by Steve Wands
Once Rachel had finished filling her container she placed the scalpel in a red hazmat container attached to the wall for later sterilization. She weighed the container and the previous technician noted it on her paperwork as she left the room.
Using a pair of surgical tongs, she dangled the strips of flesh over the specimen's mouth. The creature seemed uninterested in the rotting room-temperature meat that hung just near his lip. She tried the different selections of flesh, and still, the creature would not eat.
"You said if I fed you, you would answer my questions...why aren't you eating?" Rachel asked, as she began to question her own sanity. She was talking to a corpse, and trying to feed it. She wondered what she might do next---dinner by candle light?
"Gggniivvviiiilllll," it moaned.
Rachel played back the recording.
"No way," she said, "that is not happening, you can lie here and rot."
Rachel stormed out of the room, unsure of her own sanity.
CHAPTER 15: Unearthed
It was nightfall at the Mourningside Cemetery and in its few mausolea the long dead twitched and writhed in their eternal resting places. They moved incredibly slowly, at first, but with each successive motion their decomposing remains miraculously gain a fluidity close to that of the other dead things walking the earth now. Similarly, the dead buried in the ground began to move in a way that would matter to those above. Their dead fingers created little tremors that began to splinter their coffins and move the dirt up and off. They were rising up from the bowels of the earth.
One woman, long dead and at the rear most mausoleum, staggered to her feet. She pushed the cement slab of her tomb to the ground, allowing herself to slither out and stand up on two feet again. It shattered into large chunks upon impact. She stood in the moonlit interment space on legs the color of rust. Her grey gown, which had been a white grown when she was laid to rest, bore the black beady fruits of mold.
In life she had the most beautiful blonde hair, but now she only had a few straw colored wisps that looked more like cobwebs than anything else. Her eyes had long ago withered away to dust. Her skin shriveled so tightly to her bones she stood as barely more than a skeleton in a burial gown. She took another step, landing uneasily as her weight shifted forward.
The dead woman had taken hours to move herself to the door of the mausoleum, and when she got there the door would not budge, it was secured with a chain.
Another long dead creature managed to push the cement slab off of its tomb to the ground, shattering it. The dead thing pulled itself out, falling to the ground, and the cracking of its bones filled the dark chamber. He was dressed in a fine black suit with a white shirt and a black tie. And all but the tie had been cut down the back. Though the two of them were family, this was the first time they were ever in the same room at the same time. One died before the other was ever born---more than a century apart, yet there they stood, meeting in death for the first time.
Dane watched the hodgepodge of a convoy slowly approach the roadblock at the southern side of New Haven. One vehicle took the lead, leaving the other vehicles a few car lengths behind. He radioed Sheriff Bruce Davis the moment he saw them approach---he was on his way.
Eddie pulled his vehicle to a stop. He was about four car lengths away from the roadblock. He opened the door and was about to step out---
"Do not move!" Dane ordered through his patrol car's PA system. "Stay where you are, and turn off your vehicle or you will be fired upon." Even he was surprised at how authoritative he sounded.
Eddie listened. He stayed where he was and turned off the vehicle, but kept his hand on his gun---just in case.?
The sheriff arrived with his truck and a few other officers and friends at his side. They stood at the roadblock, making there numbers visible to the convoy. Dane reached into his cruiser and turned on the roof and search lights. He turned the search light to face the convoy. Dane then grabbed a handful of road flares and threm toward the convoy, one on each side and one to the rear. He and the sheriff walked toward the lead vehicle with their weapons drawn: Dane held his service weapon, and Bruce held a shotgun with the dangerous end pointed at the lead vehicle.
"Driver, please step out of the vehicle with your hands up," Bruce ordered, as he approached the driver's side.
Eddie slid his gun over to his brother Joseph. Eddie's mother, Janice, put her hand on his shoulder as he slowly got out of the car. Eddie stood near the open door with his hands up. He was lit by the red glow of the road flares. He looked at the approaching men, trying to decide if they were good men or bad, and hoped they were at least reasonable despite which side of the moral coin they landed on.
Eddie couldn't help but remember the first time he was pulled over by a police officer. He was seventeen and had his license for barely a month. He was only going out to pick up a few things at the grocery store for his mother, and was on his way back when he was pulled over for not coming to a complete stop at a stop sign a few streets away from his home.
The police officer made him step out of the vehicle, insisting he had drugs on him. The police officer was sure of it, said he looked either drunk and stoned, and drove like it too. Ignorant of his rights, Eddie let the man search his mother's car. After an hour of searching and berating the young Eddie with the worst language and threats of violence, going so far as to jab his gun into Eddie's temple. The officer eventually let him go, and Eddie nervously drove home only to be followed the rest of the way.
Ever since then Eddie held a skeptical, yet somehow still respectful, eye to the authorities. It was a story he only told to his brother Joseph, who swore to never tell anyone---he didn't, of course. The two of them had always been tight like that.
"What is your intent," Davis asked, now mere feet away from Eddie.
"Just looking for someplace safe, sir," Eddie responded.
"Should've stayed home."
"Wish we could've."
"All these folks with you?" Davis asked, pointing to the convoy.
"Yes. We've been on the road for days. We were trying to get to Titan City...looking for our families."
"Well, lucky for all of you that you didn't make it there," Davis said. "Titan City is gone."
"What? What are you talking about?"
"Gone. The skyline is ash, kid. Bombs been dropping. LA is gone too."
"Fuck," Eddie said, his hands falling to his side, "you're serious?" he asked.
"Serious," Davis said. "So, I'll ask you this: what are your intentions now?"
"We just want someplace safe, sir. We won't last much longer on the road. It's been hell the last few days...we keep dying."
"We don't exactly have a Holiday Inn," Davis let down his guard, hanging his gun on his shoulder.
"We don't need much: a truck yard, a church, shit---a fence would be great. We got guns. We can be of help, there're thousands of those things out there--"
"Okay. Relax, I'll let you all in. But, you abide by my laws or you get the fuck out. We'll find you a place to stay, and those of you who can be of help will be put to use, understood?"
"Yes, sir," Eddie replied.
Sheriff Davis led the convoy into town. Eddie followed close behind him and Sal tagged along to make sure no one in the group veered off course. Davis pulled up to VFW hall, parked and got out. The hall was on a large plot of land and was fenced off. Davis instructed Eddie to lead the convoy into the fenced off area and gather everyone inside the hall.
The hall was a small brick building with a main entrance and a single back door. There were no windows on the building except the enclosure to the main entrance. There was a flag pole out front and on it hung a very clean and vibrant red, white, and blue flag. Just below that was a smaller Prisoners of War flag.
Inside the building were more flags, and plenty of framed pictures of the men and women who served their country valiantly. Though one wondered where they were now, when the world needed them.
A small bar area led the way to a
larger open area for banquets, and behind that a kitchen. Davis sat on a metal folding chair, one of hundreds folded neatly against the wall. The building had power, one of the few that did, and as the room filled up people couldn't help but notice. Sal followed the last few people inside and ushered them into the rear of the hall.
"Welcome to New Haven," Davis said. Many in the crowd thanked him, some nodding in appreciation. "You are all welcome to stay here so long as you do what I ask of you. Don't worry, it won't be much. The first thing I need to know is if any of you have been bit or feel sick. If so, please step forward." No one did.
"All right, the second thing I need is for all of you to get some rest. You're no good to me, or anyone else, if you're exhausted. You'll be just another liability and if that's the case then get the fuck out." Davis paused, "I'll be back early tomorrow to see what it is that you guys can do to earn your keep while you stay in our lovely little community. If anyone has medical experience or can help in restoring power to the rest of the town I'll want to talk to you first. Till then sleep. If there's any food here help yourself. Good night." Davis stood up from the chair and walked through the crowd towards the door. He was thanked several times as he left.
Sheriff Davis and Sal left the building. Davis grabbed Sal by the arm gently.
"Keep an eye on them. Either you or someone else drive by every hour, make sure no one leaves the area," Davis told him.
Davis drove off in his truck, heading in the direction from which he came. He hoped he was doing the right thing. He hoped these people meant well, and were not looking to take advantage of others at such a horrible time for the human race. Sal sat in his cruiser for a few moments then, seeing that no one left the building, drove off too.
Everyone grouped off into different sections of the hall, looking for a place to rest and stretch out or just to talk. Scott headed toward the bar area and Judy followed behind along with Dawn. The two women found stools to sit on and Scott went behind the bar with the closest thing to a smile he'd had on his face in days. He rummaged around, tilting the bottles of various liquors, and wines towards the dim light to read the labels, though most he knew by the shape of the bottle alone. He found a bottle of Burgundy wine, popped the cork, and found three glasses and filled them up higher than any bartender he'd ever come across.
Scott was known by a few to drink wine as if it were fruit juice, often to his dismay. Scott was not a rich man, but business was always good. He wasn't much for bragging or showboating of any kind, if anything he was modest. He was born with a tongue made for drinking, and who was he to tell his tongue no.
Some of his friends grew snooty over the years, insisting on what wine should be drunk with what meal, and in what glass. Even to how it should be sipped. And it didn't stop with wine---it included bourbon, cars, clothing, and even home décor as well.
So, he would quietly rebel by pouring his wine in whatever glass he damn well pleased and gulping it instead of sipping it. He winced with every swallow. Judy and Dawn tried to follow by his example but after a gulp they returned to small sips. Regardless of whether sipping or gulping they were all in search of a little place called oblivion. How quickly etiquette had died.
Jon-Jon strolled over sometime after Scott had poured a second glass for himself and his bar-side companions. He was in search of a man named Walker and didn't care what color he was dressed him. He found him and began to empty his innards into a highball glass. Jon-Jon took a few hard swallows, then replenished the liquid and sipped.
Eddie sat with what remained of his family in the corner of the hall. His mother fell asleep almost as soon as she sat down. Joseph turned to Eddie, whose head rested on the brick wall behind him as his eyes stared up at the ceiling.
"What are we doing, Ed?" he asked his brother.
"I don't know...what do you want to do? If the city's really gone, then what's the point of going anywhere."
"I'm fine staying here. I don't want to die out there, and I don't want to lose you or ma." Joseph had a tremble rising in his voice.
Eddie didn't need to say, "I don't want to lose either of you too." But he did anyway.
"I wonder if anyone we knew made it out of the city. Maybe Uncle Bob? He was always a cool guy."
"Yeah, he was," Eddie agreed.
Joseph looked over to Alexis who was trying to put the children---Yussef, Stacey, Chris, Leela, and Nick---at ease so they would go to sleep. She looked back at him but then quickly turned her attention back to the kids.
Alexis had gotten used to Gerty taking charge of the kids. She had a gentle force about her that the kids responded to. Alexis didn't have that. She wouldn't be able to take care of these kids on her own. She knew others would help but not like Gerty did: Gerty made it her duty.
Alexis felt the pangs of guilt as she realized that she herself did not want it as a duty. To have the responsibility of another person's life in your hands was scary in its own right. Add to that a world where the dead were trying to eat you, and make it five lives as opposed to one. She was overwhelmed and Joseph could tell, but he didn't have the heart to help. His heart lay broken at home.
Old man Rickerbocker sat by himself biting his nails. He wanted to go out for a smoke but he didn't want to move, nor did he have any smokes left anyway. He also wanted to get up and join the others at the bar but he couldn't work up the energy to move, and he didn't want to wake up with a hangover, either. He wasn't even sure if he wanted to wake up. Each day seemed to be worse than the one before it, and he feared what tomorrow would bring. He just sat there, unmoving, hoping time would be so kind as to return the favor.
Frankie stood with a hand on Chung-Hee's shoulder and did his best to console him over the guilt he felt for Shorty's death. Chung-Hee had a feeling when he first met Ben that something evil was behind his somber eyes. He felt the exact opposite about Shorty. Shorty was a kind soul, an intimidating looking man but as gentle as the Jolly Green Giant. Chung-Hee couldn't help but feel responsible for his death---it was his plan after all. He hoped, in the back of his mind, that somehow he wasn't dead. That maybe he freed Ben and, unable to face the others, left on foot in an unseen direction. But despite what his mind hoped, his heart knew otherwise. And that was partly, if not entirely, Chung-Hee's cross to bear.
A group of four sat away from everyone else. They were all that was left of the group from the truck stop eatery. Among them were an older man with speckled and spotted skin named Angus, a chubby woman in her late thirties named Carrie, who only seemed capable of crying, and an Arabian man named Abdul-Ba'ith, who'd been accused multiple times of having something to do with the current situation---he's been fighting for his life from the living and the dead since the news broke, and a party loving, flip-flop wearing Floridian named Chuck who came to visit relatives---he barely survived the airport, and his tan was beginning to fade.
Chuck kept looking toward the bar area and after very little mental debate headed towards it. He too drank wine as if it were juice, in swallows not sips. After his belly warmed up from the wine he switched to whiskey. Chuck did love to party.
Morning came without incident in the hall. Sal had nothing negative to report on the newcomers when Bruce arrived. Bruce nodded with a smile and casually walked in. Sal's shift was over, so he headed home in hopes of sleep.
Bruce walked past the bar and, noticing the dirty glasses, and emptied bottles smiled to himself. He wasn't exactly happy about it, but understood. He hoped that they would in turn understand him. He walked to the spot where he addressed the group last night, and stood their patiently for a moment. The people who were awake watched him carefully, and those who still slept quickly awoke at the sound of his voice.
"Morning," Davis said loudly but not annoyingly so. And he deliberately left out the customary 'good'---he stopped saying 'good morning' the day the dead began to walk again.
"Morning," many replied.
"Time to earn your keep. Hope you got some rest 'cause you're going to
need it." He paused to look at the crowd, knowing he had their attention he continued. "Any doctors, nurses, or emergency service workers among you?" he asked.
"Not exactly," Scott said, raising his hand slightly. "My wife and I are morticians---we can stitch. Also, we're both certified in CPR."
"Morticians? No shit, I'd think you two would be among the first to go," Davis said with a good hearted smirk. "Well, that's good to know...let me write this down." He pulled out a small notepad and pencil from his breast pocket. "What're your names?"
"Scott."
"And, I'm Judy."
"Okay, great," Davis mumbled as he jotted down their names, putting the words 'stitches' and 'CPR' next to them.
"Law enforcement? Military?" Davis rattled off. No one stepped forward. "Okay. Has anyone ever worked for an electric company, or was at any point an electrician?"
"I was an electrician for most my life," Angus said as he stepped forward. "My arthritis is something fierce though...can't keep a steady hand anymore."
"Okay," Davis nodded. He jotted down the title 'electrician', while asking, "Name, sir?"
"Angus."
"Okay. Next up...construction?"
Frankie raised a hand, "I used to work part time for a few years."
"Me too," Chung-Hee added.
"I cut wood at Route 9 Lumber for two years," Jon-Jon said. He sounded unsure if it was relevant or not, and felt foolish either way.
"Okay, excellent. Names?" Davis asked as he jotted them down under 'construction'.
"All righty. My last question: any of you competent at using a firearm?" He was visibly surprised when nearly everyone raised a hand. "Perfect," he said with a big shit-eating grin. "I'm going to need a list of all your firearms...don't worry, I'm not looking to take them from you. I just want to know what you got and what kind of ammunition you're going to need. If you're not sure what you have, bring it to me and I'll find ammo for it. Every one of you that raised a hand will be pulling shifts at the roadblock, and throughout town. I'll see if I can get some walkie-talkies too."
