Infected Heart

Rich Murdoch hears the familiar slip-shuffle of a zombie’s walk and presses flat against the brick wall of the alley, out of sight among the shadows. He holds his breath, willing himself to become invisible. That doesn’t work, really, but it quiets his mind and his heart, and allows him time to think. He has to get home. It’s too late already—the sun has set, and the zombies are more active from dusk until dawn. Another hour and the streets will be alive…if he can use that term to describe humans who are no longer living. From his vantage point, he watches a shadow darken the nearest streetlight, then two seconds later, he sees the zombie. It was a man at some point, judging from the narrow hips and what remains of the now-skeletal head. For a crazy second, Rich wonders if he knew the guy in another life. Did they meet at O’Hallahan’s bar downtown, maybe shared a drink or two, maybe something more? Did he ever scrawl his phone number on a napkin and press it into the stranger’s hand? Did they get together…get off? No. Rich shakes his head, clearing it. No, he was never that kind of guy, one to pick up someone in a bar for a wild ride, never…well, truth be told, he was never with anyone but Donnie. They met as freshmen in college and, ten years later, still love each other very much. More with each passing day, Rich thinks. At least, his feelings have never waned. Donnie, on the other hand… The zombie disappears down the street, its step fading, and in a relieved rush, Rich lets out the breath clawing to escape his lungs. Time to head home, get out of the dark, lock the door on this madness and wait out another long, sleepless night. Just to be on the safe side, he turns away from the well-lit street and heads deeper into the alley. He knows a back way to return to the lab. Six months ago, he couldn’t wait to finish his dissertation and clear out of the Infectious Disease Center at Virginia Commonwealth University, the letters “Ph.D.” appended to his name like a badge of honor. Now nowhere else seems quite as safe as those sterile hallways and glass walls. He has a small pallet in one corner of the cleanroom, in full view of the animal cages, most of which are empty. What need does he have of lab rats now? The experiment escaped—the whole world is his laboratory. He skids through overturned trashcans and festering garbage, then swings left at the end of the alley. Behind what used to be a Chinese take-out, he weaves through the few cars that remain in the parking lot and hurries to the side street. During the day, it’s safe enough to walk along Cary Street, peering into the broken windows of former boutique shops as he looks for supplies. But after nightfall, he sticks to the side streets and dark sidewalks, where he can duck out of sight if he comes across anyone. Or anything. He turns right down Sheppard, planning to travel Ellwood back to the school. He stashed a bicycle in the overgrown ivy in one of the lawns along Ellwood, and now he’ll retrieve it for a quick getaway. One thing about zombies—they’re slow, shuffling along as if the very motion makes what remains of their bones ache. The only time they can be enticed to speed up is if they have their sights set on their next meal. Rich won’t let that be him. At the corner of Sheppard and Ellwood, he swings around a stop sign and hurries into the growing darkness. A guttural groan rumbles like thunder somewhere to his right, but he doesn’t look, doesn’t slow down, just keeps going. The bike is somewhere near here, he’s sure of it. One of the houses here—damn, they all look alike now, all broken down in disarray, all the lawns choked with weeds and kudzu vines. He knows he ditched the bike somewhere between here and Boulevard…but where? Suddenly, a woman’s scream pierces the night. Rich’s blood runs cold and his footsteps fumble. That low moaning sound starts up again, closer this time, and a quick glance over his shoulder tells Rich he’s being followed. Two zombies stumble after him, one dragging a broken leg as it closes the distance. Male, female? Rich doesn’t know, doesn’t care. He has to get home. The scream comes again—ahead of him somewhere. Zombies don’t scream; that luxury is afforded only to those still living, who can fully appreciate the horror to which the world around them has succumbed. Rich left the lab earlier in the hopes of finding someone like him, a survivor, someone still alive. If he can catch up with the woman before the zombies do, his time won’t be a complete waste. He breaks into a jog, widening the space between him and his stalkers. As he runs, he keeps looking left and right, searching for the source of the scream. It comes again, closer this time, making every hair on his head stand up straight. “Hey!” he hollers, hoping she can hear him. “Where are you?” This time, the voice takes on words. “Help me! Over here!” In the deepening darkness, that means nothing to Rich, but he chases down the sound and, at the end of the block, he finds its source. A woman stands on a porch in the fading glow of a dying flashlight, one of those long, night watchman types she swings with both hands to ward off the lone zombie struggling to climb the porch’s steps. The side of its head is bashed in, and Rich sees a corresponding mess of blood and hair on the side of the flashlight where the woman beamed her attacker. Still the zombie tries to come on—without success, since one of its feet is caught in a broken riser and prevents it from ascending the porch. When she sees Rich, the woman almost sobs in relief. “Oh God, help me, please!” Without slowing his jog, Rich reaches behind him for the handgun tucked into the waistband of his jeans. He tugs it free, aims, and pulls the trigger once. Once is enough. The bullet bursts through the zombie’s head as if it’s an overripe melon, spewing diseased brains across the porch and onto the front of the woman’s VCU sweatshirt. She spits in reflex, but hardly any of the debris splattered her face. Still, she wipes her mouth on the arm of her sweatshirt, then wipes her brow, pushing back the long, blonde hair from her face. “Thanks,” she sighs, dropping the flashlight. Then she looks down at her shirt and shrieks. With twitching movements, she strips off the sweatshirt, pulls it over her head and throws it down in horror. “Ew, God! Ugh. Gross!” Once the sweatshirt’s gone, she smoothes down the T-shirt she wears beneath it, wiping her hands to clean them of the gore. Her voice cracks into a tearful sob. “Jesus.” “You all right?” Rich checks the gun’s safety before tucking it back into his waistband. “God,” she says again, shaking both her hands. Is she addressing him? Rich thinks of asking her, trying to lighten the mood, but the wild look in her eye advises against it. He checks over his shoulder to see if the two zombies are still following him, but it’s grown too dark for him to be sure. He must keep moving. “Look,” he says, now in front of her steps. “Are you going to be okay here by yourself?” Her head snaps up as if he slapped her. “What are you, crazy? Hell, no! Don’t leave me here alone!” He thinks he hears a shuffling step behind him. “Then come on. I have a safe place downtown. They can’t get in.” She needs no further prompting. Snatching up her flashlight, she taps it against her palm in an attempt to strengthen the failing battery and skips down the porch steps, careful not to walk in the remains that fester in the dark. “God,” she says again when she reaches Rich. Is that all she can say? No, he doesn’t really want to know—he grabs her hand and tugs her down the street. “Hey!” she cries, struggling to free herself from his grip. He catches the flashlight when she swings it at him and directs it down the sidewalk back the way he came. “Look.” She does. The pair of zombies are still there—not too close, thank goodness, but close enough. He thinks she’s going to scream again, but all that escapes her lips is a faint whimper. She turns the flashlight around, shining it ahead of them. “Where are we going, again?” “One of the clinics on campus,” Rich tells her. She trembles beside him like a little bird, fluttery and scared. “Just a few blocks away. Can you run?” “I don’t really have a choice, do I?” she counters. Rich’s reply is a burst of speed, hand tightening on her wrist as he pulls her along.