Life Among the Dead (Book 4): The End

by Daniel Cotton

  Paul doesn’t know what to say, it throws him that the man utters his very thoughts in his direction like a mind reader. He just stares at the plate, perfectly prepared eggs benedict that smells divine. He’s as hungry as he is scared. The man sits at one of the tables, setting down his food. Next to the plate he places his utensils on one side and a gruesome, gore covered hammer on the other. “Then again, you aren’t exactly friendly with the current administration. You haven’t been spotted with this Commander in Chief at Camp David like you were the previous.”

  “I’d rather be with my wife, actually,” Paul says as composed as possible. “You haven’t seen my security detail by any chance, have you? Large, serious looking guys.”

  “Nope. You’re the first person I’ve seen. Most took off once they offered full refunds, rest bugged out after the announcements started.”

  “You stayed?”

  “I’m not going to Waterloo, I’m heading home. Figured I’d rest up and have a hearty breakfast before hitting the road.”

  Paul can’t take his eyes off of the eggs benedict, comfort food at its best and he certainly can use some comfort. He can’t bring himself to ask for any, not from this man. The hungry glances at the plate don’t go unnoticed.

  “I made plenty, if you’re interested…”

  “Well, if you made extra there’s no reason to let it go to waste,” Paul quickly seats himself at the table, taking a napkin and draping it across his lap. He realizes he is still covered by his blanket and in his pajamas.

  The triple threat gracefully rises and retrieves another plate from the nook. “I always wanted to cook for a living, love me some Top Chef. Bet I’d make it pretty far on that show with what my momma taught me after brushing up on the fancier side of things.”

  Paul Coburn listens to his host, his voice sounds smooth and relaxing now that it isn’t being used to hurl insults at him. “So, why didn’t you become a chef?”

  “Because radio pays better. I also love to talk, telling it how it is. I’m sure you can relate. Given the option I’m sure most would choose a modest amount of fame and money over their dream.”

  Paul certainly can relate, he wanted to be a politician most of his life like his father. It was his zealous nature when talking about the issues that lead him to his current status as a political moderator. He doesn’t share this, or what his childhood dream career was. His plate is set down and it is the most gorgeous thing he’s ever set eyes on. “Thank you,” he says before taking a bit, unable to remember if the man had told him his name last night. He was more focused on getting away from him at the time.

  “Abraham ‘the Truth’ Bishop, the voice of reason, freedom of speech never sounded so good. You can call me Abe,” the cook offers his full handle from the airwaves in his smooth radio voice. “I have been trying to get you on my show for some time now.”

  “My people never mentioned it to me,” Paul says truthfully between bites of eggs. He doesn’t reveal that his people are paid to screen out undesirable offers.

  “I’m sure,” Abe responds knowingly. He watches the figures wander the above floors, they hear the men talking and linger at the rails casting down their full attention. One such figure needs to be watched, a tall woman in a luxurious robe, her endowments make her more top heavy than the others. As the DJ suspected, she topples over the guard and plummets to the floor below with a sickening thump and wet snaps. “Excuse me.”

  Paul watches his host casually wipe his mouth with his cloth napkin and leave the table with his filthy hammer. If not for the sound of the person hitting the hard tiled floor, and the same person’s mournful moans, he would have forgotten all about the alleged zombies. He witnesses firsthand what it will take to survive, Abe strides to the woman where she stands on unsteady, broken bones. He sees through the lobby’s low shrubberies that she is not wearing anything beneath her robe, and has a body he’d certainly enjoy under normal circumstances, enough to yet again ignore his wedding vows. Abe knocks away the elegant woman’s reaching hands and unmercifully clobbers her on the head until they both are out of sight below the tops of the hedges, all Paul hears is the continued dull sound of the hammer whacking away.

  As if he hadn’t just battered a human skull beyond recognition, Abe returns in his calm manner. “What were we talking about?”

  “Is that the only way to…kill them?” Paul asks, his eyes wide and unblinking as he stares at the man that just resumes his breakfast after committing such a violent act.

  “It’s not killing if they already dead,” Abe makes the distinction, casually ignoring proper grammar. “I’m just doing what they said to do if confronted. If destroying their brains is what it takes to survive that’s what I do.”

  “I don’t know if I can do that.”

  “Then, you won’t be lasting very long,” the radio host breaks the news.

  Paul thinks about that, he needs to get to his wife. She has stood by him faithfully though the majority of the country hates him, was at his side through all the allegations from aides and interns of his sexual misconducts. “Where are you heading after breakfast?”

  “Home. Baton Rouge, Louisiana.”

  “I need to get to Georgia, my wife is there visiting family,” Paul states sounding hopeful.

  “Good luck with that,” Abe answers the unspoken question quickly. “Like I said, I’m heading to the Big Easy.”

  Abe rises from the table, taking his hammer. Paul desperately imparts on his humanity and confesses, “I don’t stand a chance out there! Prove you’re the better man and help me, please!”

  “I guess it will give us a chance to talk through our differences,” Abe considers as if weighing the options. “But, aside from an interview no one will ever hear, and a debate that won’t affect change, what’s in it for me?”

  “Money.”

  “I got money.”

  Paul Coburn is at a loss, money is always the answer, makes everything better. There isn’t anything in Georgia that’s his to give, getting to his Los Angeles home is out of the question as well. He takes stock of the dynamic and concludes that he is all there is to offer, “Me.”

  “You?”

  “If you help me get to my wife, I’m all yours,” Paul winces at the prospect of what he’s trading. He is relieved, and somewhat offended, when the response to the proposition is laughter. Raucous laughter that bends Abe over one of the chairs, he must cling to it lest he fall over.

  Once the bought subsides, he wipes a tear away and admits after a cleansing whoop, “Bitch, you ain’t my type… I guess I can do the Christian thing and get you to your wife, Notorious. No strings.”

  27

  As the road out of town fills with hopeful people wanting nothing more than to find a safe haven, one person has beaten the exodus and made it to Waterloo but can no longer be called a survivor. Nina Turner is walking the halls of Memorial Hospital, dead on her feet. Her brain remains active yet is growing dim as it becomes starved of oxygen.

  She knows she came here for a reason, yet can no longer remember what that reason is. She feels guilty yet is at a loss as to why. Could she remember, she’d look back to her experiences in the bowels of this very facility, six years ago, for the answer.

  Just before she died, her last thoughts had her wondering if this could all be her fault, the fact that she had played a crucial role in the releasing of a large amount of Sample 6 into the environment. She pondered whether intentionally neglecting to install one gasket on a container that was to accept the secret ingredient in gaseous form could be the catalyst of this plague. She needed to create a diversion in order to get her hands on what she was being paid to steal, other than prepping materials for those working closely with the sample she’d never be within reach of it. Unless there was a major catastrophe.

  It doesn’t matter now. Nina wanders the halls she used to know well, lost. She came looking for answers, now she seeks only to satiate the gnawing hunger growing in her gut.

 
28

  Cars honk as they crowd the exits leading out of town. Sitting bumper to bumper, creeping forward whenever the opportunity presents itself. The sun is starting to rise, bringing an end to the crazy night and ushering in the dawn of a new day, an era of uncertainty.

  “Get them to stop with the noise!” Luke orders a nearby officer, one of the few still actively serving the people. The man in the Santa suit looks over the lines of autos, they are understandably in distress and anxious to get someplace safe, but the sounds they make to release their anxiety and frustration will only bring what they run from down upon them.

  The relentless dead emerge from intersecting streets, drawn to the sounds of life. The civilians at the end of the procession scream within their cars as the walking corpses come up to their windows and claw to get at what’s inside. The people react differently, where some crouch down to stay out of view, others try to bully their cars around those in front of them, frantically wanting to get away from the gruesome ghouls. This presents a problem, creates knots in the orderly lines.

  The worse reaction comes from the people that abandon their cars all together, dragging their loved ones out into the cold morning to beat the traffic on foot. They leave their cars and possessions behind to get a lead on the others. This creates obstructions that bar the way for those in the rear, leading more and more to evacuate their vehicles.

  So much for an orderly fashion, Luke thinks to himself. The dead see their prospective meals getting away and give chase in their slow manner, ignoring those still trapped out of reach in cars. It’s too late to direct the panicking folks to get back in their vehicles, Luke has to act. “You three, come on!” he enlists the aid of a few officers.

  The puzzled police hesitate for a second, the man in the Santa suit apparently orchestrated this exodus, upon arrival he’s made it clear by his direction that he’s in charge. They follow his lead, heading down the stream of frightened citizens, towards danger with their guns drawn. Luke conserves his fire, trying to fall the enemy with single shots to the head once he’s close enough, but there are leagues more on the way as if also answering the call to leave the city.

  Luke knocks on windows, speaking loud enough to be heard through the glass, “Get out!” He points the terrified inhabitants in the direction of safety since there is no way the cars in the rear can get passed the abandoned vehicles.

  The three police officers do the same, as far as they dare while remaining a safe distance from the growing horde. They wave for the remaining people to join them before the crowd of dead swallows the traffic. They put down the leaders of the pack of ghouls to create windows of opportunity.

  A quick check for stragglers while letting the final refugees pass reveals no one left behind. A lack of faith in humanity has the jaded ex-cop eyeing every child seat just in case.

  “A’right,” Luke addresses his helpers, “let’s get this road blocked if we can.”

  They watch Santa reach into idling cars, getting them in gear and allowing them to creep while he turns the wheel. They make diagonal obstructions wherever they can to buy themselves time.

  Luke is easing one last car in place to bar the approaching throng that is getting dangerously close. About to leave the improvised blockade he is grabbed. A corpse has his shoulder and then his shooting hand. The man fights to free his arm so he can defend himself but the zombie is relentless, fueled by hunger and stronger than Luke could imagine.

  Luke pulls on his arm as he climbs over the car he has just put in the way hoping to use it to as leverage, a wedge between him and certain death. The dead man that has him in his steely clutches looks like an ordinary person aside from the vacant stare and masticated neck. The ghoul opens its mouth wide to bite whatever morsel he can bring into it, it isn’t choosy, any bit of flesh will do.

  A quick pop mere feet from his face frees Luke. He falls backwards into his rescuer’s chest. One of his enlisted helpers has put the zombie down that has a mouthful of white padding, all it was able to take away from the man.

  “Thanks,” Luke Pants.

  “Any time. What now?” the young officer follows Luke back towards the survivors.

  “We need to get everyone moving. I saw a semi and a bus up a ways. Let’s get the pedestrians loaded up. Get people to the front, they can car pool. Any word on what the holdup is?”

  29

  “You’re lucky I was passing through. I don’t usually pick up hitchhikers, but considering the situation,” the semi driver continues to drone, having not let up on Archie’s ear since he was offered a ride back in the city. “You meet a lot of weirdos out there. You should see some of the guys I’ve run into behind bookstores.”

  “Behind bookstores?” Archie asks, uttering only the second thing since entering the cab of the truck. He had panted a relieved ‘thank you’ to the man and hasn’t had a moment to slip in anything else.

  “Yeah. Newsstands and bookstores get their magazines on a consignment. When the new batch arrives they’re supposed to destroy the old ones and send the publishers the cover. Most don’t shred them and just throw them out. I’d be there, minding my own business, when some real oddballs would join me in rummaging for porn. Creeps.”

  The semi’s brakes chirp as it yet again comes to a halt. They are caught in the middle of the evacuation traffic, making it to safety an inch at a time. Afforded the chance to take his hands off the wheel the driver lifts up his hat to adjust his thick mullet of dark brown hair. Archie stomachs the man’s motor mouth since he picked him up in his desperate time. He had just left Amber’s sorority house as the dead flooded in and found himself running with no real destination. He just kept moving trying to avoid the clusters of slow moving people when the man offered him a ride.

  “That was years ago, there comes a moment in every man’s life when he’s looking at a centerfold and he realizes the girl is young enough to be his daughter. He just has to be done, clean off his stomach, and get himself out there to find a good wife.”

  The trucker, who said his name is Kenny Dewitt, has a habit of over sharing. Archie filters what he listens to, trying to instantly forget anything he’d hate to leave in his mind. A commotion behind them has him staring at his side mirror, though what he looks at is more than likely bad news, he is thankful that it diverts the majority of his attention away from Kenny’s words. Gun shots pop off behind them, Archie can see the quick flashes.

  “I found a better source than salvaged magazines, the internet is great. Absolutely anything you want to see, anytime of the day!” Kenny’s excited disclosure blinds him to his audience’s waning attention. “Even better than the amateur clips are the girls you find on regular sites, Gander for instance. I found this one gem on Gander, great body, big brown eyes…”

  Archie doesn’t hear the familiar description, he’s watching the action behind them. From between the rows of cars people are stampeding their way, running from something terrible in the early hours.

  “… she hasn’t shown it all yet, but…”

  “There’s something happening,” Archie tells the driver.

  Kenny checks his mirror to see what his passenger is referring to. Police officers are leading the frightened herd their way. In the moment his eyes are off the road ahead, the traffic has progressed a few feet. He takes advantage of this, it’s just enough space for him to pull onto the shoulder and scoot alongside the jam.

  “What are you doing?” Archie asks.

  “Getting’ the fuck away from whatever they’re running from.”

  “What if they need help?”

  “Not my problem,” the driver curtly admits. “I’ve got certain obligations to maintain, people depending on me. You see, through the power of the internet, I began a secret social network for if the shit ever hit the fan, as it clearly has. We’ve dedicated the past six months of our lives to prepare for the inevitable apocalypse. It came a lot sooner than I thought.”

  Archie is speechless. All he can do is look down at t
he people they pass, and back at those they are leaving behind. Ahead of them on the highway the road into town is clear, the police have been letting folks through to alleviate the congestion. Kenny squeezes past the next lucky motorist who was getting the privilege of using the other lane, the cop directing traffic must jump out of the semi’s way.

  “I’ve got a serious question for you. Something that’s been plaguing me for some time,” the man asks. With a metallic scrape the large truck is through the gap and heading down the wrong way on the highway, building speed like a dog happy to be able to run after being cooped up for too long. “You have a time machine. You can go back to the nineteen-nineties and Quantum Leap into one of two people; Mark Wahlberg or Donny Wahlberg. Which Wahlberg do you choose?” The driver punctuates his question with a few pulls of his air horn to all those stuck in traffic.

  “Um…” Archie isn’t sure how to answer.

  “Forget what you know about them now,” Kenny suggests.

  “Ok.”

  “On one hand you have Donny, I am willing to bet he made much more money than the other one. But, when he was on stage with the New Kids, he was looking out over a sea of groupies he couldn’t touch. Underage girls with sideways pony-tails, Hyper Color tee-shirts, and snap bracelets. Mark had the chance to get with adult chicks that looked like rap video girls.”

  Archie still has no answer.

  “Option three: you can go back and kill Hitler?”

  30

  Sitting in the tour bus she bought for her team, Rocky Roadkill is astonished by the actions of the driver of a semi-truck. He has just pushed through a gap in the traffic jam. Finding a gap in a jam is her thing, she can’t believe she hadn’t thought to do that. Not to be outdone she creeps out onto the shoulder and follows the truck’s path before the other itchy motorists can.