a vengeance. “You did that on purpose,” he said, shielding his eyes from the handheld sun.
“Of course, I did. Hold your foot up.”
Paul sat back on the couch and put his foot in the air. Deneaux stared long and hard at the wound. It was long minutes before she spoke.
“It’s amazing you’ve survived this long.”
“So you believe me now?” Paul asked.
“I do.”
“Can I have my gun back?”
“I think I’ll hold onto it for a while longer. At least we know you’ll be safer.”
“You’re a…”