The Last in Line

by Thom Erb

51.

  Running With the Devil

  Intersection of Routes 441 and 250

  Penfield, New York.

  The unborn-again servant of Orcus glared at the tangled mess of cars, trucks, and emergency vehicles that clogged the intersection. Although the sun was hiding behind the thick veil of black and gray clouds, the brightness still burned into Barry Lee's eyes and scalp. He paid no heed. One of the greatest side effects of death was that pain didn’t account for diddly. Barry Lee scoffed as he and the rest of the Arcadia Falls dead stood at the intersection.

  He unconsciously pulled at the gaping hole in his chest. The blood in his body left him a long time ago, back in town. He was relieved to be free of such worldly bullshit such as breathing, blood, and food. Well, he used to love McDonald’s burgers and heroin, but now, his only hunger was flesh. Raw, bloody, still-living flesh. And revenge.

  “Well, ain't this some messed up shit.” The endless army of undead staggered to a stop behind him, and he just smiled at his new unofficial title. Drool from his drooping lip hit the pavement as he laughed. Death was far more meant for him than life. He shook his decaying head in satisfaction and licked his lips and pulled on his thin greasy mustache.

  Barry looked down the embankment and smiled.

  “Well spank my ass and call me Betty. You've got to be shitting me.” Barry spotted the wrecked Camaro down in the water and chortled again.

  Barry focused for a moment and growled into the cold morning air as no sense or sign of the living existed. Its absence only served to cause Barry's rage to rise and his stomach to growl.

  “Slipped away did ya, dumb asses?” He knew deep down in his black, rotting heart that no matter how far the Child of Light and his dipshit brother ran, he and his new army would find them. And they would feast on their flesh and rip each tasty morsel from their bodies.

  Barry smiled and motioned for the thousand strong army of undead to follow behind him. The rot and decay of the progeny of Orcus would follow him to the end. Barry dug it. Finally, his time had come. A stiff wind came rushing across the barren, arid fields as Barry led the hordes straight through the intersection toward downtown Rochester.

  52.

  We Gotta Get Out of This Place

  Kodak/WSMF Parking Garage

  Monroe Ave.

  Rochester, New York.

  The steel security door clattered against the cement wall of the parking garage. The odor of death and gasoline filled Sam's lungs. The cement walls of the five-story garage fanned out into a large parking level. A sea of shadows shifted among the rows of silent cars and various other dark places. There weren’t many vehicles left on this floor. Only random trash blew across the blacktop with the morning breeze. Capt. Al held on tight to his wheelchair as she pushed him up the steep incline of the garage. The burly DJ pointed up the ramp with his heavily inked arm. A large black Dodge van sat all alone at the apex of the fifth level.

  Sam looked desperately in all directions. Nothing moved. No groaning zombies were waiting to pounce on them from the numerous dark alcoves of the parking garage. The wheelchair became heavy as she pushed Capt. Al up the growing steep incline.

  “It’s right up there, honey,” Al said. Sam felt a small flame of hope in his voice. She kept the smile to herself.

  She'd only made it a few yards when the fetid stench hit her nose. The smell usually warned them before they would see the dead. Over a dozen crawled out from every shadow, parked car, wherever. Their origin didn’t matter. Dozens of red eyes lit up the darkness, and their calls followed.

  Sam strained to push Capt. Al’s wheelchair uphill to the awaiting van. Capt. Al grunted as he gripped the wheels forward in an effort to help out. It only made matters worse as his force was smashing back at Sam and caused her to lose ground instead of gaining it.

  The cries of the walking corpses closed in, and the gnashing of their teeth filled Sam's ears. Their screeching moans felt like they were breaking Sam's soul. The melancholic cries broke her heart. Their beckoning for food, the hunger, wasn't from some primal, base function. It was full of hate and revenge and grief. It was meant to punish the living for their gift of goodness and life. Sam was convinced that, while it seemed the undead enjoyed their heinous actions, it wasn’t their driving force behind their vile behavior. There was no time for such mental debates though, and Sam pressed on harder up the slope.

  The undead followed. Many left arms, legs, and internal organs behind them in their unending quest for food. The bloody trail sent tendrils of wispy smoke up in the warming sun on the pavement.

  Sam’s lungs felt on fire as she forced Capt. Al up the steep grade. The zombies drew closer as they reached the van. A 1978 Dodge van sat slightly listed to the right with one soft front tire and tinted windows, the van painted a dark black. One lone tear-drop shaped window jutted out on each side. The words, Gypsy Queen, were airbrushed across the side of the van and wrapped around a busty beautiful maiden caressing a large sword. Cragar rims adorned all four tires, and a long CB antenna hung loosely from the top of the van.

  “Tasteful,” Sam said.

  “Judge not, little lady.” Capt. Al brought the shotgun up.

  Sam and Al reached the van, and she collapsed, trying hard to catch her breath. The undead that had followed them joined more of the zombies and now were slowly forming a sea of rotting skin, glowing red eyes.

  A flurry of chilling growls called out at them as the entire fifth level of the stark parking garage became alive with the frenzied undead. Shadows were no longer needed. The dead rushed forth like starved animals. Sam unlocked the van’s doors and ran back to Al and gave him the keys.

  Sam snatched the shotgun from Al’s lap, as he began to fumble with the keys.

  The rotting miasma of death choked the air. Their desiccated bodies blotted out all of the light that tried to break its way into the dark level of the parking garage.

  The first ranks staggered closer to the van. Sam raised the shotgun in and let loose a shot into a zombie in a tattered blue three-piece suit. The blast echoed off the concrete walls.

  “Absolve, we beseech Thee, O’ Lord, I am Thy servant, from every bond of sin, that being raised in the resurrection, he may be refreshed among the Saints and Elect. Through Christ, our Lord, Amen,” Sam made the sign of the cross and risked a look toward see how the DJ was making out. Harsh echoes of snarls forced her to turn back to see more of the undead had joined the others and reached out for her, and Sam forced back the trembling fear rushing through her.

  She repeated the last rites with the next shot, as her heart burst with sorrow with every Lamb of God she was forced to put down. And knowing all-too-well, that she didn’t have enough shells for the rest, only caused her heart to pound harder.

  Sam heard the DJ fumbling with the keys and she slammed her fist into the side of the van in panic, growing nervous as the first of undead reached the back of the van.

  “Running out of shells and time, Mr. Al,” Sam yelled above the deadly din.

  A wave of red eyes rushed in.

  53.

  Heading out to the Highway

  Downtown Rochester, New York.

  “Holy hell, man. This is the end of the world!” Warren exclaimed as he looked out at the once thriving city of Rochester. It was known for being a big center of industry. Kodak, Bausch and Lomb, Xerox, and the Genesee Brewery all helped to put the Flour City, then the Flower City on the map. These great corporations were the life-blood of the economy and employment for the millions of residents in Monroe and its surrounding counties. That had all changed the day the Sanctity Virus was released, and now it ruled the huge cement tomb of Rochester.

  The tumultuous cloak of storm clouds ruled the skies as Warren exited the expressway and the truck headed down Main Street. They zigzagged down the obstacle course that was now downtown.

  Midtown Plaza loomed large over them as they approached the center of downtown. The ivory colored building housed the first indoor shopping
mall in the country. Warren stared straight up the curved walls of the concrete structure and wondered how many zombies were joy-riding on the indoor monorail that ran the perimeter of the mall. He shook his head at the thought and swallowed hard at how many would be looking to feast on him and his friend's flesh. The low rumble of the mufflers brought him back. He strongly believed not many things were capable of being rational anymore in the world they now lived in.

  “Do you think they're all dead?” Warren asked as he slowly drove down the rain-soaked city street-turned paved graveyard.

  Elton sipped from his flask and watched out the passenger window. “Honestly? Yes.” He paused, sipped again, and looked at Warren. “The dark one took a bloody long time planning this attack, and sadly, my lad, he's done quite well.”

  Warren didn’t take his eyes off the skyscrapers and the other buildings lined up tightly together, framing Main Street.

  “It is indeed sad, Master Warren. It seems Rochester was a fine city prior,” Elton said

  Warren continued weaving between wrecked and parked cars, not wanting to believe what was laid out in truth before him.

  “Well, uh, hmm, the city has its fair share of drug dealers, that’s for sure,” Warren spoke, not from experience but from reading the newspaper and watching the news. The city had an insidiously growing drug epidemic, but he was sure the undead had no need for weed, heroin, or cocaine. He drove on and watched out the window at the dead city. Some things even an apocalypse couldn’t cure.

  “You should have seen it before all the shit happened. It was pretty cool up here. They had some great comic shops, music stores. Oh, and we used to go every Saturday night to the Rocky Horror Picture Show. Well, that was back in Penfield, but hell, the city for me at least began the minute I crossed Route 21,” Warren said and smiled at the memory of Dex, Arnie, Jack, Frank, and Mark sneaking out to explore the larger world beyond Arcadia Falls and Wayne County. It was their little secret.

  A pounding on the back window startled Warren back to the here and now.

  “Hey, man, we’re there.” Dex pointed toward the Kodak building. As if on cue, two large, blinking neon lights off to his right caught his attention. On a ninteen-story, skyscraper, the words KODAK and WSMF blinked intermittently in the noon-time sky.

  “There it is!” Warren said. The Kodak Building stood before them. A five-story parking garage sat eerily silent beside it. Warren turned the truck into the garage. The darkness swallowed them whole. The sun was absent inside the concrete maze as the truck made its way up the ramp.

  Yuppie mid-sized cars and other vehicles stood silently on all the floors of the parking garage. A few straggling zombies with mortal wounds peered at them as they climbed floor by floor. Everyone inside the cab and in the bed of the truck tensed with each floor they ascended. The darkness consumed them and seemed to relish in each darkening foot. Maico snuggled close to Elton, and both of them whimpered with fear.

  “Do not fret, old friend. I do believe we'll be safe in here.” Elton scratched behind Maico's ears and pulled him closer.

  “If what you've been saying is true, Mr. Haberdasher, I wouldn't think you'd be too scared of those...things.”

  “Truth be told, while I have studied extensively about such creatures from the Abyssal plane, young Warren, I've always been more of a librarian than a frontline fighter,” Elton admitted, and Warren caught the man trying to hide his blushing face beneath his tangled mane and hat.

  “It's Habersham, by the way. Not Haberdasher. Although, as you might have noticed, I do have a penchant for a fine hat.” Elton smirked and looked out at the city.

  Warren said, “Sorry about that. Habersham. Man, can you get any more British?” They exchanged timid grins. “Abyssal? Like, as in demons and Hell kind of abyssal?” Warren's mind was close to Swiss cheese already, and all of this otherworldly talk was making it worse.

  “Ah, yes, Just a wee bit, mate.” Elton over enunciated the mate part and continued to absently stroke Maico’s fur. “I've never really seen much combat against the undead and the evil that spawned it. But, indeed, I do mean demonic forces. That's where all of these zombies, as you Americans call them, come from. Much of this is new to me as well. The High Keeper's Council always knew the Cult of Orcus would strike out again, but this caught them all by surprise. I tried to warn them, but they just wouldn't list—” Elton stopped. “Oh, how I ramble. Perhaps once we get to this Armory you speak of, I can explain it to you and your friends. They will need to hear what I have to say as well.”

  “Why?” Warren asked, letting his frustration and exhaustion flow freely.

  Ahead of them, in the parking garage of the Kodak Building and WSMF radio station, a flurry of muzzle flashes and gunshots shredded through the thunder and droning undead.

  “What the hell is that?” Warren said, bringing the truck to a stop.

  Elton pulled Maico closer so the old dog didn't fall off the seat. “Hell exactly, young Warren. Exactly.”

  A wave of staggering dead-things walked up the ramp of the parking garage, and Warren rolled his window down a bit to hear. What sounded like a girl shouting and gunshots rang out and bounced off the office buildings on Main Street.

  “We have to go see if she's okay,” Warren said.

  Before he had a chance to push down on the gas pedal, Dex leaned in through the back window. “You better trounce on it, man!”

  “I know, I know, but Capt. Al has kept...” Warren's voice faltered, and he trounced down on the gas and the truck sped onward. “Sorry, man. I have to try.”

  “I get it, man. I do.” Dex disappeared from the window.

  Warren knew it was complete madness, but at his core, something told him to try and save the old DJ. Why not? After all, what was normal anymore?

  “Hold on, Mr. Haberspam,” Warren shouted and aimed the snow plow at the heavy ranks of dead clogging the ramp.

  The first row exploded in a thick, mist of bloody pus, bone, and gray matter.

  “Habersham,” Elton muttered. “It’s Habersham.”

  54.

  Race with the Devil

  Kodak/WSMF Parking Garage

  Rochester, NY.

  Sam leaned against the van. The cold sheet metal sent cold chills racing through her body. She nervously kept one eye on the dead ones making their way toward them, and the other watched Capt. Al slide the key into the locked driver's door of the old Dodge. She helped him up into the plush seat and plunged the key into the ignition. The v8 responded with an aggressive roar. They both let out a sigh of relief.

  “Get yourself on in here. If there was a last train out, this is it, honey,” Capt. Al shouted over the loud engine.

  “Working on it.” Sam wiped the sweat from her eyes as the flesh-hungry zombies were only a few feet away now and reaching out with twisted hands. Flesh dripped from each digit as hungry, sullen, red eyes beckoned for her. A heavy cloak of helplessness enveloped her, but she let the shotgun roar to life. Another undead fell backward. Its bloody, headless, corpse landed back into the second row of rotting undead. Sam threw open the sliding side door of the van and hefted Al’s chair onto the shag carpet.

  The overpowering stench of rotted flesh swirled sickly with that of brimstone and filled the van with their horrid stink.

  “You belong to the Master, blasphemous spawn of the creator. Time to sleep the eternal slumber. Let us have your flesh.” The dead one’s calls created painful ripples on her skin as numerous hungry hands tore at her jacket, trying to yank her backward.

  She fired another volley into the frenzied horde and climbed into the van. She gripped the sliding door’s handle and tried to close it. It barely budged as a dozen hands gripped it and held the door in place. Sam’s heart began to pound as she watched the van become surrounded by the yelling and growling undead, their deadly chorus echoing off the concrete walls.

  A skeletal hand burst through the window sending shards of glass into the interior of the van. The leathery, bo
ny hand tore into Sam’s wrist and began to tear into her warm, ripe flesh. Sam let out a loud scream as the droplets of blood began to pour out of her arm, and her pain filled screams filled the parking garage.

  55.

  Take a Turn

  Kodak/WSMF Building, Parking Garage,

  Rochester, NY.

  The truck lurched up the steady incline and encountered more and more of the undead as the four-wheel-drive worked overtime, climbing up on its course. Warren found he had to gun the gas pedal to run over the mass of undead that clogged the ramp of the garage.

  “Down!” Warren shouted and held his arm out to brace Maico and Elton for impact as the plow shuddered for a second, then the four-wheel-drive clunked in. They all jumped as an explosion of blood and molten flesh plastered the windshield.

  “Oh my,” Elton let out.

  Warren flicked the wipers and high beams on. The sorrow-filled pangs of the dead seeped into the cab sending a rippling chill down Warren’s spine.

  The truck surged back and forth as it climbed up and over the crushed bodies. The big tires spun, then caught purchase on the slick mix of blood and oily flesh as it pressed onward, up the concrete ramp. The rage of the undead began to rise like an unholy chorus and echoed through all five levels of the cement structure.

  “They're following us, man!” Dex shouted from the bed of the truck.

  Warren shot a glance out the side mirror and all he saw was a shadowy, amorphous mob of bodies with their beady red eyes following them.

  “I see `em,” Warren replied and stomped harder on the gas pedal. The truck responded in a fish-tail that jerked the back of the truck. Dex screamed, followed quickly by Arnie's high-pitched, “Dude!” in response.

  “Uhm, Master Warren...” Elton looked out the back window.

  Warren frantically looked between the rearview and side mirrors and slammed on the brakes. The air filled with the stench of rotted meat burning rubber and brake pads.

  “What the hell?” Warren struggled to keep the truck from crashing into a parked car or a cement wall.