by Ray Wallace
As she'd expected, things were not going well. According to the latest reports, large sections of the city and many of the surrounding suburbs had descended into anarchy. If she'd waited even another day, she might not have made it out at all. She'd gotten lucky, plain and simple, something that could not be said for countless others. The ranks of the sick and the dying grew with every passing hour, every passing minute, as did the numbers of those who'd been turned into something else, something no longer human.
Zombies.
She thought about what she'd had to do for her neighbor, Mrs. Custer, the last time she saw her. This led to thoughts of her co-workers and her boss, left her wondering what had become of them. Questions intermingled with the memories of what she'd seen when she left her neighborhood behind: the fires, the dead bodies, the not-so-dead bodies that had attacked a teenage boy next to her car while she waited for traffic to move.
After leaving California, she had followed Interstate 80 across Nevada and into Utah, stopped at a small town just east of the border called Castle Creek for no other reason than she liked the name. It had occurred to her she might have some trouble finding a place to stay, had assumed that others would have found the place after fleeing the horrors overtaking California. But as it turned out, the town had been far from overrun and she’d been able to get a room at one of the first motels she came across.
The following day, she’d made some phone calls, checked in with some friends from college, was happy whenever they picked up, when she found out they were all right. How long this would continue to be the case was anybody's guess. With no siblings and both of her parents dead—her father of a heart attack two years ago; her mother from a car accident when Rachel was young—there had been no one else she’d felt a desperate need to contact.
I guess putting off the whole starting a family thing had been a good idea after all.
Since she'd arrived in Castle Creek, she'd been able to pretend for brief moments that the awful things she'd seen while leaving California had been nothing more than a bad dream. The people of this small town wandered the streets and attended local businesses as though they had little concern for the troubles affecting other parts of the country. And she had yet to encounter anyone displaying symptoms of the plague.
It's only a matter of time...
Trying not to dwell on the thought, Rachel opened the door to her room and stepped out into the warm morning air. Directly across the street from the motel stood a cafe where she'd had some of the best blueberry pancakes she'd ever eaten in her life the previous morning. As a bit of a health nut, it had been years since she'd had pancakes at all. But with the onset of the plague, with the dead walking the Earth, watching her carbs suddenly didn't seem all that important anymore. So she made her way to the cafe once again, took a seat at a corner table and ordered the blueberry pancakes for the second day in a row. As she waited for her food to arrive, she inhaled deeply of the heady mix of aromas filling the place, enjoying the simple pleasure of the act.
Several minutes later, the waitress set her breakfast in front of her. It tasted just as wonderful as it had the day before. After what she'd been through, this whole town seemed like Heaven. As she ate her meal, savoring every bite of it, she could only wonder how long it would remain that way.
Friday, July 24th
Lately, Trevor had found it easy to believe the horrors of the plague would never affect him. His time spent in relative isolation at Larry Hull's place had been idyllic to this point, consisting of such strenuous activities as relaxing on the porch, reading, and exploring the wooded areas surrounding the property. He hadn't been outside in the fresh air so much since he was a young boy. During the intervening years, he'd forgotten how much he missed it—the sunlight on his skin, the breeze in his hair, the fecund odor of plant life in its myriad forms. Looking back, he had to wonder how he'd survived all those years surrounded by the constant light and noise of the concrete jungle without going a little bit crazy. It all seemed wrong to him now, unnatural that people chose to live that way. This was how it was meant to be: the long, lazy days, the deep quiet when the night settled in, the thousands of stars glittering above, visible to the naked eye in a way they had never been back in the city.
A guy could get used to this.
He knew that he couldn't let himself get too comfortable, though, couldn't let his guard down, had to remind himself of it on a daily basis. The world had become an exceptionally hazardous place since the onset of the zombie plague. It was possible that, sooner or later, there would be nowhere safe from its influence.
Not even all the way out here.
Following a game of "fetch" with Brutus, Larry's six year old German Shepherd, Trevor traipsed across the yard and into the house where he made his way back to the bedroom he and Brenda shared, wanting to take a shower before lunch. As he pulled off his shirt, his wife entered the room, a smile on her face. She helped him the rest of the way out of his clothes. He returned the favor by lifting her shirt up and over her head. When they were both undressed, they fell onto the bed and for the next little while, Trevor forgot about any worries he may have had about the plague or the living dead.
Later, Brenda joined him in the shower. Then it was time for lunch followed by an afternoon nap—another of the luxuries in which he'd been able to indulge since leaving the rat race of the city behind. Within minutes of lying down, he drifted off, carried on a wave of contentment. When he came to a little over an hour later, however, he did so in a distinctly different state of mind.
Another vision...
He practically leaped from the bed before rushing from the room, calling Brenda's and Larry's names as he hurried down the hallway. They were sitting on the back porch—his wife drinking a glass of iced tea, her father enjoying a beer. The tone of Trevor's voice along with the harried expression on his face brought them both to their feet.
"What is it honey? What's wrong?" asked Brenda.
"We can't stay here.”
"What are you talking about?" Larry wanted to know, his brow furrowing in consternation.
"The dead. The zombies. They're heading this way. I saw it. In a dream..."
Larry's expression turned to one of amusement, like he realized he was the butt of a joke.
“A dream?”
"Well, not exactly. It was a vision." Trevor stared at his father-in-law, a haunted look in his eyes. "I was shown what will happen. Here. In this house. And I can't let it happen. Not this time. If it does...” He shook his head in denial. “I won't be able to live with myself."
Saturday, July 25th
Dominick stood on the chair, his eye to the peephole. The zombie out in the hall stared back at him, occasionally slapping at the door with its hand.
Upon entering the apartment, Dominick had closed the door and engaged the deadbolt.
“Hit it all you want,” he said under his breath. “No way you’re getting in.”
He could hear the zombie moaning through the door.
Always with the moaning.
Like the lot of them were in constant pain, or suffered an interminable hunger. He wondered what that would be like, knew he never wanted to find out.
The dried blood smeared across the lower half of the zombie's face was plainly visible through the peephole's rather constricted view. The walking corpse had come after Dominick as he'd made his way along the hallway, checking for unlocked doors that would grant him easy access to the apartments beyond. It was the first time he'd explored this section of the building since he'd been on his own, since his father had left and never returned, since everyone else who lived in the building had either gotten sick and turned into one of those moaning things out there or figured out too late they were no longer at the top of the food chain.
For as long as Dominick had been alive, adults had ruled the world, mostly due to their superior size and strength. The one advantage he'd always had over them was his ability to hide, especially in tight places. Being s
mall for his age, it was a skill he'd learned to exploit when pursued by bullies, or whenever the alcohol had gotten the better of his father. And it was in no small part due to this ability that he still lived while so many others—including the larger and stronger adults—had perished. That and the fact that—for some unknown reason—he hadn't gotten sick, not so much as a sniffle.
With the power out, the apartment complex was quiet in a way he'd never known before, could have never imagined. The pervasive silence unnerved him. He'd thought about leaving before deciding against it. Too many moaners out there surrounding the building, looking for a way in—or waiting for someone to come out?
“Go away,” he'd shouted from the rooftop earlier in the day. “I'm the only one in here and I'm not very big, either. You could find a lot more to eat somewhere else.”
Of course, they hadn't listened.
At some point during the outbreak, someone had barricaded the main entrance to the building with sheets of plywood and stacks of furniture. And since the complex was located in the middle of a high crime neighborhood, all of the windows along the first floor had bars over them, plenty strong enough to keep even the most determined of zombies out. The only moaners he had to worry about were the ones already inside the building. And most of these had been locked inside their apartments when they'd undergone the change which meant that Dominick only had to avoid the relatively few he randomly encountered during his explorations of the building's five floors.
Three days earlier, he'd finally summoned the nerve to explore a part of the building previously forbidden to him: his father's bedroom. The man had told him any number of times to never set foot in there, that if he ever did he'd get a “whoopin'” unlike anything he'd ever had before. On several different occasions after his father’s disappearance, Dominick had stood in the doorway to the room, willing himself to enter.
You're not allowed.
Eventually, his curiosity had gotten the better of him.
He found the gun under the bed in a metal box, along with a dozen loose cartridges, a glass pipe, a lighter, and a plastic baggie half-filled with some potent smelling marijuana.
Last winter, one of the older kids from down the street had let Dominick see the gun he kept hidden inside his jacket. When Dominick's eyes lit up, the kid had laughed and let him hold the weapon, showed him how to eject the magazine, how to check if the safety was on. When he examined his father's gun, he found that it was fully loaded—the cartridges in the box were extras.
And now as he stood on the chair, eye to the peephole, he held the matte black pistol in his right hand, secure in the knowledge that he could open the door anytime he wanted and put the moaner down with a squeeze of the trigger.
Then, from behind him, he heard an unexpected sound.
Whirling around, he nearly fell off the chair but managed to keep his balance and level the gun at the two kids he saw standing there. The girl he put at seven or eight years old; the boy a year or two younger. They both held knives—steak knives, Dominick realized—out in front of them, trying to look fierce.
Dominick laughed and shook his head.
"You shouldn't sneak up like that." He gestured with the gun. "It's a good way to get yourselves shot."
Lowering the gun, he hopped down from the chair. The kids backed away.
"Look, I'm not going to hurt you.” He held up his free hand, palm outward. "Promise."
A few long moments passed before the kids lowered their knives.
“What are your names?” asked Dominick.
“I'm Lisa,” said the girl. “This is Eddie.”
And just like that, Dominick had someone other than himself to look after.
Sunday, July 26th
Simon sat very still, staring at Amanda in the dim glow of the portable lamp, listening to the crickets outside the barn, the occasional whinny from one of the horses they'd set loose earlier in the day. He'd wanted to kill the horses because... well, because he'd never killed something as big as a horse before, watched the life go out of its eyes. He wanted to know what that felt like. Instead, he'd nodded his agreement when Amanda suggested they open the stalls and let them run free.
"The poor things. They're starving in here."
"How awful," Simon had said, trying to act like he meant it.
The horses—three of them in all, so skinny it was a wonder they'd stayed upright this long—had acted surprisingly docile once the stall doors were open, had exited the barn in something approaching an orderly fashion.
They don't have the energy to get excited, Simon figured.
He'd stood next to Amanda and Mitchell in the opening at the front of the barn for a few minutes, watching as the horses roamed the wide corral outside.
“The troughs in the stalls are almost dry,” said Amanda. "If we hadn't come along when we did, they'd have died for sure."
And what a tragedy that would have been.
According to Simon's calculations, the barn was located a few days' walk south of the Georgia border. Amanda had wanted to stop somewhere to relax and recuperate before pushing onward.
"Mitchell can use the rest."
The barn stood on a wide swath of land behind a sprawling farmhouse, the edges of the property lined with trees. They'd initially approached the house, had looked through the windows, and seen the zombies inside. Simon had felt a nearly overpowering urge to pull out the hunting knife strapped to his right calf, to go inside and give in to his own particular need. Amanda had given him a funny look when he'd sucked in air through his teeth, straining to control himself.
"Are you all right?"
He knew she had her suspicions about him. The day they'd ditched the car and left the main roadway behind, they'd found themselves hemmed in by a pack of the living dead. He'd given the killing urge free rein for a few wonderful moments, let Amanda see what he could do, what he enjoyed doing. Since then, he'd done his best to put on an air of normality, to assure her she had nothing to fear from him.
Turning away from the farmhouse window, he'd given her a little smile. "Yeah. Never better."
It was Amanda who suggested they stay in the barn.
“We can sleep in the loft. It'll be safer up there."
They had enough food to last them several days—canned goods, energy bars, some jerky found at a partially looted convenience store—carried in backpacks Simon had kept stashed in the trunk of his car after he'd pilfered them from an Army surplus store. They were running low on water, though, and would have to find somewhere to refill their canteens soon.
I'll have to check some of the houses in the area, rid them of any occupants while I'm there.
The rest of the day had passed uneventfully. Darkness fell.
Sometime after midnight, Simon found himself sitting in the loft of the barn, staring at Amanda as she lay sleeping next to her son. He wondered about the impulse that had driven him to save her that day at her apartment, the decision to protect her. It wasn't really much of a mystery, he realized. Since the first time he’d laid eyes on her, when she'd been returning from the grocery store and he'd killed the zombie in front of her, he'd found himself thinking about her, even dreaming about her on occasion.
I have feelings for her.
It was a strange concept. He tried to recall when he may have cared about anyone else before, about much of anything besides the omnipresent urge he carried around inside of him. His mother when he was a child? He could only assume that he did as he had no specific memories attached to any such emotions. Apparently, he'd done a good enough job of faking certain emotional responses, of figuring out what people wanted from him and acting accordingly. He'd proven himself adept at diverting suspicion, at preventing anyone from knowing that he was different, that he was not like them. A skill that had only improved as the years went by.
He'd also become increasingly adept at controlling the urge that seemed to infuse every particle of his being, only allowing himself to give in when he knew for sure he
could get away with it. The asteroid had been a godsend. It had presented him with a nearly endless supply of victims, mostly of the undead variety. Of course, killing zombies was not the same as killing actual, living human beings. But it did in a pinch, helped alleviate the urge until he could find a proper victim.
He thought about the zombies in the farmhouse. A brief walk through the moonlight and he'd be there...
After taking one last, long look at Amanda's sleeping face, he made his way over to the ladder and down to the ground floor of the barn as quietly as he could. Once outside, he pulled the knife free from where he kept it strapped to his right calf, hidden beneath the leg of his pants. He had his pistol, too, didn’t plan on using it, though, as he much preferred the intimacy of the blade. With the touch of a smile on his lips, he continued onward through the night, toward the promise of release that awaited.
Monday, July 27th
Irene stood up from where she'd been sitting on the floor next to the toilet, gritting her teeth against the cramps in her legs and the sheer effort it took for her to accomplish this normally simple act. She was malnourished, had been sitting in that one spot for far too long. A sharp pain in her calf, another in the back of her thigh nearly made her cry out. But she held it in, whimpering as she massaged the muscles with her hands, trying to keep from toppling over.
If I do, I may not get up again.
After a minute or so, the pain subsided, allowing her to think about why she'd gotten to her feet in the first place, what she knew she'd have to do if she wanted to live.
You have to get out of here.
The thought caused her pulse to quicken with fear.
You have no choice in the matter. Stay in here, you starve to death. Out there... at least you have a chance.
