Red Eye | Season 2 | Episode 3 Read online

  Then it happened again. The sound. A crinkle, like ripping open packaged, processed food.

  If I hadn’t been waiting for it, I’d have missed it.

  I stepped a few feet from the wall next to the bathroom door and lifted the rifle up into the position Barrett had taught me. At least, I hoped I was doing it right. Moving slowly, I walked to the left to look down the closest aisle of food. Pretzels. Various cookies. Canned spaghetti. Migraine medicine. An obvious combination for organized shelving.

  Further to the left. The next aisle.

  Bread. Spam. Tiny cereal boxes. Toilet paper. Whoever’d set up this store had interesting tastes.

  The next shelves of food backed to the frozen section. Raw meats. Dairy products. Before I could see down that row, I noticed that one of the glass fridge doors was held open. My hands shook, the rifle jumping up and down minutely. The door’s just open because shit hit the fan and there wasn’t time to close it. It’s been open like that since all of this started. There’s nothing to be scared of.

  I wanted to believe that, but my eyes could see that the exposed food inside the cooling unit wasn’t discolored or gross. I could see beads of sweat running down the glass of the old-fashioned milk jug.

  My feet didn’t want to move any closer. I stopped, frozen in place. The crinkling sound came again, louder. And then a new sound joined the confusion—a squishing sound—and then I knew the third thing that started happening. I knew it intimately. Anyone could recognize it.

  Chewing.

  Just move a little closer. See what’s going on. It could be an animal. A dog. It’s a dog, Sam. Not scary at all.

  So I shuffled forward as slowly and as soundlessly as I could until I was able to lean and peek around the shelving. A person was sitting on the ground, back to me. Dark, long hair. Blue shirt. Not a dog. Another human. A survivor.

  “Hey,” I said, trying to seem as harmless as possible. “Are you okay?”

  I knew something was wrong when the figure didn’t turn immediately, but my brain didn’t catch up to my mouth.

  “My name’s Sam. Are you okay?” I moved forward a little, paying attention to the stranger and not my surroundings. My shoulder bumped a display at the end of the aisle and it pitched over, slamming into the ground and sending packages of gum and mints careening across the linoleum. “Shit, sorry,” I said quickly, worried I startled the girl. Probably a girl with that gorgeous hair…maybe a guy.

  Now, the sitting figure did begin to turn. I was ready to smile and soothe the survivor and let them know I wanted to help them. We might have turned all those people away from the weapons building, but I could make up for that now. I could save someone.

  But then the profile of the person was revealed.

  A jagged, gaping scar ran from its lips to its ear; the sides of the teeth and gum were revealed through the chasm between gnarled, stringy flesh.

  “Ohhhh…oh god…” I staggered backwards, trying not to trip and slide over the candy wrappers.

  It had been a person, but it wasn’t now. Barely a woman by the looks of her morbidly fading glitter eyeshadow and the California tourist shirt tied at the middle to expose a pierced navel.

  The zombie continued to shift on the floor until it fully faced me. In one hand it held an opened package of raw hamburger; its other hand grasped an oversized ball of the red, dripping beef. My senses were once again assaulted by my surroundings—the zombie’s body, the ground meat it was holding, the bit of brain matter I saw poking from a head wound. My body trembled, and it took all my concentration to point the gun at the animated corpse. It was just sitting there, eating its lunch, not lunging for me at all. And I was going to shoot it in the brain, if I could aim while my hands were quivering. Hell, even if my hands weren’t shaking, it wasn’t like I was an expert shot.

  As I hesitated like an idiot, I noticed a change in the zombie. Where once it had only turned to look at me curiously as it ate the bloody beef, now the meal went limp in its grasp. Its head tilted back, its nostrils flaring slightly. The ragged wound across its face grew exponentially as it opened its mouth to moan and gnash its teeth ferociously. I heard a noise behind me and I turned to find a wrathful Barrett running toward me. I hadn’t even heard the bathroom door open and close…because he wasn’t an idiot who made noises or an idiot who wandered away to investigate a noise all on his lonesome.

  “You couldn’t just fucking listen, could you?” he snarled angrily as he pushed me behind him.

  I automatically lowered the gun, relief flooding over me—which was fucking ridiculous, because I should have just fired the damn gun. I should have just killed…re-killed the zombie.

  The zombie was staggering to its feet, still groaning in the throes of its animalistic need to hunt down and eat the human who smelled so good. I knew, by a fraction, what that felt like.

  Barrett didn’t pause to debate the morality of killing the already-dead monster in front of us. He just lifted the rifle, aimed, and fired. It was a kill shot, middle of the forehead. I watched the crimson fade from the zombie’s eyes as it fell to the ground. Its hand landed on the discarded, half-eaten raw meat.

  When the danger was handled, Barrett whirled on me. “What the hell were you thinking, Sam? I gave you one order: stay by the goddamn bathroom door. How the fuck am I supposed to keep you alive if you keep acting so fucking stupid?” He railed at me, his expression angrier than I’d ever seen.

  I hung my head and muttered “sorry.”

  “I came out of that bathroom and…shit. I didn’t know where you were. For a second I…” He stared at me, still furious. “Don’t do that again. If I tell you to do something, it’s for your own damn good, and so you goddamn listen to me, woman!”

  I nodded, gathering the courage to look up at him. “I’m sorry. Really. I just heard a noise and…I don’t know what I thought I’d do. Pull a big bad Rambo and kill whatever I found? And I couldn’t even do that. It wasn’t trying to hurt me. It was sitting there, Barrett, eating meat, for Christ’s sake, and I couldn’t pull the trigger.”

  He looked at me like he didn’t believe what he was hearing. To him I must have been the dumbest person on the damn planet.

  “Stop sympathizing with them, Sam. They’re monsters. If we’re going to stay alive, we need to shoot first and ask moral questions later. Otherwise we’re dead. Plain and simple.”

  “I understand.” I looked down at my feet and kicked gently at a package of gum.

  “I’ll believe you understand when you start acting like the damn badass from the airport instead of weak-willed and ready to throw in the towel because your body is sick.” He moved away from me, toward the checkout counter. I followed him, irritation building in my chest until the pressure became so great that I had to open my damn mouth.

  “You act like it’s an easy thing to ignore that I’m changing—changing in a way that has no precedence. There’s no history we can read to know what’s going to happen to me tomorrow. There’s no doctor who’s treated my particular brand of illness and can offer me three pills a day and an exercise regime. I’m a walking glitch, Barrett. I can’t just shove that into a closet and lock the door.” I spoke to his back, slinging the rifle onto my shoulder and gesturing with my hands, though he couldn’t see them.

  “Maybe so, but defeatism and survivorship can’t coexist. So find a way to shove it in the fucking closet. It’s the only way to make it to tomorrow, whatever that brings with it.” Barrett heaved the dead station worker off the countertop and reached over the body, now crumpled against the floor, to get a dozen or so plastic shopping bags. “Here, fill them with whatever you want to eat. You’ve got five minutes.”

  I took some of the bags and walked fast back to the mismatched aisles of food, avoiding the inert zombie on the ground. I bee-lined for the snack boxes of sugar cereal. I knew they weren’t the healthiest choice, not what a seasoned survivor would go for, but there were very few things that could soothe a bad day like Frosted Flake
s and Honey Smacks. After that, I stuffed in as many granola bars, kiddie spaghetti microwave containers, and tuna cracker kits as would fit. The three bags were heavy and dug into my fingers. They reminded me of life before—when I was so stubborn that I didn’t want to take the time to go back and forth from the car to make several trips with groceries. I’d string them onto my forearms and fingers until I had to move like a turtle, struggling into the house while my digits threatened to fall off.

  In the time it took me to fill three bags of food, Barrett had filled nine plus—all to the brim. He carried them easily, a pack of toilet paper tucked under his arms. I glanced at the transparent plastic.

  “Is that one only filled with candy?” I pointed at the bag stuffed to the point that the plastic was straining under the weight.

  “I’ve a feeling more than one person will pay a pretty penny for a chocolate bar. Come on, let’s go.” He strode away from me toward the still-open exit.

  I frowned at him before following. Barrett was still thinking like a carrion bird, scavenging for any opportunity to feed itself. I hated it and yet I also admired it—his survival instincts.

  I struggled with my three heavy bags, which made me feel ridiculous considering Barrett held triple the items. He loaded all but one of his bags into the back of the truck and I did the same, keeping the snack cereal instead of the better sustenance. Being impractical made me feel less fatalistic.

  When we were back in the truck, doors closed and engine rumbling, I let myself stew on Barrett’s words—that if I didn’t decide to stop acting like a victim and ready to die, then I wasn’t going to survive. Leaving the gas station behind us, I tore open a box of Froot Loops and I decided I’d do my best to stuff my fears into the closet, lock the door, and fight to stay alive. For me, for my dad, and for Rose.

  While I ate cereal, Barrett dug in his own bag and pulled out a bag of applewood jerky. He steered one-handed and slowly popped dark brown bits of dehydrated meat into his mouth.

  We were just past the outskirts of Victorville when a pop sounded and a billow of slate-gray smoke puffed from beneath the hood.

  “Son of a bitch,” Barrett said, leaning forward to check the front of the truck through the windshield. “Ain’t no way this truck has an issue. I checked the damn thing before taking the keys.”

  “Could you have missed something?” I asked nervously, watching a second mushroom cloud blossom from the engine bay.

  “No, I didn’t miss anything,” he bit out angrily. “I don’t miss shit.”

  There was a motel in the near distance—the single-story kind with external doors and a small, attached manager’s office. The sign was tall and shaped like a horse. The No Vacancy sign was flashing erratically. Barrett was studying the road in front of us, his face strained. As we got closer to the hotel, another sign came into view—Donovan O’Malley’s Automotive Works.

  “If that ain’t fucking serendipity,” Barrett breathed out, though he didn’t sound happy about a hotel and a mechanic being so coincidentally close to one another.

  Engine still smoking, Barrett pulled into the mechanic’s lot. I could see a figure moving behind the tinted glass of the building. Two of the carport roll doors were closed, tight to the ground, but one was open and exposed the innards of the automotive shop. “Barrett, there’s someone in there.” I pointed to the left of the workshops at the dark glass decorated in the O’Malley logo.

  He nodded slowly. “Yeah. Looks like it.”

  “Do you think…”

  “No idea.” He answered my unfinished question, craning to look behind us toward the motel next door. “I’m going to take you to the motel first.” He shifted into reverse and backed away from the auto shop. The figure inside the building hadn’t come out to investigate, which made me doubt it was a living survivor. It could have been, though, someone too scared to leave the safety of four walls and a roof.

  Barrett bypassed the office and pulled alongside one of the doors and long windows. He motioned for me to stay as he got out, rifle in hand, to investigate. He peered through the nearest window, the curtains already parted, offering a view of the interior. I saw him shake his head imperceptibly and move to the next set of windows.

  Moving to the door, Barrett tried the handle. It didn’t turn—that would have been way too easy. He glanced around him before taking a step back and kicking outward hard. The door swung in quickly, the flimsy lock ruined by his force. He again turned to me and held his hand up, telling me to stay put. And then he disappeared into the room.

  I sat with bated breath, wondering what I’d do if Barrett didn’t return. What if he died right there, right then? Not that it seemed likely that the invincible-seeming righteous asshole Barrett would die in this low-rent roadside motel. I reached down and got my own rifle from where I’d placed it on the floorboards after we’d started driving again. I wouldn’t hesitate that time if danger came. I’d point and I’d shoot and I’d pray my aim was better than I thought it would be.

  My pep talk wasn’t necessary. Barrett appeared from the inner shadows moments later, nodding and waving me forward. I opened the door and scrambled down from the bench seat quickly, moving toward him, my eyes darting around the open road and studying the few corpses within sight.

  The inside of the room was cool and dark. The power was still working and the air conditioner spurted and popped as it sent icy air into the space.

  “This is the only entry and exit.” Barrett closed the door behind us, throwing the upper bolt since the regular door lock was mangled and useless now. “You stay here and don’t move. I’m going to go check out the mechanic’s shop.”

  “Should we separate?” I asked nervously, glancing at the paisley-print bedding and the yellowing old prints inside cheap hanging frames.

  “Separating isn’t smart,” he said, nodding. “But it’s the best thing this time. I need to figure out what’s wrong with the truck. I need to focus on that and try to get us back on the road. I won’t be able to if I’m worried you’re going to wander off and die.”

  I frowned at him. “I’m not going to wander off again, Barrett. I learned my lesson.”

  He gave his patented half smile. “I’m sure you did.” His tone said the exact opposite. “I’m going out to the truck, but I’ll be back quickly. Still, lock the door and wait for my voice.”

  I was his shadow as he opened the door and walked out. I didn’t like closing the entrance, or locking it. Separation, no matter the circumstances, wasn’t a good thing—no matter what Barrett thought.

  It seemed like long minutes that he was gone, and my thoughts started to run wild in my head. Thoughts of him not returning. Thoughts of him returning but not being himself anymore—a gaping hole in his throat, a mindless monster. Thoughts of…

  I let out a long, shaking breath, trying to control my anxiety brain, when I heard Barrett finally return. “It’s me,” he barked.

  Opening the door quickly, I grabbed his shirt and pulled him inside. I wrapped my arms around him tightly, pinning his large, muscled arms to his sides. He could have gotten away from me easily, but he didn’t even try.

  “I was only gone a second,” he commented, leaning down and pressing his face into my hair—which probably smelled like sweat, death, and days of filth.

  “I don’t want you to go over there alone. I don’t want to stay here worrying.”

  “I can make it easier,” he said, and he did push me gently away then. Lifting his hands, he brought two items into view—a double pack of radios and D batteries. “I’ll keep you informed, as much as I can. And you can radio if you’re worried.”

  I bit my lower lip, still not happy with that solution. It was a thin layer of salve on a deep wound, and what I needed was a big-ass bandage. But when he ripped open the blister pack, I took the black radio eagerly.

  At least I had a lifeline to him. A flimsy security blanket was still a security blanket.

  Chapter Seven.

  I was alone—
with only the currently silent radio, my own thoughts, and the bag of cereal boxes Barrett had kindly brought into the hotel room before leaving, to keep me company.

  There wasn’t much to explore in the room. Two full-sized beds, a built-in desk and dresser combo, a tiny closet that would hold maybe four hangers’ worth of clothing. The bathroom was equally unimpressive—a corner shower, a pedestal sink, and a toilet squashed into a barely six-by-six space. I munched on cereal, pacing the patterned carpet. Victorville was still way closer to Los Angeles than it was to Las Vegas, where we were headed. I hated how little progress we’d made since abandoning the military camp.

  Up until then I’d ignored the small television on the dresser. But now, the black screen called to me. I’d give anything for a show or movie to fill the time it took for Barrett to come back. Looking around, I found a small remote quickly and I pressed the red circle button at the top edge hopefully. Of course nothing happened, because that would have meant there was some niceness left in the universe—a little touch of fate looking down on a zombie-human cross and deciding to take pity.

  “You suck,” I muttered, tossing the remote onto the bed.

  I put down the empty box of cereal and traded the remote for the walkie talkie. I depressed the comm button, the big oblong one on the side, and spoke. “Barrett, you there?”

  Silence followed my question.

  I pressed the button again. “Um. Barrett. If you don’t want me to leave the hotel room and come find your ass, please respond.”

  Immediately, the radio crackled to life and Barrett’s scratchy voice sounded. “Dammit, Sam. Don’t joke.” He was speaking low, nearly a whisper. “I’m outside the mechanic’s office.”

  Press. “Do you know if it’s a person?” Release.

  Crackle. “I don’t think so,” he said quickly. “But even if it is—”

  Press. “Don’t you shoot an innocent person, Barrett. Or I swear to God I’ll kick your ass.” Release.