by Ray Wallace
“And if he does make it,” said Miller, “I get a night with that sweet-looking girl of yours.”
Sanchez grunted a laugh. “Okay. If she lets you.”
“Oh, she’ll let me all right.”
Throughout all this, the kid kept moving, running, evading lurching zombies from nearly every direction.
“He’s good,” said Sanchez.
“Not as good as your girl’s gonna be.”
When the kid reached the Smithfield St. Bridge, Sanchez said, “Here’s where he gets it. Here’s where they always get it.”
Cars crowded the bridge from end to end, left there by those who had tried to flee the city during the worst of the outbreak. Tried and failed. The kid made his way among the abandoned vehicles, climbed on top of a few of them, jumped from one to the next. When he reached the steel and concrete span’s midway point, Sanchez said, “Damn, he really is good.”
It was Miller’s turn to laugh.
The runner reached the near side of the river, kept up his frantic pace until he made it to the Incline’s lower station. Then he scaled the Incline’s track, crouched over, putting hands and feet to work, ascending its thirty-degree angle with as much energy displayed throughout the run that had brought him there. By the time the climb was completed, Marco and his lieutenants had already made their way to the gate. The kid approached then stared in at them from the other side, breathing heavily, while Miller made comments about what he planned to do with Sanchez’s “little hottie.”
“Quiet,” Marco told him. Then to the kid: “What’s your name?”
“Jimmy.”
Marco nodded. “Jimmy the Quick.”
This brought a smile to the kid’s face.
“So, Jimmy, what can I do for you?”
“Well, I guess I’d like to be a part of whatever you’ve got going on up here.”
Marco stared at the kid for a few moments before turning to Sanchez and saying:
“Open the gate and let him in. I think he’s earned it.”
Tuesday, November 24th
At just past two o’clock in the morning, Rachel lay on the bunk in the room where she had been kept, for the most part, throughout the weeks of her internment at the military base. During that time, she had been repeatedly administered a synthetic, hallucinogenic drug that allowed her to communicate with the undead. The woman keeping her prisoner, Major Daniels, was well aware of the fact that Rachel had established contact with the alien consciousness controlling the zombie horde. What she did not know was the true extent of Rachel's relationship with the entity she often referred to as “the Other.”
In recent days, Rachel had been subjected to several polygraph tests. It seemed that she was suspected of at least some small deception, that the major hoped to ascertain whether or not Rachel was “playing games” with her. But the readings had been all over the place, the machine and the doctor employing it incapable of establishing even baseline truths.
“It’s the drug,” the doctor had said during one of their sessions, Major Daniels seated nearby, the depths of her displeasure evident on her face. “Blood pressure… pulse… respiration… They’re in near constant flux.”
From her darkened cell, Rachel cast herself outward, felt the welcoming presence of the hive mind, saw the night-shrouded, outside world through the red-tinted gaze of the undead. She changed her field of view. Again… Again… Found herself in the midst of one slowly moving, moaning crowd after the next. A feeling of exhilaration took hold of her when a trio of figures darted past her: living humans carrying rifles, packs slung over their shoulders as they sprinted toward the fence directly ahead. Normally, the zombies would have considered the humans fair game. But the hive mind had imposed its will, ordering its minions to ignore their hunger.
For now…
A few more perspective changes and Rachel saw Howard moving with a noticeable sense of purpose, carrying a bag she knew to be loaded with pipe bombs that would be used in the coming offensive. The sense of anticipation that had been growing within Rachel continued to intensify. She could only imagine the way Howard and his sixteen “recruits” had to be feeling.
They’re taking action, have a way to channel it. All I can do is wait.
When the first of the bomb blasts ripped through the fence and the zombies in their hundreds poured onto the grounds of the military base, Rachel retreated back into herself. As much as she wanted to see what was taking place out there, she needed to be ready to make her escape. One way or another, what she had been subjected to over all the long days of her captivity would soon come to an end.
Standing from the bunk, Rachel felt a little woozy. With the daily injections she received, the drug never fully left her system, which meant some of its side effects never completely went away. Once the floor steadied itself beneath her, she turned on the light then exchanged the shorts and T-shirt she wore for pants and long sleeves. After pulling on her shoes, all she could do was stare at the door and try to prepare herself for whatever might happen next.
Boom! went a nearby explosion followed by two more in quick succession. She heard shouting from the hallway outside her cell, the crack! of gunfire.
The door flew open and Major Daniels barged into the room, stopping in front of Rachel. She was a tall woman, imperious in her military garb. At her side, she held a pistol pointed at the floor.
“You…” said the major, the word filled with venom. “You did this.”
Rachel considered attacking her, decided against it. The drug left her tired and off balance. And she could only assume the major knew a thing or two about hand-to-hand combat that she did not. There was the problem of the gun, too.
“I knew you were up to something,” the major went on. “And now I’m going to make you wish—”
Rachel heard a thunk! then watched as the major’s eyes rolled up into her head and she collapsed to the floor.
“Ready to get out of here?” asked Howard, standing in the doorway, a length of metal pipe in his hand.
“You know it,” Rachel told him.
After sharing a quick embrace, Howard led her out of the room, out of the building, and into the zombie-filled night.
Wednesday, November 25th
“I’m the only reason you’re still alive, you know,” Barry said.
“Am I supposed to be grateful?”
“Well, yes, actually.”
Barry stared at the woman, Stephanie, who had arrived in the blue muscle car two weeks earlier, the man she had been traveling with killed by zombies. Barry’s zombies. The man, Joshua, had been “a real good guy” according to Stephanie.
“He saved my life, more than once,” she had told Barry, amid all the curse words thrown his way, shortly after they had met for the first time. “And you killed him! I don’t know how, exactly, but you did.”
After that, she would not speak to him for several days. Now, whenever she did bother to converse with him, the exchanges never lasted very long, more often than not ended with Barry feeling degraded in some way, angered by the way she treated him.
“I could have let them kill you, too. But I didn’t.”
From her end of the couch, Stephanie glared at him, the hatred evident in her gaze.
“I wish you would have.”
She got up and headed for the staircase that would take her to the second floor of the house where they were staying. Variety being the spice of life and all, Barry had moved into a number of different places ever since the town had become his to do with as he pleased. His current home was located a few streets over from the one where he had spent his childhood.
He stared sullenly at the black screen of the television mounted to the wall. This whole Stephanie business had really started to bring him down. He had thought that by now she would have…
What? Jumped your bones? Fallen in love with you?
The idea had certainly crossed his mind.
She’s probably twice your age.
A fact
that had done little to nothing at all to keep him from fantasizing about her. His post-adolescent hormones had seen to that ever since she had entered his life.
Ever since I forced her to move in with me.
He supposed there were other things he could make her do.
I’m the one in control here. I’m the one with all the power.
But that was not how he wanted things to go. He wanted her to like him, wanted her to be impressed by his power, not despise him for it. So he did his best to forgive her anger, her hatred. After all, he knew he deserved her derision, at least some of it.
She’ll come around. Eventually.
Barry assured himself that, given enough time, the basic human need for companionship would have her warming up to him, would lead her into his arms. And if there was one thing they had plenty of, it was time.
Feeling his spirits rise, Barry got up from the couch then went to the front door of the house, intent on seeing what sort of morning the world had to offer. Opening the door, he found himself greeted by cold temperatures, the sky overcast and gray. No snow yet, but soon that would change.
From the porch, he took in the sight of the zombies, fifteen in all, standing exactly where he had positioned them across the front yard the night before. Fifteen more occupied the backyard, ten along either side of the house.
More than enough to keep Stephanie from going anywhere.
Dressed in the pajama pants and T-shirt he had slept in, Barry folded his arms against the cold as he descended from the porch and made his way past his loyal subjects. At the mailbox, he stopped and did an about face, all the while pondering the zombies’ responsiveness to his orders in recent days, ever since the weather had become more winter-like. He silently commanded the two nearest him to attack each other. As body parts and pieces of withered flesh were torn away and thrown to the ground, Barry felt ever more confident in his suspicions.
They’re becoming slower, more sluggish.
When it got cold enough, would they go into some form of hibernation? If so, where would that leave him?
A general without an army.
“Is this how you entertain yourself?”
Barry looked up to the house’s second story, saw Stephanie at an open window.
“Freak!”
She slammed the window closed.
Under his breath, Barry cursed in anger and humiliation.
He could not lose his undead army. The moment he did, Stephanie would leave him. Of that he had no doubt.
Despite the shame he felt—or perhaps because of it—he let the zombies continue to fight, urging them on as they slowly tore one another apart.
Thursday, November 26th
For Pastor Lewis, the day passed like this:
He awoke shortly after dawn then broke his fast with the sisters in the main dining hall, a somewhat medieval-looking room dominated by a long, solidly built wooden table. When he had finished eating, he thanked his hosts then excused himself, retired to his room where he exercised in the limited space for an hour: push-ups, crunches, squats, lunges, etc. He had implemented this regimen over the past couple of weeks, telling himself that if he had been sent here to enact the role of protector—which he still believed to be the case—then he should try to get his rather sizable physique into the proper shape required to play the part. Afterward, he washed himself then donned one of the simple but comfortable outfits—dark pants and long-sleeved cotton shirt—the sisters had provided for him from a cache of donated clothing meant for one of the convent’s charities. It had been Sister Margaret who had led him to the cellar and allowed him to peruse the clothing dangling from hangers in long rows.
“I think you’ll find something that fits,” she had informed him, correctly as it turned out.
With breakfast and his morning exercise routine behind him, Pastor Lewis wandered out behind the main building of the convent, inhaling deeply of the cool, clean air, feeling the presence of God in the world around him, in the energy flowing through his body. He approached the tree stump with the hatchet lying on top of it, the tool he had used the day before to chop large sections of wood into smaller, more usable pieces for the hearth in the convent’s main living area.
Five minutes later found him at the gate, hatchet in hand, watching as the diminutive sister Clara used a key from the ring she carried to undo the lock, granting him access to the wider world beyond.
“I’ll be back in an hour,” he told her. “Two at the most.”
“I’ll keep an eye out,” she told him before locking the gate behind him.
He followed the long drive past the lake, into the wide, wooded area through which it ran. The trees surrounded him, loomed over him, the shade causing the temperature to drop by several degrees.
Should have brought a jacket, he told himself. The chill made him feel alert and alive, however, so he cast the thought aside.
“God is great,” he whispered as he headed deeper into the woods. “God is love. God is mercy.” Then, after a few seconds: “God is wrath…”
Pastor Lewis had not passed this way since he had arrived at the convent. Flashes of memory flickered through his mind: darkness and rain, thunder and lightning, a dead man with the blood red eyes of the damned, briefly but clearly illuminated, reaching toward him…
The snapping of a fallen tree branch brought him back to the here and now. Stopping in his tracks, he watched as an undead woman came stumbling out of the woods. Pastor Lewis remained in place until the creature was close enough to touch him, to wrap its fingers in the sleeve of his shirt, all the while moaning and growling, mouth open wide, exposing its rotting teeth.
Raising the hatchet he carried, Pastor Lewis brought the blade down on the zombie’s skull with an audible crunch. The creature collapsed, lay twitching on the ground. Dropping to one knee, Pastor Lewis pried the hatchet free then struck the undead woman again, just to make sure. When he stood up and inspected his shirt, he shook his head at the dark splotches he saw there.
A little while later, he reached the end of the drive and the more legitimate, two-lane road running perpendicular to it. Next to the intersection stood a large, wooden sign that read “Our Lady of Perpetual Salvation” with an arrow painted on it, showing the way. Pastor Lewis used the hatchet to chop down the sign then dragged it away, hiding it among the trees.
“So, east or west?” he mumbled as he approached the road once again. On a whim, he went east for about a mile before turning back and heading the other way. He found nothing of any great interest in either direction, mostly just more trees, overgrown fields, and some abandoned looking houses.
When he returned to the convent, Sister Clara met him at the gate and let him in.
Several hours later, Pastor Lewis and the four nuns residing at the convent partook in a Thanksgiving meal.
After nightfall, the pastor and three of the nuns—Sister Margaret decided to remain indoors—sat outside wrapped in blankets, watching as a meteor shower sketched glowing, ephemeral paths across the sky.
“God is great,” said Pastor Lewis during the display.
The sisters agreed.
When the pastor went inside and prepared for bed, he thought about the sign he had cut down earlier in the day.
Should have been done a long time ago.
The thought gnawed at him, keeping him awake longer than usual.
Friday, November 27th
A cold wind gusted across the rooftop, carrying with it the first real bite of winter. Eric stood with his rifle in his hands, watching the roadway laid out below him, rows of small buildings lining it to either side. He had gotten used to the view since joining “Buck’s Brigade,” as some of his fellow guards half-jokingly referred to the apartment complex’s group of protectors. By now, he knew practically every detail of that view including the positions of the bodies lining the street’s black surface, many of them there as a result of Eric’s marksmanship, which improved with each passing day. As he watched, a pack of do
gs emerged from a side street to hastily feed on a few of the corpses before hurrying off. That they had ventured into his line of sight at all showed just how desperate for sustenance they had become. Their numbers had been thinned by a number of the other guards. The dogs had nothing to fear from Eric, though. He felt sorry for them, could not bring himself to kill them. Even if it was a mercy.
Within moments of their departure, Eric forgot all about the dogs and their sad predicament. He had more pressing matters on his mind, one in particular he was not entirely sure how he should handle. Last night, when he had returned to the apartment he shared with Mitchell and Amanda after his shift on the rooftop, much of it spent quietly surveying the surrounding area in the glare of more than a dozen spotlights, he had found Amanda on the couch, a bruise on her cheek and tears in her eyes.
“What happened?” he had asked, pulling off his gloves and kneeling before her, taking her hands in his. A space heater warmed the room and a lamp illuminated their surroundings, both connected to a generator outside via extension cables.
“It was…” Closing her eyes, she had lowered her head.
“Tell me.”
When she did, a furnace blast of anger had roared inside of him.
“Hey, buddy.”
The words intruded upon his dark reverie. He turned to see Tory approaching him, looking a bit unsteady on his feet, a mostly empty bottle of whiskey in his hand. “Need a little something to warm you up?” he asked, offering Eric the bottle.
“No, I’m good.”
“To each his own.”
Drinking from the bottle, Tory took a few steps toward the edge of the rooftop. For a moment, he looked as though he might lose his balance and go over, plummet three stories to the cold, hard ground below. But he steadied himself, a lopsided grin finding its way onto his face.
“Any good shooting today?”
Eric looked over to where the other guards, three of them, studied the areas near the building for which they were responsible. None of them were paying Eric and Tory any attention. They took their jobs seriously, knowing they had plenty of people depending on them.
