Zombiemandias (Book 0): After the Bite

by David Lovato

  In the cooler behind Larry, a variety of Sobe flavors sat in wait on the bottom two shelves. He opened the door, bent, and grabbed a Strawberry Banana drink. Then he took his things and headed for the door.

  His car was parked out front, and he tossed his loot into the passenger’s seat, set the drink in the cup holder, and went to the back seat. He opened the door, retrieved the nearly empty gas can, and headed toward the closest pump. The machine beeped as he slid his debit card through the reader. Larry set the can on the ground and filled it to the neck. He closed the lid tightly, then placed the can in the back seat of his car. The gas sloshed around inside, and Larry shut the door and then sat down in the driver’s seat. He turned the key, the engine rumbled, and then Larry tapped the gas and headed down the disarrayed street.

  Some amount of time had passed when Larry turned on the radio for some tunes. The radio was silent as it had been for several days, so he turned it off and continued driving down the road. He finished his drink, set it down, then put on the brakes. He came to a complete stop in the middle of the road, but there was no one behind him to worry about. No honking horns, no obscene gestures. It was convenient but somewhat eerie. Larry withdrew a cigarette from one of the boxes that had spilled out onto the passenger’s seat and lit it with his polished metal lighter. He took a drag and moved his foot from the brake to the gas pedal.

  As he was driving, Larry’s mind remained full. He wondered about his friend, Evan. Was he safe? Was he even alive? Had he stayed in Chicago when this mess began? Larry had questions, but no answers. It was getting dark, and he was growing sleepy.

  Pretty soon he decided to pull over, off the side of the road, under a large tree. Larry turned off the car, pocketed his keys, and went around to the back. The seat cover came off the back seat, and Larry lay down in the floorboard with the cover over him. It was not the most comfortable of beds, but if a zombie happened around his car, he would not be noticed.

  With the morning came a light drizzle. Small drops pitter-pattered on the roof of the car, and it dripped down the windows. Larry looked at his watch, and gave a despaired sigh. It was nearly nine a.m. He sat up, stepped through the rain, and plopped into the driver’s seat.

  For a few minutes, he stared out the window. It was just him and his car, and an abandoned car a little way behind him, and another in front. There were no zombies in the immediate area. He turned the car on and took off down the road. Along the way, there was a burning house, and the nearby zombies were flocking to it. Most of them walked right into the flames.

  A few hours later, Larry parked the car in the driveway of an abandoned house. He wondered how long he could make it here as he carried his bags and the gas can to the front door. He’d slipped the empty Sobe bottle in one of the three sacks, and it clinked lightly with each step.

  The door was not locked; it wasn’t even blocked off or barricaded. The previous owners must’ve fled, and Larry wondered how they were doing now. Had they escaped the city?

  Larry spent the day in this house. He barricaded the doors and windows on the ground floor, then ate a sandwich and chips on the bed in the master bedroom. He ate in solitude, thinking about how he was going to die alone. Maybe not here, but somewhere, he was going to be all alone when he took his final breath. Tears began to fall from his eyes.

  Some noises startled Larry. It was the sound of hands beating against the door. Larry stood up, chewing the last remnants of his dinner, a little excited. He rushed out of the room and down the stairs to see the visitors. They were hungry, and wanted in. Larry realized he had barricaded the doors and windows, but left almost all of the lights on. Perhaps he would die here after all. Then he recalled the zombies rushing into the burning house from before.

  While he went for the gas can and the Sobe bottle, Larry heard a window shatter. He hurried back up the stairs and tore up a towel he found in the bathroom. The pungent gas splashed into the bottle, and some on the carpet. Larry stuffed the smaller towel piece into the neck of the bottle, then went into the bedroom across the hall.

  It was a child’s bedroom. Toys cluttered the floor. The bed was unmade, and the light was off. Larry opened the window. There was a gathering of at least a half dozen zombies at the front of the house. Larry took out his lighter. It gleamed in the setting sun as the flame leapt from within. He felt the heat from it as he held it to the shredded cloth. The flame began to creep along the makeshift wick. Larry held the bottle carefully, his hand shaking from the mixed emotions: Fear, worry, excitement, sadness.

  Larry chucked the bottle as hard as he could. It broke open on the birdbath in the center of the yard. The gas spilled everywhere, engulfing a huge chunk of the front lawn in flames. The zombies almost immediately took notice, and quickly gained interest. He watched as the zombies dived into the orange flames. Their bodies bubbled in the heat. Larry went to bed shortly after the barbeque.

  In the morning, the patches of grass had been charred. The bodies were unrecognizable black masses.

  Larry spent another day alone, and come late afternoon a zombie broke in. It was one zombie, but its cries called others, and it was time for Larry to leave. The house was through with him. He got up from the bed, where dozens of cigarette butts had been carelessly thrown. He gathered his bags of food, the remaining carton and a half of cigarettes, and the gas can. Larry looked closely at the carpet, found the spot where he had spilled gasoline the night before, and dropped his cigarette onto it. The carpet began to catch. Larry headed downstairs as the fire began to spread across the hall. He went into the kitchen and turned the light off, and when the zombies broke the door down, they headed straight up the stairs. When it was clear, Larry ran through the door and to his car. The engine roared to life, and Larry took to the road again.

  Larry didn’t like the nomadic lifestyle too much, but it seemed pretty fond of him. He lit another cigarette and savored its flavor. He made it last for as long as possible, since he didn’t know when he’d be able to find more. He smoked it to the filter, even burning his finger a time or two.

  Finally, it burned out. With his eyes on the road and his right hand on the wheel, he flicked the useless butt into the passenger’s seat. He continued his solitary journey, driving down the road as the flavor faded with the smoke.

  Holy War

  It was Friday, and Mr. Horowitz descended the stairs of the apartment like he always did. He reached the landing and walked down the hall. Just ahead of him, Mr. Salih was shutting the door to his own apartment. Upon seeing Mr. Horowitz, a smile spread across his face.

  Mr. Horowitz fought the feeling in the pit of his stomach, adjusted his hat, and continued walking, pretending not to notice Mr. Salih at all. He pulled his pocket Tanakh from the inside of his jacket and buried his face within.

  “Good morning, my friend,” Mr. Salih said in his thick accent. Mr. Horowitz wished he wouldn’t refer to him as such.

  “I don’t see what’s good about it,” Mr. Horowitz said.

  “The sun has risen, has it not? Allah has blessed us, this day.”

  “The sun would rise if we were all dead, too,” Mr. Horowitz said. “God made it that way from the start.”

  “Ah, but what did He make it that way for, if not for his followers?” Mr. Salih said.

  “Maybe himself,” Mr. Horowitz said, “to shed light on the sins of nonbelievers.”

  “Maybe,” Mr. Salih said. He pulled a copy of the Quran from his back pocket. “A verse, for good measure?”

  “As always,” Mr. Horowitz said. “You first.”

  Salih opened his book to a random page, and read.

  “‘Be not wroth with me that I forgot, and be not hard upon me for my fault.’” Mr. Horowitz chuckled.

  “I’m not the one you have to worry about being hard on you,” he said. Mr. Salih smiled and said, “Your turn.”

  “‘Trust in the Lord forever,’” Mr. Horowitz said, “‘For the Lord God is an everlasting rock.’” Mr. Horowitz had not stopped w
alking, and when the two men reached the stairs, he didn’t wait for Mr. Salih. Mr. Horowitz was old and his suit was tight, but his limbs were still good, and his legs still carried him down the stairs at a good speed. Mr. Salih continued down the hall, as he did every day.

  “Good day to you, my friend,” Mr. Salih said. “May your days on this earth all be good, for your days in the life beyond will not.”

  “Same to you,” Mr. Horowitz said, not caring whether anyone heard.

  ****

  It was Monday, and Mr. Horowitz repeated his routine. Once again, he hoped Mr. Salih would not be leaving his home, and once again, he buried his face in his book when he had no such luck.

  “Good day,” Mr. Salih said.

  “Great day,” Mr. Horowitz said, “especially for us who don’t live in fear.”

  “I have nothing to fear,” Mr. Salih said, “not in this world.” He pulled his book from his pocket. “‘The only ones to respond are those who listen. God resurrects the dead, they ultimately return to Him.’”

  Mr. Horowitz read from his book.

  “‘For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways, declares the Lord.’”

  The two men walked down the hall, toward the stairs.

  “What is it that you do, my friend?” Mr. Salih said. “When you are gone all day?”

  “Don’t you have something better to do, like praying to the East or fasting?” Mr. Horowitz said. Mr. Salih said nothing. “What is it you do all day, when you’re around here?”

  “I visit the man down the hall,” Mr. Salih said.

  Mr. Horowitz, while not fond of Mr. Salih, did not wish to be too disrespectful. He fought against the idea that the man down the hall (whom nobody could ever remember seeing, save for Mr. Salih) was another Arab, fought against the idea that the two were plotting something. Mr. Horowitz did not trust Mr. Salih or Arabs in general, nor did he like them, but there was an air of niceness about Mr. Salih. He was no killer.

  “Why hasn’t anyone seen the man down the hall?” Mr. Horowitz said. The two reached the stairs, and for the first time that either of them could recall, Mr. Horowitz stopped to continue talking.

  “I have, my friend,” Mr. Salih said, and continued walking.

  ****

  It was Tuesday, and Mr. Horowitz walked toward the stairs. He had considered waiting ten minutes before leaving, or perhaps leaving fifteen minutes early. But his brief meetings with Mr. Salih were no excuse to forfeit routine, so he left at the same time as always. And, as always, he ran into Mr. Salih outside of his apartment.

  “Good morning,” Mr. Salih said. Mr. Horowitz said nothing, but Mr. Salih pulled his book out regardless.

  “‘We narrate to you the history of those communities: Their messengers went to them with clear proofs, but they were not to believe in what they had rejected before. God thus seals the hearts of the disbelievers.’”

  For a moment the walk continued, and Mr. Salih was intrigued that Mr. Horowitz had not produced his own book. But as the stairs loomed closer, the permanent scowl on Mr. Horowitz’s face turned into an emotional frown, and he grabbed his book from his pocket.

  “‘The Lord is far from the wicked, but he hears the prayer of the righteous.’ I win.” Mr. Horowitz descended the stairs before Mr. Salih could offer a reply.

  ****

  It was Wednesday, and Mr. Horowitz met Mr. Salih at the usual spot, book in hand.

  “‘I am forbidden from worshiping what you worship besides God. Say, I will not follow your opinions. Otherwise, I will go astray, and not be guided.’”

  “‘Better is the end of a thing than its beginning, and the patient in spirit is better than the proud in spirit.’”

  The stairs grew ever closer, and the stagnant silence was almost visible.

  “What is it that you do, Mr. Horowitz?”

  “I go to the church,” Mr. Horowitz said. “And I pray. Do you go to church, Mr. Salih? Or a mosque?”

  “Of course not,” Mr. Salih said. “Our mosque was destroyed.”

  Mr. Horowitz felt his throat clog up for a moment.

  “Destroyed? How?”

  “We received threats, Mr. Horowitz. Many of them. People were afraid to attend. We had no funding or support, and the mosque was torn down. People moved, attended mosques farther away, in safer areas.”

  “What about you?” Mr. Horowitz said, nearly stopping at the stairs.

  “I believe that Allah will understand, and forgive me,” Mr. Salih said. He headed down the hall.

  ****

  On Thursday Mr. Horowitz once again met Mr. Salih.

  “What’s the word today? Does it have to do with proper treatment of your many wives?”

  “Perhaps,” Mr. Salih said. “Perhaps yours will give proper instructions on how to kill your enemies.”

  Mr. Horowitz had almost looked forward to the meeting today, but the feeling had left him before he had even spoken.

  “‘He is the only One who controls life and death. To have anything done, He simply says to it, ‘Be,’ and it is.’”

  “‘Be not quick in your spirit to become angry, for anger lodges in the bosom of fools.’”

  The two reached the stairs.

  “Give the man down the hall my regards,” Mr. Horowitz said, and began to descend. Mr. Salih followed. Mr. Horowitz tried not to look surprised.

  “I am afraid I cannot,” Mr. Salih said.

  “Why are you following me?” Mr. Horowitz said.

  “I am not following you, my friend. It seems that today, our paths have been drawn the same. But my reason is no different, I am going to see the same man.”

  “So he moved?”

  “He moved on. The man down the hall passed away this morning. I am asked to identify.”

  Mr. Horowitz tried his best to maintain a balance of apathy and respect.

  “My condolences.”

  “He is with God, now,” Mr. Salih said. “Your condolences are unnecessary. I think, somewhere, he looks down on us now. He offers us his condolences.”

  “Who was he, anyway?”

  “He was a good man,” Mr. Salih said.

  “Was he… you know,” Mr. Horowitz said.

  “A Muslim?”

  “Yeah.”

  “…He was a good man, Mr. Horowitz. That is all there is to know.”

  The two parted ways after leaving the front door, and Mr. Horowitz had an inescapable feeling that Mr. Salih did not quite know the answer himself.

  ****

  Friday came, and everything changed. The radio came on and told a horrific tale of monsters eating people in the streets. There was chaos, and after the shock and feeling that it must be a joke had passed, Mr. Horowitz was convinced that the end times had finally arrived.

  He put on his suit and vest and reached for his hat, just like every day. The only difference was that this time, he brought with him a small revolver.

  He walked down the hall, and saw that the reports were not incorrect. A man lay on the floor at the top of the steps. Above him, another man knelt down, ripping and tearing at the man, bringing bits of flesh and other things to his mouth.

  There was a groan, and Mr. Horowitz turned to see another of the monsters. It grabbed for him, and Mr. Horowitz fired. The man fell into him, and both fell to the ground. The strange man did not move.

  “Good day, my friend.” Mr. Horowitz turned and saw Mr. Salih standing there, shotgun in hand, blood splattered on his shirt.

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” Mr. Horowitz said. He pushed himself to his feet, brushing off Mr. Salih’s attempt to help him.

  “I am afraid not,” Mr. Salih said. “Something is happening, as I see you are aware.”

  “What are you doing out here?” Mr. Horowitz said. “Go back home, get inside.” He wondered what had brought Mr. Salih out in the first place, since he wouldn’t need to visit the man down the hall anymore. A thought occurred to him that Mr. Salih had come out to see a different man fr
om down the hall, but Mr. Horowitz dismissed it.

  “I don’t think I will be safe at home anymore,” Mr. Salih said. His eyes widened for a moment, and he pulled his Quran out. “One last passage?”

  “This is hardly the time,” Mr. Horowitz said.

  “This is the perfect time,” Mr. Salih said, “for it may be the final time.”

  Mr. Horowitz looked at him, and then sighed. “Yeah, okay.”

  “‘The day will come when this earth will be substituted with a new earth, and also the heavens, and everyone will be brought before God, the One, the Supreme.’”

  Mr. Horowitz eyed the shotgun.

  “What’s that for? Is it time to kill the infidels?”

  “Yes, I think so,” Mr. Salih said. He gestured to Mr. Horowitz’s revolver. “And you, too?”

  Mr. Horowitz eyed the two guns. He pulled his book from his jacket.

  “‘Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and do not lean on your own understanding.’”

  Mr. Salih raised his shotgun and fired. The sound was deafening, and Mr. Horowitz felt his heart beat faster as he shut his eyes tightly and his hands instinctively went to his ears. The book fell from his hand.

  He opened his eyes. Just behind him, another of the creatures was falling to the ground. Mr. Salih reloaded his shotgun.

  “Shall we kill the infidels?” he said.

  “Yeah,” Mr. Horowitz said. “Yeah, Mr. Salih. Let’s kill the infidels.”