I Zombie I [Omnibus Edition]

by Jack Wallen

  With the question saved, I switched to the browser and opened up the Montreal Gazette. Even before I knew what was happening across the globe, I needed to know how safe Erica was.

  I wished I hadn’t. The banner slowly sliding across the top of the site read: Chaos Spreads As The Dead Rise.

  There were pictures of the city, ravaged by violence, looting, and what looked to be the same pale, moaning humans I found on the trail.

  “Son of a bitch,” I whispered. “Shit, shit, shit.” In panic, I tapped the Home button and then tapped the speed dial launcher for Erica. The last thing she said to me, before she assured me of her love, was that she was going to go in search of food. She had no idea what awaited her in the city streets. I had to stop her.

  The phone rang.

  And rang.

  When her voicemail answered, my breath was stolen from me. I fought through the fear and whispered, “Baby, please call me back as soon as you hear this. The streets of Montreal aren’t safe. Please be okay.”

  I disconnected. My heart was crushed under the pressure of dread. In all of my life, I’d never felt so alone.

  Instead of dwelling, I launched the browser again, and this time visited the BBC website. The stories were all the same.

  England Covered In Strange Ash.

  Riots Upend City.

  The Dead Rise.

  One headline struck me as out of place. On the same page as the walking dead story, a photo of a bearded man in a lab coat standing by a machine stole focus. Over the image was the headline, Physicist’s Dream Turned Nightmare. Under the photo read, Dr. Lindsay Godwin and the Quantum Fusion Generator.

  This was entering into Erica’s realm. I tapped the Share button and sent her the link. Hopefully she could make sense out of this mess. The more I read, the more dangerous I became. You can’t drop a physics bomb on laymen and not expect it to go boom.

  All I could do now was set down the phone and try to get some sleep.

  A tall, fucking order.

  I closed my eyes and allowed the darkness to overtake me. Words faded in and out like a puzzle behind my eyelids. It was a trick I used on tours to try to find some sense of calm after a show. As I drifted off, the words, entangle my sense of self from your tragedy burned themselves into memory. In the morning, I’d write the line down and work it into a song.

  Assuming I made it through the night.

  Fuck.

  eight | Erica

  This is a really bad idea, I thought. I stood outside the emergency staircase, golf club in hand. Going into a mall on an exciting trip to obtain food, dodge crazy people, and save the day…with a golf club. Yeah, I should mail my degree back to McGill.

  My heart pounded in my chest. I peeked through the glass window. I saw nothing. I pressed my ear to the door, holding my breath. After ten agonizing seconds, I pulled my head away.

  It’s now or never. I glanced back over my shoulder. Home was just a few feet down the hall. Quietly starve to death, or operation fuck the world?

  There’s not really a choice, is there?

  I leaned on the door, committing my full self to the endeavor. Once I chose a path that was it. From meeting Trey for the first time in that coffee shop to completing my degrees, there was no going back. I hadn’t even thought about my answer when Trey popped the question. Down on one knee, his face framed by his long hair. The black tungsten ring gleamed, on it inscribed lim us → ∞. It was beautiful—he didn’t need to say a word. The limit of us is infinity. That same ring now pressed against the hilt of the golf club, a reminder of what was at stake.

  Together, we will endure.

  The lights in the stairwell flickered, and I stepped over the threshold. The door swung shut behind me. It clattered, and I jumped. Hefting the golf club, I took my first step down. I took it slow, testing the give of each foot as I padded down the stairs.

  I breathed a little easier with each step. My resolve strengthened, guiding me down the stairs. I passed the second floor door and took a quick glance over my shoulder as I passed by. There were no signs of life, nothing to indicate that anything was out of the ordinary. There were no voices, no televisions, no music. It was like I was in a tomb instead of an apartment complex. My only companion was my breath.

  Breath. I focused on it, drawing it in and out in measured doses. Breath was life—panic set in when you stopped breathing.

  The foyer of the first floor arrived under my feet. I peeked through the window and immediately wish I hadn’t. My cultivated breath was torn from my lips. I choked on a scream. A door was ajar, and a trail of blood lead into it. It was still red, not yet having dried. A melon-shaped splatter was on the wall directly outside.

  I ran. My footfalls echoed down the stairwell, the old metal steps shuddering under my weight. I blasted through the basement door without looking, emerging into an empty hallway. I sprinted down the hall, pursued by my worst fears. I came to a stop when the mall’s neon lights came into focus. I had arrived at the temple of consumerism and necessity.

  I put my hands on my knees, drawing in one shaky breath after another as my heart rattled in my chest. Heat radiated from my cheeks, and my leather jacket was like a portable sauna.

  Fuck, that was stupid.

  I drew myself up, testing the air. It was quiet. Maybe they’d all been on a smoke break at the same time and ended up outside. That would be nice.

  I pushed my glasses back up my nose and headed towards the nearest stairs. The grocery store was one floor up.

  I stuck to the middle of the hall, not getting close to any of the still-open storefronts. The labyrinths of shelves could give them the element of surprise. Golf clubs weren’t the best thing to bring to a brain buffet. At least an American would have a gun, rather than a piece of decades-old sporting equipment.

  I ran the golf club through the ferns that lined the center of the room in pots. They rustled a lone noise in the dead air. When I used to go to the mall, I’d always think the people are here, but the souls are gone.

  Now, as I looked around, I realized that the people were gone, but the souls hadn’t come back.

  I checked for my phone, some reassurance that maybe someone was still out there. Maybe, even in this very mall.

  Fuck.

  My hand groped around my pocket. My phone wasn’t there. My stomach threatened to empty itself right there. How would I talk to Trey? Did I forget it at home? Did I drop it in the stairwell?

  A low moan crept around the corner. I sucked in a deep breath, all of my brainwaves shifting straight to red alert. I glanced over my shoulder, pulling my weapon free of the plants.

  I saw nothing.

  The soft groan came again. It echoed off the empty surfaces, giving the illusion of coming from everywhere and nowhere at the same time.

  I ran for the stairs. I needed the high ground. I needed to stay alive.

  nine | Trey

  The crowd raised their devil horns at the sound of the show opening shtick. A woman’s shrieking screams followed by two gut-punching gunshots. When the wall of screams reached the stage, Rip Vanity, our lead guitarist, ran through the opening riff of “Break Down The Machine”. The crowd went nuts. It was the biggest hit from our first album and one of my favorites to perform.

  I waited for the perfect moment to run out to center stage. I kissed my wedding band ─ my one pre-show ritual. Tucked within the perfect circle was Erica’s favorite number: Pi. Erica always said it was, “Perfect math for a perfect husband.” Little did she know, the perfection began and ended with her.

  When I reached center stage, time stopped. Rip’s Jackson King V guitar pointed straight toward the heavens. One of Danny K’s drumsticks hovered above him, mid spin. Frank was frozen, his right hand about to slap down on his bass strings.

  I spun around to take it all in. The silence wormed its way into my chest and clamped down on my heart. My eyes closed. The fear of glancing over the audience was too much. This had to be one of those moments I’d he
ard whispered about on tour buses; out of body experiences induced by the perfect confluence of body, mind, and spirit. The “unstoppable force paradox,” Erica once said. The sound of the crowd meeting the sound from the stage and, for a brief moment, everything ceased.

  I wanted so badly for this to be that ─ a paradox.

  When I glanced back out to the crowd, I understood, fully, that was not the case. Floating toward the stage a body rode a wave of flailing arms. The speed of the limbs was in complete opposition of the body’s movement. Slowly and gently, the form neared. Arms crossed over the chest, hair floating around the head like a gossamer halo.

  The naked feet of the body reached the stage and forward progress stopped. The sea of writhing arms locked in place. Like Dracula rising from a coffin, the body rose.

  Erica.

  A paragon of beauty.

  I tried to call out to her. My voice was silent.

  I tried to dive onto the waiting arms of the audience. My feet were rooted to the stage.

  She raised her arms slightly. Tears of blood dripped from her cheeks. When a single drop of crimson grief landed on a nearby arm, it came to life. The arm reached up and grasped Erica’s outstretched limb. With a silent, violent tug, Erica’s arm was wrenched from her torso. She opened her mouth to scream and a chorus of deep, atonal moans poured forth.

  Another tear found its way to another arm which, in turn, found its way to Erica’s and, with a great yank, removed another limb.

  Again, I tried to race to Erica’s aid. My failure was profound. Scarlet drops rained down on the monsters below who then unleashed militant rage on the body of my one true love. I stood, helpless to defend Erica as she was ripped apart in a silent, ballet of the macabre.

  Once her body was shredded, the offending monsters took to devouring her flesh … flesh that I could still smell if I closed my eyes. Flesh that I had touched and desired.

  Grief folded me in half and forced me to my knees. She was gone. The only woman to have ever captured my heart and soul was no more. I wept. As the tears fell, they turned to ice and shattered on the stage floor. The weeping continued until my entire body was buried in a frozen drift.

  My body’s shivering woke me. Somehow, in my sleep, I worked my way out of the sleeping bag. As I gasped, my breath hung just above my mouth in a misty cloud.

  “A dream,” I whispered. “It was just a fucking dream.”

  I grabbed my phone. It was too late to be calling and Erica was probably sound asleep. We had a rule. Whenever I was on the road, if the phone rang, we answered. It was a rule neither of us had ever broken. Many late nights, after a show, Erica would call in desperate need to hear my voice. Little did she know, I was just as desperate.

  I tapped her beautiful face to dial the number.

  It rang.

  And rang.

  And rang.

  My breath grew shallow as my pulse raced. The phone continued to ring until her voicemail picked up.

  “Fuck,” I shouted. Instantly I regretted the sound. Whatever slaughtered the masses in the main room could still be near. The thought captured my breath as the last dregs of reality melted into truth. I lay on the bunk, motionless in my paling, frightened flesh.

  I heard nothing but my beating heart. The surrounding and absolute darkness closed in and threatened to strip me of what little sanity remained. My hand groped for the sleeping bag. Slowly, silently, I slipped back into the quilted cocoon. The fluffy down would do no good against a raging monster. Even still, there was some measure of comfort to be found in the hiding away.

  For the briefest of moments, I was seven years old again hiding from the Grim in the closet.

  And then … I heard it. A soft moan rattling against the fragile door that stood between me and … whatever it was. Instinctively, my hand shot out for my pack and retrieved the only means of protection I had ─ a hunting knife. As I pulled the knife to me, my thumb flicked the blade out and locked it in place.

  The moan rose in pitch and volume. I tapped my phone and flicked on the flashlight app so I could make my way to the opposite side of the room without tripping or making a sound. I turned, faced the door, and pressed my back against the wall.

  “Wake up, wake up, wake up,” I whispered, even though I knew my dream had already ended.

  A moment of panic washed over me. I lifted my phone to my face and tapped out a text to Erica.

  In a situation. Please don’t call now.

  I fucking hated sending that to her. She would panic and assume the worst.

  The moan returned to remind me her assumption would absolutely be correct.

  My fingers clenched tightly around the handle of the knife. Out of nowhere, an unfamiliar wash of testosterone flooded my system. I’m not a violent man ─ one of the qualities that originally drew Erica to me. She adored my mile-wide streak of pacifism. “I prefer poets to pugilists,” she said one early morning.

  I never told her I had to look up the word. She prized my passion and compassion ─ but was always so easily turned on by intellect.

  My current situation, however, would most likely not be resolved by a witty turn of phrase.

  Something crashed against the door. The moan found a purpose. I had two choices, wait for the son of a bitch to grow tired of bashing into a door, or swing said door open wide and plunge my blade into the skull of whoever, or whatever, it was on the other side.

  The crashing returned with a vengeance and the door rattled on its hinges. Before I could make a decision, the door broke open. Standing before me was the shape of a man. I raised my phone so the light would spill into the doorway.

  I wished I hadn’t.

  The man’s skin was almost paper white. Rivers of bluish veins threaded their way across every inch of exposed skin. It wasn’t until I saw the man’s eyes, that the gravity of the situation flooded my system.

  Sour-milk white; useless orbs staring blindly into the space between us. The second I took in the sight, all thoughts of pacifism flushed from my conscience. I raised the knife and raced at the beast. Before I could plunge the knife into the skull of the thing, it reached up and grabbed me by the neck. Vise-like fingers clamped down. My lungs pulled hard to gain purchase on the surrounding oxygen. None came. The bastard pulled me in close ─ his gaping maw displaying cracked and rotting teeth. I could smell the fetid breath. I wanted to cry out, vomit, and shit myself all at the same time.

  Instead, I dropped the hammer of my fist down with every ounce of force I had. I could feel the blade of the knife crack through the bone of the skull. The vibration of the impact shot up my arm, through my shoulder, and into my chest. As the blade broke through the calcium fortress, the resistance eased up and the knife slipped in to the hilt.

  The grip released. The thing dropped. I breathed.

  At my feet lay a dead man … thing … whatever. The realization hit me like a concert loudspeaker dropped from a truss.

  I backed away until I smacked into a wall. My legs gave out and I dropped, numb. Tears flowed freely down my cheeks as I turned the phone back to me and tapped another text to my beloved.

  Please call me now.

  ten | Erica

  My eyes scanned the lower levels, my heart was grateful for the height advantage. Adrenaline had its uses, but the number of surges I’d experienced today have left me shaky and nauseous. One hand gripped the railing. The gold club rested on my shoulder, ready to be summoned to action.

  To violence.

  I’d never turned on another human before. Could I do it? I swallowed. Perhaps it was best not to consider the hypotheticals.

  My moaning friend hadn’t followed me. I never caught sight of him, so he must be far off. The myriad of twists and turns in an underground mall meant the sound could come from anywhere.

  I pulled my white-knuckle grip off of the railing, setting my glasses back to their spot on my nose. I regretted my decision to go back to glasses. Contacts would have been so much more convenient. But, does
one ever add apocalypse to their pros and cons lists?

  If I went back to teaching after this, maybe I should add that to the syllabus. Okay, class, here’s how you prepare for the end of the world with respect to your studies!

  I smirked. I turned towards the grocery store. Its fluorescent lights beckoned me inside. The shelves were still loaded, their bounty exposed to me with the finest product placement money could buy. I scanned the area—I didn’t see anyone. It’s like the world decided to take a smoke break. Or an eating people break.

  Since when did my sense of humor get so dark?

  I had a single backpack, and two mouths to feed for an indeterminate amount of time. How did I go about that? A check of my arm’s shopping list indicated that I had only considered wanting cheese.

  Well, cheese is awesome. But, damn it, Erica, I’m supposed to be the practical one here! I bet Trey would laugh his ass off if he could see me now. Though, he’d probably flip his shit given that I left the safety of our home to go shopping.

  Just thinking of Trey gave me butterflies in my stomach. They settled there that night in the cafe. They never left me, not for a single day since.

  I blinked, returning myself to the present. Practicality and shelf-life. I didn’t want to come here every day, when once a week could do. I slid the backpack off my shoulders. Would I have power? Could I still cook in a week? A month? Trey had better be back before then.

  I grabbed a bag of carrots, and a bag of apples. Scurvy could blow me. I bolted for the cat food aisle. My sneakers patted along the ground, the only thing that gave a hint to my passage.

  I grabbed a bag and froze. A moan meandered through the aisle, casual in its inhumanity. My breath caught in my throat and I jammed the package into my backpack. I spun around, clinging to my weapon with both hands.

  There was nothing there. Just the hum of the freezers in the next aisle, and the shuddering of my own gulps of air. I moved out of the aisle the way I came, my eyes scanning the bright packages for any abnormalities. Any sign of life.