by Fuchs, A. P.
Privately, Des was impressed with the “double kill,” the way the guy was able to fire off one bullet through one zombie’s skull, the same bullet embedding itself in the brain of another behind it.
A strong hand grabbed Des’s ankle. He brought the leg in a downward swing and knocked out the teeth of dead man who was mostly just torso. The half-body flopped around on the ground as the zombie tried to grab Des’s leg again. Des beat the guy in the back of the head with the dismembered leg then dragged the dazed zombie to the curb and slammed its face down on the curb’s edge. With one hard kick, he plowed his heel into the back of the dead man’s head, curb-stomping the sucker down so hard that the jagged edge of the curb ripped straight through and removed the top of the guy’s head from the rest of his body.
Only then did the man in the trench coat seem to notice and give Des a nod of approval.
Billie had noticed, too, but looked away as if in disgust when Des set eyes on her.
Nothing works in my favor. Ever.
A few more shots and the undead finally stopped moving.
The three stood at different points amidst the field of bodies.
Des couldn’t believe how many there were. It was more than what had just been on the street. All those from the other side of the fence must have somehow gotten over it and joined their kin.
Still, three taking out fifty or more wasn’t bad at all.
He stepped around and over the bodies and went over to Billie.
“Are you okay?”
She wiped a splatter of blood from the side of her face and cleaned the lenses of her glasses on her shirt. “I’ll live.” She put her glasses back on and glanced down to his lower right.
He followed her gaze. “Oh.” And dropped the leg.
The two looked at the guy in the trench coat, who stood among the dead like some kind of beacon, smoke trickling out the barrel of his enormous gun.
The man hefted the weapon. “Shouldn’t have left you alone.”
Des put his hands on his hips. “We could have handled it.”
The guy smirked. “Didn’t look like it.”
“Always have to say something, don’t you?” Billie quietly said to Des.
“Usually.”
The three moved off to the side, away from the bodies.
“This isn’t normal,” the man said.
“No, it’s not,” Billie replied.
The man scanned the bodies. “Seventy-two.”
“Seventy—” Des started but his voice squeaked. He cleared his throat. “Seventy-two?”
“Fast counter,” Billie said.
“Necessary habit,” the man said.
Billie and the man stared at one another for a moment then finally broke away when Des coughed.
“Sorry,” she said and offered her hand out to the man. “I’m Billie.” Then with a nod to her right, “This is Des.”
The man didn’t say anything but only took her hand. Was it Des’s imagination or did the two hold hands longer than a normal handshake?
“Hey, how ya doin’?” Des said and offered his hand, hoping the dude would let go of Billie’s.
The two men shook hands.
“And you are?” Billie asked.
The man seemed to consider her words carefully before he spoke. “Name’s Joe.” It sounded like he didn’t want to reveal his real name. Did “Joe” have something to hide?
They all stood in awkward silence. Joe was clearly not used to talking much or, probably, hanging around anyone. Most people looked at you straight in the eye when they spoke. Joe kept his gaze downward or over your shoulder.
Billie nodded toward Joe’s gun. “You seem to know what you’re doing with that thing.”
“I try,” Joe said.
“Have you, I don’t know, had to use it a lot recently?”
“Today, yeah. I can’t tell you what’s going on, but I think they’ve discovered the Haven or at least realized that this is the least dead place in the city.”
“Seems that way,” Des said, trying to contribute something. All of the sudden, it seemed like Joe was the star and Billie was his biggest fan. Don’t sweat it, man. You got tenure.
“Where were you headed?” Joe asked.
“My place,” Billie said. “Now I’m not so sure that’s a good idea. Who knows how many more are out there?”
Joe nodded.
“I don’t know, what do you think? Think we should go back that way and risk it?” Billie said.
“We can go to my—Wait, never mind. Rats,” Des said. The drone of flies filled the air as they began buzzing around the dead. “We have to get moving.” To Billie: “Know anyone around here?”
“A few, but I don’t know their specific addresses and I’m not in the mood to go banging on each and every door.”
Low moaning in the distance, a street or two over.
“They’re coming,” Joe said. “Let’s go.”
“Where?” Des asked.
Joe walked past them, bending his elbow and resting the barrel of his gun on his shoulder. He didn’t look back when he spoke. “My place.”
9
Ghost Town
The TransCanada Highway led straight into Winnipeg, becoming Portage Avenue once it hit the outskirts of the city. August had hoped he would have been able to take his van right in, but when he drove into town, he was greeted by a clogged street filled with abandoned vehicles. Even the turn-offs he could have taken for an alternate route into the city were packed with driverless cars, trucks, vans.
Even now, as he neared Portage and Main on foot, the hub of downtown, he remembered standing at the door to the Ford, one hand on the doorframe, looking out onto a ghost town. Not a sign of life anywhere. A part of him had expected it, for there not to be anyone left, but a greater part had held out hope and wanted to see a few folks wandering the streets, helping each other out, maybe even a person or two who could have told him that the undead had left the city and they were in the process of rebuilding. Not in Winnipeg and, August suspected, probably not anywhere else in the world, either.
He wasn’t sure what he was going to do once he made it to the city, whether his own plans or ones from above. A few times during the trip he muttered a few words to the Big Guy upstairs. The lines to heaven must have been down, because he hadn’t heard a peep, only static. It was either that or God wasn’t picking up the phone.
The radio had been filled with static, too. No news, no music, no emergency broadcast of any kind. Nothing.
Talk about wandering in the wilderness, August had thought more than once.
Rifle in hand, he had hoofed it down Portage Avenue, his old legs enjoying the walk after sitting for so long, but also crying out every now and then with a cramp or tired muscles. Quite a few times he had sat on a bench or at a bus stop to catch his breath and give himself a break. And more than a few times he had yearned for a drink, something stiff and solid, preferably Tequila.
He had already downed the little that was in the bottle he brought from the cabin. And to bring everything else he took from there and lug it all the way down Portage, he might as well set up an antique stand and invite the dead for a coupon day.
He had hit up a few of the bars on the way downtown and each one was the same: empty, with toppled over chairs and tables, blood spattered on the bar tops and walls and pool tables. The only plus was that he did find one bar with a half dozen or so empty liquor bottles lying on the floor, probably having fallen there during a struggle. An old Jack Daniels still had a bit of whiskey in it. But only a sip. He sloshed the teaspoon’s worth of alcohol around in his mouth a few times before swallowing. It was enough to take the edge off, but that was it. Nothing to really calm him down and put his mind at ease.
He checked a couple of gun shops along the way for bullets. Most were cleaned out, just barren shelves that cried out to him, saying, “Wish you’d been here.” Only one had a bit of ammo left and he scored a couple of boxes of .22s.
Sometimes it was better to proactively pick off the dead lest he cross paths with them later.
He could have taken on a number of them, that would have been fine, but it was this empty city that got to him right now, the utter barrenness a constant reminder of his lonely time at the cabin, the heavy weight of being in complete solitude when he should have been with his family. Their deaths hung over him the entire walk down Portage, the painful memory of their demise switching between the fore and back of his mind, depending on what he was doing. But they were always there, sometimes alive, sometimes dead, all of it overshadowed by the looping images of putting holes in their heads.
August arrived at Portage and Main.
This was not the city he left behind.
The looming towers of the Richardson building, CanWest Global, the Scotiabank building and the Bank of Montreal building were no longer the pillars of beauty they once were. Broken windows checkered the facades. Here and there, bodies lay bent over the broken glass, half in and half out on the higher floors as if the jumpers had chickened out and decided falling on broken glass was the best option. August wondered if some were still alive—undead alive—and would start walking soon. Then again, the bodies probably had a portion of their heads missing but he couldn’t tell for sure from this far down. Those creatures didn’t stay dormant, so far as he knew.
Cars cluttered the intersection, many with their doors open, echoes of panicked screams from their former drivers still lingering on the air. Many looked as if they had been on fire at one point, portions of some of the hoods black with soot.
Overturned military vehicles sat here and there—a few jeeps, a tank—a testament to the city’s last stand before the zombies took them, too.
One part of the street had water pooled in the gutters, a black car smashed up against a no longer-running fire hydrant just beyond.
Blood stained the concrete in several places and August could clearly imagine the undead dragging half-eaten, still-breathing people up and down the street, taking them into the shadows to be devoured.
A lone tricycle sat off to the side, its tiny young owner long gone.
A few rapid shots fired in the distance.
August got his rifle ready in case any creatures wandered out of the alleys and side streets, looking for someone new to gnaw on.
Through the dark glass looking into the Scotiabank lobby across the way, August made out a few humanoid shadows, unmoving, lying in a heap.
He glanced around at some of the neighboring buildings and squinted, seeing what was behind other windows. He made out a few more bodies, but that was it. Most of the windows were too dark or too far away for him to make out anything else.
“What are you doing here, old man?” he whispered. “There’s nothing.” There’s no one. He felt fresh tears building up, rising to the brim of his eyes but refusing to spill out.
The deep gray sky overhead seemed to grow darker, as if it, too, was pointing out his predicament and telling him he was too late for . . . for . . . . And that was the problem. He didn’t know what he was too late for. He hadn’t had a plan when coming here. He just knew he should make his way back and that was all.
Using his rifle as a makeshift cane, August slowly walked over to the shoulder-high cement wall in front of the Richardson building and leaned with his back against it.
Once more he glanced around. To his left was the Fairmont Hotel, the only one in the city that changed its names more times than any of the others. Sticking out from one of the top windows was a small, light blue biplane. He could only imagine the scene the day it crashed, its pilot at first happy to escape this place only to be thwarted in the end and plowed into the building’s side. Judging by the way it was situated, it appeared the doors to it were still closed, whoever had been in it probably still dead inside. Maybe undead.
He thought about firing a shot into the plane’s side window to see if anything within moved but thought better of it because he knew he’d have to conserve ammo for when, not if, the time came.
The drive into the city, the long walk down Portage, the stress of being alone—it caught up to him and he slumped against the wall. He needed to rest but he couldn’t stay out here in the open.
Maybe the hotel will have an unspoiled room and I can catch some sleep for a little while? he thought.
He started to make his way over there but stopped himself when he remembered the small plane lodged in one of its windows. If something was still inside the plane . . . . No, he didn’t want to risk it.
He looked around. Nothing but office buildings. Yet there had to be a secure place he could go and rest in. Some place away from all this death, some place fortified enough so that should the dead come a’knockin’, he’d be safe.
The bodies behind the lower window of the Scotiabank seemed to look at him.
The Scotiabank.
The bank.
A bank!
August rounded the cement wall and found the set of stairs that led down to the entrance to Winnipeg Square. There were six banks down here: Scotiabank, Royal Bank, Bank of Montreal, TD, CIBC and a Credit Union.
Surely one of them had their safe open. If he remembered correctly, it was still business hours when the rain came.
August went downstairs and through the doorframe with its glass missing, and walked down the motionless escalator.
One of the banks was almost straight across from where he entered.
As he crossed the wide hallway, he kept his ears open and listened intently for any sign of life. He considered shouting hello, but decided against it.
Rifle at the ready, he cautiously approached the bank, a part of him eager to fire and work off the anger that had built up within. These creatures took everything from him. These creatures weren’t even supposed to be here.
The world wasn’t supposed to end this way.
The thought of how the apocalypse was supposed to happen constantly filled his mind, years of Bible study forming the backbone to all he believed about the End of Days. He still couldn’t get over the fact that the undead walking the earth wasn’t mentioned anywhere in the Scriptures and now that they were here, it brought a lifetime of faith into question. Even for a time, at the cabin, his belief in God melted to nothing, whatever lump that constituted his belief no more than a small pile of residue and it was only that residue that still made him hang onto God when everything else inside him said He didn’t exist. No matter how long he thought about it or how much he tried to shake it, his belief wouldn’t falter. It only dimmed, faded to the back of his mind and heart, then resurfaced now and then, depending on how he was feeling or what was going on.
The enormous wall-to-wall glass doors to the bank were shattered, jagged pieces of glass lining the frame like shark teeth.
The lights were off except for a faint yellow glow from somewhere in the bank’s corner. He didn’t know what was causing it other than whatever it was was on the floor.
Ensuring his rifle was ready to fire, August glanced behind himself, didn’t see or hear anything, then stepped over a sharp triangle of glass in the frame and went in. He scanned the dimly lit room side to side as he moved, already his mind imagining one of the dead jumping out at him and him firing.
Palms sweaty, face hot with anxiety, he slowed his breathing, cutting back on the sound his frantic exhaling emitted.
The row of teller stations in front of him were covered with scattered papers, those stupid pens attached to chains dangling off their corners, hanging above the floor.
He took another step and a foul smell greeted him. Immediately he got his eye behind the site at the end of the barrel and pointed it toward where he thought the smell was coming from. The stench grew thicker the nearer he came to the teller counter and when he was right up against it, he scanned the carpeted floor on the other side. Nothing. Just a few swivel chairs, a couple still upright, three more on their sides on the floor.
His eyes immediately drew to the source of the light.
A flashlight. It was still on, barely shining, in the far right corner next to the cash dispenser.
There’s probably a heap of dough still in there. For a second he wondered if the .22 had enough gusto to blast it open. Not a chance. Then he felt ashamed at the thought and was about to raise eyes to the ceiling to say sorry when a foul waft of something sharp and thick pierced his nostrils.
He exhaled through his nose, blowing the smell out and decided to breathe through his mouth from here on in.
Rounding the teller counter, he went straight for the flashlight in the corner. Crouching down, his old knees creaking, he picked it up, straightened, then checked the bulb. The light wouldn’t last the night, he suspected. It was more orange than yellow.
“Who dropped you?” he wondered. And how long ago? A day or two at most. Probably a day.
He slowly shone the light around the room, listening carefully.
Quiet.
That smell.
The flashlight’s beam settled on a lump of something on one of the chairs.
That wasn’t there before unless I missed it.
The chair was on a three-quarter angle so he couldn’t see what it was. He placed the end of the flashlight in his mouth, held the rifle tight in both hands, and approached the chair. Even at a couple of feet away, the shape was still difficult to make out. It looked soft, like a black cat curled up. A dead cat, maybe? Whatever it was, its funk made him want to throw up.
Slowly, he reached out a hand, grabbed the backrest and spun the chair around.
