(killkillkillkillkillkillkill)
This time it was a closed fist that struck her cheek. A sound like a gunshot filled her senses, though she was sure she couldn't hear anything anymore. Her lungs stopped protesting and she felt darkness overcoming her.
"No." a voice said. It sounded unfamiliar. Was it Lee's, distorted - or was it her own?
"No," again. Cheryl, blind, felt herself being dragged across the linoleum to the carpet in the living room. Her mouth was forced open by several fingers. Please God, she wept in her mind, don't let me live through this. Let me die now.
She slipped away into blackness.
Then she was back. There were lips over hers. They pulled away and she opened her eyes.
A young man knelt over her. "Can you hear me?" He asked. It was his voice she'd heard before. Cheryl nodded.
"Stay here. Don't try to get up." He ran out of sight, then came back with a glass of water. He propped her head up to pour it down her throat. "Just take it easy. I think you're gonna be okay."
Her head began pounding. She whimpered, the last of the water spilling over her shirt. The man laid her back down and she felt something like a pillow underneath her head. Taking a few shallow breaths, Cheryl smelled acrid smoke.
"Who was - is - this man? The man who attacked you? Do you know him?"
"You shot him, didn't you?"
The young man sat back on the floor and nodded.
"His name's Lee. He's my cousin. He's dead, then?"
"He's dead. He was...he was trying to..."
"I know." Cheryl attempted to sit up. The man firmly laid her back down. "Please don't move. It's for your own good." Almost as an afterthought, the man fished an ID card from his pocket. She saw the service pistol in his waistband.
"My name's Mike Weisman. I'm a Patrol Officer." He said. "I live in the next building over."
"Thank you," Cheryl whispered, then fell unconscious.
11.
Strays
As dawn crept over Jefferson Harbor, Senior P.O. Voorhees was making his way back to the homeless shelter. He was passing the East Harbor Mall when he saw a dog walking across the parking lot. As it came closer, what he thought to be mange turned out to be rot. The dead dog looked at him with milky eyes and turned to go in the other direction.
He almost couldn't bear the thought of harming the creature. Then he thought of the other dogs it would feed upon. Voorhees dropped to one knee and patted his thigh softly. "C'mere boy."
The dog glanced back but kept walking away. He couldn't bring himself to draw his sidearm. "C'mere boy! C'mon!"
Voorhees was fifty-nine years old. The outbreak began nearly half a century before he was born, but when his mother learned she was pregnant she resolved to keep the baby. His father had reluctantly agreed. The old man wasn't a bad parent; he fulfilled all his duties, taught his son to be a man in the face of a nightmare world. The old man just wasn't there in his heart, and Voorhees had always known it, as far back as he could remember.
They had a hound, a mutt named George; Voorhees never knew his father's first name but he suspected it was the same. One morning, before the sun had risen, ten-year-old Voorhees' father had pulled him from bed and taken him behind the house.
George was tied to a post amidst the tall grass. The property was surrounded by a ten-foot fence and the dog acted as a lookout in case rotters came from across the fields. On this morning, George had been lying on his side. His tail wagged feebly when Voorhees and his father appeared.
"He's been bit." The old man said without emotion. He gave the boy a few minutes to let it sink in, then continued. "A couple of days ago I guess, when we were hunting. I never saw the dog - or whatever it was - that did it. Didn't even notice the bite until last night." Voorhees thought he heard his father's voice break and looked up. The old man quickly knelt to raise one of George's forelegs, exposing the wound.
"We're all scared to die," he whispered, "even George here. He knew what was gonna happen and he hid it from me. But what's best for George - son, you know what's best."
Voorhees tasted tears on his lips and nodded.
"There's a reason why I'm making you do this." The old man said. He pulled a revolver from his jeans pocket. "You love George, don't you?" The boy nodded.
"So do I." His father replied. He pushed the gun into Voorhees' trembling hands. "But this is what's best, what's right."
"Dad- -" The child began.
"One of these days," the old man stammered, and tears formed in his eyes, the first and last time Voorhees would ever see such a thing, "one of these days, son, I'm gonna get bit. It just happens when you go out there as much as I do. And I'm gonna hide it..." He choked, cleared his throat loudly, continued in a croak. "And I'm gonna beg you not to kill me, son, but it's what's best. I need to know you'll do it and then burn what's left."
The old man stood back, away from Voorhees and George. He did one more thing that he had never before done and would never do again.
"I love you, son."
"I love you too Dad."
Voorhees knelt and scratched George's head. Through a blurry sea of grief he aimed. The mutt sniffed the barrel of the gun and rested his head on the ground, as if to say it was all right, that he understood, even if every animal instinct in his body was telling him to run.
Thirty years later, Voorhees had seen the same look of pained acceptance in his father's eyes. He'd raised his service pistol through a blurry sea of grief, blinked the tears away to ensure his aim was true, and pulled the trigger.
"C'mon then, George," Voorhees said to the dead dog in the parking lot. He held his hands out. Something in the vestiges of the canine's brain stirred. It sat and stared at him. Then it came.
The gun was meant for the living. It could only slow an undead down, and that was a crapshoot in itself. Even a bullet to the head only did so much. If you were lucky, you maybe crippled or blinded it. No, fire was the only way to end them, and the best way to incapacitate a rotter prior to setting it ablaze was decapitation. A "widowmaker" was a sort of cleaver designed for that purpose, capable of parting bone as easily as flesh, in the right hands; Voorhees loosed his from its sheath on his back and waited for the dog.
When it was done, he drenched the body in lighter fluid and struck a match on the asphalt. Its soiled fur went up in seconds. Voorhees sat on the curb and watched it burn away.
At the Holy Covenant Shelter, a new arrival was being checked over by Yeats, the resident doctor. He'd been a paramedic at some point in his youth; without the proper medicine and equipment, his knowledge wasn't really worth much, but it brought peace of mind to the group.
"What's your name again?" He asked the grizzled, muscular man sitting on the cot before him. "Shipley." Came the answer. "And where are you from?" Reverend Palmer followed up.
"Nebraska."
"What brought you here?"
"I was...I was with an Army platoon, you know? They gave the order to start pulling back and, I dunno. I just didn't want to go back."
"Why not?"
"Prison tats." Voorhees' voice startled all three of them. He stood with Oates, who'd just let him in. Lifting the sleeve of Shipley's t-shirt, the P.O. studied the numbers there. "When did you get out?"
"I was drafted while I was still inside, man. Couple years ago." Shipley eyed Voorhees suspiciously. The look was returned tenfold. Yeats and Palmer excused themselves.
"So you deserted, rather than head north with your platoon?" Voorhees scratched the stubble on his chin. "They probably wouldn't have locked you back up. They need soldiers more than inmates." Shipley shrugged, and Voorhees finished, "Maybe you just didn't want to be someplace where it'd be so easy to get caught committing another offense."
Shipley grimaced. "Man, I ain't gonna do anything else wrong. It's just, I still had another seven years on my sentence."
"They didn't commute it when you were drafted?"
"I don't know what that means."
"Right
. What were you in for?"
Shipley looked down at his grimy sneakers. Voorhees waited.
"Assault. Of a minor."
"You mean sexual assault."
Shipley nodded, almost imperceptibly.
"Just one minor?"
"Just one."
Voorhees sat on the cot and clamped a hand on Shipley's knee. "So, what does it for you? Boys or girls?"
"I haven't even thought of doing it again. I swear."
"Boys or girls?"
"...She was a girl. She was fourteen. And it was fucking consensual, I don't give a fuck what the court or anyone else says. They weren't there. Okay? I'm not a repeat offender, it wasn't like that. I LOVED her. It wasn't like I just saw some random piece of ass at a bus stop- -"
"It's never 'like that', is it?" Voorhees put on a pitiful frown. "It's not like you're a filthy pedophile. Not like you deserted so you could come down here and pick up where you left off. Are you always the victim, Shipley?"
Shipley didn't answer. Inside he was fuming, but he didn't dare lose it with this guy. He'd hacked his way across the badlands of five states to get here and it sure as hell wasn't for any girl...
Across town, in the landfill, Gene wiped a syrupy film from his pale skin. He was secreting fluids, attracting flies and ants; there were ants in his pants, something that briefly struck him with an odd feeling before he forgot all about it. The insects were feasting on his flesh, and though he didn't register any pain he did need to stop them. Gene went into the shack where he'd once lived. Card table, bed, radio, shelf of foodstuffs and chemicals. He fumbled through the shelf's contents while hiking up his pants leg. There were a couple dozen ants teeming on his calf. Ants. Ants. He repeated the sound in his head and studied the cans on the shelf. Ants. Ants. The letters on the cans were all gibberish, lines and loops forming a language he no longer understood.
One of the cans had a cartoonish drawing that resembled the insects eating his leg. He pried the lid from the can, exposing a spray nozzle. The cartoon ant grinned happily at him and he wondered if the stuff inside the can was good or bad for the bugs.
Kneeling stiffly, Gene sprayed his leg up and down. A faint burning sensation accompanied the writhing and falling away of the ants. He followed them along the floor with the spray to make sure they didn't come back. Maybe there were some on his other leg. He sprayed down the front and back of his uniform until the can sputtered and gave out.
Bluebottle flies swarmed around his head. He searched the shelf for a can with flies on it. There wasn't any, but one can had other winged bugs on it. He sprayed it up and down his body. His eyes stung, but he could still see.
Gene walked out of the shack. He thought of something. Shovel. He could get at more meat inside a body with the shovel. Where was it? It was supposed to be here. He tried to
(remember)
picture it. In his mind it was laying atop of mountain of garbage. There were lots of those here. Gene clambered up the nearest one.
Reaching the top, he didn't see a shovel. From here, though, he could see the next hill, and there it was.
A sharp crack drew his attention to the boat chugging along the shoreline. A half-second later the bullet tore through his shoulder and he fell.
12.
Duel
Death sat on his steed outside the walls of the city. He sensed with every passing moment the birth of new afterdead; were he able to deal with them in his true element, all their flames would already be long extinguished. But he had to be here, in the living world, and bound by unnatural laws.
Throughout existence the Reaper had silently walked along an endless tunnel, its walls lined with candles, each tiny pinprick of light a soul. When a light died - sometimes when the candle was melted completely, other times when it had barely sprung to life - he marked another passing. Without question or emotion he walked the tunnel, he watched each flame dance and struggle and eventually join the shadows like all the others. There was no warmth from the fire, no texture to the cave floor - there was neither a sensation nor detail without purpose.
That was a long time ago. Time had held no meaning for Death there, but here in the living world every second was like an eternity. The insignificance of days, years and millennia had become startlingly relevant to the spectre.
He'd visited this world many times before - mostly in earlier times, when Man still communed with the other side. Though he had no name he had been given many by those who would presume to know him. Thanatos, Azrael, Yama. He was assigned genders. "He" only thought of himself as a male because that was the most popular conception. It seemed to hold more authority with the living, though females clearly held the key to life. They'd also dreamed up manners of appearance, clothing, and equipment - and when appropriate he did indeed present himself as a winged angel, or a skeleton in a tattered shroud. In many ways, Death realized, he had given himself over to the whims of Man's imagination. Perhaps it was because their ability to imagine fascinated him so.
When the outbreak occurred - when orange flames blinking out were suddenly replaced by undying blue ones - he had assumed a look that was an amalgamation of several mythologies for his journey to this world. Still, he didn't often allow the living to see him. The afterdead were another story. They saw him always. He had no influence over them - hadn't, at least, until he'd forged a scythe from their bones.
There was one crossing the badlands toward him now, a female with rail-thin legs and a lipless grin. He drew the blade of bone from his cloak.
She knew he was not meat; there was something intrinsic about his offensiveness, about the way her insides burned when she saw him. Patches of scalp dangling over her eyes transformed her face into a glaring, toothless jack-o'-lantern, and she quickened her staggering pace.
He dismounted and walked calmly toward her.
As he raised the scythe, she lurched forward and tore a bloodless gash in his chest.
Death stumbled back, the blade missing its mark, and he barely warded off her second attack. He brought the scythe's handle up against her knee. Bone blistered and fell apart; she clawed at his robes, the slightest touch opening fissures in his being. He swatted her to the ground.
The horse stamped its hooves in the dirt. Glancing back, the Reaper saw wounds like stripes opening along its flank to mirror his own. Sitting up suddenly, the she-zombie buried its fingers in his thigh, pulling out a handful of crumbling clay. Death retreated. She followed.
He feigned a stumble and threw the blade back, under his arm and through the cloak, into her sternum.
She stood impaled on the scythe, watching streams of black ichor wind down her shriveled breasts. Death smoothed the blemishes on his chalk-white body and jerked the blade free.
The she-zombie crumpled without a sound.
She had marred him; nothing that couldn't be restored now, but it was troubling nonetheless whenever he allowed one to get that close. "I still have much to learn," he told the horse, patting its wounds together. They passed through the gates back into the city.
Death rode along a residential street, its houses abandoned and looted, some of them burned-out shells. The steed took him from there into a cemetery. The uneven earth was dotted with burial vaults. For whatever reason - maybe none at all - they'd been looted too.
There were two men standing in the open door of a family vault with GREELEY chiseled into the stone over their heads. He walked the horse around the vault, listening as they spoke.
"I like this guy Shipley for the Midtown Rapist." The balding one said. The other one, standing in the bald man's shadow, picked lichen from the vault wall and replied, "I met a woman last night. Well, met...she was being attacked by her housemate. I shot him."
"I never saw a report." The bald man scolded. "What's the point?" The young one shot back. The bald man was ready with a retort. "If it weren't for reports still being filed in other cities, I wouldn't know that we had a serial rapist on our hands."
"I just don't see- -"<
br />
"We continue doing things by the book. Mike, if there's no book, what is there? What authority do we have? Might as well throw out our shields too."
"All right, all right."
"Anyhow, what about this woman?"
"She was raped a few months back. Never reported it."
"Jesus, another one..."
Death's thoughts drifted. He could see both men's candles in his mind's eye; both were perilously small.
13.
Among The Dead
They were howling, reaching for her, clambering up the sides of the stage. Her song turned to a hellish scream and yet Jenna couldn't drop the microphone, couldn't fend off her audience as they tore first at her clothes, then her skin...
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