by A. P. Fuchs
The dead surrounded him, pawing at him as one, grubby fingers pulling at his arms, his legs, some poking him in the ribs.
He hook punched one, sent a knee into another, kicked the shins out from under another one and fired off a shot into the face of a toddler. Another went into the face of a man he recognized as a former survivor of the rain who had become one of them. He didn't know the guy's name but had seen him around. Cocking the hammer and shoving the creatures off himself, he spun in a circle and put a bullet into anything that moved.
Crrunnch!
Joe looked down and winced when he saw the heel of his boot standing on April's rear paw.
Sorry, girl, he thought, I didn't mean ... He made a mad dash through the horde of the dead, plowing through them like a linebacker making a beeline for the goal.
He cleared through a swarm of them, turned, and fired off as many shots as he could in the little time he had before more came through the broken glass of the sliding door that led onto the patio at the rear of the house.
Far to his left was the gate that led out to the front of the house. From what he could see, none of the dead were on the other side. That could change any moment.
Pulling the trigger of the X-09, he removed the heads off two more dead men then, with another cock of the hammer, took the faces off one woman and one teenage boy.
Joe ran for the gate.
* * * *
Gray fingers streaked with red scratches pawed at Billie from the far side of the patio deck. She was beneath it, having rolled under there the second the pack of zombies had gotten too thick for her to get to Joe's side.
She lay tightly where the deck met the house. The pebbled ground beneath her smelled of rot and soil that hadn't seen the sun and a real rain in a year.
Some of the undead on the other end of the deck and at the sides merely bent at the waist and tried to reach in, the deck stopping them at the elbows. Others were smart enough to get on their knees and try reaching her that way. Yet others had somehow realized that the only way to get to her was to get on the ground themselves and crawl army-style.
The sides were blocked as was the front, with nothing but stuccoed cement behind.
She was trapped.
A bald zombie with a dent on the left side of his head clawed toward her, its grimy fingers digging into the pebbles; the stones came loose, slowing his advance. It stared at her with droopy, bloodshot eyes, the snarl upon its face enough to produce tears in hers.
Billie screamed.
* * * *
The groaning of the undead filled the air like an angry wind, the sound so thick that Joe was having a hard time thinking of a plan should more of the creatures be on the other side of the fence.
A high-pitched “something” floated toward his ears but was quickly silenced by the undead advancing toward him.
He fired off a couple more shots; two bodies dropped, acting as speed bumps for the rest following behind. It'd buy him a few extra moments and a few extra feet of distance.
Once at the fence, he peeked over the top and was relieved to see only a few zombies on either side, far enough down the street to not pose any immediate threat. He was about to hop over, but stopped himself.
Coward. You just lost three people. Two, but April.... April. A picture of his dead dog lying there, insides ripped open, blood pooling around her body, flashed before his mind's eye then quickly changed to his April, the girl with the black hair and gray eyes, lying dead at his feet after he accidentally struck her with a rolling pin.
A woman screamed.
He turned and a forty-something woman with gray-green skin, rotted in places, lunged for him. He took hold of her by the ears, her head thrashing side to side as she tried to take a bite out of his wrists. He snapped her head around. Her body dropped.
Another scream, this one clean and not garbled like those of the undead.
"Billie,” he said.
* * * *
Billie slammed her heel into the monster's face, breaking its nose and sending it a few inches back. Panting, heart beating so hard the pulse raced up and down her arms, she scrambled toward the side of the deck with the least amount of creatures, hoping against hope they wouldn't suddenly get down on the ground, too, and come after her.
BOOMBRACK! BOOMBRACK! BOOMBRACK!
The entire deck shook. Wood snapped above her.
She covered her face as splinters and dust rained down.
BOOMBRACK! BOOMBRACK!
Above, two burly undead men worked together and smashed a white propane tank into the deck over and over.
BOOMBRACK!
Punching through, they tossed the tank aside and reached in; four meaty hands that smelled of old fish reached for her. Two hands had her by the collar, one by her hair, another under her chin.
"Ah! Help! No!” she shrieked.
The arms yanked her up toward the hole just as the bald zombie on its belly grabbed her ankle. There was a quick tug of war then she was jerked clear of the floorboards, the sides of her body crying out when sharp points of wood ripped along her skin. She felt everything from her armpits to her waist go wet.
Two huge heads, one bearded, one not, sped toward hers.
This was it. She was going to die.
Billie closed her eyes.
BOOM! BOOM!
Gravity kicked on full swing and wind whistled past her ears as the two behemoths dragged her down. She landed atop their massive, spongy bodies, getting a full whiff of decayed flesh. She immediately threw up, sour peaches pinching her throat.
A pair of strong hands reached under her arms, pulled her up and planted her on her feet.
When she opened her eyes, she saw Joe staring back at her.
"Let's go,” he said and shot two more zombies. He cocked the hammer and took down another two.
"Wh-where...” she said, her voice cracking.
There was no way off the deck. The undead moved toward them in an unstoppable horde. Getting through would be impossible.
A violent jerk to her arm pulled her through the patio door of the house and before it even registered she was standing in somebody's kitchen, four more creatures came walking in. Joe dropped two of them then was pushed to the side when one came at him while he was doing something with his gun.
Another was coming for her. The guy grabbed her hair, pulling on the already-sensitive strands so hard she thought he'd rip them clean off her skull. She scrambled for something to latch onto and the only thing her fingers found was a metal kitchen chair. Its legs rumbled as she pulled it across the linoleum. The undead man moved in, mouth wide, and she swung the chair to the side, slamming it into the zombie's leg. The man fell to his knees.
Suddenly filled with a renewed sense of rage, she picked up the chair and brought the bottom two legs across the dead man's face. Black-red welts immediately streaked the guy's skin.
More came in through the patio door. Billie hurled the chair at them then instinctively ducked when more shots rang out.
The next thing she knew, Joe was beside her, dragging her along as they darted out of the kitchen and into the living room beyond.
"Stay beside me!” he said.
She thought it was a weird thing to say but soon realized it was for her protection. If she was behind, the dead could get her. If she was in front, she'd be acting as a shield for him, which was something he obviously didn't want.
At the front door, Joe went to unlock it then paused—it was already unlocked.
"Hmph.” He opened the door.
He shoved open the wind door beyond and the two took the steps in one jump.
The dead appeared in the doorway behind them.
More were coming up the driveway.
Joe led the way, zigzagging around the dead so quickly Billie felt as if she were waterskiing, the driver of the boat a maniac who was trying to dump her. Left, right, back, side, other side, forward, back, right, back, left, front—she could scarcely breathe.
BOOM
! BOOM! Joe dropped another pair of creatures.
They didn't stop running till they reached the end of the street.
* * * *
Joe stood with his hands on his hips, staring off down the street as Billie stood beside him, bent at the waist, wheezing.
"Breathe slow. Panting will only make it worse,” he said.
"I got a stitch in my side sharper than a freakin’ dagger and...” There was a pause.
When he looked at her, he saw she was staring at her palms, which were coated in blood.
Quickly, he grabbed her by the wrists, straightened her up, and examined her hands. “What happened?"
"You blind?” She raised her arms. The sides of her white T-shirt were wet with blood, right up the ribs like a couple of wild brushstrokes.
"Lift your shirt,” he said.
"Forget it. I already took my shirt off once for you. I'm not going to do it again."
His gun came up as if his hand had a mind of its own. He pointed it at her head. “Do as I say or so help me you'll join them."
Her blue eyes went wide. When she spoke, her voice was soft, timid and afraid. “You're serious."
You bet I am. If they bit you, you're gonna die right here. “Now, Billie.” He cocked the hammer. It could have been the adrenaline, could have been losing April and his failing to keep Des safe, but right now he'd love to see her die.
His head suddenly spun and the world seemed to pull itself a million miles away. He couldn't believe he just thought that. Couldn't believe he wanted that. He debated lowering the gun, but if he did, then he'd let the old Joseph rise again and that was something he'd never let happen.
Joseph had died with April.
Tears glazing over her eyes, Billie reached the hem of her T-shirt with shaky hands and slowly pulled it up.
Long, red lines ran up the sides of her waist and ribs, stopping on either side of her chest.
Billie looked away as he leaned in close to examine her. No teeth marks. Nothing that hinted of gummy white saliva.
He kept the gun pointed at her. “Lower your shirt then raise your arms."
She obeyed, frowning. He checked the shirt and it was torn on either side in a clean line, not chewed up or ripped in places the way nails or teeth would tear it.
After taking a deep breath and exhaling slowly, he lowered the gun.
Billie slapped him hard across the cheek, stormed off past him and gave him the finger.
"I'm sorry,” he whispered. He just didn't know to whom he was apologizing: to her or to April, for what he had become.
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15: Empty Building
The world had disappeared last night. August had mustered up enough courage to head back downstairs and sleep in the vault, both hands on the rifle, the rifle on his chest. The droning bangs of the dead slamming their palms on the thick glass upstairs kept him awake at first, but soon its monotonous noise became a background beat to his thoughts and, eventually, he drifted off to sleep. Just before he closed his eyes that final time, August expected to wake every half hour or so, his racing heart forbidding him any sleep. Instead, darkness prevailed and a black sleep took him, shutting out the noise from above, the apprehension of something lurking in the shadows beyond the safe's door, the discomfort of the rifle weighing on his chest. He didn't dream; he closed his eyes one moment and opened them a few minutes later only to discover, as per his watch, a little over nine hours had gone by. The room was as dark when he awoke as it was before he fell asleep.
He stood slowly, a sharp ache filling his muscles. It'd been a long time since he'd slept on the floor, never mind without a pillow. It took several minutes for the blood to flow into the muscles to make them usable again. Still, his elbow and knee joints felt as if they were made of wood and that something would break if he tried bending them.
Head far more clear, he still couldn't get over how long he had slept. You'd think you'd be very awake with a throng of the dead beating at your door all night long, the thought of never seeing morning prevailing in your mind.
The drive into town then the long walk all the way from the TransCanada must have gotten to him more than he realized.
His stomach growled; the inside of his mouth was sticky.
August stood inside the vault door, listening.
The banging had stopped.
Checking the rifle, he decided his first order of business was to hit the water fountain near the escalator. After that, he'd head upstairs and see if the windows were still intact. He'd worry about breakfast—lunch—later.
His old bones creaked and ached as he opened the heavy vault door and, after poking his head out, he ventured into the bank beyond.
The flashlight was dead so he tucked it into his back pocket. Hopefully he'd find some batteries later.
The hallway beyond the bank was quiet. No dragging footsteps, no groans. No anything. The only sound was his breathing and his own footfalls.
After getting a cool drink at the water fountain—and thanking God a hundred times it was still working—he cautiously approached the escalator, ready for a walking corpse to appear at its top and charge toward him.
One step. Two. Two more. Slowly, now.
No banging.
No groaning.
No breathing save his.
At the top of the escalator, August surveyed the lobby. The blood-splattered windows were still intact.
Carefully, he turned on his heels and moved toward the back doors, something he didn't look into the night before, his brain too tired to even have thought of it. These windowed-doors were boarded up.
"Wonder why they didn't do up the glass at the front?” he said. But he already knew the answer. Either those who were here before him were overtaken by the dead that had come in through the Square, or they had fled because some form of rescue came.
August went back toward the escalator down a hallway with a row of elevators on either side.
This joint's got over thirty floors. To check every one would take all day never mind checking the Square. “Are you planning to stay here?” Maybe. Could have everything I need till I figure out why I was supposed to come here. If I was supposed to come here. He still wasn't one hundred percent sure that whole “exodus” thing at his cabin was Divine or not. The further that special event receded into the past, the more doubt was able to creep in. What would You have me do?
No reply, just a sense that he should stay put for now. Whether that was from him or Upstairs, he didn't know.
"Got a big day ahead of me,” he said, and pressed the up arrow on the elevator.
* * * *
All the floors were clear, just empty offices, some with papers strewn everywhere and phones off the hooks (which didn't work when he checked).
By the time August finished scouting the top level, he was exhausted. But there was still one more place to check: the stairwell next to the elevators.
This is probably useless, he had thought more than once. I go inside one elevator, but there are nine others that could very well be holding the dead. Or those monsters could be riding them up and down and I'd never know. Wait, that's not true. I never heard the elevators going when I wasn't in them. Maybe I am in the clear, here? “But that stairwell..."
He opened the big door a crack, the barrel of the rifle poking through. After waiting a moment, he quickly shoved it open all the way in case a zombie was on the other side. If someone was there, the door would plow into them and buy him a moment to aim his shot. The door slammed open hard, banging into the wall. A bit of drywall crumbled to the floor.
August approached the railing, looked down, couldn't see anything except for the sides of some stairs, then glanced up at the steps going two flights to the roof.
"Could use a little fresh air,” he said and, using the railing, helped himself up the steps, already dreading the trip all the way back down.
"Wait.” He stopped two steps up.
He quickly went to the ele
vators, called them up to his floor and when the doors opened he pressed the emergency stop buttons in each. Smiling, he thought, There. The only problem is I may need them later. Well, maybe I'll send one down and lock it on the second floor or something.
Back inside the stairwell, he carefully made his way up even though he could already see these two flights leading up to the roof were clear. At the top, he thought he heard a tap coming from the other side of the roof door. Waiting, listening, wondering if it was his imagination or not, August brought up the rifle and got ready to fire.
No other sound came.
Was probably me.
He put his hand on the steel horizontal door handle and pushed. The handle went down and in, but the door didn't open. He tried again then a third time. Same thing.
"Oh,” he said at the silver and black key-coded lock box beside the door.
He examined the tiny silver buttons on its face. They were numbered 0-9.
"It could be anything.” Four- or five-digit combos. Maybe more. He punched in a couple just for the hey of it. You never knew. He glanced up. “Wanna gimme a hand?” He closed his eyes and the numbers 2, 5, 3, 7 and 9 appeared one at a time in his mind's eye. He tried them. No go. Those numbers were just him.
"Thanks anyway,” he breathed. Staring at the lock box, he added, “You send me out here then hightail it when I need a hand.” With a grin, “Hmph. Sounds familiar. Moses had a time of it, too. Not that I'm him or anything.” After a chuckle, “Don't got a beard down to my feet."
He thought for a moment. “I could blow the lock.” Yeah, but if something's on the other side, how're you gonna lock it again? “Okay, fine. I'll leave it for now. Bring something up to reseal it later."
August went down the stairs.
* * * *
By the time August reached the bottom of the stairwell and stood before the door that opened up into the Square, he could barely stand.
Going down is worse than going up. And he had to leave the elevators on the higher floors. If an undead or two were in the other elevators, they were now trapped between the floors. Thank goodness for elevator control on the security level.
