by Ray Wallace
Eddie let out a shout and hid behind his sister, started in with the whimpering.
"It's all right," Dominick assured them as he removed the handgun from where he kept it tucked down the back of his pants. "That thing's not going to hurt anyone."
He moved away from the siblings, told them to stay where they were at.
"Hey, you!" he said as he approached the zombie, stopping when he got to within ten feet of it. He could hear it moaning, see the hunger in its red eyes, knew that if it got close enough it would try to grab him and tear into him with its teeth. He wasn't about to let that happen. Out in the open like this, he had nothing to fear from a single zombie. They were slow. Stupid. And he had a gun. He was in control, could make this play out however he wanted.
What he wanted was to get the zombie off the rooftop. He liked it up here, spent a good part of each day surveying his surroundings, plotting escape routes, assessing the strength of the zombie population below from the secure vantage point it offered. The last thing he wanted was a dead body lying around, dealing with the smell every time he wanted to go outside. So he backed away from the zombie, calling it on:
“This way. Yeah, that's right.”
It followed him, of course, all the way to the low wall at the edge of the rooftop. Once there, Dominick stopped and let it get close—almost too close—before he ducked and circled around behind the zombie when it reached for him. Then he raised his father's handgun, aiming for the back of the head, and he pulled the trigger.
Blam!
The zombie's knees buckled then it toppled off the edge of the roof. When Lisa and Eddie came over, the three of them looked down to where the zombie lay unmoving on the ground five stories below, limbs twisted unnaturally.
"You did it," said Eddie. “You killed the monster.”
“Yeah, I did it all right.”
He reached out and ruffled the younger kid's hair.
The approaching storm announced its presence with a deep, throaty rumble of thunder.
“Time to head inside.”
As Dominick led the way across the rooftop to the doorway from which the zombie had emerged, he told himself he had nothing to fear from the storm, nothing to fear from anything.
He was a monster killer, after all.
Wednesday, August 5th
Eric awoke feeling like himself for the first time since the night he was shot. He got up and used the ladder to make his way down from the loft, headed for the open doors at the front of the barn, toward the voices he heard from outside.
The corral lay bathed in early morning light, the long blades of grass covered in dew.
Amanda and Mitchell stood watching as the horses galloped along the fence at the edge of the corral. The boy clapped his hands when one of the animals stopped and reared up, its whinny echoing through the silence surrounding them for miles in every direction.
"Wonderful, aren't they?" said Amanda when she became aware of Eric's presence.
"Yes, they are," he agreed. After all the horrors he'd seen in recent weeks, he found it easy to appreciate something so pure and innocent.
"Feeling better?" she asked.
Their gazes met. And here was something else he found easy to appreciate. Amanda was a good-looking woman, to be sure. Green eyes. Pert nose. Full lips. All that wavy, dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, a few rebellious strands hanging down along either side of her face. He thought about how nice it would be to hold her close and kiss her.
Wow, I guess I am feeling better.
She raised an eyebrow and offered a little smile, as though reading his thoughts.
"Yes, thanks for asking," he said, feeling the heat rise to his cheeks, "and for taking care of me the way you did. I owe you. Big time."
This got a laugh out of her. "Yeah, I guess you do."
If it wasn't for Amanda, he knew there was a good chance he'd be dead right now—of a slit throat if nothing else.
He recalled the feel of the knife against his neck, the words the man had said to him: “Tell me why I shouldn’t kill you right now.”
Then, a woman's voice: "Simon, don't!"
The knife hadn't moved.
"Simon..."
The moment dragged on, then, finally, the man had let him go. When Eric turned around to face him, he saw that his assailant also carried a handgun.
"What are you doing here?" the man, Simon, had asked.
It was the woman who'd answered his question.
“Nothing. Going for a walk.”
She stood near the corner of the house about thirty feet away, a young boy next to her.
"You shouldn't be down here,” Simon had told her. “It's dangerous."
"So you say. But I haven't seen a single zombie in days now."
"Yeah, that's because..."
The guy hadn't finished his sentence. Looking at him, Eric had seen something in his eyes he didn't like. Or maybe it was something that wasn't there. Eric got the wild idea that the guy wasn't actually human, like he was some other thing entirely, something alien trying to pass itself off as human.
For whatever reason, the guy had listened to the woman. It was she who'd insisted they take Eric in, offer him food and shelter.
“He's sick,” Simon had pointed out. “We can't take the chance.”
“Not from the plague.” Eric had showed them his wound. “Some other sort of infection, I think.”
“He stays with us,” the woman had said.
And this was how she'd saved his life a second time. If they had turned him away, the odds seemed pretty good that the infection—which only got worse, much worse in the days that followed—would have finished him off. The woman, Amanda, had watched over him when the fever set in, had cleaned and redressed his wound, had kept him fed and hydrated as much as possible throughout the duration of his illness.
So, yes, he owed her, wondered if he'd ever be able to repay her.
"Where's Simon?" he asked, staring off across the corral for some sign of him.
"No idea. Off doing whatever it is he does, I suppose."
The man had a habit of disappearing, of offering vague explanations for his absence whenever he returned. More often than not, he'd have food and medical supplies he'd "scavenged from some of the neighbors."
As if mentioning his name had conjured him, Eric saw a figure appear near the farmhouse. Within minutes, Simon walked up and stood directly in front of him, made a point of giving him the once over.
"Well, look who's alive and kicking."
When they locked gazes, Eric had to repress a shudder.
“You feel up to doing some traveling?”
Eric nodded his head. "I guess I do."
"Good, good." Simon gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder. "Then how about we grab our things and get the hell out of here."
Thursday, August 6th
After the gate opened, Susanna followed Zander, Davide, and Ramos onto the bridge. They all wore camouflage pants and caps, black boots and tank tops, the muscular arms of the men flexing as they carried firearms of varying sizes and capabilities. Susanna held a Glock in her right hand, pointed at the ground, eyes surveying the surrounding area for any potential threats.
Look at me, getting all Rambo out here.
The thought brought a smile to her face. In reality, any danger inherent in this little excursion was bound to be minimal. Sure, they might run into a roaming zombie or two, but the odds of encountering a sizable pack of the horrible creatures were small. And even if they did, she felt confident the trio accompanying her could handle the situation. Lawrence's "boy toys" were more than “just pretty faces,” as he had put it. “They know how to handle themselves in a fight.” This particular skill set was part of the reason each of them had been chosen to live at his secluded estate. “When civilization finds itself on the verge of collapse, good looks will only get you so far,” he'd told her with a laugh.
"Stay close," Zander said to her as the gate closed behind them.
They followed the moat around the estate, put down two zombies Lawrence had seen on the feeds from the security cams. One of them, a woman, may have been the same one Susanna had seen through the window of the quarantine house. She couldn't be certain, though. Both zombies had wandered into the moat and gotten stuck. Davide ended the un-life of one of them with a shotgun blast that nearly tore its head completely off. Ramos used an automatic rifle to take out the other one, practically cutting it in half. The men high fived one another after each kill. Susanna joined in during the second celebration.
"Okay," said Zander. "Let's keep moving."
They completed the circuit of the estate, then followed the long driveway from the gate to the two-lane road at its far end. Along the way, the afternoon heat settled in. The shade from the surrounding trees made the walk more than bearable, however. Susanna was glad to be outside the wall. Sure, Lawrence had a big house and the inner grounds were spacious enough. But despite that, she'd started to feel cooped up. With each passing day, the feeling had gotten a little worse. So she relished each step she put between herself and the house, knowing full well that all too soon she'd have to turn around and go back.
When they reached the road, she looked left and right, saw nothing but empty pavement disappearing into the distance.
Hold on a second...
A slow-moving figure came into view followed by a second one.
"We've got company," said Zander, also noticing them.
While she and her companions waited for the zombies to approach, Susanna thought about the training she'd done with the Glock. Zander had taught her how to hold it properly, how to clean and reload it and, most importantly, how to shoot it. They'd set up targets near the wall behind Lawrence's house. During the afternoon, she'd go out there and squeeze off several dozen rounds, enjoying the feel of the gun in her hand, the sense of power it instilled in her—once she'd gotten over her initial fear of it. Susanna knew power, the kind that came from acquiring obscene amounts of wealth. This was different. More personal. More intimate. The kind of power that would allow her to look a person in the eyes and decide if that person lived or died.
Davide produced a pack of cigarettes, asked if anybody wanted one in his French accent. Susanna declined the offer. A minute later, the three men were smoking and telling jokes, showing little if any concern for the zombies until they got to within twenty feet or so—close enough to hear them moan.
"About time," said Zander, tossing the remains of his cigarette onto the ground. He took a few steps toward the nearest zombie, raised the gleaming silver Smith and Wesson in his hand, a real monster of a revolver—Right out of the Old West, thought Susanna—took aim and...
Blam!
The lead zombie stopped dead in its tracks, blood, brains, and bone exploding out the back of its head before it dropped to the ground where it lay, one of its hands twitching, no longer a threat.
Zander pointed the gun at the second zombie.
"Wait," said Susanna.
He looked at her, raised a questioning eyebrow.
"Let me do it."
He stared at her for a moment then nodded his head and said, "Be my guest."
She moved forward, raising her arm, pointed the Glock at her target the same way she'd practiced the move in the yard behind Lawrence's house. Then she pulled the trigger, felt the weapon jump in her hand.
And just like that, she'd killed her first zombie.
Friday, August 7th
The town was theirs.
Pastor Lewis stood on the steps of the church—this one much larger and more modern than the one they'd left behind, the one that had provided the arsenal of weapons they'd taken with them—and surveyed the scene before him. Smoke rose into the afternoon sky from the piles of bodies burning on the wide lawn in front of the church. Brother Randall led “the cleanup” which involved carrying or dragging the bodies of the undead—now officially dead—over to the fires and tossing them in. He and the rest of the pastor's followers had done good work on this day. Holy work. God's soldiers had been victorious.
Pastor Lewis touched the sword hanging at his side, ran his fingers along the pommel as he recalled the carnage he had wreaked with the weapon in his hand. Using his size and strength, and the sword's keen edge, he'd hacked heads from bodies and pierced skulls with the weapon's pointed tip, Bible passages falling from his lips as he exorcised the demons from the unfortunate souls they'd possessed. The majority of his small army preferred to use the guns they'd found, allowing them to kill from a distance. Not Pastor Lewis. He liked to get up close and personal with those he would strike down, to see the dark, hellish light go out of those crazed, crimson eyes as he sent each evil spirit back to the fiery underworld where it belonged.
Sporadic gunfire erupted in the distance as more of the demonic creatures were found and destroyed. This was the second town they'd conquered in the past four days. He'd lost some good people along the way, more than a dozen in all, but their ranks had swelled by more than double that number as they were joined by those they had liberated from the homes where they'd been hiding.
It felt good to be doing God's work in such a tangible, physical way. Sure, Pastor Lewis enjoyed spreading the Word and saving souls by converting the lost and the forlorn to the ways of the Lord. But there was something to be said about standing face to face with Satan's minions and proclaiming victory when the battle had ended. And it was a battle, no doubt about it. A decidedly one-sided battle up until this point. He knew the tide could turn, though. These were small towns, after all. If he wanted to strike a real blow against the Dark One's forces, he'd have to stage a much larger attack and take back one of the cities that had fallen.
Currently, however, they hadn't the numbers nor the discipline for such an undertaking. For now, they'd have to content themselves with smaller confrontations. These recent efforts had served as good practice for the larger melees to come. They had also bolstered morale. He knew that those who'd chosen to follow him needed goals to which they could aspire, to help give their lives meaning.
Brother Randall climbed the steps of the church and stood next to him.
“A good day, all things considered,” said the man, a smile on his face, clothes smeared and spattered with blood.
They'd suffered few casualties but still too many for Pastor Lewis's liking. Each one had filled him with profound sadness. Human life had always been precious, felt even more so now considering how many had been lost since the onset of the plague. The pastor found it almost unbearable to think of those who had, through the grace of God, found themselves resistant to the foul disease only to then fall prey to the monsters the plague had created.
"Yes, a good day," said the pastor, hiding any distress he may have felt. "With many more to follow, God willing."
"God willing,” Randall echoed. “We'll need to find more ammo if we wish to continue this fight. Most of our soldiers have little experience with firearms. For every bullet that finds its mark, several are wasted."
"The Lord will provide, Brother Randall. He always does."
"Of that I have no doubt."
A breeze carried the odor of wood smoke and charred meat over to where they stood.
The smell of victory, though Pastor Lewis. Savor it.
"We'll go house to house,” he told his second in command, “building to building, stockpile whatever supplies we can. Same as last time."
Randall nodded his head in agreement. "I'll organize the teams."
"Tomorrow, my friend. We'll take the rest of the day to enjoy what we have accomplished here."
He stood and watched as a few more bodies were dragged toward the flames. When the last of them was thrown in, a cheer went up from the nearly fifty strong gathered there. They would need more, a lot more, if they
wished to strike a blow against the Dark One on a much grander scale. Pastor Lewis had no doubt that he would find the soldiers he needed, that the ranks of his army would continue to grow. Because his was a most righteous cause, involved nothing less than the ultimate salvation of the human race. And he had no doubt that the Lord would offer him assistance every step of the way.
Saturday, August 8th
Once again, Irene knew what hunger, real hunger, felt like.
She paced the living room floor of her apartment, telling herself that, like the last time she'd been in this situation, she'd have to go outside and face the world, that she would starve if she remained indoors much longer. As she walked—four steps... turn, four steps... turn—she recalled her escape from the hospital.
It had been like wandering through a real life horror show. Corpses picked clean, littering the floors... Dismembered body parts... Walls smeared with dried blood...
After opening the door to the bathroom where she'd been hiding, she'd searched some of the nearby rooms—quietly, oh, so quietly—for something to eat. Finding nothing, she'd moved on. Before she even realized what she had in mind, she'd made her way to the emergency stairwell—somehow, miraculously, it was devoid of zombies—where she'd descended to the bottom floor and exited the building as an alarm shrieked, announcing her departure.
Plenty of the red-eyed monsters had been waiting outside. One of them grabbed her by the arm, forcing her to pull herself free before continuing onward, whimpering as she made her way past the hungry dead, the majority of them—lucky for her—slow to react to her sudden appearance. She'd headed for the hospital's employee parking lot, got a view of the building's main entrance along the way. A thick crowd of the undead had gathered there, the sound of their collective moaning causing her to quicken her step.
As she'd approached the car, she fished the keys from her pocket, unlocked the door and got in.
Come on... Start...
