Love in an Undead Age

by A. M. Geever

  It was risky, but Mike was right. They did not have a radio or a vehicle or even bicycles. They’d run out of water over a day ago. It was now or never. Connor stuffed his battered canvas backpack under his head before shading his eyes with the crook of his arm.

  “You weigh a fucking ton, dude,” he said to Mike.

  “I played linebacker for NAVY. I’m supposed to weigh a ton.”

  “Twenty years ago, maybe,” said Seffie.

  “Now don’t be like that, little girl,” Mike said, gently teasing.

  Seffie flashed a rare smile. “I’ll be any way I want, you old geezer.”

  Zombies still milled around the bank several hours later, but far fewer than before. Connor wasn’t worried about getting through the close ones. It was what they might encounter farther down the road that concerned him. Making a break for it in unfamiliar territory was always dangerous. Trying it in the dark… He didn’t let himself think about the odds. The glow of electric lights shimmering against the night sky, safely ensconced behind San Jose’s walls, felt like a dare. Were they brave enough—desperate enough—to take it?

  Connor pinched the bridge of his nose to ease the throbbing headache behind his eyes. The pain flared whenever he turned his head, a sure sign of dehydration. He eased himself over the lip of the roof, hung for a moment, then let go. At six feet plus the length of his arms, the ten-foot drop was easy. Seffie shimmied over feet first. Connor caught her legs and let her slide down against him. Mike got down on his own, just as Connor had.

  The closest zombies began to stir as they moved away. Connor adjusted his grip on the crowbar and glanced back the way they had come. Most of the zombies that had surrounded them earlier were back around the corner, milling in place. At least, that’s what it looked like. It was hard to tell in the dark.

  They trotted through the intersection and passed the first set of shops before the moans began. A low, thin sound that began near the bank. Then it spread, hopped, amplified.

  “Let’s pick it up,” Mike said.

  As Seffie started to jog, Connor saw the first shapes moving in the dark beyond the stacked cars, far more than he had feared. More adrenaline flooded his system, tightening his chest and making his heart race.

  “Shoot the flare,” he said to Mike.

  “Not yet,” Mike answered.

  They ran faster as they skirted a three-car-length gap in the barrier where zombies spilled into the road. From side streets and alleys, from the vast vacant tracts of land behind tumbledown chain-link fences, came stumbling, moaning figures.

  “Shoot the fucking flare, Mike,” Seffie hissed.

  Mike lifted his arm. Connor heard a soft pop. A moment later, soft pink light illuminated the sky and Connor’s heart sank.

  There were more gaps in the stacked car barrier. Zombies were spilling into the roadway. There were even two climbers, something Connor had rarely seen, tumbling off the barrier before staggering to their feet.

  They had covered half the distance, but Connor didn’t see how they were going to make it.

  “When I say duck, you stop and do it!” Mike said, not bothering to be quiet any longer. Connor saw him pull the pin from a grenade.

  “Duck!”

  Connor stopped and ducked low. He could see the dirty gray laces of a battered pair of Converse tennis shoes that shuffled closer. Black ballet flats. Work boots. A broken high heel.

  The grenade detonated.

  Connor and the others leaped to their feet, toward the thinning of the almost-horde ahead of them. Mike lobbed the next grenade without telling them to stop. Connor shielded his face when it detonated, saw its lack of effect.

  “Climb!” Seffie shouted, grabbing his hand.

  They climbed the vehicle barrier, hands slick with sweat, fear sharp in the air. Connor crouched on the roof of the minivan on top of a car. Mike scrambled up, then leaped to the next vehicle. When Connor pushed off to follow, he felt the minivan roof beneath him shift. He looked down to see zombies pressing against the barrier from both sides.

  Seffie and Mike stumbled ahead of him, swaying like drunkards as they struggled to keep their balance on the shifting car roofs. They both stopped short, and when he reached them, Connor saw that the barrier ended. The flare still burned bright, bathing the wrought iron enclosure around the wall’s outer gate in a rosy glow. They were two hundred feet short. No way they could make it. All the way from Mexico and they were going to die, here, two hundred feet short of salvation.

  The barrier beneath them shifted first one way, then the other. They huddled close together on the dented roof of the finest German engineering money used to be able to buy.

  “Goddammit!” Seffie yelled. “God motherfucking dammit!”

  Mike put his hand on her shoulder and pulled a grenade from his pocket.

  “I’ve got one more.”

  The car shifted a few inches. Mike looked nervous but confident. Seffie looked as pissed as Connor had ever seen her. Connor just felt defeated. He’d never see any of them: Miri, Walter, Emily. They’d never know what happened to him.

  Connor looked at Seffie and Mike. They were more than his friends; they were comrades-in-arms. A sudden rush of affection swelled in his chest.

  “You’re the best people to die with.”

  The car shifted again, more forcefully this time.

  Mike pulled the pin.

  A siren split the night, drowning out the noise of the horde. They all looked to the wall. Industrial yellow lights twirled bright, making the pink light at the gate a hazy orange. The interior gate built into the wall opened slowly, far too slowly when the perch between safety and death rocked beneath their feet. An armored delivery truck rumbled through the wall into the wrought iron enclosure. When the inner gate shut behind it, the outer gate opened.

  “Holy shit,” Seffie whispered.

  Suppressing gunfire mowed down zombies in the truck’s path. As it closed the distance, the rocking of the car they huddled on lessened. The over-tall truck pulled alongside as a round top hatch opened.

  “Come on, get a move on!” shouted the man who popped up through the hatch.

  They all leaped at once, landing on the truck with a hollow thud. First Seffie, then Mike climbed in. Connor fell down the ladder with trembling legs and clumsy feet, shaking from head to toe, and collapsed on the floor.

  Their amused-looking rescuer scurried back up the ladder, secured the hatch, then slid down firefighter-style with his feet pressed against the outer rails.

  “Okay, Jimmy, let’s go!” he shouted toward the front.

  The truck jolted forward and began a wide U-turn. Connor crawled out of the way and leaned against a row of lockers built into the truck’s wall.

  “Thanks,” he said, extending his hand to the stranger, who took it in his own, giving a firm business-like shake. “We were just about to blow ourselves up.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Why’d you do it?” Seffie asked, a rescue from certain death not enough to overcome her suspicious nature.

  The man began to laugh.

  “I made a bet with Jimmy up there,” he said, gesturing toward the driver. “He said you weren’t gonna last one minute once the flare went up. I said you’d climb and make it to the end of the cars. He said he’d drive out himself to get you if I was right.”

  Seffie’s posture relaxed. Connor did not know what had happened to her, but she was suspicious of altruism. Bets, on the other hand, even those made at her expense, she understood.

  “You’ll need some skills, something to offer if you want to live here,” the man continued. “They don’t let you stay just because you made it.”

  “We’re not going to San Jose,” Mike said.

  For the first time, their rescuer looked surprised. “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “SCU,” Connor said. “We’re here to see Father Walter Brennan.”

  The man looked, if anything, even more surprised than before.

>   “You better be ready to pull the tiger’s tail if you’re going to see the Jesuits,” he said. “Don’t get me wrong, they run a tight ship, but they piss the City Council off on a regular basis.”

  “That sounds about right. Jesuits have always been troublesome priests,” Connor said, feeling suddenly exhausted. Dying would have been clear-cut. Surviving in an unfamiliar landscape was always a murky, dangerous business.

  6

  Even tucked away in the chapel of the Jesuit Residence, Connor could feel the energy that seemed to make the building hum. He, Seffie, and Mike had been parked in the chapel with the promise of a meal and an assurance that Father Walter would arrive soon. When the chapel doors whooshed open a few minutes later, Connor turned in his seat.

  “Connor,” said Father Walter, the relief in his voice making the lilt of his Irish brogue more pronounced. “You are a sight for sore eyes.”

  Connor found himself wrapped in an embrace before it seemed that anyone had moved. “Not as much as you are, Father Walter.”

  The middle-aged priest stepped back, his hand on Connor’s shoulder. He was a small man, slight of build. His brown hair was shot through with gray, but not in a manner that looked particularly distinguished. His nose was too big and his chin weak, but his hazel eyes were startling in their beauty. Despite a ready smile and genuine desire to connect with others, Connor knew that Walter sometimes came off as aloof. In reality, he was quite shy.

  “You look like a Santa Cruz panhandler!” Walter said, seeming to recover a little from the emotional wallop of seeing his former student.

  Connor burst into laughter. “You just couldn’t resist, could you, Old Man? Even now.”

  “And you smell like one, too!”

  They laughed, wiping tears from their eyes. Walter ushered Connor back toward his companions. At the back of the room, the chapel doors opened again, this time revealing a young man carrying a tray of sandwiches, a bottle of milk, and three glasses. He beat a hasty retreat as the hungry arrivals swarmed him.

  “So, what’s the craic and scandal? When did you get here?” Walter asked.

  “Half an hour ago. I’ve never been so happy to get through a fortified gate in my life,” Connor replied around a mouthful of his sandwich. He swallowed and proceeded with introductions.

  “This is Mike Sealy,” he said, motioning to the burly man on his right. “And this”—he hooked his thumb to the left—“is Seffie Johnson. Mike, Seffie, this is Father Walter Brennan. He leads the Jesuit Community here at SCU.”

  The pew creaked as Mike Sealy shifted his barrel-chested frame. He took a moment to finish chewing his food before he stood to greet Walter.

  “Pleased to meet you, sir,” Mike said, looking Walter in the eye, every movement performed with an economy of motion that betrayed his military background.

  “I’ve heard good things about you from my brothers in Mazatlán,” Walter replied.

  Seffie swiped at a dribble of milk on her chin. She wiped her hand on her blue bandana as she looked Walter up and down. She gestured at the crucifix on the wall.

  “I don’t have much use for this crap. Or priests. Especially after this clusterfuck of a trip.”

  Connor watched Walter freeze for a moment at Seffie’s acerbic sally.

  “Yes, well,” Walter said, “we’ll find you a comfortable bed for the duration.”

  “Don’t pay too much attention, sir,” offered Mike. “She’s naturally crabby.”

  “Fuck you, Mike,” Seffie said, but with fondness.

  “Now, now, little girl,” Mike chided, grinning at her.

  “What happened?” asked Walter. “We expected you six weeks ago. Fourteen of you, not including this one,” he said, tilting his head at Connor.

  “What didn’t happen, is more like it,” Connor answered. “We ran into some weather just north of Santa Barbara and lost the sailboat. We couldn’t get another, so we walked.”

  “What?” Walter said, a horrified expression on his face. “But that’s three hundred miles!”

  “Three people didn’t even make it to shore,” Connor continued. “It’s bad around Santa Maria. We lost Juan, Peter, and Mary. We got a break, sort of, at a settlement in Pismo Beach but they wouldn’t give us a boat.”

  “Eight of us looking at two hundred miles and they would not give us a boat,” Seffie spat.

  Mike picked up the narrative. “Pismo’s your typical strong man setup: toe the line to stay on the right side of the wall. They arrested two of our people as ‘subversive influences.’” He snorted, his face wrinkling with disgust. “It was just an excuse to keep the locals in line. They wouldn’t release them, and it wasn’t safe to stay after that.”

  “We made good time at first, all things considered,” said Connor. “Slept in whatever high place we could find, even found a gun store that still had ammunition. Not that we could use it.”

  Walter nodded. Guns made noise. Noise attracted zombies.

  A new voice said, “And you had trouble at Salinas.”

  Connor turned to see a tall willowy man about his own age walking toward them. “Father Doug Michel, pleased to meet you.”

  “You’ve been there recently?” Mike asked.

  “No.” Doug twitched his hair out of his eyes. “It’s been at least five years since anyone went to Salinas. I was the only one to make it back. We’ve steered clear ever since.”

  “We were almost through; that’s the goddamned kicker,” Connor said, anger building at the unfairness of it. As quickly as it flared, it subsided. He was tired of losing people, but it was not something he could dwell on, not if he wanted to stay sane.

  Mike said, “The three of us and another guy, Rick, got stuck up on a water tower after losing two more people. I got head shots on them… It was better than nothing.” He sighed. “Rick, well, his girlfriend didn’t make it to the tower. He took the second watch and shot himself in the head.”

  No one said anything for a while. Finally, Doug broke the silence.

  “How long were you stranded?”

  “Three days,” Connor replied. “Seemed like every zombie within a hundred miles was there. I don’t know what caught their attention, but something did because they moved off on their own. We barely made it to the city gate.”

  Mike snorted, then giggled. Soon he howled with laughter, one hand over his belly while the other wiped tears from his eyes. His merriment would have been infectious under other circumstances. As it was, everyone looked at him in confusion.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t mean any disrespect,” he gasped, holding up his hand as if to physically fend off the laughing fit. “Rick always managed to make things complicated. The son of a bitch kept on doing it even after he was dead!”

  Connor and Seffie looked at Mike, then one another. A moment later, all three were in an uproar.

  “Zombies have really warped peoples’ sense of humor,” Connor heard Walter murmur to Doug.

  “I’m sorry, it’s not funny, I know—” Connor gasped, before dissolving into giggles again.

  Doug shrugged, an indulgent ‘What can you do?’ look on his face.

  When the laughter subsided to occasional snorts and giggles, Walter seized the opportunity.

  “Why don’t we get you settled in,” he said. “The Rector is here and I’m sure a shower and a big sleep are in order.”

  The Rector swooped in to gather his charges, but Connor demurred, hanging back with Walter and Doug.

  “You aren’t supposed to be here,” Walter said as soon as the doors swung shut. “You were told to stay where you were.”

  “I told you I couldn’t—”

  “I don’t want to hear it, Connor!” Walter said. “Of course I’m happy you’re alive, but we’ve less than two months. We need you in Mazatlán to prepare the labs in South America, not up here mooning after Miranda!”

  “You know Miranda’s not the only—” Connor stopped mid-sentence, tired of trying to justify himself. “If you don’t u
nderstand why I need to be here, I’m not wasting my time explaining.”

  Walter opened his mouth to speak.

  “Let’s take this down a notch,” Doug said. “Walter’s right, you should have stayed put and done what you were told.” Connor started to defend himself, but Doug kept talking. “That said, he’s here, so you need to let it go, Walter. He can go back to Mazatlán when the rest of us ship out.”

  “And get killed on the way back, if he bothers to go,” Walter retorted.

  “Really, Walter? You’re gonna pout?” Doug asked.

  “Fine, I’ll let it go,” he said, sounding tetchy, “but I don’t have to be happy about it.”

  “There is an upside to me being here, which you might not know if I’d stayed in Mexico,” Connor said, leaning forward. “We didn’t lose the sailboat because of the weather. Someone sabotaged the rigging. When the storm hit, we couldn’t drop the mainsail, and then the mast snapped. The boat listed and we took on water too fast to be an accident. The mast was tampered with, too. The Mazatlán community is compromised.”

  Doug shook his head as Connor spoke, a frown marring his delicately handsome face. “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Do the others know?”

  Connor shook his head.

  “If what Connor suspects is true, we have a problem somewhere, but we cannot jump to conclusions,” Walter said. “Without more information, we have no idea what we’re dealing with, or what it means about Mazatlán.”

  “I’ll start some inquiries,” Doug said, “but right now, I’m going to find out where they’re bunking Connor. He looks ready to lapse into a coma.”

  Connor did feel like passing out. After their grueling trek, all he wanted was to scrub away the dirt that had seeped into his pores and sleep for a week.

  “I can’t wait to tell Miri you’re here,” Doug continued. “She’s gonna lose her mind when she sees you.” He flashed a million-watt smile and headed for the door.

  “She’s still here?” Connor asked as soon as he and Walter were alone.