Hollow Men Page 4

  Hollow Men…

  During the first wave of eatings, I’d come over one day with interior shutters. Big, thick, wooden shutters that locked overtop her regular windows. I’d spent the day installing them. But it had been for my peace of mind more than hers. She was eighty and frail, and the thought of me being safe while she was ripped to shreds or robbed and beaten by roving humans was too much. My dad—the memory of him that lived in my head and my heart—wouldn’t allow it.

  “Glad to hear you used them.” I tried to keep my voice calm. “Did anything happen?”

  She nodded, taking a butter mint from the bowl always on her living room table. She offered me one and as usual; I waved it off. “They actually attacked each other. By the mailbox.” She pointed.

  I went over and tried to see. All I could see was the mailbox. Nothing else. “It’s clear now.”

  “There were about six of them,” she said.

  That unnerved me, but I made sure not to let her know. A half dozen hollow traveling in a pack…that was new.

  “And then all of a sudden four turned on two, and they…” She picked up Belvedere and nuzzled him. “The four ate the two.”

  My stomach rolled over, and I was thankful I hadn’t eaten. Especially given that from where I was…there was no sign of the felled two.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Oh, I’m fine!”

  “We need to think about…should we need to go. There was a man in the neighborhood…”

  She nodded, “Oh I know. He was on my porch. I had to keep Belvedere from barking.”

  “Good work,” I sighed. “But you need to be ready to leave if need be. If I need to cut out Mrs. Delaney, I want you to come with me.”

  She shook her head, and I wanted to groan. But then: “My son called last night,” she said. “He’s on his way to come get me. He finally got a vehicle he felt was good. I’ll be moving up north where he is. Big group of people near a military installment. Lots of security.” She grinned at me and a flood of relief coursed through me.

  Thank god.

  “When?” I asked.

  “Later today!” She waved a hand at some bags I hadn’t noticed and a stack of small boxes. “He said I can’t take much. Do you think that’s okay?”

  I smiled. “Looks reasonable.”

  “I have some photo albums and some mementos, but I tried to be reasonable.”

  “Good for you.” I stood, realizing I’d been inside for a bit. Time to get moving and get over to Mrs. Riggs. “Do you want to bring your stuff over to my house and wait there? Since we’ve see…them and strangers in the area?”

  “You’re so good to me, Eleanor,” she sighed. “But I still have stuff to do. Now come give me a hug. You’ve taken such good care of me until now. I at least get to hug you.”

  I let her hug me. And I hugged her back. Belvedere took this as an invitation to lick my face. “You have doggie breath,” I told him. So he licked me again.

  Chapter Five

  I stood on her porch for a good five heartbeats. Nothing was moving. Not in the street or around the neighboring houses. I knew for a fact the three homes directly across from ours were deserted. The inhabitants had moved out long ago. The houses had been occupied by travelers off and on since then but no monkey business. I was happy there’d been no fires or vandalism. Some neighborhoods had been gutted and burned by the living.

  It made me believe even more what my father used to tell me. “The only monsters you need to worry about, really, are the human kind.”

  I sighed and took off toward Mrs. Riggs’ house. As I jogged past my own porch, I waved toward my house because I knew he was watching me. I gave him a little smile, getting a bit cheeky, just to show I was really okay. Then I took Mrs. Riggs steps two at a time. I rang her bell and then knocked three times as usual. I waited.

  I heard something far off, but couldn’t tell if it was a vehicle or a person or even a bird or animal. It was still too distant to distinguish.

  No movement from inside Mrs. Riggs home. She’d been a widow for seven years now and was still fully in mourning. Mr. Riggs has been a Marine, and the Semper Fi sticker on the front door always made me wonder how a woman married to such a staunch and well-trained man could have almost zero self-preservation skills. Mr. Riggs had taken such good care of her, he’d never taught her to take care of herself. Or…she’d refused to learn assuming her husband would always be around.

  I rang the bell twice and knocked harder. Hoping she wasn’t hearing me because she was deep in the house or maybe in the bathroom. When I pressed my face close to the window of her front door trying to get a peek inside, it swung open from the light pressure. Occasionally, Mrs. Riggs would forget to lock it. I’d arrived more than once to find it simply pushed shut. It made my blood run cold that she forgot.

  The blood in my body seemed to drop to my feet. My face felt cold. I examined the bolt and the jamb. No signs of breaking and entering. I’d begged her to let me install a storm door to add an extra layer of protection. I’d begged her to let me put iron bars on the inside of the door. It was half glass, half wood, and the glass was way too big for my liking.

  She’d turned me down, assuring me it was steel reinforced and the glass was triple thick and shatter proof. Mr. Riggs had made sure of it long before anyone had tossed around the words Hollow Men.

  “Mrs. Riggs?” I tried to project my voice, but it came out in a whisper. I was scared. For her. And it was audible when I spoke.

  I glanced toward my home, wondering if Evan could see me from this distance. See me well enough to read my worried expression, anyway. Highly doubtful.

  I put my head down and willed my feet to move. I heard another of those strange almost loon-like cries. It sounded closer, and it made my trepidation that much worse.

  “Mrs. Riggs?” I called again. I put my finger on the trigger of the flare gun and stepped inside. Glancing behind the front door, I pushed it shut. I considered locking it to ensure no one came inside behind me. But then again, if someone was in here besides Mrs. Riggs I was blocking a speedy escape.

  I left it unlocked.

  The dining room to my left looked fine. The living room, too. It looked lived in, but fine. An afghan was puddled on the sofa with a book as if she’d been curled up reading. The two small front windows were locked and unbroken. The TV was actually on, but the sound turned down. The Riggs’ home was the only one I knew in the neighborhood that had one of the super old-fashioned console television. It was as big as a chest of drawers, and, like my great aunt Rita’s set when I was growing up, the Riggs had an eagle atop the set.

  “Mrs. Riggs?” I wasn’t fooling anyone let alone myself. My voice was just a whisper. She wasn’t here or she was dead. No doubt about it.

  I moved back to the kitchen and found the back door busted in. She had a cat named Winston, and he was curled under the radiator. He hissed at me when I came in despite the fact he often curled in my lap when I visited.

  “What’s up, Win?” I asked softly. I knew what was up. He was spooked.

  I left him where he was so as not to scare him more. I shoved the ruined door shut and found nothing behind it. No blood. Just the messed up wood and some stuff on the floor that shouldn’t have been there. Salt and pepper shakers, napkin holder, placemats, all swept off the small kitchen table.

  My blood felt too cold to be in my veins. I followed the trail of scattered items to the basement door. It was shut, but that didn’t mean anything. I remembered Mrs. Riggs complaining it wasn’t hung properly and would close itself. Winston had gotten shut down there many times by accident.

  I clutched at the flare gun, wondering if I was a moron. Wondering if I should have brought my shotgun. My eyes darted to the butcher’s block and the set of knives that sat atop it. I took three big, quiet steps and slid the butcher’s knife free of the sheath. I slid it through my belt so that it hung down the small of my back outside my jeans. Still—it was worrisome, having it hang
there.

  “Please, baby Jesus, don’t let me fall down the steps and impale myself.” I headed slowly to the basement door. “Amen.”

  Unfortunately, Mrs. Riggs had the kind of basement with open-backed steps. The kind of steps that would have made you run for the upstairs when you were a kid because you just knew something would reach through the risers and grab your ankle. Something would drag you back down to its lair.

  “That’s helping, Eleanor,” I growled at myself.

  At the bottom of the steps sat a house slipper. I was grateful today hadn’t brought any power outages so far. I put my back to the wall and flicked the switch. Three bare light bulbs sprang to life illuminating the overhead beams of the basement. A few feet farther along was another house slipper. By the washing machine was a man crouched over Mrs. Riggs.

  I say man, I mean monster.

  No one had quite pinpointed what gene was affected by the disease. They weren’t working on it, either. For now, folks lived on meat substitutes, certain canned meats that did not contain beef, certain seafood that appeared safe, and generally got their protein elsewhere. Our food had gone from federally regulated to trial and error. Old-school farming was back in business, but only the rich could afford the meat they were producing. Animals that have been treated properly, not given anything questionable, and killed properly are not cheap.

  I eat a lot of nuts. A lot of nuts.

  But this unwelcome visitor wasn’t interested in soy substitutes or yet another can of tuna fish. He was having himself some meat in the form of my neighbor. My stomach rolled when I saw he was nearly done. There wasn’t much left to my elderly neighbor.

  Nothing but an animated eating machine, he would not speak to me if he saw me. He’d either shy from me—rare—or come for me—the more likely option.

  I backed up a step, seeing clearly Mrs. Riggs was beyond my help. Her chest did not rise and fall, her skin had already taken on a bluish cast. I retreated some more, thinking I’d just inch my way back upstairs.

  He hadn’t spotted me yet. I felt giddy realizing he was so intent. Then I kicked over a small broom propped at the base of the steps. And he heard me.

  He turned, eyes glazed with the pleasure of eating. My gut recoiled, triggering my gag reflex, once I saw his face smeared with gore. He was up and moving—a middle-aged man in khaki pants and a checkered shirt. He wore old work boots, and he smelled to high heaven. Most of them did. They lived to eat, not to groom.

  I backpedaled up the steps, getting the flare gun leveled at him. I glanced around and saw paint, paint thinner, roach spray. About a million things that were utterly combustible. If I fired the gun, I’d set he whole basement on fire. Which would set the house ablaze. Which in turn would draw a ton of hollows and unsavory characters alike to my neighborhood.

  All this went racing through my head as he came at me, and I tried to turn and run, but he was faster than expected. He snaked out a hand and grabbed me yanking me back down the stairs. If his mouth made contact, I was done for. They ate voraciously—vigorously—these infected.

  My mind went red with panic, not something that usually happens, and I reached blindly for the broom handle, thinking if he did get ahold of me and start eating, then fuck it, I’d use the flare gun.

  A determined but calm voice said, “Duck, Eleanor.”

  I did it without thought, my body knowing the voice even though my brain was confused. I cradled my head in my arms as best I could, getting as low and small as possible. The boom was deafening anyway, and I felt a wet, warm spatter rain down on me.

  The hand clutching me relaxed.

  “Come up here. Hurry. There are more on the street. Coming this way.”

  I glanced around once, assuring myself Mrs. Riggs was dead, and I wasn’t abandoning her. Her fingertips were the color of January ice—a bluish-gray, frosty hue. I ran.

  Evan seized me, pulled me in and pushed my hair back. The blood spatter didn’t bother him; he was looking for wounds. I had none.

  “I couldn’t—the flare gun—flammable stuff,” I finished stupidly.

  He kissed me once, his hands—that I noticed were shaking just a bit—framing my face. Then: “Let’s go. There’s a whole group of them moving down the street. If you listen, you can hear them crying.”

  I hated when I could hear them crying. It made my blood run cold. It was the loneliest sound I’d ever heard.

  * * * *

  We secured the house, and I pretended not to be as stunned as I felt. I inspected all the windows multiple times, tugging on the reinforcements until my arms ached. I double and then triple checked the back door. Then I moved through the upstairs to make sure it was secure. Everything was. I knew it was, but I couldn’t keep from making sure.

  The flock of hollows was moving slowly down my street. Straight down the center in the most ungodly parade I’d ever seen. The neighborhood, which had been so serene for so long, was suddenly getting a lot of foot traffic. Which meant the turmoil in the city was spreading out to the suburbs and rural areas, where it had been pretty much calm but for occasional activity.

  The city was a mess; I’d seen it on the news when they were actually able to broadcast. Given the circumstances, that was becoming rarer and rarer. When the hollows weren’t attacking, the strong-willed were. In these situations, there was always a group that needed to show its dominance. And there simply were not enough government and military workers to deal with the outbreak of illness and the outbreak of human hostility.

  The average person was expected to be alert at all times and watch out for themselves as if under attack. Because in some locations, you almost always were. Worse, in the places where the military happened to be, you’d best watch the noises you made. It was shoot first, ask questions later at this point.

  And who could blame those trigger-happy soldiers? Many people had been attacked and devoured by groups of hollows before a protocol was in place. Shoot only if met with aggression and clear symptoms of infection; whimpering, inability to speak, refusal to acknowledge orders.

  I yanked the window again, and Evan brought his hands down on my shoulders. “Take a breath. We’re secure.”

  I didn’t feel secure. What I felt was the spark of tears in my eyes, and it pissed me off. I recoiled from Evan even though I wasn’t upset with him. He’d saved my life after all.

  “I know.”

  “Then stop checking, Eleanor.” He took the hint and backed up a step but lightly touched my wrist.

  The unexpected happened. A flare of lust went off inside me, and I almost moaned. I bit my lip instead and shook my head. “Will you watch from up here? I think it’s the best vantage point. I want to…” I waved my blood speckled arms at him and sighed.

  He nodded. “Go shower. I’ll watch.”

  He positioned himself at the front window of the master bedroom. I went into the small, attached bathroom and climbed into the shower. The walls were painted a navy blue. A color my mother had loved. With the window boarded the way it was, the room had a fish tank feel, and I liked it. The water rained down hot on my skin, and I tilted my head back and shut my eyes. I felt a bit dizzy when I did that because my ears were still ringing from the shot. But I’d live. I had lived, and for that I was grateful.

  “Also that the power has remained on, and I have hot water,” I said. Every day I tried to remind myself to be grateful. For something. Even small things.

  “What’s that? Evan called.

  I laughed. “Nothing. I’m just talking to myself.”

  “Just don’t answer yourself,” he said from the doorway. I could hear he was smiling, and it made me smile. I poked my head out, but he’d already returned to the window.

  The shower was short and sweet. With the activity on the street, I didn’t allow myself to linger. I toweled off slowly, though, listening for any haunting sounds. At the moment, I heard none.

  I watched him. He was leaning casually against the windowsill, shotgun within easy reach,
watching. Waiting.

  Protecting.

  It had been a long time since I’d felt protected by another person. Not since my dad. I hated how much it soothed me to feel someone was looking out for me. For some reason, it felt as if it were failure.

  “Take a picture, it lasts longer,” he said, not turning to face me.

  I snorted, wrapped the towel around my body. I needed new clothes. “You still saying that? What is it, 1987?”

  He grinned but didn’t look at me. “Maybe. In my head. But I wouldn’t have been saying that anyway, smart ass, because I was just born.” Finally, he looked my way. “And so were you.”

  “Okay, true. But tres eighties, right?” I moved to the chest of drawers. I had taken over the master bedroom when I wasn’t sleeping in the basement to feel secure. I sorted through clean clothes to find my favorite jeans, a Doctor Who tee that had originally been my dad’s and some wool socks. It was cold as balls upstairs.

  I stood there and just watched him some more. The gray daylight washed over him and accented high cheekbones, a strong chin, the chocolate color of his hair. Tossing the clothes on the bed, I moved closer. “Anything?”

  Adrenaline and anxiety had been ricocheting around inside of me for hours. I felt wired, as if I’d been zapped by lightning. The hardwood floor was freezing beneath my feet. The wind howled outside as if mimicking the hollows.

  “Not right now. They scattered a few minutes ago. I can still hear them, off and on, but not see them. Everything right here seems to be quiet.”

  “It has me spooked,” I whispered, moving up close behind him.

  “I know. But those seemed transient. I think we can relax.” He smiled at me. His eyes roved over my bare shoulders to my cleavage and down my towel. “At least for a while. It’s fine.” He forced his eyes away. I could tell he didn’t want to which made me happy.

  I touched his arm. Soft. Gentle. A stroke of my fingertip. “Thanks.”