The Living Dark

Chapter 7: ABond Renewed

Chapter 7: Father and Son

      Ben looks at his son, panting. His breath comes in great spastic gulps. As he attempts to swallow, his chest seizing. Chip pats his dad firmly on his back without a word. Ben doesn't know what to make of what he'd just watched. The quality of the video footage wasn't the best. It was somewhere between a mediocre, found, footage horror movie. And a halfway decent nature documentary. All things considered, however, it was more than evident. Whatever the video showed wasn't "normal human behavior." "So, Dad..." Junior. Blurts: "What do you think? It doesn't prove anything one hundred percent. But now I'm thinking about your decision to hold up down here. It's pure genius at this point." The spasms in Ben's chest ease. Being replaced by a warm current of pride. At being complemented by his teenage son. A feeling that is universally known to all fathers. He looks at his son, nodding. "But Jr., I can't just cast Carl out. He's my best friend." Ben muses, "And we have his family here." Ben pulls himself up using the workbench for support. "Maybe they'll find out if he's got 'it,' Ben James makes exaggerated air quotes. Around the word "it." "Ah ... whatever the hell 'it' may be. We have no idea what's happening at St. George's. Hospital." Ben exclaims, snapping his fingers together. "Dad, we have zero clue. Of what he has or how it would pass from person to person." Chip can see his father's internal struggle, the desire to do the "right thing" by their neighbor. Through minute tics, his emotions waged war across his deeply lined, dark facial features. So he chooses his following words carefully: "Carl may be your friend, Dad, but we're your family." Chip places a heavy burden squarely on his dad's solid shoulders. Ben thinks back to his days in church. He wishes he'd spent more time there in light of recent events. God's word told him that "he was to be his brother's keeper." Still, it also commanded that he be his "family's protector."

      Ben turns about in a circle, placing both hands down on his workstation. His head hanging low, chin resting on his heaving chest. "Chip, if he returns, we can keep him upstairs until we ensure he's well." The boy looks around while simultaneously unlocking his wheelchair. He wheels over to her father, yelling, "Dad, how?" Chip all but shouts. Big Ben "shushes" his son, coming down to his ear. "He and I will go get supplies from their house. That way, we can keep him busy and watch him." Chip grabs his father by the shirt collar, pulling him closer. "Dad, there is no way you're going out there with Mr. Fullerton, and he's infected too." "Who's yelling? What's going on, guys?" they both turn to face Anne James. The James men straighten up like guilty mischievous children. Ben tries to discreetly smooth out his shirt as he moves to soothe his wife. "Honey... Anne." He begins looking slyly over her shoulder at the passageway to their shelter. "Babe, look ..." he embraces her, rubbing her arms. "How are Bianca and the girls? Anybody injured or hurt?" Anne pulls her head back, eyeballing her husband suspiciously. "No ... why? What were you two carrying on about?" Anne peaks around her husband at the sound of the laptop snapping shut.

      "Mom!" Chip stammers. "Dad ... he uh doesn't feel I can help him..... Upstairs... and I'm tired of being treated like a kid. Like because I'm in this chair, he thinks I can't grow up!" Ben's spine tingles at the verbal backstab. Mainly because it's laced with the truth. The way one heaps sugar into bitter black coffee. To make it taste better. His son uses the truth to deflect Anne's suspicions, and it hurts like hell. Anne casts an accusing glare at her husband, who recoiled slightly at the truthful lie. "Sorry... honey," Ben Senior bables sheepishly. Many a night, Anne and Ben had argued the same point. And many a night, they were sure Benjamin "Chip" James Jr. was listening from the top of the stairs. Ben forces his eyes up in vain, attempting to meet his wife's stare of disapproval. She folds her arms across her chest. For husbands, this is "the universal sign" of an impending visit to the dog house. Secretly, Ben wished he'd added that spare room in their shelter. For just such an occasion. "Take him with you, Benjamin Robert James." He cringes at the dreaded use of his middle name. "Yeah, doghouse, for sure. " Ben muses. "Ok.... ok honey!" holding his hands aloft warily. "Anne please just head back into the bunker and lock the door. Chip and I will give the signal if we need to get in." Anne's posture relaxes as she uncrosses her arms, kissing her husband's cheek. She sways her way back down the passageway and vanishes. The heavy black door grinds on its hinges before clapping shut with all the grace of a submarine hatch.

      Ben waits until he hears the locks deploy, turning to his son. "You turkey!" he shouts, punching Chip in the arm. Chips giggles at his father's cheerful anger, which brings Ben a moment of levity. "Come on, son, hop up!" he says, squatting down. Soon, a familiar sensation as Chip hoists himself upon his father's broad back. Once the boy is free of his chair, Ben uses a few quick motions to collapse the chair before standing up. Ben huffs up the stairs one at a time, with his son on his back, carrying the chair. Memories float back into Ben's mind. Of days past and how many times he and his son made this same journey. He couldn't recall, but one thing was sure. His upper body strength had become that of a man. "Son... son..." he croaks. "Yeah, Dad!" comes his answer. "You're choking me. Ease up!" Ben taps his son's elbow. "Sorry, Dad! You must be getting old. Chip chuckles in his father's ear. They crest the stairs, and Ben flips the wheelchair open. Chip glides down into his seat from his father's back. Chip raises his hip and pulls a pair of black batter's gloves from his back pocket. He slips them onto his hands, wiggling his fingers. Chip rolls swiftly into the large, ornate dining room. He continues right into the living room, where he stops.

      "Chip question....." his dad calls, walking up behind him. "In a movie, when a person gets bitten by a zombie." The word "zombie" almost had a chewy texture to it. When one said it aloud while attempting to be serious. The two are now side by side, sizing up their partially secured front door. "Don't they turn pretty quickly? If you're right, son Carl's not returning, right?" The boy cranes down from his wheelchair and snags a small metal mallet. He tucks the wooden-handled tool down into a loop. On his right pant leg, knowing they would soon have to repair their fort. "Well, Dad... I can only tell you what I know from TV. In Hollywood, zombie victims usually show signs of turning pretty quickly. They get all sick and sweaty ..... "He pauses as if pondering some great mathematical equation. "While like vomiting and bleeding everywhere!" Looking up to his father, "Dad, did Mr. Fullerton look sick!?" Ben appears lost in thought before answering, "No, son, he was fine other than the bleeding. He looked completely normal and even took time to comfort Bianca and the girls." Chip flaps his arms in exasperation. "Then I'm just speculating, Dad." Big Ben walks over to his boarded front window, bending down and peering through a crack between two boards. From what he could see, he observed the street was deceptively quiet. "Son, I'd like to thank you. For giving me something else to worry about needlessly." Chip laughs, "I get it from you, pops!" The day floats by easily enough as the father and son relive days gone by. They check the house to ensure it is still secured and await Carl Fullerton's return. After a few hours, Anne brings them a picnic-styled lunch and a lantern. Just past four in the afternoon. The Sun is slowly losing ground in its perpetual cycle with the moon. Losing its hold on this day without power. Chip is parked in front of the crack between the boards on the house's front bay window. "Dad!" the boy shouts, pulling his father over to the crack. "It's him, Dad, Mr. Fullerton." Ben sees his friend Carl moving under his strength but with much effort, zeroing in on his homestead.