The Dead Saga (Novella Part 2): Odium Origins Read online

  “This isn’t good,” Dean says.

  I look at him. “Why? What do you mean, it’s not good?” I look around us and thankfully don’t see anything or anyone else.

  “Because if Gramps was in there he would be out here pointing a twelve-gauge at us by now,” Dean says.

  “Well surely that’s a good thing. That he’s not trying to blow off our heads.”

  Dean shakes his head and looks down at his shoes. “Nope, that was how he always greeted visitors. The fact that he isn’t out here doing that very thing means he’s dead.”

  Four.

  I look at the front porch and then to Dean, feeling guilty for some strange reason. I shouldn’t—I mean, this has nothing to do with me—but I do all the same.

  “Should we go in there?” I say, looking back the way we just came in case any of those—people just followed us.

  Dean shakes his head again and shrugs. “I guess, but I don’t really want to.”

  I nod. “Oh.” My mouth is dry—arid, really—the taste of stale vomit lingering in the back of my throat. “Do you have any water in your car?” I ask quietly. Feeling guilty again. This time for cutting into the silence and his grief.

  Dean huffs—not an impatient huff, more of a tired, disappointed huff. Like a man coming home from work and realizing that he still has yard work to do.

  “No, but we can get you something to drink inside.” He walks around to the car, leans in, and pulls out his baseball bat. Then he takes my hand in his and leads me up the front steps.

  I trail behind him, not really wanting to go inside but not wanting to stay out here, either. Nowhere seems safe right now. Not school, not the town hall—not even town itself. I think of Steph’s mom and have to stop to bend over and catch my breath. Dean looks back at me but doesn’t comment. His gray eyes watch my every move until I finally stand back up and nod that I’m okay to go.

  He lets go of my hand to open the door, looking back once at me with a finger to his lips. Satisfied that I’m going to be quiet, he turns the handle, letting the door open slowly. The stale stench of something wafts out to us and I grimace as we step inside. We stop on the threshold, listening for any signs of movements. Moments pass by, but silence is the only thing that greets us. I clear my throat as quietly as I can as the incessant burning in my throat continues. Dean glances back again and then drags me through the house and into a large maple wood kitchen.

  He grabs a glass that sits on the draining board and fills it at the sink before handing it to me. I take it from him and swallow it greedily, not even caring when the water splashes down my face. I swallow until the burning stops and it’s less painful and more annoying. I look up at him with a huge smile, feeling insanely grateful. He leans back against the sink, the window behind him giving a great view of the yard and fields surrounding.

  “Thank you.” I lick my lips and smile again, my thirst finally feeling quenched.

  We look at each other, getting lost in each other’s confused expressions before a slow smile creeps up Dean’s face, and he blushes and looks away. I hadn’t meant the moment to become so intimate, yet it felt that way.

  “So, what now?” I ask.

  He looks back at me. “We clear this place, make it secure, and hunker down until everything sorts itself out. I guess.” He shrugs like it’s the most normal thing in the world and I nod in agreement, feeling surprisingly calm. My smile falters and then slips away completely as I stare behind Dean. He must sense that something isn’t right, because he turns to look out of the window and curses. His shoulders slump as he grips the edge of the sink.

  A man? God, can I even call it that? Because this thing is so far removed from being a man anymore. It walks slowly, its arms hanging limply by its sides, its shirt torn open wide, flapping in the slight breeze, and showing the world the wound that should be hidden underneath. The man-thing is missing half its hair and missing a part of its cheek, as if the hair was ripped from his scalp pulling away flesh and tissue as well as graying hair.

  “Grandpa,” Dean mutters.

  I place a hand on his shoulder and squeeze. “I’m so sorry.”

  Dean turns, wrapping his arms around my body and holding me tightly. I let him lean into me, his body melding to mine, and though it’s uncomfortable, I let him. Because I can’t imagine the horror of what he must be going through right now. Seeing a family member…like that must be the most horrifying thing ever. I pat his back, and slowly as I get more comfortable with his proximity I rub it gently, attempting to sooth him as I hush gently in his ear.

  He eventually relents and pulls out of our embrace, looking into my face with a deep-seated sadness. His hands stay on my arms, as if he’s afraid that I’ll leave him; but I won’t, of course. Where would I even go?

  “What now?” I ask again, a repeat of my earlier question. Because things have changed now. We won’t be safe with his decomposing grandpa stumbling around the property, but how do you suggest to someone they put their family member out of their misery?

  Dean looks away from me, his hands still wrapped around my forearm. He breathes out a heavy breath. “I’ll take care of it.” He watches me to see if I’m happy about his decision. “I’ll take care of him,” he says to clarify, but he didn’t need to. I knew what he meant.

  “Okay,” is all I can squeeze out of my too-tight throat.

  He reaches for his baseball bat from the counter and leaves the kitchen without another word. I stare out the window, trying to see if there are any more of those…things, but I can’t see any. It all seems too peaceful and ideal with him out of the show, and I find myself humming as I pour myself another glass of water.

  Minutes pass, and as I begin to worry I hear the telltale thud of something—most likely Dean’s bat hitting his grandpa’s skull. I wince as I hear the sound again and again, and just when I think I can’t bear it anymore it stops. I lean over the sink panting as my mouth fills with water and the urge to puke again is almost unbearable. A hand touches my shoulder and I let out a small squeal and flinch.

  “It’s okay.” Dean’s voice is deep and dark as he whispers, his words vibrating against my neck. I don’t even feel any guilt when tears leak from my eyes. It was his grandpa, not mine, yet I’m the one crying. God, what is wrong with me?

  I turn around, coming face to face with Dean. He’s closer than I expected him to be. His arms are on either side of me, and he looks down into my face. His eyes flit to my lips and then back to my eyes, and I can sense his urge to kiss me. I clear my throat, place a hand on his chest, and push him back gently, putting some distance between us.

  “Are you okay?” I ask, clearing my throat again.

  He leans back on the opposite counter, resting on one elbow. “Yeah. Put him out of his misery.” He shrugs like it’s nothing.

  “What’s going on, Dean? I was sitting in my literature class just over two hours ago, and now my classmates are dead and the world is full of zombies. I don’t understand any of this.” I drag a hand down my face and bite the inside of my cheek, wincing at the cut I had made from my earlier gnawing.

  Dean takes a deep breath before talking. “I told you, it’s the apocalypse.”

  “But what does that mean?”

  “It means that everything you’ve known up to this point is over. Life will never be the same again.” He stuffs his hands into his front pockets and looks me head-on. “It’s just you and me against the world now, but I told you—I’ll protect you, you don’t need to worry.” He smiles shyly, but it does nothing to calm me down.

  “Dean, it’s not about keeping me safe, this,” I gesture around us, meaning not just the unfamiliar house that I’ve found myself in but the world, “is crazy! The whole world has gone freaking crazy. What about my family and my friends? Are they all dead? Oh my God, this can’t be happening.”

  Dean walks toward me, placing his hands on my biceps and looks down into my face. “It’s going to be okay.”

  “Is it?” I s
ay, my voice almost a screech.

  He pulls me against his chest and I wrap my arms around his middle, holding him close while I cry. “This is just, I don’t even…” I can’t form a cohesive thought as I cry. “Steph is still at school.” I pull back from him and he reluctantly lets me go. “Her and Amy were hiding out in the bathroom, they said it was probably just a fire drill.”

  “So?” Dean frowns.

  “So? They could be alive, they could need our help!” I push away from him, wiping away the tears and snot with my sleeve. “We need to go get them.”

  “We can’t go back out there, Anne. That’s suicide.” Dean says it so matter-of-factly, like it’s the most absurd thing to even think about going.

  “I need to see if my parents are okay, Dean. You understand that, right? I mean, they could be okay. We don’t know that everyone is dead.” I drag my hand down my face again, undoubtedly smearing my mascara, but I don’t care, for once I just don’t care. “What about your parents?”

  Dean snorts out his contempt. “I don’t know, and I don’t care.”

  I don’t ask any questions; it’s his life, his drama. Right now I have enough of my own.

  “Why do you even care about yours? They never give a shit over you,” he says while pacing the kitchen, anxiety rolling off him in waves.

  “How do you know that? You don’t know anything about me,” I spit out, feeling more annoyed by the second. So what if he’s right, that I know I’m more of a hindrance to my parents than anything else? That most nights I eat alone, and we barely speak to one another anymore. So what that if I’ve been looking forward to leaving home for as far back as I can remember? So the hell what? I stare at Dean, all my anger and annoyance pouring into the glower.

  “It’s obvious, Anne. You think people don’t see you, that people don’t care, but we do—I do.” He points to himself and continues. “I see how your parents never come to any school meetings or shows, how you’re always alone, how most of the time when anyone walks by with their parents you look away, like you can’t bear to see anyone else’s happy family. And I’m telling you that I get it, I’m in the same boat.” It’s his turn to sound dramatic and high-pitched now. He continues to pace the kitchen, his arms flailing around him. He stops and looks at me, his anger quickly leaving him when he sees the effect his words have on me. “I just want you to know that I see you, I’m here for you, and we’re going to be okay.” His voice cracks on his words, and that’s all it takes to make my tears spill down my cheeks again.

  He comes toward me quickly, wrapping his arms around my body and pressing my face back into his chest like we had been not five minutes before. He’s right, I know he’s right, yet I just can’t seem to let go of them—my parents. The sad part is, I know that if they were somewhere safe, they wouldn’t put themselves at risk to come. They’d just see me as an expendable loss.

  I sob louder and make a decision, one that will probably haunt me for the rest of my life—however short or long that may be right now. I pull out of the embrace and look up into his face, seeing not just the annoying, gangly kid that I’ve grown up with, but someone who is being the man in this terrible situation and who is clearly going to do whatever it takes to keep me safe. I can’t turn down that gift, that friendship. I need him way more than he needs me.

  I take a shuddering breath. “Okay, so we stay here. Clear the house, do what we can to keep safe until everything…blows over?”

  He looks at me firmly and nods. “That’s my girl.”

  I don’t know when I became his girl, but I don’t have the emotional ability to argue with him right now. Instead I give him a small smile.

  “Okay, so, what do we do first?” I ask.

  “Grandpa had a storm shelter. I suggest we check that out, see how safe it is, and what provisions he has. Then I guess we need to gather weapons, water, and food, in that order.” Dean scrubs at his chin, scratching at the small amount of hair he has growing there. “Do you want to stay here while I go check everything out?”

  I shake my head frantically. “Hell no, I’m coming with you.”

  He smiles and takes my hand and leads me out of the kitchen and down the hall. At the end of the hallway is a wooden door. It looks like a cloakroom of some kind, but when he opens the door another door is in there. This one looks to be a sturdy metal, with several locks on the outside.

  “Shit,” Dean mumbles.

  I look at him quizzically.

  “Grandpa probably has the keys on him. Crazy old coot never trusted nobody.”

  I grimace, knowing how hard this is going to be on him—having to rifle through his dead grandpa’s pockets. The same grandpa that he just beat to death with a baseball bat.

  “Do you want me to do it?” I ask, hoping that he doesn’t agree to this, but knowing that I should at least offer. After all, he’s done so much for me.

  “Do what?”

  “Look through his pockets for the keys.”

  Dean barks out a laugh. “Let a girl help? No, I can handle this.” He pats me on the shoulder condescendingly. “I’ll be right back.” He turns on his heel and leaves through the front door.

  I’m too stunned by his sexist attitude to say anything until after he’s gone. “Stupid high school boys!” I yell after him and stamp my foot, and I swear I hear him laugh.

  A bang from upstairs makes me jump, but thankfully I refrain from screaming and living up to Dean’s obviously low standard of women in scary situations. I grab an umbrella from the coat stand—one with a sharp silver point on the end—and creep up the stairs. My steps are almost silent, and if my heart weren’t ready to beat out of my chest I’d be pretty impressed by my stealth skills. But the situation as it is means that I actually feel like vomiting in fear as I hear the noise again. Like a dull thud and scrape sound. I shudder as my imagination runs wild. But I have to do this. I have to prove to that asshole that I can handle myself, that I’m not a total girl in these situations.

  I reach the top of the stairs and come to several closed doors. I stop and listen, waiting to hear the noise again, and when I hear it I continue quietly until I’m standing outside one of the closed doors—one which I assume is the bedroom, but of course can’t be certain.

  I grip the umbrella tighter and take a deep breath as I open it.

  Five.

  The door opens quietly, no horror movie creak or anything jumping out on me, but that doesn’t stop me from wanting to pee myself. I peer around the room and hear movement from the small bathroom in the corner.

  I let out my breath slowly and slide myself along the wall until I reach the doorway, keeping my umbrella/badass-zombie-killing-weapon as close to my chest as possible and ready to be wielded at a moment’s notice. I peer around the doorway and see someone moving by the window. A man, boy, I’m not sure, but from the back they seem male. There’s blood on the floor and across their back, and I know it must be one of the monsters from earlier.

  I bit down on the inside of my cheek, raise my deadly weapon up, and charge into the room with all intent of slamming it through the back of this monster’s skull. At the last possible moment he turns and stares at me with wide eyes and lets out a scream—a scream! —which in turn makes me scream. I hear pounding coming up the stairs and Dean charges into the room with his baseball bat raised, while me and whoever the heck this other guy is stand there screaming at each other.

  “Malcolm?” Dean yells above the noise we’re making.

  The guy I presume to be Malcolm stops screaming, and so do I. His mouth turns up into a handsome smile. “Dean? You’re okay?”

  The two guys charge each other, wrapping their arms around one another in a manly embrace and leave me feeling stupid and with a very sore throat. They eventually pull out of the embrace to look at me.

  “What’s this chick’s problem? She tried to beat me with an umbrella.” Malcolm laughs, but he holds a hand out to show his friendliness. “I’m Malcolm, Dean’s older cousin.”
r />   I take it with a scowl.

  “I’m—”

  “This is Anne,” Dean interrupts, putting an arm across my shoulder defensively. “And you’re barely older than me, smart-ass.”

  “Oh, sorry, bro.” Malcolm smiles at me and then Dean, and Dean pulls me closer to his side. “So, did you see Grandpa yet?” Malcolm says more seriously, and I don’t even have time to correct either boy and let them know that I’m not with Dean.

  I pull away from Dean, keeping my umbrella clutched to my chest, and scowl at him. “Did you get the keys?” I ask.

  “Yeah, I saw Grandpa. I took care of him.” He turns to look at me. “And yeah, I got the keys.”

  Malcolm rubs the hair on his chin as he talks. He has a definite bad boy persona coming from him, and I wonder why I’ve never seen him in school before. I let my gaze travel over him, mentally comparing both him and Dean, and then flush in embarrassment that I’m even looking at Malcolm in that way. The world just ended and I’m eyeing up potential boyfriend material. I am such a slut—or that’s what Steph would have said.

  “The old bastard tried to eat me.” Malcolm laughs and pulls out some cigarettes. “I came to check that he was okay, what with all the crazy going on, and he chased me around the damn house. I had to kick the dog out into the yard to give him something to chase instead of me.” He laughs, but I can see it’s just an act.

  “Trixie?” Dean asks with sadness tingeing his voice.

  “Yeah, I think she got away but I was too busy trying to find where he kept his guns to watch for too long. Stupid thing kept yapping at the back door to be let back in, but I haven’t seen her for some time now.” He lights his cigarette and takes a drag. “Aaah, well, at least we can get the hell out of here now, right?”

  Dean takes my hand and leads me down the stairs, and Malcolm follows closely behind. When I look back Malcolm is watching me with a smile that I reciprocate. We stop in front of the metal door and Dean relents my hand so that he can unlock it and let us all inside. He reaches back to take my hand in his once he finds the light switch but I pretend that I don’t see it and push past him into the room. I don’t want to keep giving him mixed messages, or Malcolm.