by Ray Wallace
Monday, September 7th
Hands shook him, rousing him from sleep. Pushing them away, he sat up and looked around wildly, trying to make sense of his surroundings.
The dream...
No, the vision.
It had been so vivid, like he'd actually been there.
Just like all the ones before.
It wasn't long before the reality of the room around him asserted itself, before the sleep images loosened their grip on him.
Trevor turned to look at the woman sitting on the bed next to him, saw the look of concern—or was it fear?—on her face.
“You were crying out,” she told him.
"Sorry. I didn't mean to..."
She climbed from the bed and crossed the room, then threw on some clothes and headed for the door.
“Sorry,” he told her once again. Although, when he thought about it, he wasn't sure what he was apologizing for.
She left without saying another word. He took no offense at her silence. In fact, he'd come to expect it. Nadine wasn't much of a talker. In the week that he'd known her, he figured he could count on one hand the number of actual conversations they'd had. The night she'd followed him to his room for the first time, she hadn't said anything, had just crawled into bed next to him, fell asleep a few minutes later. They'd been sharing a bed ever since, “sleeping” in the literal sense of the word. No sex. Just a couple of people taking comfort in one another's presence.
The arrangement suited Trevor just fine. Undoubtedly, Nadine was an attractive woman, tall and lean with an abundance of long, red hair. At another point in his life—as a younger man, before he was married, for instance—he would have certainly been interested in more than just sleeping with her. Now, though, after what had happened to Brenda... The very idea of a sexual relationship with another woman bordered on the unthinkable.
It was obvious that Nadine harbored similar feelings. She'd never tried to push the issue, had never done anything to escalate whatever it was they had between them. At the end of each day, after they'd performed whatever duties they'd been assigned—tending the grounds, searching for supplies, watching the children, standing guard duty along the fence enclosing the property—they'd end up back at the room they shared in one of the trailers behind the house. And they'd lie down next to one another, in close physical proximity to one another but miles apart emotionally.
Trevor suspected she'd suffered some terrible tragedy of her own. She never spoke of it but he could see it in the hard set of her eyes, could only assume it was the reason she'd come to him in the first place, why she needed his company to make it through the night. No, she'd never spoken of it and he'd never asked. They each had their secrets along with their reasons for not sharing them.
The dreams...
The visions...
He hadn't told anyone about them, not since he'd started this new life among these people. What would have been the point? They would have thought he was crazy, that maybe he'd become unhinged by what he'd been through. Besides, there hadn't been any visions pertaining to Blake's little community, none at all in the aftermath of Brenda's passing. Not until this latest one.
"Michigan," he muttered as he sat on the edge of the bed. "I have to warn them."
Twenty minutes later found him dressed and making his way toward the house where Blake and Loretta lived. Standing on the front porch, he told the two of them he had to leave, that he appreciated everything they'd done for him.
"Well, I'm real sorry to hear that,” said Blake. “We were hoping you'd stick around a while."
“I might be back. You never know.”
"Do what you gotta do,” Blake told him. “And be safe out there."
After that, he headed for the gate at the front of the property, the backpack he'd carried out of his father-in-law's house that fateful evening slung over his shoulder, the few belongings he needed tucked away inside. He exchanged quick goodbyes with those he encountered along the way, keeping an eye out for Nadine as he went, not sure what he'd say to her if they crossed paths.
With a mild feeling of relief—and guilt, always the guilt these days—he passed through the gate without encountering her. Then he headed down the road, eyes peeled for zombies, hoping he wouldn't have to go far before he found a vehicle he could use for the journey ahead.
Less than half a mile from Blake's house, he heard someone shout:
"Hey! Wait up!"
A woman's voice.
Nadine.
He stopped and waited for her.
"Where you headed?" she asked when she caught up to him.
"North. Michigan."
She stared at him for a few moments then nodded her head. "Okay."
And just like that, he found himself with a traveling companion.
Tuesday, September 8th
Now.
After a short struggle, the zombie pulled its left foot free of the muck at the bottom of the lake, did the same with the right and started to walk. Moving one slow, ponderous step at a time, it made its way toward the shore and the dry land beyond where the houses, the towns, and the cities of the living awaited.
The zombie was finally on its way to feed.
Insane with hunger, it emerged from the lake, skin pale and pruned and doughy looking, water flowing from various orifices. Night had recently fallen and a thick blanket of clouds covered the sky, emitting a spattering of rain. The creature moved sluggishly, stopping at one point to double over and retch, to expunge as much of the lake water as it could from its stomach and lungs, to rid itself of excess weight and prepare itself for the feast it had been promised.
A peal of thunder announced the onset of a full-fledged downpour, the worsening conditions further reducing the zombie's red-tinged eyesight but also helping to obscure its presence from anyone who might have been watching. The zombie ached all over, had become a walking mass of hunger and pain, a condition that could only be remedied by the warm, healing flesh it so desperately craved.
Not long after it had started moving inland once again, the zombie was joined by another of its kind, a shambling figure that appeared out of the darkness, falling into step beside it, moaning and growling amid the steady hiss of the rain. There were more of them out there, the zombie knew, untold numbers of the undead emerging from the lake along the far reaches of its shoreline. Like the individual cells of a vast, hungry organism, they moved as though joined by an invisible nervous system, messages sent from one to the next and so on down the line as they chanced upon living prey.
Several minutes after the zombie emerged from the lake, a row of houses appeared out of the gloom directly ahead of it, many of them with lights burning in the windows, drawing the creature and those that had joined it—by now there were several others—like the proverbial moths to the flames. Clothes and skin gone to rot hung from their bodies in places, flaps and strips dangling like gruesome Christmas tree decorations. Thunder roared and faded into the night as the rain pounded the earth. There came the sound of breaking glass. Screaming.
The zombie once known as Casey climbed in through the shattered bay window of one of the houses. More of the undead followed it or entered through the back of the residence. The family that had been sitting in the living room relaxing and watching a movie never stood a chance. The zombies, even in their current, sorry state were on them—father, mother, and two children—before they had time to hide or mount any sort of defense. Within moments, they were reduced to nothing more than food for the hungry dead. The screaming didn't last for long. Then there was only the sound of moaning, growling, flesh tearing and bone snapping. And the rain, thrumming across the roof, the whistling of the wind as it blew in through open doors and broken windows.
And so it went as the night grew long and the zombie horde continued to pull itself from the lake, to heed the call that had brought it to this place. Before long, other sounds pierced the darkness, shouted commands and gunfire among them.
Casey.
&
nbsp; The zombie paused, looked up from the chunk of raw, red meat it held in its hands. Brief flashes of memory... Meaningless. Empty.
With a grunt, the undead thing lowered its head and continued to feed.
Wednesday, September 9th
Deandra was already awake when the sergeant came in and roused everyone from their bunks.
"We move out in fifteen minutes!"
Sleep had been a rare commodity ever since the incident at the gate, the one she couldn't stop thinking about no matter how hard she tried.
She got dressed along with her fellow soldiers, grabbed her weapon and exited the barracks where she fell into formation, the dark sky above cloudy and threatening rain. A few minutes later found her in the back of a truck, sitting on a long bench with a body pressing up against either side of her. They drove through the early morning for more than an hour, the rain hammering at the roof of the vehicle throughout most of the journey. A queasy feeling roiled around inside her gut at the thought of what she and the others would face once they reached their destination.
Deadheads.
Hundreds, maybe thousands numbers of them.
The towns and cities along the shores of the great lakes had been attacked, the creatures catching everyone off guard by this wholly unexpected and seemingly coordinated assault. It was as though the zombies had formed their own army, were listening to the orders of some undead general, conveyed by some unknown means of communication.
The very thought of it caused a shudder to run through Deandra's body.
There was plenty of chatter in the back of the truck, much of it of a speculative nature regarding the method by which the zombies had organized their attack—was it possible they had developed some sort of hive mind?—intermixed with strained laughter and guarantees of personal glory in the coming conflict.
Deandra said nothing.
The sleepless nights had left her feeling hazy, filled with a sense of detachment from everything going on around her, as though none of it was quite real.
It's real, all right. And it's about to get a lot more real soon enough.
When the truck stopped for the final time, the sarge yelled for everyone to exit the vehicle and fall into formation along the side of the road. While doing as instructed, Deandra saw theirs was only one of several dozen transports that had stopped along this section of highway, deploying troops for the coming battle. Then she and the others were jogging through the rain, away from the road, up the side of a grassy ridge. When they reached the top, they halted and formed a long line facing the direction from where they were told the enemy would appear. In the distance, Deandra saw the lights of a large town glowing in the darkness, some of them wavering with the telltale signature of flames. She realized that, despite the rain, sections of the town were burning.
Eventually, the storm fizzled out and gave way to a wraith-like mist as the night began to fade with the coming dawn. Shortly thereafter, she heard scattered shouts from up and down the line of soldiers. And that's when she saw them, shambling figures moving through the mist like something out of a half remembered nightmare.
"Let them get closer," exclaimed the sergeant from somewhere nearby. "Try to conserve your ammo. Don't fire until you can see the reds of their eyes."
The minutes crawled by as the legions of the dead drew nearer. They looked like putrid, rotting things from their time spent in the water, incapable of remaining on their feet long enough to pose any real threat. But on their feet they remained—except for the few that crawled. A breeze blew out of the west, carrying an awful, powerful odor that caused Deandra's eyes to water, the soldier standing next to her to retch. Moments later, the first shot rang out and a zombie crumpled to the ground.
With a squeeze of the trigger, the rifle jumped in Deandra's hands as the air was filled with a cacophony of gunfire. Over the next several hours, she greeted the undead with round after round of ammunition, forgetting all about what she did at the gate that day not so long ago.
Thursday, September 10th
The zombie ate until it could eat no more. Afterward, it would wander aimlessly, further inland until the hunger returned. And once again it would seek out prey, guided by the vast, collective consciousness created by the alien lifeform residing within it and the others of its kind. With the advantage of sheer numbers, the zombies would overwhelm small pockets of armed resistance, bursting through doorways, cutting off escape routes, indifferent to whatever wounds they suffered in the process.
Surround and attack...
Surround and attack...
And, of course:
Feed.
Since emerging from the water, legions of the undead had been destroyed in various ways: cut down by gunfire, hacked or pummeled with handheld weapons, set ablaze with flamethrowers or Molotov cocktails, hit by cars or ground beneath tank treads. The zombies were completely fearless, though, utterly ruthless and relentless.
The attack wore on.
Casey.
The zombie stopped. It had fed recently. Hints of memory emerged, tattered images of a childhood experienced by the person it had once been. Meaningless. There and forgotten again, like they'd never really been there at all.
Screams filled the air. Curses. Pleading. The incessant, repetitive sound of gunfire.
The zombie grunted and watched as flames danced in what was left of the darkness.
Another dawn approached.
Pain tingled deep down in the zombie's gut, radiated outward along its limbs, into its feet and hands—three fingers remaining on one, thumb and index finger on the other. No matter how much the creature ate, it would never be enough. The hunger always wanted more.
Casey.
The zombie groaned and took a step toward the flames, drawn by the silhouettes moving back and forth in front of them. The screams… The curses… The pleading…
Gunshots. Louder than the others. Closer.
Something punched into the zombie's side followed by two more impacts to its right thigh, tearing through muscle, cracking bone. The zombie fell to the ground, tried to get up, managed to roll onto its back, flailed its arms and one good leg like a turtle lying on its shell. A figure approached, leaned into the zombie’s field of vision, eclipsing part of the red-black sky above.
"Stay down, you fucker."
The words, like the memories, meant nothing to the undead creature. All it knew right then was that prey was near, close enough to touch. And so it extended its arm, reaching out, its remaining fingers curling and grasping.
Casey.
In an explosion of sound and a flash of light, the name was erased forever.
Friday, September 11th
By the time they arrived, Trevor knew they were too late. During the last hour or so of their approach to the Michigan border, columns of smoke rising into the air had been plainly visible. If this didn’t serve as enough evidence as to the futility of his mission, he needed only to wait until he and Nadine got close enough to see what was burning. Bodies. Massive piles of them just outside the southernmost of the two fences that had been constructed along the edge of the zone. They'd been doused in some flammable agent and set ablaze.
Zombies? Trevor wondered. He hoped so.
He was forced to stop behind a line of cars leading up to the gate. Armed soldiers approached the vehicle where Trevor sat behind the wheel muttering, "No, no, no..." over and over again. As one of the soldiers stopped outside Trevor's window, indicating he should roll it down, Nadine placed her hand on top of his.
"Easy..." she told him in a soothing tone, trying to calm him. "We came all this way. Let's find out what happened."
Trevor took a deep breath, let it out slow. Then he opened the window.
"Unless you have military clearance—" The skepticism was evident in the soldier's tone. "—you're going to have to turn around and head back the way you came. No one's getting past the border."
"Can you tell us what's going on?" Trevor forced himself to ask, afraid that
he already knew the answer.
"The zombies... They came out of the water. Thousands of them. Hundreds of thousands."
"They came out of the water?" Trevor prompted, wanting to hear the details, to find out if they matched what the vision had shown him, certain they would.
"The lakes along either side of the state. Some sort of massive, coordinated attack, if you can believe that."
"Casualties?"
A shrug. "Thousands? Tens of thousands?"
"Jesus," said Nadine.
"The entire border's on lockdown until this mess gets straightened out, until we know for sure the deadheads don't have something else planned. So if you'll go ahead and turn around..."
Trevor thought about the journey that had brought them there, the descent out of the Carolina mountains, the setbacks due to impassable roads, areas with major zombie activity, bridges that had been destroyed. He thought about the constant feeling of dread that had nagged at him, the one telling him they were wasting too much time, that they needed to hurry. Hurry!
"What's the plan once we arrive?" Nadine had asked him.
"What do you mean?"
"How do you plan to warn everyone about this... vision of yours? How will you make them believe you?"
“I'll figure it out when we get there.”
They'd found a four-by-four truck with the keys in it the day they'd left Blake's little compound. Since then, Nadine had opened up and become more talkative. Whenever she asked questions he either couldn't or didn't want to answer, there was a part of him that wished she'd revert to the less communicative person she'd been before. It was terribly unfair of him, he knew, but there it was just the same.
"Sir?"
Trevor blinked, realized he'd drifted off a little. Too much tension working its way through his body these past few days, too little sleep.
All for nothing.
Nadine gave his arm a squeeze. "Let's go."
