Zach stood
outside the room, trying to piece together what he knew so far. He didn’t want
to go in. He knew the end. He didn’t want to know the end. Brewer looked up and
saw him, waved him in.
“I’m sorry,
Zach,” she said before he said anything. “I’m so sorry. He missed his last
check. I shouldn’t have let it go, but it was Abe.” She shook her head,
tears on her cheeks. Everyone loved Abe. They respected Zach. He saw the
difference.
Zach stared at
the body on the table. Back exposed, a raw wound on the left side. He ground
out, “What happened?”
“Looks like he
tried to burn it out. A couple of times, I’d say. He was on the course and a
cadet lost his sword and it hit Abe in the arm.” She gestured to his bloody arm, hanging off
the table.
“Everyone saw the
cut, so he had to come here. Hoover sat right in front him and started
whining. The sword blow must have
triggered the aggression already.” She drew a ragged breath.
“He killed Hoover
with one blow. Broke Sam Batts’s nose and arm before we got him subdued. I gave
him an elephant shot. But he won’t be out much longer.” Tranqs didn’t work on
zombies. Zach wanted to cling to the hope that it had worked on Abe at all.
Brewer must have seen it on his face, because she shook her head.
“I just waited
for you, Zach. He’s gone. I thought you’d want to say goodbye. But I have to
put him down.”
Zach wanted to
protest. Abe wasn’t a mad dog. Brewer was talking about him like an animal.
Like they talked about zombies. But it was Abe. He couldn’t make himself
move closer to the table. Brewer stepped up to him and put her hand on his arm.
“I have to go
check on Sam and the other staff. We’ll all have to be quarantined until a
medic comes over from the Gator Bowl clinic to clear us.” She hesitated. “Don’t
take too long, Zach. We don’t know how long he’ll stay under. I’ll come back in
a minute to…”
Zach nodded
curtly, looking away from her. Away from Abe. She left the room and shut the
door. Locked it.
Zach stepped
closer, but didn’t want to see. He turned away. “Jesus, Abe. What were you
thinking? Why didn’t you come in right away?”
Because there was
only one end.
He heard the
rustle of movement. If instinct, friendship, fought with training, they didn’t
stand a chance. Zach swung around, dropped to his knee and fired a flare
straight into Abe’s chest. They stared at each other for an infinite moment,
the flare kindling to life, burning Abe’s skin, his blood. Abe lifted his hand
in a silent salute, and Zach jumped back and spun away as the flare erupted.
Abe never made a
sound. His body did. Zach didn’t move until the room was silent once more.
Until the soft click of the door lock, footsteps, and Brewer’s touch on his
shoulder. He didn’t look toward Abe as he walked out of the room. It wasn’t
Abe. Goddamn zombies.
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Dogs
in house
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Houdini, Buddy
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Time
writing:
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~1 hour, interrupted
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Prompt: Who really believed in the zombie apocalypse?
ReplyDeleteI undid my cufflinks, leaned back into my recliner, and sighed. It was another quiet evening by the fire. Jake had brought in a fresh pile of wood from out back, even though the rack was nearly full. The new wood was stacked on top and at the base. The fire was just a bit smokey; he had apparently used one of the new logs.
_Crack._ I sat up.
_Crack._
“Jake?” I called.
“Yes, sir?” Jake appeared in the doorway of the sitting room, wearing his evening causal sweater and loafers.
“Did you hear that?”
“What, sir?”
“A noise. Like a snap, or a crack.”
“No, sir.”
“Listen.” I put my finger to my lips. He stood still, and I leaned forward, frozen in my gesture, for a time. Nothing. I leaned back.
“Sorry, sir.”
“No problem, Jake,” I said. He turned to leave the room.
_Crack._
“Wait! That was it!”
_Crack._
“I did, sir. It appears to be coming from the fireplace.” He shuffled forward to the stack of wood. “I hope I didn’t bury...” He trailed off as he bent over, frantically removing his new wood.
“Jake?” I almost stood, I was so concerned.
He collapsed to his knees, hands hanging into the wood rack. “It’s alright, sir. I thought I had buried the zombie mouse, but there was enough structure. He’s fine.”
“The _what_?” This time I did stand.
Time writing: ~20min
Now that, my dear, is a hook ;)
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