Zombie Punter - Chapter 2

By the time I could calm down to reach for my sinus medicine on the dresser, the thumping in the hallway was nearing an ear splitting level. While I snorted antihistamine spray, Jake slipped the nightstick through the back belt loops of his jeans. He opened the patio door and stepped outside, grabbing the metal railing.

He looked down as he hefted a leg and climbed onto the rail, and then he turned around to look at me with an expression of grim determination. He raised his hands to clasp the edge of the roof, hauling himself up.

Slipping my medicine into my left hip pocket, I grabbed my asthma inhaler and pushed it into my right pocket as I went to the patio. My throat locked around a gasp at the horrifying scene outside.

Groups of zombies shuffled to and fro, settling at times over the remains of a human victim or an animal. There were ripped bodies scattered randomly, many of them recognizably canine. In front of each of the red brick apartment buildings lay the bodies of people who had tried to flee out the front door, only to find themselves surrounded in every direction.

Behind me, the front door cracked, but held firm.

I heard Jake snapping his fingers, and then I realized that I’d been listening to him snap for several seconds before making a connection to the sound.

When I looked up, all I could see was his hand waving to me.

Jake said, “Hey, wake up, G! Climb on the railing, and I’ll pull you up.”

I tried to do as he asked, but once I’d scrabbled onto the railing, I saw that I would have to jump just to reach his hand. Then I realized that I was still barefoot.

I looked back into my apartment just as the whole wall caved in.

Jake shouted, “G!”

I leapt, raising my hand to try and catch his. Our fingertips brushed, a light rub of skin to skin before gravity began to pull me down.

Jake’s eyes bulged with panic, and he slung out his other arm, hunching to pull his shoulders and part of his chest over the side of the building. At the same time that his hand snagged my wrist, his other hand rose to clutch the edge of the roof.

Even then, my sudden stop almost pulled him over the side. We stared at each other while Jake fought to keep his grip on the edge, though I’m not sure who looked more scared. I should have been the winner, since my gut was stretched taut in front of a room full of zombies.

But Jake looked just as frightened. I came to realize later that he wasn’t afraid of falling or of dying. He was frightened by the idea of losing me.

Jake reset his grip on the edge, and then he hauled me up until I could put my forearm on the roof. He put my other arm down and reached back to grab the seat of my jeans and haul me up. Under other circumstances, I might have complained about the wedgie. That day, I was just grateful to be alive.

Jake sat back on his haunches and started to rock while he hugged himself. He stared down, his deep-set hazel eyes flicking around randomly. I wasn’t sure if he was looking at zombies or victims, but with the way his lower lip was trembling, I thought perhaps he was watching the splattered bodies.

I wandered away to let him cry. Picking my way gingerly across the loose gravel, I walked around the air conditioning units and across the building. Stopping with many feet between myself and the edge, I looked over the back of the property, toward the highway.  I’d expected to see the usual gridlocked traffic. But there were only a few cars moving, and they were going slow to avoid abandoned vehicles.

I spun to look for Jake, and instead my gaze fell on the man hunched over beside one of the tall air conditioners. Like Jake, he was crying, lost in his troubled thoughts.

I wondered why I hadn’t broken down yet. The hulking Hispanic man behind the air conditioner was almost as big as Jake, and both of these huge guys were bawling like children.

Of course, thinking on it now, I know I was in shock, and not just about the zombies. I’d come too close to dying when my fingers passed under Jake’s, and my heart was still slamming in my chest over my brush with death.

The Hispanic man wore a service uniform from the apartment complex, a blue and white striped cotton work shirt with dark navy blue slacks. I vaguely recalled seeing him in the front office sometimes when I’d gone to pay my rent, but his name escaped me.

I wondered if he’d scaled the building to escape, or if he was working on something on the roof when the invasion began.

I thought about the service trucks the apartment used, and I felt a momentary sense of hope. Jogging back across the roof, I scanned the parking lot and found the white service truck, surrounded by zombies. They looked like they were searching for something in the tail bed, and they showed no signs of wandering away. My sense of hope died.

Sinking onto my haunches, I plopped my butt down on the gravel and scooted to the edge to dangle my lower legs over the side. I couldn’t cry. After my plan was wrecked on the drawing board, I couldn’t even think.

Jake came to sit beside me, and after several minutes, he draped an arm over my shoulders. I’d never felt awkward around him, but I did then. This is because at the back of my mind, I started thinking of Jake kissing me.

I felt like an idiot. The world was coming to an end right in front of me, and all I could think of is how much I wanted my best friend to kiss me.

When he squeezed me, I almost jumped off the roof. His voice was raw and husky as he said, “It’s all right to cry, Eugene.”

It had been years since Jake called me by my name. He said it made me sound dorky. Him using my name connected me back to my senses, but I couldn’t cry.

I thought of my coworkers at the Sack n’ Pack gas station, and I thought of my other friends, most of whom I’d met on campus. I wondered if any of them survived. I even thought of my parents, though I knew they were dead.

In my mind, I could see them having breakfast as the zombies crashed through the glass patio door in the dining room. I imagined my mother and father screaming, but not over the prospect of dying.

No, they would be adding up the cost of repairing the glass and cleaning the carpet. Not a few feet from my father was an antique rack of fireplace tools, arranged tastefully for artistic value, but placed  randomly on top of a buffet table.

It was there to make people comment on the odd placement, so that my father could brag about how he’d bought the antique set in Spain.

The antique fire poker was still strong iron, and it could have helped my father defend himself. But he wouldn’t go for it, wouldn’t even think to damage it, lest he lower the value of one of his treasures.

It was cruel of me to think these things, but on some level, I needed to do it to make me feel guilty. I needed to because every night—every single night—I’d prayed that zombies would eat my parents. My prayers had been answered, and even before I tried to make contact, I knew this for a fact.

I thought, My parents are gone.

I started to cry, and Jake pulled my head against his chest. Every huff for air brought confusing odors that in turn fired a conflict in my brain. The stench of the undead was beginning to fill the air as the morning sun rose and heated the animated corpses. That odor made me feel nauseous, and I was glad I hadn’t had coffee after all. I just would have chucked it up once the smell got to me.

But much of that odor was masked with my face buried in Jake’s side, and the musky scent of his sweat stained shirt was evoking the strangest giddy feeling in my chest. Between my heart fluttering and my stomach turning, I thought my internal organs were going to shake themselves into new positions.

This was a level of close contact that we hadn’t shared since we were in elementary school, before puberty hit and Jake started spending time chasing girls instead of hanging out to talk zombie shop with me.

Those memories came back to me as I cried. I thought of how we used to lay side by side, reading comics while we munched moon pies and shared a soda. Why hadn’t I known then? Maybe I couldn’t see it before because I came into puberty late. By then, Jake had become more physically distant.

He started to rub my back when my voice faded from crying, and my hitching sobs shifted into quiet sniffles and long sighs.

The sound of gravel scuffling caused us both to look around fast, and the repairman nodded a greeting, rubbing his cheeks to dry them as he approached us. He sat down on the edge on Jake’s other side, though he wasn’t quite as close. Clasping his hands in his lap, he swiveled his head right and left to take in the chaos.

I leaned on Jake’s side, sniffling while I stared at the stripped carcass of what looked like a dog. It was the least upsetting thing I could find to look at.

I lost track of time, and my eyes glazed. I wasn’t looking at the dog anymore, just a blurry outline of red on a hazy grey pallet. It was abstract art, my brain and eyes working together to spare me the details of what was going on.

Jake’s laugh rumbled through his chest and into the side of my head, and at first, I thought he was crying again.

But the repairman asked, “What’s so  funny?”

He didn’t ask in anger, and when I looked up, his thick lips were drawn taut in a hopeful smile. His eyes said, Please, give me anything to make this seem better.

Jake said, “E.K., maneuver 12.”

The repairman and I both stared without comprehension, but then my memory caught the reference, and my mouth fell open in a gasp.

Jake looked down at me and grinned. “It’s still hidden at the tree house, isn’t it?”

I shook my head, saying the first thing I could think of. “Jesus, Jake. Have you lost your mind?”

He just laughed again.

But he hadn’t lost his mind. Not yet, anyway.