by Steve Wands
Spotz took off down the tunnel. He started a quick jog, following the tracks, rats scurrying as he did. He knew the tunnels well and planned on making it toward the south end of the waterfront where the main tunnel came to an end. Bark watched him take off, shaking his head in disbelief. Crack heads always did crazy shit, he remembered a time when another friend of his got hooked and tore apart the insides of his home with an axe. His friend was convinced that creatures and midgets were living in the walls, pimps and animals were in the trees, but they were okay so long as they stayed outside. Bark turned his attention back to the slowly approaching group. They were grumbling something. It sounded like moans.
“Hey, Joey-G! You score some bug juice?” His question turned into laughter.
His question went unanswered. He could now see Joey-G and the rest of them; Big Ricky, who was the smallest guy you’d ever meet without being a dwarf; Gumbo, who didn’t have any teeth and would put anything in her mouth for a hit of the rock. Then there was Randy, who everybody thought was crazy, and when crack heads called you crazy you were certified bonkers. It looked like Buddy or Wes was in the back, but he couldn’t be sure.
They continued to move closer to Bark, closer to the light of the fire and closer to being revealed as bloodthirsty ghouls. They moaned and hissed, louder now; Bark got a sense that maybe Spotz wasn’t too far off. He felt something was wrong. He cocked his head, as if it would help him see the faces of his friends better. The moaning and noises made Bark shiver, his blood turned to ice. He turned and ran, hoping Spotz was going slow enough that he’d be able to catch up.
Bark had only sprinted for about a minute but his legs burned and his lungs were screaming for air. Though he walked a lot, Bark did not have the stamina for running, he was malnourished, aging poorly and had taped his sneakers together. He called out for Spotz numerous times only to hear his cries bounce back at him. His run turned into a labored speed walk, he continued into the depths of the tunnel system. He could barely hear the moans now; he heard only his breath, and the dripping and hissing of pipes and steam. Rocks shifted under his feet as he hurried through the tunnel. The tunnel emptied out into a larger room with a half dozen other tunnels to choose from. Bark quickly decided to head to the waterfront, he chose the second tunnel from the right. The squeaks of rodents pierced his ears as he entered the tunnel.
“Spotz!” He yelled. He could hear the desperation in his own voice thanks to the echoes.
His voice was hoarse. He felt like shit and was covered in sweat; his sneakers were taking on water. He trudged on, and then quickly came to a pause. He heard the sounds of moving rocks, the kind of sounds that were made by someone or some thing walking on them. He listened. The sounds were slow and steady, calculated. The tunnel was dark, damn near pitch black, shimmers of reflected light acted as road signs in the tunnels. Bark wasn’t looking for a destination, he was looking for the shimmers of light to be broken, and sure enough, they were. Straight ahead, inside the tunnel, no more than ten feet from the tip of his jagged toe something crept toward him.
“Hello?” He called, no answer.
“I know you’re there,” Bark continued.
“I just want to pass, I don’t have anything,” he pleaded with the shadows.
“Please.”
“I swear if you try to take one bite outta my fuggin’ ass you will die in this tunnel. You hear me?” Spotz spoke up.
“Oh, fuck, thank God it’s you, you scared the shit out of me!” Bark wheezed out.
“You were right, some thing is wrong with everybody, they
wer—”
“Can it and let’s move. This way,” Spotz cut him off.
They walked fast and purposefully, nearing the end of the tunnel. They stepped out. A grate in the ceiling allowed a bit of light to shine down on them. Stumbling at them from behind was a grotesque mangled body with outstretched arms. It didn’t moan, and probably couldn’t. It’s throat looked like it was chewed out, his jaw was slung to the left. The tips of his fingers were bloodied and dark, fingernails bent back and chipped. He managed to get his hands around Bark’s neck. Bark gasped and reached for the cold dead hands around his neck. Instead of thinking he reacted, and reacted poorly. It was his instincts that led his life underground, and if he kept it up, those instincts would lead to his death. Spotz grabbed a large rock. Holding it with both hands he raised it over his head and brought if full-force into the face of Bark’s attacker. Spotz held onto the large rock, almost losing his balance doing so. He lifted it again, pulling the rock out of the smashed-in-face, revealing bits of gore, chipped teeth, and bubbling blood as thick as paste. The creatures grip loosened and Spotz brought the rock down again. This time he put all his weight into it, knocking both himself and the creature to the ground. The rock became a headstone on top of the twitching mangled corpse. Blood oozed from beneath the rock. Bark held his neck and gasped for air as he ran over to Spotz. Spotz was lifting himself up as Bark stood over him. Bark thanked him, but the expression on his face was more than enough.
They carried on their way through the dark maze of tunnels and train tracks. They passed familiar landmarks and other homeless shacks; all of which were unattended, thankfully. The tunnel emptied out into another room. To the left there was a staircase leading to a storage room. To the right of that was another door which led to a service level between them and eventually the street. Neither of these would do. The storage room was a dead end and the service level would have Transit workers and possibly other obstacles especially since Spotz insisted the streets above were running red with madness and murder. Instead, they picked the next tunnel and hurried down it.
They were approaching the end of the tunnel. The tunnel emptied out into a gravel pit with walls on both sides. The tracks continued over the water via a bridge and were reduced to two lines, coming and going. There were plenty of lights along the top of the walls. They climbed out of the pit clinging to the right side of the wall. Spotz peered over the edge and glimpsed a look at hell. He and Bark now stood behind a fence atop the wall they had just climbed up. They both stood flabbergasted. The scene before them was total and utter mayhem. Gunshots filled the air, as did screams and cries. A woman crashed into a parked car, she was driving an SUV with two kids in the back. She tried to reverse the vehicle and ended up hitting another. People surrounded her, a slow swarm but surely a lethal one. As she tried to free the vehicle they were able to break the windows, pulling the children and the woman to the street. Their screams and shrieks were things no human ears should ever have to hear—calling for God, crying for help, a mother reaching for her children as they screamed for her to help them. She couldn’t. She watched the creatures pull flesh from her children’s faces and throats, before she blacked out from her own exploration in pain she watched one of the creatures pull the intestines from one of her small children’s bellies. The creatures feasted, eating the flesh in pulled clumps, hair, lips it didn’t matter. One of them ripped the tongue from the mother’s mouth and ate that too. They couldn’t help but watch.
Bark scanned the area, looking for a break in the mayhem, while Spotz looked for a place in the fence to sneak through. Spotz found an area of the fence that had been cut and used many times over. Bark couldn’t find anywhere to go once they crossed the threshold of the fence. He looked back at the tunnel, and was surprised when he saw people staggering out into the light. On the wall opposite them, behind the fence was a gathering of flesh-eaters. They were pulling on the fence, sticking their hands through, gnawing at the mesh. They had to move; there was no going back and no other choice.
Off in the distance by the dock were two boats being boarded. A horde of slow moving ghouls were approaching the scene. They were kept at bay by a group of Police officers. Their patrol cars were parked as makeshift barriers creating an “L” shape with the building behind them; which was a strip mall for tourists. The officers had shotguns and were firing wildly. The boats, one of which was a commuter ferry,
and the other a large dinner cruise boat, were being loaded with people. A simple point and a grunt led them (Bark and Spotz) in a hurried run to the dock. Gore was strewn about. They found themselves stepping over body parts and dodging groping, dead, swollen hands. Spotz stepped into a puddle of blood and innards. It was slick, causing him to lose his footing. He fell forward, jamming his wrist into the dirt. Bark came up behind him and pulled him to his feet, kicking one of the ghouls in the gut to push it away from his friend. They drew more attention to themselves from this little stunt and found that they had a small cluster of blood soaked savages to their backs. They pushed on, almost at the dock, the Police were too busy fending off the large horde that they didn’t notice Bark and Spotz running to the boats. They did however notice the smaller secondary horde behind them. If they didn’t acknowledge the threat this posed they would be totally surrounded. The youngest of the three officers, officer Warden, stepped up and moved closer to them. He was a bulky man, athletic, with a squared frame and small fingers. He cocked his shotgun and took his aim. He squeezed off a shot and then pumped and shot again. He thinned the cluster by two. He stood his ground and convinced his fellow officers to close the gap between them and himself. The officers continued to pick off their dead attackers.
Bark and Spotz had made it to the dock, making quick progress toward the boats. The small ferry had exceeded its capacity and shoved off. The larger boat looked to be full, but held its ground. It was further down the dock and you had to get to the upper level to board it. By the time Bark and Spotz got to the upper level, they saw why the boat hadn’t taken off. A commotion had stirred up, a man who looked like the captain of the ship was trying to calm everyone down, but the people were not listening. As they got closer they heard some of the arguments and by the time they boarded the boat they had a good idea of what was going on.
“She’s turning into one of them!” Shouted a burly man from the crowd.
“She’s just sick, we’ve been running for miles!” The girl’s mother fired back.
“Fuck that, she must’ve been bit!”
“Yeah, get her off the boat!”
“Knock it off, or you can all get off!”
“Let’s just leave already. Why don’t we leave?”
“We’re waiting for the cops. If they didn’t show up we’d probably be dead.”
“Well, where the fuck are they?”
“Listen to the gunshots, asshole, they’re still shooting those crazies!”
The bickering and bitching seemed to be endless. Bark was numb to the noise. It was an exchange of insults and curses, question marks and exclamation points, finger pointing instead of helping hands. Bark was all-to-used to this side of humanity. He was quickly shaken from his thoughts as the gunfire became erratic and closer. The people on the ship shifted their collective attention to the lower level of the dock. Officer Warden was leading the other officers toward the boat; they were being followed by a horde of lurching assailants. The crowd watched in unabated awe as the officers shot these attackers point blank. Brain matter misted the air, chunks of skull and flesh fell to the ground and blow back stained the dark blue uniforms. One of the officers panicked, he was grabbed by multiple clawing hands and pulled into the crowd. He managed to shoot one of his attackers as another officer assisted by shooting another creature. There were too many, however, and the officer was bitten on the shoulder. He screamed as teeth broke through his shirt and skin, the attackers jaw clenching down and twisting. Tearing a chunk of flesh from the officer’s shoulder, he screamed and began shooting wildly. More hands pulled the officer back and down. His screams turned to gurgles. He fired again and again. The last shot he fired before being silenced hit his fellow officer in the hip and lower stomach. The wounded officer fell to the ground, holding his gaping wound. The bloodthirsty flesh-eaters groped at the hole and began to pull the man’s insides out. Two officers were left—Warden and Nicolini. Nicolini was one of the few female officers in the department. She was a looker with thick lips and natural curves. She went to grab her fallen friend but instead, officer Warden grabbed her by the arm and started running.
“Fuck this, let’s go, he’s as good as dead now!” He huffed.
She didn’t respond. She ran, they both darted for the stairs and quickly made it to the second level. On board the boat, the two officers silenced the crowd and told the captain to shove off. They did just that. They stared at a dock full of the walking dead. The fallen officers were now among them, badges covered in gore, intestines dragging along the dock. Everyone was quite, they couldn’t help but stare at these things that used to be alive. It was almost too much to handle. Bark grinned a little, it was almost a smile, he was happy as shit to be alive. Spotz noted his friend’s expression and mimicked it.
The sick girl that was the center of attention earlier was nearly forgotten now. Her long dark hair covered a chunk of missing flesh from her neck. Her mothers arm was draped around her shoulder, she tried to keep her warm, the little girl’s body temperature was dropping. Her stomach pained, her complexion paled, her eyes grew dark. She was hungry.
*
Hell Comes for the Hurried
*
I’m supposed to be thankful today. Thankful for the wonderful bounty before me, thankful for the air that stings my lungs with its bitter, sinister cold, and thankful for all that I have. Well, all I have is regret and a heart that refuses to give up the ghost, a belly nowhere near full of charred rabbit meat and cold moonshine. I have the vague memory of a world that was chewed to the marrow. I have the memory of my family. And, I have a picture of them, which I guess I’m thankful for. It’s the only picture I have left of my wife and our son–though it’s so tattered I can barely make out their faces anymore. It’s as if they are ghosts caught on film. But am I thankful? —No. Not till I’m dead. Sure, I could’ve easily checked myself out countless times in the years that’ve passed. No, I’m not a religious person, though I do believe in God, and I most certainly believe in hell. I believe my family is waiting for me. Waiting where all the good-hearted dead go, were I hope I can go, and I don’t think suicide will get me there.
So I sit here among these people I’ve traveled with, their names don’t matter to me, and to be honest, neither do they. We still look out for each other though. It’s just that I’ve grown cold, beyond numb–I barely even speak nowadays. There is nothing to say, and small talk is bullshit. I’d rather keep my thoughts to my self. Some of the folks I travel with like to tell stories or talk about the glory days of a world half-remembered. I like to find the dead things and make them deader. I pretend that every one of them is the one that took my family away. It’s the only time I feel anything other than nothing and regret. And once I finish off this moonshine I’ll be ready to do just that.
The last swig bit me like a viper and hissed all the way down. I got to my feet, grabbed my club and headed away from the fire and out from underneath the bridge. I admired the sight once I got to the top. It was early evening and the sun was setting behind the river. The destruction was breathtaking. It was a bombed out skeleton of a city–a modern day dinosaur with its broken bones reaching for the sky. I stood across the river taking it all in. We were heading there tomorrow, on the big old road to nowhere through the city and beyond. We’d probably set up camp in the ruin one of the buildings–a library would be nice, or a museum. I could bury myself in a book, or make a display for the human race at the museum. Either way would be a fine way to kill time before time kills me.
I heard her following me but I hoped she’d leave after a bit, but of course she didn’t. I wasn’t that lucky. She was damn near feral, completely animalistic and why we saved her I still don’t know. She was part of a “fuck hut” we came across months ago down by Jamesburg off the old highway. The girl was barely into double digits by the looks of her. She was filthy and had no idea how to interact with others, not that any of us really did, but she made it extremely uncomfortable. Who knows how ma
ny times she’d been raped–it was all she knew. She looked at you as if you were going to, and was confused when you did nothing. At times it was almost as if she wanted to be fucked, as if that were the only way she could have contact with another person. If I had a heart it would break, but it didn’t. Her movement and posture resembled an ape more than it did of man. I turned to look at her as she hid behind a pile of rubble. She grunted at me and I shooed her away. She scampered off, heading back to the group. Good riddance.
I walked for a few minutes, heading toward the road which eventually took me to the bridge. Both of which were cluttered with broken down vehicles, many of which were weathered and rusted. Come tomorrow, getting across would be interesting. I wondered if we even could. Something stirred on the bridge. I heard a noise, and stared right in its direction. From the shadows emerged one of the dead. Its eyes gone long ago, its skin wrapped like tight leather around its bones. It looked like a mummy whittled out of wood. I stepped closer to it, my club at my side. It met me part of the way. I stood staring at it, staring into its eyeless holes looking for something to hate. It came at me, stiffly and weakly. I let it grab hold only to push it away. I let it do it again, and again. How the hell did these things turn the world into a nightmare? The thought gave me rage and I used it to swing my club at the deader. I knocked it to the ground, its leathered hide scraping on the pavement. I put my foot to its head and slowly pressed down, it gave no fight and if it did I didn’t notice. I stomped full-force on the deader’s head, heard a very satisfying crunch and looked at the dark ooze coming from its ears. It looked like oil. I raised my foot to stomp it once again, and once again I was satisfied with the noise I made–it was music, and violence was the instrument. I was so focused on what I was doing that I didn’t notice the other creatures that crept out from the shadows of the bridge. Three more, and they were just as slow as the dead bastard who finally found rest under my foot. One of them had been disemboweled long ago, staggering forward with an empty hole where her stomach should’ve been. I could see the upper crest of her pelvis and the base of her spine. The rest was covered by skin that hung in clumps like rows of jerky. None of them had clothes, one barely had any hair, not that it mattered what they looked like. Nothing mattered, really. I hoped they would kill me but I knew they wouldn’t be able to. Even against three of them it was easy work. I had my fun of course then quickly put them down.
