Bite

Wayne and Davey

Rayford jerked the wheel and pulled up to the sidewalk. He put my window down and shouted, "Hey. We got room."

Two boys, one about seventeen and one about eight, were standing on their front porch, the second floor of a skinny ghetto apartment, facing the busy street. They both looked suspicious, but came down the stairs, and approached the truck with a calculating attitude. The older boy held a revolver in his hand, and the younger boy held a silver-colored baseball bat. Both of them had huge hiking backpacks on.

The older boy shook his head. "Thanks for the offer, but I shot our parents," he said this matter-of-factly, the vacant look in his eyes betraying his shock.

At Rayford's look, he added defensively, "They tried to eat Davey. I'm sure that's a give-away that they're infected."

The little one nodded emphatically, red faced and eyes bloodshot from tears.

"We're going up to the summer campgrounds," the older one added, looking like the type to roll out of bed and save the world, whereas his younger brother looked like he rolled out of bed and played video games in the same T-shirt every day. "Hide in a cabin in the woods."

"That's a dumb idea," Rayford said. "Who says this isn't going to spread to wild animals—or insects, for that matter? Rachel and I are going into the city. We're gona hold up in the top floor of one of those skyscrapers and seal off the entries. That way anything would have to come up to us."

I looked at him incredulously. "Why not a gun shop? Or a grocery store?"

Rayford wasn't the action hero type. He was a bit pudgy, clean-shaved, had a receding hairline that made him look like a pastor-type. Did he seriously think a cubicle was a good hide-out?

He looked back at me, critically, and said, "We're going to the Ebon Center. I work there. I know the building, the layout, and what kinds of things are there."

"What about food?" I asked incredulously.

"There's a basement where we can get food—you know all those skyscrapers in downtown created emergency shelters after 9/11? We'll be okay—it's enough to feed the city."

I was still doubtful. "And how do you propose we protect ourselves?"

Rayford made an awkward gesture towards the back seat. "I own a few firearms, but I'm not getting them out until I need to leave this car."

Now, I was astonished. Rayford might look more comfortable drinking a decaf and teaching Sunday school, but he had guns. In the back seat. I felt safer just knowing that.

The two boys looked at each other, and the younger one nodded pleadingly. "Please Wayne?" he whined. "I don't want to go to camping!"

Somewhere not far off, perhaps a block away, we heard a loud growl.

"Yes, of course," Wayne said sternly. "That seems to be okay."

I hopped out of the door and let them in the backseat. As I stood there waiting for them to settle, I heard another growl—this one was closer.

I jumped back in and slammed the door, locking it with paranoia pumping through my veins like blood used to. Suppose there had been one—hiding under the car? What if it was my mother—with her dead, rotten eyes?

Before I knew it, I was hyperventilating. It didn't last long, but I was soon crying, and muttering apologies, unable to stop.

Rayford wordlessly clicked open his glove box and pulled out a tissue box. I took a tissue and sobbed into it, picturing what it had looked like—Dad walking in tiredly, putting his briefcase on the floor. Walking over to Bambi, the dog, and taking a mouthful right out of him. Mom would have shouted. Then she was next. Or maybe she was the first one he had bitten. I would never know... I was upstairs... checking Facebook.