Tails of the Apocalypse

by David Bruns

  * * *

  Dawn brought more of the creatures. He awoke to them moving through the house. As he had the night before, he inhaled deeply to stamp the boy’s smell on his brain one last time. Then he poked his nose from beneath the covers.

  One of them dragged a foot aimlessly down the hallway as it passed the door to the boy’s room. Eventually, he knew, he had to move. The longer he delayed, the further away the boy was. There was no rope binding him now. He must move soon if he were ever to find the boy.

  He stood, ready to hop down, and his stomach roiled with his earlier feast. The creature’s shadow hesitated. He stood stock still, the boy’s furs around his head and shoulders. The creature grunted as it turned to come back up the hallway.

  Fear coursed through him. His brain prepared his body for combat. He wanted to growl, to warn the creature away, as he and the boy had warned the stray away. But they were too big, much bigger than the stray, and they never stopped until they fed. Even after they fed. His growl would only bring their attention to him, he knew.

  He had only one choice, then.

  Leaping from the bed, he darted through the doorway, ignoring the groan of hunger behind him. He waddled down the hall, last night’s binge weighing him down.

  Shambling shadows appeared in the living room, attracted by the first creature’s frustration. One of them was small like the Baby, only crawling. It dragged itself across the floor of the living room toward the hall. His eyes darted back and forth, looking for a path to freedom.

  The crawling creature reached for him, and he was tempted to nip at the hand like he had the Baby’s. But he thought before acting. He wasn’t sure what biting one of the creatures would mean. Would he change too? Would he become one of them, no matter who bit first?

  He feinted left, then jogged right and past the crawler’s clutching hands. Another creature stood between him and the open front door, but he darted between its legs and tumbled outside.

  Creatures moved randomly in the street as the others in the house turned to pursue him. He could see bodies of the members of other packs sprawled around in death. At least some of them had stayed dead, as they should.

  Now that he was out in the open, it was easy to avoid the creatures. His leg muscles bested the weight of his stomach, and he moved from body to body, making sure they were not the boy or the other members of his own pack. When he was satisfied, he moved into the woods behind the neighborhood and began his search.

  * * *

  His strategy was simple. He hid when the creatures were around and tracked when they weren’t. But tracking the boy was difficult. His scent was almost impossible to find.

  As the Storm of Teeth grew in ferocity and size, as its biters spread their plague, the stench of the dead was everywhere. They were everywhere. Always hungry. Always eating. His fur was up more often than it wasn’t. He began to feel awake, even while sleeping.

  The first day he spent going to the places he and the boy had always gone. The dog park. The route they walked, where the stray had attacked them. The fishing hole. But each time he failed to find the boy, his sadness deepened, his desperation grew. For three days he searched and tracked and found nothing but danger and grief.

  On the third night, a bat attacked him, and he ran into cover on instinct. The bat carried a disease like the creatures. He could smell it. Only this disease was older, one he knew to avoid without thinking. He knew that if the bat bit him, he’d die. Death would be agony. He knew this. And he’d try to spread the bat’s disease to others, too.

  Maybe the plague of the creatures was like the bat’s disease, then. He’d seen it turn members of other packs rabid after they were bitten. They joined the Storm of Teeth and became spreaders of the plague. Deep in his bones, he knew if a creature bit him, the plague would take him too. The same as would happen if the bat bit him. At last, the answer to the question. Whether he bit a creature or it bit him, he’d become a plague carrier. And go mad.

  He resolved in that moment never to become like them. Not just for himself, but for the boy too. What if he found the boy after becoming plagued? He knew he’d try and hurt him, try to spread the sickness. Like the bat had tried to hurt him. And hurting wasn’t love. Not even runt love. And he didn’t want to hurt anyone, not ever.

  That night, he returned to the fishing hole and laid his head near the edge of the pond. Maybe the boy would come back here after all, he decided. Maybe he’d remember this place, their refuge on lazy afternoons.

  As he rested, the thought suddenly came upon him: what if the boy had been bitten by a creature? He whimpered quietly. Missing his second self made him ache inside. But it hurt even worse to think of the boy as a plaguebearer. Drooling, ravenous, and spreading madness to others like the bat.

  No longer a boy. No longer his boy. An un-boy.

  His twin wouldn’t want that, he decided. The boy was just like him and would never want to hurt anyone. He’d only ever barked the once, when the stray had threatened them. He’d never barked again, not even when the Baby cried all the time and everyone else began to bark at one another, aggravated.

  He and the boy shared the desire to never hurt another soul. Better to die a natural death than walk, eternally ravenous, through an unnatural un-life. He slipped into the waking sleep that now passed for rest.

  * * *

  Before dawn, a noise startled him awake. His eyes popped open. That night in the yard, he’d learned to look first without turning his head. But the noise was off to the left. His spinal fur was already up, alerted by his nose. His ears too had warned him before his eyes had opened. It was the shambling noise. The shuffling, methodical step … step … step of eternal appetite. The hungry, persistent tread of a creature that should be still and dead. He sniffed quietly, but the wind was moving in the wrong direction.

  He turned his head slowly to see how many.

  Only one.

  The only one that mattered.

  The only one that mattered at all.

  He whined.

  The boy’s clothes were shredded and dirty. His eyes were yellow and rheumy. His mouth was red and shredded, as if he’d gnawed his own lips away to stave off starvation.

  The wind shifted and he caught the scent. It wasn’t the boy’s sweet smell, the smell of runt love and playtime and warm furs on cold nights. It was the rotting stench of un-life.

  He couldn’t stop his sadness from becoming sound. His whine of fear became a moan of hope stolen away. Attracted by the noise, the boy turned and reached out for him.

  He stood up. He barked. He didn’t care if other creatures heard. He wanted to warn this one away. To somehow scare the plague out of the boy and make it give his twin back to him. To be a champion again for his second self.

  All his searching. All his caution.

  He wanted the boy back!

  The un-boy marched forward, moaning. A sad sound. But as with the other creatures, hunger ruled all. The un-boy bared his teeth through a ragged, receding mouth.

  Reaching.

  The dog growled and backed away. He’d never growled at the boy in anger. Only in play. But as the two of them stalked one another along the same shore where they’d shared so many afternoons dozing in the sun, he knew this creature was no longer his twin.

  One moved forward, hungry; the other back, frightened.

  Other sounds. Other creatures. From the other side of the shore.

  He glanced to his right. There were several.

  Then more.

  Then many.

  Too many.

  He turned back to the creature that had been the boy. His whine erupted into a ragged, desperate stream of barking. The un-boy’s fingers worked the air, clutching for him. He remembered the boy’s scent, his real scent, and how much it smelled like love. How much it filled him up to share everything with the boy—to share a reason for living as a friend, each a champion for the other.

  Then, he decided. Despite every instinct that begged him to run,
as he’d run at the house, he stayed and stood his ground.

  He knew his second self would never want to be this un-boy, hurting others. And he didn’t want it either—for either of them. But the boy couldn’t protect himself now. It was up to him to stand between the boy and the stray again. To free the boy who was his best friend from the un-life that should never have been.

  A final moment to share together.

  He leapt into the un-boy’s outstretched arms and ripped out his throat.

  A Word from Chris Pourteau

  Chris and Queenie, ca. 1969.

  I’ve loved dogs for a long time. In fact, except for a handful of years in high school and college, I’ve never lived without one.

  Dogs are slobbery. Some of them bark a lot, even when there’s nothing to bark at. Most unashamedly beg for food.

  But they’re also incredibly loyal. They’ll fight for you before they fight for themselves. They can sense your moods, giving you space when you need it or resting their heads on your lap to let you know you’ve got a friend. At night, they’ll lay by your side and watch over you, just in case the zombies come knocking.

  So when I sat down to write “Unconditional,” I wanted to capture that. All of it. All of what it means to be a dog: the second-class citizenry they sometimes endure; the soul-mate love they sometimes find with a special human; the undying loyalty and self-sacrifice they give instinctively.

  One day in the fall of 2014, my friend, Stefan Bolz—who contributed “Protector” to this anthology—posted a photo of his dog, Ember, on Facebook. She stood in the middle of an empty country road in the fall, leaves covering everything, stock still and staring down the road’s lonely length. The perspective of the shot reminded me of similar images I’d seen on The Walking Dead a hundred times over. Ember held a determined stance, but there was also something sad in the way she stared at that empty road. Like she’d lost something—or someone—and was on a quest to find them. Her boy, perhaps. And that was the genesis for “Unconditional.” Thank you, Stefan, for posting that image.

  When I first published the story, I worried about how it’d be received. It’s no Disney tale of two dogs kissing over a plate of spaghetti. I even considered giving “Unconditional” a happy ending. But no, that’s not what the story demanded. And so I published it on Amazon in January 2015 and bit my lower lip.

  By and large, the response has been tremendously positive. Readers—especially dog lovers—found something in the story that spoke to them, and its reviews reflect that. And then I thought: why not an entire anthology? And with other animals too, not just dogs.

  So I reached out to the most talented authors I knew, and that’s how this anthology came to be. Although I originally published “Unconditional” as a solo short story, I felt it had a place as the final tale in this collection. The story—and reader response to it—started the process that created this anthology, so there was a certain serendipitous synergy to including it. If it’s your first time reading my story, I hope you enjoyed it. And if you’d read it before, I hope you found something new to like.

  If you’d like to know more about me and my writing, please visit chrispourteau.thirdscribe.com and sign up for my newsletter. Or you can email me at c.pourteau.author@gmail.com or find me on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/arkewall. I’d love to hear from you.

  Acknowledgments

  It took a huge team of dedicated individuals to put together this anthology. And though I’m sure I’ll forget someone, I want to take a moment and acknowledge as many people as I can.

  First and foremost, I want to thank all the writers for their excellent contributions. I especially appreciate David Adams, Michael Bunker, Nick Cole, Hank Garner, E.E. Giorgi, Deirdre Gould, and Edward W. Robertson opening up their respective worlds in which to set their Tails stories.

  My principal partners in crime for producing this collection were contributors Todd Barselow and David Bruns. Todd took point on publishing the paperback through Auspicious Apparatus Press (http://www.apparatuspress.com/), helming coordination of the audiobook and working his connections to help us garner as much support for launch day as possible. David stepped up and took the lead on marketing. The collection wouldn’t have been nearly as successful without them since I was head-down for most of the time editing the stories. And David was the one that came up with the inspired idea of teaming with Pets for Vets, Inc., and he couldn’t have found a better cause for Tails to support.

  And speaking of Pets for Vets, Founder Clarissa Black, President of the Board of Directors Ann Black, and Houston Chapter Director Jessica Devitt, have all been amazing to work with. They not only helped us promote the anthology on their Facebook page, but Clarissa went on podcasts with us and, I hope, won over new supporters for Pets for Vets. The stories presented in Tails emphasize the inherent nobility, self-sacrifice, and unconditional love that animals so often show their human companions, so Pets for Vets’ mission of training and matching shelter dogs with military veterans suffering from emotional trauma (like Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder) was a perfect fit. If you haven’t already, please visit http://www.petsforvets.com and ask them how you can help this noble mission of mercy that finds a loving home for dogs who would otherwise be euthanized and a loving companion for those who need one most. And please “like” their Facebook page at https://www.facebook.com/PetsforVetsInc?fref=ts.

  E.J. Smith, a good friend and advisor for the Military Family Advisory Network (http://www.militaryfamilyadvisorynetwork.org/), helped us get the word out nationwide to a number of organizations dedicated to supporting military families. This helped raise Pets for Vets’ profile across that network and helped our authors find readers they might never have otherwise reached.

  Contributor Hank Garner opened up his Author Stories Podcast—which is carving out an ever-increasing niche for itself as the go-to place for authors to discuss how they do what they do—to help us promote Pets for Vets’ cause and Tails. Contributor Jennifer Ellis organized a rockin’ Facebook launch party, which (as usual) was a blast and a great way for readers and authors to come together and talk books, movies, and anything else they could think of. She also championed our cause on Goodreads and helmed the giveaway event we held there.

  Adam Hall, our graphic designer, knocked his cover design out of the park with the first try, and all the ads, desktop backgrounds, etc., you might’ve seen in connection with Tails are a tribute to his talent. He also didn’t mind my going back to the well time and again with numerous “Can I get one of these now?” requests.

  Joanna Hunt and Michelle Benoit, both friends of mine I also happen to work with at the day job, helped with the formatting and final proofreading, respectively. It was a great help to have them covering bases that left me time to focus on other last-minute things. And another friend and colleague, Michelle Hoelscher, lent her social media and media relations expertise to help us promote the collection and our benefiting Pets for Vets to the media and the world at large. Her contribution to our ability to get the word out cannot be overstated.

  All of Team Tails would like to acknowledge our spouses, significant others, loved ones, and friends—not only for their support of this anthology, but for their continued support of this compulsion we all suffer from called “the need to create.” Their patience, alpha reading, and honest feedback (when what we write isn’t all we hoped it would be) are just some of the ways we writers experience our own version of unconditional love.

  We also appreciate our advanced-review copy readers, who took on the responsibility of reading the anthology (under a tight deadline) in order for us to launch on November 20 with enough reviews to make a splash. Without them, we’d just be one more lonely, self-published Amazon e-book surrounded by the virtual equivalent of crickets in the marketplace.

  And last—but certainly not least—thank you, dear reader, for spending your time reading the stories in this collection. Few things are as precious a gift as another person’s time, and we
at Team Tails appreciate your sharing yours with us. We hope you enjoyed our stories.

  Chris Pourteau, Author/Editor/Producer

  Tails of the Apocalypse

  November 2015

  A Word to Our Readers

  If you enjoyed Tails of the Apocalypse, we’d like to ask you for one small favor before you go. Please take a moment to review this collection at the venue where you purchased it (as well as on Goodreads if you’re a member).

  As a reader of independent authors, you’re both our market and our marketing force. Reviews are a key factor in promoting a work’s visibility—to other readers, of course, but also to critics and booksellers, who use reviews to determine, for example, what books to feature in promotions.

  But reviews also help other readers just like you decide if they should spend their money—and just as importantly, their time—on a published work. Providing a review is like presenting a public service announcement to your fellow readers, something you also benefit from when they do the same for you. Please recognize that by leaving a review, you’re making a real contribution to the world—and the quality—of independent publishing.

  Thank you for that.