Living With the Dead: Year One

by Joshua Guess

  He found Skip, limping badly, and pitifully weak. He wasn’t positive, but based on my description of Skip and the circumstances of his disappearance, he thought it likely he’d found my dog. He wrapped him in a small canvas tarp he was carrying.

  “I kept his head out, but when we hit that booby trap, I guessed there would be marauders nearby, and I know beagles. They bark. So I had to cover his head, hoping he’d be quiet till we were safe.”

  All I could do was say “thank you,” over and over. And maybe kiss him a few more times.

  Leaving Skip to rest we went out to the kitchen to find Quinn something to eat. Melissa passed us, and went into my room. I left Quinn at the table and followed her, wanting to make sure she didn’t accidentally jostle Skip’s injured leg.

  What I saw – and heard – when I entered the room stopped me in my tracks. Melissa was sitting by Skip, his head nestled carefully in her lap. And she was talking.

  “You’re a good boy, aren’t you? I know you’re hurt and scared, but it’s going to be okay.” Her delicate hands stroked over his head and down his back, avoiding the bandage. “You’re safe now, I promise. Nobody will ever hurt you again.”

  I stuck my head out the door and hissed, “Quinn, come here! You have to see this.” I hoped my voice carried to the kitchen, but wasn’t so loud it disrupted Melissa’s one-sided conversation with Skip.

  Quinn joined me in the doorway, and just stared. “Does she know who he is?”

  I nodded. “I think so. When I wasn’t reading to her, I told her stories. I told her about Skip, and made up versions of how I’d find him again someday.”

  “Listen to her,” he whispered. “She’s saying all the things people have said to her, trying to help her.”

  I was amazed, grateful, and for the first time since we realized something had gone terribly wrong with the world, I thought I might be happy.

  ***

  The next few weeks flew by. Quinn didn’t take any more assignments outside the Compound, and he spent a lot of time with us. Melissa continued to talk to Skip, and eventually started giving one-word answers to our questions, such as her age – fifteen, as I’d guessed – and that her last name was Donato.

  There were occasional skirmishes, but I barely noticed the smaller clashes anymore. There was one rumor that was troubling, though. Some of the scouts thought a few of the zombies they saw were “different.” They seemed to be faster and more intelligent than the ones we were used to seeing. If true, that was very disturbing.

  Regardless, life went on. Skip healed, his limp improving every day. It was such a delight to have him with us, accompanying us around the Compound, and sleeping on my bed at night.

  Quinn and I did a lot of talking, too. He’d taken to holding my hand as we walked, and there were quite a few more kisses. He didn’t push me, though, and I appreciated that more than I could say. Although I was finally seeing who he was, rather than who he appeared to be, I wasn’t yet ready for anything more intimate. I did tell him everything that had gone on at the hotel, though, and he listened. He showed anger at hearing what had been done to us, and sympathy, but he never displayed the one reaction that could have derailed our emerging trust. Pity.

  He also told me about his early life, some of the bad choices he made, and I began to understand the reasons behind them. He talked about sitting in prison, seeing all the ruined lives, and vowing that when he got out, he wasn’t falling back into that life.

  ***

  I seldom went outside the Compound’s walls, but my improving mental state left me eager to broaden my horizons. Quinn came to me early one morning and told me about a cherry orchard a couple of miles away. It had rained the night before, and the day was expected to be hot. Those who had been monitoring the trees thought the cherries should be picked soon, or risk losing many of them to rot.

  “Would you like to go?” he asked.

  I thought about it for a moment. “Yes, I would. My grandparents had cherry trees in their yard when I was little. I used to love climbing up and picking them for Gram.” I smiled at the recollection of that simple time. “Though I’m sure I ate as many as I put in the bucket.”

  Quinn laughed, telling me to be ready in an hour. I asked Melissa to take care of Skip while I was gone, and her solemn nod told me she would see that he was safe and happy, no matter what.

  We met the other volunteers, and we went in three pickup trucks, their beds carrying dozens of five-gallon buckets… and several armed guards. We weren’t crazy, after all.

  The guards moved through the orchard before signaling it was safe to start gathering the abundant fruit. The limbs were heavy with ripe cherries, and more decorated the grass beneath the trees. The air was sweet with the fragrance, reminding me of cherry pies and cobblers. I decided to check our library for books on canning, hoping to make some cherry preserves to brighten the winter.

  We spread out through the orchard, some of us picking from lower limbs, while others climbed to reach the fruit higher in the boughs. I put a full bucket down, knowing one of the men would haul the heavy container to the truck, and found an empty one. As I savored a cherry and spit the seed in the grass, I felt something pelt my shoulder. I turned to find Quinn grinning, in the midst of launching another cherry at me. It struck me in the forehead. I reached up to the point of impact, and my fingers came away with a tiny smear of bright red juice. I looked at Quinn. “Oh, it’s on now,” I said, laughing.

  When was the last time I’d laughed? Far, far too long.

  I dropped my bucket and scooped a handful of fruit from the ground, chasing after Quinn and hurling small red projectiles at his fleeing form. We darted in and out of the trees, slipping on the over-ripe fruit beneath our feet, and laughing so hard it was a wonder we could run at all. He swung around, turning the tables on me. He caught me around the waist, looking down into my face. I pushed my hair back with juice-stained fingers, and tried to catch my breath.

  Joy danced in Quinn’s dark eyes. How had I ever thought he was frightening? Surely I should have seen that only goodness dwelled behind that intimidating mask. I silently berated myself as every possible kind of idiot.

  “Guess we should get back to work, huh?” he asked.

  “Maybe. I don’t see anybody else goofing off.” As I said that, I realized I didn’t see anyone else at all. In our game, we’d found ourselves near the far side of the orchard.

  Beside me, Quinn stiffened and raised a hand to indicate I should be quiet. “Damn,” he said, his brows lowering as his expression turned to one of concern.

  I heard it then. Shouting. A gunshot. Another. Quinn grabbed my hand and we ran back in the direction we’d come. As we raced through the trees, real fear set in. It soon became clear there was a group of zombies between us and the others, and the battle was underway. They moved faster than other zombies I’d encountered, and seemed to be working in pairs to drive the members of our group apart, making them easier targets.

  I had only a small handgun, but Quinn had his machete. He never went out without it. I fired once, but I was a poor shot, and we knew it was best to kill the zombies with silent weapons to avoid attracting others.

  He left me beneath one of the larger trees. “Stay here,” he said. “I can take out the ones in the rear before they realize I’m behind them.”

  I started to argue, but Quinn wasn’t having it. “I can’t concentrate if I’m worried about you. Stay here and be quiet.”

  I reluctantly agreed, knowing he’d be much more help than I would, and he hurried into the fray. For a man of his size, he moved with astounding speed and grace, cutting down zombies with stroke after stroke of his blade.

  He’d eliminated most of the zombies in his vicinity, leaving only a handful still engaging our people near the trucks. He wiped his machete on the grass, and turned. I saw him focus behind me, and whipped my head around. At first I saw only a flash of movement through the trees, but then two zombies came into sight, moving faster than I w
ould have expected.

  Quinn ran toward them, but I wasn’t sure if he’d intercept them before they reached me. I started to run, but then did a double-take.

  One of the zombies coming toward us was Mason.

  I froze, terror so absolute that it felt as if I had turned to stone. Mason’s clothing was tattered, ragged wounds showing on his torso and arms. One cheek flapped down along his jaw, revealing his teeth in a macabre lopsided grin. He started in my direction.

  Quinn reached the other zombie first, severing his head with two powerful swings of his machete. Meanwhile, Mason was closing fast. “Quinn!” I screamed. “That’s him! That’s Mason!” Somehow, I was sure this reanimated Mason knew who I was, and felt we had unfinished business. I thought so, too, but not the same kind.

  Quinn sprinted, raising his blade. I had my gun, but my hand was shaking so badly I didn’t dare fire. Quinn was coming at me from an angle behind Mason, and I couldn’t risk hitting him.

  I found my legs and skittered backward, before turning to run. I heard impact behind me, and knew Quinn had taken my tormentor down. I heard the guttural groan of zombie vocalization, as well as Quinn’s grunts as he fought.

  I had to stop, had to turn to see what was happening. Quinn leaped to his feet, raised his machete, and brought it down with all his might, cleaving Mason’s forehead.

  Relief washed over me. It was over.

  Behind me, I still heard fighting, but the sound had diminished. I knew they had things under control. Then it truly would be over. Wouldn’t it?

  Quinn raised his head, and his expression of overwhelming sorrow nearly staggered me. I was so used to seeing combatants covered in blood that at first I didn’t realize much of what I saw on Quinn was his own. One hand hung at his side, blood dripping from a large wound on his wrist, spattering the ground in a cruel mockery of the cherries lying all around.

  But far worse was the wound in the curve where his neck and shoulder met. It was huge, a whole chunk of flesh missing. Blood flowed down his broad, wonderful chest.

  A zombie bite. The wrist wound could be from something else, but there was no mistaking the bloody mess on his neck.

  A sob clawed its way from my throat, and I ran to him. There had to be something I could do. But I knew there wasn’t.

  He put out his uninjured hand, preventing me from throwing myself against him. Nobody was sure how much contamination was needed to cause someone to turn, and even as he knew his own life was lost, he was protecting mine.

  “Ellen, don’t. I can’t let you.” His voice was ragged and already weakening.

  I sobbed. “I know. I know! But I must be able to… There has to be something…” I frantically searched my mind for any possible solution, but there was nothing I could do for a wound like Quinn’s.

  He shook his head, wincing with the effort. “There’s not.” He paused, struggling for breath. “You know what you have to do.”

  The only way to be sure a bite victim wouldn’t rise and become the very creature that had killed him was with a catastrophic wound to the head.

  Quinn wanted me to shoot him.

  How could I? Quinn had saved me, in every way a person could save another. How could I put a bullet in his head?

  “Darlin’, I need you to do this. I worked too hard to be something better.” He sank to the ground, before levering himself back with his good hand, bracing his back against a tree trunk. “I can’t turn. You can’t let me.”

  I knelt beside him, tears scalding my cheeks. I could see the spark fading from his eyes. Even as I watched, the flat, emotionless gaze of the zombie was emerging. “Quinn, I …”

  “Please,” he said. “I can feel it. It’s cold, moving up my neck, but it burns, too.” He drew a deep breath. “Please.”

  He was right. I owed him this mercy. I grasped his arm, above the bitten wrist, one area I could see was free of blood. I had to feel the solid warmth of him, one more time. Looking into his dimming eyes, I said, “Thank you, Quinn. For my life, and for all you did for Melissa, for Skip… Thank you for saving us.”

  “It was worth it, Ellen. It was all worth it. You saved me, too. Now do it again.”

  I raised my gun, placed it just behind his left ear, and pulled the trigger.

  I didn’t even get to kiss him goodbye.

  ***

  I’ve done a lot of thinking since I killed Quinn. Violence has always been part of our world, and at first we thought it had somehow become simultaneously more violent and more simple. The zombies were the monsters… except when they weren’t.

  It all comes down to intent. I’ve witnessed unimaginable horrors, and even committed some. I attacked in a blind rage, and I killed out of the purest desire to grant mercy. Intent, again. If zombies are capable of intent, it is only on the most primitive level. They present a constant danger, but they attack to feed their continued existence, not out of malice.

  People, though, are a different story. Is a violent act committed to protect yourself and those who depend on you? Or is it for greed, revenge, or simply because you enjoy the toxic rush of causing harm to others? Unlike the zombies, you can’t tell the human monsters by looking. They could be anyone, from a student librarian, to a warehouse stock boy, a religious fanatic, or an aspiring gang leader. You have to learn to see behind the masks if you hope to survive.

  Quinn is never far from my mind. I was unfair to him in the beginning, but he never gave up on me. Maybe the violence in his life before the world changed taught him to see the intent despite the mask it wore, or maybe he learned it quickly in those early days. Either way, his unselfishness and patience saved me. He gave me the strength I needed to overcome all that had happened, and survive as a contributing member of the community.

  I think I could have loved him, in time. Maybe I already had. I grieve that I’ll never know, but it also gives me hope that I’m still capable of love. Like everyone, I wear my own mask, but I’m no longer afraid to allow a select few to see what lies beneath.

  I wouldn’t say I’m happy, but I’m getting there. I have Melissa and Skip, work that benefits all of us in the Compound, a safe place to stay, and a growing number of friends. And, who knows… maybe one day I really will have it all.

  Lori spent her early years reading books in a tree in northern West Virginia. The 1980s and ‘90s found her and her husband moving around the Midwest, mainly because it was easier to move than clean the apartment. She currently lives in a northwestern suburb of the Twin Cities for reasons that escape her, but were probably good ones at the time. Since arriving in Minnesota in 1996, she has worked in public libraries, written advertising copy for wastewater treatment equipment, and managed a holistic veterinary clinic. Her dogs are a big part of her life, and she has served or held offices in Golden Retriever and Great Pyrenees rescues, a humane society, a county kennel club, and her own chapter of Therapy Dogs International. She has been a columnist and feature writer for auto racing and pet publications, and won the Dog Writers Association of America’s Maxwell Award for a series of humor essays on her blog, Fermented Fur (www.fermentedfur.com). Parents of a grown son, Lori and her husband were high school sweethearts, and he manages to love her in spite of herself. Some of his duties include making sure she always has fresh coffee and safe tires, trying to teach her to use coupons, and convincing the state police to spring her from house arrest in her hotel room in time for a very important concert. That last one only happened once – so far – but she still really, really appreciates it. Her debut novel, a romance titled Make or Break, is searching for a publisher, and she is at work on her next project. For more information, or to preview Make or Break, please visit her website atwww.loriwhitwam.com.

  Glimpses of The Fall

  Joshua Guess

  Cincinnati, Ohio:

  Tricia Colburn stood in front of the camera, a spray of blood across the front of her conservative outfit but determined to cover the story. The riots had been going on for most of a day, the reports
of those killed climbing toward the hundreds. She tugged at the hem of her suit top, the dark blue fabric thicker than she would have liked to wear.

  She never saw death as he came up behind her. By the time she realized that her cameraman was backing away in terror, most of her throat was gone in a spray that arced out nearly five feet.

  Salem, Illinois:

  An older man, just shy of six feet and broad in the shoulders, loaded the back of his truck with dogged determination. The shock of white at the front of his otherwise gray head of hair plastered to his head as he bent and loaded, bent and loaded. Tools, food, weapons, medical supplies. Everything he would need to keep the family safe, wherever they ended up.

  He heard a distant scream. The news had told him that the violence and whatever disease had caused it was spreading with a speed that didn't make sense. The man moved faster, muscles built in combat and honed on the floor of so many hospitals since straining to lift and move.

  He heard the slapping footfalls long before the attacker could be seen. The man looked up from a load of tools, taking in the sight of a dead man coming toward him. It didn't take any of his experience as a nurse to tell—his time in Vietnam would have been enough. Living people bleed heavily when their limbs are severed. This guy didn't.

  In one smooth motion, the man stepped forward, hand on the grip of a shovel he had been about to put in the truck. One overhead swing straight down, and the blade of the shovel crushed the head of the attacker like a stubborn clump of dirt.

  The man looked around, fearful. He let out a sigh of relief when he didn't see any other of the dead things. Throwing the last load of tools into the bed of his truck, he whistled for the family to come out. They piled out of the house and into the van still sitting in the garage.