Paul was stoned, but not that far gone, and the door was closed before her words had completely finished.
“Haven’t had that much interest in these old bones in a long while,” Mrs. Deneaux said as she smiled, her tobacco-stained teeth shining dully.
Paul thought he heard one of her cheek muscles groan from the effort of the foreign maneuver. “Where’s Brian?”
Paul noted that she paused a half a beat too long before she answered, which was only a side to side shaking of her head.
“What happened to you?” she said, pointing down to his foot, which was now sautéing in a small stew of his own blood.
“Hunting accident,” he answered as he made sure the door was locked. Paul moved away from it as the first of the zombies made contact with the screen door beyond. He shuffled over to the couch and sat down.
Mrs. Deneaux sat in the closer chair. She kept peeking out the living room window until one of the zombies saw her and ran through a small bush to press his face up against the screen. She quickly pulled the shade down, plunging the room into an uncomfortable darkness.
“What happened to him?” Paul wanted clarification. When she answered that they had been ambushed by some zombies and he had gotten eaten defending her, he didn’t completely believe the story, but some part of him was relieved that he had not succumbed to the infection. Paul would have felt directly responsible for Brian’s demise if that had been the case. If he hadn’t shot himself, he might have been able to get some antibiotics.
What Paul wasn’t factoring into the equation was if he had not gotten hurt, he may have found some medicine and actually been back hours earlier to help defend their encampment. Every time his mind wandered into the realm of different possibilities, he kept reining it in so that it would not stray too far.
“Now what?” Paul asked.
“Do you have any more of what you’ve been drinking?”
Paul shook his head in the negative.
“We wait. Do they have any food? I’m starving,” Mrs. Deneaux said, heading for the kitchen.
Paul did not answer her as she walked by and began to open cabinets up.
“Talbot always said God had a hell of twisted sense of humor,” Paul mumbled.
Paul could hear Deneaux rummaging around for some utensils and a can opener.
“Cold soup will have to do,” she said.
“I hope you don’t get botulism. That can wreak havoc on someone your age,” Paul said it softly, but with no other noise in the house the acoustics were actually pretty nice.
“Maybe you should try it first,” Deneaux said as she slurped in a large swallow of Italian Wedding soup.
Paul got back in and leaned against the entrance to the kitchen. Deneaux summarily ignored him as she kept slurping the soup.
“Alright, so we both know, you just fed me a big heaping of bullshit. Why don’t you be straight with me now?”
Deneaux looked up from her spoon, her eyes cold and calculating. “What exactly are you talking about?” The creepy smile came back.
“Brian. What really happened to him?”
“I told you. Zombies got him.”
Paul kept looking at her, trying to somehow divine the answer, but Deneaux was a practiced and skilled liar. It would take much more than his amateurish attempt to get her to confess to anything.
“I think that’s only part of the story and I don’t believe or trust you. You can tell me. There isn’t a court or even a jury left to convict you.”
“Once I feel like confessing, you’ll be the first to know,” she said resuming her slurping.
“Suit yourself,” he said.
Paul grabbed his meager medical supplies from the table and went back to the couch. He re-wrapped his foot, which was on fire and took three aspirins for his splitting headache. He put his head down on the cushion and fell asleep to the sweet serenading of Deneaux’s slurps.
When he woke up, seemingly minutes later, the room was as black as Deneaux’s heart. He sat up quickly, not quite able to remember where he was or in what state of danger he might be finding himself.
“Good nap?” Deneaux asked without feeling.
Paul looked to where her voice emanated. Eyes darker than the room they sat in stared back at him.
“What’s going on?” Paul sat up quickly, reaching for his rifle.
“You looking for this?” she said, ratcheting a round into the chamber.
Paul’s heart sank as his blood pressure soared.
“Relax, you look like a rabbit trapped in a fox den. I was just keeping watch on the zombies outside and you’re the only one of us with any ammo left. Is that crawler on the steps the one that did you in?”
“Did me in?”
“The bite on your foot.”
“It’s not a bite,” Paul said, starting to rise.
“Do not get up,” she said coolly.