The Living Dead Series (Book 2): World Without End

by L. I. Albemont

  By chance my arrival came at a time of renewed agitations on the border. The natives attack at night as this gives them advantage. The rain does not bother them and they have no armor to rust. I should tell you that when it is not pouring rain here, water drifts about in cold mists making everything continually wet. Despite the dampness here the ground itself, when dug from pits and cut into squares*, will burn, sending out a smoking heat with a somewhat pleasant smell. Tell my mother that she would not like the climate here, nevertheless.

  To venture beyond the wall is unwise and, except for the scouts, prohibited. The wall itself is stout stone with a goodly moat well-planted with sharpened stakes. The scouts reported that the tribes were on the move and approaching our position gradually. Why they take such a circuitous route is unknown, perhaps they think to confuse us as to the timing of their attack. According to my commander these barbarians still use chariots not only to travel about the countryside but also in battle.

  The night after my arrival they struck, taking down one of our sentinels with the long spear. In response we loosed a volley of pitch but hit nothing. Their warriors seemed to fade into the mist, giving up their attack easily but my brothers assure me this is a feint on their part to discover where our men are concentrated along the wall.

  Just prior to the first light of dawn the attack began in earnest, the naked warriors aiming their javelins with uncanny accuracy. The gods though, were with us, and we lost no one and inflicted great injury on our foes. The attack was brief and the Picti soon fled, leaving their dead and wounded on the field.

  After dawn broke, the primipilus sent a party of men, I among them, to collect the bodies and dispatch any wounded left behind. The first savage I came upon appeared to be breathing in short, agonized gasps. His body was badly burned and his face seemed to have melted yet still he struggled to live. I grasped what hair he still had, preparing to slit his throat and end his agony when his body arched and spasmed and he surrendered his life. I called to Decimus and together we carried the body over to the growing pile.

  We covered the remains with pitch and lighted it with torches. Once it took hold the bodies began to shift as they burned. What happened next, though incredible, I swear by the gods to be true.

  The dead warriors, some in flames, rose to their feet and began to walk about the battlefield. More than just walk, they attacked with open mouths and grasping hands, biting and clawing as if to make a meal of us. Amazed, we were slow to defend ourselves but did finally go into formation and beat them back, striking them what should have been death blows but having little effect. Every time we knocked one to the ground, he rose again to attack.

  A flaming figure rushed me. It was the same warrior I had watched die. Skin crisping and peeling he took me to the ground and I stabbed him to no effect, only just managing to hold off that ravenous mouth. I did finally get to my feet and threw him, by chance, into the moat where he was impaled on the sharpened stakes. Even then he did not die but wriggled impotently to get free while the stakes held him fast.

  A cursed savage bit Decimus, taking a piece of flesh with his foul teeth and Decimus flew into one of his battlefield rages. He sliced through the Picti knocking them down then hacking off their heads. Even after sundering them thus, the mouths continued to bite desperately and Decimus stomped the skulls to foul-smelling shards. We soon dealt thus with the rest.

  Decimus and several others now lie ill with vomiting and chills that make their bodies cold to touch. The medicus has never seen this before but attributes it to the bites all the men sustained. I fear greatly for their lives and we have made sacrifice to the gods for their recovery.

  The blue warrior I spoke of before remains pierced by the stakes in the moat. Despite seemingly mortal wounds he lives and we watch to see how long he can continue thus. In the meantime we go about our task of building the wall to keep these monsters out. I must say that the sight of this dreadful creature, writhing and clicking his teeth hungrily, is a most encouraging incentive to completing our work thoroughly yet quickly.

  Researchers note: Legion II Augusta was relieved of duty the following year, A.D. 128, after the commander requested reinforcements due to high casualties in skirmishes along the wall. Indeed, casualties were so high that a special investigation was launched. The 2nd Augusta could not provide the bodies of the fallen and Rome concluded large numbers of the legion had deserted. Soldiers from Legion VI Victrix were sent to the region later in that same year but had similar problems with “desertions”.

  *peat

  Note: See records found in Folio V, cached herein entitled “Egyptian tombs and Howard Carter journals.”

  Bea tried to contain her excitement. As an historian she marveled over the slim set of circumstances that allowed this ancient document to survive the long ages and resurface here, on the glowing blue background of her computer. Obviously Sylvie thought the correlation between this ancient and obscure border skirmish and what was happening now was important. There were similarities and perhaps the rest of the folder also dealt with the illness.

  Downloading the documents to a flash drive she then decided she wanted hard copies of all of it. Hands trembling she finally found printer paper and, crossing her fingers that she wasn’t low on ink, hit print. The old Cannon printer stuttered into life and began printing.

  As the pages began to stack up, reality reared its ugly head and the metal gates clanged again. She looked out. The air was smoky and the snow looked dirty in places. A crowd had gathered outside on the sidewalk but that wasn’t the worst of it. The worst was what had attracted them in the first place. The dead nurse had found her way outside the main house and over to the gates, stumbling against them over and over again, attracted by who knows what outside.

  She stood to one side of the window and watched them. They all had those white eyes, as if they had a film over them and she wondered if they could see at all. They seemed to be bumping into each other randomly, paying no real attention to their surroundings.

  “See? They’re dead; you can tell from their eyes being all dried up.” Brian, awake now but still in his pajamas, joined her beside the window and peered out.

  “They’re sick, Brian. And don’t stand in front of the window where they might see you.”

  “They can’t see, Bea. Watch.” He moved right up against the window and waved his arms up and down, making faces at the crowd. None of them reacted. Bea grabbed his arm and pulled him away.

  “Don’t ever do that again! We don’t want to attract any attention we don’t have to!” she said, appalled that he would take a chance like that.

  “Doesn’t matter. They didn’t see me. Calm down.” He opened the refrigerator door and stood there inspecting the contents.

  Bea let their stored water run out of the tub and took a shower, then made Brian to do the same. She checked their backpacks and added the flash drive to hers. She had a feeling they were in more danger now with the virus inside the wall and might need to bug out at any moment. They had to stay ready. Brian emerged from the bathroom. She turned the water on to fill the bathtub up again.

  Someone banged thunderously on the kitchen door. She stifled a scream and went for the gun on the table in the front room. It wasn’t there. She went cold. Where was it? Frantically searching the floor and under furniture she found nothing. Digging in her backpack she pulled out the second revolver and holding it carefully she walked down the short hallway to the kitchen.

  Brian stood in front of the kitchen door, holding the missing revolver and aiming it at the driver outside. Strips of gray skin hung down from his face forming a horrible fringe around his neck and shoulders. His lips were gone and his teeth, stained red and broken, were visible in a permanent, sneering grin. The door trembled under his fists and as they stood there, one of the glass panes cracked.

  “Brian, give me the gun and go in the bedroom,” she whispered.

  Bea pulled on her boots, never taking her eyes off the driver. His e
yes, like those of the people at the gate, were clouded over with white. He was completely focused on the door but didn’t seem to actually see her. She didn’t know what had brought him over here until she noticed something. There was a spattering of blood, bones, and fur, mixed with dog biscuits on the ground next to the stoop. The driver had found Brian’s stray. He had probably followed it over here. She felt sick. Another pane of glass cracked, insidious little lines spreading out like a web.

  “Bea, I’m here.” Brian took the second gun and stood beside her, his hands shaking and the gun wavering. She opened her mouth to tell him to go back to the bedroom and then-

  The door shattered, the old wooden frame giving way as the burly figure came through, falling clumsily to the floor. He brought a smell of rot and decay with him. Fresh blood covered what remained of the clothes he wore. Bea backed away, holding the gun in front of her. She fired once and hit him dead center in the abdomen, knocking him down. He got to his knees, arms outstretched while he moaned.

  Brian screamed at her, “In the head, Bea, you have to hit the head.”

  She fired again; this time skull and brains sprayed across the kitchen cupboards. The headless body slumped to the floor. Her ears rang and she staggered out of the room and over to the futon where she collapsed, her knees shaking. Something dark blocked the light from the window for a few seconds but when she looked up nothing was there.

  The kitchen door was so damaged she couldn’t see a way to make it secure again. An icy wind whipped through the house, fluttering the paper towels and she heard a moaning that might be the wind or could be something else. She checked to make sure she had the gun beside her.

  Just then they heard a screeching, grinding sound then a crash. They looked out the window. A Suburban had crashed into the old gates, knocking part of the wall down then flipping over on top of the rusty iron. A limp body was just visible through the broken windshield, hanging upside-down suspended by the seat belt. The crowd on the sidewalk, attracted by all the noise, poured through the open gateway, spreading out across the garden. Three fell into the swimming pool while four more mobbed the Suburban, pounding on the doors, somehow knowing there was food inside. They heard a scream then silence.

  “Get your boots on, Brian,” she whispered, crouched below the window frame, “I think it’s time to go.”

  Staying low they found their backpacks and jackets and went out through the kitchen, Bea put the iron fleur-de-lis rail in her back pack, lifted the curtain of ivy hiding the broken wall, and slipped out into the side street.

  Snow fell softly on the deserted street and sidewalk. The branches of the towering oaks that lined the street drooped under the heavy, white blanket. They stayed close together, searching around every corner for movement, listening to the wind whistling through the avenues. Lights were on in most of the houses but they were too afraid of making noise or what they might find inside to knock and ask for help. The snow muffled the sound of their footsteps as they proceeded down the street, heading from force of habit toward the Metro. Bea stopped, trying to decide where they could go.

  “Ok, here’s the plan. We’re going to Dupont Circle. Evan is over there somewhere and so is Sylvie from work and she might need me to get into the Gallery. If we find her I’ll probably give her my pass and then you and I will hang out at her place for a while. Does that sound okay to you?”

  He nodded but said, “Bea, we need to each be able to get to a gun fast. Zombies won’t wait while we dig through the backpacks.”

  He was right. Reluctantly she pulled out both guns and put one in her pocket, placing the other in his hand. He put it in his jacket pocket and they trudged on.

  They saw several wrecked vehicles and some areas of snow that were stained with a dark fluid but they were almost to M Street before they saw another human being. A solitary figure, male, with a rifle slung over one shoulder, marched steadily ahead of them, cautiously looking left and right. He wore a thick parka and sturdy-looking boots. Bea reflected that just a day or so ago if she had seen anyone walking down a street with a gun she would have run away and probably called 9-1-1. Now she and Brian hurried to catch up with him.

  The man must have heard their boots on the snow. In one fluid motion he turned around, slid the gun from his shoulder and knelt in the street taking aim at them. They stopped and put their hands up.

  Chapter Five

  David’s first thought was that he had almost shot two children. The taller one was a girl and she stood protectively in front of a boy. His second thought was one of relief that they seemed to be uninfected and in possession of their senses.

  He stood up and walked forward, still keeping them in his sights in case he was wrong and they turned out to be ill. The boy peeked around the girl but she pushed him back. A woman, he thought as he drew closer, not a girl and then he recognized her. The woman from the Metro.

  “Hello, Beatrice Actually. What brings you this way?” The boy moved around to stand beside her and stared at David suspiciously. David lowered the rifle.

  “Some infected people broke into our house and we had to get out. I’m trying to get to Dupont Circle. Have you been over there?” Bea asked.

  “No, and I don’t know what the streets are like there. I’m heading in that direction for an assignment though.”

  “But you said this has nothing to do with terrorism. Why is Homeland Security getting involved?”

  “Let’s just say that something has come up and I’ve got some things to do on the West coast.”

  “So you’re getting out of the city and leaving everyone here to die,” she said, almost but not quite keeping the disdain from her voice.

  “My being here helps no one and believe it or not, I still have a job to do. As for whether or not I’m getting out of the city- I guess we’ll see. Since we’re headed in the same direction for now, do you want to join forces again?”

  David saw her hesitate and look at his rifle doubtfully then she seemed to come to a decision.

  “That works for me. This is my brother, Brian Kelly. Brian, this is David…?”

  “Chambord. Nice to meet you, Brian. Let’s go.”

  He would have known they were related without the introduction. Both had the same large, somewhat startling green eyes, straight dark eyebrows, and thick, sooty lashes. The boy’s hair was a slightly darker blond than his sister’s but they had the same fair skin. They stayed close together.

  The snowfall picked up and they pressed on, constantly looking in shadows and around corners. The streets and sometimes the sidewalks were littered with abandoned vehicles, some of them with doors open wide and the snow around them stained dark red. They were walking as quietly as possible and not talking when David held up his hand, motioning them to stop.

  Ahead, a blue minivan rested partly on the sidewalk and partly up on a fire hydrant. Water gushed from the broken hydrant, coating the street in ice growing continually thicker. Someone in the front seat was struggling, trapped and trying to get out. They approached cautiously from the left.

  A woman, blood-covered hands flailing about, sat buckled in the front seat. Red coated her mouth, chin, and the front of her torn blouse. She moaned.

  David, rifle held at ready, moved close enough to see inside. The struggling woman moaned louder and her teeth ground together hungrily. Chunks of flesh lay in the passenger seat beside her and most of her abdomen was simply gone. The back seat contained the remains of a child, savaged and consumed almost beyond recognition. A small pink lunchbox lay between the seats. Whoever had attacked the child had not left enough of her to reanimate. He backed away.

  “There’s nothing we can do here.”

  Walking carefully across the ice around the minivan they continued on until they came to Olivet Square. Lights were on in some of the 19th century row houses circling the little cul-de-sac but the curtains and blinds were drawn and no movement inside was visible.

  An ambulance, interior lights on, exterior lights sti
ll flashing, lay flipped on its side. A sheet-covered figure writhed and strained against the restraining straps of a gurney. David lifted the sheet for a glance then quickly dropped it. The snow around the vehicle was trampled and footprints led off in every direction but whatever had happened here was over, everyone was gone. But where?

  They cut across the square going into a fenced-off alleyway that served the homeowners as parking space and a place for trash pick-up. Back here some of the residents had started tiny gardens or just green spaces for a pet or maybe a child; all of them yearning for a connection to something living and fresh in the concrete and stone city. Everything here was quiet, unnaturally so. Children should be out sledding, building snowmen or just throwing snowballs at each other.

  The clock tower on the Episcopal Church was silhouetted against the silvery sky. It was almost noon and soon the melodic, deep chimes from the bell tower filled the afternoon quiet. David continued to search for a short cut that would let them bypass the more commercial areas along the route to Dupont Circle but the alleyway terminated in a block wall and they turned back reluctantly, returning to the square where they found that they now had company.

  Staggering figures trickled into the snow-filled little street. David didn’t know where they had come from, maybe there was another alley behind the houses across the streets. There were already too many for the three of them to get back out the way they had come in.

  The clock tower continued striking its sonorous notes. It seemed to be malfunctioning and wouldn’t stop striking. Every time it struck more infected people staggered into the streets.

  It was the sound, David thought, that’s what draws them in. He had already realized their vision was affected negatively but their hearing was razor sharp. Right now the infected weren’t paying attention to them but they had no hope of getting around them and back out into the main street even if they wanted to. They backed up to the front door of the closest townhouse and huddled together on the front stoop as the street filled. David picked up a snow shovel someone had left leaning against the rail and began trying frenziedly to break the door down.