“Well, I tell you what—you let us know when you find a way out,” the black man said.
“What’s your name?” Ben asked.
“Me? Name’s Ross. This is my son. Landry.” He put his hand on Landry’s neck and gave it an affectionate squeeze.
“Well, Ross. I’m Ben. Sitting across from me, in that cage over there, is Josh.” Ben nodded to the cage farthest from him, to the right of the staircase. “That’s Victoria and her daughters Emily and Brittany.” He looked at the cage to his right. There was an old man sitting there with long silver hair and a cowboy hat. He reeked of smoked tobacco. Ben looked to the woman and her twenty-year old son. “I think we should go around the room and introduce ourselves.”
“What’s the point, man?” a middle-aged man rudely inquired. He was in the same kennel as Ross and his son.
“Because. If we’re going to get out of this thing, we are going to have to work together. And that means we have to trust to each other. The only—”
“There’s no getting out of this,” the bespectacled man interrupted. “I’ve been here for almost two and a half weeks. Two and a half weeks. Do you know what they do to the people they bring here? They take them, in small groups, and they never return. It’s been going on ever since I woke up here.”
“Two weeks ago?” Josh asked. “You mean… you don’t know what it’s like up there, do you?”
“I tried to tell Jason here about the zombies,” Ross said. “But he won’t listen.”
“Can you believe this fucking guy?” Jason asked. “Keeps going on about fucking zombies.”
“It’s true,” Ben said.
“I’ve seen them too,” the woman with the twenty-year old said. “I’m Tabby by the way. This is my son, Anthony. He’s mute, so he won’t be saying very much I’m afraid.” Anthony shot his mother a disdainful look, rolling his eyes, clearly embarrassed. She shrugged her shoulders, continued running her fingers through his hair. Anthony tilted his head down, staring at the floor. “The zombies are real,” she added, then peered at Jason, who shook his head disbelievingly.
“Yeah, yeah. You fucking people are crazy, you know that?” Jason chuckled somewhat madly. “There’s only one way out of his place, man. And that’s if those redneck motherfuckers drag you out.”
“Well, we better find another one.” Ben looked around the room, surveying their worried faces. They wore looks of despair. “Because what’s headed our way… is a lot worse than what those apes upstairs have planned for us…”
CHAPTER TWO
TWO DAYS AGO…
It had been over a week since Ben Ackerman felt alive. The past few days consisted of ambling back and forth between the couch and his bed. He was still unable to keep a meal down, which led to many trips to the bathroom. Salty crackers seemed to be the only food his stomach didn’t reject. The beginnings of a beard started to bother him. He hoped to find the strength to erase it soon.
Ben found himself in front of the bedroom mirror, appearing too thin. Much too thin. The emaciated reflection of himself was barely recognizable. The bathroom scale informed him that he had lost over twenty pounds since he got sick. Jesus. The number was alarming considering he was under his average weight before he started his saltine-only diet.
Despite his frail frame, Ben felt much better. He had an appetite, which relieved him greatly. The thought of eggs and sausage made his mouth water and his stomach growl.
After he ate, Ben decided to retrieve his mail. He wondered how large the collection had grown over the past week and how many bills awaited his arrival. Since the sickness hit him full force, this was first time he stepped foot outside. Slowly, Ben trudged toward the mailbox, shielding his eyes from blinding sunlight. Although he felt better, his muscles remained stiff from inactivity. Ben’s eyes were still acclimated to the dim indoor lighting, burning with intensity when sunlight hit them. It would be a few more days before he felt one-hundred percent again, however, he was thankful to be on his feet. Ben had never been a sit-around-the-house kind of guy. If his free time wasn’t spent grading papers or editing stories for the local newspaper, he was doing yard work or fixing up the old Mustang, which currently took up most of the room in his garage. That and hundreds of tools forced Ben to park his blue Sonata in the driveway.
Ben grabbed the pile of mail from the mailbox, flipped through the envelopes lazily. Electric bill. Water bill. Lawyer bill. Doctor bill. Oh, a Chowmart Ad. Nothing interesting, nothing that required immediate attention. He wedged the envelopes under his arm, journeying back toward the house. His legs ached like he had ran a marathon. The flu had gotten the best of him, hit him real hard. He couldn’t remember the last time he was that ill. Doctor Dillon had called in a prescription to help, but really the only thing to do was rest and wait it out. “You’ll start feeling better in about week,” he had told Ben over the phone. And sure enough, today, he felt much better.
As Ben dragged himself across the front porch, he noticed suburban life around him was fairly quiet, which seemed odd for summertime. The street was eerily grim, void of the everyday outdoor functions. It was like everyone had up and left. Maybe they’re all on vacation, Ben thought. Or at the beach. It was, after all, the first week of summer vacation, the first week the kids had off from school. People were most likely out and about, doing things that involved cool water and catching sun-rays. Especially since Red River was only a five-mile hike from the shore. The beach was probably packed, every grain of sand occupied. Although Ben hated trips to the beach since childhood, even he admitted today was the perfect day for sand and sun.
But…
Surely there should be someone outside; the kids from down the block riding their bikes; Mr. Weathers from across the street letting his dog out to shit on the sidewalk; the always scantily-clad Miss Andrews watering her plants while all the men on the block watched from their garages as their wives writhed their noses at her from their living room windows; the elderly Philip Morrow trimming his hedges symmetrically even though they were already immaculate.
Someone. Something. Anyone.
As strange as it was to see no one, Ben didn’t dwell on it for very long. Instead, he went inside and plopped himself on the couch, drained from his mailbox excursion.
Ben knew he had to call Melissa. She wasn’t his favorite person to talk to, and he knew she wasn’t going to have anything pleasant to say, but he had to do it. It was a phone call he dreaded, yet enjoyed at the same time. He missed her voice, her nice voice, not the screaming, psychotic voice she so frequently displayed when they were together. Every time he picked up the phone to call her, his thoughts wandered into memories of her, both joyful and painful. They had been married for ten years. They had good times and they had bad times. Ultimately, the bad outweighed the good, something he kept reminding himself of, especially when he was alone with his thoughts, missing the sound of her nice voice.
Ten years, he thought. What the hell was I thinking? Really, they shouldn’t have stayed together that long. They only tried to work things out for one reason, and that was Jake.
Jake was eight when his parents split. Like most kids when words like separation and divorce are brought to the dinner table, Jake blamed himself. He cried and moaned about it for days, telling everyone, teachers and classmates included, that his parents hated him and their main goal in life was to ruin his. He acted out in class, on the bus, and at home. Sometimes violently, but mostly Jake verbally disrupted daily routines, using words children his age shouldn’t. Before Ben started sleeping on his colleagues’ couches, Jake had been a real treasure. He always received fantastic grades and his teachers had nothing but positive things to say about him, especially when it came to manners. “A polite little boy,” a teacher once said. “A real joy to be around.”