Darkest Days: A Southern Zombie Tale (12 page)

Before long, he had prepared for penetration. Bryant stood and carefully aimed his swollen organ. As he slipped inside her, he gasped in awe. The sensation was so incredible, that he lost all ability at coherent thought. As he eased his full length into her, he knew that he would not be able to maintain control. In fact, as he thought this, he began thrusting wildly with no expectation about how long his virgin body could keep from exploding into her. Within two minutes, he had finished. Panting and dizzy from the rush, he hovered above her wondering how it could already be over, and upset at his lack of stamina. But with surprise and relish, he found that the penis of an eighteen-year-old boy refuses to lie down after the first try. He smiled and began again with slower strokes.

Cara held onto Bryant as they rhythmically moved in his tangled sheets. He clenched his fist grabbing a handful of a pillow in the process. His eyes closed in an intense squint and his mouth hung open in a silent moan. Cara’s fingernails dug into the skin of his back, as she convulsed from ecstasy. They had reached orgasm together. Bryant thought about that fact and wondered if that was a sign of true love, but adults know that the occurrence is a matter of timing and signifies nothing except good sex.

The youth debated rolling off of her but decided that he just wanted to look at her a little longer. A beam of moonlight illuminated her face covered with the sheen of sweat. She looked satisfied, and it had only taken Bryant two tries. Then he thanked his penis for maintaining its stiffness and his flood of hormones that gave him another chance.

Despite the complacency he suddenly felt, Bryant also needed a drink. His throat felt coarse like sandpaper and his mouth developed a sticky film of saliva. He rolled off the mattress and stood up, not bothering to dress. He felt empowered, masculine, and massive; he would not hide his body. As he walked away from the bed, the chill of the cooling evening air and the evaporating sweat caused him to shiver. In his modest kitchen, bathed in the glow of the refrigerator, he called out “Would you like some tea?” His lover answered in the affirmative and he pulled a glass from the cabinet, and then began pouring.

Cara waited for him to return, not wanting to tell him that she was about to break her curfew. Quietly, she decided that being a few minutes late wouldn’t hurt her. She watched him approach, each hand occupied with a glass full of a liquid, which almost appeared black in the faint lighting. She gratefully reached out for the tea and whispered “Thank you.” He leaned in and kissed her after she finished her first sip. She could see the star-struck look in his eyes. They gleamed in a way that she had never seen directed at her. She took another sip of her tea, not knowing that she sent the same look back.

***

Martin’s house, like many in the county, sat on a piece of land outside the city limits and amid the dense Alabama forest. Flanking the property was a Baptist church that Martin did not attend. Everyone he knew attended the First Baptist Church, so he wanted to also but his Catholic parents would not let him. Besides, only old people went to the church beside his house. He really could not even remember the name. Despite the fact that he could see it from his window, the church was a non-entity to him.

Tonight, Martin felt bored and unpopular. Both were true, and though he felt that way most of the time, at the moment the feeling overpowered him. His mind replayed the images of smiling people on the strip: clumps of friends just talking, girls flirting with a nearby cute guy. Martin felt such a hollow ache, that his dignity (which refused to let him force his company on those that did not want him around) cracked and shattered under the constant pressure. He would drive to town tonight. Maybe he could find someone to hang out with on that stretch of asphalt.

Main Street, from the railroad tracks to the First Baptist Church parking lot, was known as “the strip”. The majority of athletes, preps, skanks, and stoners all parked their vehicles there or just drove repeatedly up and down that half-mile of road.

He could go out. His parent’s were out of town on an anniversary weekend alone. He wouldn’t have to worry about a curfew. Sure, he could hang out.

Martin knew that he would not be welcome except by someone who wanted to use him for the money he undoubtedly had. They would overlook his lack of social graces because he would help them. He needed company and everyone knows what they say about a friend in need. As he dressed, he glanced out the window but saw nothing. He squirted on some cologne and walked out of his room, heading toward his destiny. If he had not been so lost in his own thoughts, he might have noticed movement in the church.

***

Brother Mark Willis walked around the narrow halls of his church one last time before deciding to close the doors and go home. Zig-zagging between pews, he checked each one for hymnals and a few cheap copies of a bible. Most of the member of his congregation brought their own more ornate books, but the church supplied a few for visitors.

Brother Mark stepped out of the sanctuary to see a hobbling, elderly woman. At first he didn’t notice her, but she seemed disoriented and aimless as she drifted into his field of vision. Suddenly she changed direction, shuffling toward him in an unnatural silence. Mark squinted trying to bring her into focus in the low light.

“Miss Abernathy?” The preacher queried. “Are you okay? Last I heard, you were bed-ridden.” He looked more closely. Even without sunlight, he could tell that her skin was an unhealthy color. The woman held her arthritic fingers out like claws. The gesture resembled a bizarre entreaty for help.

Mark could almost hear her say, “I beseech you . . .” Of course that was foolish. She wasn’t speaking. Mark thought of the expression “quiet as the grave” which had randomly popped into his head. He stepped closer. “Do you need some help?”

Without warning, she lunged at him. Her nails cut into the flesh on his arm leaving long but shallow scratches. He cried out first in pain, then in horror at her actions. She tried to bite into the arm that she held in her grip, but years ago she had been fitted for dentures, which now sat beside her bed in a clear plastic cup. All that she could do was gum the soft flesh of his forearm. She energetically ran her lips and tongue over his quivering skin causing him to feel sick and violated. He broke her grip, instinctively jerking his arm back.

“What is wrong with you?” He screamed incredulously.

She lunged again, letting out a low hiss. The preacher, though overweight, deftly stepped back causing the elderly woman to miss. Brother Willis then lost his composure. “Jesus Christ, you crazy old bat!” With his injured arm, he threw a punch that knocked the old woman down the front steps of the church. Her body tumbled end over end before smacking the packed earth. His ear caught a sickening crack as her hip shattered. Totally oblivious to the pain, she scrambled up the steps using all of her limbs like a scurrying animal or some large, crawling spider. The preacher grabbed the heavy, wooden door and slammed it shut as the widow Abernathy tried to cross the threshold. Her head collided with the solid oak barrier and she collapsed.

Brother Willis heard the thump and then silence. Hesitantly, he reached out (hands shaking) and cracked the door open. The renewed attack that he anticipated never came. A limp body with a fractured skull lay crumpled at the foot of the church door. Miss Abernathy was most definitely dead.

In a small voice, Mark spoke. “Uh-oh.”

***

Cara watched Bryant slide on his jeans. He tried not to look at her pouting expression as she whined. “I can be late getting home.”

He smiled at her in a boyish way that she had come to love. “I want to stay on your parents’ good side. That includes following your curfew.” He buttoned his pants and then searched for his shirt amidst the debris of their passion.

Cara acquiesced, her voice full of disappointment. “Okay, help me find my clothes.” She climbed off of the warm, safe bed and walked over to him. The young girl still radiated the fulfilled post-sex glow as she pulled Bryant close and kissed him again.

He gave a small laugh and said, “We’re never going to get you home if you keep this up.”

Within minutes, Bryant had gotten them both dressed (somehow Cara’s panties had found their way under the bed) and had unlocked the passenger door for her. He held it open like a chauffeur and allowed the lovely lady to enter. However this was no limo. The brown pickup showed signs of rust and neglect, as neither mother nor son had the money to keep it in decent condition. Cara called the truck quaint when she first saw it, though that was a euphemism for “redneck”.

Bryant drove forty-five miles an hour on the curvy back road where he lived, which was excessive but he had driven them for years and knew each twist and turn. Twin patches of light radiated from the headlights, illuminating the flat, black surface ahead. The side road met the highway and they both saw the fire. The remains of a tree and the (mostly complete) remains of a truck smoked as dying flames dances around the wreckage. Bryant’s truck rolled to a stop while the driver looked around expecting flashing lights up the road or at least the distant sound of approaching sirens. Only darkness and silence greeted him.

He unbuckled his seat belt and opened the door. Wary of a burning vehicle due to the risk of an explosion, Bryant kept his distance but walked around the artifact. “I don’t see anyone inside.” His voice easily overcame the subtle crackles of flames. He glanced at his wristwatch and pressed a button on the side to light the face. “We’ll have to be late. We’ve got to call this accident in to someone.” He called to Cara as he jogged back to the truck. “There’s a house about half a mile from here. We can use their phone.”

Cara asked, “If no one was in the car, why do we have to call it in? Obviously, they walked away from the accident.”

Bryant shook his head and was quick in his response. “They could have landed in the grass away from the site.” Bryant did not know, as he turned the truck around, that the bodies were gone.

After watching trees blur together outside the passenger window, Cara caught sight of a gravel driveway ahead. The truck skidded to a halt, kicking up a little dust and small rocks. Even in the dark, it was obvious that the house was a small one-story structure with no garage or shed. Bright lights penetrated the closed curtains in the living room. The front door stood ajar. After exiting the truck, Bryant slowed his rapid steps when he noticed the open entrance. Cara, a few steps behind, asked, “What’s the matter?”

Bryant turned away from a dark liquid on the doorstep bathed in yellow light from the indoor bulbs. He pointed out the fresh stains to Cara. “I’m pretty sure that’s blood.”

Cara stated with a voice full of hope. “Someone from the accident could have walked up here for help.”

“Possibly.” Bryant hesitantly added. He lightly pushed on the door and watched it easily swing open. The coffee table, which was placed between the television and sofa lay upside down, overturned in a struggle. The knick-knacks that had once adorned the smooth wooden surface resided in several large jagged pieces, and hundreds of smaller fragments spread across a shaggy beige rug. In the center of the mess, a thin trail of blood led deeper into the house.

Bryant swallowed before speaking. “Just in case, we’ll both go back to the truck. I’ll grab a tire iron and you can lock yourself in the cab until I get back.”

Cara shook her head. “I’m staying with you. I know some basic first aid, plus I can be a lookout in case someone dangerous is here.”

“Why? Do you think there’s be someone dangerous in there?”

“Why do you need a tire iron?” She answered him with a question.

Bryant tried to read her face and knew that an argument would be futile. “Two people will probably see more than one anyway.” They ran to the truck. While Bryant felt behind the seats for a makeshift weapon, Cara opened the glove compartment. She spied a small, folded pocketknife and grabbed it. Bryant finally lifted his find, testing the weight.

The couple returned to the entrance and briefly paused before moving forward. Bryant began by peeking around the frame of the door. The television was on but no sound emitted from the speakers. The Closed Captioning subtitles flashed at the bottom of the screen. The entire house seemed to have a kind of eerie tranquility. “No,” Bryant thought “tranquility is the wrong word. There is nothing peaceful where a terrible thing has happened.” Of course, Bryant had no idea what had happened, but a car accident with no bodies and a silent house with someone’s sanguine fluid tended to make one on edge.

The light hanging above the dining room table revealed a half eaten plate of pot roast and a few vegetables on top of one of the four placemats decorating the table. The chair appeared to have been kicked several feet into the kitchen, in-between the sink and the stove. The blood trail rounded the corner by the fallen chair and stopped in front of a closed door on the other side of the kitchen. As Bryant crept forward, an overwhelming panic began to overtake him. Quickly, he forced it back down knowing that if he could not control himself, anything might happen to Cara.

By the time the two adolescents reached the white wood panel door, only crimson droplets were visible. Cara reasoned that whatever happened, the bleeder had probably covered the wound, accounting for the decrease in claret on the floor. They stood in front of the closed door, paralyzed. Even though he was frightened, the answers he sought were on the other side of that door. The young man raised the tire iron as his trembling free hand gripped the shiny, plated knob. The brass mechanism slowly turned, culminating in an audible click ringing loudly amidst the silence of the house. The boy felt his heart stop, as he jerked hard, swinging the door wide.

Both Bryant and Cara felt foolish. The door only led to a small pantry well stocked with canned goods and a bag of self-rising flour. Furthermore, nothing inside appeared displaced, except an opened first aid kit. Twin sighs of relief simultaneously filled the air.