Chapter 15
The hours of the remaining night slid by. They reminisced about past times, and talked about future plans. It involved a wedding, a second child, and a cozy cabin in the woods.
By morning, the sound of Insane above them had lessened. It was Friday, May 16th. And for the first time since the change happened, they felt optimistic about the future. Grant could now picture his wedding day, in a chapel decorated with white veil, populated by humans that were no more. It was a vision of picturesque things. It was what it would have been had the change never happened. But, it had happened. And this very joyous vision of the future was nothing but a reason to leave the cellar.
Their guns lay in an organized pile, with the barrels pointing toward the far end wall. They were conserving the flashlights, sitting in absolute darkness. Each one of them could hear the other's deep breaths. They said nothing.
Above them, the footsteps were near and far. The count had dwindled. But, how many remained was still unknown.
Last checked, the time was 6:02 am. Mr. Hart's wristwatch quietly ticked away the time. And soon, an hour and a half passed. It was silent above them now. No footsteps. No animalistic screeches. There was nothing but the sound of their quiet breathing.
"Now is our best chance," Mr. Hart whispered. "There can't even be a fraction of what there was. This is the plan. When I open the door, get out as quickly as possible. Chelsea close yourself in here, and latch the door closed. If we die, don't open that door. I'll leave a pistol for you. If we die, don't hesitate to do it. Don't be here alone. Promise me."
"I-I promise," her voice cracked, "but, you'll b-be back."
"I hope so," his voice smiled reassuringly.
Grant flipped on his flashlight. He needed to see his girls one last time-if it was the last time. On immediate sight of them, he saw Kali tucked in closely to Chelsea. Her eyes were closed.
Chelsea looked at Grant, "Come here," she said, calling him with a roll of her extended index finger.
"Okay," Grant answered, crawling toward her.
With their eyes staring into the others', and a soft kiss, I love you was exchanged between them.
Mr. Hart grabbed his shotgun from the floor, taping the flashlight back onto it. Bobby and Grant grabbed their rifles and did the same thing.
Above, it was still quiet. Now, all three flashlights were on. Chelsea curled Kali up in her little blue blanket in the corner farthest from the door, now directly across from the bodies of Leon and Jenny.
"See you soon," Grant smiled at her as he turned toward the door.
She rubbed her hand up his back, "I love you."
"I love you too," he turned to her, brushed her hair from her face, and smiled. "See you soon?"
She nodded.
When he came full turn, his smile became an expressionless line. He looked at Bobby, who was resituating his glasses, and gave a nod of the head: a gesture that said a thousand words. They were words that Bobby understood.
Mr. Hart turned to his daughter. "Be strong, Chelsea. Think good thoughts." It was a placebo for a situation that needed a cure. But, Chelsea took the medicine her father offered, and became quiet. Good thoughts could drown out everything...
He cocked his shotgun, wrapping his fingers around the latch. "Ready?"
In reply, Grant and Bobby nodded their heads, while looking at the other.
"Okay," Mr. Hart pulled it out. "Remember, Chelsea, if we don't make it, don't hesitate."
"I know," now like Grant, she was without expression.
Mr. Hart opened the door. They emptied out as fast as possible, hearing the door slam closed behind them. The cast light of the three flashlights duck and dove into each other's path, lighting the far wall, highlighting The Insane that stood in front of it.
Grant surveyed the room. There were at least two dozen, if not more. Immediately, Mr. Hart and Bobby began to fire their guns. But, Grant was reluctant.
He stared with wide eyes out into The Insane. Their eyes were rabid stones. They growled, moving forward with slow steps. Out of his periphery he saw Mr. Hart reloading his shotgun, and Bobby shooting constant bursts into the horde before them. But unlike before, he didn't get the sense of urgency. He didn't feel the need to pull the trigger. And so he didn't.
Slowly, The Insane cluttered into smaller groups, and attacked with furious force. Grant focused on a corner where five gathered, and swayed within the cast light coming from his flashlight. He heard gunshots from behind. Bobby groaned. Mr. Hart yelled out of frustration, summoning the General he had been earlier in his life.
"The time is coming, Grant." his father's voice came at him from nowhere in particular. "What will you choose?"
A sudden darkness overtook everything else, leaving Grant entirely vulnerable.
"I will keep fighting for them." he assured himself in his reply.
"What happens when the fight ends?" his father wasn't there to torture him like in the past. "What happens when the days run out? You can feel it closing in on you. What will you choose?"
"One day at a time." his answer made him feel warm. Grant closed his eyes and opened them to a bright light.
"What is wrong, Grant?" asked Bobby, shining the flashlight in his eyes.
"Did we fight The Insane? Or was it just a dream?"
"No. We fought them, you were fighting too, but then stared straight ahead, said something, and fell to the ground." said Bobby while shaking his head from side to side. "Are you having black outs?"
"I don't know. I must just panic." Grant lied.
"Kind of a bad time to faint, Grant," Bobby said smiling.
"I know." Grant smiled too. "Where are we now then?"
"Behind the counter,"
"You killed 'em?"
"Look around." he lifted his head, and swung his eyes from side to side. Puddles of blood lay shallow and dark. He saw Insane people lying lifeless, scattered throughout the restaurant. It smelled of recent mutilation: a battle won.
"What now?" asked Grant.
"Now," Bobby pulled out an empty mag from his rifle, and put a full one in. "We leave."
"More running?"
"No." Bobby shook his head with a grin. "We're driving."
"With what?"
"Leon's truck. The keys were on his body downstairs. Chelsea is down in the cellar breast feeding Kali, and her father is outside. Grant, when we found the keys on Leon, we also found something else."
"What?" asked Grant, widening his groggy eyes. Bobby pulled three notes out from his pocket, and handed it to him:
Leon,
I am leaving for a while. I can't stay. I fear my Grant is dead, and the stress has worn holes into my health. Hannah and I are staying with a friend in Virginia. I have to leave the worry and fear behind. God will bring him home. I just have to be patient.
Love, Audrey
December 27th, 2013
Leon,
I have taken up smoking again, and the lump is back. Grant didn't know of it neither did Hannah. I'd like to thank you for being such a close friend, and want you to know that Todd may not stick. Ever since Grant went to war, I've been missing Greg. I realize how much Grant was his father's son. He was a younger, softer skinned version. Maybe that is why I can't accept Todd, because he'll never be Greg. He'll never make me feel the way he did. Honestly Leon, if anybody could, it would be you.
But, I am aware of the horrible inappropriateness in that. You are special, and I love you. You are a friend; you care.
If you want to visit me, I am in the hospital outside of town. I just got back into town. The doctors biopsied the lump: cancer. I think I'll get treatment, for Hannah and Todd's sake. But, know that I do miss you. I miss feeling close to you. I miss those talks we had when you made me fresh blueberry pie, and read me your writing. Jenny is lucky to have you; I wish Todd could care like you do.
Love, Audrey
April 8th, 2014
Leon,
Just to update you:
It looks promising. I took treatment; it hasn't spread, and I may be able to finally leave in a day or two. Part of me feels like Grant is safe, and happy. I hope he is, and if I can summon up the courage to go back home, I feel I will see him there. God has left for a while, but I think He is coming back. We just needed a break from one another. He needed to neglect me. I needed to hate Him. But, I don't anymore.
I don't know what I'm trying to say in this letter. Okay, yes I do. Leon, I want to be the way we used to be. I want you to read me your writings and make me fresh pie. I want to sit up late at night, and reminisce about our past. I want to be friends again.
Love, Audrey
April 13th, 2014
Grant looked at the notes with only a blank stare. It was a moment made up of a dream-like quality. Somehow his mother had only been three miles down the road, suffering in a bed, battling a hidden cancer she had fought once before. It hit him immediately what her words implied. The letter implied unfaithfulness. It implied marriage promises being broken. It implied his mother becoming a hypocrite in more than one sense.
But, what it didn't imply was her safety. She had written the last letter two days before the birth of The Insane. Was she safe? Was she dead? Or was she one of them? Grant didn't want to imagine his mother chewing on flesh, but he couldn't help but imagine it. The last month and the many morbid moments it had carried showed him that even the purest people can be dark deep down. He in no way considered himself pure; he didn't even consider himself good. More than anything, Grant was someone scared of decisions, and so he didn't make any that had real consequences.
"Grant?" said Mr. Hart, poking his head through the shattered window. "Are you alright?"
"I think so." Discreetly, he folded up the three notes, and put them in his pocket.
"Good." Mr. Hart nodded his head. "Then get Chelsea, and we'll get the hell out of here."
Quietly, he agreed, nodding his head. With a wince, and a pounding sensation in his left eye, Grant got to his feet. He wasn't yet strong enough to step without stumbling. But, he got to his feet, and stepped down the three steps, entering the cellar.
Chelsea sat in the corner, looking down at Kali. She was not moving. Grant stepped lightly, still finding his feet to be obstacles in the way of one another. He wiped his head clean of blood, looked down at his palm, and then back around the room.
"Hey, Chelsea." he said. "How are you doing?"
"Grant." she whimpered. "Kali is burning up. She can hardly feed."
"What's wrong with her?"
"She's sick."
"Give her some water." Grant stepped toward the bag.
"I have." Chelsea lifted a half empty bottle. "It only slides out of her mouth, and onto her shirt."
Grant looked over at Chelsea and Kali, and then looked around. He closed his eyes, wondering what it was all worth, wondering why he continued to fight.
"Grant?!" shrieked Chelsea. "Grant?!"
He opened his eyes to the sudden burst of emotion, only to close them again.
"What do you want me to do?" he sighed. "What do you expect from me?"
"I expect you to save her. I expect you to protect us."
"How do I do that?! Do I find her medication? Really, tell me what to do, because I am not the man you need. I don't know how to save her! I don't know if I can!"
"Try! You are her father, try!"
"Fine." he paced nervously around the cellar. "Bobby?!"
"Yeah," Bobby replied from the Restaurant.
"Get Chelsea's father, and come down here." Grant said. A minute and a half passed. Mr. Hart came down the steps first, Bobby followed.
"What is it, Grant?" Mr. Hart stepped eye level with him, bending his brows into a short lived cringe.
"Kali is sick."
Mr. Hart's eyes widened, as if they were put up to a magnifying glass.
"With what?"
"I don't know." His reply was shameful. Mr. Hart walked over to Chelsea, got down on one knee, rubbing his finger against Kali's cheek. He inspected his granddaughter with care and affection. When he was done, he nearly cried, realizing how close she was to death.
"What?" Grant whispered.
"She is burning up. Her body is shivering, but her skin is hot."
"What can I do?!" screamed Grant, nearly tearing skin from his skull as he grabbed hold of his unkempt, matted mess of hair, and pulled. Spit dripped from his mouth, and soaked into his thickened five o' clock shadow. "How can I save her?"
"She's only three months," said Chelsea. "She didn't get her shots."
"She's dehydrated," answered Mr. Hart. "She needs an IV bag of saline solution. We need to get her hydrated again,"
Grant pondered the possibility of losing his only daughter, only to feel numb.
"How long does she have?" asked Grant despondently.
"I don't know." answered Mr. Hart with a cracking voice. "You better hurry!" Grant ran up the steps with only a hopeless will. He didn't look back or contemplate. Instead, he ran from behind the counter, jumped through the window, and opened the driver's side door of the idling red truck. Without even knowing he was behind him, Bobby jumped into the passenger seat. Both had hold of their guns. Grant put the truck into drive, and sped out of town. The hospital sat two miles away on the right.
"She'll be okay." Bobby said, trying to be a comfort.
"You don't know." replied Grant, barely audible within his sighs. The truck sped down the road, and soon had traveled two miles. Grant glanced right, seeing a parking lot with a few vehicles parked beneath dim streetlights. The hospital seemed large. It seemed insurmountable, even though the building was only two stories tall. Grant stared with a quiet presence.
Bobby rearranged his position in the seat, stared out the window, and glanced back at Grant. He saw what Grant didn't: a gray SUV? Grant's mom's SUV. The Insane were not a threat at that moment. They didn't stand in front of the hospital door with frothing mouths, and beady eyes. In fact, the night was quiet, leaving room for Grant's worries to grow into something far more dangerous.
Both men were fighting their own battles. They were standing at the edge of sanity and staring down, seeing chaos. Grant pulled next to the streetlight closest to the front doors, and parked the truck.
"I need you to stay out here, Bobby." said Grant, loading his rifle.
"Why?"
"Because we're not gonna have time to run out to the truck, start it, and drive away. It will be easier if you stay."
"?" Bobby paused in preparation to argue his side, but decided to listen. "Alright, but what if they get you?"
"Then I die. It's inevitable really." Grant opened up the door, clicked on the flashlight taped to his gun, and got out of the truck. Without saying another word, he looked back, nodded his head, and walked toward the doors. Bobby turned the lights onto bright before shutting them off completely.
Grant walked for a few feet, and then began to run. The doors were soon in his reach. He grabbed hold of the handle, and pulled. With a screech it opened. The air was heavy and warm. It smelled of death. Grant shone his light ahead, seeing the elevators in the blood smeared corridor. In that moment, he remembered the last time he walked the halls of that hospital. He remembered the fear in his mother's eyes, the haste in her steps, and the pain in her voice. It was the day his father died, leaving him confused and indecisive: a boy scared of decisions.
His view was clouded. Kali Marie became a vague memory. She faded into the chasm of his mind, and got lost in his contemplation.
The sound of doors shutting, and screeching open broke the air. Grant looked around, and began to step toward the hall holding the elevators. There was an open lobby on his left. Chairs were thrown about, and bodies lay a scattered mess. Grant covered his nose, and began to jog forward. The doors shut louder, and opened with a higher shriek. Footsteps seemed to follow his own.
His skin grew goose bumps, and his heart beat faster and faster. Grant passed the elevators. There wasn't any sign of The Ins
ane. Growls didn't linger in the air, but sounds began to grow louder and louder. He ran through the corridor, and to the pharmacy, first passing the gift shop. Shelves were tipped over. Teddy bears were bloody.
Grant came up to the pharmacy counter. Pill bottles were unscrewed, and emptied. A fattened woman with gray skin and hair like bleached tumble weed lay behind the counter, dead in her own blood. She was covered in maggots, with chunks of her gone.
Suddenly, the loud pounding sound of doors opening and closing, and the pitter patter of footsteps stopped. Warm vapor clouded around his head, and a growl came from behind. Slowly Grant turned, cocking his gun, and resting his finger over the trigger. They stood shrouded in the darkness. Their eyes shone like dark diamonds when caught in the flashlight's cast light. Grant pulled the trigger; it had no effect. The bullets didn't penetrate. The Insane didn't scream or cringe. They didn't lunge forward. They only stood with hunched spines, and elongated arms.
Grant fired again, backing away from the pharmacy counter, nearly tripping over the scattered souvenirs on the ground.
"Why aren't they dying?" he asked himself, backing up while keeping them in his sights. There were five of them. Each one stood a foot and half taller than Grant. They glared down at him, and smiled. They were different from the others.
"Mrk Frong Dore. Cos Legk Nith. Codor Sie Fore." Slowly, they stepped forward, speaking guttural.
The lights began to turn on. Grant looked around. The doors all shut at the same time, and then opened together. His heart beat faster and faster. Grant began to run. He looked back; they stood tall and dragged forward like sloths.
Grant continued to run, entering the waiting room, and breaking through the steel doors. Visions of his past began to flash before him. He felt his mother hold his hand. He heard his father speak softly. But, it all felt like a dream. It all felt like a mockery of his past and the pain it held.
He looked back. The five creatures weren't standing in the hall, or dragging forward. Grant blinked his eyes to realize that they had never been there to begin with. And as quickly as they turned on, the lights began to shut off. Had it all been in his head? Grant couldn't know for sure.
His goose bump skin softened. His mind cleared. And he finally felt the urgency. He didn't feel in danger, but he felt fear. Kali was dying, and it had finally been realized that every second that passed was one less he had to save her. His memories were obstacles in a maze he wasn't sure he even wanted to navigate.
She was dying?
Grant ran faster than he ever had, passing the examination rooms, arriving at the stairs, and sprinting up them. Nostalgic nausea hit him. It was the hallway he had walked down, being pulled by his mother on that cold, rainy August night.
Desperately, he fought the paralyzing memories, and treaded forward. He passed the room his father died in, and burst through a door labeled ONCOLOGY WARD. The room was large. The floor was white tiles peppered in gray, and the beds held the deceased. They were not eaten. Five people lay in separate beds: two women, three men.
Grant squinted his eyes, and walked over to a woman in the second bed. Her hair was hard and matted, her green eyes were clouded, and her cheeks were sunk into her face. It was his mother. She hadn't died chewing on human flesh; she had been good. Grant smiled, blinked a tear, and kissed her head. She didn't smell rotten. She seemed freshly deceased.
"I'm sorry." he said. "Forgive me." Grant walked away from her bed, and over to an empty one holding a small box with pills, bags of saline, bullets, and a photo. Grant grabbed hold of the box, and picked up the picture: Hannah, Grant, and his mom sat together. They looked happy.