by A. P. Fuchs
She tried to cry out but instead only produced a semblance of his name followed by a gush of blood from her mouth. Fire lit the tip of her tongue and she wondered how bad the damage was. Hand to her mouth, she flinched when her fingers touched the sensitive flesh.
Unable to help herself, she dragged her caught foot off the tombstone, let it thunk against the grass, then, sobbing, got on all fours.
Crnnch. Crnnch. Crnnch.
Footsteps on the grass.
Des?
She glanced up. An undead hand with bruised fingernails reached down toward her and grabbed her by the back of the neck and jerked her to her feet with remarkable strength.
Shrieking, she plowed her fist into the side of the dead man's jaw, the bone so brittle that the jaw broke and just dangled there to the right side, hanging on by a few, purply-gray ligaments. She shoved the zombie away and ran like a mad woman, screaming, arms flailing, not caring if she looked like an idiot.
Wiping her eyes with the bottom of her shirt helped clear her vision a little, but it still didn't help the inferno inside her mouth.
Blood filled her mouth so badly she had to spit every few seconds as she ran, each spurt of crimson mucus either landing on her shoes or, because of the wind caused by her sprint, splashing back onto her in sticky strands.
Des was nowhere to be seen. She cried out his name, thought she heard cursing somewhere to the left, but was quickly distracted when two rows over a throng of twenty or so undead moved between the headstones, a few of them stumbling over the markers.
The highway! Where was the highway?
Spitting then gathering her focus, Billie forced herself to slow down enough to get a clearer look around. There! The road was just ahead and over to the left.
Where was Des?
* * * *
Giving it all he had, Des swung the iron pipe into an old fat woman's head, the heavy end lodging itself into the skull bone and sending up a sploosh of blood like a basket of eggs getting smacked off a T-ball stand.
Another heavyset woman came in from behind, this one much younger, maybe even this old one's daughter.
Des whirled around and brought the pipe down like an axe onto the woman's head, passing through her curly blonde hair and delivering fifteen pounds of iron into her brain. She dropped to her knees, fell forward and, pipe still lodged in her head, clawed toward him on all fours, trying to get a piece of his ankles. Des yanked back hard on the pipe, the motion strong enough to dislodge it but also enough to throw him off balance. He landed hard and fast on his keester. The blonde took hold of his foot and pulled it toward her mouth. About to sink her teeth into him, her head suddenly spun on its neck as he brought the pipe swiftly across her face, the edge of the pipe cleaving off a chunk of cheekbone. Black blood gushed out. It got on him, got on her, got on the grass.
Getting to his feet, Des was about to sprint off toward the highway when he came to a halt just as a teenage boy in a nice black suit raised his arms at him. This one's clothes weren't dated like the others. He wasn't even that gray. The young man must have died just before the rain came.
"Sorry, man,” Des said and brought the pipe to the ground, holding it like a hockey stick.
He allowed the dead teen to get a little closer then, bringing the pipe back, delivered a slap shot to the kid's knackers, the blow so hard it lifted the young man off his feet and sent him onto his back. Des then rounded to the boy's head and brought the pipe down, mashing iron into bone like one driving a tent stake into the ground.
"I'm gettin’ the hang of this,” he said.
Billie...
He couldn't see her, just a pack of the undead off in the distance, with a few more ambling through the rows on either side toward him.
* * * *
Barely able to breathe, Billie ran in between a couple of trees then stopped to catch her breath. She spat another wad of blood to the ground, wiped her mouth with her wrist, then walked quickly around another tree and came to rest against the doors to a mausoleum.
Panting, she closed her eyes. Just one second. Maybe two. Just one second. Her chest heaved up and down, each breath feeling as if her lungs had to rise up against a hundred pounds.
I'm not that out of shape, am I? she wondered.
The tip of her tongue was more numb than painful and the blood flow seemed to have slowed. She touched it and pulled her finger back when the salt of her skin stung the open wound.
Someone wheezed behind her. But there was no one there. Just a couple of large, stone doors.
Hheeehnsh ... hheeehnsh ... hheeehnsh...
DROOM!
Billie yelped as several pairs of dead hands popped out of in between the pair of mausoleum doors. She bounced off the wall and backed up a few steps. Gray-green hands blotched with purple flesh clawed and grabbed from the crack. She scanned the door and saw the hinge-and-lock was nearly broken off, the hinge bent so much it allowed a bit of space for these creatures to get their fingers through.
Must be cracks in the roof or something, for the rain to have gotten through.
It took a few moments, but she realized the mausoleum was getting further and further away. An unsettling feeling rose in her stomach a moment later: she had decided to stop her instinctive backward steps at the same time she bumped into something.
Something soft yet with an underlay of bone and—
Billie screamed.
A shot rang out.
Billie ducked and covered her head.
The body dropped behind her.
* * * *
Des turned his head in the direction of the gunshot.
Joe, he thought with a grimace. I don't need to be there to know you saved her.
"Fine,” he grumbled and smacked the pipe into another of the undead. “See you at the bridge."
* * * *
Billie looked up at him, blue eyes wide, pink hair a mess, blood covering her chin.
Joe held his hand out to her. “You all right?"
Her hand shook as she extended it to him. When he took her fingers in his, there was a moment there when he realized how small they were, how smooth.
How perfect.
"No,” she said softly. When she straightened, she had her hand over her mouth.
"I already saw it,” he said. “Let me take a look."
She shook her head and pulled away her hand. “Mm-uh. I don't like it when you look me over, and I'm not taking my clothes off for you again."
Was she flirting with him? No, you idiot. She's mad at you. Besides, even if she was, you don't have room for her in your life. Too much at stake as it is. Anyway, what would April think?
"I just want to see if—Get down!” He pointed the X-09 just past her and took out a zombie coming in from behind.
With a wave of his hand, he said, “Come on!"
Billie didn't move.
"What's the matter with you? Let's go!"
She just stood there.
She's in shock, he thought. Great. It didn't quite make sense. She'd been in worse. Perhaps it was finally all piling up.
He ran over and gave her a shove from behind.
Finally her feet started to move.
* * * *
Des tried the cemetery's front gate. It was chained shut and bound with a padlock.
"Grrgh!” He gave it a shake then climbed over the black metal fence.
The Disraeli was a long sidewalk length to the right. He started walking down it.
Three more shots rang out.
Joe and Billie ran toward the fence, Billie with a dazed look on her face, Joe pointing the gun every which way and dropping zombies as fast as he could.
When they got to the fence, Des debated going over there to help Billie over.
Let the hero handle it. He kept walking.
"Des! Hey, Des!” Joe shouted from behind.
He just kept going, and didn't look back.
[Back to Table of Contents]
22: The Bridge
"H
ey, Des, wait up!” Billie called after him. She didn't like the way her words came out all muddled and fat thanks to her sore tongue.
He kept on walking and only stopped when she caught up to him.
"Hey, didn't you hear us?” she said.
"What? You guys called me?” he said.
"Ah, yeah, like a hundred times. You deaf?"
"No. I hear just fine, thanks."
"As if you couldn't hear us."
"Well, sometimes people don't hear each other, all right?"
She rolled her eyes. She knew what he was driving at: her and Joe not hearing him when he called after them while they walked along the river. And to think she was going to give him a hug, glad that he was okay. Not anymore. And he didn't even ask about the blood on her mouth or why she sounded so funny.
Joe came up to them, gun still drawn. He cocked the hammer. Des's eyes landed straight on the large pistol. For a second there, Billie thought Joe was going to shoot him.
"Uh, I found the bridge,” Des said, thumbing to it over his shoulder.
"Then let's get over it,” Joe said, unmoving. He remained planted there until Des finally turned around and took the lead.
Billie wasn't sure if she should walk beside Des or hang back with Joe or just stroll somewhere in the middle between them. She opted for the latter.
The three began their ascent up the first large hump of the two-humped bridge, staying on the walkway, each with a hand on the railing. The metal was cold and covered with flakes of dried, gray rain.
From behind, the undead droned in the distance. Billie kept glancing over her shoulder and peering past Joe to see if any were following them. The undead just stood there, calling out with hoarse voices behind the cemetery fence, either too stupid to figure out how to climb over or simply unable to.
Soon they were crossing over the river. The skeletal forest lining it seemed much more peaceful from up here. If this had been before the rain, you could have mistaken it for just another fall day, if not for the boatload of abandoned cars on the bridge, some smashed into each other, others piled onto the cement divider separating the north and south lanes, a few others smashed into the railings on either side. At one point they came up to a car that sat with its hood smashed against the bent railing at a forty-five-degree angle, its front end jammed into where the railing met the walkway, the railing having stopped it from flipping over the edge. They walked around it. Billie could only wonder how many cars had actually gone over and plummeted to the river below.
On the descent of the first hump, Des finally spoke, cracking seven minutes of silence. “What're we gonna do when we get downtown?"
Billie didn't know and she wasn't sure Joe did either. Not specifically anyway. He also didn't reply.
"I said, what're we—” Des began.
Joe cut him off. “Not sure."
They crossed the little valley in between the two humps of the bridge and rounded a transit that had tipped over onto its side. Billie doubted anybody was left within and when she saw the ring of glass bordering the vehicle, she knew that it was empty and whoever was within had smashed their way out. The bloodstains on the pavement suggested either these folks had been killed or had been caught in the rain and were transformed.
They began ascending the next hump.
"How can you not know?” Des said.
Joe didn't reply.
"Aren't you supposed to be the guy with the plan?"
Does he have to keep it up? What's with the jerk-change all of the sudden? Billie wondered. “Joe will probably tell us when we get there,” she said, trying to reassure him. “Isn't that right, Joe?"
"More or less,” he said from behind.
"What does that mean?” Des asked.
"It means just what Billie said: I'll tell you once we get there."
"Why not now? Or do you not know?"
"What's your problem, Des? You've been nothing but a—"
"Oh, like you're one to talk."
"I didn't even finish."
"Like you needed to. What were you gonna say? I've been nothing but a jerk?"
"Yeah, since we hooked up by the river."
"See, called you on it, didn't I?"
They were hitting the apex of the hump. Joe stormed passed Billie, and grabbed Des by the collar of his shirt and shoved him against the railing.
"Joe, don't!” she said. Oh no.
The guy had Des bent backward over the railing so far that she thought his body would snap. Des's eyes darted between Joe's and the ground several stories below.
Joe still had his gun in his hand and Billie wasn't sure if he realized it or not. If that thing accidentally went off...
"You wanna settle this now?” Joe said.
Des spat in his face.
With a violent jerk, Joe yanked up on Des's collar, then with a mighty heave slammed his shoulder blades against the metal railing. Des howled then took a swing at him.
With the iron pipe.
* * * *
Joe's shoulder rocked in its socket as the metal crashed into the bone. His left arm immediately went numb, leaving only his gun-filled right hand available.
He aimed it at Des's head.
"Go on, coward!” Des screamed. “Wanna cap me? Go right ahead. Got nothing to live for anyway."
What? He kept the shot squarely lined up. All it would take would be a simple squeeze of the trigger and a one-inch-round hole would materialize between Des's eyes.
"Joe, stop it! Put the gun down!” Billie screamed.
"Why should I? He'll only get us killed! Look what he's done so far!"
The iron pipe was suddenly in the air then Joe felt as if his fingers had been torn off right along with the gun from his hand. He had to double check just to make sure. They were still attached but there was no feeling in them.
"GRRAAH!” Des screamed as he came in with another swipe of the pipe.
Joe ducked and the pipe smacked into the concrete next to his leg with a dull, metallic clunk.
His boot was in the air and he kicked Des in the gut. The guy doubled over, wheezing and pawing at the air in front of his mouth, as if trying to scoop in handful after handful of sweet, sweet air.
He could barely be heard between panicky moans. “I ... ca ... bre..."
Fingers tingling, Joe forced them to curl into his palm. His fist was weak, but he didn't care. He sent an uppercut flying into Des's chin. The young man jerked backward and flipped over, landing backward on the pavement, the rear of his head smacking the ground.
He didn't move.
Joe searched for his gun. It wasn't on the ground.
"Good-bye, Joe,” Billie said. She cocked the hammer.
[Back to Table of Contents]
23: Just Leave Me Alone
August sat up, waking to the dark. He was back in the vault and had gone down for a nap after scouting the Square some more.
A chill swept through him, his sweat-soaked clothes clinging to his body. He remembered what he dreamed about: his family.
It had been Christmas and all of them were there: Eleanor, Jonathan, Lydia, David and Jan; the kids: Jon junior, Bella, Finch, Katie and Stewart. His wife had served the turkey. He stood from the table, all set to carve, about to deliver the story of Christ's birth as he did so when, after he pulled off the lid of the turkey roaster, instead of a big and juicy, fat, old bird, there was his own zombified head, bloated, with oily gray skin, staring up at him with those awful white eyes. His family was gone from the table when he went to tell them what was in the roaster, each suddenly at his side as if materializing out of thin air, all dead—all undead—with clawing hands. August tried to ward them off with the electronic cutter, but Eleanor got to him first, grabbed the hand with the cutter and bit into it, tearing off first one finger then another, picking it clean like a turkey bone.
Screaming, August shouted at his own head in the roaster to help him. The dead head's jaw popped open; pointy teeth sharper than razor blades shot out fr
om its face and latched onto his throat. They tore out his jugular in a blaze of pain and instead of dropping dead like he expected, August was suddenly on his back on the floor beside the table, his family tearing the limbs from his body, chowing down, blood and ligaments dripping off their chins.
He couldn't move and only awoke just as his wife bent at the waist and gave him a kiss, her breath hot and foul and filled with maggots.
Alone in the dark, August hugged his rifle to himself then, as if discovering the instrument of death anew, tossed it to the side.
He had killed his family. He had to. But he still killed them.
"How much longer?” he whispered.
Head throbbing, a thousand voices filling his brain and calling him a murderer, he lay back down, hugging himself.
"Just leave me alone."
[Back to Table of Contents]
24: It Ain't What it Used to Be
The look of concentration behind Billie's icy blue eyes made Joe shudder. She wasn't kidding. He had just dropped her best friend. No one in their right mind would stand for that.
He could only hope that after today's ordeals, she wasn't in her right mind. Yet at the same time, maybe this was a good thing. It'd been a long year, one that felt like a lifetime of dragging around the pain and memory of the girl that got away. The haunting and soul-wrenching conviction that he'd murdered somebody. Murdered so many. You could call it what you wanted: self-defense, self-preservation, righteous judgment, whatever. Still, death was death and who was he to administer it?
Maybe a bullet to the brain or heart would finally cure him of the pain he was so sick and tired of carrying around. Maybe finally—finally—he could let April go because death was the only way he would be able to let her go.
But you don't live in a world where the dead stay dead. You could come back, if it rains again or if one of the creatures start gnawing on you. He eyed Billie squarely. She didn't flinch. Des was trying to say something but he was too low to the ground and too messed up to be coherent. You could even still carry memory. April could still be with you.
"Do you really want to kill me, Billie?” he asked her.
The statement must have hit her like an arrow laced with realization because her eyes glazed over.
