by A. P. Fuchs
Mark climbed over to her. “Come on, let’s go, Michelle.”
She got to her feet and, gun ready to take out any zombies, they started to climb out.
Undead fingers reached past them, picking up a couple more people. Michelle shot at the thing’s thumb, thinking maybe it’d be enough to make it drop the person. No go.
Mark seemed to be having an easy enough time climbing. She followed suit, doing her best to find proper footing as she made her ascent.
“Go, go, go. Fast, fast, fast,” she chanted.
Mark picked up his pace. She did likewise.
The undead giant squatting over the hole leading into the Hub groaned, its low bellow sending deep vibrations into Michelle’s core.
We have to make it, she thought.
She slipped on a bit of debris, skinning her knuckles. She should have holstered her weapon before climbing, but in the heat of the moment, had completely forgotten to do so.
Mark was near the top; she was a few meters from the edge.
The undead giant reached down with its right hand and picked her and Mark off the interior of the debris wall in one handful. The squishy interior of its palm made them both lose their footing. Mark landed on top of her, screaming.
“No,” she said, the word coming out not as a scream, but a plea instead. Heart racing, breathing springing into short, choppy breaths, she quickly imagined what it’d be like when those massive teeth the size of sidewalk slabs cut into her.
The zombie began bringing its hand up; they were at least forty feet above ground.
With a shove, she pushed Mark off her. Then, gun in hand, she dug its barrel into the creature’s palm and fired round after round into its rotting flesh.
The zombie howled and loosened its grip.
“Ahhhhhh!” Mark shouted.
Michelle rolled into the boy, pushing him toward the edge of the zombie’s palm.
Again she blasted in to it. Black blood spurted up from the wound. The zombie’s hand dropped lower; how far, she didn’t know. With a kick, she knocked Mark off the dead man’s hand and heard him scream as he fell.
The zombie brought its hand close to its mouth. Getting to her feet, Michelle aimed her weapon and fired off one last shot before the gun clicked empty.
Its mouth opened wide to receive her.
She had only one thought: Run, Mark. Run.
* * * *
Sheer pain ran through Mark’s legs as he tried to get to his feet. At least one of his ankles was sprained. How far he had fallen, he could only guess. Maybe a couple stories. His legs had collapsed beneath him on impact against the dusty ground and he could only suppose that somehow helped.
The giant zombie chewed above and in his mind’s eye, he envisioned Michelle getting mashed to mushy pieces of bloody pulp between the monster’s teeth.
Scared as all get out, he started hobbling away, hoping the massive zombie would be so lost in its meal that it wouldn’t notice him. He gave it everything he had, pulling his right leg behind him, his left doing all the work.
Breathing hard, stifling back tears, he pressed on, with only one goal in mind: run.
Just . . . run.
He glanced over his shoulder. Three giant zombies were gathered around the base of the Disraeli Bridge, digging through the debris, trying to get at the people within. Human wails and cries drifted up from the Hub like steam from a boiling caldron.
Regular zombies dotted the street, many already having caught sight of him and making their way toward him.
Mark pressed on, adjusting his run to get as far away from the walking dead as he could.
It wasn’t about living anymore. It was simply about running, whether he died or not.
His ankle throbbed and any time he put a decent amount of weight on it, it’d light up in sharp pain, traveling all the way from his ankle straight through to his shin and knee.
Loud groans sent a shudder through him. Explosive crashes resounded on the air. He checked over his shoulder and watched as other giant zombies emerged from between the buildings, their massive fists coming down on rooftops, punching through walls and windows in all-out fits. Dust and debris exploded everywhere.
One of the zombies by the hole to the Hub stood, bellowed, and brought both hands down on the bridge above, utterly collapsing it. The zombies beside it pulled their hands from the rubble and moaned, their meal suddenly cancelled.
Did anyone survive down there? Mark doubted it, and had his doubts confirmed when the zombie who smashed the bridge stomped on what used to be the entrance to the Hub.
With a loud cry, the zombie who had taken Michelle stood and knocked the other zombie down. The humungous creature toppled over and crashed into a building; the structure crumbled beneath it.
Mark had been so busy watching the undeads’ tantrums that an undead guy in mechanic’s overalls appeared beside him and tried to grab him. He bolted to the right and the creature’s stinky hand merely slapped down on his shoulders, temporarily knocking him off balance.
Yelling at the top of his lungs, Mark ran on and turned the corner and headed down another street. He noticed another giant zombie there, this one kneeling before a partially-collapsed building, unmoving, most of its head missing.
Other human-sized undead lingered about. He ran away from them and saw a dumpster against the back of an old Chinese restaurant.
As fast as he could, he ran over to it, opened the lid, did a quick scan inside. Just year-old garbage, its smell so foul he gagged.
None of the zombies were looking in his direction.
Knowing it was the safest place for him, he jumped in.
Outside the metal of the dumpster, giant zombies moaned. An ear-splitting explosion of rock-like destruction shook the dumpster, piercing him through.
The sound was so loud, the garbage’s stench so thick, his ankle hurting so bad, all he could do was wail, his cries echoing off the dumpster’s walls.
39
Walking
The sides of Tracy’s head felt like someone had their palms pressed tightly against them. Her eyes ached, but she knew she had rested. Give her ten or twenty minutes to fully wake up and she’d be almost as good as new. She raised her head off her arms, gave a small groan, then slowly stood, her legs tight and achy as she did. There was a small pop in her lower back once she was fully erect. She stood still for a moment, blinked her eyes a couple of times, then tapped Joe on the shoulder.
“Here, let’s switch,” she said and gave her head a shake in one final effort to wake up. She actually felt pretty good. “What time is it?”
“Probably seven or eight in the morning,” he said. “Don’t have a watch, though. Check yours.”
“Seven or . . . eight?”
“Yeah.”
He had let her sleep the whole night.
“But . . . what about . . . you . . . ?” She didn’t know what else to say. “Thanks, by the way.”
“It’s fine.”
“You should rest, though.”
“I can rest later. Back in the old days I used to write at night anyway, staying up until morning. Even when I did go to bed, I wasn’t down for long.”
“You sure?”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Joe,” she said; he turned around. “Thank you.”
He gave her a gentle smile then undid the cord around the door handle making as little noise as possible. Once done, he gave her the cord. She put it down in the corner of the shed. Joe opened the door. They stepped out. The sky was still the same brown and gray as always, the road and trees quiet.
I have to go to the bathroom, Tracy thought. “Joe?”
“I’ll stand on the road, facing the other way,” he said.
“How did you—”
“It’s morning.” He raised the X-09 aloft and stepped up to the gravel road. “Just don’t go too close to the forest. Holler if you hear the slightest thing.”
“’Kay.” She went to the side of the shed, but ke
pt near its front. She took a deep breath, unzipped her outfit, the cool air giving her goose bumps. Getting things underway was more difficult than she thought it would be, what with Joe there. It took a minute, but finally she was able to get done what needed doing.
She came up beside him after. “Done.”
“Good,” he said. “We go now. Don’t want them to smell, uh, you know.”
She felt her face flush with embarrassment. “Main road?”
“I think so. We should pick up where we left off before trying to find a place to rest.”
“Sounds like a plan.” A few paces later: “I still don’t know what we’re doing out here, Joe.”
“Well, it started as a way to get out of the city. But you’re right: we can’t stay out here. Last night proved it. Back in my world, downtown was the worst place for zombies. We were relatively safe in the Haven. Not one hundred percent, but safe enough. Then things changed and the undead’s numbers grew in the burbs way more than usual and, ironically, my friends Billie and . . . Des . . . . We all made our way into the city. We didn’t know why the climate was changing and what the undead’s newfound interest in the suburbs was. Almost didn’t matter in the end. Once we met August and took that helicopter ride—yeah, none of it seems to matter.” He looked at her. “Almost seems to sum up life here, too, don’t it? In the end, some stuff makes sense, other stuff doesn’t.”
“That’s life, Joe. It ain’t a script. Seems that’s kind of like the old world talking through you; mine or yours, doesn’t matter. That was the media. The stuff on TV: all plot, things moving A to Z, wrapped up with a nice little bow in the end. Books, comics—all the same. You should know that. You said yourself you were a writer. Everything has to serve the story. Everything’s all supposed to tie together. Sounds good on paper, but that’s not real life. Real life has a million plot threads running through it at all times. Some wrap up, others don’t.” Her heart pounded with interest at her own words. She was tired of feeling like she had to explain everything even if only to herself. “You think people lie there on their deathbed, do a review and make sure everything wraps up neatly? They lay there and go, ‘Well, that’s it. What a good story’? Come on, man. Our grandparents—think about them—they didn’t have all the techno stuff we had. They weren’t inundated with TV and the Internet and podcasts and all the rest. They knew life. They lived in the real world where things sometimes made sense but most of the time they didn’t. I hate to say it, but I’m almost glad this zombie apocalypse happened.”
He shot her a stern look.
“What I mean is it’s given people a chance to wipe the slate clean, start over. No baggage.”
“No baggage, huh? And this is coming from you?”
“I know what I’m talking about.”
“I’m sure you do, but don’t start up about some sort of let’s-all-be-friends-and-get-back-to-the-good-old-days kind of mentality. You have more baggage than I do.”
“As if. You can barely walk you’re dragging so much behind you.”
“I see you limping, too, so don’t start pointing fingers.”
She threw up her hands. “What is with you? You’re not even listening to me! I’m trying to help you out here, Joe. Help myself out. It’s just you and me, in case you haven’t noticed. We’ve nearly died how many times since we’ve known each other?”
“You’ll get used to it.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? I am used to it. I go out there and hunt the undead, too, remember? You’re not some lone-cowboy-Captain-Clint-Eastwood type who can save the city from the bad guy. This is real life. Get off it.”
“I don’t know why you’re ripping into me.”
“Because you’re being a jerk!”
He shook his head, and stopped walking.
“No, no, don’t do that,” she said, stopping, too. “You’re cranky, fine. Nearly everyone left nowadays is. But remember it was you who let me sleep last night. It was your choice to be . . . nice.” She almost didn’t say that last word.
His cold eyes set in against hers and for a moment it looked like he was going to grab her by the shoulders and throw her down. Then his gaze lightened. “Come on, we’re almost at the highway.”
He walked past her, leaving her standing there.
* * * *
Tracy was right; Joe just didn’t want to admit it. She saw right through him. He’d told her about himself, gave her some history, but hadn’t gone so deep that he’d consider her an authority on him. But she was perceptive and, it seemed, an introspective ponderer like himself. So many lonely nights walking the streets, hunting the dead. So much time alone with his thoughts. Self-reflection, self-analysis, repetitious thought and constant memory replay was his world for so long.
It was all he knew.
April, the girl who changed his life. All it took was a weekend with her. Few people understood this. He supposed it was because few people really connected with someone in the way he did with her, something that went beyond just mere fun, even mere chemistry. They had been cut from the same cloth, it seemed, and if it hadn’t been for the drama in April’s life at the time and his cowardice of not trying to connect with her later—they’d probably be together now.
“I miss you,” he said quietly. “I’ve always missed you.” He didn’t think Tracy heard him, and even if she did, it didn’t matter. If there was anyone left alive that understood his hang up on April, it was her. She had a hang up of her own. Just how it was with some people sometimes.
Life could be so unfair.
Hunting the dead was his relief from the heartache. The zombies had transformed April, putting him in a position where he had to take her life. If only he’d gotten to her sooner, maybe she would have been spared.
The way her head exploded when he took that rolling pin to her skull—girls you loved weren’t supposed to be made up of the same stuff as everybody else. They transcended that. They were beautiful, magnificent sculptures crafted by God, filled with warmth and life and subtleties that pierced you and made you whole. April was all those things, and even at the end when Joe had to kill her, seeing her come apart like that was like not even striking her at all, but something else. A monster; the girl he knew gone forever, lost in the change from life to undeath.
Joe turned right when the gravel road met the highway, taking him and Tracy further away from the city. He just hoped when they passed the road up ahead, the one with the house that yesterday was surrounded by the undead, they wouldn’t run into any trouble. Tracy walked a couple paces behind him. The fact she was giving him space cemented even further his callousness toward her. It could have been the lack of sleep and the stress of fending off the undead, but he didn’t want to be around her and if he had a choice in the matter, he’d leave her there by the roadside and take off. Yet, he knew, somewhere down the road he’d double back to try and find her and make sure she was okay.
Tracy was powerful, he realized. She had dug in to him and pulled out his nastiness and also revealed some truths. He might be his own version of Zorro, saving the weak from the oppressor, adventuring one place to the next, but he also was a broken man, this undead world having gotten the best of him. She understood his art and his previous profession of crafting stories. She also understood the danger in living and thinking that way.
Tracy was right: life didn’t wrap up in neat little plotlines. Life wasn’t all lead up and clues and action and adventure and a big climax and some sort of conclusion.
Joe wondered how much of his own life he had been subconsciously scripting, the storyteller within molding his life into a comic book by creating drama, tension, action and adventure.
If that’s true, he thought, then you got a really big problem. Sick part is, there’s probably no one left alive who could help you.
To just somehow take control again—that was what he wanted. Ever since April it seemed his life started to slip away. When the zombies came, then chaos blew in, its storm ravaging his
own life and slaughtering everything else outside of it.
He heard Tracy’s footsteps slow behind him so he glanced over his shoulder to check up on her. She was off the highway’s shoulder and stepping down into the ditch, which led up to the forest alongside it. She dug around in the ditch’s dead grass then pulled up a heavy-looking pipe.
After climbing up out of the ditch, she walked past him.
“Good eye,” he said after she was a few paces ahead.
“We’re going to need it.” She pointed up the road.
Seven zombies shuffled down the highway toward them.
40
Hank
Billie followed a few feet behind the man. She kept a look out for Nathaniel and Michael, but instead saw only trees and bush. Every so often the man would suck back a bit of phlegm then hock it off to the side.
Come on, you don’t want to get involved with this guy, she thought, then, as if another voice under the guise of her own: He’s the only one out here. He’s all you got. Besides, he’s got a shotgun.
She cleared her throat. “So, you got a name or something?”
“Yup.”
And? Yeesh. “What is it?”
He sniffled then spat out another wad of snot. “Hank.” He coughed. “That’s short for ‘Henry,’ you know.”
“I know.”
“What about you? You got a name or you just the girl with the weird pink hair. I can just call you ‘Pink’ or something, if you want.”
