Leaves rustle and twigs break under the weight of someone or something traipsing through the woods. The fire fizzles out, and a silver wisp of smoke rises up from it, tickling his nose with the fresh scent of pine sap and bark. The shuffling becomes louder as it draws near. Maybe it’s a bear, attracted to the campfire and the smell of blood on the rabbit skin that I buried. He listens intently as the steps get closer. No. Not a bear. Too light footed to be a bear. It sounds like a person. Then he sees it. A bloodied walking corpse. Jawless, it is doomed for hell within hell. It’s tongue dangles in the air, shriveled, grey, dry and useless. How can it eat without the ability to bite and gnaw? Wolf watches as it passes beneath the tree, smelling the stench of piss and shit that hangs in the air with it. He nearly vomits from the putrid stench. It’s a good thing I have a strong stomach. As a survivalist he has to eat everything from slugs to spiders on the show, teaching viewers how to survive even when there seems to be no food available. Insects, he often says, are packed with protein. Protein is energy, and energy is life. Insects; nature’s most abundant fuel.
The zombie lingers near the camp. It smells something. The rabbit skin. Within moments it finds the loose patch of dirt where Wolf buried it. After a few swipes at the ground the monster unearths it and immediately shoves it down into its throat. No chewing, no gnawing; it simply places the bloodied flesh into its stomach, reaching forearm-deep into what’s left of its mouth. Finally it meanders off.
#
In the morning Wolf climbs down and sets up a makeshift perimeter to alert himself of the wandering dead. Nothing complicated, just a set of strings and twine tied around trees in a wide circle with unnatural objects dangling from them that would make distinct noises if rattled. An empty soda can with a rock inside, car keys, some harness hooks, etc. He tries the CB radio again. Still nothing, so he starts to comb the ground for some good sturdy branches. He gathers a bunch and begins to sharpen the tips into crude spears. He lines them up along the perimeter of his camp, near the twine trip wires. He puts one up in the tree for easy access while he sleeps, and he keeps a few near the base of the tree for when he has a campfire burning.
Next he looks for two specific types of rock. A nipper and a chipper. The nipper is for banging away pieces and shards of the chipper. The chipper, once shaped properly, can be used as a cutting blade, a hand axe, or, if made smaller, an arrowhead. He makes good progress. But these tasks take up most of his day, and the sun begins to set before he realizes he hasn’t eaten. Without any traps set, he resorts to some grubs that he unearths under a moist and rotting log; a rare find in the winter months for sure. He washes them down with some cold, fresh stream water. Maybe I’ll fashion a net for fishing and some arrows for hunting. Maybe I can catch a wild turkey or a pheasant. They’re slow enough, and the meat will be tasty in a stew. Their feathers will make good arrow flights as well.
“There’s always tomorrow,” he says aloud with more hopeful thoughts. But just then he hears the unmistakable clatter of pebbles in a tin can. One of his alarms has been tripped. Then another, from behind; the jingle of car keys pierces the air like a knife. He placed the old soup can on the opposite end as the keys, so he’s about to be surrounded. I set up camp too close to the road. He grabs the nearest spear leaning against his lookout tree. No time to climb, or to think about the location of his camp. He can hear their tracks closing in. He tucks the spear under his right arm and steadies it in front of himself with his left hand. He sees one of them, shuffling its way toward him through the trees against the setting sunlight beyond; a grim silhouette. He circles around to get the fading sunlight out of his eyes. But the cannibal sees Wolf and starts to charge. With another spear nearby, Wolf launches the one in his hand at the creature, burying the tip into its chest and knocking it backward to the ground. Wolf grabs the other spear and runs up to the fallen zombie. With one big thrust he splits the demon’s head in two, jamming the spear down through the zombies’ skull and into the ground below. He quickly rips it out and holds it back at up the ready, listening with razored ears and watching with daggered eyes for the rustling of the other creature. He waits, hoping the shifting light of the woods and the dried crunching of fallen leaves will give up the beast’s location. But there’s no sound. There’s nothing but the quiet thumping in his chest and the shaky, whistling, foggy breaths that pass softly in and out his icy nostrils.
CHAPTER 24
With the burning body of the dead homeless zombie fading into the darkness behind them, Michael and Amy press on through the PATH tunnel. They nervously hold their flashlights as they walk, creating shaky circles of light with each rattle of their hands.
“I never thought we’d be so excited to see New Jersey,” Michael quietly jokes, trying to lighten the mood. Amy smiles but doesn’t allow a laugh. She’s worried that more cannibals may be lurking in the shadows.
“I guess this dust not only kills you, but it makes you come back as a zombie,” she says.
“Do you think it’s like airborne rabies or something?” Michael wonders. “Minxie and Madison had the same look in their eyes as the bum.”
“I don’t know. Whatever it is, I don’t want to catch it.”
Up ahead their flashlights reflect off the grey wall tiles of a station platform. They climb up. Yellow caution tape has been stretched across the entrances and exits, and signs are hung that read “station closed.”
“We’re locked in here from this side?” Michael asks with frustration.
“No. This station has transfers to other PATH lines, so they wouldn’t shut the entrances just because this one tunnel is closed. There.” Amy points. “There’s light up ahead.”
Sunlight pours down from a stairwell that leads up to street level. They shut their flashlights and jog towards it. They’ve made it through.
Trash blusters all around the ghostly streets; loose papers and plastic bags circle up into miniature whirlwinds as the poisonous breeze blows through Jersey City. Unfamiliar with the area, Amy begins to walk away from the grey, lifeless New York City skyline across the river. Her plan is to head west into the setting sun. Amy’s parents live in a little town in Pennsylvania. If we can make it to their house, maybe we’ll rest for a while before trying to cross the quarantine to safety.
“We’ve got to find the interstate,” she says. “Once we’re on it I can get us to my parents’ house. I just don’t know how to get to it from here.”
“Won’t the roads be crowded with traffic?” Michael asks.
“Yeah but we’ll be walking.”
“Walking to Pennsylvania?” Michael asks with shock.
“It’s the best option we have right now. It’s not like we can rent a car, and we don’t know how to steal one.”
“Maybe we can find bicycles,” Michael suggests sarcastically.
Just then Amy hears a gurgled growl from behind them, around the street corner. She pulls Michael into a nearby storefront vestibule and motions for him to be quiet. She peeks around to see the beast shambling across the street, wandering around in search of flesh.
“Lots of people stayed inside when the winds came, but this place is so densely populated that the streets could be swarming with infected people,” she whispers. “This is not a good place to be.”
“It’s a good thing we got out of Manhattan then. I guess any place is better than there in terms of people per square foot,” Michael replies.
“We need to get to the highway, or find a map or something,” Amy urges.
Michael peeks out of the vestibule for a look. The street is clear. “Let’s keep heading the way we were going. We have to see a sign eventually. I know it’s close.”
But as soon as they step out onto the sidewalk more infected emerge from around the corner. Panicked, Michael and Amy begin to run. The monsters see them and start to chase. Three, seven, and soon dozens. A horde of death trails them as they blindly run through the streets, looking for an open building to hide in, looking for anything that c
ould save them. They make random turns in an attempt to lose the undead mob, but the swarm still follows them. A morbid choir of grunts and growls sings a dissonant and horrific tune that hangs in the air behind them. They strain to breathe in their masks. The restricted air and feeling of confinement tires them out faster than they expect, but they keep pushing, running for their lives. They want so badly to rip them off and breathe full, lung-filling breaths, but they can't. They run for what feels like hours. The daylight turns to dusk, and death is on their heels. The horde begins to gain on them.
“They don’t get tired. They just keep coming!” Michael says between tired breaths.
They reach the outskirts of town, where old garages and warehouse buildings are seemingly left abandoned and in disrepair, but the windows and doors are all boarded up or locked to keep vagrants out. Amy runs up to an old garage and pounds her fists against the corrugated metal door, then does the same to the door of a nearby warehouse, trying to break in. But each attempt allows the swarm to draw closer.
“Help us! Somebody please help us!” Amy yells over and over, draining herself in the process.
“Look!” Michael yells, pointing ahead. “A sign for the highway!” He looks back over his shoulder at the mass of death that follows them. “We’ll never make it.”
Amy sees the sign ahead in the fading daylight; the icon for the interstate with an elbowed arrow pointing to the right. They can see the prize, but it’s just out of reach. They’re so close, but so far. If we can’t find shelter from the zombies to catch our breath, we’ll be dead in moments, whether it’s on the highway or not. What good is being on the highway if there are dozens of cannibals just a few strides behind?
The zombies are a hundred feet away. Michael and Amy have already given up but they don’t even know it yet.
Fifty feet. Amy continues to kick and smash on doors. Tears fill her eyes for the first time since she was a little girl.
Forty feet. Michael stands with his hands on his knees, exhausted.
Thirty feet. “Somebody! Anybody! Help us! Please God!” Amy yells it over and over.
Twenty feet. Amy drops her bloodied hands. She doesn’t even raise the bat up to defend herself. What good is it? Michael holds her in his arms.
Ten feet. The beasts close in. An unrelenting hunger drives them against all other impulses.
“I love you,” they both say as they embrace one last time. The grunts of the undead are so loud that they don’t hear the door open behind them. They shut their eyes and hug each other tight, letting the chorus of grotesque horror fill their ears. A moment later they’re pulled down to the ground and dragged backward. They hear the swift flash of a blade, a few thuds and gurgles, and then the heavy slam of a metal door. The groans of the undead become muffled and distant. They open their eyes to see Death looming over them.
CHAPTER 25
Marcus did as the old priest suggested. He washed up, changed his clothes, and rested at the empty house in town. In the morning he ate some canned food and then set out on his path. He considered stealing a car to drive back down to his stash of things, but he decided against it. It’s still stealing. Even though the owners are probably dead, and the whole world’s a mess, I want to avoid the road, to avoid people, to avoid the corrupt humanity that fights one another just to survive. Steal a car and get onto the lawless road? I’d be asking for trouble.
So he walks between roads, where he is alone with his thoughts. The trees shield much of the icy breeze, but it still chills him to the bone. The woods are quiet, peaceful. But they soon run scarce as he gets closer to the metropolitan area. Eventually Marcus needs to use the streets. He doesn’t want to trespass on peoples’ property, and when he’s off the road, in the woods, he doesn’t exactly know where he is anyway.
He stays on roads closest to the Hudson, but there are cars parked on the highways, abandoned. The road is in complete gridlock. Some cars have people inside, dead. Others were left with their doors wide open, their lights on, and their keys in the ignition. There’s blood everywhere. The streets are stained with it. Scraps of corpses are scattered like road kill along the asphalt; a long bone with bits of flesh and clothing still clinging to it, a severed hand, a gnawed arm. And pigeons. There are hundreds of them. Some pick at the remains of the dead. Others are frozen in death, their heads splattered on the asphalt like they simply fell from the sky. This is some biblical shit.
Some of the demons still linger nearby, scavenging on the remains of the fallen. Fearless, Marcus cuts down each one that he sees as he walks along the grotesque roadway, leaving heaps of bodies in his wake. He even goes out of his way to open the doors to cars if they’re stuck inside in order to rid the world of the scourge.
Mobs of the dead seem to congregate on the road. They shuffle between parked cars, they ravage corpses, and they train their glowing eyes on Marcus. He hacks away at them as they swarm. Focused, determined, he’s every bit as unrelenting as they are. But soon they are too many, and Marcus has to run. He breaks into a full sprint when he sees his exit off the highway, but the beasts are closing the gap. Marcus is getting tired, and the zombies seem to come from everywhere. A pile-up of cars is stretched across the ramp. Marcus leaps up onto the car roofs, out of reach from the amassing dead. Their ragged arms reach up for him, but they are unable to follow past the car jam. He looks down upon them in disgust. Their eyes are sunken into their skulls. Blood and spittle hang from their jaws, and pieces of rotting meat cling to them, frozen to the remains of their skin and clothing. When there’s no room left in hell, the dead will walk the Earth. Marcus turns off the dead highway, and soon gets to where he needs to be.
He enters the outer edge of town in the fleeting daylight and roams the streets looking for the building where he stashed all his stuff. At the time it was a dump, but a sturdy dump. He bought it outright with cash. A small warehouse in an old part of town that was rarely used by anyone other than bums and druggers. They couldn’t have done much damage. The place was locked up tight before I was arrested. But if someone got in, then my stuff might be gone. Most of it don’t matter anyway. It’s just cash, tools, and some personal shit... and the prize: my truck.
The truck was the first real thing Marcus ever purchased. At sixteen he saved up enough cash from selling weed to buy it, and he continued to work on it over the years, adding the 350 engine, beefing up the tires and suspension, customizing the paint job. He parked it in a corner of the warehouse, covered it in a tarp, and stacked wood shipping pallets and skids all around it. If someone got in, they wouldn’t even know it was there in the rubble.
When he found out the police had surveillance on him, he would often go out of the state to do his business, thinking that the New York cops’ jurisdiction might prevent them from following him. He worried they would seize his money and his truck if they could connect it to his drug trade, so he started to hide everything in the event he was ever caught. He thought he was invincible back then. Untouchable. He was wrong. It turned out the cops teamed up with the feds, so state borders didn’t matter. His world came crashing down fast, but the truck and the money were never found.
The front door is reinforced with steel and has a good dead bolt, and the garage part has a corrugated metal roll-down door with a trustworthy lock. The walls are concrete blocks. The only thing that worries me is the roof. There were leaks in a few spots before he was put away. But by now it might be the only way in. The warehouse keys are somewhere back in jail, along with his wallet and other small possessions that he had on him at the time of lockup. The truck keys should be inside the warehouse, right where he left them.
With his scythe slung across his back, Marcus walks around to the rear of the warehouse and leaps to grab the bottom rung on the metal ladder that leads to the roof. He climbs up, and sure enough where there was once a leak is now a gaping hole. It’s large enough for him to squeeze through. Lucky for him, though, it sits just above the small lofted area inside the warehouse, so he
won’t have to drop 15 feet to the cold cement floor.
Everything looks just how he left it. Across the warehouse he can see the tarp still in place behind the wooden shipping skids. He climbs down from the loft and opens the top drawer of the desk in the glass-enclosed office area. His keys are still there. He spins around to the closet, opens the door, and up on the top shelf is a gym bag. He pulls it down and zips it open. It’s all still here. All my cash. My blood money. Marcus shakes his head in despair. I wish it wasn’t. I wish some unfortunate soul stumbled across it while looking for a place to sleep and made a better life for himself. But what use is money now anyway? The world’s all going to shit.
Suddenly he hears a rattling sound coming from the garage door, and muffled screams; a woman calling out for help. Likely being attacked by someone like Harley. Is this it? Is this my test? Does God want me to kill again, to kill another living human being? He hears pounding on the door now, and more pleading for help. "Please God help us!" She’s pleading for God’s help. I can’t ignore her. He runs to the door with his blade in his hand and flings it open.
CHAPTER 26
“What the fuck are you?” a shocked Amy blurts out.
Michael’s voice shakes in fear as he looks up at Marcus. “Are we dead?”
Blood drips off of Marcus’ blade. His heavy breathing through the mask makes him sound like an epic sci-fi space villain. “No, you ain’t dead.”
“Jesus Christ! Imagine the luck we have? Someone just happens to be in the one building we’re in front of just before they got to us!” Michael exclaims as he and Amy get to their feet.
“Jesus Christ is right. But it wasn’t luck. It was providence.” Marcus says.
The Lazarus Impact Page 12
