by Brian Keene
• • •
On the fourth day, Mrs. Withers sent Michael over to check on them. Momma didn’t like the Withers family very much, on account the time Mrs. Withers had once threatened to call social services on her, but Adele liked the older woman and her son very much. They were always nice to her. Mrs. Withers always had a kind word and gave her hugs and smiles, and Michael could always make Adele laugh, and would talk to her about how school was going. Both took an interest in her, and for Adele, that meant everything.
When Michael knocked on the door, Momma’s eyes barely flicked from the images on the television screen—footage of dead people and animals marauding through the streets of Camden. There was dried spit on Momma’s cheek and she hadn’t changed her clothes in days. Adele went to the door, peered through the peephole to verify that it wasn’t a zombie, and smiled when she saw Michael.
So far, the worst part of the zombie apocalypse had been the loneliness and boredom. Staying cooped up inside the apartment, Adele missed her friends at school and the people she talked to on the block. She was no stranger to loneliness, of course. Living with Momma was a lot like living alone. But in the past, she’d been able to temper the loneliness with occasional interactions with others. Now, it was just her and Momma and the people on television, so seeing Michael made her happy.
He hurried inside and shut the door behind him, and advised them of the situation outside. Zombies were all over Baltimore, but it hadn’t gotten as bad as some of the other cities yet. He’d heard that the National Guard and something called FEMA would have the situation under control soon. All they had to do was wait it out. Momma grunted in response to all this, and got mad and impatient when Michael reminded her to lock the door and barricade all the windows. Michael ended up doing it for them. Adele helped him as best she could, and when they were done, Michael slapped his forehead in mock surprise.
“I almost forgot!” He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a candy bar. Then he handed it to Adele. Smiling, she gave him a big hug.
“Thank you,” she said.
“You’re welcome.” He hugged her back, and then sighed. “Adele, listen. Maybe you should come stay with me and my Mom. I could talk to your Momma about it. I don’t think she’d mind.”
Adele heard the tone in his voice, and her smile faltered. She knew what other people thought of Momma, and sometimes she felt that way, too, but still—it was her Momma, and she loved her.
“I can’t,” she said. “I’d like to, but I guess I better stay here with Momma.”
“Maybe we can convince her to come over, too. There’s safety in numbers.”
Adele shook her head. “You know, Momma. She won’t go.”
“No, I don’t guess she will.”
“Then you should come.”
“No,” she repeated. “I need to stay here and take care of her.”
Michael frowned. “Okay. But if you need anything, you come over. Check outside first. If you see anybody—zombie or otherwise—you stay inside. But if the coast is clear and you need us, you come hollering.”
Adele nodded. “I will.”
Michael gave Adele another hug and then left. Momma barely acknowledged the young man when he said goodbye. He made Adele promise to remain quiet and keep away from the windows, and told her to lock and barricade the door behind him, and she did.
Later that night, after she’d eaten her candy bar, Adele wondered what they’d do if they ran out of food. She never got the chance to find out, because they ran out of heroin and cigarettes first.
• • •
Adele woke to the sound of gunfire. That in itself wasn’t unusual, even before the zombies. But the gunshots were right outside their apartment, and they went on for a very long time, punctuated with screams. Adele couldn’t tell if the shrieks belonged to a man or a woman. When the sounds finally faded, she got out of bed and crept to the window. Michael had nailed it shut and put a blanket over it, preventing anyone from seeing inside. Adele lifted a corner of the blanket and cautiously peered outside. Several bodies lay in the street. She couldn’t tell if they’d been living or the living dead. Now, they were just old school dead. Each one had been shot in the head.
Unable to sleep, Adele wandered into the living room. Even though Momma would most likely ignore her, she’d still get some comfort just from being in her mother’s presence and not sitting there alone. The living room was lit only by the glow of the television. Momma had turned the sound low, so as to not attract attention from outside. Adele turned toward the couch and gasped. Her mother was gone. The blanket had been kicked to the floor and the pillow and couch cushions still held her impression. Adele glanced at the stained coffee table. It was littered with used needles, an overflowing ashtray, and empty, crumpled cigarette packs. Most telling was the television remote control sitting on the arm of the couch. Momma’s lighter was gone, as were her shoes. Adele knelt down and reached under the couch, careful not to jab herself with any discarded needles that might be lurking in the darkness. She pulled out a slim cigar box that her mother used to hide her stash in. When she opened the box, there was a feint whiff of tobacco. The box was empty.
“Oh, Momma...”
She’d gone outside, in search of heroin or cigarettes, or more likely both.
Adele began to cry, not so much from sadness or fear. She felt those things, of course, but she felt another emotion, deep down beneath them, and it was that strange, unexpected emotion that caused the tears.
The emotion was relief.
• • •
Momma had left the door unlocked, so the first thing Adele did was lock it. She made herself a bowl of cereal. There was no milk in the fridge so she ate it dry. Then she did something she rarely had the opportunity to do—she picked up Momma’s remote and changed the channel to something she wanted to watch. Two of the local Baltimore affiliates were off the air, and the third was showing news, but Cartoon Network was still on the air. She sat there, munching cereal and watching television, and was content.
She fell asleep in front of the television.
• • •
She woke to another noise outside. This time, it wasn’t gunshots or screams. It was quieter—more discreet. At first, Adele thought she’d imagined it, but then the sound came again—a soft, subdued scratching at the door, followed by a thump. Wide-eyed, she pulled the blanket over her head. The fabric smelled like her mother. The noise came again, louder this time. Adele got up from the couch and padded across the room in her bare feet. Holding her breath, she glanced through the peephole.
It was Momma. She looked sick. Her eyes were glassy and drool leaked from the corner of her open mouth. As Adele watched, she raised one arm and scratched at the door again.
She must have found some, Adele thought. She scored, and now she can’t open the door. I’d better let her in and help her lay down.
Adele’s fingers fumbled with the lock. As it slid back, Momma pushed the door open so fast that Adele had to scurry backward to avoid being hit by it. Momma stumbled into the house, swaying unsteadily on her feet. Her lips were pale, and her eyes remained unfocused. She glanced at Adele, frowning in confusion, as if she wasn’t sure who the girl was. That was when Adele noticed the bite on Momma’s arm. There was an ugly, bloody, ragged hole where her bicep had been. The wound was white and red in the center, and bluish-purple strands of tissue dangled from it.
“Momma, you’re hurt! Lay down.”
Her mother’s lips pulled back in a snarl. She reached for Adele and moaned. Drool splattered onto the floor. Adele had time to realize that Momma was neither high nor hurt. She was dead. And then Momma lunged for her, finally paying the attention that her daughter had craved for so long.
Screaming, Adele ducked her mother’s outstretched arms and ran down he hall. She fled into her bedroom and slammed the door. Her mother’s slow footsteps plodded toward her, but then stopped. Adele shoved her toy box against the door and stood there panting, wait
ing for the blows and scratches that would surely follow, but they didn’t. If Momma was on the other side of the door, then she was quiet. Adele wondered if it could be a trick. Maybe Momma was lurking, waiting for her to come out. The zombies on television hadn’t seemed very smart, but this wasn’t TV. This was real life. This was her mother.
Adele tiptoed over to the far corner and slumped down to the floor. She kept her gaze focused on the door, waiting for it to burst open, but it didn’t. She began to cry again—this time, because that feeling of relief was gone. She didn’t know what to do. She couldn’t escape through the window, because Michael had nailed them shut. But even if she could get the window open, there would be no escape outside. She was safer in here with one zombie than she was out on the streets with hundreds.
If she could make it over to Mrs. Withers’ apartment next door, she’d be okay. She was sure of it. Michael and Mrs. Withers could help her. But the only way to get there was through the front door, which meant going past Momma. Taking a deep breath, Adele crept to the door again and listened. The only sound from the rest of the apartment was the television, which was still tuned to Cartoon Network.
“Momma?” Her voice, barely a whisper, was simultaneously hopeful and terrified.
Like she had when she was alive, Momma didn’t answer.
Adele reached for the doorknob with one trembling hand and turned it. Then she slowly opened the door a crack, fully expecting her mother to barge into the room. When she didn’t, Adele opened it wider and peeked out into the hall. It was empty. She shut the door again, and got dressed. She had a moment of panic when she realized that her shoes were in the living room, but then she found a pair of flip flops in her closet. When she was finished, Adele quietly rummaged through her toy box, and pulled out a small rubber ball. Then she opened the door again and rolled the ball down the hall. It bounced into the living room and vanished from sight. Still, there was no reaction.
Satisfied that her mother had left, Adele crept down the hall. The television grew louder as she neared the living room. When she rounded the corner, two things became immediately apparent. The front door was still hanging open...
...and Momma was sitting on the couch.
Adele stifled a shriek. Her mother sat slumped over on the sofa, her wound leaking onto the cushions. Flies flitted about the bite, landing on Momma’s arm and then taking off again. Their droning buzz was noticeable beneath the noise from the television. If Momma noticed her, she gave no indication. The zombie’s attention was focused instead on the remote control. Momma clutched it in one hand, and her thumb slid idly across the buttons, but she was holding it backwards and nothing happened. As Adele watched, the thing that had been her mother moaned.
Adele looked out into the street and saw that it was empty. She was sure it wouldn’t be for long. If she was going to flee next door, she had to do it now. Taking a deep breath, she dashed into the living room and raced past her mother. She glanced back over her shoulder as she ran through the open door.
Momma hadn’t even noticed.
STORY NOTE: I’ve written a lot of zombie short stories over the years. The Rising: Selected Scenes From the End of the World collects a good chunk of them. This book (and the volumes to follow) collect the rest. This story was most likely the last one I’ll ever write about zombies. Indeed, I’d thought I was already done with them before I wrote this one. Fact is, I’d run out of things to say with the undead. But then Christopher Golden asked me to write one more for an anthology he was editing. Chris is an old, dear friend, so I couldn’t turn him down. And then I discovered that I had one more thing to say with zombies, after all.
FADE TO NULL
She woke to the sound of thunder, lying in a strange bed with no memory of who she was or where she was, and panic nearly overwhelmed her. Her stomach clenched. Her breaths came in short gasps. Frantic, she glanced around the room for clues, but familiarity eluded her. The room was small, equipped with a dresser, a writing desk, and a chair with one leg shorter than the others. Atop the dresser sat a slender blue-glass vase with some flowers in it.
The flowers soothed her, but she didn’t know why.
She studied the rest of the room. Looming overhead were the cracked, yellowing panels of a drop ceiling. The carpet was light green, the wallpaper pastel. Framed prints hung on the wall—Monet, Kincaid, Rockwell. She wondered how it was possible that she knew their names but didn’t know her own. The closet door was slightly open, revealing a stranger’s clothes. There was only one window, and the blinds were closed tight. If the room had a door, other than the closet, she couldn’t see it.
The sheets were thin and starchy, and rubbed against her skin like sandpaper. They felt damp from sweat. Clenching the sheets in both fists, she raised them slightly and peered beneath. She was dressed in a faded sleeping gown with a dried brown stain over one breast. What was it? Gravy? Mud? Blood? Except for her underwear, she was bare beneath the gown.
She considered calling for help, but decided against it. She was afraid—afraid of who, or what, might answer her summons. Despite the fact that the room seemed empty, she couldn’t help but feel like there was someone else in here with her. Someone unseen.
The thunder boomed again. Blue-white light flashed from behind the closed blinds, and for a moment, she saw glimpses of other people in the room with her—a man, a woman, and a little girl. They were like the images on photo negatives, stark against the room’s feeble light, but at the same time, flickering and ghostly—composed of television static. The man stood by her bedside, dressed in a white doctor’s coat. A stethoscope dangled around his neck. He held a clipboard. The woman stood next to him, wearing a simple but pretty blouse. She seemed tired and sad. The little girl sat in the wobbly chair, rocking back and forth on the crooked legs.
“It’s okay, Mika. Grandma is just having a bad dream.”
The voice was distant. Muted. An echo. And female.
She tried to scream, but only managed a rasping, wheezy sigh.
The three figures vanished with the next blast of thunder, blinking out of existence as if they’d never been there at all.
Maybe they hadn’t.
She was dimly aware that she had to pee.
When the drum roll of thunder sounded again, the drop-ceiling disappeared as quickly as the ghost-people had. Everything else in the room remained the same—the drab furnishings, the dim light—but in the ceiling’s place was a purple, wounded sky. Boiling clouds raced across it, but she felt no wind. Although the temperature hadn’t changed, she shivered. The pressure on her bladder increased. She relaxed, and felt a sudden rush of warmth. Then the violet sky split open, revealing a black hole, and it began to rain desiccated flowers.
‘Flowers,’ she thought. ‘There are flowers on the dresser. Ellen brought them.’
Then she wondered who Ellen was.
Dried petals continued to shower the bed, tickling her nose and cheeks. She sighed. The feeling was not unpleasant. Then, as quickly as it had begun, the rain of flower petals stopped—replaced by something else. Her eyes widened in terror. A squadron of bulbous flies poured from the hole in the sky, buzzing in a multitude of languages. Their bodies were black, their heads green like emeralds. They circled the room in a swirling pattern. A flock of birds plunged out of the hole, giving chase. The thunder increased, inside the room with her now. The noise was deafening. The flies scattered and the birds squawked in fright. A black, oily feather floated gently towards her.
She tried to sit up, but her fatigue weighed her like a stone. All she could do was lie there and watch. Listen. Wonder.
Where was she? What was this? What was happening?
She thought again of the flowers. They’d been brought by... who, exactly? She couldn’t remember. Someone. She thought it might be important.
The warmth dissipated. She was cold again. Her fear was replaced by a powerful sense of frustration in both her physical discomfort and her confusion. Why couldn’t she r
emember anything?
Above her, the sky continued to weep. Now, strands of DNA fell in ribbons, forming puddles on the bed and floor. Life stirred within those puddles, writhing and squirming. The thunder changed into a voice—a deity, perhaps, screaming. It was a terrible sound. She clasped her hands over her ears and tried to block it out. She’d heard screams like this before. Perhaps she’d even made them, at one time. They sounded like the symphony of birthing pains.
A large puddle of liquid tissue had formed on the sheet in front of her, right between her legs. As she watched, something wriggled from the puddle—a one-inch tentacle, about the thickness of a pencil. There was an eyeball attached to one end of the tendril. It stared at her, and as she watched, the pupil dilated.
In the background, the deity was still screaming. She no longer cared. Her attention was focused on the tentacle-thing. The creature groped feebly at her gown, and then pulled itself forward. She slapped her hand down on it, pressing it into the mattress and grinding her palm back and forth. The tentacle squeaked—even though it lacked a mouth—and then lay still. She removed her hand. All that remained of the thing was a pinkish-white blob of mucus. Slime dripped from her hand.
Silence returned. The disembodied screaming stopped. So did the thunder. The flies and the birds turned to vapor. The hole in the sky closed up, and second later, the drop ceiling reappeared.
“Please,” she whispered. “Please... please...”
Then, new voices spoke. A man and a woman.
“She used to love to paint. I thought bringing some of this might help, but she can’t even hold the paintbrush.”
