Another Zombie Apocalypse Tale: Part 18

Part Eighteen: Three Weeks and Two Days Since the Apocalypse

I pushed to my feet on shaking legs, gripping the machete tight to help steel my resolve and give me courage. “I wa—” My voice cracked, my throat tight and full of gunk from sobbing and laughing. I tried again, “I want my friends back!” My voice was hoarse, like the croak of a dying frog, but it was unwavering. 

A few more people joined The Grinning Man on the balcony; two scantily dressed women, huddled close to each other, and a third person I assumed might be the Red Baseball Cap Guy. He no longer wore the hat but stood at his leader’s shoulder with his arms crossed over his chest. 

“Which ones?” The Grinning Man taunted like he had information I didn’t.

“All of them.” My voice held steady, channeling my fear and anger into confidence. False confidence, but it was all about faking it until you made it, right?

The Grinning Man laughed, tossing his head back. His perfect straight, white teeth caught the light from the room, reminding me of light glinting off the fangs of a monster before it tears into its victim. A few more balcony doors opened and people cast in shadow appeared at the railings. 

Their leader gestured toward me with a hand as he supposedly spoke to those around him, “She wants all of them.” 

They all laughed with him. The commotion caused more to emerge from their apartments. Some turned on their lights, some didn’t, but the rising chatter and collection of laughter was a good sign that my distraction was working. 

I gripped the machete tighter, trying to take slow, controlled breaths. I hoped the distraction was enough for Marianne and Kimber to sneak in the back. A less guarded place, according to Mario, but also furthest from where they’d be keeping the others. 

The Grinning Man faced me and spoke slowly, mocking me. “All of them? You can’t have all of them. You’re not worth the release of all of them.”

I glared up at him. Dread weighed down in the pit of my stomach. He meant for me to trade my life for one of my friends. I hoped Marianne and Kimber were having better luck than me. 

“You’re going to give me all of them. You’re going to let all of us leave.” I spoke as someone with more influence than I had. All I had was a machete. I didn’t know where I was getting these words, but they sounded good and completely ridiculous coming out of my mouth.

You’re just the distraction, I told myself. All you’re doing, being as annoyingly confident as you can be, is a distraction.

The Grinning Man barked out a laugh, the others once again joining him with their laughter. An unsettling cacophony, but for a moment I wondered if this was what it was like for gladiators. A crowd of people jeering and laughing at them—no one was calling for blood yet, but it could happen. From what Mario told me, it could happen.  

I was about to spout more confident nonsense—another demand to let my friends go or else—when the Grinning Man leaned over to his cohort and spoke quietly with him.

A hush fell over The Brood as they waited. Unease crept up my spine to the base of my skull. If it were any quieter, they’d be able to hear my heart trying to race away from me. My fingers were going numb from my death grip on the machete, but with sweat slicking my palm, I feared dropping the weapon if I loosened my grip. My charade would end pretty quickly if that happened. 

The Baseball Cap Guy left the balcony, disappearing into the apartment. 

“Since you, little miss, are having difficulty making a choice, I’ll help you.” The leader turned to me. He clasped his hands behind his back and lifted his chin. “I believe in giving people options. As my followers know.” He glanced at the women on the balcony with him. They smiled but dropped their gazes, and huddled closer to each other. I was sure he gave them options where they had to choose the lesser of two evils. I was sure he was soooo generous—all sarcasm intended. 

My mouth was dry and my tongue tacky and sticking to the roof of my mouth, unable to find words; distracted by the absence of his right-hand man. What did he say to him? Where did he go? With what the Grinning Man said about helping me make a choice, it couldn’t be good. Nothing this person offered would ever be good. 

“I can’t let you go. You shot at me,” he continued, speaking loud, his voice carrying up and down the street. 

The others on their balconies held in rapt attention. I couldn’t see their faces, but I swear I could feel their gazes on me. Maybe some held pity and shame, but mostly they held relief, I’d imagine. Relief that they weren’t the ones in my shoes. That they weren’t the ones being held in this pitiful and sadistic show of judgment. I hated every single one of them for it. How many of them were there? And only one of him? They could overthrow him, which led me to think that maybe—maybe—they were just like him. They were just like him and they enjoyed watching others suffer under his wrath. 

Then I thought of Allen. Allen wasn’t like this man at all. Allen had the biggest heart out of anyone I knew. There was no way he enjoyed watching others suffer. He wasn’t like them; he was doing what he needed to survive. Maybe I didn’t hate all of these people. The two women huddled together on the Grinning Man’s balcony likely didn’t enjoy others' suffering either. 

I was likely about to die and I was having a pivotal moment about how everything isn’t black and white. 

“You shot at me,” the Grinning Man repeated. He gestured to the javelin still protruding from the wall where it stuck. “You interrupted my night,” his words came out low and mean. A murmur went through the crowd—a sound that made my gut turn inside out—because they knew something was about to go down, and their anticipation increased my dread.

The hair at the back of my neck prickled, like the feeling when you think someone’s behind you. I swallowed. My mouth was oddly wet now, and my skin sticky and growing cold. I wanted to take a step back to assess my surroundings, but I was afraid that if tried to move, I might break down. 

There was a shuffle of boots scuffing the ground. I didn’t want to look, but I did. As I turned, from the shadows down the street emerged four men. Each one carried a variation of a weapon; a metal rod wrapped with barbed wire on one end, a hatchet, a machete with a long blade, and a golf club.

Light spilled out from behind me. I spun around, raising my machete, preparing to attack. Beckett was pushed out the door that he and the others had been taken through earlier. He stumbled forward as a guy behind him jabbed the end of a wooden rod into his back. I lunged to catch him, dropping my machete. It clanged as it hit the ground. I pressed my hands against Beckett’s chest to keep him upright. His hands were bound with duct tape. Blood ran into his eye from a cut on his forehead. 

The door shut with a slam. Darkness enveloped us, but I had Beckett now. He was injured, but he was alive. The weightlessness of relief was almost strong enough for me to want to hug him.

“What are you doing here?” Beckett hissed and then coughed so hard he doubled over. I ignored his question and retrieved my machete as I cast a wary glance at the four men blocking the road one way. A glimpse in the opposite direction showed three more men with weapons blocking that way. They weren’t moving toward us. Yet.

“Myra, Elsie?” I whispered. My heart was hitting so fast and hard, that it took a moment for my hands to stop shaking so I could slide the blade between his wrists to cut the tape. 

“I don’t… I don’t know about Myra.” His voice trembled as he spoke, and with a glance at his face, anger stiffened his expression more than fear. “They gave her to a woman. Elsie was with me until now.” He ripped the cut tape off his wrists without flinching. He was bigger, stronger, and older than Mario but it still made my blood boil about the treatment he’d gone through. 

I thought of the bruises on Mario’s wrists and neck, and I hoped these bastards weren’t hurting Myra more than she already was, and if they so much as touched Elsie, there would be hell to pay when Marianne got to them. 

Unrealistic thinking, as we were outnumbered, but it was the only way to keep me from breaking down. I’d gotten this far. I survived things I shouldn’t; things no one should experience, and I’d be damned if I let the scum of the earth known as The Brood be the death of me. 

Another door opened—this one below the balcony of the Grinning Man—and the yellow glow illuminated the street strewn with corpses, and two men—a man and a teenage boy. My heart stuck in my throat as Allen was shoved out into the street. I ran to him as he hit the ground with a moan. His hands were bound how Beckett’s had been. He winced when my fingers brushed his arm, his body revolting against my touch. 

“Allen, it’s me.” I was on the verge of tears—I had Allen back. The relief and joy stole my breath, replacing it with an ache in my throat. “It’s Camille.” 

“Oh, he knows it’s you,” said the Grinning Man. His sadistic smile crept into his voice, promising malice and pain. “That’s why he’s in that current state. A pity, really. A waste of talent.”

I realized then why Allen had jerked away. Not because he thought I was someone else, but because his body was covered in bruises. Dark splotches covered his arms and disappeared up the sleeves of his shirt. I took his face in my hands, keeping my touch light as if he were one of the delicate, porcelain figurines that his mother obsessed over. What I’d give to be back at her house, dealing with her manic energy. She had been overbearing, yet negligent, but at least she never abused Allen—physically or verbally.

I said his name again as his eyes found my face. “You’re supposed to be dead,” I murmured, voice breaking on the last word. My first words to one of the last people I care about probably shouldn’t have been a slightly obscure, yet overused, movie quote, but this was Allen and he was alive. 

“Am I…” He paused, his breath wheezing. “Am I not?”

I wanted to hug him, but with his bruising, it wouldn’t be the best course of action. Instead, I gently pressed my forehead to his. My heart swelled until it would burst from my chest if physically possible. When I pulled back, Beckett helped me sit Allen up and held his arms steady while I cut the tape around his wrists. The bearded man helped him to his feet, careful of the bruises. 

The Grinning Man was smiling down at us.

Despite having my two best guys back, a chill tightened the skin down my spine. All I could do was hope Marianne and Kimber were able to get in and find Elsie and Myra. 

“Now, here’s your choice.” The Grinning Man’s voice boomed up and down the street, and the crowd, up safe on their balconies, began to murmur and shuffle in anticipation. “You either fight to the death or you die.”

I glared up at him. “What else is new?” I murmured, wishing I had another javelin. I wouldn’t miss this time. What would happen if I cut the head off this snake? Would everyone start using their brains again? Or would it be like a Hydra? Cut off the head and two more grow back. 

“He means for us to fight each other,” Allen said, his voice straining as he wheezed for breath. 

“That’s cute.” I took a couple of steps toward the center of the street so I could better see the people on their balconies. “Unlike the rest of you,” I spoke loud, relieved there wasn’t a tremor of fear in my voice, despite it shaking through my hands and legs. I channeled that fear into anger. “I won’t kill my friends. I won’t betray them like you all have.”

Beckett joined me, stooping down and pulling a knife free from one of the decapitated corpses. He stood next to me, facing the four men blocking one side of the street. Allen limped over and stood on my other side. We were short on weapons, but I was not short on bravado. 

“None of this matters to any of you,” I said, my voice ringing out loud and clear. I realized with sad humor that I was utilizing the speech lesson the drama teacher gave me in sixth grade in order for me to be heard when I spoke my one line in the first and last play I’d ever been in; chin up, chest open, back straight, and breathing from my diaphragm. “If a show is what you want, a show is what you mindless wimps will get.”

“Damn,” Allen whispered. “You really do watch way too many movies.”

Beckett chuckled. A dark, humored sound. He turned to Allen, reaching past me to press the knife into Allen’s hand, and then the bearded man flexed his hands and rolled his shoulders like a boxer getting ready to enter the ring.

“So be it,” the Grinning Man sighed with disappointment. He lifted a hand toward us. “Kill them.”