Machines of the Dead

by David Bernstein

  Jack left the bedroom and went to the hallway coat closet. Checking the pockets of the last jacket he wore, he found the wallet, his pulse settling down again as elation filled his heart. He must have forgotten to take the damn thing out after he had come home from work.

  Opening the wallet, he took out a recent picture of Jess, taken the last time they went to Central Park. Staring at it, his body suddenly felt heavy. He was so tired. He had to sit.

  Putting the small photo in his pocket, Jack went back to the bedroom, removed the spear from its place between his back and the pack, letting it drop to the floor. He then took off his backpack and sat on the bed. Still feeling weary, he laid down on Jess’ side, letting his face sink into her pillow. He inhaled, smelling her scent. He could taste her sweetness. Touch her soft skin.

  “I miss you, baby,” he said, “so damn much.” Breathing was becoming harder with his face in the pillow. He didn’t want to stop smelling her, but turned himself over, needing the air. Lying still, he stared at the ceiling. He needed to get up and keep moving. Remaining where he was, in his old room, was pointless. Too painful. Jess was dead. He had gotten what he came for: the pictures, and a little closure.

  But he was so tired. He didn’t want to go on. In the back of his mind, he heard his wife telling him to get up, that he needed to help others. Get himself and them out of the city.

  Jack forced himself up. Looking around the room, his gaze stopped on the open closet doors. Guns. He had guns.

  The weariness left him as if he’d been doused with ice-water. He got to his feet and raced over to the closet. He checked the top shelf for his handguns, finding that the cases they rested in were gone. His rifle and shotgun were missing too. Whoever had cleaned out the food, must have taken the weapons.

  Damn.

  Reaching up, Jack felt along the door’s frame, his fingers coming into contact with a small metal case that was attached by magnets to a metal strip. Sliding off the cover, he saw that his set of keys were still inside; the same set of keys that opened the lock boxes as well as the trigger guards to his weapons. Whoever did have his guns wouldn’t be using them, not without getting those locks off the triggers. Jack pocketed the keys, wanting to keep them in the event he came across his guns as he searched the building.

  Pushing the clothes aside, Jack found that his Louisville Slugger baseball bat was still where he had left it. Picking it up, he felt the smooth wood finish, marred slightly from playing a few games of ball in the park. The baseball-hitting implement was about to get uglier, because it would no longer be used as a tool to hit baseballs, but to smash in the heads of the undead.

  Jack had an idea and went back to the hall coat closet where he kept his toolbox. He would hammer a few nails through the bat head. Damn it; his tools were gone too. Sudden rage swept over his body. He began pulling on the coats, snapping the plastic hangers, then throwing the garments to the floor. With the final jacket in his grip, he stopped. He closed his eyes and took a long breath. If he had been running around fighting for his life, he would have done the same, and taken whatever he could use. He only hoped that whoever had taken his stuff was still using it and that the person, or people, was still alive.

  Before leaving, Jack grabbed his backpack, leaving the spear where it fell, and worked his way to the exit, eying everything for the last time. Standing in the doorway of his and Jess’ apartment, because it would always be theirs, he turned around. There wasn’t much to see except the narrow walls that led to the kitchen. He said a final good-bye, then stepped out into the hall, closing the door behind him.

  Again, the silence was overwhelming. He thought about what to do next: go door to door, or check on Zaun. He decided to check on his friend. Now that he had the bat, a decent weapon, he felt better about roaming around, although he still wanted a firearm.

  As Jack moved down the hall, he stopped beside each open door; listened, then peered inside. Clear, he moved on. He did this four times before coming to Zaun’s closed apartment door. Raising his hand to knock, he stopped himself. Instead, he grabbed the doorknob and turned it. Taking a deep breath, bat in hand, he pushed. The door opened.

  Chapter 10

  Zaun’s place was dark; the apartment was set up similar to Jack’s. An acrid odor, like wet-canine fur and rotten eggs filled his nose. Unable to see much as he walked down the hallway, Jack took the flashlight from his belt, and clicked it on. With his other hand, he let the bat slide through his fingers a bit, choking up on the weapon.

  “Zaun?” he called out. “You here, buddy?”

  No reply.

  Jack entered the kitchen. The place seemed clean, save a few empty open cans of food resting on the counter. His eyes lit up upon the flashlight’s beam hitting two cases of water resting on the floor. He was suddenly very thirsty. He went over and bent down, tearing open the plastic, he pulled out a bottle, twisted off the cap and gulped the contents. Next to the water were a couple of twelve packs of Coke, and two six packs of orange Gatorade. Putting the bottle down on the counter, he scanned more of the darkened room.

  The cabinet doors were closed.

  “Zaun, it’s Jack. I don’t want you jumping out and slicing me up. You in here?” With no answer, Jack opened one of the cabinets. Cans of food, including string beans, corn, carrots, chickpeas, hearts of palm, and baked beans lined the shelves. It looked like Zaun was doing okay; and was maybe the person who had raided his apartment, although the building had hundreds of people in it.

  Jack couldn’t help feeling a little giddy inside. Quite possibly, his friend was alive.

  Leaving the kitchen, he entered the living room. The odor of unwashed dog worsened. It was too dark to see well, so he kept the flashlight on. Empty cans of food sat on the coffee table in front of the couch.

  “Zaun,” Jack called again, but received no answer. Maybe the guy was out somewhere in the building looking for more supplies?

  Not wanting to startle Zaun if he came back to his apartment, Jack went over to the windows and raised the blinds, flooding the room with glorious sunlight.

  Dust particles like tiny alien sea creatures floated in the air. Jack coughed, then saw that the living room flat screen was cracked, as if something had been thrown at it.

  Next, he checked the bathroom. Boxes of soap and containers of shampoo lay on the floor under the sink. Tubes of toothpaste sat on the shelves above the toilet where normally towels were kept.

  Jack felt conflicting emotions as he went through the apartment. He was happy, but nervous, hopeful, yet discouraged that he hadn’t come upon his friend dead or undead. But with each room being empty of Zaun’s presence, Jack’s heart sank a little further. It was looking like his friend had survived for a while, but might have eventually died or left the apartment at some point. But then, why leave all the food?

  The only place left to look was the bedroom. Upon reaching it, Jack saw that it was closed. He knocked on the door, calling out Zaun’s name. “You in there, buddy?” He waited for an answer, listening for any sounds of movement or worse, scratching at the door.

  After a few minutes, Jack’s pulse racing with anticipation, he took hold of the doorknob, turned it, and threw the door open.

  He readied the bat, cocking his arm back, ready to swing, as he scanned the room. The place was gloomy like the rest of the apartment had been. Jack clicked on the flashlight. The blinds on the window were down. Jack was beginning to wonder if his friend had become a different member of the undead, a vampire.

  Facing away, a figure lay on the floor next to the bed, as if it had fallen there and didn’t bother getting up. On the person’s left arm was the tattoo of a yin and yang symbol with a dragon around it. Jack knew immediately it was Zaun, his friend looking deader than dead.

  Shining the flashlight over his body, he saw gashes and cuts, but one in particular caught his attention. It was on Zaun’s forearm and it resembled a bite mark. The wound was open and bleeding. Jack’s heart jumped. If it was bleed
ing, Zaun was still alive.

  He approached his friend’s body, standing about three feet away, and nudged it with the bat.

  Zaun moaned, causing Jack to flinch.

  “Zaun? Zaun?” No answer, just another moan.

  Jack drew close to the body, and knelt down, rolling his friend over onto his back, cringing at what he saw.

  Zaun’s face was almost colorless, his eyes sunken in, cheek bones revealed. For a moment, Jack was looking at his wife.

  “Shit,” he said, softly.

  Zaun opened his eyes, lids fluttering for a moment. “Jack?”

  “Yeah, it’s me.”

  “Was wondering when you’d be . . . back.”

  “What happened to you? Were you bit?”

  Zaun’s head fell to the side. He had passed out.

  Jack shook him. “Zaun? Zaun?” No response. Looking at the wound up close, he really couldn’t tell if it was a bite wound or not, as Zaun’s body was riddled with cuts and bruises. But by the look of his friend, the guy had been infected.

  “Screw it,” Jack said, standing. He pulled out his Taser, pointed it at Zaun’s still-moving stomach, and pulled the trigger.

  Zaun let out a gasp. His body went rigid, and trembled, as 50,000 volts coursed through his system. After a few seconds, the charge died and Zaun’s body went slack. Jack squatted and checked for a pulse. Nothing. He grabbed Zaun’s wrist, checked there: nothing. Damn, the shock must have been too much for his depleted body.

  Jack began CPR, performing chest compressions and mouth to mouth. He checked Zaun’s pulse again, but felt nothing except cool skin. “I’m not giving up on you,” he said, then pulled the darts out of Zaun’s stomach. He tossed them aside and reloaded the Taser with a new charge. Standing up, Jack aimed the gun at Zaun’s sternum and fired the weapon. Zaun’s body stiffened, then went slack again.

  Bending down, he checked his friend for a pulse again. This time Zaun had one. His friend was alive. Pulling the darts out, Jack breathed a sigh of relief.

  Chapter 11

  After placing Zaun in bed, Jack went over to the bedroom windows and raised the blinds, allowing sunlight to illuminate the dreary room, and to his delight, revealed a lost treasure. On the floor, opposite side of the bed where Zaun had been lying, were his guns and ammo boxes.

  Like a kid on Christmas morning, Jack sat on the floor, took the keys from his pocket, and opened the first lockbox. Lifting the lid, he saw the Sig Sauer P226 inside. Not wanting to be unarmed a moment longer, he removed the trigger guard, then opened the ammo box, an army green, .30 caliber, M19A1 container he picked up at an army-navy store, grabbed a box of 9 mm bullets, and loaded the fifteen round clip. After popping the clip in, he gently racked the slide and was ready for business. Flipping the safety on, he placed the weapon down, eager to see the next gift.

  He opened the box containing his .45, a Smith and Wesson 1911 handgun. After removing the trigger guard, he loaded the eight round clip and drew the slide back before setting the safety switch to the on position. Jack couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so powerful, so invincible, so good. Then he did remember, and it had nothing to do with firearms. The last time he had felt this good was when he and Jess were sitting on the couch, watching television, his arms wrapped around her. Suddenly, the ecstatic feeling he had was gone.

  He picked up both handguns like the hero in some action flick, and admired them. A spark of anger ignited within him, warming his soul with hate. He wished he could shoot each individual bot, slowly making each one suffer as he destroyed them all. But the best he could do was help the living, and send the animated dead back to the grave.

  He grabbed the bag holding his Remington .30-06, unlocked the trigger guard and had the weapon loaded and ready to go within moments. Most likely, he’d be running around, climbing, and banging into things, so he didn’t bother with the scope.

  Finally, the big momma was left, his Mossberg 500, a 12-gauge shotgun. After removing the trigger guard, he loaded five shells of buckshot, then cocked the weapon, making room for another shell.

  Now, Jack was ready for anything short of a nuke. The undead would fall easily at his feet; people too if they so chose to try and hurt him or anyone he was trying to save. As much as he would like to believe people wouldn’t be a problem, he knew it was a possibility. And with that thought in mind, Jack couldn’t remember if he’d locked the apartment’s front door.

  Tucking the Sig Sauer into his pants, he hurried to the door and locked it. Standing there a moment, he realized he was hungry, and headed to the kitchen where he grabbed a can of baked beans and a can of corn. Using a can-opener that was resting on the counter, he sat at the table and opened the cans. After eating about half of each one’s contents, he replaced the lids, and went to check on his friend.

  Zaun lay on his back, just as Jack had left him, the man’s stomach rising and falling with each breath. He smiled as his heart filled with warmth. He had no idea how long it would be before his friend would wake, but he was elated the guy was alive. Zaun would need time to regain his strength, to heal, and by the looks of him, Jack figured it would be at least a few days, maybe even a week. He wouldn’t leave until Zaun was able to defend himself, and strong enough to descend the side of the building via the rope. From what he saw of Zaun’s supplies, waiting a few days for his friend to recover would be doable, unless of course, the city was nuked; but he didn’t want to think about that, at least not for now.

  Leaving Zaun to rest, Jack took the shotgun and the Sig Sauer and checked out each of the apartments on the floor. He found no survivors and no bodies, dead or undead. Any useful items were gone, taken either by Zaun, or by whoever survived.

  Checking out the stairwell through the small glass window, he saw that a number of the undead had gathered just outside the door. Upon noticing him, they came toward him. Jack recognized the big guy from a few levels down. So, they could walk up stairs. He didn’t want to leave them there, and tried opening the door, but a number of undead were pressing against it, making it difficult to do so. He had an idea.

  Walking to the stairwell at the other end of the floor, Jack peered through the window, scanning the area with his flashlight. All clear, he opened the door, and went down a flight. After making sure the hallway on the 22nd floor was void of undead, he went in.

  Here, the apartment doors were all closed. Jack made his way quickly to the other end, peered through the window, then opened the door. He stepped into the stairwell, leaving the door ajar. He could hear the undead on the floor above him as they pawed and pushed at the metal door.

  “Hey, assholes!” Jack yelled, his voice booming in the enclosed space. He waited as the undead began coming down the stairs. He heard a few thuds, guessing one of the undead had taken a fall, then saw a zombie dragging itself down the stairs as if its spinal cord had been severed.

  Jack waited as it rounded the banister, then aiming his Sig, fired at the thing’s head, stopping it cold. The others were coming down the steps slowly, and one by one, he took them out until there were four dead bodies, including the big guy, in a pile at the foot of the stairs.

  Letting the door close, Jack went to the nearest apartment and checked it for undead. Finding none, he went back to the stairwell and one by one, dragged the corpses into the apartment. Knowing he and Zaun would be using the stairs, he wanted the foul-smelling things out of the way.

  With that done, Jack went through the rest of the dwellings on the floor before checking out the ones on the two floors below. He found that almost all the residences he visited had pots of water in them, just sitting on the stove as if everyone had decided to boil something, but never got around to doing so.

  After spending a few hours searching the places, finding a few supplies but nothing special, he returned to Zaun’s.

  Two days went by before Zaun was fully conscious and able to sit up and use the facilities on his own. Before that, Jack had fed and washed him. Zaun explained about fill
ing pots of water and leaving them in the other apartments, the water used for washing and toilet flushing in case the electricity went out. His actions had proved beneficial, the only drawback—having to go to the other apartments to do his business, and carrying heavy pots of water back to his when he felt like it.

  Throughout Zaun’s recovery, Jack talked about his own adventures, from waking up tied to a wheelchair to entering Zaun’s apartment.

  “So, that’s how you saved my ass?” Zaun asked. “With a Taser?”

  “Yeah,” Jack said, smiling, not telling his friend how close to death he had really come.

  “You’ve been a busy man.”

  Jack laughed. “Compared to you, it seems I had it easy.”

  Zaun sat up in bed and took a sip of Gatorade.

  “Yeah,” he said, “cleaned out the whole building, give or take a few places. Couldn’t get them all, those undead fuckers. It was tiring, having to swing a sword so many times and run around gathering supplies. Wish I had the keys to your guns, would’ve made life a lot easier.”

  “You did a great job. I only came across a few undead, and what a stockpile of food you have.”

  “I gathered as much as I could, buying a shit-load of food before things got really bad. After the . . . screaming . . . and other sounds died down, I went around to the apartments, gathering what I could. I kept myself well fed and hydrated. I was holding up, hanging in there . . . until one of them bit me. From there I started going downhill, until you came and saved me.”

  “Well, we’re going to get you healthy, go out and look for any other survivors, then get the hell out of here.”

  “There are no others, Jack,” Zaun said, quietly.

  “There’s got to be, you can’t be the only one.”

  “I checked. There’s no one else.”