Rise of the Dead

by Jeremy Dyson

  I lather the body wash across my face and close my eyes. I try not to think about anybody that died. If we hadn't gone to that restaurant, maybe they would all still be alive. Maybe Melanie, Chet, Devin, and Joey would have lived if it wasn't for us. I know that's all bullshit, but I can't help but feel partly responsible. If I had only kept the situation under control, things might have been different.

  I rinse the shampoo out of my hair, then cut the water. I dry myself with the towel and wrap it around my waist. I look in the mirror at the cuts on my forehead and jaw. It almost looks like road rash, but it's from a million pieces of cement that exploded in my face. The cut on my lip does make me look a little tougher. Though I am not tough enough to try my luck shaving over the many scabs on my skin.

  I get dressed and head back out to the common room. The movie is still on, but I feel good enough after a shower that I do a better job of blocking it out. Quentin has joined Fletcher on the couch, and they are playing cards. I notice the clock on the wall reads quarter after ten. It feels like morning even though it is late at night. Being down in this bunker is already screwing with my connection to the world above.

  "Did the rest of them leave?" I ask.

  "Yup," says Chuck. "Maybe ten minutes ago."

  "How can you stay behind? I thought the military was all about brothers in arms." I realize my question might have come off wrong when he slaps down a couple of cards on the table. I decide to change my approach. "Just curious what made you want to stay."

  "Those guys are sticking together. I barely know them. Their pilot was killed two days ago. I haven't flown missions in years. It's just a job, okay? You feel bad you didn't show up for work this morning?"

  "I didn't mean anything by it," I say.

  "Nah, I'm sorry for snapping," he says to the hand of cards he's holding. Fletcher waves a dismissive hand. "Of course, it bothers me a bit. Not having a helicopter bothers me too. But I'm not planning on dying like those poor bastards back at the station."

  "We're just as dead down here," I say. "It'll just be a slower death."

  "Fuck that," he says. Then he tilts his head back from Quentin. "What you got?"

  "Straight," says Quentin, displaying his cards on the table.

  "Son of a bitch," grins Fletcher. He tosses Quentin a can of beer.

  The warmth of the shower dissipates, and I can already feel the soreness returning. I shuffle over to the open couch adjacent to the others and stretch out across the length of the cushions.

  "Your deal," says Fletcher handing Quentin the cards. "You want in?" he asks me.

  "No," I say. "I don't gamble."

  "We're just playing for the rest of the beers," he says. He grabs a six pack of beer off the floor and tosses it beside me on the couch. "Come on. Play a hand."

  I look over and see a couple of cards lay at the edge of the table. I pick them up. A six of hearts and a nine of hearts spread out in my hand.

  "Check," I say.

  "Let's make it two beers this round," says Fletcher. He puts one of his five remaining cans on the table. Quentin adds a beer, and then I add one from my cache as well.

  "Blake," says Fletcher. "I don't know about you, but I don't have plans to die down here at all. It's not as bad out here as it was in the city. It's spread out. We can move around. Hell, we can probably go out there and pick up anything we want."

  Quentin places three cards on the table facing up. Side-by-side appears a six of clubs, an ace of hearts, and a jack of hearts. They both look at me, awaiting my play.

  I only have a pair of sixes, which is pretty terrible. I do have four cards towards a flush, though, and with two cards coming, I've got coin-flip odds of making my hand. I decide to see the next card.

  "Check," I say.

  "I'm feeling lucky," says Fletcher. He adds another can to the collection on the table.

  Quentin tosses his cards aside, giving up. He deals another card. The king of spades.

  "Say you're right," I say. "Then what? We hide down here until the apocalypse blows over?"

  I try not to let my face betray my reaction to the cards on the table. With only one card left, the odds are pretty bad that I will make my flush. My pair of sixes doesn't have a good statistical chance either based on the other cards in play. I take my time to hopefully convince Fletcher I am contemplating a raise.

  "Check," I say.

  He looks at me a moment. Then he puts the rest of his six pack in the center of the table.

  "I'm all in," he smirks.

  "Fuck," I grumble, then toss my cards down.

  Fletcher slides the cheap beers over to his side of the table.

  "What did you have?" I ask him.

  He flips his cards over to reveal a four of clubs and an eight of diamonds. He beat me with nothing.

  "Nice bluff," Quentin laughs.

  "Sometimes life gives you a shitty hand," Fletcher says. "We're all stuck with a real shitty hand too, but I'm not about to fold. The only way we have any chance is to play this out as though we think we are going to win anyway."

  "Alright," I concede.

  "If we're smart, and we're patient, we can survive this," he says. He looks over to Quentin, who nods in agreement.

  Door hinges squeak, and I hear the sound of paws running over the concrete floor behind me.

  "I think he has to go out," says Danielle.

  I turn around and see her squinting into the light.

  "I got it. Come on, pooch" says Fletcher, abandoning the deck of cards in the table. He scoops up his cowboy hat and places it on his head. He pats his leg, and the dog follows him toward the hallway. "There's some coffee and a plate for you on the table, doll."

  Once he is gone, Danielle asks, "Did he really just call me doll?"

  It's one of those stupid questions that isn't really a question. The only time someone asks a question like that is to make sure you notice something they thought was important.

  "Breakfast is on the table, doll," I smirk.

  Danielle rolls her eyes at me, which, for a second, reminds me of my wife. I stop smirking and avert my gaze. I can only pretend that reality didn’t happen for so long. Eventually, some random thing reminds me that those parts of my life were real and that I'm never going to see any of it again.

  "It's cold." Danielle stands next to the table, picking at some bits of scrambled egg with her fingers. "How long was I asleep?" she asks.

  "We ate a couple hours ago," says Quentin. "It's around eleven, probably."

  "In the morning?"

  "At night," he says, then he gets up from the couch to turn off the television. He could sense it is still bothering me.

  I get the urge to look around the installation a bit more. There doesn't seem to be much to do other than driving yourself crazy thinking about things you'd rather not think about. I don't care for ping pong. Maybe there are some books or something around here someplace. Anything to keep me from dwelling on the thoughts I want to avoid.

  "Did you check out the rest of this place?" I ask Quentin.

  "Not yet," he says. "You want to have a look around?"

  I get up off the couch and follow Quentin towards the hall.

  "You coming?" I pause to ask Danielle.

  "I'm going to get a shower first," she says, pouring herself a cup of cold coffee. "Okay." I almost call her doll again but decide not to. It didn't seem to go over too well the first time.

  Fifteen

  The underground facility is nothing more than several other rooms connected by a long, dimly lit hallway. The generators are in a utility room down the right end of the hall. The room also holds a fuse box, a water heater and filtration system, and a complicated air conditioning or treatment unit. We open a door across the hall to find a small closet with a mop, bucket, some towels and spray bottles.

  “Not much going on down here,” says Quentin.

  “No, there isn’t,” I agree.

  “Just the essentials,” he says.

  We g
o into the communications room, which is across the hall from the common area. There is a big control board that seems to control the entire facility. There are readings for fuel levels, power usage, air quality. There are also several video monitors that cycle through a series of cameras recording the interior and exterior of the bunker. Fletcher is still outside, the dog sniffs around the overgrown field, the night vision cameras shows their green shapes and eerie eyes. Several enormous phones sit on a charging terminal. The huge devices remind me of the first cordless phones ever made. An old radio with a shining silver microphone sits next to a shelf of boring looking manuals. I pick up one that’s titled, SURVIVAL FM 21-76. Real catchy. There are similar books for things like first aid, guerrilla warfare, and boobytraps. I decide to hang on to the survival book since I haven’t found anything else to read. At least, it’ll help kill some time down here.

  “You know what all this stuff does?” I ask Quentin.

  “Most of it,” he says. “The rest of it doesn’t seem too complicated.” He looks over the board.

  “It’s like being on some spaceship,” I say. “I’m afraid to touch anything.” I stare at the changing images on the monitors. I like being able to see everything and to know that everything is all being monitored and controlled in this little room.

  We exit the communications room and head to the other end of the hallway. Just past the storage room, there is a small exercise room with a treadmill, some free weights, and a stationary bike. The next door we open reveals a small washer and dryer with some spare bedsheets and towels folded neatly on shelves. Across the hall, we open the door to a supply room. There are racks along the wall stocked with assorted rifles, knives, handguns, and ammunition. I spot some shotguns, some grenades, there is even an RPG. Aside from the weapons, there are tons of first aid supplies, clothes, food stores, and countless bottles of water.

  “God damn,” breathes Quentin. He picks up a package of white underwear and some socks. “There must be enough in here to last us, at least, six months.”

  The heavy door closes in the next room. The sound of the dog panting echoes in the hall. We leave the supply room and head back to the storage room. Fletcher digs through a large rucksack.

  “We got some company out there,” he says. He pulls out a pair of night vision goggles. “Must have been drawn here by the helicopter.”

  “How many?” I ask.

  “Can’t see in the dark, man,” he says. “I can hear them out there, though. Creepy as shit.”

  I completely forgot it was the middle of the night already. Being down here is really going to take some getting used to.

  “You need a hand?” ask Quentin. He grabs up on of the assault rifles and the helmet beside his pack.

  Fletcher looks at Quentin.

  “If you’re up for it,” he says.

  I gather up the assault rifle I had carried in. It’s a little heavier than I expected and I hold it awkwardly. Fletcher watches me.

  “You know what you’re doing with that?” he asks.

  “No idea,” I admit.

  “How about you sit this one out,” he says, without even bothering to make it sound like a question. He walks across the room and reaches for my pack, pulling out a two-way radio and turns it on. “Keep eyes on those screens in the control room.”

  I put down the assault rifle and take the handset from him. Fletcher doesn’t really need me to monitor the screens. It’s just something to get me out of the way. As much as I feel completely inept, I am more relieved than anything. I realize I am totally unprepared to go out there and stalk the living dead in total darkness.

  “I don’t think any of them breached the gate, but just keep checking,” he says. “We don’t need anything sneaking up on us.”

  “Got it,” I say, turning to head to the control room.

  “Blake,” he says, as I make a turn to go down the hall. I wait while he straps a helmet on his head. “When we get back, we’ll go over some shit, so you know what’s what. Sound good?”

  “Alright,” I mumble, so it comes out as an apology. “Good luck.”

  I pass Stitch in the hall on my way to the control room, and his excited tail smacks my leg as I go by. He stops and looks back at me before running to tag along with Quentin and Fletcher. Even the dog is more help than me. I sit down in the swivel chair in the control room, putting the radio and the survival manual down on the workspace.

  I pick up and flip through a few pages of the manual while I wait. Scanning the contents, I encounter a list of skills I don’t have. Now my life could depend on them. The lives of the few remaining people I know could depend on them, too. I don’t want to learn them, but I am determined to now. There is no way I am going to be a liability.

  “Hey.”

  The sudden voice jars me, and I knock the radio over as I try to swivel around and put the manual down.

  “Sorry,” says Danielle. She runs her fingers through her dripping hair. “Where is everybody?”

  “Quentin and Fletcher went outside. Fletcher heard some of those things out there while he was out with the dog.”

  “You can see everything in here,” she says. She leans over the table next to me, looking at the images on the monitors. The scent of the soap or shampoo coming off her distracts me from whatever else she is saying. I am wondering how we all use the same soap, but it smells more intense coming off her skin.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Are you okay?” she says.

  “Yeah,” I say. “I was just... distracted.” I look down and twist the ring on my finger to straighten it out. A knot tightens in my gut. I feel guilty about the things I won’t even admit to myself.

  “Are there a lot of them out there?” she asks again.

  “I don’t see very many,” I say. “It seems like they are all outside the fence still.” I point to one of the screens with a camera focused on the perimeter fence. Four figures grasp the barricade, pressing their bodies and faces against the metal.

  “Why don’t we just leave them there if they can’t get in?” she asks.

  Before I can think of a logical answer, the radio squawks and I hear Fletcher whispering through the speaker.

  “Blake, you copy?” he says.

  I grab the radio off the table and click the button on the side. “Yeah,” I say. “Loud and clear.”

  I see them just outside the exit on one of the screens. Fletcher looks up at the camera as he speaks.

  “What do you see out there?” he asks.

  “I see four of them on the north fence,” I answer.

  “There’s two miles of fencing there,” he says. “I need you to be more specific.”

  I check the screens again, waiting for the camera angle to come up where I spotted the corpses. There must be some way to switch them manually, but I can’t figure it out. “About 100 yards from the northeast corner,” I say.

  “Okay, we’re moving out,” he whispers.

  When the camera on the main entrance cycles back around, the two men are gone. I listen to them talking quietly over the radio.

  “Watch our six,” Fletcher orders Quentin.

  Danielle taps me on the shoulder and points to another screen. There are two more corpses on a different camera that covers part of the east fence. I click the button on the radio.

  “Fletcher?” I say.

  “What is it?” he asks.

  “There’s two more about midway on the eastern fence.”

  A long pause.

  “I don’t have a visual, but I hear them,” Fletcher finally responds. “Will check it out on the way back. Over.”

  I look around at the control board in front of me, trying to read all the various controls and locate something that might work the cameras.

  “What are you looking for?” asks Danielle.

  “There has to be some way to switch through the cameras manually.”

  She reaches up on top of one of the screens and pulls down a remote. She hits a couple o
f buttons and cycles through the cameras that cover the perimeter. She stops it on the camera that has a view of the four corpses along the north fence. Feeling a little stupid for not being able to figure that out myself, I thank her for the assistance.

  “They’re nuts to go out there at night.”

  “Maybe it’s better,” I say. “At least, they have night vision. Who knows how well those things can see in the dark.”

  Unfortunately, the night vision also makes it all too easy to see the physical state of the undead outside. I watch a huge man in overalls with a hand and forearm chewed to a pulpy mess. It clings to the fence with the only good hand it has and flails at the barrier with the phantom hand. A disemboweled woman in a tattered and stained nightgown drags her intestines through the weeds. The other man, he is more of a boy, really, is stark naked. His lower jaw is missing from his face. The last corpse sports a motorcycle helmet.

  I wonder if I should mention the helmet to Fletcher. I am pretty sure a helmet won’t stop a bullet to the head, though. Before I can pick up the radio to make the call, I see one of the four figures along the fence flop back. The naked boy lands hard on his back and is still.

  “Short, controlled bursts,” whispers Fletcher.

  I hear a muffled series of taps. The woman in the nightgown and the guy in the overalls collapse in the grass. Over the radio, it sounds like they are taking them out with a typewriter. The suppressed shots are exactly like the sound of someone typing snippy words with the keys.

  “That fucker is wearing a helmet,” Quentin gripes.

  A few more rounds pepper the helmet, lodging in the cracked surface.

  “Damn thing must be kevlar,” says Fletcher.

  The radio goes quiet again. I watch the motorcycle rider assault the fence with renewed intensity. Fletcher emerges onto the screen from the right. He retrieves a pistol from a holster strapped to his thigh. He slips the muzzle through the fence, and tucks it into the bottom of the helmet and pulls the trigger. Brain matter spatters the face shield and the corpse drops to the ground.