The Walker Family Vacation (Episode 3)
The Walker Family Vacation
episode 3
Shane McRory
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Episode 3
of The Walker Family Vacation serial
First Edition. May 7, 2020.
Copyright © 2020 by Shane McRory
All rights reserved.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Afterword
Webcomic
About the Author
1
Troy
On Brit’s front lawn, Troy had texted his family.
Her house was mostly hidden from the street by a towering overgrown cedar hedge and she’d cut ahead of him on her bike, black ponytail streaming behind her, then arcing a tight hook into a barely noticeable gap in the cedar wall, doing it so fast the soft rubber of her bike’s wheels chirped on the macadam. Fingers clamped on his brakes, he’d swerved in behind her, both of them jumping off their bikes and letting them roll and clatter on her shaggy unshorn lawn, dotted with yellow pops of dandelion.
Without looking back at him, she’d jumped off the stolen bike and kept running, her skinny legs hoofing and kicking up the steps. He’d yelled after her to stop, didn’t want her to go in without him, but she didn’t heed him. He’d trotted after, hand pulling out his phone from the pocket of his cargo shorts. When she’d stopped to unlock her front door, he’d blasted off a message of warning to all the members of the WFV group.
Troy: People gone crazy in town—virus—do not come to town, watch out, don’t let anyone get close to you THEY BITE go straight back to hotel every body meet there stay safe I love you
In an effort to be believable, he’d kept details scarce—who would fucking believe him?—and went for earnest concern and solid advice. Purposely, he avoided the word ‘zombie’ because they would all roll their eyes and put their phone away. God, if anything happened to one of them…
It could have been a mistake coming with Brit, and now that he was here he wasn’t sure why he followed her at all. This might have fucked everything up for him—and for his family who might want to come and look for him.
There was just something in the pleading he’d heard in her voice. There was no way he could’ve left her alone, and fuck it, what was done was done.
Now he was looking up, standing on her ratty lawn and seeing the porch empty, the front door left wide and Brit gone inside. Alone.
“Shit, fuck,” he hissed to himself, pounding up the gray-painted wooden steps and onto the porch.
Brit’s home was a two-story Federal, small and narrow, packed onto a tight lot but hidden from the neighbors by foliage. The siding was white, the trim white, windows blank and unseeing, the shades pulled down. He paused at the gap in the door and peered into the dim interior.
“Brit?”
He called her name, but heard no reply. Why the fuck didn’t she wait for him? One minute was all he needed; just one minute to send a warning to his own family—couldn’t she wait for him before hurtling herself into possible danger?
He opened the door wider and called her name again. Still no reply.
If she was in danger, he had to temper caution, and so now he pushed the door wider and darted into the house.
It was dark, light from outside obscured by the drawn shades except for a daylight-bright kitchen ahead of him, past the steps that led upstairs. Women’s shoes—low pumps, pink sneakers, and various small-size sandals—were kicked in a tumbling heap next to a coat rack burdened with jackets. The floors were hardwood that could do with a sweep, and he stood on a woven cotton rug that should be taken outside and shaken out.
With caution, he made his way deeper through the central hall to a confluence of archways near the bottom of the steps. Not messing around anymore, he cupped his hands around his mouth and hollered her name: “Brit!”
He hunched his shoulders, shocked by the volume of his own voice and concerned his yelling could bring one of those things to him.
Then weakly, floating down the stairs from the second floor, Brit’s soft voice answering: “Hold on.”
Hold on? Jesus, Brit.
Now he yelled a little less intensely: “You okay?”
A moment went by and then she answered. “Yeah.” Then another heartbeat, she said again, “Hold on.”
He turned and closed the heavy wooden inner door and flicked the lock closed. Outside and beyond the porch, he could see over the top of the cedar hedge and the houses across the street. The sun was bright, reflecting a glow off their white-siding fronts. But nothing stirred out there; no birds, no squirrels, no joggers, people on bikes—hell, here on the island there were no horse-drawn carriages while there should be. It was eerily quiet.
Phone pulled from his pocket, he checked the screen, surprised to see there were no responses to his message. One touch and he speed-dialed his father, put the phone to his ear. Nothing but silence. Checked the screen again, saw the Wi-Fi symbol was active, but there was an exclamation mark next to it where he should see his 4G—and he had no idea what the fuck that meant. Thumbs blasting on the digital keyboard, he sent off a text query:
Troy: anyone get my message?
His text appeared as if sent, but below it there was a red triangle he’d never seen before. He bit his lip and waited. Nothing.
The text didn’t go through, and phone service was down.
Below his first text he saw a small check mark that he was used to seeing; an indication someone had read that first message.
The urge to be with his family suddenly came over him in a washing wave. The idea little Bethany was out there with Mom, vulnerable, stabbed at him quick and hard.
Where was it they all went?
Dad went to the spa, Mom and Aunt April took the girls to go horseback riding… Where?… He had no idea where that even was. Hunt and Wooly went to mini-golf. At least they’d be close to the resort, close to Dad who would watch for them. And Houston. Houston was there too at the resort. He wasn’t feeling well this morning… Shit, what if he was one of them? What if he died in his sleep and became… Undead? And fuck—Nana and Poppy, where had they gone?
“Brit?” he called out again from the bottom of the stairs, and without an answer he began heading up the creaking steps.
2
Charles
Evie had been sniffling and coughing into the tissue she kept in the front pocket of her shorts since breakfast. They’d left the others at the hotel, and together strolled the boardwalk to look out at the water, the whole while Edie not even looking and enjoying the scenery, instead trying to engage him in a game of Can you believe this Houston guy? He asked her if she was coming down with a cold. She tut-tutted him, and they continued on past the mini-golf, both of them saying that they couldn’t see Hunt there, Edie saying he was probably off drinking alcohol with that Wooly kid, or smoking drugs, then they went out past the edge of the developed tourist area into a grassy park that extended the shoreline. On the right-hand
side, fifty feet off, was a quiet but main thoroughfare that traveled around the southern edge of shore. Beyond the road, a steep rocky hill rose, sections of grass seesawing back and forth across it. The crest of the hill was drawn with a dotted line of houses.
There was a dilemma. He knew there was something wrong with Evie, but Evie was a tangle. Like dancing in thorn bushes sometimes, his wife used to say. Encounters with Evie were reserved for family holidays: Easter, Thanksgiving, and Christmas. But Evie was perpetually a venomous hydra. But she was Amanda’s mother-in-law, so he always played the snake-charmer.
Evie coughed again, sounding a little more productive, and checked her tissue. Both of them saw—and there was no sense in hiding it—it was blood. Only it looked much darker, almost black. Five spots that dotted her tissue; black splotches edged in reddish brown. Both of them, at this age, knew what that meant. But he wouldn’t say the word, nor would she. Instead, he said, “Come on, let’s get you sitting on the bench here.” He took her elbow, escorted her from the gravel path a few steps onto the grass to a sun-beaten wooden bench angled to watch the water. He helped her sit, sat down next to her, still holding her hand.
He said, “How long have you been sick?”
She scoffed. “I haven’t been sick at all. I’m not sick.” She clutched the balled tissue tighter, as if by closing it off from their sight she could deny the truth.
It was better to be positive in times like this, so he said, “It’s the dry air. We should call the concierge when we get back and see if they can get you a humidifier for your room.”
“That’s a good idea,” she said. Evie was a woman who liked plans of action—especially ones centered around dominating subservient people. The idea that she would call the front desk, blame the staff for her bloody tissue, and make demands that they would have to meet, gave her something more positive to focus on. That moment of horror Charles saw pass in her face when she saw the blood was replaced now with a stern brow.
“That’s what we’ll do,” he said. Then following her gaze out over the water, he said, “But we should get you to a doctor or something as well. There has to be something on the island. Maybe an inhaler…” Or an oncologist…
“I don’t need to see a doctor.”
“Irritated lungs like that are no joke, Evie. Come on, let me call us a cab.”
“A cab? Out here? Not likely. Unless it’s horse-drawn. I don’t even know why we came to this place…”
“You don’t think it’s pretty?”
“It’s pretty, sure. Lots of pretty places where you’re not cut off from the rest of the world.”
“A little isolation is a good thing, sometimes.”
“Spoken like a true outdoorsman.” Her voice was thick with sarcasm.
He grimaced interiorly, but wouldn’t let her have the satisfaction of seeing him recoil from her jab. Until he’d retired, he’d been an executive at two National Parks, and Evie somehow equated this to him being a granola-crunching hippie, some kind of bearded Walden living out in the woods all on his own. Or maybe she pictured Ted Kaczynski.
“I think it’s good for the kids.”
She sat upright, still with that scowl. He could hear a wheezing in her breath as she prepared to respond but could sense another cough coming on.
He said, “Evie, there’s blood on your tissue, we both know it. If you’re going to cough now, be careful…”
“I’m not going to cough,” she said, voice pinched by a wet and restricted airway.
“You are, too,” he said in a sing-song, trying to keep it light. She shook her head no and tried to clear her throat.
He watched now as she gathered the tissue in both hands, straightened it out, flipped it around so neither of them would see the stain, tried clearing her throat again, but failed — her hand shot up and covered her mouth and she blasted a wet hack into the bundled tissue. But she wouldn’t look, and she wouldn’t let him, either, instead folding it in four, clenching it in her left hand. She put that hand in the pocket of her shorts, sunlight winking off the wedding band she still wore though old Joe was deceased. Christian said she nagged her husband to death.
He said, “We can walk back to town.”
“We could.”
“You’re up to it?”
“Why wouldn’t I be up to it?” She gave him a look of irritation.
“Evie, come on. I’m your friend…”
It didn’t change her expression, the scowl still pinching her features. She looked out over the water again. A sailboat slipped along out there, white delta sail zipping to the left.
Evie said, “Sorry if I’m short.”
“That’s all right.” There was a good chance that she knew she was sick. That would put anybody on edge, and Evie already danced close.
He said, “You got two choices. You can take my hand, and together we’ll walk into town. Or I can call us a cab, not one on horseback, we can take you to the hotel and see if they have an infirmary, the island must have some sort of walk-in. It’s not a big deal, Evie. We’ll get you an inhaler, lubricate those lungs of yours…”
“And a humidifier…”
“That’s right, and a humidifier…” He extended his hand…
3
Troy
The bead-board wall running along the stairs to the second floor was festooned with family pictures in mismatched frames. Pictures of Brit at different ages, two other black-haired girls who must have been her sisters; Brit the oldest and prettiest. Most of the pictures had her father, who seemed to be quite the successful angler, and at the top of the stairs, a wedding photo; a younger version of her father and a black-haired woman with those same striking gray eyes Brit had.
At the top of the stairs, he doubled back, hand on railing walking the hallway past darkened bedrooms with open doors, making his way toward the only enclosed room, that must be the master bedroom, looking out the front of the house and onto the street. Past the door he could hear Brit moving around, heard rustling wrappers, and banging empty plastic tubs, her feet shuffling. He tented his fingertips on the door, his other hand resting on the lever.
“Brit? You okay?”
She said, “Just a minute.”
“We need to get out of here. I have to get back to the hotel. Do you have a car?”
“No,” she mumbled.
Shit. “Do you know where we can get one?”
“No,” she said impatiently. Then adding, “Maybe.”
“This is so fucking crazy,” he whispered and rested his forehead on the door. “Hey, Brit—Do you have any guns?”
From behind the door: “No, we don’t.”
“Any weapons of any kind?” he asked, squeezing the door lever.
He heard her sigh. She sniffed, then said, “You can come in now.”
“Okay,” he said, not sure what to anticipate, turning the lever and slowly pushing the door open.
The blinds in the room were drawn, and a table lamp next to the bed threw off warm yellow light from behind a shade with roses printed on it. Brit stood next to the bed, elbows up, her hands wrapped around to rub at the back of her own neck, her face toward him but her wet eyes turned away as though she was afraid to look at him. In the queen-size bed and laying peacefully under the covers was what he thought for a brief uncomprehending instant to be a zombie. Pale, skin sickly and paper-thin, cheeks gaunt, and sunken, it was a skeletal man. Troy coughed a quiet grunt; reality setting in, his brain finding the gears it needed to process this man was her father, the handsome capable person he saw in photos holding a two-foot long pike by a hooked finger in its mouth.
He stepped to the foot of the bed, watching the lifeless man—then seeing his chest gently rising and falling under the bedding Brit had neatly folded and creased over his chest and under his arms.
“Is he okay?” he asked, already knowing the answer.
“No,” she said, rubbed the point of a knuckle under her eye then running a strand of her father’s white hair bac
k in place, smoothing it over the others. “He’s resting now. You know, morphine. I . . . just had to do his bedpan.” With another sniff, eyes still turned down, she said, “This is my dad,” then more bewildered neck rubbing, and she whispered, “my sister should have been here. She should be looking after him. I hope she’s . . . not . . .”
Her expression struggled to remain composed, cheeks burning bright red, eyes wet, lips wriggling with elastic tension as she looked to the window—seeing only the shade.
“Brit, I’m sorry,” he told her. Now he knew why she was having such a terrible summer. Frozen at the foot of the bed, he was awestruck; mind racing, his body seeking urgent instruction, but just standing there. He said, “Is it all right . . . Do you want me to hold you?”
She shook her head no and quietly said, “Come out to the hall.”
When they were outside the bedroom together she closed the bedroom door behind her. Still facing the door, she said, “We had a car. We sold it.”
Troy did his best to hold back a sigh, but it got out.
She said, “When he gave up chemo we didn’t need to travel to the mainland, and . . . we needed money for some home care.”
He said, “We have to get out of here, Brit.”
“Maybe we could stay here. We could board up the windows.”
“Ahh, fuck,” he sighed, digging his fingertips into his cheeks and rubbing his face. He leaned his back to the wall next to the bedroom door.
Not looking at him, she said, “I’m sorry, Troy. I was afraid. I’m sorry I asked you to come.”