Even after a month of mourning and another month and a half of praying and working through the melancholy, my nights, which had finally evicted their old ghosts, found themselves with new heartaches to dwell on.
I could still see myself fumbling clumsily with the pierce-proof gloves, syringes and pliers while one zombie became five.
I could still see Manuel trying to climb off of a rickety shelf to help me contain my mistake. I could see the pain and injury his attempts had caused him.
I could still hear the wet "crunch" of Joshua's suicide.
How had I let things fall so far out of control?
Day 582.
"I don't understand this. Why do you constantly need to antagonise everybody? Why am I stepping in, pulling you off a different angry victim every day?"
Brett didn't reply, he only leaned back in his chair and smirked. I let the question sit for a few moments.
I wanted to reach across the table between us and smack that smirk off of his face. I wanted to pull him to the ground, pound the arrogance out of him and cut out his defiance with my machete. If he didn't survive the surgery, my job would be that much easier.
This man brought out the worst in me.
"Look." I sighed,"I don't enjoy this. I don't like telling you off every day; I don't like feeling that you and I are on opposite teams. I want everyone here to work together. What will it take to get you on our side?"
More silence. More smirking.
"Three days." I hit my palm against the table and stood to leave.
"Step down."
I sat back down, leaning forward.
"Come again?" I asked
"If you step down, and leave someone aside from Manuel in charge, I'll play nice."
"So this is personal." I stated.
More silence. Another smirk. God's grace kept my machete in its sheath.
"Well, I can tell you this: I'm not stepping down just to satisfy your personal issues. Three days in Joshua's cell will probably accomplish nothing for your attitude; but it will give us all a break from you."
I stood once more and left the table. The small group of observers that had gathered around the public hearing in our cafeteria began to murmur as they dispersed. I heard one man complain, "It should have been a week at least."
Since my return to leadership, I'd made a point of being more active in protecting the people in my group. Outside missions had ceased altogether; our work with the cure had taken a back seat. In that season, I only took the syringes out of my freezer when one of our own had turned and we were able to tie the person down. All other zombies caught the business end of my machete. When it came to Brett, it seemed that the more I tried to dissuade him from bullying others in our small community, the more he felt the need to bully.
Forbidden fruit seems twice as sweet, I suppose.
I spent a few hours weeding and cleaning our rooftop garden. As I prayed about Brett and my attitude toward him, a crisp wind blew across the town, I stood and spread my arms out. Small graces were my whole sustenance in those days. A soft shower fell later, carrying me through a few more hours before I noticed my mood darkening again.
Manuel wheeled up to me as I descended the ladder back into the store. He was riding a lawn chair we'd rigged up with bicycle wheels. His days of climbing much of anything seemed to be a thing of the past; and I could blame only myself for that. Walking at his side was a smiling Liz. They'd become an official "thing" a few weeks ago; and neither had stopped grinning since.
As I stepped from the bottom rung, I greeted them . Manuel began talking animatedly about an indoor forest idea, putting small trees in pots to filter the air inside. He'd even begun designing a gutter system to collect water from leaks in the roof and and drain it into the pots.
"The birds-to-stone ratio here is great! We can stop emptying those buckets we've got laying everywhere and make watering the trees a non-issue."
I leaned against the ladder, crossing my arms.
"I really like your idea, Manuel. I just don't know where we'd find the materials for it. I mean, a gutter system that canvases the whole store would be quite a project. Do you think we've enough stuff laying around?"
Manuel shook his head, "No, I'm actually sure we don't; but the Hardware Depot across the lot still has quite a bit of goods left in it. If you sent a team of four or five, they could bring back most of the materials we'd need in two trips, three at most."
I looked down and began shaking my head as he spoke.
"No. No going outside. It's too risky."
Lifting my eyes again, I saw Liz rest a reassuring hand on Manuel's shoulder as he gave her a quiet smile that, for all its authenticity, bespoke a deep sadness - perhaps even disappointment. The man fell fifteen feet and landed in a whole new life, one with a myriad of restrictions he'd never had to consider before. Yet it seemed that he mourned for me.
"If you say so, boss." He gave me a respectful nod before wheeling away.
I climbed back up to the roof to soak in some more rain and wind. Small graces.
Day 583.
I took a plate of food to Brett at lunch the next day. I sat in front of his cell and ate with him, as I sometimes had when Joshua lived in it.
A few times during the silent meal, I had to close my eyes against the memory of Joshua's death and shame and pain it pulled up.
After Brett handed his empty plate and cup to me, he spoke.
"You know what the difference between you and me is?" he asked.
I'm not a dirtbag?
"Which one are you thinking of right now, sir?" I replied.
"You care too much."
I am sure that whatever expression I had on my face in that moment was almost telepathic in how openly it betrayed my skepticism.
You mean, I care.
"I know I sound like the heartless bad guy here." he nearly drawled, "Listen to me."
Yes, listen to the heartless bad guy.
As much as I wanted to leave, to dismiss the man once more, I decided to stay and listen. Small graces can facilitate grace.
"When crap hit the fan," he began, "I knew that being sentimental was something I couldn't afford. I needed to stay alive, nothing else. Not listen to people's problems or be their friend. I didn't have time to gain trust or respect; so their fear had to do. You treat me like I'm some kind of threat to people here; but let me to tell you something: Your feel-good nonsense about curing everyone and sending folks out on rescue missions is going to get us all killed.
"So yes, I am a jerk. I don't care about how people feel about me; I speak my mind; and everyone knows I'm not going to play the noble game when it comes to getting out alive. At least I'm not like you. I don't have them all rooting for me while I take bets with their lives."
I thought for a few minutes before taking our dishes up to the roof for cleaning.
I handed two plates and two cups to the crewman overseeing the aftwernoon's dishes and returned once again to the far edge of the roof. The sun was high in the sky and the air over Longview clear, lending me a wide view of my town. Once more I wondered what the streets would look like if I walked them right then. Looking down, I could see a horde had gathered around the side of the store, where a few unfortunate dogs had made their last stand.
Something in me shifted as I watched the grotesque feast going on below me. Something about what Brett had said to me made me feel weak, as though my desire to be trusted and helpful made me a spineless leader. As I took in the heartless, zombie-eat-dog world laying before me, I wanted to prove that I could make difficult calls and do those uncomfortable things that needed doing. I wanted to prove that I could be rock-hard.
I turned away from the scene and made my way back down the ladder. Across the store, I stopped short at the emergency door Joshua had entered through as a zombie. I took a deep breath and pushed the door open, stepping outside.
Alone.
I swept my blade upward at my first assailant, gutting him as he fell. Before he hit the ground, I grabbed the zombie behind him, pulling on the front of her shirt until she tripped over her comrade. As I curb-stomped the one, I spun around to decapitate another. I push-kicked the headless body, knocking down at least three behind it. A hand grasped at the back of my shirt; I turned, took off both arms and bashed the man's head against the wall until I heard the satisfying "crack" that told me he was done. By this time, the two dogs had been eaten and my potential as dinner made me far more interesting than anything else in the parking lot.
A zombie offered its head to me, snarling and snapping. I took it as payment toward Manuel's legs. I took the next one's legs before laying it flat and piercing his heart. That one was for Joshua. Next came one for the eleven people we'd lost to the battle during Linda's attempted escape. Then I worked my machete across a throat as retribution for burying my sisters. A head flew off as I recalled killing a cashier I had been charged with leading. An attacker fell to the ground because I'd had to read my best friend's last words as a text message. Another for the times I'd loved recklessly and walked away with a heart more broken than I knew was possible. Another for my mother's death when I was sixteen. Another for every pet I'd buried in our back yard to the dirge of my sisters' tears.
With a crowd around me, I went nuts. I pushed and kicked and hacked in every direction. A cry escaped my lungs as tears blurred my vision. I felt furious and grief-stricken and inhuman. For some reason, I thought of Mel Gibson.
Arms wrapped around me, pulling me off my feet. Another set of arms wrapped themselves around my legs. I was suddenly carried away at a speed and with a purpose that seemed atypical to the hungry creatures surrounding me. Using what little of my arm was loose, I tried to cut my way free. One of the zombies yelled my name; and I started screaming.
Suddenly, I was inside the Vallenmarkt building, dumped on the floor. One of my crewmen was grabbing his arm, cursing and bleeding. Manuel, looking like a Brazilian Professor X, told the other men who'd brought me in to tend to their friend. He pointed a crossbow at me.
"I need a word with our leader." he gave me a look that foretold of the reprimand to come.
At his asking, I told him about my conversation with Brett and all that had followed. He still had that look on his face; and he was still pointing a crossbow at me.
"So, let me get this straight: To prove that you're a good leader and that you know how to be strong and independent, you decided to put yourself in pointless danger and risk bringing the infection back inside with you? You know, that really does show everyone -Brett especially- that you don't play games with our safety."
I felt more than a little foolish.
"You forgot to mention injure one of my crewmen." I sighed.
"What's going on with you, Isaac?"
I didn't meet his gaze; and I didn't respond. He leaned forward in his makeshift wheelchair.
"Isaac, do you realise you left a pile of dead people out there? Not zombies, people. You slaughtered a bunch of people we could have helped today -people we could have cured - and you did it because you're sad? You won't rescue people or get supplies because 'that's too risky'; but you'll go kill a crowd of people to prove something to Brett?
"I feel like the Mad Hatter in that Tim Burton movie. You were so much bigger and braver and smarter before. What happened? You've 'lost your muchness'."
I felt like crying just then.
"You need to get it back, Isaac," he continued,"'cause your version of caution is going to get us all killed."
Manuel sentenced me to two days in Joshua's cell, granting Brett an early release.
Day 584.
Liz came and prayed with me the next morning. She told me that Manuel had been working his way through Linda's computer. He'd found an address for the scientist she'd been working with.
"He also found a whole grip of music. He put this together for you; he thinks it could help you get your muchness back."
She handed me a small iPod and some earbuds, presumably taken from the pile of electronics we'd moved to set up out theatre. I turned the player on and found a playlist called "Action Hero". I switched it off, talked with Liz a bit longer and slept.
Manuel woke me later, having been carried up the ladder to my locked perch by one of our larger crewmen. He sat in front of my cell with his misshapen legs turned to the side. I threw my blanket off and sat with my face very nearly up against the bars.
"Did you listen to the playlist?" he asked.
"Not yet." I admitted, "I've been sleeping most of today."
"You should listen to it. It'd do you some good."
It was quiet for a few moments.
"I'm a mess, aren't I?"
Manuel laughed quietly, "Yeah, yeah you are."
"How do I undo that? How do I keep from failing you all again?"
Again, there was a short silence.
"You wanna know what's funny about that?" Manuel mused, "You didn't start failing us until you became convinced you were failing us. Once you started trying to not fail us, you started making a wreck of things."
"How? How does making an effort to keep more people safe cause so many problems?"
"It's not that you were trying to do things better; it's that you thought it was about you at all. Remember grace orientation?"
"Yeah, 'It's not about me.'"
"Exactly. You're carrying too much weight. You think that we succeed or fail because you're awesome or not. There was a time when you were satisfied to do your best and let God handle everything else. That includes all the things that have been breaking your heart."
"I guess you're right."
"Of course I am; and there's something else I'm right about."
"What's that?"
"You need to go on mission. You need to take the cure to Linda's doctor friend.."
I groaned.
"...and get it mass-produced."
"Manuel, listen-"
"No, you listen." Something about how he said that made me stop short, "There is an entire world out there, burning to the ground. We have a way of saving it - the only way of saving it. You mean to tell me that you can't be bothered? You mean to tell me that you're not willing to give up your cozy little cell for that? That is not the Isaac I follow. That is not the character of a leader I'm interested in fighting for. I mean, look at yourself! I believe in you more than anyone else here; and I'm locking you up!"
As he spoke, his frustration dissolved into disappointment; and I couldn't be sure which was worse.
"I don't know what to say, Manuel. I'm sorry?"
"Don't apologise; just remind me of our motto."
"What?"
"Our motto, Isaac. What is it?"
"Um, 'Deadly in battle..."
"...lively in good deeds.'"
The second half we said in unison. I couldn't help but smile.
"Be that man again, Isaac. Listen to the music; it'll do you good."
The crewman appeared without command, carrying my closest friend back to his chair.
After a few minutes, I put the headphones in my ears and let the music do its work. I spent the rest of that day and night listening to the songs on that iPod. Manuel was right, it did me quite a bit of good.
Day 588.
"I'll be taking our best fighters on this mission. It will be the most dangerous trip we've made and will take us further away than anything we've done thus far. Manuel will be left in charge again. Are there any questions?"
Brett's hand was up before I'd finished speaking.
"You already know that I think this is a stupid move that is likely to get you all killed. But you're going to do it anyway. And you already know that I don't want to serve King Isaac's favourite as successor. But you're going to leave him in charge anyway. Well, I'm done being dismissed. I refuse to see the few lord over the many."
"Brett," I smiled as I spoke, "you know that we do most things by vote. You also know that I hold a very loose grasp on my leadership here. If a vote shows that Manuel is not wanted as a leader, we'll find someone else. I appointed him because I trust him."
Brett sneered, "I'd ask for a vote, but you've already won all these people over to your nonsense; I see through it, Isaac. I see straight to your slimy, lying bones. I won't do this anymore."
"Well, Brett, you are welcome to leave at any time." Manuel smiled broadly. A soft laughter rose from the group.
"That's not what I mean, Your Highness." the man nearly spat the words, "I'm going to handle this the way folks did hundreds of years ago, before humanity went soft." He pointed a finger at me and declared, "I'm challenging you to a duel."
The whole group burst into laughter, myself included. Brett stormed up to the box I was standing on and turned to face the crowd.
"I mean it!" he shouted. We quieted down, "A tyrant is only strong until the people he oppresses stand up; and I'm tired of waiting for this nutcase to do something that really will kill us all!"
"You can't be serious!", one man guffawed again.
"Oh, come on Brett!" Gladys spoke up, "Isaac's made mistakes, sure. But you've always had a thing against him, since he rescued your sorry butt from that church. Some people would think a bit of gratitude's in order; but not you!"
"Stow it, Gladys." Brett growled, "Just because he saved you doesn't mean he's going to save us all."
"No, that's Jesus' job." I interjected. Sometimes, I'm an incorrigible smart alec.
"Actually, sir," the whole of Brett's college group was standing; but only one of them spoke. The speaker was a young girl, holding tight to Liz's hand, "you'd be doing me - I mean, us - a favour if you fought with Brett."
That silenced even Brett.
I stepped down from my milk crate and asked, "What makes you say that?"
In the silence that followed, tears escaped the girl's eyes. Liz put an arm across her shoulders and murmured reassuringly. When the girl spoke again, I recognised the uneven tones of heartache and fury.
"He's made our lives hell since Back When. We've always been afraid to say anything because he threatened to kill us if you or Manuel found out. We think, if you two fought, maybe he'd stop."
I was stunned. Manuel looked unsurpiresd, but no less furious than anyone else in the room. Brett started to storm toward the speaker of his group; but the whole of our community stood up at once.
"All in favour of a duel?" Manuel asked.
No one laughed; the vote was unanimous.
Brett approached me as the group dispersed and spoke with quiet vehemence, "Make no mistakes, King Isaac: one way or another, this is to the death. If I am still alive when you leave -and I will be- your buddy in the chair will be the first to go. His blonde girlfriend will be next. I am done with all of you."
Manuel approached us and issued a one-hour preparation time.
I sat at a table with my machete while Brett made his way to the back room. Manuel pulled up next to me. Our usual quiet camaraderie preceded any speaking. I broke the silence.
"When we go on mission, I think I'll have to leave the machete behind."
Manuel turned in his chair to express his puzzlement.
"Why?"
"Because, if I really believe that the zombies I encounter are people in need of the cure we have, I have no business killing them. I'll probably have to resort to some kind of incapacitation, but not killing. "
Manuel started laughing and clapping his hands.
"What?" I demanded, "I think it's a valid point!"
"Yes, yes I agree!"Manuel crowed, "This is the Isaac I'd follow into battle! This is the fearless, selfless man I believe in! Now," his voice dropped to a whisper, "what are you going to do about Brett?"
"Kill him." I was surprised at how level my voice was, "The kids have asked for their revolution; and he's already told me he'd kill everyone he didn't like as soon as I was gone. I can't take the chance."
Manuel nodded.
"Deadly in battle, right?" he smiled.
After a pause, I said, "Thank you for the playlist. Somehow, it's exactly what I needed - something to remind me of what it means to be truly 'manly'."
Manuel just nodded again.
Our "duel" was arranged more like a boxing match. We stood at opposite sides of an open area next to our cafeteria, with everyone in the store gathered around us. Manuel listed the rules: one-on-one, any weapon, to the death. Many people gave a double-take when he added the last clause; but no one protested aloud.
I had my machete out of its sheath; Brett appeared to be unarmed.
Manuel stepped out of our impromptu ring and shouted, "Begin!"
I read once that, if you must fight, you should strike first and strike hard. I've yet to find a situation to which that did not apply.
I rushed forward, swinging my blade upward as I had so many times before. From behind his back, Brett drew a pistol and leveled it at my rapidly approaching face. It was a large-caliber revolver, nearly a handheld cannon; and Brett looked like he knew how to handle the thing. As I dropped into a somersault, an explosion sounded though the whole building. Standing, I found myself exactly where I had hoped to be. His arm was over my shoulder; and his face only inches from mine.
There was a grunt and a spurt of blood as I broke the man's nose with my forehead. He stepped back once. Before he gained his footing, I brought my blade around and took his head.
"A true man fights not for hatred of what stands before him but for love what what's behind him."
-Evan Beacom
In the silence that followed, I found that tears were again falling from my eyes. Brett's headless body stood for a moment, blood spraying from his truncated neck; and a soft, sad note played like a wind flute as his last breath escaped his open throat. As the dead man finally slumped to the floor, I sobbed.
Turning around, I found Manuel and Liz tending to the poor man who'd taken the bullet I dodged. The man would lose his arm, but live. I found one of the buckets we used to collect rain water and washed the blood from my machete. Brett joined the rest of our fallen in the pit behind the store.
We have a habit of canonising the dead. Somehow, even the worst men we know are not so bad when they step across the threshold of Eternity. Though the people in our community had long hoped Brett would leave us, they mourned for the manner of his departure. Though everyone would later hear of the horrors he had committed against his students, those same students wept bitterly as we set the pit ablaze.
Manuel later asked me if I repented at all for killing Brett.
I told him no, that I was certain I'd done the right thing.
He said nothing.
On the roof, I prayed
about all that had happened, thanking God especially for friends like
Manuel, gifts like music and attributes like bravery. I prayed about the
next day's mission and all the uncertainties involved in trekking
across a zompocalyptic wasteland. I promised to never make fun of Elijah
Wood again.
Day 589.
Liz and I dug through a pallet of baseball equipment. She was annoyed that I wouldn't use any of the aluminum bats we were surrounded by or any of the wooden ones we'd already inspected.
"Why does it matter?" she complained.
"Because it does!" I retorted.
So we kept digging.
Another 15 minutes later, I shouted in elation, holding up the prized item. Liz walked over and inspected the words burned into the wood implement.
"Louisville Slugger?" It was clear they held no significance to her.
"It's pronounced 'LOO-ah-vull' or 'LOO-ee-vill', depending on who you ask."
She rolled her eyes.
"Seriously, though. This bat is legendary. If I'm going to non-lethal my way to Linda's doctor, I'm going to use the best equipment."
As I spoke the words "non-lethal", my friend began to look nervous; and I knew she was counting on her archery and knives to clear a path back to Manuel. I assured her that this was a Romans 14 thing, a matter of personal conviction.
"I get that you think of it as self-defense; and I'm not going to pick a fight with you over it. This is my thing."
"Oh, good." she sighed. After a few moments, she asked, "So, do you feel ready for this?"
"For what?"
"For this - our mission, fighting across post-apocalyptic Longview and Kelso to the house of a man who may or may not still be alive and may or may not be able to do anything with the cure we're bringing to him. Are you ready for something like that?"
"Oh that? No, of course not."
"Me neither."
"Good."
To be continued...
Isaac's "Action Hero" Playlist
Seven Nation Army (Remix) - Glitch Mob/White Stripes
The Distance - Cake
Welcome Home (Clean Edit) - Coheed and Cambria
Flower - Moby
E-Pro - BeckSail - AWOLNation
We're Not Gonna Take It - Twisted Sister
The Word is Strong - Nate Grossman
Handlebars - Flobots
Boom - POD
John Woo - Newsboys
Code Name Vivaldi - The Piano Guys
Ain't No Rest For The Wicked - Cage the Elephant
Beautiful Things - Gungor
Du Hast - Rammstein
Alive - POD
Moonlight - The Piano Guys
-isaac
We found her lair in Lawn and Garden. There, a closet I had forgotten about was found opened; and in the space above it, we discovered something more odd than we could have imagined. From that awkward corner of a big-box store, the keys to changing the world came into our possession. I suppose it was like a pinch of yeast in the dough of humanity - because of something minute and obscure, nothing would ever be the same.
Day 477.
Manuel looked at me in horror, setting down the journal he'd been reading.
Linda's lair, a small laboratory installed in the ceiling of an out-of-the-way closet, had been full of strange equipment, even stranger smells and ten journals packed with the cashier/scientist's small handwriting.
My pre-apocalyptic hobby of hunting down etymologies was a boon to our reading; I was able to mentally break down a lot of her scientific terms to get a clearer picture of Linda's work. However, even with that help, what we gleaned from the books could only have been a fraction of a glimpse into the strange world she'd inhabited
We found that, somehow, Linda was connected with a doctor in the neighboring town of Kelso. He was a scientist of the fringe variety.
His lab was in the basement of his house; and he and Linda had made the fight against a zompocalypse their secret work long before the infection hit. Most of the first three journals we read chronicled their process of ruling out different zombie-infection possibilities.
They had compiled a list of scenarios which could lead to a zombie outbreak. Their ideas read like a science fiction thriller. The pages included everything from weaponised viruses to nanobot infestations - diseased crops and mutated "mad cow". I never found out which terrifying model they'd based their cure on - only that a cure had been found and that the doctor was ready to mass-produce it in his basement.
Their joint research had utilised an intranet connection (somehow installed the first night of the outbreak) and a myriad of field missions - like samples taken from living subjects. Apparently, she'd even had a zombie tied up in her lab with her for three days. She killed it only when she feared its shrieks would lead to her discovery.
I learned that she'd kept her research a secret because she and her doctor believed a failure in their work could lead to panic, retaliation and a world of other problems.
"Best to work alone," she wrote, "best to come forward with only the best of news."
Linda's last journal revealed that she'd been attempting a human trial the night she died; she had two-hundred doses of the cure ready for transport once its effectiveness had been confirmed. It was in the entry Manuel had been reading that a terrifying detail came to bear.
Apparently, the only way to administer the cure was orally. According to Linda's research, the infected avoided foods into which the dose had been inserted, as though something about the smell and taste of the medicine was unpleasant to them. Cures administered by squirting the liquid into the zombie's mouth from a distance had only been spat out and resulted in an even more aggressive attack. The dose had to be sent directly down the zombie's throat.
The records detailed that there were two hundred hypodermic needles with wax-clogged tips in her lab. Her idea was to use pliers to separate the sharp from its cartridge. Then, shoving her hand as far into the mouth of the zombie as possible, she was going to use the needle's plunger to spray the liquid into the assailant's esophagus. She figured one dose would take effect within a half-hour.
Day 478.
I found some pierce-proof gloves and a few lengths of rope in our hardware bins. At the back of the store, we positioned shelves around a fire exit to bottleneck any entering zombies.
Manuel and Liz stood by with crossbows ready while I waited at the end of a miniature hall. One of our men pushed the door open with a long dowel. At the end of the dowel was a hook that he set around the door handle. It was less than a minute before footsteps approached the opening. Red eyes met mine; and a shriek of anger alerted the man to begin pulling the door closed. He managed to get it shut as soon as our test subject cleared it.
I had tied one end of my rope, creating an adjustable loop, to a pillar just to the side of the "hallway"exit. As a short, stocky man with blood on his beard stormed at me, I drew the rope tight, clothes-lining the poor guy. He went down hard and struggled to get back up, giving me time to grab the back of his shirt collar and drag him to the pillar. He turned to bite at my calf; I punched him in the nose. Even if it didn't hurt him, his eyes watered, blurring his vision.
I loosened the rope around the pillar, set the zombie's back against it, drew the rope tight again around his chest and wound the remainer around the man until I could be sure he'd stay put. Then, opening his mouth, I pulled his tongue out with one hand and pointed a de-sharped hypodermic cartridge down his throat with the other. I depressed the plunger quickly and backed away.
Sitting down on the floor directly ahead of him, I watched the dezombification of Patient 1.
The stages of recovery were very distinct. At first, the zombie sputtered and coughed and gagged, kicking his feet and shrieking at the top of his lungs. Then, he quieted down and the colour in his eyes and face began to fade. A confused look fell on him, as though he was trying to remember something important. Then, at twenty-seven minutes and ten seconds, his eyes widened, his face turned a deep red again and the man began to weep uncontrollably.
"I'm so sorry!" he wailed.
Liz, Manuel and I looked at each other, unsure of how to react. He had spoken, a trait we had never encountered in an infected individual. One had to wonder, though, how completely the cure cured.
The man cried, non-stop, for an hour.
After his wails had resolved into hiccuping sobs, then to sniffling breaths, I made eye contact with Patient 1.
"Sir?" I cleared my throat, " my name's Isaac; you're in an old Vallenmarkt store; and my friends and I are here to help you."
"I know where I am." the man replied. I nearly jumped, "My name's Joshua; I live in Kalama; and I killed my whole family." As he said the last bit, he began to weep again.
"I ate them!" he sobbed, " How could I do that? How could I tear my little Sammy apart like that?"
Manuel appeared next to me with a bottle of water and a handkerchief. handing these to me, he nodded toward our heartbroken guest. I looked up at my friend, at a loss. Reading my expression, Manuel shrugged and nodded again at Joshua.
I approached slowly, opening the water bottle and sitting down again, this time at Joshua's side. I lifted the bottle so he could see what I intended and set the neck against his mouth. He parted his lips and tilted his head back, taking in about a third of the bottle before pausing to breathe.
"I didn't realise how thirsty I was." he coughed..
I let silence fall between us as tears fell down his face again. I poured some water on his head and dried him off with the handkerchief. He cried and the rested and then cried some more. I sat with him silently.
As he slowly regained his composure, his story flowed from him.
He had been alerted to the danger by gunfire and screams up and down the main road in Kalama, a small town about five miles south of Longview. Joshua had grabbed a gun, locked all the doors, pulled the shades and hidden in his basement with his wife and two girls. As though he'd never seen a zombie movie in his life, the poor man returned to the main floor to fetch their dog. It was in this quest to save the family pet that he met an infected neighbor who'd zombie-raged his way into the house, became an infected neighbor with zombie-rage of his own and returned to the basement to devour his family.
He tore his wife and children limb from joint; and now, in his saner mind, he remembered every moment of the attack.
From there, he told me about life as a zombie, how the infected roam and fight in packs much like dogs. He described a fierce hunger which sometimes had him eating other infected, though they tasted disgusting to even his deadened senses. He spoke of sporadic, frantic stampedes and days spent wandering until a loud noise, a bright flash or something moving quickly had him rushing at a full, enraged sprint.
Vallenmarkt attracted the infected, he said, because they could smell the flesh of slain zombies or fallen cohorts burning in our pit out back.
"It's like a zombie barbecue" he told me.
We built a cell for Joshua on the top of one of the high shelves in the back room. It was so constructed that, though our new guest was able to move about, he would fall some fifteen feet to a concrete floor if he tried to escape.
"I know it feels like a prison." I said as we closed the door on his new abode, "I hope you'll believe me when I say that it's only because we know nothing about how well the cure works and that it's only until we can feel sure that the change in you is permanent."
He didn't reply, only looked at me with eyes full of loss.
Manuel and I arranged for Joshua to have a constant armed escort during the day. This way, we could observe his behavior, allow him some freedom from his cell during daylight hours, integrate him into our community and keep him from hurting anyone - all at once. Joshua seemed glad to be allowed to walk around, though his "gladness" was more like "only ninety-nine point nine-eight percent as much heartache as before".
When he slept, he had nightmares that kept us all awake.
I told the men who'd be trading off as his escort to catalogue any odd behaviour and to alert me post-haste if he showed a hint of aggression.
Day 492.
Brett got punched; and everyone said a quiet "Hallelujah" when it happened.
It had been clear from the start that Joshua's cure touched only the physical effects of his illness. What had not been affected were the habits he'd formed during his life as a zombie or the heart-rending memories of all he had done in those days.
He showed a shortness of temper that, considering how unsure we were that the cure would last, was unsettling. I could tell, in watching him from my various perches throughout the store, that he was trying - as hard as I could imagine anyone trying - to stay calm. Still, retaining his composure was an almost constant effort for him.
Being Brett, the youth-pastor-turned-I-wish-I-was-a-zompocalypse-commando refused to believe or even hope that the cure had worked. Thus, convinced that the right push would send Joshua back to his monstrous past, he pushed hard from every angle. Every day for two weeks, Brett would pile insults and heartless verbal attacks on Joshua. At lunch, he'd "accidentally" dump food onto Joshua's lap, just as he'd "accidentally" bump-shove Joshua when they crossed paths during the day.
Secretly, I was glad for Brett's assaults.
From my various perches throughout the store, I could watch the altercations. As my men focused on Brett, I could watch Joshua and monitor his reactions. I found that the rage he felt was manageable; it was a deeply seated habit that he was desperately trying to unlearn. In my watching, I could see the fire growing in his expression, then subsiding as he pushed it back. When he got to his cell each night, the furious man would beat the daylights out of his pillow.
One morning, as I was contemplating Joshua's progress as observed against Brett's d-baggery, Liz stopped me. She seemed more flustered than I'd ever seen her. Flustered and angry.
"I just came from the cleanup in the back room." Each day, one group within our community cleaned a certain part of the store. This way, we had a constant rotation of people keeping our living space decent, "I watched Pastor Brett feel up one of the girls in his group. The girl's half his age, Isaac. Can we step in NOW?"
I sucked in a deep breath and exhaled as slowly as I could manage. Before the air was out of my body, I knew I wouldn't be in a state to make a good decision for at least a few minutes. I so badly wanted a solid reason to hang Brett from the wall by his toenails.
"Let me meet with Joshua first. I'll take a couple minutes to pray on it, then we can talk over lunch."
Liz nodded reluctantly and left. Just as she rounded a corner at the end freezers, Joshua walked up. The timing worried me. Did he hear what we were just discussing? I wondered.
We talked for about an hour, discussing all that he'd been through, including Brett's constant antagonism. I encouraged Joshua to continue working on his anger, giving him Bible passages to recite and memorise. We prayed together. As the haunted man stood to go, I told him a bit of what I'd seen in him since he arrived.
"You were a monster for a bit, " I said, "and you lived a monster's life. Now, you've been remade into a human, set free from monsterhood. The difficulty I see with you is not that you might become a monster again, but that you are unlearning all your monstrous habits. This anger you're dealing with doesn't make me think you're not healed - only that you're learning what it means to be human again."
I gave the poor man an awkward hug; and he left.
I spent a few minutes praying about what Liz had told me. Even as I asked God for peace and wisdom, my blood boiled.
The issue was again pushed to the far corner of my mind when I heard shouting coming from the back room; pulling my machete out once more, I ran. As I burst through the double-doors, I found two of my crewmen holding Brett and Joshua apart as they exchanged threats.
"How did they taste, Josh?" Brett was taunting, "Is it true that people taste like pig? Did your little girl's arms taste like pulled pork? Maybe next time, you'd like some barbecue sauce, huh?"
At that, I saw every hint of self-restraint leave Joshua's eyes. He shrieked at Brett, shoving the man holding him to the side. He grabbed Brett's shirt. Brett looked stunned, yet somehow satisfied.
"You are everything I hate about who I was." Joshua seethed, "You're an animal on two feet. You bully the kids that trusted you and molest girls who depended on you. You're as soulless as I ever was."
Pulling back his fist, Josh sent forth a strike that smacked against Brett's face like a tenderiser against steak. The room was quiet for a moment; then Brett, his nose pouring out blood, laughed.
"I knew I'd get you." he spat, "You're still just a zombie who can talk. All the primal rage is still there."
Suddenly, as though we'd all come to our senses at once, those of us who'd been watching reacted. The men who'd held them apart at first once again separated Brett and Joshua, directing each in the direction opposite the other. I followed Brett and gave Manuel a signal to stay with Joshua. Brett was taken to the men's room, where I tended to his nose with some rags.
"He belongs outside, with the rest of the zombies." Brett sneered.
"Don't be ridiculous." I sighed, "I'd punch you, too, if you said those kinds of things to me."
Next to me, a crewman said, "I wanted to punch you for saying those things to anyone."
"So what, violence goes unpunished now? Or is it only when King Isaac likes you?"
I sighed again. The guys who had joined us started cursing and suggesting a few different orifices into which Brett could insert his attitude. I quieted them down; and we finished in silence.
Day 495.
Joshua spent three days in his cell for punching Brett though, secretly, I was glad for the incident. Even when pushed to that extreme, Joshua seemed to have retained his humanity. A punch was reasonable; biting Brett's face off would've been worrisome.
Manuel and I sat atop the freezer/lockers I shared with some of Brett's college-age youth. My daily Bible study was going to start soon; and Manuel was taking a quick break between repairing a broken sky light and tightening some loose bolts in the back room shelves we used as beds for my crew. I was giving Manuel a hard time for a quiet adoration of Liz that he'd been fostering for a few months, at least.
"When're you gonna' ask her out to the movies, man?" I teased, "I'm sure we could rig up a drive-in style theatre in electronics. You could cry together while you watch Titanic."
Manuel blushed as he punched me in the arm.
"Oh!" I yelled, "That's it! Send him outside with the other zombies!"
I had told my friend about Brett's comment in the men's room after the nigh-fabled strike; so Manuel laughed. We talked some more about the nature of romance and the picture of God pursuing humanity in how a man pursues the woman he loves. Manuel told me about how he'd often pondered the way Solomon called his lover his "sister".
"I read somewhere" he told me, "about how when you get married, your wife plays every role a woman has ever played in your life. She mothers you. She's your friend, your sister, your teacher, your student, your counselor, your lover. She's everything." he pause, reflecting on the idea once more, "I think that sounds awesome."
"Yeah," I laughed, "Liz would totally get stuck mothering you." He punched my arm again.
As Bible study students began to arrive, Manuel meandered toward the back room.
We discussed the the Bible's teachings on loving people that day. I explained that the believer didn't have any human enemies for his part. The believer was called to treat every other Christian as his brother or sister, and every unbeliever as someone he meant to win over. Even people who hated him should be loved by him.
I was in the middle of reading a passage from Matthew 5 when one of the ladies in our group bent over and sighed heavily. After a beat, I asked,
"Gladys, are you okay?"
It is a rare thing; but sometimes, for no reason I've been able to make sense of, someone can become a zombie without being bitten. It will infect only one person - not a rash of people as would happen if it were an airborne or waterborne germ. From there, the rash of infectees is only as far away as a bite. What makes it all more terrifying is that in whatever case - bitten or not - the turning is instantaneous.
When Gladys looked up, time came to a crawl. Her reddening eyes and the way the corners of her mouth were curving told me all I needed to know. Within moments, she'd be shrieking and snarling and biting.
I scrambled out of my seat in what felt like slow-motion, reaching for my machete. Others in the group were beginning to examine Gladys a bit more closely.
As my hand grasped the electric-tape handle, I realised that Gladys was not beyond saving. I dropped my machete and turned to grab the bag in which I had hidden one hundred ninety-nine doses of Linda's Cure for the Zombie Apocalypse. I grabbed a needle and fumbled for the pliers I'd lodged in the corner of the case.
A hand fell on my shoulder.
Day 496.
It was a difficult thing to admit. After more than a year of taking care of people, I had to stand up and say that I'd been making a poor run of it. Explaining how trying to grab one dose for Gladys had necessitated five doses to cure her victims was hard. Explaining how I'd let Manuel work alone on a rickety shelving unit, so when he tried to answer my calls for help he'd fallen fifteen feet to a concrete floor and broken his leg, was an exercise in shame.
"I realise that I have not done enough to ensure that the trust you've put in me is well-placed; and I am sorry. So far, I have believed that your faith in me included faith in my riskier ventures; I fear I may have taken that further than I had any right to. I apologise for that; and I will change."
The meeting ended quietly, save for some scathing comments from Brett; and no one said much to me for the next few days. I decided to take a shift escorting Joshua. We took a walk on the roof - the only place to get any fresh air.
"What if Brett was right?" Joshua asked me during a lull in whatever conversation we'd been sharing before.
"About you still being a zombie?" I shook my head, "Nah. The cure worked; I'm sure of it. Gladys is fine; her friends are fine; you'll be fine."
Joshua seemed to ponder that for a moment and then said, "What if it's not a medical thing? What if the zombie is part of my soul now?"
I knew I had to get what I said next right.
"I don't believe a soul becomes tarnished by virtue of an illness; but, if there's something wrong in your soul, only One Person can help you with that. You'll need to find your cure for that with Christ."
Josh shook his head and sighed. I considered pressing the matter, but figured I'd spoken plainly enough for the occasion. I still wonder if maybe I spoke too plainly.
"I dunno, man." he sighed again, "I think there are some things that push a man so far off the reservation that he can't be fully a man anymore. He must become either a monster or a ghost."
"And you think you've been pushed that far?" I asked.
"Yeah." Joshua spoke quietly and then spent a few moments surveying the view before us. We were standing at the front edge of the roof. Below us, some infected fought over the remains of a stray dog; in the distance, we could see the ruins of a small city.
I wondered what my hometown would look like if I was able to wander its streets right then.
"There's this problem, though." Joshua's voice seemed to take on a more confident tone than I'd heard yet, "You've taken the monster out of me."
Still looking at the ruins out yonder, I replied without really thinking, "That leaves 'ghost'."
"Right." Joshua seemed to "smirk" the word more than say it. I turned to ask what he meant; but he wasn't there anymore.
I didn't have to investigate when a wet, splattering "crunch" reached my ears. I knew without looking that the stray dog no longer seemed so tasty to the zombies below, not with fresher meat suddenly available. I didn't have to meet Manuel's gaze, as I told him of Joshua's death, to know that a kind, gentle sadness was in his eyes. I didn't have to discuss anything with Liz to know that Manuel had told her all I'd said, and that her eyes would have the same expression his did. With plugs in my ears, I could have told you that Brett was loudly contemplating how many people would have to die before my small community would "dethrone" me. I didn't need to listen to his words to catch his meaning.
What I did need to do - more than almost anything else in the world - was be alone. What I needed to do was cry. So I did.
To be continued...
A red sun rose to my left as I surveyed the parking lot from atop Vallenmarkt's trademark concrete box. The sheer numbers I was considering were dizzying. I recalled a Black Friday four years previous, when two thousand customers had crowded around the front of the store. Comparing that mental image to what lay before me, I reckoned seven thousand between my post and the far end of the parking lot.
I shifted the Louisville slugger around in my hand. The smooth wooden handle was still foreign to me after using my machete almost invariably for upwards of a year. So much had changed since we'd found the dead body of a strange girl laying in our vestibule. So much was going to change if my small team made it past the end of the parking lot, eight blocks east and two blocks north, to that other cement fortress.
I said another quiet prayer, and contemplated the rope dangling down the wall before me. I pressed a button in my pocket; and the opening notes to Coheed and Cambria's "Welcome Home" played in my ears. I smirked.
"Lost my muchness, have I?" I murmured. I grabbed hold of the rope and, one-handed, swung myself over the edge.
Day 475.
"Ready! Aim! Fire!" Liz's voice rang out with a volume and authority that somehow made whatever she was saying seem of mortal import. Twenty arrows pierced twenty targets with impressive accuracy. What she was teaching was, indeed, of mortal import.
From my perch atop the dead freezers that bordered the store's former produce section, I surveyed the many activities taking place in this old Vallenmarkt building.
From where our seasonal items were once kept, I could hear a worship service going on with instruments both salvaged and crafted. Overhead, a group of gardeners tended vegetable plants, berry bushes and edible flowers. Behind me, a crew was cleaning up the area that'd been assigned to them in our weekly rotation. Somewhere in the back room, I could hear my second-in command, Manuel, cursing at a generator he was trying to repair.
Among the registers, a game of Monopoly was being played with real money. For some reason, I thought of Emma Stone.
Our motley crew of thirteen had grown considerably since Liz joined our ranks. Her knowledge of archery had made an entire pallet of abandoned sporting goods material suddenly useful. With Liz's new form of defense, we'd been able to perform short outdoor missions: rescuing survivors in neighboring buildings, getting further building and defense supplies from a hardware store across the street. We'd even made it to a gas station a number of blocks away and emptied their propane supply to meet our growing need for cooking gas. At a lumber mill behind our building, we'd fetched some supplies to make our own bows and arrows to use when the need arose.
Our most successful mission was the rescue and relocation of a college-age youth group that had been living in the church less than a block away. Not a single person suffered so much as a scratch in that effort; and our group had doubled that day. Since then, the community living in the Vallenmarkt building had reached over a hundred. I no longer slept alone on my freezer, but shared my end of the store with ten of the college kids.
I grabbed my Bible out of the freezer, climbed back up to my post and turned to Numbers 6. I took my time reading, savoring the chance I had to be alone and quiet with God. I'd often dreamt of leading people, of serving together and doing what I could to help others reach the fullest of their potentials. When the world fell to pieces and I was thrust into my dream job, it was a much busier task than I'd imagined it could be.
I was mulling over verses 24-26 when the musicians and singers arrived, dragging folding chairs and ready for Bible study.
I slid down a rope from my "bed" and pulled a folding chair of my own out of a freezer. The college kids I shared my sleeping area with were very impressed by my freezer/locker setup. Taking a seat, I smiled at the folks gathered around me and suggested we open with prayer
We talked about evangelism that day. Many people shared about how easy it once was, Back When, to stay hidden in church culture and church buildings. There was no pressure to go out to offer God's love to a broken world. After the infection hit, the world seemed too broken to bother helping; but folks were finding in their store-mates a desire for that internal peace that comes with knowing the King of the Universe is looking out for you. The freedom we had to openly and calmly discuss faith with our unbelieving friends seemed to make these believers wonder why they'd been so scared in the first place.
I encouraged them with this:
"In the first century, people were willing to face horrific, painful deaths if it meant they could share the truth about Christ with those around them. It's saddening to think we, Back When, got sheepish over an awkward conversation or a rude rejection. Let's decide now that, if things ever go back to how they were before, we'll remember the lessons we've learned here. We won't play it safe; we'll play it right."
Behind me, Manuel hummed in agreement as we closed with another prayer and dispersed for archery practice. I returned my chair to its place in the freezer and addressed Manuel with my normal raised eyebrow.
"Food's missing again. Still no clues. I even spread sand on the floor. Not a single footprint. It's like we're feeding a ghost."
The thefts could have been happening the whole time; but it wasn't until we started rationing food to keep up with our growing crew that we noticed food missing. One or two servings would vanish each day; the culprit never left a clue behind. More disturbing were the occasional footsteps in the middle of the night and jingling of keys.
I pondered the situation and told Manuel, "We may need to post a guard."
Manuel gave me a look.
"I know, I'm reluctant, too. I'll ask the group and see if anyone has any objections."
Manuel gave me another look.
"I know he will."
Everyone in the store gathered in our cafeteria, where I addressed them from a dairy carton turned upside-down. It was the closest thing to a real soapbox I was ever able to find. I explained once more the situation and the difficulties we were having in finding the thief. I brought the idea of posting the guard to the table and asked if anyone had thoughts on the matter before we voted. As Manuel had silently predicted, a man stood up. I gave him the floor.
"I don't know about everyone else; but this smells like the start of a police state to me. I don't like being guarded all the time; and I definitely don't like having to beg for food. I wonder how long it's going to be before your concern for our well-being has us in chains."
Every one of my twelve original crew members sighed in chorus. I could almost feel Manuel smirking behind me. Pastor Brett gave them a glare.
"Sir," I could barely keep my exasperation contained, "if this was a police state, I'd already have a guard posted. I am not forcing anyone to be guarded; I am offering it as a suggestion. As far as begging for food, rationing is really the only option we have right now if we want our resources to last. You'll recall we voted on that as well. If no one else has anything to add, we'll go to vote in this issue."
A few moments of silence passed.
"Very well, all in favour of posting a guard to protect the food rations, raise your hand."
All of my crew, all of the survivors from outlying shelters and a few of Brett's youth raised their hands. Brett coughed loudly; and those from his church retracted their vote.
"All against?"
Despite the overwhelming majority in favour, Brett stood and raised his hand with gusto. His whole group raised their hands reluctantly.
I appointed a man we'd pulled out of a bomb shelter as guard, a choice at which Brett balked. I invited Brett to help guard the post if he could be civil about it; and we dismissed the meeting.
"When are you going to step in?" Manuel asked.
"When someone asks me to." I replied.
"Isaac, it's clear he's not leading his team; he's manipulating them. Those kids need some help. Our crew could have him dethroned and locked in a cage without a sweat, if you'd give them a chance.
"No!" I nearly yelled, "No, we will not start their revolution for them. If they want to cut loose, we'll help them; but they have to say so. They have to make the first move. My leadership is based on a trust that I refuse to betray - that includes meddling in affairs that I'm not invited into.You guys are not to meddle, either. Do nothing until someone from their team asks."
Manuel sighed, but assented. Thinking again of how many of our conversations had consisted of me venting about that one man, I added, "Please tell me the moment those kids ask for their revolution."
My friend laughed.
For the rest of the day, I cleaned and rearranged the hygiene products corner we'd established in the deli. I included what we'd been able to pilfer from neighboring shops. As I tossed boxes back and forth and dumped smaller items into bins, an anger burned through me.
I'd heard that Brett was once a kind, gentle leader in his church. He wasn't the sort to pick fights or even start arguments. When the infection hit, his college kids said he changed.
Suddenly, he started running drills and barking commands. He used intimidation tactics to keep his kids in line and threatened violence at the first sign of subversion. I could tell he liked to cast himself as some sort of military leader. His youth were soldiers in his personal army; and he believed he was their fearless, beloved commander.
In truth, he struck me as a walking bundle of insecurities, someone who considered this apocalypse permission to live the adventurous life his former position had not afforded him.
In practice, he was little more than a schoolyard bully.
I heard Brett's voice shouting through the store; probably another kid who missed the bulls-eye in archery. I felt bad for Liz.
Day 476.
It was about two in the morning when the shouting started. I could hear Brett's voice again; and I wondered where he got the energy to be so worked up about everything. Then I heard shrieks.and the clatter of shelving. I sat up, suddenly very awake. Grabbing my machete, I leapt off the freezer, rolling as I hit the floor.
Even in the dark, I could make out shadows of zombies breaking though our barricade at the home and garden entrance, flooding into the store. It was like watching the Titanic sink, but without the bad acting.
I gave a shout and started hacking.
It wasn't long before I heard more slicing, grunting, bashing and yelling. This was a legitimate battle; and we were good at this. Another minute later, floodlights came on; and the "zing" of arrows from our trained archers, and the sounds of impact (Bodies sound much wetter than range targets) told me that our kill count was growing.
In my periphery, I could see Manuel arranging men to knock our barricades back in place with one unified move.
When you fight one zombie, there's a lot of maneuvering and technique
involved. When there's a large horde gathering around you, I find it
best to swing a blade toward whatever touches you first. Whatever you
do, swing to decapitate. Poking or trying to hack through a skull will
only get your machete stuck in something. Take its head off.
I shouted again, letting my friends know that victory was close. The fight intensified for a moment, pushing the swarm back outside. Manuel gave the order and, with more clattering and crashing, the barricade was back in place. The whole ordeal took about a half hour.
Cleanup was a routine as rehearsed and planned out as fighting. Archers put arrows into anything that moved on the ground. Sometimes, this meant putting down our own who'd been infected or injured beyond recovery. Life in a zompocalypse is never easy.
(I know that sounds like common sense; but I remember romanticising the apocalyptic life Back When. Somehow, I thought it'd all fall into place and I'd be living on canned ravioli and Arizona iced tea until society re-established itself.)
We melee fighters went through and bagged the bodies to be carried to the roof. Manuel's team - people who provided tactical support - took the bodies up and tossed them into our garbage pit. Once a week, we threw some kind of accelerant at the pit and set the whole thing ablaze.
We lost eleven people to that battle.
We killed seventy-one zombies in the fight and another six in the cleanup.
Eleven fighters, seventy-seven zombies and one girl nobody recognised.
Underneath some of the barricade we'd replaced, one of the men noticed a shoe. When he pulled on it, a twenty-something girl was found to be attached. When I arrived to investigate, everyone else had already taken a close look at her. I instantly placed her.
"That's Linda."
"Who?" Liz asked.
"One of my cashiers. I haven't seen her since the night everything started. She's skinnier than she was then; but that's definitely her."
Her effects had been placed to the side. Among them was an envelope and a hypodermic needle. The envelope was unaddressed; so I opened it. Inside was a long note. All the Latin-based words took a moment to dissect and make sense of; but, reading the note again, I knew that, though she was to blame for opening the door and moving the barricade, Linda was also to thank for all that would happen afterward. I shouted for Manuel.
Before he even stopped running toward me, I was talking, "We need to find out where this girl was hiding. I think we've probably solved the mystery of the missing food. Obviously, Linda had a key and dusted off her tracks when you spread that sand out. So, let's get Brett and the bomb-shelter guy off guard duty and have everyone scour the building for hidey holes."
I picked up the hypodermic needle and held it up to the light. As Manuel ran off to organise the search, I said a quiet prayer of thanks.
To be continued...
