Those Lazy Sundays: A Novel of the Undead by Thomas North

hurt?”
    “No we’re not hurt,” Jack began. “We’re… being followed. It’ll probably sound like we’re crazy, but there are these people after us and they’ll be here soon, I think. They have some sort of disease or something, it’s making them… crazy.”
    “Sounds like you should call the police,” the man replied.
    “We’ve tried. Something is going on. All we get are busy signals and error messages. Please, these people are after us! They’re really dangerous and we need some place to hide!”
    He was careful not to say what he really thought. He assumed that showing up at a secluded house at night saying “Excuse me, would you like to buy some Boy Scout Popcorn, and also please let us in because we’re being chased by a bunch of hypnotized nutbags who want to kill us for no apparent reason,” probably wouldn’t result in much hospitality.
    The man stared at them, but said nothing. It looked like he was thinking.
    “Sir? Can you help?” Jack pleaded.
    “So you brought them here huh? Great,” the man said at last. His voice sounded more resigned than angry. “I guess you’d better come in then.” He motioned for them to follow.
    They walked across the deck and entered through the door. The man watched Kate and then Jack enter the house before sliding the door shut, locking it, and closing the curtains again. He flipped a switch on the wall, and the lights outside went dark.
    The man turned and walked across the room. He favored his right leg badly as he moved, almost dragging it behind him. He turned on a small lamp that only lit half the room, and told them to have a seat. The light revealed a small but cozy family or living room. A tan sofa sat against the wall facing a large plasma television mounted on the opposite side of the room. A two-cushion love-seat was next to the sofa, and a large, reclining armchair was in the corner near the television. In the opposite corner was a red brick platform with a 19 th -century style wood stove sitting atop of it, its chimney running into the ceiling. A dark, stained-wood coffee table sat in the middle of the room with a collection of magazines and newspapers scattered on its surface. The kitchen was clearly visible through a wide entranceway located in the wall opposite the glass doors.
    Jack and Kate sat on the love seat. The man hobbled over to the chair and sat down gingerly. He placed the pistol on the arm of the chair, the barrel pointed straight at Jack.
    “My name is Phil Wittington,” he said. “I apologize. I would get up to shake your hand, but I’m a little under the weather right now.”
    Jack and Kate introduced themselves by first name only, not sure what else they should begin their conversation with. The man – or Phil, as they now knew him to be – obviously knew what was going on, or at least as much as they did.
    “I assume you two must live around here, since I didn’t see a car,” Phil said.
    Jack shook his head.
    He and Kate went over their day with Phil step by step, explaining how they came to be sitting on his love seat, in his living room. They told him about driving back from the Strive retreat, arriving at the General Store, running over the man in the road, their friends going to Allentown, and their encounter with the group of people near the driveway. Phil sat back in his chair, listening intently to their story, nodding occasionally, but not saying anything. When they finished, he leaned forward slightly, grimacing.
    “I see,” he said. “I just came from around that area. I must have passed you on the road coming in, huh? Probably drove right by.”
    “Actually you almost ran us over,” Jack replied.
    “Sorry,” Phil apologized. “I probably just thought you were one of them. Truth is, I was driving about as fast as I could to get home, not really paying attention to anything. I just wanted to be off the road, get inside. I don’t even recall seeing you, but I must have. I’m sorry I didn’t stop