Aftershock: A Collection of Survivors Tales

by Kristopher Lioudis

  As I lay there bleeding, making my final peace and praying for my wife I heard them attack him outside. I regret to say that my reaction to this was most unchristian. In my heart I rejoiced as his screams were lost under the gurgling sound of his own blood pouring from his throat and the tearing sound of his own flesh. I have begged forgiveness for this weakness and I believe the Father has granted it to me. I however, lacked the strength to bar the door before those things gained entry into the sanctuary. I could barely make it to my knees by this point. I prayed with all my power that the Lord would spare us. Half of my prayer was granted. I have since understood that it was His will that my wife should not live with the burden of what was done to her. Four of them came dragging in from the narthex. I made it to my feet not under my own power and grabbed a brass candlelighter. I attempted to close the distance and put myself between them and her. I was not able. They set upon her and had torn her apart before I could even manage more than a few steps. I swung the lighter will all the force I could muster, and, I believe a little more from another source, and stove in the skull of the first one I could reach. The others turned to me and advanced. I closed my eyes and swung wildly to no avail. I felt hands close around my wrists breaking one of them and I dropped the lighter. Refusing to open my eyes, I felt broken teeth sink into my arm. I prayed one last prayer the Lord would welcome His child home not far behind his wife. It was then that I heard the running footsteps. These things don’t run. I opened my eyes in time to see a swinging hammer come down on the head of the one that had bitten me. Two more individuals had appeared and were summarily dispatching the other two ghouls.

  “Sorry Padre. We came running when we heard the screaming. I guess we didn’t make it in time.”

  The screaming they were referring to was that of my attacker. I could manage no more than a sick sucking sound and my wife made no noise during the entire ordeal. I slumped into one of the pews and then the black curtain closed around me. I believe I was dead. I saw the fabled white light and heard the voices of my family. I had the sensation of floating out of myself and of being bathed in a warm glow. It was then that my wife appeared to me with another man standing behind her. She looked at peace as the man placed a hand on her shoulder. She looked at me with those beautiful hazel eyes I had fallen in love with every day for the last thirty years and shook her head.

  “No Samuel. You are not done yet.”

  All at once I was yanked back into my body and I became aware of three men kneeling over my supine body. One was applying pressure to the wound on my chest while the other clumsily attempted CPR. I coughed once and sprayed them with blood. Only the one that had his hands on my chest did not turn away repulsed.

  As I gasped for air I heard one of them say, “Hit ‘em! He’s turnin’! I told you he was gonna turn!”

  “Not yet,” the other replied, “Way too soon. We keep him alive as long as we can. When he turns, we’ll deal with it then.”

  But I did not “turn”. They brought me to the last physician in the area. His home was littered with the sick and dying. He examined my stab wound and pronounced me the luckiest man on the face of the earth. Apparently, the knife was not very big and missed every major artery. It did not do much tissue damage either according to the good doctor. He casted my wrist with some drywall plaster and gave me three ibuprofen. He said he would be back to check on me shortly. I watched from a gurney in the hallway as he and two nurses moved from patient to patient with a lightning efficiency that was awe inspiring. Every so often they would stop at a “bed” and motion to three large men sitting on a couch. I noticed two of the men that had brought me here, but did not recognize the third. They would move toward the patient and gently carry him or her outside. There would be a short crack and a soft whistle of air and the three would come back inside and sit on the couch. In the evening, we could smell the pleasant aroma of a campfire, though with a not so pleasant odor underneath that I either did not know or just refused to admit was what human flesh smells like when it burns.

  I stayed there for three weeks. All the while, I was watched. First with caution, then with curiosity, finally with blatant incredulity. Not one who had been brought in with a bite mark had lasted more than three days before my large friends would take him for a final walk. The doctor began to wean me off the pain medication he had “prescribed” though I suspect it more to do with dwindling supply than the possibility of my growing an addiction. As my head cleared from the opiates the new reality began to set in. As I lay, convalescing on the doctor’s couch, I had believed that I had made peace with God for what had happened. My mind no longer numbed, I realized this was not true. Each morning I would grow to hate the Lord more for what he had taken from me. I was spared news of what was going on outside the walls of the doctor’s home. At the time I had no idea that the entire world had gone to Hell and I wallowed, selfishly like a child, in my own pity. I ate little and spoke not at all, merely sat and scowled and cursed God under my breath. My three large friends began to question my sanity. I heard them arguing with the doctor one evening as to how to handle me. I understood the doctor’s medical curiosity in his voice, and the fear and anger of the others’ in theirs. That night as I lay dozing, I heard the three guards discussing amongst themselves what might need to be done and how to do it. It did not sound like the clean, humane ending I had seen them deal to all the others.

  Later, as the others slept, I penned a brief letter of thanks to the doctor, helped myself to a few provisions from the cupboard, donned a pair of jeans and a sweater from the pile of clothes near the door, and slipped quietly into the back yard. The gentleman on guard duty sat dozing in a rocking chair on the front porch, some sort of Rambo-looking assault rifle in his lap. I had no idea where I was going. I did not care. I even argued with myself as to why I left. I wanted to die. My grief over losing my wife and my anger at God were only continuing to grow at this point. I set it in my mind to return to my church. And burn it to the ground. After that I would curl up in a ditch somewhere and wait… for what I did not know. I encountered very few of the dead on my journey back to the church, which was a blessing as I had not thought to grab any kind of weapon. I found those I did come across to be easily avoided. It took me about a day and a half to return to my town and when I saw the steeple of my church rise over the hill in front of me, my blood boiled. All the rage I had been struggling with came to the surface and I broke into a run. As I neared the door I realized it had been barricaded, as had most of the windows. I could see wooden pews stacked behind the glass.

  I rounded the back looking for the gas can that we kept by the shed full of various lawn maintenance implements. I came around the back corner of the building and stopped in my tracks. I saw the remains of what looked like either a hastily constructed funeral pyre, or the most grotesque barbecue in Man’s history. Human bones from a dozen corpses lay mixed with charred wood and ash. As I stood stunned by the site I heard the unmistakable sound of a shotgun being racked behind me.

  “Put you hens in the air!” yelled a disembodied voice, heavily laden with a Latino accent.

  I did as I was told. My intentions of burning down the church evaporated and all of the sudden I found my will to live again. Funny how something as simple as having a large gun pressed against your spine can bring things into perspective. I heard frantic muttering in Spanish, some of the words I could make out like “padre” and “iglesia”. “Father” and “church”. I did not feel that it was the appropriate time to correct them. I was a United Methodist; we were not referred to as Father, but Reverend or Pastor. I also heard the word “mata” which I believe means “kill” and “muerta”, “dead”. I heard a pleading female voice and an angry male one. Then I heard a child. I slowly turned, hoping I would not be shot for the violation. I was confronted by a small family. Before any of us could continue the discussion we all heard the moans. Across the parking lot were four of them slouching slowly toward us.

  “Adentro! Adent
ro,” screamed the man, then to me, “Inside. Quickly!”

  We ran inside the back door and barred it from the inside with two-by-fours. In a moment we heard pounding and scraping from outside. The children, there were four altogether, ran for one of the Sunday school classrooms. I saw three women begin crying and praying, though quietly. Five more men came from the sanctuary each with a weapon of some kind. There was more rapid conversation in Spanish. After some reassuring from the man who had brought me inside, they finally seemed to notice my presence. More heated discussion in that smooth, oddly poetic tongue and again the man who had brought me inside seemed to assuage their fears.

  “I tell them you no dead. They say ‘For now’.”

  I did not know what to make of this cryptic statement, but it did not sound like a heartwarming welcome.

  “My name Alejandro,” he said, “This is mi esposa Morena and mi hijo Berto.”

  “I am, or was, Reverend Samuel Mathis. This was my church before…” I did not know how to continue. Before what? Before the dead began to rise and destroyed the world? Before that bastard raped and murdered my wife in the sanctuary not thirty feet from where I stood? Before I all but renounced my faith and turned my back on my God? I briefly wondered what their response would be if I told them I had returned here today with the intention of burning the building to the ground.

  I was introduced to the rest of the group. Each gave a brief greeting and a firm handshake. A thud against the back door ended our little meet and greet rather abruptly. The children were swept into the sanctuary and Alejandro moved to one of the rear windows.

  “Solomente hay uno, pero pienso viene tres mas,” he spoke rapidly to his compadres.

  They moved to the back door and readied their bludgeons. Not wanting to be left out, I grabbed a table leg with a vicious looking nail jutting from it and stepped up beside the men.

  “No, Padre, tienes descansar. You need to rest. You look like you have come through a war.” Alejandro attempted to move me toward a chair.

  I shrugged him off and shook my head. “I will not stand by while others risk their lives to protect my church.”

  They did not appear to grasp what I was saying so I stepped past them, threw open the door, and buried my makeshift cudgel in the forehead of the ghoul standing there. We moved out into the parking lot and stood abreast. There were three more approaching from the copse of trees. Corpses from the copse, I thought and chuckled.

  “Que es chistoso?” Alejandro asked.

  “Nada.” I replied, eliciting a bizarre sideways glance.

  We advanced on the dead as a single unit and dispatched the trio easily. I had come to realize that they were little trouble to deal with, at least in small groups. Mind you this was before I saw my first swarm.

  To shorten what has already become too long a tale, I stayed at the church for several weeks. We found that if we made no noise, the dead would pass right by without a glance. There was only one more occasion where direct intervention was necessary. We ate food from the pantry and we could gather on our few trips outside. I avoided stepping into the sanctuary, more because I did not need to see the stains on the floor rather than out of fear of divine retribution. I was treated with the utmost respect by my saviors, guests, housemates… I am not sure what to call them even now.

  One evening, while out gathering what was left of the food from nearby houses, we noticed a distinct swell in the number of ghouls. They appeared to be wandering aimlessly with no real purpose, but there were certainly more of them now. Back inside the church there was a heated discussion that I was almost totally unable to follow. Later while taking stock of our dwindling supplies, Alejandro explained that they had made the decision to move on. It made sense to me to leave. With the growing number of fiends and the near depletion of resources here, we would have to consider a move to another location. Perhaps out west where population was thin even before our little apocalypse. Alejandro and his friends disagreed on where to go. Some wanted to go west for the reason I have already stated. The rest wanted to go north. They apparently believed that with winter on the way, the dead might move south toward warmer climates. As if they were migratory birds. I believed they would follow the food.

  The next day I awoke to find the church empty. A few cans of food were left, and my favorite table leg. There was also a hastily scrawled note. All I could make out was “We go north” and some kind of apology at the bottom. I sat pondering the situation and was broken from my reverie by the sound of scrapping outside the front door. I thought nothing of it. It happened frequently. Maybe they could smell me in here or maybe there was some last vestige of humanity left in them that sought the forgiveness and comfort that brought them here in life. Given what I had seen in these last months I guessed it was more toward the former.

  I gathered what little there was left of use into an old duffle bag and prepared to head out. I would go west as I had planned. There were several maps in my office, I paused a moment to pray for my friends as they had not taken one with them. I sat at my desk for the last time. Memories of Tuesday nights, writing sermons flooded my head. I would toil away trying to find the voice of the Spirit and in would come Laura with a tray of sandwiches and thermos of coffee. Sometimes there would be a wedge of apple pie if she was in a baking mood. I sat silently weeping and all of the sudden I realized that the scrapping had turned into a pounding. I rose from the desk to check the door and saw through the barricade that several of them had gathered and seemed intent on coming in.

  “Service has been cancelled today I’m afraid,” I said lightheartedly to the door. This elicited a long low moan. I stood in the narthex and turned to the open door to the sanctuary. I could see the familiar rows of pews and the altar and my pulpit. I also saw what I had avoided the whole time I was here. A large brown stain on the floor about halfway down the aisle. I relived that day all over again in the span of a moment. My chest grew hot were I had been stabbed. My wrist burned where I had been bitten. Most of all, I felt as though my heart were being pushed through a keyhole in my sternum. All the anguish, all the rage overtook me and I screamed. I screamed loud and long. I tried to let everything out in that one hoarse cry. I do not know if I succeeded in releasing any tension, but I did manage to rile the group outside and the pounding grew even louder. I saw the door begin to shake in its frame. Ignoring this, I moved into the sanctuary and knelt beside what remained of my beloved Laura. I knelt and I prayed. For the first time since that day, I truly spoke to God. I asked for the purpose. Why was I left behind to suffer through this horrible ordeal without Laura, who was ever the stronger of the two of us? I saw in my mind a town. Full of frightened and starving people. The dead walked among them picking them off one by one. I saw a church in this town, similar to my own. The windows and doors were barricaded with lumber and I could hear the cries of children from inside.

  “Go Samuel,” a voice told me, “Go and tend my flock.”

  All at once I felt the divine fire in my belly. I rose to my feet and thanked God with every ounce of my being. I moved to the back of the church and grabbed my duffle and weapon. I took two steps toward the back door when the front came crashing in. There had to be twenty or thirty of them pouring into the church. My church.

  “Get thee behind me Satan!” I screamed. “You shall not defile this holy place with your filth!”

  I knew it would take more than invoking the name of the Lord to deal with them so I quickly ran out the back door to the shed. A five-gallon gas can sat gleaming in the sun. I knew at once what I was to do. It seems my original plan had been the right one after all, however with a much different purpose. I dropped my duffle and ran back into the church. I was immediately set upon by a dozen clawing hands. Full of righteous strength, I threw them off and began hurling gasoline throughout the meeting hall. The building was old wood and I knew it would catch without trouble. I hurled the gas can into the sanctuary and made my way back outside. I fumbled in my pocket for the light
er that Laura had given me on our fifteenth anniversary, back when I smoked the occasional cigar. It lit even though I had not filled in many years. Even as it left my hand a tremendous fireball made its way through the hall toward the narthex. I watched briefly as every ghoul in its path was immediately engulfed in flames. I walked slowly to my pack, shouldered it, and headed west.

  It was a brief journey, and as uneventful as anything can be nowadays. I had a few run-ins with the walking dead and once, traveling through a small town I was forced to hide in a storm drain as several large vehicles rolled through. They may have been military but I could not be sure. Besides, I had a town to find. And find it I did. And that is how I ended up here before you today. Upon arrival I immediately began the work of rallying those left. We built a crude wall and dispatched any ghoul left within its perimeter. We put out the fires that were burning and condensed our supplies and weaponry. We turned the church into a barracks. We planted a garden using what little produce we had left and we even dug two wells. We maintain a constant vigil at the walls and continue to reinforce them as time and materials permit. We have built for ourselves a semblance of existence here and if it be God’s will we will defend it from any attacker, alive or not.