by Jeremy Dyson
I can’t tell whether he really believes his brother is still alive, or if that is something he is choosing to believe in order to keep himself going. I guess if he believed it, he wouldn’t be here with us in this place, hiding from reality.
“Listen to me going on like I’m the only one with any problems here.” He rises from the sofa and walks toward the kitchenette. “Might as well get some chow then get some sleep.”
We go through the routine of preparing the MRE meals. I decide to go with a sloppy joe and thank god it’s not as bad as the jambalaya. We sit down at the table and wait while our food heats in the bags. The slow process takes forever, and my stomach complains about the wait.
“Where were you guys when this whole thing started?” Fletcher asks.
We tell him about the train station. About our brief stay at the racetrack and the security building. We recount our trip to the cemetery and how we finally went to the restaurant where the military picked us up. It was still hard to believe what we’d been through and survived, but it was just as hard to tell it again. There is no way to tell the story without mentioning the people we lost. I’d been trying to forget about them. It probably sounds callous to say that, like they didn’t matter as much as the rest of us. I just can’t deal with the guilt.
I devour the whole meal, even the dried fruit pouch and the stale wheat cracker with peanut butter as well. I’m still hungry afterward, probably because I hadn’t eaten much before. I warm the water and stir in the packet to make apple cider. I breathe in the steam and savor the spicy scent as I sip it.
“This is good,” I say, hoping to change the subject. “I only ever drank this stuff in the fall. We’d take Abby to this farm every October. Pick out a pumpkin. Go on a hayride, all that typical stuff. They had the best hot apple cider, though, like they made it right there. They put some caramel and whip cream on it. I used it to keep warm while I waited for Abby and Amanda to go through the haunted house. That stupid thing wasn’t even scary, but it made Abby cry every time. I probably should have gone in there with them.” I stop talking at the end of the sentence, but it sounds like there is more to the story. There’s one more line I can’t bring myself to say. That I wasn’t there for them before all of this happened either.
I blink my eyes and stare at the tin cup and the tangy orange liquid cooling inside it. I look up and see them all staring at me intently, probably wondering if I’m about to lose it or something.
“This isn’t anything like that stuff,” I say. I take a drink of the cider, and then I get up to toss out the trash and rinse the cup. Quentin eyes me curiously as I fill and dump the water.
“I don’t know about the rest of you,” says Fletcher. He rises from his chair and collect the wrappers on the table. “I’m ready to call it a day.”
“It’s not even ten in the morning,” says Danielle.
“We need to be ready to move at nightfall, doll. I don’t know about you, but I haven’t slept much at all in the past few days, and it’s time for a reckoning.” Fletcher tosses an empty can of beer into the trash can and it clangs against the metal container. “By the sound of it, you could all use a little extra rack time too. Need to be sharp out there.”
Seventeen
There’s nothing to do down here in this bunker but think. Even though it has only been about twelve hours since I awoke, I wouldn’t mind going back to sleep. That sounds easy enough, but whenever I close my eyes I see all the things I don’t want to picture. Before all this, I read stories about people dying every day. While they were sad and all, I didn’t ever sob over the fate of some strangers. But now, just being human means something again. If we could find people and save them, we had to do it.
“This is bullshit,” Quentin blurts.
His outburst startles me. For a moment, I’d forgotten I wasn’t alone.
“We can’t live like this,” he continues. “Sitting around here. Not doing shit about a goddamn thing. Waiting until it’s too late.”
The rest of still believe we have family out there. We distract ourselves with thoughts of getting back to them. Quentin doesn’t have those kinds of thoughts anymore. I can’t imagine what he is thinking now.
“Too late for what?” I ask.
“For everything.”
I wait for him to go on.
“There’s still people out there,” he says. “I know you saw them too when we flew in.”
“Yeah,” I say. “I saw them too.” I pictured the desperate guy stranded on that roof that was trying to wave at our helicopter.
“We know what will happen to them if we don’t do something.”
“Yeah,” I say.
Quentin sighs. For a long time, we lay there, saying nothing. Eventually, he snores lightly on the bunk above me. A groan from my stomach urges me up from the bed. I shuffle out to the kitchen and pick out another MRE to eat. I dump my water in the heating bag and read the Army survival manual while I wait for the spaghetti and meatballs to heat up. I try to distract myself with anything. I read the same few lines over and over again. My thoughts keep going back to the world outside, the people that could still be alive out there. When my mind focuses on something, it refuses to let go until I surrender to it, like a Chinese finger trap.
I pick up the packages of food and move down the quiet hall to the communications room. In the dim glow, I sit and watch the security screens. A storm has erupted, darkening the midday sky outside. More corpses are already drifting down the roads along the perimeter of the facility. They plod through the thick sheets of rain like abandoned ships at sea. They have no course or destination. They just drift around, carried by some unseen current. Lightning strikes and illuminates the effigies of humanity. I wait for the sound of thunder, but I hear nothing except the sound of air arriving and departing my body in the quiet depths of the bunker.
I spoon a mouthful of bland spaghetti into my mouth. It doesn’t taste too awful if you try not to think about it. It’s nothing like going out to an Italian restaurant, though, that’s for sure. I wish I had some garlic salt to make it taste like something.
Another flash of lightning makes the security monitors flare. It is a hell of a nasty storm. This kind of weather always terrified Abby. The lightning made her inconsolable. It drove me nuts. I tried telling her the odds of being struck by lightning were astronomical, but that didn’t matter. She would always feel like it was aiming for her, and the only thing that would help was holding her until the rain stopped.
I could never understand her fear before, but now I think I do. Sometimes knowing the odds doesn’t matter. I know my best chance of surviving the day is to stay inside here as long as possible. The odds of surviving very long out there are pretty bleak. It’s just a matter of time for all of us. Just a matter of time.
While I might survive a whole lot longer down here, it won’t be much of a life. Locked away from the world, playing ping pong until I die in this hole in the ground. Watching everything through these television monitors, oblivious. Scavenging for anything that sustains us a bit longer, or makes us feel more alive. We’d be no more alive than those dead people out there.
I guess that’s how I lived my entire life. Waiting for a day when things will get better, a magical tomorrow that will never come. Not willing to take a chance on the things that matter most, because the fear of what may happen if you’re wrong.
At that moment, I realize I’m not afraid anymore.
I’ve lived my entire life like I was dead already. I’ve got nothing left to lose.
The rain outside has stopped. There’s this one corpse on the road. A bald, gangly man dressed in a black and red flannel shirt. It lingers near a puddle, staring down at its reflection like Narcissus. Except what this thing sees is a hideous face, the flesh ripped away on one side from the chin to the scalp.
At last, my eyes ache to be closed, and my mind relaxes. Sleep will come easier now. When I wake up, I will set out to look for my family.
Eighte
en
I am the first one to wake up. I shower and quietly get dressed and ready to go. I debate leaving before anyone wakes up, but I can’t bring myself to do it. Even though I have decided I will head out on my own, it doesn’t feel right to slip out while they sleep. I visit the supply room and load my pack with some extra rations. I stuff some extra ammunition and clothes in the bag, and inspect the shelves for anything else that might come in handy.
“Won’t need all that,” says Fletcher. His voice startles me, and I wonder how long he has been standing in the doorway. “We won’t be gone more than a few hours. Don’t need the extra weight slowing you down out there.”
I can’t think of any reasons to explain my loaded pack except the truth, so I just nod and sling the heavy bag over my shoulder. Fletcher studies me curiously as I pass him and then follows me back to the main room.
Quentin is already dressed in his black fatigues and devouring his breakfast. Stitch eyes him hopefully from beneath the table. Fletcher pulls out a chair and lifts his foot to rest on it while he tightens the laces.
“You sleep okay?” asks Quentin. He pours some instant coffee from the heating bag into a tin cup and slides it toward the seat beside him.
“As good as I have in a while,” I say. I unsling my pack from my shoulder and gulp the warm coffee down in several swallows without enjoyment. A door opens, and Danielle emerges from her room in black fatigues, her auburn hair back in a ponytail.
“When do we leave?” she asks.
“It’s getting dark,” says Fletcher. “We should move now. It shouldn’t take more than a couple hours, but I don’t want to risk being out there when the sun comes up.”
We follow Fletcher to the storage room and grab our weapons. I take the .45 and stow it in the holster secured to my thigh. Fletcher hands me one of the assault rifles. The thing is enormous and has a suppressor, a scope, and a mounted flashlight.
“That’s an M4A1,” he says, reaching down to pick up another one for himself. His has two barrels. The bottom has a pump action grip like a shotgun. “Just in case we run into a crowd.”
I sling the strap over my shoulder, and then Fletcher slides the card. We file out the open door to the darkness beyond. I don’t feel the fear that I had felt each time before when I knew we were going to encounter the dead. I just want to get moving. I want to help them get their supplies, and then maybe find a vehicle and head north towards Abby’s school. It’s not much of a plan, but even the best plans don’t work out like they’re supposed to anymore.
I pull down my night vision goggles before we move through the whispering field. The wet grass sways in the breeze and my boots sink into the damp earth. Stitch jogs along the side of us, pausing to lap at a puddle or sniff the ground every few feet. The dog seems to be able to sense when the dead are close. Maybe it’s just the canine sense of smell, but the scruffy hairs around his collar will stand on end when the dead are near.
We approach the only gate in the perimeter fence and gaze out at the empty street beyond. Fletcher removes a ring of keys from his pack, selects one, and inserts it into a padlock that secures the chain around the gate. The chain rattles as he fumbles with the lock and slides the links through the fence. I scan the road again and spot a couple of figures emerging from the dark corn fields about a hundred yards up the road.
“God damn,” mutters Fletcher. He pries the gate open and the rusty hinges whine.
The noise draws the attention of the corpses. They shamble forward more quickly now, moaning and raising their arms. Fletcher works to secure the gate while Quentin and Danielle crouch down in the tall grass along the road.
“Blake, get down,” urges Fletcher.
I glance back at him, then return my gaze back to the approaching undead. There are still just two of them in the road. Both of them have dusty jeans and reflective vests that glint in the moonlight. One of the dead things still wears a hard hat. They must have wandered over from a construction site around here.
“I’ll get them,” I say. Inexplicably, I don’t even feel the need to whisper out here. I start walking toward them while I remove the .45 from the holster and attach the suppressor to the barrel.
“Stand down, Blake,” hisses Fletcher. His breathing sounds labored through the headset. “I can take them out from here.”
I ignore the sound of his voice. I stop walking several feet from the first staggering corpse. It lunges toward me, and I slide to my right and trip it with my left foot. It lands hard on the pavement. It doesn’t even have the sense to use its arms to break the fall. I shove the knife under the back of its skull, and it goes still. I hear the one with the hard hat closing in behind me. There is no time to pry the knife free. I turn as the corpse in the hard hat tries to grab my shoulder. It lunges as I aim the .45, so I use the handle to hit it in the face with all the force I can manage. The hard hat falls to the street, making just the kind of clatter that I was hoping to avoid. The thing keeps coming. It latches a hand on each of my shoulders and tries to pull me close enough to bite. I drop the gun just so I have two hands to fight it off. I manage to turn the thing so its back is to the other corpse on the ground then I push it backward over the body as hard as I can. When it loses balance, I drive it down to the pavement. There is a wet slapping sound as the back of the thing’s skull bounces off the street. The weight of my pack nearly pushes me within reach of the open mouth. I sit up and grab the head of the thing with both hands and slam it back to the pavement as hard as I can. Then I lift the head of the corpse up and bring it down again and again until the skull fractures. I stop when I hear the soggy sound of soft tissue hitting against the hard surface of the road.
It isn’t until I stand up that I realize Fletcher, Quentin and Danielle are standing a couple of feet away. They don’t know what to make of my violent outburst. Danielle looks ready to cry. I avoid their eyes and locate the gun I dropped on the street.
“What the fuck was that about?” asks Fletcher.
I bend down and pick up the gun. The reasons for what I did seem clear to me. These damn things have taken everything I didn’t appreciate until it was gone. The sight of them, the mockery of the human beings they once were, broke something inside of me. I try to find the words, but it seems like it would take too long. So, I make something up instead.
“Conserving ammunition,” I explain and walk away before there is time for anyone to question my reasoning. I can feel my hands still shaking from the adrenaline coursing through my body. Drawing air into my lungs feels harder than it should, and the sound of my breathing seems so loud in the silence of the night.
I hear my name whispered. The soft voice makes me think of Amanda calling to me, and I get the haunting feeling that she has witnessed what just happened. Guilt turns my stomach, and I stop and lean over and throw up.
“Blake,” whispers Danielle. She catches up to me and puts a hand on my shoulder.
“I’m okay,” I cough and wipe the vomit away from my mouth. “Let’s keep moving.”
The streets are black and empty and slick from the rain. We move towards the tunnel beneath the highway. Some wrecked or abandoned vehicles clog the dark passage. Fletcher holds up a hand as an echoing moan comes at us from the darkness. The night vision goggles only allow us to see so far into the blackness, and there is no telling what awaits behind the vehicles. We won’t know what we are walking into until we are in the middle of it.
“Maybe we should go around,” suggests Quentin.
“Sounds like there’s only one in there,” reasons Fletcher. He tilts his head and listens closely. “Maybe two or three at the most.”
“I don’t like going in there blind,” Quentin sighs.
I stare into the darkness. Drops of water trickle down through the cracks in the highway and splatter in puddles on the pavement. I hear the faint sound of shoes scuffing along the street. There could be dozens of them in there. Whatever lies in the depths of the tunnel isn’t what I fear any longer. The only
thing that scares me is living the rest of my life in fear. I would rather face anything than go on like that. I will keep going forward no matter what gets in my way.
I step cautiously into the tunnel. I am conscious of every sound of my movements. A hand falls on my pack, and I pivot back to see Danielle right behind me. I slow down my pace. The others follow her slowly in a single-file line. I feel something brush against my leg and glance down, but nothing is there. I look around and spot Stitch ahead of us. He trots along, pauses, cocks his head at us and keeps going.
To the left, I see a bare-chested figure hovering a few yards away. It vacantly stares upward into the darkness. There are hunks of flesh missing from its forearms and midsection. It takes a step and drags its other leg across the ground behind it. I hear someone behind me misstep, their boot crushing a piece of glass that crackles beneath their weight. The sound echoes off the concrete walls.
The corpse off to the left turns toward the noise. I stop moving and wait and hope it will lose interest. I scan the darkness and notice another figure further off to our right. As it closes in on us, I spot another figure emerging from the darkness behind him. More sounds of movement bounce off the walls of the tunnel making it impossible to guess how many more there could be down there with us.
“Move,” urges Fletcher.
The nearest corpse rasps at the sound of his voice and gropes at us blindly in the dark. I hit it in the face with the butt of the rifle and break into a sprint. Moans seem to be coming from every direction in the tunnel now. The focus of the goggles blurs when I run. The jittery image is little help to my eyes, and I stumble over a body lying on the ground that I never saw. I get back on my feet and keep rushing forward.
Suppressed machine gun fire erupts behind me.
“They’re all over the fucking place,” screams Quentin into the radio. The corpses close around us in all directions. I can see the distant light of the other side of the tunnel now, and I head for it as fast as I can, knocking several corpses to the ground that stagger in my way. I spot Stitch waiting for us down the road. He cocks his head and stares at me as I emerge from the tunnel.
