by Thom Erb
“Sonuvabitch!' Warren heard both his father and brother shout.
“Warren!” his mom begged.
Warren felt something brush his leg as he saw Maico sprint past him, out into the rainy yard.
He knew it was shit or get off the pot time and climbed out of the cellar door. He felt hands grab him from behind and yank him backward.
“Maico!” Warren pleaded into the darkness.
His father's strong hands were all over him, pinning him to the cold floor. He struggled and his father sat on his chest.
“Knock this shit off. Now!” he ordered.
“But, Maico, I have to g—” Warren said.
“I got `em,” Andy said, climbing the stairs.
Warren fought to stand up, but his father shoved a large finger into his face. “No, you've done enough already. Stay here with your mother and don't try anything stupid. Got me!” he said and got off Warren's chest. He grabbed the 12 gauge Ithaca Deerslayer from the makeshift gun rack on the stone wall and ran up the stairs, two at a time, following Andy.
Sitting up, Warren felt tears building inside him. His mother came and helped him up, and she, too, had tears streaming down her face. “Why do you provoke him so? He just wants what's best for us, honey,” she whispered.
He said nothing and waited at the bottom of the stairs.
13.
Blues in the Night
77 Colvin Street.
Rochester, New York.
Late June 1985.
Sam leaned against the frame of the bay window overlooking Colvin Street. Her eyes burned from straining to see through the small crack in the plywood and broken kitchen table she'd nailed to cover the large window. In the background, Bobby and Katie played checkers on the living floor, and every few minutes or so, one of them accused the other of cheating. On the radio, the same, comforting gruff voice of the WSMF DJ kept them company while her grandfather was gone.
It had been a few days and Sam was way beyond worried.
“When's Abuelo coming home?” Katie asked, skipping her checker three squares.
“Hey!” Bobby protested.
Rain pounded the old house and thunder shook the walls. The storm had grown steadier over the past few days and only amplified Sam's blossoming concern for her grandfather.
“Soon. Soon.” Sam left the window and knelt next to her siblings, placing an arm around them both, and pulled them into a crushing hug.
They pulled away slightly. Bobby said, “But he's been gone too long, Sissie.”
“I'm sure he's fine. I bet he just making sure the neighbors are okay.” She hugged them closer, and they both feigned discomfort. “I know, but he's probably helping out at the church. You know how he is.” Her smile felt tired and forced, and she knew it, but kept it up, just the same.
All three of them sat on the carpeted floor and listened to the drumming on the roof and the drumming on the radio as the tribal beat of the Grateful Dead's “Not Fade Away” swirled and intertwined with the pounding rain outside.
“I know the storm is raging out there, brothers and sisters, but hold tight. It has to let up sometime, doesn’t it? Instead of my good ol' Gypsy Queen Chevy Van of mine, I should have plopped down some cake on an ark instead.” Capt. Al's voice crackled through the static-filled speakers of the boom box on the kitchen counter. “Hope you're all doing good out there. The world has taken a fast turn southbound, my friends, but wherever you are, stay there. Stay safe, and let us all hope and pray to God or gods of your choice. I can see out over our great Roch-ch-cha, and it's a painted with a freakin’ weird yellow fog or something. Don't worry about that crazy-ass Sanctity Virus, or whatever the hell those white-coated whack-jobs are calling it today. As crazy as it sounds, they're saying that the dead are waking up, and when they do, they must be damn hungry, because they... I can't believe I'm reading and saying this shiznit, but the dead are attacking and eating the flesh of the living. Jesus Christmas kids. I...I don't know what to say. No, better days are coming and as long as Capt Al and the Drop Zone have power, I'll stay on the air and keep you entertained. Well, at least not completely bored. Keep all you love close, kids. The fan has been officially hit and damn destroyed. Let's play some tuneage and try and forget all this insane crapola.” He finished with a cough-filled laugh, and the hiss of the acoustic lilt of “Here comes the Sun” filled the speakers.
Sam clutched Bobby and Katie closer, closed her eyes, and let the music fill her mind.
Fear and panic fear were slowly creeping in and taking root, like a cancerous weed around her. As the song played on, and the rain assailed the house, it felt as if the walls creaked in closer. The light that was slipping through the cracks in the boarded-up windows were quickly being pinched out, and her heart thumped heavy in her chest. Cold sweat ran down her face, and she found it hard to breathe.
Stupid panic attack, she scolded herself and tried to take a calming breath. The kids fell asleep, and she didn't want to wake them. For several long minutes, she sat as still as a statue and focused on her breathing, just like the doctor told her. She let the music fill her. The soft drumming of the rain slowly comforted her until she finally shook the attack off. She wished her grandfather would return. There was no way she could do this alone. The world may be at the doorstep to the end times, the Rapture, and her faith was strong, but that didn't lessen the need for her to want her Abuelo by her side.
On the foggy edge of sleep, the music, the rain, pulled her down into darkness.
Suddenly, the music went silent.
Sam opened her eyes in time to see the lights flicker, and then go dark.
Sitting still in the dwindling light, she looked about the living room. Bobby and Katie lightly snored, their heads on her lap.
The power was out. It was only a matter of time, she thought. She tried to remember where they'd stashed all the candles after the last ice storm when a sudden pounding at the back door caused her to jump, sending her brother and sister crashing to the floor.
Sam looked at the back door waiting.
“Samantha, es su Abuelo. Open the door,” the strained voice ordered through the door.
Katie stood up, dazed. “Is that grandpa?”
Bobby rubbed his eyes and staggered back to the couch.
The rain pelted the door, and the daylight waned.
Sam slowly walked to the door and grabbed the baseball bat her grandfather kept in the old milk box.
The small, but growing number of people outside had stayed away from Sam’s house for the most part since the virus and chaos ravaged the city, but now drew closer because of her grandfather’s approach.
“Abuelo?” Sam said, forcing the fear from her voice.
“Sí, mi pequeña vela. Por todo lo que es santo, abre la maldita puerta!”
Katie shouted from the living room. “Sissie, there's a whole bunch of people coming.”
Looking at Katie, then back to the door, Sam felt her chest tighten, the panic attack slithering its way back into her body.
“Open the door!” the voice begged.
“They're still walking silly, but they're coming to the door,” Katie added.
Bobby ran passed Sam, reaching for the doorknob.
“Let him in, Sissie!” he shouted.
She smacked Bobby's hand away.
Catching her breath, she unlocked the chain and the deadbolt from the door and opened it a crack. Cold rain stung her face and a biting, wind pushed at the door. A foul stench of rot and feces overtook the kitchen. Her grandfather crashed into the door. It smashed opened with a deafening force against the wall, sending jackets flying onto the kitchen floor.
Sam saw countless red eyes glaring at her from the street as her Abuelo staggered into the house. He was covered in blood and mumbled something Sam couldn't understand.
Bobby ran away, huddling against the sink.
She ran to the door and fought to shut it against the violent wind. The people from the street were getting closer
. Sam heard their low mumbles. They sounded as if they were in pain and...hungry. The door finally slammed shut as the first of the people hit the steps of the house.
Sam knelt and rolled her grandfather over. A blood-soaked handkerchief stuck to the side of his neck. She carefully pulled it away, cringed at the gruesome sight. A big chunk of his throat was missing, bitten off, torn away. Sam felt her stomach roll, wiping the stinging rain from her face.
“Katie, go into the bathroom and grab the first aid kit from under the sink,” Sam said.
“Is Abuelo gonna be okay,” Katie asked.
“First aid kit...now!” Sam shouted.
Grandfather was pale. His eyes lolled, yellow in their sockets. His breath faint and pained. Mouthing something, he awkwardly motioned for Sam to come closer.
Cautiously, she bent to his lips and listened, her grip still tight on the bat and a warm tear filled her eye. Remembering the radio reports about the virus, her heart ached.
“Sammie, my little shining light...” his words, labored.
She leaned closer. Small droplets of blood slowly ran from his glassy eyes.
“Sammie...I love...you...”
Full tears now streamed down from her eyes.
He motioned again.
She could feel his hot breath on her ear.
“Th-the dead have risen, child. It's end times. They’re coming for us all. May the mercy of our Lord save us!” His once rich brown eyes that held an overabundance of compassion and adventure, rolled back in their sockets, releasing a stream of blood down his cheeks. His body thrashed and kicked, and then finally lay still. Sam sat still. Shock took her in waves.
Bobby screamed.
“The-they’re...coming!”
The smell of rotting death and bitter sulfur filled the small kitchen.
Katie rushed into the room and slipped in the spreading pool of blood. She screamed, dropping the first-aid kit into the sticky, red floor.
“They’re coming!” Bobby's high-pitched scream shook Sam free, and she looked up to see several wobbling forms approaching the steps. An overwhelming rush of confusion filled her mind as the people's eyes glowed with a burning red, flame-like light.
“Dios, mio,” Sam whispered.
“Go to your room and lock the door. Go!” Sam ordered, ran to the door and slammed it closed, latching all three locks just as the first thing reached the top step.
Leaning with all her weight against the door, Sam forced the tears away and tried getting her mind straight. She took a deep breath, looked around the kitchen, and saw the hammer and box of nails on the table.
Without hesitation, she snatched up the hammer, tucked it in her waistband, shoved a handful of nails into her pocket, kicked the table on its top, and proceeded to remove the legs.
“Sissie, what about Abuelo?” Katie asked, peering from the bedroom doorway.
“Get in there and lock the door, now, guys. I'm not joking. Go,” Sam said as she placed several nails between her lips. “I'll take care of him, I promise. Now go!”
The door shook from the pounding fists of the things on the other side. Sam hefted the table up, covering the doorjamb, pressed her hip against it, and began nailing it to the wall.
The red eyes peered through the yellow curtains her Abuela had made, but Sam tried to ignore them and finished fastening the table, then ran to the other doors and windows, making sure they were clasped and closed tight.
She shoved the sofa, chairs, and any piece of furniture she could find in the living room and blocked up the front door to the porch. Sam saw more and more people, things, whatever they were, gathering outside. It sounded like they were singing...no, chanting. Deep chills shook her entire body.
“Dear, Father. What is going on? Please help and protect us from this evil.” Sam closed her eyes. She hunched down, leaned close to the window, careful not to draw attention to the clamoring crowd, and listened to what they were saying.
“Child of Light, we've come for you. The Dark Master sees all.” The haunting words weighed heavy on Sam. Fear coursed through her body as the dead things continued their call.
In a flash, as if someone, or something, flicked a switch, Sam remembered what Capt. Al, the DJ, warned about the dead coming back to life and eating the flesh of the living. Shock took her senses away for a second, but something clicked within her resolve and chased the panic away, leaving her with a sudden clarity she'd never experienced before. She knew what she must do.
Through tears, she ran to the kitchen and, after several tries, dragged her grandfather's body into his bedroom and yanked him up into his office chair. She collected several rolls of duct-tape, which her Abuelo used to swear it had over a thousand uses. Her heart ached as she used the tape to constrain him to the chair and used one of his handkerchiefs to cover his mouth.
“I love you, Abuelo. I'm so sorry. I pray to the Father to protect your soul from whatever evil is out there.” She kissed his head, recoiled at his ice-cold, viscous skin. “Or in you.” She made the sign of the cross and ran out of the room, locked it from the inside, and closed the door.
Night swallowed any light from the day and, through the living room's windows, a sea of red glowing orbs replaced the usual streetlights.
Sam took one second to gather herself, and then set about breaking down the end tables, and then nailed the door to her sweet, loving, dead Abuelo's bedroom shut.
The storm raged on as lighting and thunder joined the sadistic, apocalyptic symphony performing outside the Quinones' home.
14.
Prodigal Son
The Brennan's Cellar.
Arcadia Falls, New York.
Late June 1985.
Warren sat on his cot, staring up at the closed walkout doors. His left foot subconsciously counting out a 4/4 time on the cold, stone floor and his eyes stung from the tears and an ungodly guilt weighed down him like a battleship's anchor. His dad and brother had been gone a long time and it was all his fault.
The soft glow from several kerosene lanterns lit the cellar in a sickly yellow hue. Warren still worried about his best friend but was well aware he was being selfish, and now, he'd put his dad and Andy in danger.
“I'm sorry, Mom. I...I'm just...” Warren tried to speak.
His mom sat down next to him and put her small arm around him. “I know, I know. It's going to be okay. Dad and Andy will bring Maico back, and we'll get over this.” She patted him on the knee.
“Yeah, maybe, but still, it's all my fault. I still don't agree with him and what he said about Dex. I'm sorry, Mom, but he doesn't know him like I do. He just doesn't get it. He believes all the crap his beer buddies say at the Legion,” Warren said, wiping away his tears.
A deep roll of thunder shook the cellar, and the wind punched at the cellar doors.
“But...but I never wanted to get them hurt or anything,” he finished.
She didn't say a word, just hugged him and kissed him on the cheek.
They both jumped as the metal cellar doors clanged up and a soaked Maico rushed down the stairs, followed by Warren's dad, who helped Andy keep his footing.
“Oh, dear,” his Mom said, running to them, helping his dad with Andy.
Maico rushed to Warren and buried his head into his master’s lap, whimpering.
His dad and mom helped Andy to his cot and his dad sprinted back up the stairs and hastily slammed the doors shut and latched them in a matter of seconds.
“You okay, Andy?” Warren asked softly while he protectively pet Maico's quivering head.
Setting the shotgun back on the rack, his dad rushed to one of the shelves and pulled out the first-aid kit, turned back toward Warren. “No, he's not. Thanks to your selfish bullshit.” He handed the kit to Warren's mom and knelt next to Andy, who looked pale and his head lolled to one side.
“Dad, I'm sor—” Warren offered.
“Save it, Warren. Sorry doesn't feed the bulldog, son. Not now. Not for this!”
“Francis
!” Mom said.
“No, I'm sorry, Maggie, but the boy and that damn dog put us all in danger out there. Now, look what happened.” Dad shot Warren a burning glare, then turned back to Andy.
Warren pushed the tears down deep, not wanting to give his father the pleasures of seeing him any more vulnerable than he already did. Maico nuzzled his cold nose against his hand and climbed into his lap.
“What happened?” Mom asked while examining Andy's neck.
Warren cringed, seeing the entire front of his brother's Oakland Raider's T-shirt soaked in blood. His stomach churned, and he fought to keep from puking when he saw the gaping wound in Andy's neck.
Mom had a thick gauze pad pressed against the wound, and it had already bled through the thick dressing.
Dad stood up, turned, and slowly walked toward Warren.
“You want to know what happened, Maggie? Okay. I'll tell you what the hell happened.” He reached Warren and glared down at him.
“Francis Andrew Brennan...,” Mom warned.
Maico whimpered and curled into the smallest ball the old lab could manage.
“No. No, you wanted to know, I'll damn well tell you. Your sweet baby boy Warren here let this goddamn dog out and your other son and I went looking for him. You want to know the most screwed up thing that happened out there?” Dad placed his large hand on Warren's shoulder and used his booted foot to push the dog off Warren's lap.
Maico yelped and rolled onto the floor, crashing into the wall and didn’t move.
“Calm down, honey,” Mom said.
Dad's fingers dug deep into Warren's shoulder, and he desperately fought to not show the pain.
“Calm down? Hell no—not after what happened out there, Maggie. You just don't understand,” Dad’s livid gaze returned to Warren; bringing with it a burning rage Warren had never witness before. He fought to get free, but his father was too strong and only tightened his stone-grip.
The cellar fell silent for a thick moment. Only the raging storm outside and the soft moans from Andy dared break the silence.
“You're scaring me, Francis. Tell me what happened, dammit,” Mom said while struggling to stop Andy's gushing wound.
