by A. P. Fuchs
She stomped her foot.
"What?” Des asked and came up beside her, his chest bumping into her arm.
"Do you mind?” she said and shoved him back.
A wisp of messy brown hair spilled over his eyes. He pushed it away. “No."
She pulled out the milk.
"What do you need that for?” he asked.
"Was gonna have a bowl of cereal. Barely eaten anything today."
"I can tell."
She turned to face him just as he was finishing eyeing her up and down.
He raised his hands, palms out. “Hey, you look like you've lost at least ten pounds, probably fifteen, since I last seen you. You managing okay in that cyberworld planet thing you got going down over there?"
The truth was, she wasn't managing, at least in terms of having enough supplies on hand. Baths had been reduced to just soaking in water, the soap and shampoo just finished the other week. Food supply was down except for a few nonperishables and a few packs of noodles; nothing to drink but water which, based on the way it'd been tasting lately, probably wouldn't last that much longer either. The power was going out now and then. Eventually the water would, too.
Billie had friends she could go to, those she met online who offered time and again to help one another out if someone was short on this or that. But it was leaving the apartment that was getting to be a chore. The thought of going outside.... The zombies only played a part in her choice to remain secluded. It was just that she didn't feel like going out anymore. Try as she might to fight it, her heart had already begun to give up hope of coming out of this alive. Reason had begun to override the notion of someone coming to the world's rescue. She, along with everyone else, was fighting a losing battle.
"I'll be fine,” she said softly.
"Doesn't sound like it. Face it, Billie, you're beginning to look like one of them."
"And you're not?"
Des's face paled, his already pallid complexion getting whiter. He was getting thin, too, and probably weighed no more than a hundred thirty pounds sopping wet. His arms, exposed by the white tank top he was wearing, were rail-thin. The black jeans he wore hung off his waist like a pair of balloon pants. “Touché."
"I should have brought my bowl over,” she said. “Mind must have gone blank. Didn't remember."
"Want me to go get it for you?” he asked.
She considered his offer then shook her head. “Thanks anyway, but no. It's too dangerous and you know it."
"Bah,” he said with a wave of his hand. “Them guys out there don't bother me.” Then with a grin, “They're as good as dead anyway, right?"
She couldn't help but smile. With a subtle nod, she quietly said, “Yeah."
He came over to her and wrapped her in his arms. His skin was cool, his hands even cooler. “Come on, here. I got a pack of mac-and-cheese we can make."
"That all?"
"Pretty much. And we might as well use that milk up, too. It'll go bad if we don't.” He sighed. “Also heard from Mr. Shank that he hadn't seen Milk Guy for a couple of weeks now. M.G. came out here in that red truck of his every week. Shank says he thinks the creatures got him."
"We're running out of time, aren't we?” she said.
Des squeezed her even tighter. “Yeah. I think we are."
[Back to Table of Contents]
3: Off to the Promised Land
August stood over the oven, eyeing the dial; it was set at four hundred degrees.
Tears ran from his eyes and in his sweaty palms he held an old, worn black Bible, with some of the pages loose from its binding. It was the one his father gave him back when he was a kid. It had been years before August read it, but once he did, he had made a point of taking his dad aside and thanking him for it.
The pages of the old book crinkled each time he wrung it like a towel. Subconsciously he hoped by his twisting and turning the pages, God would get a sense of his own internal twisting and turning.
His family was gone.
He was out here all alone.
It would only be a matter of time before the creatures came for him.
Each sob-soaked syllable reminded him he was at the end of himself.
"You swore You wouldn't leave me,” he said. A couple of tears fell to the Bible's cover. “I am with you always, even until the very end of the age, You said.” He sniffled. “Where are You? Was it all a lie? Are You a lie?"
For the millionth time since he'd been out here, he thought about how the world should have ended, how a ruler would rise in Europe, would befriend then betray Israel, would persecute Christians worldwide, would kill those who didn't fall in line with the new monetary system, would slaughter those who didn't revere him as a god, would lead a revolt against God's people at Armageddon and would fall at the hands of Christ when the Lord returned in glory on the clouds of heaven.
Instead, August was stuck in a world where the dead walked the earth, where countless lives had already been lost.
Where his own family had been murdered.
Even though the undead had killed his family first, he still took the blame upon himself. It was him, after all, who had pulled the trigger and ended their existence on this planet.
Salty tears dribbled onto his lips. He licked them away. “I can't believe You'd abandon me. I can't believe You'd steal my family. Can't believe You'd let hell prevail like it has."
He picked up the Bible in his right hand then set it down again. He repeated the motion several times, something to keep his mind distracted even if it was just a simple up-and-down motion like this one.
"Dead. They're all dead. And You don't care. I've asked, I've prayed and You've just sat there doing nothing.” Fresh tears welled in his eyes. He hadn't slept at all last night and had trouble napping earlier in the day. He hadn't felt like eating even though hunger floated somewhere in the back of his gut the whole day through. Fatigue beat against his eye sockets, its pulse adding to the confusion and weight that was already crushing his tired brain and resolve.
He'd never talked like this to God before. The image of the man he was a year ago flashed before his eyes, the man of yesteryear glowing with the love of the Lord, a twinkle in his eye, an enthusiasm for service. Now he was just the shell of the man he once was, broken and beaten, with a heart turning to stone.
I can't do this anymore, he thought. No one can.
August set the Bible down and got on his knees.
"Last chance,” he whispered. “Either tell me where You want me or what You want me to do right now or we're done, You and me.” A sharp pang struck his heart. To walk away from God after all these years.... He couldn't believe he even considered doing it. “I'm sorry,” he said. “Forgive me. Just angry, hurt and ... I don't even know what the word is. I'd kill myself right now if I didn't know what the consequence might be. Your Word doesn't say specifically, just hints at it."
August wiped his eyes then squeezed his nostrils. He wiped his fingers on his pants.
Gazing upward, he said, “I'm listening."
The sallow ceiling stared back at him, blank and silent. He closed his eyes and waited for some kind of pressing on his heart or some strong thought that couldn't possibly be his own. Even a booming voice from heaven would be fine. It'd be ideal, actually.
But there was nothing.
God was silent.
His head fell into his hands and he sat kneeling in front of his oven for a long time, crying, too hurt and too much at a loss for words to even shout out a plea for help. When the tears finally ceased, he reached for the Bible on top of the oven, took it down and opened the oven door.
Opening it to the front page, his eyes settled on the message his father had written him sixty years ago. Even to this day he remembered the way his father had gotten down on one knee and handed him the Bible he himself had used for countless years. Seeing the old handwriting made his heart long for his father.
—
June 26, 1948.
—
August,
—
This is for you.
—
May Jesus be real to you as you read through these pages.
—
Love,
—
Dad
—
He stared at the text for a long time before closing the book.
Taking one last look at the cover and the words holy bible written in faded gold lettering on its front, he said, “Good-bye,” and tossed it on the oven rack.
He closed the door.
It wasn't long before the scent of burning paper filled the air.
August wept before the oven, unable to believe what he was doing. How could God ever forgive him for doing that?
If You're real ... if You're real, forgive me, he thought. Stop me.
Heart heavy, he remained on his knees. The heavy stench of smoke hung over him and sat in his nostrils. A dance of flame sprang to life behind the small, dark glass window of the oven door.
August's mouth fell open as the seriousness of what he was doing hit him, like a stern finger poking at his heart.
"No!” he grunted and slammed his hand down on top of the oven, using the edge to help him up.
His old knees creaked as he stood and his head swooned from rising so quickly. The room tilted to the side then righted itself again. Once steady, he sprang for the drawer nearest the oven and yanked it open, pulling out the oven mitts.
Quickly, he shoved his hands into them and opened the oven door. A thick cloud of dark gray smoke billowed out.
Coughing, August turned his head away. He took a deep breath, held it, and squinted his eyes before reaching in and grabbing the book and pulling it out. He faced away from the oven and with a big puff of breath he blew out the flame on its top and sides, then ran the book over to the sink where he patted the bright red hot lines rimming some of the pages.
He reached back to the oven, closed the door and turned it off.
Back at the sink, he stared at the still-smoldering book, some of the pages partly missing, others black with soot, others black and brown altogether.
Taking off the mitts, he was about to ask for forgiveness when his eyes caught sight of the header on the open page.
It read exodus.
* * * *
The following morning, August loaded up the blue Ford minivan with what was left of the food—not much, just a few cans of beans, some Tequila and a few just-add-water noodle soups that he had forgotten about on the top shelf—and whatever else he could find around the cabin that might be of use: an axe, hammer, a few pairs of jackets and boots, pillows and blankets, a half-roll of toilet paper, and, of course, his .22 and bullets.
This was it. It was time to return to the world. What else could it have meant when the Bible opened to Exodus? Maybe God finally did speak up after all this time?
But before he would leave, there was still one matter to attend to.
Rifle in hand, August stood before the front of the cabin, envisioning the bodies of his family buried beneath.
He said good-bye to each one, then paused before he said good-bye to Eleanor.
He licked his lips. “I don't know what's going to happen, darling. I truly don't. Just know I'll do my best to honor you and, perhaps, save a few folks along the way.” He frowned. “Ah, what am I doing? You can't hear me anyway. I'll just pass a message up to the Big Guy and He'll do all the talking for me.” Then, “Hopefully."
August turned and went to the Ford. He opened the door and, resting his left forearm on the frame, set the rifle up for one last shot. He had debated if he should do this or not. Every bullet counted and he only had ten left, but the thought of his family's cabin falling into the hands of the creatures, the idea of them breaking in and roaming the rooms and contaminating it sickened him.
The front door to the place stood open. A can of propane sat on the matt in the landing. It was old, partly rusted, but August thought it would still do the trick.
August closed his eyes a moment and said good-bye to the old place. When he opened his eyes, he aligned the shot ... and pulled the trigger.
[Back to Table of Contents]
4: Back into the Gray
April licked Joe's hand as he laced up his boots. They were army issue, a pair he got back in his mid teens when he was enrolled in air cadets for a short time. Fortunately for him, he had maintained the same shoe size since the ninth grade so the scuffed, black boots fit even now. Steel-toed, they had saved his life on more than one occasion when the undead tried to turn him into one of their own, a kick to their skulls rescuing him from a life imprisoned inside the shell of a human corpse.
"Sorry, pal. You can't come with me,” he told his dog and strapped on his kneepads.
He stroked the patch of brown hair on her head then kissed her on the nose. She licked his nose in return, their little exchange before he went out each night. Though April was only a dog, she was the closest thing he had to a friend and, he supposed, she'd be the closest he'd ever have to someone to come home to. Killing the undead was easy emotionally, but leaving the dog behind each evening was always hard. To lose his buddy.... Joe didn't want to think about it. He'd already lost enough loved ones as it was. April, the girl from a life when things were normal, his friends and his family.
He gave his pet one final scratch behind the ears then exited his apartment and locked it.
"I'll be back soon,” he called through the door.
Opting not to use its holster, he held the X-09 through his trench coat as he headed outside, prepared to make the transition between the safety of his home to the uncertainty of the streets.
He lived in the Haven. The only question that hung over him each day was, for how much longer? The power lines would inevitably go down and he, like the others who lived in the area, would be in the dark, just like everywhere else in the city.
Walking down the sidewalk, Joe glanced up at the gray, cloudy sky. Tonight the gray was blotched deep brown in parts like someone had splashed coffee against it. He remembered the days when the area used to be teeming with people, cars, kids on bikes zipping down the sidewalk—the area he grew up in. His parents’ place had been seven streets down and theirs was the first place he hit after coming home from the days of walking the streets after being at April's. Even now, a year later, he remembered walking up his folks’ driveway, the houselights off, both outside and in. He didn't need to be a pessimist to know his mom, dad, brother and sister were already dead. The question at that point had been how dead?
He remembered it clearly:
Armed with a knife from his kitchen and a baseball bat, he cautiously approached the front door. After taking a deep breath, he pressed down on the tab above the handle and pushed. The door moved slightly, but no further. Locked.
Maybe they're all right?
He dug in his jean pocket and pulled out his keys. He still had a key to the place even though he no longer lived there. Joe unlocked the door, pressed down on the tab above the handle again and pushed. The old door swung open with a creak.
Listening carefully for any sign of life, he stood there, knife at the ready, his other hand tightly gripping the bat.
It was quiet within.
"Hello?"
No reply.
Exhaling slowly, he went in, scanned the front landing to make sure the coast was clear, then proceeded into the living room. Everything seemed fine. The black leather couches on the white carpet sat untouched, just as his mom liked it. (Those couches were off-limits the moment his parents got them; Joe never understood the point in having them if you couldn't sit on them.) The dining room beside it was also empty and intact, his mom's fake fruit centerpiece still in the middle of the large oak table, a few pieces of mail on a nearby chair. He went over to the envelopes and checked the postmarks. Days old. They were still sealed and it wasn't like his parents to leave mail unread for longer than a day.
"Mom? Dad? Hello?"
Silence.
A pinch at the back of his throat; he swallowed twice, one not being enough to suppress the itch that surfaced back there.
Heart beating quickly and steadily, he went to the kitchen. At the entrance, his jaw slackened and a flush of heat came over him. The dual-windowed kitchen door that led out onto the patio was in pieces. Murky red blood coated the jagged pieces of glass still in its frame and a streak of dark red painted the white-and-gray-squared linoleum floor, as if something or someone had been dragged across it.
The creeping feeling that someone might still be in the house tugged at Joe as he went for the kitchen door. He just hoped that if someone was inside, they were alive and not dead.
Joe peered through the broken glass. The backyard looked the same as the last time he visited except everything was muddied over with that awful gray stuff that had fallen from the sky. Pools of blood and smears of meat blotched the patio in hideous red, the smell of it having sat out in the open so long sending his stomach into twists and twirls.
He swallowed again, a lump forcing its way down his throat.
"Anybo—” His voice squeaked. He cleared his throat. “Anybody?” The word was so quiet that he doubted that anyone would have heard him.
"Mom? Dad?"
Tears pooling at the bottom of his eyes, he stepped outside and tried to avoid stepping in the patches of blood.
He dropped the knife and bat. The edge of the bat struck his toe through his shoe but he didn't care. To his left, on the patio table, were the heads of his family, his father's and sister's sitting side by side, his mother's and brother's lying on their ears, eyes locked onto each other, frozen terror on their faces. Blood coated the table and rimmed it by its legs.
Mind blank, Joe numbly walked toward them. Unable to think, he glanced to his feet, his shaking hands, then finally, to the yard. There were no bodies, just a few patches of intestines, a blood-soaked arm and a sheet of skin.
Joe couldn't breathe.
His heart banged so hard inside his chest he thought he was going to faint.
