by Guess, Joshua; Ribken, Annetta; Ayers, Rachel; Whitwam, Lori
Quinn ran toward them, but I wasn’t sure if he’d intercept them before they reached me. I started to run, but then did a double-take.
One of the zombies coming toward us was Mason.
I froze, terror so absolute that it felt as if I had turned to stone. Mason’s clothing was tattered, ragged wounds showing on his torso and arms. One cheek flapped down along his jaw, revealing his teeth in a macabre lopsided grin. He started in my direction.
Quinn reached the other zombie first, severing his head with two powerful swings of his machete. Meanwhile, Mason was closing fast. “Quinn!” I screamed. “That’s him! That’s Mason!” Somehow, I was sure this reanimated Mason knew who I was, and felt we had unfinished business. I thought so, too, but not the same kind.
Quinn sprinted, raising his blade. I had my gun, but my hand was shaking so badly I didn’t dare fire. Quinn was coming at me from an angle behind Mason, and I couldn’t risk hitting him.
I found my legs and skittered backward, before turning to run. I heard impact behind me, and knew Quinn had taken my tormentor down. I heard the guttural groan of zombie vocalization, as well as Quinn’s grunts as he fought.
I had to stop, had to turn to see what was happening. Quinn leaped to his feet, raised his machete, and brought it down with all his might, cleaving Mason’s forehead.
Relief washed over me. It was over.
Behind me, I still heard fighting, but the sound had diminished. I knew they had things under control. Then it truly would be over. Wouldn’t it?
Quinn raised his head, and his expression of overwhelming sorrow nearly staggered me. I was so used to seeing combatants covered in blood that at first I didn’t realize much of what I saw on Quinn was his own. One hand hung at his side, blood dripping from a large wound on his wrist, spattering the ground in a cruel mockery of the cherries lying all around.
But far worse was the wound in the curve where his neck and shoulder met. It was huge, a whole chunk of flesh missing. Blood flowed down his broad, wonderful chest.
A zombie bite. The wrist wound could be from something else, but there was no mistaking the bloody mess on his neck.
A sob clawed its way from my throat, and I ran to him. There had to be something I could do. But I knew there wasn’t.
He put out his uninjured hand, preventing me from throwing myself against him. Nobody was sure how much contamination was needed to cause someone to turn, and even as he knew his own life was lost, he was protecting mine.
“Ellen, don’t. I can’t let you.” His voice was ragged and already weakening.
I sobbed. “I know. I know! But I must be able to… There has to be something…” I frantically searched my mind for any possible solution, but there was nothing I could do for a wound like Quinn’s.
He shook his head, wincing with the effort. “There’s not.” He paused, struggling for breath. “You know what you have to do.”
The only way to be sure a bite victim wouldn’t rise and become the very creature that had killed him was with a catastrophic wound to the head.
Quinn wanted me to shoot him.
How could I? Quinn had saved me, in every way a person could save another. How could I put a bullet in his head?
“Darlin’, I need you to do this. I worked too hard to be something better.” He sank to the ground, before levering himself back with his good hand, bracing his back against a tree trunk. “I can’t turn. You can’t let me.”
I knelt beside him, tears scalding my cheeks. I could see the spark fading from his eyes. Even as I watched, the flat, emotionless gaze of the zombie was emerging. “Quinn, I …”
“Please,” he said. “I can feel it. It’s cold, moving up my neck, but it burns, too.” He drew a deep breath. “Please.”
He was right. I owed him this mercy. I grasped his arm, above the bitten wrist, one area I could see was free of blood. I had to feel the solid warmth of him, one more time. Looking into his dimming eyes, I said, “Thank you, Quinn. For my life, and for all you did for Melissa, for Skip… Thank you for saving us.”
“It was worth it, Ellen. It was all worth it. You saved me, too. Now do it again.”
I raised my gun, placed it just behind his left ear, and pulled the trigger.
I didn’t even get to kiss him goodbye.
***
I’ve done a lot of thinking since I killed Quinn. Violence has always been part of our world, and at first we thought it had somehow become simultaneously more violent and more simple. The zombies were the monsters… except when they weren’t.
It all comes down to intent. I’ve witnessed unimaginable horrors, and even committed some. I attacked in a blind rage, and I killed out of the purest desire to grant mercy. Intent, again. If zombies are capable of intent, it is only on the most primitive level. They present a constant danger, but they attack to feed their continued existence, not out of malice.
People, though, are a different story. Is a violent act committed to protect yourself and those who depend on you? Or is it for greed, revenge, or simply because you enjoy the toxic rush of causing harm to others? Unlike the zombies, you can’t tell the human monsters by looking. They could be anyone, from a student librarian, to a warehouse stock boy, a religious fanatic, or an aspiring gang leader. You have to learn to see behind the masks if you hope to survive.
Quinn is never far from my mind. I was unfair to him in the beginning, but he never gave up on me. Maybe the violence in his life before the world changed taught him to see the intent despite the mask it wore, or maybe he learned it quickly in those early days. Either way, his unselfishness and patience saved me. He gave me the strength I needed to overcome all that had happened, and survive as a contributing member of the community.
I think I could have loved him, in time. Maybe I already had. I grieve that I’ll never know, but it also gives me hope that I’m still capable of love. Like everyone, I wear my own mask, but I’m no longer afraid to allow a select few to see what lies beneath.
I wouldn’t say I’m happy, but I’m getting there. I have Melissa and Skip, work that benefits all of us in the Compound, a safe place to stay, and a growing number of friends. And, who knows… maybe one day I really will have it all.
Lori spent her early years reading books in a tree in northern West Virginia. The 1980s and ‘90s found her and her husband moving around the Midwest, mainly because it was easier to move than clean the apartment. She currently lives in a northwestern suburb of the Twin Cities for reasons that escape her, but were probably good ones at the time. Since arriving in Minnesota in 1996, she has worked in public libraries, written advertising copy for wastewater treatment equipment, and managed a holistic veterinary clinic. Her dogs are a big part of her life, and she has served or held offices in Golden Retriever and Great Pyrenees rescues, a humane society, a county kennel club, and her own chapter of Therapy Dogs International. She has been a columnist and feature writer for auto racing and pet publications, and won the Dog Writers Association of America’s Maxwell Award for a series of humor essays on her blog, Fermented Fur (www.fermentedfur.com). Parents of a grown son, Lori and her husband were high school sweethearts, and he manages to love her in spite of herself. Some of his duties include making sure she always has fresh coffee and safe tires, trying to teach her to use coupons, and convincing the state police to spring her from house arrest in her hotel room in time for a very important concert. That last one only happened once – so far – but she still really, really appreciates it. Her debut novel, a romance titled Make or Break, is searching for a publisher, and she is at work on her next project. For more information, or to preview Make or Break, please visit her website atwww.loriwhitwam.com.
Glimpses of The Fall
Joshua Guess
Cincinnati, Ohio:
Tricia Colburn stood in front of the camera, a spray of blood across the front of her conservative outfit but determined to cover the story. The riots had been going on for most of a day, the reports of those killed cl
imbing toward the hundreds. She tugged at the hem of her suit top, the dark blue fabric thicker than she would have liked to wear.
She never saw death as he came up behind her. By the time she realized that her cameraman was backing away in terror, most of her throat was gone in a spray that arced out nearly five feet.
Salem, Illinois:
An older man, just shy of six feet and broad in the shoulders, loaded the back of his truck with dogged determination. The shock of white at the front of his otherwise gray head of hair plastered to his head as he bent and loaded, bent and loaded. Tools, food, weapons, medical supplies. Everything he would need to keep the family safe, wherever they ended up.
He heard a distant scream. The news had told him that the violence and whatever disease had caused it was spreading with a speed that didn't make sense. The man moved faster, muscles built in combat and honed on the floor of so many hospitals since straining to lift and move.
He heard the slapping footfalls long before the attacker could be seen. The man looked up from a load of tools, taking in the sight of a dead man coming toward him. It didn't take any of his experience as a nurse to tell—his time in Vietnam would have been enough. Living people bleed heavily when their limbs are severed. This guy didn't.
In one smooth motion, the man stepped forward, hand on the grip of a shovel he had been about to put in the truck. One overhead swing straight down, and the blade of the shovel crushed the head of the attacker like a stubborn clump of dirt.
The man looked around, fearful. He let out a sigh of relief when he didn't see any other of the dead things. Throwing the last load of tools into the bed of his truck, he whistled for the family to come out. They piled out of the house and into the van still sitting in the garage.
As he climbed into the driver's seat of the truck, the man silently thanked his son. When the violence in Cincinnati had begun, his son had called from Kentucky, warning what to look for. Telling his father what to do if those signs should come.
As much as he wanted to go to Kentucky, there were things that kept him from joining his son. Other family in Illinois that needed to be found, looked after. A sense of duty that had driven him to volunteer for service pushed him on then, throwing the truck into gear and making a promise.
After all was said and done, the kids and grandkids made safe, he would make a trip to Frankfort. He would find his son.
Until then, he had work to do.
Pontiac, Michigan:
Dozens of people huddled together in the darkness of the factory. They had begun to hear the clanking sounds of something trying to get in a few minutes before. Most of them were terrified, but a few welcomed the end. When the dead had started to come back to life, they had run.
They hadn't brought much with them to live on, however. After a few days, the food had run out. There was water, but for how long? The building had to be surrounded by the dead at that point, so why bother? It was hopeless, they thought.
With a sudden rattle of moving steel, the bay door flew up. The dim light of dusk outlined the shapes of several men. Men who held...guns?
One of the shadowy forms stepped forward. He was middle-aged, but looked strong. He took in the terrified crowd, and knelt down in front of them.
“My name is Jack. I want you to listen to me. I have a place to the south, a few hours away. We can feed you there, keep you safe. If you come, though, you have to do what you're told. We're trying to save as many of you as we can, and that means working with us, OK?”
Tired and starving, there was no disagreement. Jack pointed to the back of the box truck sitting almost against the docking bay, and the group moved with tired muscles to climb in the back.
Jack smiled. A few more kept safe...
In Manhattan, the chaos was unbelievable. Bodies piled in the streets, blood so thick on the roads that it was impossible not to walk on it. Few made it out. There were survivors who stayed...
In Beijing, the youth used the confusion to stage a revolt. What resulted was the wholesale slaughter of tens of thousands on both sides, creating a tidal wave of undead that moved across the country. Growing ever larger as it moved...
In India, sheer population density caused a chain reaction that made the one in China look insignificant. Where most places in the world had some chance, some narrow hope that sheer land mass would provide a haven, India had none. Within two days of the first reported corpse rising from death, India had seen its population reduced by seventy percent. Within a week, that number was closer to ninety. By the end of two weeks, the Ganges was packed with the dead so thickly that you could walk across the river on them.
It seemed there was no one left to try.
It was the same all over the world. The disease spread through means unknown, cropping up in many places simultaneously. Airborne, transferred by bites, or carried in blood, it did not matter. Russia became a massive battlefield for survivors warring over resources. Iran and many other middle-eastern countries took swift and brutal measures to curtail the spread of the plague, giving them a higher percentage of survivors than most places. Cut off from the rest of the world, it also left them with more mouths to feed with far less in resources.
The globe became a silent place, but for a few determined to bring others together with them and start again. From their perch in the heavens, the crew of the international space station watched in silence as the lights of civilization slowly faded away. Communications failed shortly after, and none of them needed to be told the awful truth: there was no going home again.
