36 Hours by Anthony Barnhart Read Free Book Online

something.”
    “Then what’ve you been rambling about?”
    Anthony Barnhart
    36 Hours
    33
    “It’s a disease. A communicable disease. Through saliva. Blood. I don’t know.”
    “Body fluids?”
    “Something like that.”
    “So if you get the body fluids in you… Then you become them. Right?”
    I cocked an eye. “Tell me again, Les, how in the world should I know?”
    He sighed. “It’s just-“
    “Do you hear that?” I raced to the window. He was right behind me. A truck drove by, frantically swerving down the road. In the bed an infected was crawling towards the cab; the back cab window slid open and the barrel of a shotgun poked out. A blast of white light, and the infected lit up with plumes of meaty red and purple flung into the air; the infected fell backwards, flipped over the back rail of the truck, fell to the street. The barrel pulled back into the cab and the truck went down the road, out of sight. Over in seconds.
    “I guess,” Les said, “they’re still around.”
    “We can’t let our guard down.”
    “I wonder if the phones work.” We went downstairs. I turned my eyes from the carnage. He dropped the phone. “Just silence. Not even static. Nothing.”
    My nose wrinkled. “That smell.”
    “It’s the scent of death.”
    “Nice parody. Didn’t need it.”
    “I know.”
    “Please stop.”
    He crossed his arms. The blood ran beside our feet, through the kitchen, into the dining room. The blood seemed to turn to jello, becoming thick in spots, like the glazed film over spoiled milk. Except it smelt worse. Les rubbed his eyes and went into the family room. I rummaged through the cup-boards, looking for a snack. Screw my diet. I discovered a box of Cheezits, popped a few in my mouth. Stale. I swallowed some more. Les went into the front room, peering out the bay window, shaking his head. I dropped the box and stepped over the river of blood.
    And I looked, followed the river, into the living room. Blood stained the bar in dripping torrents, splattered like wet paint. And it was bare.
    Heart pounding. Heart racing. Heart thumping. No. No. Impossible. No. The knife. Falling. Into the throat. Blood gushing. Gushing. Body falling. Chris King Anthony Barnhart
    36 Hours
    34
    is no more. No. No. Chris King is not here . Terror. I don’t know how I did it. I don’t know how my body wasn’t literally paralyzed with fear. But my foot stepped out. And the other followed. The walls to either side slid past, too fast, yet morbidly slow. And the room opened. It was empty. The dog’s head lie there, tongue lolled out past its teeth, blood drenching the fur. The bar stank of vomit and urine and feces, blended with the sweet and sour odor of drying blood.
    I walked around the bar, bracing myself, running it over and over in my mind: the swift attack, me falling, as King’s claws rip me to pieces. I walked around the bar. And looked down. The dog’s side was torn open, as if hands dropped in and pulled. Flesh ragged at the sides. Blood formed a pool within the cavity, bones smeared and sticking out; organs open and spilling yellow puss. I swiveled away.
    And saw a bloody trail leading back to and out the window. My own legs yanked me towards the window, and I stood leaning out between the shards. The wind ruffled my hair. The street was deserted except for the infected who had caught five shotguns hells in his chest, turning it to mauled meat. Back to the bar. King was gone. How? How did a dead body rise up and just walk out? How? How?
    How?
    I turned to go, swung my gaze by the window.
    The infected in the street wobbled to his feet, hunched over, bleeding.
    “What the-“ The blood stained his clothes as he turned around in the middle of the street. Blood gushed from the wounds in his chest, dripping down his pants, splattering on the pavement. The head on the stocky shoulders turned back and forth in the middle of the intersection, eyes alive. Alive . The dead were alive. I had seen the bullets. I