This Would Be Paradise (Book 2)-A Zombie Novel

Chapter 33

We got back to the broken down Mazda easily enough, it was getting back to Hargrove that was proving difficult. The infected had decided to have a parade in the streets in honor of our return trip and it was not appreciated.

"How much worse could this day get?" Roy muttered loud enough for me to hear him.

"Have you never seen a horror movie? Never ask that," I said. John choose that moment to swerve around a couple of infected almost side-swiping a fire-hydrant.

We finally reached the gate to Hargrove only to be stopped by the guards peeking over the edge with their weapons.

"Stop!" the Filipino lady demanded.

John got out to show them his face. "It's us!"

The guard leaned down to stay something and the gate began to open. Our newly acquired Civic must have thrown them off since they would have been expecting the Mazda to return.

"Bailey, we're gunna need your Beretta," John said.

I got out and began to pick off our groupies that had followed us here. John had purposely taken a less direct route to Hargrove through the city to avoid this problem. Stupid infected. I no longer needed two hands to hold the handgun steady, so I made sure I had the axe in my left hand in case some got too close.

One by one, every infected I shot was transformed into one of the faceless mercenaries. They had killed my friends, they had tried to kidnap me, they had tried to kill me; I wanted them dead and I wanted to be the one to do it. Just like Riley. My head shot up as that last thought echoed in my head. I was starting to scare myself again with all the anger and resentment.

"Bailey, come on!" John's voice boomed behind me.

I turned and followed the car inside the closing gate. Once the gate closed behind us, people started to crowd us. A brief moment of panic gripped me as my mind registered the encroaching people as a group of infected.

"Where's your car?"

"What happened?"

"I thought you were bringing others back?"

We were hounded with questions, their voices mixing into one another all around me. I could feel my heart rate rising, my lungs struggling for breath. I fought the urge to scream and cry all at once. My limbs were ice cold, yet my body feel like it was boiling.

"Move," I said no more than a whisper.

No one got out of the way, in fact it seemed like they were closing in even more. I felt like an injured animal waiting for a predator to strike.

"Move!" I screamed, my lungs still struggling for air.

The voices stopped and I shoved my way through the crowd heading towards our condo. I needed to get away from everyone; from the noise and gazes. In a full sprint, I ran down the street and barreled through our front door. Once inside I headed for my room, slamming the door behind me and falling onto the bed.

The weight of the day we had finally came crashing down on me like a collapsed shelf of books. One by one, every dead face, every dodged bullet, hit me. I hadn't allowed myself to panic while we were out and now it had sent me into a panic attack. What was happening to me? I thought I could deal with anything, but this world kept knocking me down. Around every corner was some new horror to witness. We fought and clawed our way out only to find out we hadn't fought hard enough.

I placed my hand over my heart. It was beating faster than if I had just run ten miles. My stomach was in knots and I found myself running for the bathroom as my gag reflex started to kick in. I barely made it to the toilet before I heaved up the contents of my stomach. My eyes watered as I threw up for the last time. Using the bathtub as a brace, I sat down on the ragged bathmat and leaned against the cool, acrylic surface taking numerous deep breaths.

A nasty, acidic taste coated my tongue. As I sat there breathing through my nose, my heart rate started to return to normal. I hadn't had a panic attack since my first year at university. Can't say I missed it. Tears silently ran down my face and I let them drip onto my shirt. When I heard the front door open, I finally wiped at my damp cheeks. I listened to the footsteps as they approached the bathroom door. In my state, I had forgotten to shut it.

John appeared, his face serious.

"I know it's stupid to ask if you're okay, since you ain't, but are you?"

I looked down, not wanting to meet his eyes. The last person I wanted to think that I was weak, was John.

"You know when I was in the Marines, we saw some shit. Now I know everybody who comes back says that, but it doesn't make it any less true. Some men couldn't handle what they saw and came back to the U.S. a mess of a person," John swallowed loudly. "I even dealt with some PTSD from the things I had to do. I tried booze and all it got me was an ex-wife and lost years with my son. But I sobered up and took over my father's store, got back into Taylor's life thanks to an amazin' lady."

I finally looked up at John. I had expected his speech to end where he thanked the Lord for his turn around, but I was proven wrong.

"My therapist Ms. Du Bois. She got me right in the head again and set me down the path I was supposed to be on. Not a day goes by where I'm ashamed for askin' for help."

John let me digest his words in silence.

"I don't think Hargrove has a therapist," I said finally.

"You don't need someone with a fancy degree, just an ear and a desire to help."

"Is that you?"

"Only if you want it to be."

I took a deep breath, "I don't know. I kind of need to sort through it all myself before I can sort through it with another person."

John nodded, "Whenever you're ready."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome. Now flush that toilet, please."

The corner of my lips upturned as I reached over and hit the lever.