Rise of the Dead

by Jeremy Dyson

  “Hurry up,” I call out. I swing over the other side of the dumpster and start shooting at the partially dismembered corpses on the ground that are dragging what remains of their bodies towards me. Quentin drops down next to me and helps me cover the area while the others get over the dumpster. I have no idea how much ammunition I have left, but I know it’s not enough to stay here very long. Finally, Fletcher makes his way over the dumpsters, and we push forward down the road.

  There are walking dead all over the road, and all we can do is make a run for the school straight through an oncoming current of them. I shoot as many as I can until the magazine is empty and then I just shove them aside and try to keep moving and avoid getting surrounded. I’m so close now. The school is just down the road. I can’t believe I made it all the way back. It had to be for a reason. She must be alive. My thoughts give me a surge of adrenaline, and I run faster than I ever have in my life. I don’t even look back to see if the rest of the group makes it. Nothing matters right now but finding the only part of my old life that remains.

  At the top of the hill, the dark outline of the school comes into view and the sight of it almost makes me forget that I have to keep moving. There is a large playing field that sets the school back from the busy street, and we gain some ground on the corpses trailing us from the road. My heart is pounding in my chest from running and the fear of what lies ahead at the school. As we move closer, I can make out shapes of children shuffling around on the playground outside. Some of them spot us coming through the parking lot, and they begin to gather at the iron fence. Their tiny arms reach through the bars, and their mouths release rasping moans. It’s the most horrible scene I’ve ever witnessed. I force myself to walk over to the fence and look at their ashen faces until I come to a sight that pushes me to my limit.

  “No,” I plead.

  “Do you see her?” Danielle asks. “Blake.”

  My little girl. The side of her face is ripped away. Crusted blood and grime coats her hair. Her milky eyes no longer recognize me, but I have no doubt it’s her. Though I knew the odds were that I’d find her like this, the sight is too much to bear. I forget to breathe and have to sit down in the grass while I take it in.

  “Damn,” sighs Quentin.

  “Well, what’d you all expect?” complains Fletcher. “This ain’t no goddamn fairytale. I told you this was a bad idea.”

  “Blake…” Danielle calls to me.

  “What do we do?” Quentin asks.

  “We need to go,” Fletcher urges. “Two minutes those things are going to be all over us.”

  In the back of my mind, I know there isn’t time to stop, even for this, but I can’t find the will to stand back up. I look up into her face again as she reaches out to grab me. I stare at her hand, trying to hold me, and I can’t resist the urge to touch her one more time. I extend my arm, and she wraps her cold little fingers around mine. She opens her mouth and presses her face against the bars of the fence as she tries to pull me towards her. I pry my fingers loose, and then I reach into my pack, and I take out the stuffed animal I brought for her. I put it into her hands, and she closes her fingers around it and stares at it blankly. Then her dead eyes find me again, and the monkey falls from her fingers as they reach out for me once again.

  “Blake,” Danielle pleads. Her hands grip my shoulders. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, but we have to go.” Danielle helps me to my feet, and I step back.

  “Wait,” I insist. I pull my arm free and remove the last magazine from my pocket and load the handgun. I try to look at Abby’s face once more, try to see her as she used to be. I search my mind for some good memory from before all this, but it’s too hard to block out what’s right in front of me. I raise the gun, but I can’t handle seeing what I am about to do. I look down, and my eyes settle on the stuffed animal that she had no reaction to at all. It all means nothing now. I’m all out of time, so, I pull the trigger.

  I forget to breathe and stagger backward. Danielle puts an arm around me to help keep me on my feet. I just want her to leave me here. Let me sit down in the soft, cool grass and be done with everything.

  “Don’t you give up on me now, Blake,” Danielle whispers. “I need you.”

  Stitch appears beside me too, wagging his tail and licking my hand. He barks and picks up the stuffed animal off the ground and runs off, oblivious. “Stupid dog,” I mutter, but he doesn’t know how much I envy him.

  “Give me a hand,” Danielle says.

  A moment later, Quentin appears on the other side of me. “C’mon, boss,” he says. He puts an arm on my shoulder and turns me away from the fence. My legs still tremble, but I know it’s time to go. I turn my back on the last connection to my life and walk with them into the darkness.

  Epilogue

  I awake to the smell of fresh dew on the grass and lay beneath a blanket listening to the morning chatter of birds. The spring is almost over now and the farther we travel, the warmer the days get. I hear a faint rumble of thunder in the distance and decide to get up and get some chow ready in case it rains. I sit up and the nylon fabric of the tent rustles. Danielle murmurs softly beside me, but I pull the blanket up to cover her bare shoulder and she falls back asleep. I locate my shirt and pants and quietly unzip the tent and step out. Stitch emerges behind me, yawning and stretching his legs.

  Fletcher sits watch at the base of an oak tree and nods to say good morning. I smile, then walk off to find a spot in the woods to take a piss and gather some kindling to start a fire. This has become my new morning routine.

  I thought about ending everything the night I found Abby. No one would have blamed me, probably. In a sense, the person I was died that night anyway. I’m not that person anymore. None of us are. There’s no point living in the past when that life doesn’t exist anymore.

  So we don’t talk about it. We give ourselves nicknames to help us forget who we were. It just makes things easier when you compartmentalize everything. That’s how you survive when you keep on losing people around you every day. Nothing is certain anymore, you just have to take your chances. And even then, it might not work out the way you thought it would.

  The one thing I know how to do now that I never figured out before is to wake up each day and fight to hold on to what you’ve got. It might not be there tomorrow, and once it’s gone, you might never have it again.

  I zip my pants up and wander through the trees. We stopped last night at this rundown campground across the road from an abandoned airfield in the middle of nowhere, Iowa. I pick up a couple of twigs for the fire, then I notice the campground office building and decide to check it out. There might be something useful, maybe some old instant coffee if I’m lucky.

  “C’mon boy,” I call Stitch. He leaves a rock he was inspecting and runs to follow me through the woods.

  A brass bell jingles over my head when I open the door, and I wait for any sounds or movement inside. Stitch sniffs at the air before he wanders inside. I step inside and stare at the empty shelves. Somebody cleaned this place out already. I check each aisle but whoever was here before was pretty thorough. I’m about to leave when I notice a couple of skinny cigarette butts on the floor. I squat down and get a closer look at the slim filters that are squished and flattened.

  “It can’t be,” I shake my head. It has to be a coincidence. “What are the odds?” Dom might have made it out of the city alive. If she did, I’m not sure how I feel about that, or what I’d do if our paths cross again.

  I step back outside and turn to walk back to our camp, but pause when I notice a couple of posts in the ground surrounded by beds of sand. I walk over to one of the posts and step on something hard buried just beneath the surface. I bend down and uncover a metal horseshoe. I pick it up and brush away the grains of sand. Maybe I will take it back to give to Danielle. It might bring us some luck.

  Stitch whimpers behind me. He must be getting impatient for his breakfast.

  “Alright, I’m coming, you stupid dog,” I mu
tter. I stand up and turn around to find Stitch staring in the direction of the airfield. He sniffs the air. The scruff bristles below his collar. He growls, low and steady, at the danger beyond the trees.

  Acknowledgements

  This book would not have been possible without the help, encouragement, and support of these amazing people. Thanks to all of you for your contributions.

  Thom Shartle

  Heiko Syska

  Fawn Colombatto

  Vesa Hatinen

  Angel Gonzal

  James Moss

  Steve J

  Ben Wasserstein

  Terese Thompson

  Adam Erickson

  Post-Apocalyptic.com

  Marci Albrecht

  Jorge

  Anthony Tunis

  Michael Baumeister

  Valaen Clapsaddle

  Gail Wasserstein

  Spencer Wickerson

  Brian Horstmann

  Professor Stephen Candy

  Terrin

  Lisa Kruse

  Cristin Hipke

  Robin Allen

  Katy Burnside

  Angela Burkhead

  Danielle Hall

  Danielle Deal

  Scout Johnson

  Midhun Mathew

  Brian Antonelli

  Chris Davis

  Xiomara Morris

  Sean Berleman

  Patricia Todd

  Tara O'Malley

  David Larson

  Nicole Mohr

  Kenneth Hayes

  Steve Duncan

  Kitty Milar

  S. Mentzal

  Valerie Campbell

  Swordfire