Amongst the Dead

by David Bernstein

  The men continued moving about, suddenly stopping. “Well, lookie here,” one of them said. They’d found the door, ripping it open. A beam of light pierced the darkness, illuminating the staircase. Riley crawled faster, adrenaline numbing the pain.

  “Who’s down there?” a man yelled.

  “We’ve got your gun,” the other said. “Come out or we’re coming in.”

  Riley reached the bench, the beam of light making it easy to find her way. She grabbed the rifle, propped herself against the bench and readied her aim.

  A man’s booted foot and grimy pant leg appeared on the first step. Then, one by one, he took the stairs slowly as if a bomb waited under each one. Upon reaching the lantern, he picked it up, igniting it. Riley saw the man carried no gun, indicating that the .38 waited with the man topside.

  Fully in view, she saw one of the men from earlier. He began scanning the far walls with a flashlight. He was even filthier than when she’d first seen him, his flannel full of multicolored stains.

  She knew the men would find her and hoped both would come down so she could take them out together. Killing one would be easy, but she needed both. They’d have their way with her if given the chance, something her father had explained she needed to look out for.

  She hid the rifle behind her outstretched leg and waited. The light hit her body, moving to her face. She had to shield her eyes.

  “Well, hello there, little one,” the man said.

  Riley said nothing. “Get down here, Bud.” The other man, a bulky, equally unkempt piece of trash, came trotting down the stairs.

  “Shit,” the man called Bud said. “Any more of them?”

  “Little girl,” the first man said. “Anyone else down here with you?”

  The bright light was irritating. “No,” Riley answered.

  Both men stood side by side. The one named Bud had the .38 in his hand. They were mean looking, like overgrown schoolyard bullies, and had a type of hunger in their eyes.

  “Where’s your parents?” Bud asked.

  “Dead,” she said, flatly.

  “This is going to be easy,” the one without the gun said.

  “I’m first,” Bud said. “Mmmm, fresh and tight.”

  Riley swallowed. She had to be quick, no hesitation. “I’ll do what you want,” she said, hoping to ease their minds. The men’s apprehension vanished like a breath of frothy air, their guard down.

  They approached, wicked smiles revealing missing teeth. She had to move before they saw her weapon. The man with the .38 tucked the gun into the back of his pants, and produced a hunting knife. He grinned, eyes full of malcontent.

  With the men two feet away, Riley, her right hand on the rifle, lifted the weapon. She aimed the .30-30 and squeezed the trigger. The first shot missed. The man’s eyes grew wide in shock. He reached behind his back as the second bullet clipped his shoulder, spinning him around. She kept firing, the muzzle flashes blinding. The third bullet punctured the man’s left lung.

  The fourth bullet hit the back of his skull, his forehead exploding, and caking his friend’s face with gore.

  The other man screamed, “Bud.” Riley kept firing, adjusting her aim. Bud’s body fell dead to the floor, leaving the other man in full view. He turned and ran for the stairs, managing to get a foot on the bottom step before Riley squeezed the gun’s trigger. Bullets flew like angry bees before wood splintered into pieces and the man’s calf exploded into a bloody pulp. He collapsed backward, tumbling to the ground.

  Taking careful aim, Riley focused on the man’s chest—his head out of view. He lay screaming and holding what was left of his lower leg. She fired, saw the man’s shirt flutter. His body jerked, arms and legs going slack. She fired again, hitting him in his side, making sure he was finished.

  Strapping the gun to her back, she pulled herself forward, her clothes soaking up Bud’s pooling blood. She crawled past the man, grabbing the .38 that was tucked into his pants. Pieces of skull and flesh clung to her like flies stuck to flypaper.

  She reached the man she’d shot in the side. Checking for a pulse, she could tell he was dead, a twisted look of horror on his face. She climbed up the stairs, her ankle barking with each step.

  Upon reaching the cabin’s floor, she fell on her back, relief flooding through her like a burst dam. She began to cry, bawling uncontrollably until her body could stand no more and she fell asleep.

  Riley awoke late the next day with the sun shining through the cabin’s windows. Getting to her feet, she grimaced. Her ankle was still sore. Testing it out, she placed her weight on it. It hurt, but she could walk on it. Grabbing one of the bandages from the first aid supply, she wrapped the ankle. She had a lot to do and would have to fight through the pain. She shed her bloody clothing, washing them in the nearby stream before cooking breakfast. She’d need her strength for the task ahead. The bodies had to be removed from the pit before they began stinking up the place and possibly attracting undesirables.

  She retrieved the axe from the woodpile outside. It was heavy, but she’d managed the tool before and would need it for the thicker body parts. The hacksaw she’d use for the smaller pieces.

  Born unto this world knowing so little of the Earth during its human years, Riley had been tested. She’d seen and done things a girl her age should never have had to do. Blood, guts and death had become a staple in her life, an all too familiar part of growing up. In times of worry or if a difficult task lay ahead, she’d think of how her father would have handled it.

  Putting on a tattered shirt and pants, Riley opened the pit’s door. She began climbing down the stairs, wincing with each step. Looking toward the bottom, she saw a large void where a body should’ve been. Glancing to the left, she saw the man named Bud being eaten by his now living dead friend. How careless she had been, forgetting to destroy the man’s brain. The zombie hadn’t heard her, its head buried in the man’s stomach.

  Quietly, she turned around and began heading up the stairs, taking one step at a time. At the top, she had a choice: go for the gun or shut the pit’s door. It might not matter which one she accomplished first, but it could also mean the difference between life and death. She chose to go for the gun.

  Zombies, like humans, differed from each other. Some were loud, while others could be quiet or quick. Her father had told her tales of zombies that could track a human, following the scent like a bloodhound.

  She grabbed the rifle, feeling more at ease. Now all she had to do was… A low growl emanated from behind her. Spinning, she saw the zombie; its lips pulled back revealing blackened teeth. Time seemed to pause, as the girl stared the monster down.

  Riley pictured the scene as if reading a book of Western fiction. She was a gunslinger. The zombie, an unwanted hooligan who’d entered her town. The zombie came forward, rapidly.

  She raised the rifle, aimed and fired. Steady, careful pulls of the trigger like her father had taught her. The zombie’s right shoulder exploded. The second shot hit its face, just below the nose, tearing through its upper lip and shattering the central and lateral incisors. The third shot hit square between the eyes, halting the creature before it collapsed like a bag of bones.

  She went up to the zombie, making sure it was out of commission. It appeared dead enough, the eye-brain connections severed. She grabbed a knife and stabbed the eyes anyway, just to be certain.

  Next, using a hammer and nails—the nails taken from a rusted old coffee can in the pit—Riley reattached the doorframe’s external strike-box, allowing for the door to be locked. It wasn’t as secure as it had been, but it was better than nothing. She cleaned up the mess in the cabin, the items the men destroyed and the splattered flesh amongst the walls and table. When she was finished with the area, she hit the pit.

  Most of Bud had been devoured, making Riley’s job easier. She brought out two legs, a hand, the scalp and bits of torso, piling them together outside. Using a small amount of lighter fluid she torched the body parts before burying them.r />
  The sun was going down by the time she finished. Tired and hungry, she made dinner and went to bed.

  She spent the next couple of months alone, receiving no visitors. Her daily routines remained tediously monotonous, but a certain amount of comfort was found. Eat, hunt, eat, read and sleep. The hunting helped prolong the food supply. She had about three months left. Some of the jarred items had spoiled, but for the most part everything kept.

  She knew the woodland area surrounding her like the inside of the cabin—extremely well. Not a tree or rock looked like another. Fearing she’d go out of her mind as she sat in bed, Riley decided for tomorrow she’d visit town. A birthday present to herself.

  Chapter Two

  Roscoe

  May 18: Riley’s birthday. She was turning thirteen, a ceremonial number in many cultures. The number when a child became a young adult. She packed a small backpack, taking with her a flashlight, matches, binoculars, ammo and beef jerky. She brought the .30-30 along, leaving the .38 hidden outside the cabin in a plastic bag under a rock.

  The weather was becoming warmer as the wintry months passed, but for May it was still chilly. It rained almost every other day with eerie regularity. Thankfully, the sky showed no signs of precipitation; only the usual depressing gray of pollution.

  She hiked the trail leading to Old Route 17 and crossed the bridge over the Beaverkill River before arriving in town. She crouched, peering over a weed-infested dirt mound. Using the binoculars, she surveyed Roscoe.

  The town looked dead, lonely. Store windows were either broken or layered with dust and grime. The roofs of the buildings were falling apart, shingles missing. A fire had taken one building to the ground. Seeing no danger, which meant very little, Riley headed into town.

  The way in was wide open; something she wasn’t used to, having been living in the wilderness for so long. Anyone watching through a window would see her approaching and have a clear shot at her.

  She kept close to the buildings, using them as cover. She moved guardedly, making sure to keep an eye and an ear out. The only sound, besides gusts of wind whipping through the abandoned streets, came from an old weather-beaten sign dangling from a storefront. It clanged recklessly against the siding like a damaged church bell. If there ever was a ghost town, Roscoe was it.

  She entered a convenience store. The place had two dead bodies lying on the floor. The stench was horrendous, but she continued searching nonetheless. A brown button with an eagle engraved into it lay on the floor. It was her father’s. She picked it up, staring at it before placing it in her pocket. She remembered that when he had left for town his jacket was in fine condition. Returning to the cabin, it had been torn and missing a button. He hadn’t said much of what happened to him, but she imagined that where she now stood was the place he received his death sentence. When she returned to the cabin, she would visit his grave and say a prayer.

  She didn’t find anything else worth taking. The shelves were empty. Broken cardboard boxes and soda cans littered the floor. Old pieces of newspaper clung to the corners like they’d been plastered with glue. She left feeling a twinge of disappointment.

  She passed the Laundromat, feeling no need to enter. The place was pitch black inside and the only windows were in the front, layered with debris.

  A gas station had some old rusted tools, but nothing worth her trouble. Her day had been a big let down so far, except for the button, a hello from beyond the grave. She guessed the town had been visited by so many people that it simply had nothing left to offer.

  An hour since entering town, she came upon the Roscoe Diner. Unlike the rest of the buildings, the diner only had one smashed-out window. The others were caked with grime. Someone had written the sentence THE WORLD IS FOR THE DEAD NOW on one of the panes of glass. She walked up the steps, pulled open the doors and went inside.

  The interior was dismal with only a small amount of light penetrating through the one broken window. The air was stagnant, filled with a plethora of repugnant odors: rot, mold, feces and urine, assaulting her nostrils like unseen evil spirits. The counter, which had once been white and littered with tiny gold specs, was covered in a sheet of dust as thick as dryer lint. The booths and tables were the same.

  She stepped carefully, avoiding a few sets of skeletal remains. The dining area was a bust like the other buildings she’d entered. She headed for the double doors leading into the kitchen. She stopped before entering and looked back at the dining room. She imagined families, truckers and travelers, laughing and eating civilly together. Would she ever see humanity like that? So taken for granted it had been. Turning back around, she pushed the doors open.

  In the kitchen she found a few knives and a dirty pot. With a good scrubbing the pot would come clean. It would be useful for holding and boiling water, but upon lifting it, she decided it wasn’t worth the hassle.

  She left the kitchen, ready to leave the ghostly eatery and head to the cabin. She cracked one of the front doors open, making sure the way was clear. Two zombies were walking down the middle of the street. Damn, she’d have to wait them out.

  She watched, never letting them out of her sight, as they entered and exited the same stores she’d visited, and in the same order. Their path was eerily familiar. Double damn. They were Trackers or Sniffers as some called them—zombies able to track down human scent with keen accuracy.

  Riley’s trepidation grew as the zombies drew nearer. They had a few stores to go before they reached the diner. She readied the rifle. Taking them out would be easy from her vantage point. Aiming, she readied her shot when movement from her left caught her attention. Taking her eye off the target, she saw three more walking dead. Another four were entering from Stewart Avenue. Within minutes the streets had become packed with undead. Where the hell did they all come from? They moved around like birds without the ability to flock. The Sniffers were still in tandem, coming toward the diner.

  Riley let the door close and sat back. She’d have to wait until the Sniffers entered the diner. Then take them out in the kitchen and hope the others wouldn’t hear.

  Cracking the doors, she looked out, seeing a third Sniffer had joined the others. She let the door shut and made a beeline for the kitchen.

  She ran to the farthest end, crouching behind a steel prep table. Dust particles flew around the room like soot. She’d wondered how long it had been since someone disturbed the place. It didn’t matter. If she made it out of the town alive she’d forever remember to dust the cabin at least once a week. She wanted to laugh, but nerves kept her silent.

  Minutes later she heard them, their awful moaning as if they were sick and dying. She wished they would just die once and for all and stay dead. The monsters’ dragging feet and moaning sounded like some deranged techno-rock.

  The double doors began to open, revealing the first of the walking dead. Riley fired her weapon. Inside the white-tiled room, with nowhere for the sound to travel, the gunshot was deafening. The zombie’s face caved in between the eyes as it crumpled to the floor.

  The second zombie took a bullet to the temple. A perfect shot Riley was proud of. The third hadn’t come through yet, but she heard its moans. The doors burst open as if a powerful wind had blown in. The zombie dashed forward, running stiff-legged, but quickly. Riley fired, missing. White tiles shattered behind the monster. The thing was fast, knocking over a pot, sending it crashing to the floor. She fired again, hitting it in the chest hoping to slow it, but it kept coming fast. Its eyes were filled with hunger. It was difficult to get a steady bead, but she kept firing.

  The zombie approached, its mouth chomping at the air, revealing rotten decaying teeth.

  Patience, she thought, knowing she had to stay composed. Every shot counted and she’d already wasted three. Her arms began to shake, nerves getting the best of her. She took long, deep breaths, steadying her pulse as the zombie drew within a few feet. She could smell its rot. Insides turning to ice, she fired, hitting the zombie in the forehead. Bra
in, skull and flesh exploded out the back of the zombie’s head. It dropped like a stone.

  She waited, taking in long measured breaths. Her ears were ringing. Swirls of faint smoke seeped from the end of the rifle barrel, dissipating into the air. Had the zombies outside heard? She waited. When no other zombies showed she relaxed, her shoulders slumping.

  She left the kitchen.

  From inside the dining area she heard yelling and gunfire. It sounded like a war zone outside. She ran to the door, peeking outside.

  Men in camouflage and black fatigues roamed the streets firing machine guns at the undead. They were all aiming for the heads. Suddenly the diner’s door was whipped open. A large man wearing black fatigues stared down at her. He pointed an M-16 at her head.

  “Drop the weapon,” he demanded. She leaned the rifle against the checkout counter wall. “You infected?” he asked. “Bitten?”

  “N…no,” she stuttered.

  “Got one here,” the man yelled, waving another soldier over. “A young girl.” He bent down so their eyes met. “We’ll get you checked out, make sure you’re okay. Anyone else in there with you?”

  “No. I’m alone and I wasn’t bitten I said.”

  “Okay, kiddo” the man said before marching off. He began plugging zombies as he went. Another man, this one with a Red Cross patch on his arm, came to her. He had a machine gun, but it was slung over his shoulder.

  “You alone?” he asked, before looking over his shoulder. He seemed impatient, in a hurry. He turned back around to look at Riley before surveying the interior of the diner. “Is anyone with you?”

  “No. I’m by myself,” she told him.

  The man shoved her inside. She fell backward onto the floor, hitting her head. Bright lights, like fireworks, filled her vision before she heard the door close. She opened her eyes, looked up. The man was standing over her, a large hunting knife in his hand. “Don’t make a sound or I’ll cut that pretty little face of yours off.”