by Ray Wallace
Thunder boomed. The lights in the apartment flickered.
Mitchell gave her a worried look.
She forced a smile onto her face.
“It’s just a storm, honey. Nothing to be afraid of. We’re safe in here.”
She looked toward the window across the room, the one offering a view of the street in front of the building. The same road she'd followed to the grocery store in search of supplies that were running dangerously low once again. The thought of going back out there, at any time of the day or night, for any reason whatsoever… To say it didn't appeal to her would be a grand understatement.
She hadn’t ventured out of the building since the day of her supply run, had only left the apartment a couple of times to check on Mrs. Lansing across the hall, to borrow a few necessities while she was there. Amanda had been pleased to find the elderly woman in good health on each of these occasions. The thought of her getting sick and turning into one of those… things. It was bad enough knowing they were out there, roaming the streets of the city where she lived. But having one in the apartment across the hall? One who used to be a friend of hers?
Inevitably, she thought about her parents, about the fact that she hadn't spoken to either one of them in several days now. Whenever one of her calls actually went through, they never picked up. She'd thought about driving over there, seeing for herself what had become of them, but she couldn't risk it. If something happened to her, where would that leave Mitchell?
Another blast of thunder, louder than the last one.
The power went out, plunging the apartment into darkness. Silence, except for the sound of the rain lashing the building.
Something touched her hand, causing her to flinch and nearly cry out.
“I’m scared, Mommy.”
Mitchell climbed onto her lap, and she wrapped her arms around him, told him not to worry, that the lights would come back on soon enough.
“We’re safe in here. Safe as can be.”
She thought about the dead—the zombies—out there in the storm, imagined them wandering aimlessly down one street after another, eventually stopping outside the building where she lived. A hundred, no, a thousand strong. A vast crowd of the undead, standing in the rain and the darkness. Watching... Waiting…
Now don’t go freaking yourself out. You have to keep it together. You have to stay strong for Mitchell.
He squirmed within her embrace. She realized she was holding him too tight, forced herself to relax her hold on him.
“We're going to be fine,” she said as the storm continued to vent its fury. “Everything’s going to be just fine.”
Now if she could only make herself believe it.
Saturday, July 11th
Susanna Hutchins stared through the window of the helicopter as it circled the sprawling estate below. A circular section of the forest had been cleared away to make room for the main house, a few smaller structures, the outer wall, and the moat.
Yes, a moat.
She shook her head at the sight of it. The man who owned the place did have a flair for the extravagant, she knew from experience. And in this case, she had to admit it just might be warranted.
“I’ve received instructions to set down on the lawn outside the wall, Ms. Hutchins,” came the pilot’s voice over the headset she wore.
“Outside the wall?” she uttered into the mic attached to the headset.
What game are you playing here, Lawrence?
A moment later, the helicopter descended with a lurch she felt in the pit of her stomach. After all the times she’d flown in one of these things, she still didn’t feel particularly confident in their ability to stay aloft. The whirring of the propeller served as a constant reminder of its role in keeping her from a rather unfortunate meeting with the ground below. If that sound were to stop for even one second…
That's enough, she chastised herself as she often did in these situations. It’s safer than riding in a car, remember? And besides, you’re an old woman now. You’ve had a good life. It wouldn’t be the biggest tragedy in the world if it ended today. And you know there would be those who'd actually consider it a reason to celebrate.
She'd made her share of enemies over the years, an inevitable consequence of attaining wealth and power.
Shortly after the helicopter touched down, Susanna exited the aircraft in a slight crouch, a suitcase in each hand, the blades whipping by overhead. She followed a paved drive that led to a bridge spanning the moat. The outer wall’s main gate stood closed on the other side. As she reached the bridge, she stopped, set her suitcases on the ground, and removed the cell phone from her pants pocket. Then she speed dialed Lawrence’s number, happy and more than a little surprised when the call went through.
Lawrence answered on the third ring.
“Susanna! I see you’ve arrived, safe and sound.”
She looked up and saw a surveillance camera mounted atop the wall, pointed in her direction.
“Yes, Lawrence, safe and sound,” she replied. “But not completely welcome, it would seem.”
As she stared into the camera, she imagined Lawrence sitting in front of a row of monitors somewhere inside the house, watching her.
“Nonsense!” he told her. “I've been counting the hours until our reunion. It’s just that…”
She frowned, not liking the direction this conversation seemed to be headed.
“Yes?”
“With all that’s going on…”
“Please, do spit it out, Lawrence.”
“Certain precautions need to be taken. I’m sure you understand.”
She sighed. Lawrence and his damned “precautions.” She had never met a man so averse to risk in all her life. Not for the first time, she wondered how he'd managed to acquire such a fortune. It didn’t seem possible, only betting on “safe” investments every step of the way. But somehow he’d managed it. Maybe he was just smarter than everyone else. She couldn't argue with the fact that he’d certainly prepared for the End Times a lot better than she had.
“What sort of precautions?” she asked, tiring of this conversation already.
“I assure you, nothing that will cause you any undue discomfort,” came the reply. “To your left, about a hundred feet away, you’ll see a small, white structure.”
She turned to look. “I see it.”
“Go there. The front door will be unlocked. Inside, you’ll find I’ve gone to great lengths to make your stay there as enjoyable as possible.”
“My stay there?”
“Yes. One week. If in that time you don’t show any symptoms of the superflu, we’ll assume you haven’t contracted it. Then I’ll gladly open the gate and let you inside the wall.”
To spite him, she thought about walking back to the helicopter and flying away. But what would have been the point of it? She’d come here for a reason.
“Several years ago, I purchased a piece of property in Montana, had a house built there,” Lawrence had told her when last she saw him—at his Manhattan penthouse in the early days of the outbreak. “A little out of the way place I could stay if need be.” He'd suggested she join him there if things started to get out of hand with “this asteroid thing.”
She sighed once again, raised her hand and waved at the helicopter, watched as it lifted off a few seconds later.
“OK, Lawrence. We’ll do this your way.”
He laughed. “Susanna, my dear, there might be hope for you yet.”
She ended the call, grabbed her bags, and headed toward the structure where, apparently, she’d be spending the next week of her life. It was the size of a small house, but looked more like a military bunker with its brick walls and the bars over the windows. As promised, the front door was unlocked. Inside, lights came on automatically once she pushed the door closed behind her, the lock clicking into place. A quick look around revealed a richly appointed living area, kitchen, bedroom, study, and bathroom—a more than comfortable enough environment in which to spend
the coming days.
In the living room, she kicked off her shoes then sat down on the couch.
Yes, there just might be hope for me yet.
Sunday, July 12th
They'd gotten out. And for that, Trevor was grateful.
A version of the dream, the vision, had visited him again exactly one week after the first time he'd experienced it, leaving him with little doubt as to the veracity of its message, crazy as that message may have been. He'd never had one recur before. Had his misgivings prompted its return? Whatever the case may have been, after that second time—and after all the news reports he'd seen—he knew it for what it was: a vision like the ones he'd had as a child, a warning he'd be foolish to ignore, to try to explain away.
The morning following the dream's recurrence, he and his wife, Brenda, sat at the kitchen table drinking their coffees.
"There's something I have to tell you," he said, reaching over and taking her by the hand.
She had listened without interruption, letting him speak, as he hoped she would, as he knew she would. He told her about the apartment fire that had killed his schoolmate, the car crash that had killed his friend in college. He told her about the other events he'd witnessed, the ones he'd later read about online or in the paper, seen reported on the nightly news. And he told her that over time, the visions had occurred less frequently until they had ceased altogether.
“I thought they had stopped for good. Hoped they had...”
The two of them sat in silence for several long moments, Brenda taking it all in, Trevor letting her.
"Why didn't you ever tell me?"
A shrug. An embarrassed smile. "I don't know. I didn't want to frighten you, I guess, or have you think you'd married some sort of lunatic. And, like I said, I thought they had stopped."
She pursed her lips, gave a little nod, a sign of acceptance for which he loved her all the more. "Okay. So what do we do?"
The following day, they drove out of Tallahassee—the city that had been their home since they'd gotten married—heading north toward the mountains of North Carolina nearly five hundred miles away. They reached their destination without incident. Brenda's father, Larry, had been elated to see them when they pulled into the driveway in front of his house.
"I've always told you to visit anytime," he said after hugging his daughter and shaking hands with his son-in-law. "If it takes a national emergency to get you here, then so be it."
“It's not a national emergency, Dad,” Brenda had told him in a no-need-to-be-so-melodramatic tone of voice.
“Not yet it isn't,” her father had said. “Not officially. But if things keep going the way they have been...”
Trevor soon discovered there were plenty of worse places to be than Larry Hull's place when the proverbial shit hit the proverbial fan. The man had his own private well and a propane generator with plenty of fuel stockpiled in the event the electricity cut out for good. The basement held an impressive stash of dried and canned goods, along with a small arsenal of firearms.
Now, two weeks into his stay, Trevor stood behind the house in the afternoon heat, feet apart, arms extended in front of him. He squeezed the trigger and... Blam! The beer can standing on the fence post fifty feet away jumped into the air and fell to the ground.
"There you go," said Larry from behind him. "I knew you'd get the hang of it."
Until last week, Trevor had never fired a gun in his life. It had come as a surprise how much he enjoyed the heft and feel of the weapon in his hands.
He aimed the gun at another beer can, took a breath, and let it out slow.
"That's right," his father-in-law told him. "Easy as pie."
He pulled the trigger.
Once again, his aim was true.
Monday, July 13th
Rachel stared out of the bedroom window located at the front of her townhouse's second floor. She squinted into the sunlight, saw the rising columns of smoke in the distance, the nearest of them a few miles away, grateful the violence had not yet reached her neighborhood. Although, judging by the newscasts she'd watched throughout the afternoon, it was only a matter of time before it did.
She'd been sick for the past two weeks. Terribly, unimaginably sick. Her memories of that time consisted of a phantasmagoria of strange imagery spawned by fever dreams and hallucinations. Her parents—both of them dead—had visited her on several occasions, as had the child she'd never had due to a miscarriage back in college, one who'd grown into a teenage boy and wanted her to know how much he loved her.
She shuddered at some of these recollections, hoping they would fade with time, afraid they would stick with her until the day she died. A day that would have already arrived, she felt certain, if not for the efforts of Mrs. Custer from next door. The woman had checked in on Rachel throughout the course of her illness, bringing hot soup and various store bought medications, even going so far as to clean her and help her to the bathroom on multiple occasions.
"I used to be a nurse," the older woman, wearing a light blue mask over the lower half of her face, had mentioned during one of Rachel's more lucid moments. "So I know a thing or two about helping people in your condition. Well, maybe not exactly your condition. But close enough."
As far as Rachel could recall, Mrs. Custer had made a point of checking in on her several times a day. But then, a few days back, just as Rachel had reached the point where she could start to look after herself again, her neighbor had stopped coming by.
Rachel feared the worst.
Had she fallen ill? Rachel knew that Mrs. Custer was a "missus" in name only, had been widowed nearly five years earlier when her husband had died in a plane crash along with two hundred and thirty-eight other unfortunate souls, had lived on her own ever since.
I have to go and check on her.
Rachel turned away from the window, pulled on some jeans and a pair of tennis shoes to go with the long shirt she already had on. Downstairs, as she crossed the living room on her way to the front door, she thought about the houses she'd looked at a few months back, how she'd been meaning to move into a bigger, more secluded place. With the money she made as Fred's "star pupil," she could afford more luxurious surroundings. But she'd put it off, telling herself she was rarely home to begin with, that she should wait until her life had settled down. Now it looked like she may have waited too long, that she might never get that dream house she'd always wanted, the one she'd worked so hard to attain. At the moment, however, she considered this the least of her concerns.
Outside, she approached the townhouse next to hers, knocked on the door, called Mrs. Custer's name, waited ten seconds, and knocked again. Then she tried the handle, found the door unlocked, and pushed it open.
"Hello? Anybody home?"
No response.
In the living room, the TV was on with the sound turned down low. After searching the bottom floor to no avail, she started up the stairs to the second story, stopped less than halfway there when the woman she'd come to find stepped into view.
Rachel could hear a moaning sound as Mrs. Custer bared her teeth in a crude imitation of a smile, eyes wide and red, unblinking. With a strangled cry, Rachel backed away on legs that felt as though they might give way beneath her. At the bottom of the stairs, she bolted for the door, slamming it closed the moment she was outside.
You can’t leave her like that. After all she did for you…
Upon returning to her bedroom, she removed the .38 caliber handgun she kept in a safe in the closet, recalling the words of the police officer she'd seen on the news earlier in the day:
“If you want to make sure they don’t get back up, you have to shoot 'em in the head.”
A short while later, she found herself standing in front of Mrs. Custer's townhouse once again.
You can do this. You have to do this.
Taking a deep breath to calm her racing heart, she opened the door and went in.
Tuesday, July 14th
The vessels of Satan had surro
unded the bus, pounding their hands against the door as they tried to get in.
Pastor Lewis looked out of the window next to his seat, took in the sight of all those corrupted souls who'd made their way to the interstate where they'd attacked the cars, trucks, motorcycles, and, yes, the buses that sat immobilized by the sheer volume of traffic trying to get out of the city.
The Tampa area was in bad shape, no doubt about it. In recent days, the plague had spread quickly, claiming victims by the thousands—victims who refused to stay dead, their hearts and minds corrupted by the process of resurrection, filled to bursting with the darkest of intents and purposes.
Not their souls, though, Pastor Lewis knew. Because these monsters have no souls.
The sounds of coughing and sniffling inside the bus were interspersed with screams of terror.
"Remain calm!" Pastor Lewis cried out. "It does no good to panic."
The din quieted, if only a little. Some of the children continued to scream, though, unable to control themselves in the face of this waking nightmare.
Pastor Lewis turned to the woman cowering in the seat next to him. Her name was Annabelle Harris. She'd played the organ at his church for the past seven years. He couldn't help but wonder if she'd have an opportunity to ever play there again.
"Excuse me, sister," he said as he moved past her and into the aisle running the length of the bus. He made his way to the front of the vehicle, stood next to the driver who'd been staring at the door where the undead creatures attempted to gain entrance.
"Brother Randall," he addressed the driver, placing a hand on his shoulder.
Almost reluctantly, the man tore his gaze from the door and looked up to where the pastor towered over him. There was an emptiness in the man's eyes. An acceptance? Had he given up?
The pastor lifted his hand and gave the man a slap across the side of the face, hard enough to inflict some pain but not cause any real damage.
