BloodoftheDead[UndeadWorldTrilogyBookOne]

by A. P. Fuchs

  Silence.

  Dark.

  Just him, the safe and his gun.

  He dared not shine the flashlight lest whatever might be behind the door see it and be alerted to his presence.

  He slowed his breathing and made an effort to lay absolutely still, any little thing he could do to shut off all sound.

  The bank was silent just beyond the safe's door. The tiled floor was cold. A shiver ran through him.

  It grew even quieter, so much so the thudding of his heart pounded in his ears. He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly to relax, but even now, after all he'd been through, relaxing was something that wouldn't come easy.

  I could really use some help right now, he thought, eyes gazing upward. He only hoped the Big Guy upstairs was listening.

  The seconds ticked by. He waited, and was sure several minutes had passed, but the more he thought about it, the more he realized that maybe only one minute had gone by, if that.

  Maybe God was listening? If He wasn't, maybe something would have already tried to shove open the vault door, search out the dark, and gorge itself on aged flesh.

  The scraping didn't return.

  August closed his eyes and stared at the blackness, his ear nearest the door searching for sound.

  Darkness prevailed, and August slipped away into sleep.

  Drunngg, drunngg, drunngg. The low, monotonous tone jolted him awake. Drunngg, drunngg, drunngg. Drunngg, drunngg, drunngg.

  He lay still, eyes searching the dark, the hollow sound of the incessant drumming charging his insides with an electric throbbing pulse he last felt the night he slaughtered his family.

  August got to his feet, not bothering to check his watch to see what time it was. Odds were he had only slept a few minutes and to verify that with the clock would only make his heavy eyes worse.

  Drunngg, drunngg, drunngg.

  He stepped up to the safe's door, waited a moment to check for any sound other than the low drumming and, not hearing anything else, slowly pushed it open.

  Hesitantly, he pressed the flashlight's button, just knowing he'd see some monstrous form ambling its way toward him. The beam lit up the dark. Nothing but the dead that were already there. He shone the beam around the room. The bank was empty.

  Carefully, he made his way to the entrance doors and shone the beam up and down the hallway. Satisfied the coast was clear, he stepped out into the hallway and listened once more.

  Drunngg, drunngg, drunngg.

  It was coming from upstairs.

  If I stay here, whatever it is might come down. If I go up, whatever it is might see me and I'll be dead. He hated moments of indecision. The right choice would be to get back inside the safe, close the door as much as possible without risking locking himself in, and just wait it out.

  Drunngg, drunngg, drunngg.

  He glanced toward the bank, his eyes settling in the direction of the vault door. Even with the dim light of the flashlight shining on it, it still looked forbiddingly dark, as if suddenly it had become a separate world of endless night and deadly despair.

  "Oh, man...” he breathed.

  His old legs refused to budge.

  Drunngg, drunngg, drunngg.

  The noise beckoned him.

  He was already moving before he realized it and the next thing he knew, he was over by the inactive escalator that led up to the Richardson building's lobby.

  He shone the light around, searching for moving shadows. The carpet-rimmed tiled hallway was empty.

  Putting the flashlight in his mouth, he got his rifle ready, brought it high, and slowly ascended the escalator, his breathing short and shaky, puffing out on either side of the flashlight. Some drool leaked from a corner of his mouth. He ignored it, too terrified to stop and wipe it.

  At the top of the escalator the lobby was charcoal black.

  Until he was about three quarters up the escalator did it seem normal it would be so dark, but then he remembered that ever since the rain came, the sky remained washed over in dark gray with brown shadows whether it was day or night. There should be at least some light coming through the windows in the lobby, and there wasn't any.

  Maybe someone boarded them up while they were stuck here and left it that way when they took off? If they took off. A shiver ran through him at the thought of more dead bodies, ones that died from no food or water, lying around upstairs.

  Drunngg, drunngg, drunngg.

  The droning beat was louder here on the escalator. Whatever it was that was making that noise, he was getting real close to it.

  Drunngg, drunngg, drunngg.

  Drunngg, drunngg, drunngg.

  He took another few steps up.

  Drunngg, drunngg, drunngg.

  A few more.

  Drunngg, drunngg, DRUNNGG.

  Drunngg, drunngg, DRUNNGG.

  Almost at the top. One more step and...

  DRUNNGG, DRUNNGG, DRUNNGG.

  It was near deafening and it was coming from his left.

  He dropped the rifle. What he saw locked every muscle in his body.

  * * * *

  Joe lay on his back on the couch, arms folded behind his head. April slept on his feet, keeping his toes warm.

  Billie was right. He was trying to be something he wasn't. The problem was, he couldn't help himself. Ever since losing April, he couldn't seem to get things back on track. No matter how hard he tried to get it together despite the evil the rain brought upon the world, he just simply couldn't. He had tried everything—ignoring his feelings, suppressing them, distractions, denial, chanting things like, “She never existed. She never existed. It's all in your head. It's all in your head"—none of it worked. He even started a new manuscript, something he hoped that would be cathartic and get the frustration and pain and anger and anguish out of him.

  Forget it. It was nothing but one step forward and twenty steps back.

  For a brief time he thought about suicide, something he never thought he'd consider, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. He imagined it, sure. Even imagined stepping out into a horde of the undead and offering himself to them as some sort of pathetic sacrifice. He watched in his mind's eye as they tore off his limbs, reached their gray fingers into his abdomen and pulled out the long, noodle-like tubes of his intestines, the blood splattering on their faces, his skull being smashed into bits of bone and brain and blood and skin and—but he couldn't bring himself to do that either. He didn't know much about the afterlife and didn't know what the consequences for suicide were, if any. Yet he also thought that if he were to spend eternity in a place called hell that whatever torments it offered would be nothing compared to what he was feeling and the physical agony he'd undergo would be a pleasant relief from the emotional torment within.

  But he didn't want to face the possibility of that either.

  So he stayed alive, drifting through the motions of living day to day in a world gone mad, hoping that somehow an answer would present itself.

  It wasn't until the night he decided to truly end it did everything change. He would give himself to the undead. He put on the only suit he ever owned, stepped outside and searched the night for any walking corpse that would have him.

  Except he never found any. Not for hours.

  He couldn't believe the only dead he found were those who'd already fallen prey to the zombies and were missing their heads.

  Close to dawn, he came across an abandoned military vehicle, a soldier's headless and armless corpse half hanging out of the side door. Joe went over to it, studied the body. The nametag read dane. On the seat beside Dane's body was an automatic. Military issue or not, he didn't know. He'd never been one for war or army movies. He rounded the vehicle, picked up the heavy weapon, then wrapped his fingers around the handle, index finger on the trigger, and aimed the barrel at the ground.

  RAT-A-TAT-TAT!

  The barrage of bullets jolted his insides as they plowed into the cement, sending up shards of concrete.

  Tears runni
ng down his face, he was about to press the barrel under his chin when a deep wheezing to the side made him turn his head.

  A man, short and stocky, with gray skin and white eyes was limping toward him, one of his feet missing.

  Without thinking, Joe fired off an onslaught of bullets, blasting the man's chest and face to smithereens.

  The body hit the street with a thud. Black blood ran from its body and head. Joe stood transfixed on the corpse, somehow mesmerized by it.

  The pain that had been in his heart for so long went away.

  Now, lying on his couch, Joe understood himself in a way that he hadn't in years. Billie was right.

  He was living a lie.

  He wasn't a killer. Just some guy looking for a way out of misery. Just some pathetic, self-centered miscreant who couldn't deal with the past.

  No matter how he painted it, he wasn't acting like the person he'd been all his life.

  For a second his heart opened and he thought about living again and letting things go.

  Thought about being Joseph again.

  Then his heart shut and fell into a rocky hole, a boulder rolling into place on top, sealing it within.

  Joseph was dead.

  * * * *

  Mouth hanging open, August slowly lowered himself and, not taking his eyes off the windows that bordered the lobby, picked up the rifle and removed the flashlight from his mouth.

  "Wh-wha—Oh..."

  The windows were smeared top to bottom in inky red blood, spread on thick in places, thinner in others.

  No wonder the light was barely getting through. There were only a few places where it could get through.

  Each step took several seconds, his feet feeling as if they were filled with sand.

  DRUNNGG, DRUNNGG, DRUNNGG.

  DRUNNGG, DRUNNGG, DRUNNGG.

  The ultra-thick windows shook in their frames.

  Mouth dry, his swallowing difficult, August moved for a spot on one of the windows where the blood wasn't so thick. He turned off the flashlight and brought up his rifle.

  DRUNNGG, DRUNNGG, DRUNNGG.

  At the window, he leaned up sideways against it then jumped back a step when more DRUNNGGs shook the glass.

  Heart hammering, the pulse so rapid and thick it raced up the side of his neck and into his skull, he forced himself to get close to the window again.

  DRUNNGG, DRUNNGG, DRUNNGG.

  He kept his body a safe enough distance away, and slowly leaned his head closer to the glass so he could see outside.

  The undead surrounded the front of the building and, he assumed, the remaining three sides as well.

  Some stood at the glass, banging on it with their palms, smearing the blood from their latest kill over the windows. Others kept walking into it, bouncing off the glass then trying again. Some threw corpses at the building but not hard enough to break through. The bodies, slicked with blood, splat on the glass then slid down, only to be picked up again for another round, usually not before the undead took a fresh bite of flesh for themselves.

  DRUNNGG, DRUNNGG, DRUNNGG.

  August moved back several paces, rifle aimed at the windows. They know I'm in here. “Are their senses really that keen?” His voice was just a whisper. He doubted it. Yet they were displaying otherwise. “Or maybe they're so desperate for food and they haven't gotten in here yet?” Then why are they tossing the dead at the glass?

  He stood there for a long time, losing himself to the endless din of meat slamming against glass, thinking maybe at some point they'd realize they couldn't get in and give up.

  The undead never stopped.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  12: Peaches

  Joe always had trouble sleeping. Back before the rain, he had spent his nights writing, both as his job and as a way to exercise the relentless bursts of imagination that stormed his mind. He'd sleep for a few hours shortly after the sun came out, then get on with his day, which usually consisted of watching Seinfeld and Smallville reruns. Now, sleep was still an issue. As much as the old Joseph was gone, his creativity was not and he'd lie there night after night, formulating stories and watching make-believe scenarios play out in the cinema of his mind. Sometimes April was in them, sometimes not. Usually when she did appear in the tales he spun, he'd either write her out or just simply ignore her. If he didn't, all the stories ended the same way: April, dead, covered in blood and gnawing on the neck of an old woman.

  Tonight had been no different, but it wasn't his overactive mind keeping him awake. It was the two strangers he had allowed into his home. Even though they slept in a different room, after having been alone for so long, it still felt as if they were sleeping right next to him, staring at him. And no one who had ever lived was able to sleep knowing someone was looking at them.

  He checked his watch. It was 8:49 a.m. He had maybe gotten a little over an hour's sleep.

  Whatever. I'll catch up later, after they're gone. Then, whispering, “Whenever that is."

  Not long after, the door to the bedroom at the end of the hallway opened and Billie came out. Joe immediately sat up on the couch, knowing that he'd feel too vulnerable if she walked in on him pretending to be asleep. Besides, he didn't trust her. He didn't know her.

  As she made her way down the hallway, Joe couldn't help but study her, watch her move, take in her pink hair that was only in a slight tussle atop her head. Her skin was soft, her blue eyes tired yet still vibrant in their own way, her small arms and hands reminding him of April's from long ago.

  "Morning,” she said when she reached the living room.

  Joe nodded. He wasn't much of a talker in the mornings. Had never been much of a talker at all, actually.

  Billie came into the room and April barked up a storm.

  "Quiet,” Joe told the dog firmly. April piped down.

  The springs in the old chair opposite to him squeaked when Billie sat on it, leaned forward, and rested her forearms on her knees.

  There was silence for a time.

  Joe, bored of staring at the carpet between his feet, asked, “Sleep okay? You didn't get much."

  "Neither did you,” she replied.

  "Never been one for sleeping."

  "Me neither."

  The thought of confronting her crossed his mind, to let her know he had heard her earlier. No, just keep it to yourself for now. Play that card later, when you need it. He cringed at his cynicism. When he needed it. Had he become that cold? Didn't matter. He liked it.

  "Where's Des?” he asked.

  "Still sleeping. He'll probably be out for a while. All of us had a late night."

  Joe nodded.

  Silence again.

  His heart picked up speed. It'd been a long time since he'd talked to someone, even longer since he had a one-on-one with a female.

  "You don't...” she started.

  He arched an eyebrow.

  "You don't have anything to eat around here, do you?"

  Joe shook his head. “Not much. Running low. Haven't been able to hunt around for things."

  She leaned back and folded her hands and placed them on her lap.

  He stood. “I'll see if I can find you something."

  He went to the kitchen and opened the cupboards one at a time, checking to see what was left. There were a few packets of dried noodles, a couple cans of beans, one can of fruit, one of kernel corn.

  He cleared his throat so he could raise his voice and call into the next room. “Do you want some—” Billie was already beside him. He hadn't seen her approach. He lowered his voice. “Do you want some peaches?” He showed her the can.

  She took it and examined it. “Yeah, these would be fine."

  "Spoons are over there,” he said, nodding to the drawer behind them. “Can opener's in the one beside it."

  "Thanks.” She went to the first drawer, got a spoon, then went to the other and got the opener.

  She placed the can on the countertop and affixed the opener to the lid. As she turned it
and the lid peeled back, she asked, “You don't mind? It's your last one."

  "That's fine. Besides, peaches are more breakfasty than beans."

  She chuckled. “Suppose so. Something they never prepare you for, huh?"

  "What's that?"

  "The movies. The end-of-the-world ones. Everyone lives on canned foods but they never show how much it really sucks."

  "Guess not."

  "I just wish..."

  "What?” He closed the cupboard door.

  "I just wish we weren't here, you know? I mean, I'm thankful that I've gotten by, don't get me wrong. I'm probably making do a lot better than most, but after awhile, it's draining. I'm getting sick of the food, sick of watching my back, sick of living alone, sick of life, actually.” She pulled the lid off and put it on the counter beside the can. She picked up the can and spoon, and leaned against the counter and picked at the peaches. Her eyes never left the fruit. “Sorry. Just tired and grumpy, is all."

  He nodded, relating to everything she said. There was only so much fried beans a person could take before they'd just simply stop eating.

  "So,” she said, “what about you? Always lived here?"

  He crossed his arms and leaned against the counter. “Nah. Used to live downtown. But after the rain hit, had to go where it was safe. Safe-er, anyway."

  "That's what most folks did."

  "They tried to. I remember the day not long after the rain.... So many folks wandered the streets, looking for a safe place to stay. The dead came out in droves. Just completely overtook them. There were so many."

  She slurped down a peach and furrowed her brow. “Where were you?"

  He shrugged. “I don't know. Probably putting a bullet between their eyes."

  She rolled her eyes.

  He didn't say anything. Think what you want.

  "Not gonna eat?” she asked.

  "Never been a breakfast person. Well, a ‘regular’ breakfast person. Mine was usually mid morning. Cereal. Haven't had that in ages."

  "It's funny you say that because I had gone to Des's to get some milk. I'm a cereal freak, too."

  Freak? “Well, I wouldn't call myself a freak."

  "No? Living alone, hunting zombies like some kind of modern day Van Helsing?"