“Tom, let’s go. This snow’s getting worse.”
But Tom was silent.
I went inside, the rifle hanging from my shoulder, and found Tom still on the couch. The wine had toppled and spilled on the couch and floor. I approached and shook his shoulder. Tom opened his mouth but said nothing. He didn’t even breathe. The only thing that came out of his mouth was the thick decay of death, the smell that attracts flies. He pulled my hand toward his open mouth, staring at me. But he didn’t look at me. He didn’t see me. I tried to pull my hand back but his grip was too strong. I wrenched my arm out of his hand and almost fell over.
“Tom, I’m leaving,” I said. “I appreciate the hospitality.”
Still quiet, he stood—it looked like falling in reverse. He stumbled toward me. I backed up to the door, lifted my pack, and hurried outside where the snow was thick as fog.
I’d made it to the end of the driveway, already battered by snow, when I heard tires splashing through the slush on the road ahead. The fog turned blue with flashing lights, a spotlight burned through the snow and hit my face. It was a retired military truck, painted black and white with a boxy light bar on top. Number 997. I waved but the man driving didn’t wave back. Heavy utility boots landed in the snow from the driver’s side. Tom’s son-in-law. Watts. He looked different from the photos. Fatter. Balder. Dumber.
He approached, snow crunching. His hand hovered over his pistol. “Drop the rifle. And the pack.”
Gently, I placed the rifle in the snow. I dropped the pack next to it and backed up. Watts stepped forward and picked up both.
“This your rifle?”
“It’s Tom’s.”
“I know it is.”
“He gave it to me.”
He frowned. “You say you been inside?”
“He gave me a ride.”
“But he’s not giving you a ride now?”
“I don’t think he feels well.”
“You turn around and walk back to that house.”
He tossed my pack in the bed of the truck and set the rifle in the front seat, muzzle down. He honked and motioned for me to walk back up the driveway.
It goes against common sense to turn your back on a man with a gun. But I did it. Watts’ truck growled at my heels, the tires spun in the snow. Once at the house, Watts and Audrey both stepped out of the truck. Watts immediately put me in a pair of cuffs. I leaned against the warm hood and watched as Watts stormed up the steps and into the house.
Audrey didn’t follow him, she stood outside in the snow just two feet away. She turned to me. Her hood blew off her head and her straight hair whipped across her face. She looked no different from the photographs. She was a pretty lady, smooth skin and bright green eyes, alert.
“He’s jealous. He’s been trying to get Daddy to give him that rifle for a year. It’s just one of those days. I’m Audrey,” she held out her hand.
I jiggled the cuffs behind my back. “I’m Jack.”
She smiled, “Sorry.” She lowered her voice. “You want me to loosen those?”
I turned my back to her and she gently took my hands in hers. She loosened the cuffs so they barely hung from my wrists.
“Besides, he brings hikers back all the time. He loves them.”
I turned back to her. “Your father is very hospitable. Very kind. But I think he’s ill.”
She frowned and put her finger on my cheek. “You cut yourself shaving, looks like. And you missed a spot.”
“Probably.”
Our gentle conversation was cut short by gunfire. Two shots. Three. Six. The house shook and crashed. Audrey jumped and stepped toward the house. I pulled the cuffs off my wrists and dragged her to the truck. I opened the door, grabbed the Winchester off the seat, and helped Audrey into the cab. She leaned anxiously against the dashboard as I propped the rifle on the hood.
Watts burst through the front door and fell on the porch, struggling to reload his revolver. Tom appeared in the doorway, face ashen and leaking the same pitchy blood as the bear the night before. Watts was in a panic, in pain. He bled heavily from somewhere on his neck or shoulder. It was hard to tell. Tom collapsed on top of Watts. His fingers tore into Watts’ chest. I fired and Tom collapsed. Pieces of Tom’s skull dropped on Watts’ face and chest. Audrey yelled. Watts reloaded and fired at the truck, hitting the light bar. I shot Watts.
I was the hand of God.
I climbed in the truck and dropped it into reverse. The front end swung left and right in the mud. The road was a lonely stretch of white. Audrey cried and stared out the window. Her back faced me. Her shoulders heaved.
“Maybe I can drive you home,” I said after several minutes.
She shook her head. “We came here because we can’t stay home. We came here to get Daddy,” she said softly. “I want to lie down.”
“Where were you going?”
The truck crawled along. Sheets of snow flew from the wipers.
“We can’t go there now.”
Eventually, we made it to the interstate. It was slow going at barely twenty miles an hour. The Appalachian Mountain stretch of Interstate-40 is dangerous enough in good weather. In the advancing dark and snowfall, we were like a hockey puck waiting to get bounced around.
“Where are the salt trucks?” I whispered.
But Audrey didn’t say anything. The cab was almost completely dark. The raggedy heater hummed.
“What happened to his hand?”
“What?”
“Daddy’s hand. He had a bandage on it.”
“Carla bit him. Real bad.”
She shook her head.
“I think I know what was about to happen. To Watts, too. I’m sorry.”
Her spit was thick, and as she tried to talk through it she grunted. “Don’t apologize. Don’t ever think you owe me an apology,” she held her face. Her breathing was frantic. “I know what that was,” she gasped. “You can’t hesitate to shoot.”
I gripped the steering wheel as we approached the top of a hill. I stopped the truck and shifted to low gear. We rolled slowly downhill. The motor whined and squealed.
“Why don’t you tell me exactly what’s going on?”
But she was quiet. We made it to the bottom of the hill and started around a curve when she spoke again.
“When was the last time you saw the news?”
“A month.”
“Jesus.”
“I went hiking to get away for a while. I got laid off.”
“You’ve gotten away. We have to get away.” She punched the dashboard. “Jesus.”
I squeezed the wheel and released. “Just tell me what’s going on.”
“I can’t explain it. No one can explain it. It has something to do with…” she picked up a Venni Vetti Beefy napkin off the floor and tore it in two. “…with this shit!”
“The people who got sick?”
“The people in comas. They didn’t die. They got up.”
“That’s good.“
“It’s not good. They got up, but they didn’t wake up. They just walk. And they feed.”
“On other people.”
“Yeah. You can’t stop it. If they get hold of you, or if it gets inside you.”
“You’re already dead.”
“Yeah.”
“That’s what I thought. About Tom. And Watts.”
She shook her head. “Watts was born a heathen. That’s what they’re calling them. At least around here.”
“It fits.”
Slowly, a group of deer came into view through the thick snow. They stood in the middle of the interstate. As the truck slowly scooted past, two bucks and a doe head-butted the truck.