by Ray Wallace
“Un-fucking-believable,” Marco heard one of his lieutenants say for about the tenth time. He had to agree with the sentiment even if, by now, he had gotten pretty sick of hearing it.
Jimmy, who had been leading the way through the silent city, gave one of the zombies a shove, laughed as it toppled and fell to the ground. If anyone else had done it, Marco would have been pissed. They had to be careful, vigilant, as threats other than those of the undead variety could present themselves. Survivors haunted the city, enough of them to form gangs who might not take too kindly to the presence of outsiders. Against his better judgment, Marco found himself laughing at Jimmy’s little stunt. What could he say? He liked the kid. Still, he knew he had to rein him in.
“All right, that’s enough,” he told the kid.
“Sorry, boss,” said Jimmy, looking suitably chagrined. “I won’t do it again.”
They continued along the street, past buildings that had been infiltrated by the snow via broken doors and shattered windows. There was a temptation to start shooting as many of the immobilized zombies as they could while they had this opportunity. But it would be a waste of ammo if the zombies had been permanently done in by the cold. Also, Marco could not think of a more effective way of drawing the attention he wished to avoid than by firing off rounds. He had considered using blunt instruments, smashing in zombie skulls. But, again, it might turn out to be a lot of wasted effort. Besides, he was enjoying himself too much to participate in such a grisly undertaking.
It’s like a gift from God, he told himself, walking around out in the open like this, not having to worry about being some dead fucker’s next meal.
Where he had been living in recent months was nicer, by far, than anywhere he had ever called home before. As somewhere to ride out the end of the world, he had few complaints. But as the saying went, familiarity did indeed breed contempt. And he had become all too familiar with the neighborhood atop Mt. Washington, trapped behind a fence, cut off from the wide world beyond its boundaries. Whenever he did leave the area to go on a raid with some of his soldiers, the zombie threat would cause a feeling of tension to settle into his stomach and stay there until he was home once again. So when the snow arrived and he saw the effect it had on the creatures, Marco had been all too eager to head down to the city and walk its streets unencumbered by fear.
They had gone straight to the Fort Pitt Museum, what had turned out to be a disappointing venture as its displays had been thoroughly looted. After that, they had spent several minutes at the Point, the meeting place of the city’s famous rivers. Then it was on to the baseball stadium which included a walk around the infield where so many great athletes had played. Visits were paid to a number of other landmarks—most of them invisible from their vantage point on the hill, the view blocked by the surrounding buildings—until they had ended up in this particular section of town. All the while, as the only member of the group who had lived in the city during and after the outbreak, Jimmy had played the role of tour guide.
“Anybody getting tired?” Marco wanted to know as he looked to the sky, the sun directly overhead.
“No, sir.” A unanimous response. Clearly, the others shared his enthusiasm for the expedition.
“Hungry?”
They had brought food with them: dried meats along with bottled drinks carried in packs by some of Marco’s soldiers.
More “no sirs.”
“Okay. So where to next, Jimmy?”
The kid gave him a smile as he led the way.
“Up here is where…”
Thursday, December 3rd
Rachel sat on the couch, feeling like her old self, the one she thought she had lost for a while there. She had been sick for days following her escape from the air force base, sicker than she had been…
Since the plague nearly killed me.
“It’s the drug leaving your system,” she recalled a voice—Howard's voice—telling her amid the nausea, the chaos and confusion consuming her mind as she lay on the couch in the hotel room, shivering and moaning. “Whatever they gave you, it looks like it’s got some heroin-level withdrawal symptoms once you stop taking it.”
Knowing Howard had spent time in Vietnam during the war, she wondered if he had been speaking from experience, if he had developed a habit of his own, one he had been forced to break in a similarly hellish manner.
Many times over the past several days, Rachel had been convinced she had died and come back as one of the undead. She had spent long, hallucinatory stretches within the minds of various zombies, forgetting who she was in those moments, existing only to hunt… kill… feed…
Now, sitting on the couch, she could recall in detail—too much detail—the awful hunger of the undead, the sounds of screaming, the taste of human meat as she tore it free with her teeth from the bodies of her victims.
“Good God,” she muttered, shaking her head, trying to dislodge the memories.
“You all right?”
Howard ambled over to a nearby chair and sat down.
“I'm fine,” she said. “Just talking to myself.”
“You’ve done your share of that lately.”
“Have I?”
“Yeah. Especially those first few days, during the worst of it.”
“What did I say?”
A shrug. “Nothing that made a lot of sense.”
Earlier, during one of the first fully coherent conversations Rachel had been capable of having in quite a while, she had learned that five of Howard’s “recruits” had been killed during the rescue operation, that the rest had fled for parts unknown with whatever loot they could carry with them.
“They thought it best to leave the area, in case the military sent reinforcements.” He gave a small laugh. “Not like they were a loyal bunch to begin with.”
“They saw an opportunity.”
Howard nodded. “And when they got what they wanted…” He looked at her for a long moment before adding: “So here we are again, just the two of us. Although… I guess that’s not completely accurate. Can you stand?”
“I think so.”
It took some assistance from Howard for her to get up from the couch. Then they went out to the balcony, stood there in the afternoon light staring at the crowd of zombies gathered across the hotel grounds three stories below. Practically shoulder to shoulder, their combined moaning rose up like a sonic miasma, heads tilted, red eyes looking directly at her.
“Your faithful subjects,” Howard said from beside her.
Even though she knew the zombies had no intention of harming her, being the focus of their collective attention gave her a serious case of the creeps.
“I think I want to go back inside.”
When she was seated on the couch again, Howard asked if her appetite had returned.
To Rachel’s surprise, she found that it had.
“I’m so hungry, I could eat my own arm,” she said, jokingly.
Then she remembered: The screams… The taste of human flesh…
Okay, maybe not.
Friday, December 4th
As they drove along the open stretch of road, Pastor Lewis tried to ignore the nervous sensation creeping up on him. He rode shotgun while Sister Clara sat behind the wheel of the station wagon the nuns had managed to keep in good working order. They had been driving for about five minutes now, would have to travel another five before they reached anyplace that could even be considered a town. When they had started their journey, the pastor had asked Sister Clara to head west. “If you would be so kind.”
The previous night, shortly after sunset, they had been treated to another light show in the sky. This one, however, had been of the man-made variety. In the distance, above the trees standing like sentinels to the east of the convent, a bright and brilliant technicolor display had been visible. Fireworks of every imaginable color had lit up the night sky, one after the next, for a good twenty minutes. The nuns, excepting Sister Margaret, had oohed and aahed appreciatively. All t
he while, Pastor Lewis had experienced a steady hum of fear.
He knew that in his role of protector, he might be called upon to do battle with enemies of the living, still human variety. The fireworks had driven home the fact that these potential enemies existed somewhere nearby, that he and the nuns were not as isolated as their surroundings might lead them to believe.
If I found the convent, so could someone else.
He would feel a lot better about his odds of defending the place if he had something more effective than a hatchet with which to do so.
“We need to arm ourselves,” he had explained to Sister Margaret at breakfast. “Should have already done so.”
Expecting resistance to the idea, he had been surprised when the elder nun had nodded her head in agreement. “Do what you need to do.”
So here he was, riding along an empty stretch of road, looking for…
What, exactly?
His thoughts went to the old church where he and his followers had stayed for a while in the early stages of the outbreak. The days and nights he had spent on his knees, praying. The utter exhaustion that had consumed him. The moment he had collapsed, putting his hands down to stop his fall. Finding the trap door, the hidden room, the arsenal of weapons…
Lord, you helped me then. Please help me now.
“Town, just ahead,” said Clara.
He could see the buildings, small with distance, growing larger as they approached. Houses began to appear along either side of the road, as did zombies, watching the car go by with their red eyes.
The pastor gripped the handle of the hatchet resting in his lap.
When they arrived in town, Sister Clara stopped the car, put it in park, and left the engine running. A nearby building, vandalized along with most of the others, housed the local sheriff’s office. Looking around, Pastor Lewis saw that the nearest zombies were making their slow but steady approach from a few blocks away.
“What’s the plan?” asked the sister.
“I’m going in for a look around. You wait here. If any of those zombies reach the car before I’m back, leave without me.”
She shook her head. “I can’t just—”
“You can and you will,” he told her. And before she could say anything else, he opened the door on his side of the car and got out. Hatchet in hand, he made his way to the entrance of the sheriff’s office, hoping he could find what he needed on this cold December.
Saturday, December 5th
Walking through town with Buck and three of his fellow guards, Eric thought about what the leader of their merry little band had said to him in the aftermath of Tory’s death. He had approached Eric in the courtyard of the apartment building, led Eric to a spot where they would not be overheard by those—the Unholy Trinity among them—who had gathered around the pool despite the frigid temperatures.
“I think I have a pretty good idea what happened up there,” the big man had said, motioning toward the rooftop, a serious expression on his bearded face.
Shit, thought Eric, sensing trouble, imagining what his punishment might be. Imprisonment? Banishment? Death?
“And I have to say…” Buck had placed a gloved hand on his shoulder. “I’m sure you had your reasons. And I’m sure they were good reasons. You’ve never struck me as anything other than level-headed. Besides, you’re one of us now. As for that Tory fellow… I didn’t trust him from the moment I laid eyes on him. So as far as I’m concerned, the matter is closed.”
And though a feeling of relief had washed over him, Eric had wondered:
Then why bring it up at all?
But he knew the answer to that question. Didn't he?
Because he wants you to know that he knows. That he's looking out for you. That you’re in his debt.
Later on, in the living room of their apartment, Eric had told Amanda:
“I don’t think we should stay here much longer.”
“Why is that?” she had wanted to know. “Where would we go?”
Eric had shaken his head. “I don’t know. It’s just…”
He had left the statement unfinished, not wanting to alarm Amanda, not sure he could explain what he was thinking, anyway. Not without sounding paranoid. But after Simon and Tory… Who could blame me if I'm a little paranoid?
“Eric. Todd. Take the left side,” Buck said in a low voice, bringing the group to a halt. “Sue. Randy. You take the right.”
Snow flurries fell out of the cloudy afternoon sky, randomly tossed about by a biting, intermittent wind.
“I’ll stay here,” Buck told them, indicating a spot in the middle of the street. “Keep an eye on things.”
Eric took the lead, rifle strapped across his back, .35 caliber pistol in hand. He and Todd, a wiry nineteen-year-old with a long ponytail hanging from beneath his knit cap, moved off to their left, toward what had been a drug store once upon a time. Eric found it unlikely they would find anything of value inside. But orders were orders and, for the time being at least, it was his job to follow them.
Glass crunched underfoot as they entered the place. Light seeping in through the front of the store allowed them to make out their surroundings which included toppled shelves, trampled merchandise, a long counter off to one side, and a door set into the rear wall.
“Probably a supply room,” said Eric, indicating the door. “I’ll take a look.”
Crossing the room, Eric thought about the debilitating effect the weather seemed to have had on the zombies. Since the snow had started to fall a few days earlier, none of the creatures had been seen moving about anywhere near the apartment complex or further from home. For the past few weeks, the creatures had appeared to slow down as the weather had cooled. Then, once the temperatures had dropped below freezing, they had stopped moving altogether. Eric wondered, though… What if they stayed indoors, out of direct exposure to the cold? They might prove dangerous. He need not have worried, though. The back room was as deserted as the front, equally vandalized, too. A pair of windows set high in the wall allowed some daylight into the enclosed space. Below the windows, there was another door.
Eric opened it and exited into the alleyway behind the building. Then, without giving it much thought, he took off running. Through the alleyway. Around a corner. On he went. Slowing long enough to get his bearings, he found himself in an unfamiliar section of town. He knew the general area well enough, though, to get himself headed in the direction he wished to go.
Eventually, he found the beach, the spot where he had come ashore all those weeks ago. And there it was, the boat that had brought him to this place, bobbing up and down on the waves where it had been anchored. Unfortunately, the vessel’s condition had changed rather dramatically since last he laid eyes on it. Someone had torched it, reducing it to little more than a burned-out husk. Eric found the fact that it still floated rather remarkable. Consumed with a feeling of emptiness, he stood there for a while, staring at the scene before him: the ruined boat… the wide, uncaring ocean… the beckoning horizon…
From behind him came the sound of boots crunching sand. A voice he knew:
“You’re one of us now.”
Nodding his head in agreement, Eric put his back to the ocean then headed inland, accompanied by Buck and three of his fellow guards.
Sunday, December 6th
“Who the hell are you people? And what are you doing in my home?”
Charlie and Joey had been sitting on the floor playing cards, talking trash the entire time:
“Damn, you have to be about the sorriest poker player who ever lived…”
“That is the lamest bluff I’ve ever seen…”
Sheila had curled up on a large, comfortable chair, struggling to keep her eyes open as, outside, the light had faded with the onset of evening. Her fatigue evaporated when the man with the sawed-off, double-barrel shotgun entered the room. He held the gun low like an old west outlaw, aimed at Sheila and the two brothers. Sheila assumed the man had let himself in with a key, had do
ne so as noiselessly as possible after seeing the unfamiliar car in the driveway. He looked to be in his fifties, graying hair, beard, and eyebrows all in need of a trim. It was easy to imagine him playing Santa Clause around the holidays, back when people did such things, before his own personal hell had whittled him down and hardened his features.
Without a word, Joey leaped to his feet, right hand reaching for the pistol sticking out the back of his pants.
The shotgun roared, the blast seeming to shake the very foundation of the house.
Joey flew backward, a hole punched through his torso, spraying Sheila with a gory wetness. He landed in a heap at the base of Sheila’s chair.
“Fuck!” shouted Charlie.
“Now, before you go and do anything stupid…” said the murderous St. Nick.
Pop! Pop! Pop!
Sheila, having grabbed the .22 resting between her thigh and the arm of the chair, squeezed off three quick shots. They sounded small and ineffectual compared to the shotgun's obvious power but they did the trick. The first shot hit the man in the chest. The second in the throat. The third just beneath the eye. He fell over backward, weapon clattering to the floor.
And just like that, Sheila had killed her first, living human being.
“Joey,” said Charlie, crawling over to his fallen sibling. “Shit, man…”
Amazingly, Joey was still alive. Sucking in ragged gasps of air, he managed to hold on far longer than Sheila would have thought possible. When he finally passed away, full darkness had settled in.
For a long time, all Sheila could do was sit on the floor with Joey’s head on her lap, Charlie kneeling beside her, weeping so hard it sounded like something may have torn loose inside of him.
Near midnight, Charlie gathered the body of his brother in his arms, carried it out to the SUV they had been using for a while now, placed it in the back. Then he disappeared around the side of the house, returned a short while later with a red gas can in hand. Using the gasoline and a pack of matches, he set fire to the house.
