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It has been 32 hours since Court last slept.
It has been 76 days since Court last felt full.
It has been 241 days since Court last had a full night’s sleep.
It has been 479 days since the zombie apocalypse started.
Court stifles a yawn and tries to ignore the hunger eating at his stomach lining. He wants to let the others sleep a few hours more, but they need to get a move on. The Northeast horde has been slowly catching up to them over the last few days, and Court is eager to put more grounds between them.
He shakes the two sleeping bags next to him, until the lumps shift. Colt groans and rubs his eyes, before folding up his sleeping bag. Ryland grumbles something like “five more minutes” and ducks his head into the bag.
Court shakes his head in fondness and begins preparing breakfast. The last can of beans that they scrounged from the remains of a Safeway a week ago. It is also the last of the hard-won loot of their last skirmish against the Northeast Horde.
It cost them dearly.
Nothing as condemning as a zombie bite, but a limp slows you down, and a moment too slow against a zombie means death.
At that grim thought, Court splits the can of beans unevenly with two other empty cans. He pours a smidge more into Ryland’s can. Even though he knows what Ryland really needs is a doctor—a doctor of the medical kind, not the academic kind—Court can’t help the wishful thinking that a spoonful or two more of stale canned beans will magically heal Ryland.
Colt sets down the bottles he filled with fresh water from the river nearby, and helps himself to one of the smaller portions of beans. Over the last few days, they’ve come to a silent agreement to let Ryland eat a bit more and sleep a bit more. Ryland hasn’t noticed, or he would’ve protested and pouted until they gave in. Court sips his water while listening to Ryland’s snore.
The relatively clean river is the reason they chose this spot in the woods to camp at in the first place. But without any more food, and the Northeast horde heading their way, they really must move on to the next spot. They are hoping to make their way around the horde and back toward San Francisco again to find a doctor.
Cities are the safest. They have more resources and specialists, like doctors. But there are only so many people a city can support to have enough food and shelter for everyone. Most cities enforce some quota system for food and turn away refugees if they’re full.
It is harsh, but this is the end times.
A year ago, their group included Claire, Rocky, Adrian, and Jody. They’d finally made their way to San Francisco, but there were only room for four. So Court, Colt, and Ryland set out to camp in the peripherals of the city until there was room. They could’ve gone to search for another city with space, but that meant likely never seeing the others again. But drifting outside cities meant being constantly on the run to avoid the ever-meandering hordes of zombies.
Court tries not to regret the choice now that they’re in the midst of it, and regret can’t get them out of it. Hopefully, one of the doctors in the city will be willing to venture out and take a look at Ryland’s leg.
It isn’t ideal, but it is the only path.
“Ryland, we gotta go.” Court calls.
With a yawn, Ryland’s fluff of blond hair finally emerges from the sleeping bag. He crumpled his sleeping bag into a sorry excuse of a roll next to Colt’s neat bundle and Court’s military precision brick. He limps over, dressed in the same plain yellow sweater and brown cargo pants as Colt and Court. They’d found the sets of clothes deep in the back rooms of an Old Navy. They are gaudy but clean clothes are clean clothes.
In this attire, the three of them look even more similar, especially since Ryland abandoned his glasses, crushed during the skirmish that bestowed the wound in his right thigh. It reminds Court of when they were kids and their mom would dress them all up in matching outfits. He smiles at the memory of two lifetimes ago. It makes the beans taste like old photographs in a shoebox, their mom’s old perfume lingering on her necklace, and the bitter, metallic sting of blood.
“How’s your leg?” Court asks, like he did every morning for the last few days, handing Ryland his portion.
Ryland shrugs. “‘m fi’,” he mumbles around a spoonful of beans. “I rebandaged it yesterday.”
Ryland finishes his portion of beans quickly without complaint despite hating beans. Hunger doesn’t have taste buds.
“One thing, we’re getting low on medical supp-“
Suddenly, Court raises his hand, cutting Ryland off. The twins freeze immediately. Nobody moves for a moment. Two moments. Three moments.
Groaaaan.
Without another word, the three men quietly pack away their bags with practiced efficiency and resume their journey west.
***
They come across a Costco. Giant warehouse buildings outside cities are extra dangerous, hiding who knows how many zombies behind towering pallets and the rows and rows of shelves.
Generally speaking, Court prefers to avoid them. But they are desperate for food.
They don’t split up, because that’s a recipe for disaster in the zombie apocalypse. Especially with Ryland’s limp, sticking together makes their group safer.
They move slowly, Court in the front, gun loaded and ready to shoot if any zombie dashes into their vicinity, Ryland in the middle loading food into three separate backpacks, and Colt in the back also with a gun guarding their rear. Splitting the supplies meant more redundancy if they lose one of them—God, forbid—but it meant they need more time packing, which meant a greater risk of encountering a zombie.
In the zombie apocalypse, everything is a tradeoff.
Unsurprisingly, the building has already been raided to its foundation, with not a single can or bag of chips in sight within reachable distance of Ryland. The real treasures at Costco are the pallets up high on the top shelves that most people wouldn’t risk injuries to retrieve. Court nods to Colt.
After handing the gun to Ryland, Colt rolls his shoulder a few times, and does a running jump up the steel structure. He scurries quickly upward, the muscle strain familiar. A long time ago he wouldn’t do this without a mat under him and some hardnesses, but he’s used to doing it without these luxuries now.
Colt gives a thumbs up from the top, a tiny speck of blond hair on the hulking shelf. Ryland sets down the gun and gets ready. One by one, Colt tosses down packets of crackers and granola. Ryland catches them silently and throws them evenly in the packs. Court stands guard, ready to let bullets fly at the slightest sign of a zombie.
The brothers work efficiently across the shelf. Colt even finds jars of peanut butter, a welcome treat compared to the tasteless staples they’d mostly been eating. He tosses one down, with a little more force than necessary in his excitement.
It goes wide.
Ryland throws his arm out to catch it.
The jar grazes his fingertips.
And bounces away onto the ground.
Eyes wide, breaths held, none of them moves a single muscle.
A soft groan drifts from the row over.
Court’s eyes sharpen as he swivels the barrel of the gun toward the direction of the noise.
The groan started as a quiet little thing but the echo of it in the mostly empty warehouse triggers a cascade effect, as one, then two, then three, then four, then ten, then 30 zombies begin a cacophonous symphony of imminent death.
Court can’t afford to turn around to check on his brothers visually. He strains his ears to make out over the zombie choir song the shuffling of clothes and slapping and metallic ringing of human hands and feet against steel. Colt is rushing his descent, faster than he should to be safe.
Thud.
“Fuck!” Thud.
“Colt!”
At the scream of pain, Court risks a glance behind him and he sees Colt crumpled in a heap on the floor.
Drawn to the sound, zombie after zombie streams into their row, forcing Court’s attention away from his brothers. He shoots them dead-on in the head with practiced precision.
“Colt, where are you hurt?” Ryland is checking over Colt, trying to get him back up and running. They have to leave, now.
“Landed on my leg wrong,” Colt grunts. “Left one. Might be sprained.”
Court curses. He can’t carry Colt and keep the zombies off of them at the same time.
“Here, put your weight on me.” Ryland doesn’t wait for their protests before putting Colt’s arm around his shoulder and hoisting him up.
“Ry, what- your leg!” Colt screams over the zombies surrounding them and the non-stop gunfire.
“I can take it. We have to go!” Ryland yells back. “Now!”
Court curses again, but Ryland is right. Every zombie hiding in the warehouse is going to be on them in the next few minutes. With Court in front to clear a path and the twins behind supporting each other, they slowly shuffle toward the entrance.
Court’s already blood pressure ratchets up higher and higher the lighter his gun feels. The horde of zombies is only getting thicker.
If this is how it ends…
Court is glad he got to spend his last days with his brothers.
***
Truth be told, Court never thought he would see his brothers again.
Courtland Gentry was dead.
Dead men don’t get to see their family.
When Fitz made him the offer, all that was running through his head was I could see Ryland again. I could see Colt again. Ryland. Colt. Ryland. Colt. Ryland. Colt. Ryland. Colt.
He didn’t really think.
He never signed his name in ink—You’d exist in the gray—but he signed Courtland Gentry’s death warrant in blood.
Six killed the man inside the weapon.
Six killed the disgust toward death.
Six killed the capacity for love.
Six killed the longing for his brothers.
Six killed.
Six killed Courtland Gentry.
Six was a dead man walking, before zombies stole that title from him.
When the zombies started overrunning humanity, civilization, infrastructure, and governments fell apart.
When human civilization as we knew it exhaled its last breath, Courtland Gentry breathed again.
***
The zombies are slowly gaining on them. They will soon be within grabbing distance of Ryland and Colt. Court once again curses whatever higher being he pissed off to deserve this fate. Was this the punishment for his sins in his past lives? Was this his eternal punishment? His damnation?
They are so close. Court can see the wide blue sky and the rolling yellow hills sprawling beyond the rollup door at the exit. His eyes zero-in on the quick-release cord. If he can pull the cord to disengage the motor and shoot the pull-chain, the door will slide shut.
If they can reach the door, they’ll be free.
“Go through first! I’ll shut the door behind!” Court yells behind him at the twins. He doesn’t wait for an acknowledgment before running toward the quick-release cord.
Before he reaches the door, a zombie leaps out from behind the customer service counter, its grotesque rotted jaw aimed right at his neck. Court dodges and rolls. He spins and pulls the trigger on instinct. The zombie drops to the floor.
Court doesn’t have time to pat himself on the back. He spins and pulls the cord. The motor disengages with a click.
“No!”
He turns just in time to see Colt throw Ryland forward through the door. Ryland catches himself on his bad leg and crumbles, hitting his head on the concrete pavement. He doesn’t get up.
Before Court can react, a zombie bites down on Colt’s shoulder.
The agonized scream of his little brother will haunt his nightmares for the rest of his life.
But grieving is for later. Right now, Court has to get his brothers to safety.
His perfect aim hits the zombie in the head, a moment too late.
The zombie stops writhing, but Colt doesn’t move.
Court roars, “Colt! Go!”
Colt jolts from his pained stupor, shoves the corpse off of him, and stumbles toward Ryland.
As soon as he makes it across the door threshold, Court shoots a link in the pull-chain. The chain snaps, nearly whipping Court in the face. He races against the closing door, dropping into a slide.
The door slams shut just next to his ear.
Zombies slam against the metal door, but it holds against the horde.
Court drops his head on the concrete and closes his eyes for a second in relief.
They’re out.
A whimper shocks him awake.
Colt.
***
“Jump, buddy!” Court called up, trying not to let his annoyance show.
He beckoned at Colt, who’d been hugging the tree trunk from atop the branches for the last 30 minutes.
“I can’t,” Colt whined. “It’s too high, Cory!”
Court’s eye twitched. He hated being the oldest sometimes. He always had to look out for his brothers. To answer all their millions of questions. To make all the hard decisions. To be strong even when he himself felt like crying.
And he had to do it all without losing his patience.
“C’mon, it’s okay!”
“Nooo.”
“Just jump already, Colt!” It came out sharper than he intended.
Colt’s bottom lip wobbled, and guilt gnawed at Court’s heart.
He softened his voice again. “Look, buddy. I’m right here. I’m going to catch you.”
“Promise?”
“Pinky promise.” Court said with his most solemn voice.
Finally, Colt let go of the trunk. He closed his eyes and leaped.
Court caught him in his arms, tucking Colt’s head under his chin. “See that wasn’t so bad, was it?”
Colt nodded, arms wrapped like an octopus around Court’s torso.
“I’ll always catch you, bud,” Court murmured against Colt’s soft blond hair. “So don’t be afraid to fall.”
***
“Court.”
“Court, c’mon.”
“Court, you know what you have to do.”
“Court.”
“Courtland, look at me!” Colt roars.
With great reluctance, Court turns his red-rimmed toward his baby brother.
His doomed baby brother. A sob catches in the back of his throat.
“Court, you have to do it. Don’t let me turn into them” Colt begs.
He’d dragged himself a few feet away from Court and Ryland, who still lies unconscious on the pavement. Colt sits leaning against a pillar, legs sprawled out in front of him, face pale as a corpse. He holds a bloody hand to his bitten shoulder, as it to stop the bleeding.
They can stop the blood, but they can’t stop time.
“I can’t.” Court chokes out. “I can’t.”
“You can. You’ve done it a thousand times before.” Colt’s voice is the softest he’d ever heard him speak. “It’s not any different.”
Court shakes his head. He refuses. He has done so many things for his brothers. They can’t ask him to do this too.
“You can do it.”
His eyelashes flutter but his vision doesn’t clear. A droplet of grief drips down his cheek.
“Court, we left the other gun inside.” Colt pointed out, voice clear as reason. “The bullets in your gun are all we have. The gun’s too big for me to do it myself with one working arm.”
Court tilts his head in a silent plea, his lips pressed tight.
He breathes but the air doesn’t come.
He is choking around the hand on his neck. He is drowning under his father’s hand. He is watching his brother bleed out. He is bruised and broken and scared. He is screaming and crying and begging for deliverance. He is choking on the breath that will never come.
He is watching his brother die all over again.
“Don’t let me turn into a monster, please,” Colt pleads.
A broken whine forces itself past Court’s throat.
He should’ve caught him.
***
Colt is right. He’d done it a thousand times before.
In his nightmares, he has pulled the trigger that killed his brothers over and over again. A hundred times. A thousand times. A million times more. His living hell. His punishment.
It isn’t any different.
***
“Good shot, Ry!” Court called out.
He tossed the baseball back and forth against his mitted hand a few times. He wished he could practice his throw properly for his game this weekend. He’d made the varsity team—as a freshman!—and he was eager to prove himself.
But Colt and Ryland couldn’t catch his real throw yet. He might just break a bone or knock a tooth out if he wasn’t careful.
Maybe one day he could play a proper game with his brothers.
Court really looked forward to that day.
He tossed the ball lightly to Colt.
Court smirked. Perfect aim.
Jumping up and down, Colt waved the ball above his head. “Did you see that, Cory? Did you see? I caught it!”
Court laughed, bright as bells, with the clear blue sky above him and fluttering green grass under his feet. “Yeah, I did! Now throw it back to Ry!”
***
It’s not fair.
Why is it always Court that has to pull the trigger?
***
Court doesn’t know how long he sits there.
He can’t bring himself to get up.
He can’t bring himself to close his brother’s eyes.
He can’t bring himself to move his brother’s cor-.
He can’t-
Ryland stirs.
Court can’t bring himself to look at his remaining brother.
Ryland sits up, wincing at the pain im his head. He stands up.
He doesn’t make it two steps before he stops.
“Court?” Ryland stuttered. “Is- is that Ryland? Why- what-”
Court’s head shot up.
“What?”
He looks—really looks—at Ryland(?). He sees the way Ryland(?) doesn’t put any weight on his left leg.
Left leg?
Court scrambles to where Colt(?) lies.
His hands shake as he slices open Colt(?)’s right pant leg at the thigh with his Swiss knife.
He smells it before he sees it.
Breath quivering, he peels open the cloth to see motley-colored bandages.
Red.
Yellow.
The skin above and below it is as black as ink.
Court’s gaze drags up from the bandages, up the blood-soaked yellow shirt, the blood-covered neck, the blood-streaked cheeks, and meets his baby brother’s glassy blue eyes below a bleeding bullet hole.
Ryland’s eyes.
***
“Cory! Here!” Without warning, Ryland shoved a piece of paper into Court’s hands.
Court raised his eyebrows.
He was looking at… A messy crayon drawing of three stick people, but…
He stifled a snicker. His baby brothers were only four, and Mom said he should be gracious to them. “Ryry, what is this?”
“It’s us! This is me. This is you. And this is Coco!” Ryland peered up at Court with a chubby grin. “It’s us together forever!”
“Forever? That’s a long time, Ryry,” Court smirked. “How come we all look the same?”
"’Cos we do!”
Court rolled his eyes. “You couldn’t have drawn us with different clothes at least?” He teased.
Ryland seemed to seriously consider the question, a cute little wrinkle decorating his forehead. “But I like it when we match!”
His pout was so cute that Court couldn’t help but hoist Ryland up by the waist and tickle him until he was laughing uncontrollably. When his arms got tired, Court laid down on the sofa with Ryland on top of him.
He grinned up at his baby brother. “Forever, huh?” He mused. He rested a hand on Ryland’s soft blond head. “I’d like that.”
***
Court lays down the blueblossoms he hand-picked. He rests a hand on the small mound of dirt.
***
Court waits for the day his sins are paid, when he may finally rest.
Court waits for forever.
Until then, he will keep walking.