One In Six
by Chris Deal

The shock of salt and copper running down his cracked lips, his swollen tongue, like Ben had been sucking on a penny, that old method to try to trick the breathalizer, it brought him back from the nothing of forced unconsciousness. Ben was a few meters from the skeleton of the jeep, the rubber of the tires melted on the tarmac, the engine smoking, the windshield shattered, pieces of it in his scalp.

Dragging himself to his feet, he shuddered from side to side and realized the pain in his head, the droning, high pitched silence was from the busted eardrum, a tone he’d never hear again giving way to the wind softly through the burning tree he stood under. He’d driven the jeep over an IED. They’d planted them throughout the city once it was apparent they were losing, a mildly efficient defense. The Guard had fallen back to the warehouse district, where all they had to do was set up barbwire along the fences and Legends on the roofs to keep an eye on the Filth in the streets.

The M2 was still in the back seat, a little banged up but still in operational condition. He grabbed his love and slung it around his neck, pointing the red stained bayonet at the earth reaching for his bag. It was all still there, food, water, a flask of bourbon, extra magazines. And the last resort S&W 27, fully loaded cylinder, a kill pistol the Guard Captain gave him before he left the former UPS warehouse in the salvaged jeep that was now junk. In case you need it, he had said through the smoke of the cigar he’d gotten from the raid on the mall. Two of his men died to get that smoke. Ben would make three.

The bite was his own fault, having not properly double tapped the head of a turned security guard. Ben reached to get the gun hanging limply on his belt, and the zed twitched once, then clamped its broken teeth on Ben’s wrist. He tore his arm away and triple tapped, the first one doing the job. Back at the compound, the Captain gave him the speech they gave everyone.

One in six are immune. You could stay here and if you turn, we’ll put two in the skull, or you can leave and take your chances. If you’re immune, you can come back in twenty-four, if not you’re one more Fifth.

The Captain gave him a cigar and said, the choice is yours.

They didn’t know what it was, the scientists had no chance to study the Filth, as they had taken to calling it, the zeds. Hospitals, where it was first seen, were all war zones. The MASH setup at the compound gave him a look over, told him he had twelve hours, eighteen at the most before it took him, unless he was immune. One in six were, and he was out in the wilderness, bleeding enough from the glass in his skull to attract any of them that were in a fifty-meter radius, without a ride.

The sun was starting to swing to the west, behind the towers. He was in the center of the city, had been heading towards the suburbs north, where his family would be. He wagered it was five hours since the bite. Ben took a swig from the flask, another to blot out the aching.

The bag over his shoulders, he started up Tryon, towards the highway. There were bodies on the street, many of them with holes in the head from survivors. He noticed they formed a semicircle from one particular building, a fifty-floor bank headquarters. A man stood in an eastern, broken window, his rifle centered on Ben’s forehead. Ben lifted his hands up, and the man motioned for him to come forward. Still scanning the area, he took a shot at a straggler who went down nice and easy.

They moved in packs, always gaining numbers, never stopping, always moving forward look for food. Us. Survivors. They were like a tidal wave slow motion, shuffling forward and destroying whatever they could find, stinking with rot, whatever blood hadn’t been shed pooled in their lower extremities, teeth lose in their jaws, hair and skin hanging in torn scraps.

Where’re you from, he asked?

Down with the Guard. Headed North.

Why’d they let you go?

Got bit. Ben lifted up his bandaged wrist.

You know we can’t let you in here.

Yeah. Where are the packs?

One was sighted off of College a few hours ago. Couple dozen. If you’re looking for a place to holdup, the Hurst building is empty, but anything lower than the fifth floor isn’t secure. The loading dock is impossible to barricade.

Thanks. The Hurst was on Church, the loading dock two blocks north then three west. Holding up was the best option. He had a minimum of six hours to go before he knew if he was one in six, and it would take him three hours to get there, and that’s if it was completely clear. It wouldn’t be. He started towards the Hurst.

Three blocks in he passed a Starbucks, the glass still intact but the door itself open, a shuffling sound escaping to reach his good ear. His hand on the M1, following the bayonet, he walked in, hoping for power and something to keep him going, month old coffee, at least.

This is a bad idea, he whispered.

The tables were overturned, a streak of blood on the floor, leading from the outline of a skull to the bathrooms, where that shuffling continued. Closer, he could hear the distinctive moan, the only sound the zeds could make, low and guttural like a cornered wolf, and worse, a chewing.

Right hand on the butt of the rifle, the other on the stock, the lights were still on, pale yellow fluorescents making the blood pop, the perfect contrast from the bright white faux-marble, and there it was, a woman, late twenties, strawberry blond hair half pulled back in a ponytail with her face buried in the neck of a man twice her size, chewing on the muscles. Ben crept up, one foot in front of the other, the zed not caring about anything but the meat, until he was right there, kicking it in the gut and turning it onto its back, stomping his boot down on the chest, snapping the collarbone, and shoving the bayonet into the eye, further past it, into the brain, but she, it kept moving, moaning higher and higher pitch, broken manicured nails scratching at the boot, reaching up at the gun as he pulled it out of the skull, then back down, through the neck, destroying the voice box as he severed the spine, killing the zed again, breathing so deep and fast it hurt, then quickly doing the same to the meal, just in case He turned and spat up into the glistening clean sink.

Then came the moaning again, louder. Opening the door a crack, he had a clear view of the outside, the pack walking past, several leaning against the large glass windows, one with a hand on the door, pulling it open. He shut the door and locked it. It wouldn’t hold long if they all came after him, which they would, the blood from the meal in the air. He kicked the bodies to the door, a barricade, and sat with his back on the opposite wall, the M1 across his lap, his bag beside him. He took out the S&W 27, checked the cylinder again, religiously, held it like an icon against his forehead, the barrel cool against his hot skin. The banging started against the door. He could take them out, he had enough bullets. No symptoms yet. He could be one in six. He swung out the cylinder and removed a bullet.

The moaning was louder, the beating harder, they’d get through.

One in six.

He closed the cylinder, pulled back the hammer, finished off the flask of bourbon. He brought his knees up to his chest, a parody of protection, and put the barrel against his temple.

Ben closed his eyes.

One in six, he whispered, again and again, one in six, the barrel cool against his forehead, his skin, stomach burning, hands shaking, muscles spasming, the gun dropped to the floor before he could test himself, clattering in contrast to the beating and moaning, moving on stiff legs to the toilet and expelling everything, crying one in six, damn you, please, blood mixing with bile the color of a dying moon, retching again, screaming with white hot pain behind his eyes as the beating came faster and louder, more and more of them out there, one in six, please, like a prayer, a mantra against the coming dark, lungs seizing, drooling red, crawling, dropping, his hands reaching for the gun as the beating in his chest came faster, in triple time, the gun at his fingers, the metal ice against his skin, as his heart slows, his lips make the shape of one in six, taking it out into the uncaring nothing.

The form vacated, still for an eternity, just the cries from outside intruding on the silence, they slow, then stop, a twitch of profane electric impulse, a vile glass eye moving, giving nothing to the world, jaw snapping shut on the tongue, cutting it off, no beat to pump the congealing blood, the form extending a hand, sending the gun across the floor, this unnatural motion where it shouldn’t be, waking, wrong.