No. 17

What was usually a 20-minute drive to my aunt’s farm deep in the country took Ben and I more than two hours. Cars clogged the four-lane to the road that would take us to the isolated piece of heaven that was my place to go when life started to get me down.
A county maintenance truck was on its side, burning and it took us about a half an hour to figure out how to get around it.
We didn’t speak. We saw them eat the girl. What does one say after seeing the blood and hearing the screams of an agonizing death?
Ben said nothing. Neither did I because I thought if I made one sound, I would start screaming myself.
I’ll never forget that sound as long as I will live.
We stopped to get supplies and except for one of the “walkers” which I prefer to call them instead of Ben’s term of endearment that is “deadies” things went better than I thought although I realized that we were both in shock. I panicked but we dispatched her.
I think I’d bought smokes from her on occasion back when I was perpetually bored of the life I had chosen. Where smoking and a beer filled the afternoons with a fellowship of rednecks, farmers and people that didn’t give a damn what I did after long days dealing with some very judgmental folks, the idea that all of that was gone was daunting. Boredom is familiar. Watching people’s head explode is a totally different thing.
I can’t tell you how it feels. To tell you would be to lose control and I can’t afford that right now. All I can tell you is that the world has changed and it is the fault of those you, all of you who survived, followed like lemmings.
I digress again. We finally made it to the backroad that I sought and that I needed.
“Are we almost there?” he asked as quiet as I’ve ever heard him. It was almost a whisper and for a moment, I wanted to just hold him to let him know that the darkness wouldn’t swallow him alone. It would devour both of us, I feared.
“Just a few more minutes?’ I said as just as silently as he did.
“They eat people,” he blurted. “They ate that girl.”
He was so matter of fact that I wanted to cry.
“Yes,” I said after we went around the curves of the poorly asphalted roads. “But they didn’t eat us.”
He nodded.
We saw combines burning in the distance of brown fields recently filled with with soybeans and corn. Cars were not as prevalent as we saw on the bypass.
And then I saw the small ranch house sitting in the middle of fields that had feed thousands.
As I turned into the driveway, I turned to Ben.
“Get the guns,” I said as forcefully as I could manage.
I stopped the car and we went toward the bent wrought iron door that led into the very plain house that we hoped would become our sanctuary.

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