“Oh,” whined Birdie. “Why’d you scare it, Sergio?”
“I didn’t do nothing,” said Sergio.
They all watched the cat vanish under a house. Birdie looked at Sergio angrily.
Sergio shrugged. “I didn’t do nothing,” he repeated.
“Well I wish you hadn’t done nothing,” said Birdie angrily. “Nothing scared it.”
While they were in the town, they agreed to search it. They always needed food. Eric and Birdie went to one side of the street, Lucia and Sergio to the other. The town had no Zombies in it, they were fairly sure. At least they had seen none, and Eric doubted any cracked ones would have been able to resist the lovely blue waters running just west of the town. They were careful all the same, moving through the houses quietly and checking all the doors and closets before they rummaged through the kitchen and basement.
In the first house, as Birdie crawled inside the bottom cupboards to look for cans of food lost in the shadows, Eric stared at the refrigerator. It was covered with photographs. There were children dancing in absurd costumes. There were old people sitting on deck chairs. There was a picture of a boat and several people waiting to board it, lit by yellow Tiki lights stuck in the sand of a beach. There was a postcard from Las Vegas and another from Los Angeles. Stuck to the fridge by a round green magnet was an American History quiz about the Civil War with a 98 written and circled with red ink. The answer to the first question, written carefully, was FORT SUMTER. Eric reached out to touch a picture when he heard an engine.
Grabbing Birdie by the legs, he pulled her out of the cupboard.
“Don’t Eric!” she cried.
But then she heard it too, the sound of screeching tires and then a door slamming. Eric ran to the window facing the street, dragging Birdie behind him.
It was Carl Doyle. He had a rifle pointed at Lucia and Sergio, who had their arms up, cans of food rolling around their feet.
“Where is my boy!” boomed Doyle. “What did you traitors do to him?”
Carl Doyle tensed his rifle to his shoulder, and, before he had time to think, Eric flew out the door, waving his arms, and shouting, “Doyle, I’m right here! Don’t shoot!”
Doyle turned to him and then let his rifle drop. “Eric, my boy! I knew you’d make it, by God!”
Doyle’s eyes were almost black now, dripping with thick, mud-like tears. His head was nearly bald and dark with dried blood, except for disturbing patches, shining like pearl, where his skin had been itched away to the skull. His clothes were ripped and covered with gore and filth. His leg was now bound in a wooden splint. The slats of wood were tied together with oily rope. It made him walk in a rolling movement with his leg out to one side. Still, he moved surprisingly fast toward Eric. For a second, he thought Doyle was going to catch him up in an embrace. His heart pattered in him like a mouse scampering to hide from a cat. But Doyle stopped a few feet from him and grinned. His teeth were dark as molasses.
“There you are, my boy, there you are,” he said, his fake accent even thicker than usual, as if it were a symptom of the Vaca B. He cradled his assault rifle in his arms. “I knew you’d make it through the jungle.” He looked around, blinking away a dark tear from his eye. Eric watched it roll down his face like snot. “Look at this place,” Doyle mumbled. “Nothing but darkies and savages and traitors. No civilization, no order. Nothing.” He looked back up at Eric. “But it’s a gift,” he said to him seriously. “It’s our chance to start again, to do it right. We can build something pure and good, something orderly. A blinding whiteness, my boy,” Carl Doyle said. “Like dawn. A new. A new. New…” Carl Doyle bit his upper lip and then smacked his lips. His tongue was swollen and the purple color of a deep bruise. “My boy,” he said confidentially. “Can you spare me some water?”
Eric nodded, his mouth dry. He pulled out his canteen and handed it to Doyle. After leaning his gun against his leg, Doyle upturned it and swallowed noisily. The water swirled and sucked and gurgled down his throat. When Doyle handed it back, his lips had left dark blood on the mouth of the canteen. The sight of it made Eric’s stomach turn.
“Water!” Doyle said. “That is an apt metaphor for what we need. Water, Eric. Pure, clean, necessary.” His small eyes glittered dangerously as they slid toward Lucia and Sergio. His accent dropped suddenly when he growled, “We don’t need any fucking mud in the waters.” When he turned back to Eric, the glittering anger was finished. His smile returned. Eric saw Sergio’s hand drift down toward his gun. It was supposed to be cunning, but it looked clumsy and obvious. Eric felt like choking, but instead, he locked eyes with Sergio and shook his head almost imperceptibly. Sergio scowled, but his hand stopped.
“Come now, my boy,” said Doyle. He clapped Eric on the shoulder with such unthinking violence, Eric stumbled to the side and almost fell. Doyle didn’t seem to notice. “Let’s go,” he said.
“Go where?” asked Eric, his face going pale with fear.
“Why, the island, old chap.” Doyle smiled. “It’s close! We shall be there before sundown!”
Eric looked at Lucia and Sergio. He turned his head on his shoulder and saw Birdie standing on the porch of the house, one hand grasping the railing.
“What’re you looking at?” asked Carl Doyle, his accent crumbling. “We don’t need these savages,” he said. Doyle’s body grew tense. Eric watched as he adjusted his rifle and put his finger to the trigger. His heart thundered in him so forcefully, it was hard to hear. His arm was moving. His hand was reaching for his gun. He wouldn’t leave Birdie. Over Doyle’s shoulder, Eric saw Sergio reaching for his gun. It was happening. It was really happening.
Then the gunshots crashed through the air, and Eric wondered who had shot. Was he shot? Eric looked around, confused. Only Doyle seemed to move, loping toward the Land Rover. There were more shots. Eric blinked. Nothing made sense. He felt his heart, but everything else in him was still. He might have been a Zombie himself, he felt so utterly devoid of control over his body. He felt his hand clasp the cold grip of his .22. Then the gun, in his hand, swung around his body. All he could see was Doyle’s retreating back.
There was more gunfire, but not from him or Doyle. Eric felt confusion seep into his body as the .22 came up level to Doyle’s back. But his finger froze. Then Doyle was in the Rover and it leapt away. Eric’s arm with the gun fell.
It was then he noticed the other trucks, and the men and women pouring out of them, firing toward the Land Rover. Others pointed their weapons at him. They were yelling something and Eric took a moment to hear them.
“Put the gun down! We will shoot you! Put the gun down!”
Finally the roar in his head vanished. Eric dropped the gun and put his hands in the air.
It was only then that he noticed that Sergio had fallen, and Lucia was over him, screaming.
17
Sergio slumped between Lucia and Eric, bleeding over the seat. Lucia sobbed, her hands pressed on the gunshot wound. The blood oozed around her fingers. One man kept a gun on them during the drive.
“Please help!” Eric cried. “He’s bleeding to death!”
“Good,” the man said.
Sergio was dead before they arrived, his pale face pressed limply against his sister’s chest.
Lucia let out a wail.
Birdie pressed her hands on her ears, her eyes squeezed shut.
When the trucks stopped, they were tugged out of their seats. The men had to pull Lucia out of the truck by her hair, screaming and kicking. When they dragged out Sergio, they let his body collapse limply on the lawn. A woman leaned forward and spat on him. Lucia let out a howl and sprang toward her, but a man, laughing, gripped her in his arms while another began to tie her legs and arms. Eric stood motionless.