The Book of Kris

Kris realized that Mac was speaking with great excitement. “What?”

“I knew you weren’t paying attention!” Mac pushed her playfully.

“Oh, fuck off,” Kris gave Mac the finger and flashed a large, elvish smile. “But seriously, what did you say?”

“I said that if we’re lucky, we’ll get to kick some ass today. I’ve been really bored.”

“I like it that way,” Kris replied, “Less chance for us to screw up and get ourselves killed.”

“Speak for yourself. You must mean get yourself killed; I’m not planning on dying anytime soon. It’s been what…two weeks since we’ve killed some zombie bitches?”

“We can talk time lines later, Mac. Let’s see what the hell that was. It came from the south.” Kris was the first out of the door. The air was heavy and thick with the humidity approaching 100%, but neither of them were foolish enough to hope for rain. It was only 10am, but Kris was sure that the temperature had already topped 95 degrees.

Two sets of boots took off down the long front stairs, and each step creaked slightly under their weight. This house was one of the oldest beach houses in the town. It had a large, iconic wrap-around porch with a hammock and deck chairs. It was enveloped with sun bleached siding, black louvered blinds and an over-sized, ocean facing bay window. This house was what everyone thought about when they said the words “beach house.”

There were tall beach-grasses and short, stubby cacti lining the driveway. The once tamed grass that covered the lawn had turned long and patchy. Kris saw that smooth white stones littered the now over-grown flowerbeds. Judging by the interior of the home, the previous owners would not have approved of an unkempt lawn. The owners were long gone now and Kris had a good feeling that the last thing they worried about was the status of their lawn. That familiar, unbidden narrator’s voice came to her like it always did. To remedy the brown grass problem, start over from the beginning. You can do this by going back to a starter fertilizer, one that contains higher concentrations of phosphorus and lower concentrations of nitrogen. Spread it evenly and follow the directions precisely, It said, And while you’re at it, Kris added with a smirk, make sure your fucking dogs don’t piss on my lawn.

Kris opened her senses, trying to listen to the air around her. It was still difficult to pick out individual sounds, especially above the crashing ocean. What she was specifically listening for were heartbeats. Her own heart rolled inside her ears like waves of thunder. Mac’s heartbeat was steady and true; it always was. Their hearts were like a familiar childhood song and Kris knew it well enough to sing it in her sleep. She stretched her senses farther out. In her mind, she imagined a dome of color flying through the sky and permeating everything around her. It pierced through the trees, deserted homes, abandoned cars and through the air. By hearing how the air brushed against an object, Kris could tell its exact shape, size and its distance from her. To say that sneaking up on her was a challenge was an understatement.

Once they reached the driveway, Kris went to stand in the crispy brown grass and listened. From where she stood, she couldn’t hear anything out of the ordinary and that set her on edge. Above the buzzing of the mosquitoes, she heard the skittering feet of various birds and animals. Somewhere to her left there was a small, decorative windmill that was creaking as it slowly rocked back and forth. The air was calm, still and she heard absolutely nothing. What the hell? Where did the shot come from?

“Mac, I don’t like this.”

“Why?” Mac came up and stood next to her. Her one hip jutted out to the side and she placed a hand on it, looking perplexed. “What’s up?”

“Nothing. Not one damn thing.”

“…So what’s the problem?”

Kris sighed and gestured widely around her, “I don’t hear anything. There’s literally nothing to hear.”

“Maybe you’re losing your touch.” Mac nudged her in the ribs with a laugh. Taking a step past Kris, she glanced back over her shoulder, eyes shining. Mac’s face was pulled into an almost devilish smirk.

“I don’t like when you look at me like that, Mac..”

“Pussy,” she tossed the word casually back at Kris.

“Shut the fuck up. I am not.”

“Then grow a pair and let’s move!” Mac stuck her tongue out at Kris before running off through the grass and towards their truck. Her steel-toed boots crunched down on the dry grass mercilessly.

“Damn it,” Kris said. That stupid shit is going to get us killed one of these days. And although she knew better, Kris sprinted after her friend.

Mac hopped into the driver’s seat, turned the key and the monstrous engine roared to life. The truck had been heavily modified by the previous owner. Back when zombies were just a fictional idea in a movie, this truck was, in Kris’s opinion, damn near comical. Given that Nag’s Head and the entire Outer Banks area was a large beach town, most of the residences had a modified truck to go out onto the beach with ease. However, this guy was definitely number one in “extreme car remodeling.” Kris recalled the numerous times she had laughed at the previous owner for spending his money on something so ridiculous. Well, she certainly wasn’t laughing now.

The black, 1979 Ford F150 truck had everything. The owner installed super swamper tires on the over-sized wheels and even added bead-locks to keep the tires on the rims when they were driving with low air pressure in the tires. It also had an air intake that ran along the passenger fender and up the windshield so that the truck could virtually run underwater. The combination of the huge 44 inch tires and a 12 inch lift kit made it hard to climb up into the thing without a step ladder. Around the underside of the truck, the owner had welded rock sliders onto the frame to keep the door jambs from getting knocked-in if they drove over rocks. And best of all, in a world full of zombies, it had a custom brush guard made of tubular steel that had been welded directly to the frame with expanded metal covering the grille. Much to Mac’s glee, they could literally run zombies down all day long. Not to mention, the truck was in pristine condition and almost artistic in the way it was constructed and modified. The truck used to belong to Jeff and every time he would spend his hard-earned money on “his baby,” Kris would roll her eyes in annoyance. He acted like he was completely unaware that they didn’t even have two nickles to rub together and could hardly pay the rent. “Once day,” he once said, “this truck is going to save your ass.”

Jeff…

When she came to, she was no longer by the bar where she passed out.  Someone had moved her and she was laying on her stomach with her cheek against the concrete floor.  It was dark as hell in there and she honestly had no idea where she was. Shifting her weight to her left side, her elbow slammed into something rough and wooden.  The BANG was loud and seemed to rattle and echo endlessly inside her head.  She realized suddenly that she had one heck of a headache, and the throbbing in her left temple was almost unbearable.  It felt like her brain was going to explode and she groaned in pain.  Kris assumed that the adrenaline pumping through her had intensely magnified her sense of hearing; she could hear every single beat of her heart as loud as the beating of a bass drum.  Somewhere off to her left, she could hear water falling from a leaky faucet. Each drop screamed inside her brain.  The pain inside her mind was so great that she felt nauseated. And yet there was good news; she was still in the restaurant.  Kris knew that the faucet in the prep kitchen had been leaking for the past two years and Jeff, the manager, had been too cheap to get it repaired.  Cheap bastard, she smirked. Judging by how close the water drops sounded, she was probably in the manager’s back office.  Did someone stuff her under the desk?

Kris gently rolled over onto her back and a burning pain tore through her neck, down her shoulder and into her arm.  It felt like she had ripped open her neck and she cried out in pain.  She took in a sharp breath, fighting back tears and nausea when suddenly, her mind recognized screams.  Hundreds of screams…  Everything was so loud, and she brought her hands up to cover her ears.  It was if the whole god damn block was in the room with her, screaming at the top of their lungs.  This must be what going insane feels like.

“Focus, Kris!” she audibly told herself above the roar. “You just need to concentrate on something else. Something basic. Something familiar…” Inhaling deeply, her thoughts turned inward and rested solidly on her breath. In. Out. In. Out. Her breathing was a deep and steady hum below the deafening roar in her mind. It reminded her of a silent song she had sung her whole life, but could never quite find the tune. In a way, it was like stepping into a silent, still void.  The whole world seemed to take one large, deep breath in pure, silent bliss.  The stillness of her breath was a welcome respite from the outside noise and she felt her headache slowly subside into a dull ache. She lowered her hands from her ears and realized that her palms were hot and sticky. Did her eardrums burst? Christ, today just kept getting better.

Keeping her thoughts steady on inhaling and exhaling, she slid her body out from under the desk and cautiously avoided cracking her head against the low-hanging keyboard tray.  Just outside of her concentration, she was vaguely aware of an altercation going on outside of the manager’s door.  She crawled across the cool floor and eventually found the door frame.  Reaching over to a nearby chair, she gingerly pulled herself up and struggled to find the light switch.  Her hand brushed across the switch plate and she snapped on the light.  Kris’s pupils constricted against the rapid change in light, but her sight adjusted quickly and she scanned the room in quiet horror.

There was dried, reddish brown blood everywhere.  It ran down the inside of the door, streaked across the desk and splashed all over the floor.  Every part of her screamed in terror, but she found herself unable to move and detachedly thought I wonder how much of that is mine…

“Back off, shit head,” a male voice with a strong southern drawl called out.  His voice came through her mind like a bright, golden light. Judging by the WHOOSHING sound that pushed through the air, the owner of the voice was swinging a metal baseball bat.  If Kris had to guess, it sounded like the right weight of the bat Jeff kept under the bar top.  How could she know that? She had no idea of the weight of that stupid, useless bat that Jeff insisted on keeping.  She might have picked it up once since the day she started working at the restaurant.  Sam and Omie’s restaurant in Nag’s Head was just off of route 12 and had been open for decades.  Miraculously, they only had to make one person leave in the past eight years with that bat.  Sure, there had been bar brawls between locals, but that was old news.  Most of those sailors and fishermen had nothing better to do once the sun went down.  Kris honestly thought that Jeff kept the bat to remind himself of his “glory days” in minor league baseball.  He talked about that bat all the time and she could remember every story in vivid detail.  Only at the assistant managers urging had Jeff stowed a handgun, a .45,  hidden under the main cash register. Even with all of his silly quirks, there was no denying how much Kris loved Jeff Restern.  He had taken her under his wing and treated her like she was something worthwhile.  No one had ever treated her like that before.  When she looked at Jeff, it was obvious that he really saw her as a unique and beautiful woman and not just a pussy and tits like everyone else seemed to view her.

Following the WHOOSH, she heard a sickening, wet crack. “Can’t come at me now with your god damn brains all over the fucking floor, can you, Bobby?  HELL NO, YOU CANT!”

The dry, male voice that flowed through her mind was not her own.  Traumatic brain injury, also known as TBI, is a form of an acquired brain injury. It occurs when a sudden trauma causes damage to the brain.  TBI can result when the head suddenly and violently hits an object, or when an object pierces the skull and enters the brain.  As written by The National Institute of Neurological Disorders and Strokes.  Kris shook her head, clearing the random and unwanted thought from her mind. Where on earth did that nonsense come from?  That prattle sounded like something she had heard in health class years ago.  The bat swung once more and there was another sick, sloppy thud.  Kris could hear the skull crack down the center of the frontal lobe.  There was a spray of brain matter that flew into the air and rained down onto the concrete.  Every drop of blood rang in her ears, and she heard the man spit with finality. “Fucker.”

Kris could hear his footsteps cross the concrete.  It registered as a trickle just inside her consciousness and she scrambled to the opposite side of the office, looking for anything that could be used as a club.  She had no idea what had happened in the time she had passed out, but she needed to protect herself from whatever was outside of the office door.  Something was very, dramatically wrong.  First some drunk moron tried to tear her neck out, then she woke up on the office door in a pool of blood.  The man outside that door was literally beating the brains out of Bobby and she was unarmed.  The same foreign, male voice was inside her head again.  I’m told that this is going to be our last broadcast.  They’re already breaking down the doors and we don’t have much time.  The latest news is that a very severe and progressive illness has broken out.  What we know at this point is that the military has quarantined the affected areas and the government has high hopes in containing this infection.  Very little is known about the illness other than that it is transmitted through saliva and blood.  Those affected appear to not known they’re…dead.  For the safety of everyone, please stay indoors.  Do not engage anyone that appears to be ill.  Please stay calm and the situation will be under control in no time . This is NCB news, Washington DC signing off…and God speed.  Fuck, damn it fuck!  Get out of my head.

The door knob was rattling now, and Kris was breathing hard.  She clutched her hands at chest level, and waited for the inevitable.  The door creaked open two inches and Jeff peered inside, his blue eyes shining.  He pushed the door open with the bloody baseball bat and took a step inside.  His eyes narrowed and he scanned her incredulously.  Taking two steps inside the office, he raised the Louisville Slugger, pointed it at her and threatened, “You’d better say something or I’m knocking your fucking head off.

“Jeff…” Kris whispered pathetically.

“Sweet Christ, you’re not dead!” Jeff dropped the bat and it clattered against the grey floor.  Without hesitation, he ran to her and scooped her up into his arms.  He cradled her there, running his hands through her brown hair and searching her face.  Jeff was muttering softly now, and not making much sense.  His words were tuneless coos.  She could only hear a few glimmers of real thought, but his meaning was overwhelmingly honest.  To him, it was as if she had come back from the dead.

How long had it been, she wondered, since the world got shot straight to hell? She was scouring one of the many empty homes, looking for anything of use. Canned food, bottled water, shoes, clothes, medicine, cooking supplies, batteries. They had all swiftly become precious commodities and they were swiftly running out.

Using the blood-stained Louisville Slugger, she pulled out the contents of the last cabinet in the kitchen. Spice filled mason jars came crashing down to the grey-tiled floor. The glass shattered, spraying small shards across the tiles. She crouched down, and began sifting through the debris. The smell of the spices filled her nostrils, a welcomed change from the usual stench of rotting flesh.

She looked through the glass pieces for anything that had been hidden away in the jars; not that she was seriously expecting to find anything. Whoever had been here before her cleaned everything out of this entire block, and she was getting desperate. She eyed the spice pile. “Damn it,” she muttered and stood back up. She wiped the back of her hand across her forehead to catch the sweat before it rolled into her dark eyes. It was mid October in North Carolina and even though they resided in the beach town of Nags Head, there was no comforting breeze to be found. Wracking her brain, she found it difficult to even recall the last time they had a decent rain and the last time the temperature was under 97 degrees was three weeks ago. The heat was unseasonably warm and approaching unbearable, and that fact made her even more aware of the lack of supplies.

The dark grey military backpack she wore was perilously light. Inside it were only two bottles of well water, one packet of water purification tables, a can of corn, two boxes of cigarettes which she would never smoke, a bag of dried hiking food, two small boxes of ammo for her .45 and half a bottle of sunscreen. It just wasn’t enough. She strode over to the open cabinet and peered inside, hoping for a miracle. From the back corner, a shimmering piece of silver plastic greeted her. With great anticipation, she reached inside and pulled the plastic into the light.

Chocolate. Dear sweet Jesus Christ, it was actual, real, Swiss chocolate. Someone must have hidden it away to eat later, but never quite got the chance to consume it. Pity… Without hesitation, she swung the backpack off, unzipped the flap and tossed the sweet, delicious treat inside. She zipped it closed before she was too tempted to eat it even if it was melted beyond comprehension. By memory alone, the delightfully sinful flavours of chocolate still lingered on her tongue. Nothing more than a useless memory. One of many, she scoffed and pulled the pack back into place.

The chocolate was the first usable item they found today. Maybe today would get better, she thought. With one final glance around the kitchen, she walked out of the room. Her black, steel-toed boots crunched across the broken glass as she walked.

Right outside of the kitchen door, she saw the stairs. The gorgeous dark railing looking perfect against the light yellow paint of the walls. She was sure that it used to be beautiful before everyone got sick. It was quite clear that this wasn’t just another rented-out vacation house like many of the island homes. Very few of the islanders had their homes decorated this nicely and even fewer had kitchens as large.

She saw a thick streak of blood start about three quarters of the way up the stairs and it wove the entire way to the top of the staircase before dropping off suddenly. There were bloody, child-sized hand prints that peppered the walls. Smears of dark crimson, running down the butter-cream walls and pooling down onto the white carpet. He murdered his little girls with a hatchet, his wife with a shotgun, and himself the same way. Stephen King’s “The Shining.” Chapter 1, page 60.

It was eerie. She needed to get out of here.

“Mac, you find anything?” she called up the stairs. There was no response. “Mac, let’s get out of here.”

“You’re never going to believe what I just found, Kris,” finally came her reply. Kris heard jogging down the upstairs hallway. Mac poked her head around the corner with a broad smile on her face. There were two blue, translucent bottles in her hands. “It’s shampoo. Fucking shampoo!”

“You’re kidding.” Kris hadn’t seen shampoo in a bottle in three weeks.

Mac held her hands up triumphantly, “Believe it.” She laughed as she bounded down the stairs, her dirty blond hair swaying with each step. Half way down the stairs, she tossed one of the bottles. Kris caught it with ease, flipped open the cap and inhaled deeply. The sweet scent of the Caribbean washed over her. Pineapples, mangoes, coconuts and Bahama Mamma’s. Pure paradise. A vague memory of a commercial crept over her. White, sandy beaches played against pure blue waters. There were smiling faces and beautiful, tanned bodies were everywhere as a couple sat in cream coloured beach chairs, looking at the ocean. Was it a beer commercial? Kris would give her right tit for a—a blood curdling scream tore her from the memory. The two women looked at each other.

“The hell was that?” Mac murmured, her green eyes widening.

“Not sure. But that sounded…human.” Kris reached back to pull the pack off of her and laid their newest treasures inside. In one smooth motion, she zipped the bag shut and threw it back over her shoulder.

Kris kept her Kimber 1911 .45 caliber tucked into the waistband of her stolen army-surplus camo pants. It was a gentle reminder that she could take care of things, and even though everything had changed, she could still rely on herself. She also kept a machete strapped to her left thigh for when the Louisville Slugger didn’t pack enough punch. Two extra magazines for the .45 rested in one of her cargo pockets. Always be prepared. If you weren’t prepared, you were dead – or worse. But to be honest, you were better off dead these days.

It had only been three months, she suddenly remembered, since everything changed. Christ, it felt like a lifetime. When every moment was the same, it became difficult to consciously keep track of days, weeks and now months. The only thing she could remember, regardless of what else happened, was how long it was since she got bitten. That’s the sort of thing that was hard to forget.

Since the disease broke out, she had expected to wake up as one of them. As far as she knew, once you were bitten, you joined their ranks. So why the hell was she still quite alive and quite human? It didn’t make sense. They had encountered some of the inflected that were…different than the others. They were the ones that didn’t shamble around and made you think twice before you relieved them of their heads. The terrifying part about it was that Kris had virtually become one of them without the added inconvenience of losing her mind.

She recalled the bite came swiftly and painfully, tearing out the fleshy part of her right shoulder. Kris screamed in pain as the teeth sank in, ripping through skin and muscle. The outer edge of her vision blurred red as she struggled to remain conscious. Blood gushed out of the gaping wound, running hot down her now-exposed skin. This is it, she recalled thinking. This is how it all ends. Getting eaten alive by some fucking moron that couldn’t take the hint. The long list of people she had wronged and the things she most regretted sprawled through her mind, followed by a very cynical Kristina Thompson – server of food, shitty bartender and failure at life, before her world slowly went black.