by Jake Bible
They move from tree to tree, keeping as much cover as possible as they continually scan their surroundings, looking for danger hidden in every bush, lurking in every shadow, waiting just ahead behind the next tree. But nothing jumps out at them as they skirt the commons, move around the back of the Bell Tower, and quietly give the knock on the door.
It’s several minutes before the proper response is given and the three Mates all look at each other, wondering what the delay was. They put their M-4s to their shoulders and step back as the door is unbolted, unbarred, and swings open slightly.
“Please tell me there’s an army of you,” Benji says as he looks around the edge of the door and sees the three Mates. “Oh, great, a trio. Close enough, right?”
“Why weren’t you watching from the Bell Tower?” Anna Lee snaps. “I didn’t see you up there.”
“Look who’s all business,” Benji sneers. “Way to stick with regulations.”
“Let’s get inside and discuss the details upstairs,” Cole says. “I’m done being out in the open.”
They move to the door, spinning about and scanning the area to make sure they aren’t being observed, then slip through as Benji slams it closed and sets all the bolts, bars, and chains.
“I wasn’t where you could see me because it would be like hanging a sign and telling all the crazies I’m open for business,” Benji says. “Even if the fuckers are blind.”
“You know they’re blind?” Val asks as they make their way up the stairs. “You’ve seen them?”
“Yeah, I have,” Benji replies. “A huge herd of Zs came through only minutes after DTA left. I watched it stream by in wave after wave, all heading south towards Sector One. Largest fucking swarm of zombies I’ve ever seen in my life, believe me. As soon as it passed, I was thinking of getting the fuck out of here and running back to the Stronghold.” He holds up a hand before any of the Mates can protest. “Obviously, I didn’t so don’t get all duty this and duty that on my ass.”
“Okay, you didn’t turn chicken,” Cole grimaces. “Good for you. So why hide from blind people?”
“Because I watched as the pyres started going out,” Benji says. “One by one, they went dead. I could tell that it wasn’t our people doing it. As you know-” He looks at Anna Lee. “-there’s a timing to extinguishing pyres. One goes out, five count, then the next, five count, then the next, and so on. These just started dying randomly. No rhythm or rhyme to it. That spelled trouble to me.”
“Doesn’t explain the blind people,” Cole says.
“It does, because once the last pyre went out, I saw them,” Benji says. “Sneaking around down there like fucking coyotes. If I had had the pyre lit, I would have missed them, which is probably what killed the others. But I’d been sitting in the dark for hours and my eyes were sharp.”
Benji shivers and crosses his arms across his chest.
“Ugh, they were like reptiles slithering along in the night,” Benji says. “I almost missed them at first, but one moved far enough into the grass that I saw him. Then I spotted the others. They were all just standing there, looking up at me. Fucking creepy.”
“How do you know they were blind?” Cole asks. “No way you could have seen that in the dark.”
“Okay, okay, I got freaked and started to run,” Benji says. “I made it downstairs and decided to scope them from one of the main floor windows. I wanted to see their spacing and get a good count before I threw open the door and took off.”
“At least you fucking can admit you’re a fucking coward,” Anna Lee says.
“Like you try to admit you’re a human and not a heifer in drag,” Benji says.
“I’ll fucking cut you, you fucking prissy cunt!” Anna Lee snarls.
Val steps in front of her, placing both hands on her shoulders.
“Not worth it,” Val says. “And we’ll need him as a Runner.”
“Oh, I’m just good for my legs, is that it?” Benji asks.
“Shut up and keep talking,” Cole growls. “You aren’t making friends, buddy. And friends are what you’ll need to get your ass back to the Stronghold alive.”
“Fine, fine,” Benji sighs. “So I’m at one of the main windows and all of a fucking sudden, this crazy looking dude walks by like a foot from the glass. I was too startled to gasp, which probably saved my life, because he almost walks by then stops, his head turning like left and right over and over. Then the fucker looks right at me and I can see even in the dark that his eyes aren’t there. The lids were all sunken in and it looked like the skin around his eyes was puffy and crusty.”
“That’s them,” Val says. “So he didn’t catch you. What next?”
“He stared at me for like five minutes,” Benji says. “And I mean he stared at me. No eyes, but he was looking, for sure. I didn’t move and I barely even breathed. After five minutes, he kept going. Soon after, they all left.”
“Which way?” Cole asks.
“North,” Benji says. “They all went north. I could tell they’d been the ones driving the herd south, but they didn’t follow. As soon as the herd was out of sight, they turned around and went north.”
“Shit,” Val says. “So they’ve probably gotten to the hospital by now.”
“Hospital?” Benji asks. “Oh, right, DTB Two. That’s Stanford Lee’s Team, right?”
“It is,” Val says, rolling her eyes. “But let’s not get into that.”
“Good lay, but a shitty host,” Benji says. “No breakfast. Didn’t even offer coffee.”
“Thoughts?” Cole asks, ignoring Benji. “We have blind crazies going north, probably moving the next herd up towards the Stronghold.”
“Then we fucking go after them,” Anna Lee says.
“No, we wait,” Val responds. “This is the rendezvous point for DTA. If there are others, then they’ll meet here. We’re going to need numbers.”
“We don’t fucking know if any are alive,” Anna Lee frowns. “Sounds like a fucking long shot to me.”
“Fucking A,” Benji nods, getting a glare from Anna Lee. “Don’t give me a look, Sasquatch. I’m agreeing with you. I’d like to get out of here right the fuck now, please.”
Cole goes to the windows and shields his eyes from the rising sun.
“We stay for two hours,” Cole says. “If they don’t get to us by then we head out.”
“Two hours may not be enough,” Val says.
“Two hours is plenty,” Cole says. “We got here, didn’t we? If anyone from DTA is still left alive then they’ll be here within two hours.”
Val sighs, but nods in agreement.
“Good,” Cole says. “Benji? You’re on watch. We need some shut eye.”
“Watch?” Benji grumbles. “I’ve been on watch all night.”
“So two hours more won’t hurt then,” Cole smiles, throwing his pack down and grabbing a spot on one of the couches in the room. “If DTA Mates don’t show up then wake us up in two. And don’t nod off.”
***
The man stops, turns his head to the side then moves along, walking casually down the middle of the street, his body pointed due north.
Tiny D keeps her hand up, fist clenched as Duster crouches a few feet back by a corner building, his hand pressed to his side while he simultaneously watches Tiny D and scans the area, making sure there aren’t more crazies around. During their harried flight from Sector One, they’ve had to dodge half a dozen of the blind ones, after learning the hard way what one of them can do.
Duster pulls his hand away and looks down quickly. He frowns at the blood smeared across his glove, but is glad it’s not as much as had been there earlier. The bleeding has slowed and he’s pretty sure the knife wound is more superficial damage and pain than anything mortal. At least he hopes so.
The man in the street continues walking for a couple of blocks, then turns right and is lost behind a crumbled apartment complex. Tiny D does a silent count to ten then lowers her fist and glances over her shoulder. Her eyebrows
raise and Duster gives her a nod. They both stand and slowly make their way up the street, the sun starting to rise behind them.
When they get to the corner, the man turned at, Tiny D raises her fist again and they stop. She takes two soft steps and peers around the edge.
The blow comes hard and fast and she’s sent flying backwards, tumbling from the cracked sidewalk and into the street itself.
“Fuck,” Duster snarls and steps to the side, his carbine up. “Come on out, asshole. I have you covered.”
The man rolls from around the corner and in the split second it takes Duster to lower his aim, the man is already at him, kicking and knocking out Duster’s legs.
The Mate lands hard on the ground and the attacker clambers up over him, raising a fist then bringing it down fast, cracking Duster in the jaw then the nose then right between the eyes. If the guy had eyes, Duster would have thought they were wild with madness, but he doesn’t, so Duster just feels the madness in the tension of the man’s body and the brutality of each hit.
“Fuck off!” Tiny D says as she cracks the blind man across the temple with the butt of her carbine.
He tumbles off Duster, scrambling away until he can push up to his feet and take off running. Tiny D is almost reluctant to pull the trigger as she places the butt of her M-4 firmly against her shoulder. But she sights down the barrel and gently squeezes off two shots. Both hit him squarely in the back of the head and a spray of blood, bone, and brain mushrooms out in front of him as he collapses to the pavement.
“You good?” Tiny D asks, her carbine and eyes still trained on the blind man, not assuming anything. “Duster? You good?”
Duster rolls over and pushes up on his hands and knees. He blows snot and blood out his nose, wipes his face with the back of a glove, then gets to his feet. He slowly wiggles his jaw then nods at Tiny D.
“Good,” Duster says. “Fucker can hit, though.”
The two Mates cautiously walk to the corpse. Tiny D pushes it over with her boot, her finger resting on the trigger of her M-4.
“I’d say you got him,” Duster grins which turns into a grimace. “Fuck. I think he cracked my jaw. Bastard.”
The man’s face is nothing but an obliterated chunk of flesh and teeth. No distinguishing feature is left except for one empty eye socket. Duster kneels next to the corpse and studies the lines of scabs and cuts that ring the socket. He pulls his knife and sets it by one of the lines then by another. He shakes his head as he stands.
“They do this to themselves,” Duster says. “See how the slashes pull down and to the side?” He puts his knife close to his eye and mimics the motion. “Like that. Someone didn’t do it to them. These crazy fucks cut themselves.”
“Fuck, you’re right,” Tiny D says, her attention drawn back to the street and just how exposed they are. “At least the daylight doesn’t make a difference.”
“Better for us,” Duster says. “They have the advantage at night.”
“How the fuck do you think they fight so well?” Tiny D asks. “It really is like they don’t need eyes.”
“Do you?” Duster asks as they move over to the cover of a building and work their way up the street, eyes watching every possible hide a crazy blind fuck could be waiting in. “Think about it. How many moves do you plan ahead when you fight?”
“I don’t,” Tiny D says. “Training kicks in and I just move.”
“Same with them,” Duster says. “They probably start early. Maybe at birth. You grow up without eyes, and learn to kill without eyes, and you don’t know you have a disadvantage. Who knows how many people these fucks have killed? Think of the refugees that don’t make it to the Stronghold. I’m willing to bet they’re their training.”
“That’s a lot of guesses there, Dust,” Tiny D says.
“That’s all any of us have right now,” Duster shrugs. “Guesses.”
She looks at the bloodstain on the side of his uniform.
“You gonna make the last leg of this hump to the Bell Tower?” she asks.
“Do I have a choice?” Duster grins and immediately grimaces. “Fuck my side, it’s my jaw that really hurts. Won’t be eating roasted nuts in the commissary for a while.”
“None of us will if we don’t live through this,” Tiny D says.
“Way to brighten the morning, TD,” Duster says. “Thanks.”
They keep their steady, careful pace towards Colorado Heights University, senses on high alert for more freaks of the eyeless kind.
***
The Zs press him up against the concrete wall and it’s all Alastair can do to keep them from tearing through his uniform and getting at his juicy flesh.
“A little help!” He shouts as he shoves one back, stabs another through the eye, and knees one in its mushy groin, which has zero effect. He pulls back his knife, slashes the desiccated throat of another all the way to the spine, loses his knife as it sticks between two vertebrae, then has to shove the first one back again as it comes at him once more. “DIAZ!”
“Got my own problems, Al!” Diaz yells, busy clubbing the brains out of a Z with the butt of his carbine. “Be there when I can!”
“Fuck!” Alastair yells. “I die and I’m haunting you, asshole!”
“We’ll be haunting each other if we don’t get out of this horde!” Diaz yells back, ducking his shoulder and letting two Zs roll over his back.
He kicks one in the head and then brings his heel down on the other’s face, sending putrid brains squirting out the thing’s ears. The first one tries to claw at Diaz’s ankle, but he drops a knee through the Z’s skull, obliterating its head.
His carbine only a few feet away where it was knocked from his hands, Alastair gauges the distance, and the amount of Zs, between himself and the M-4. It has a full magazine and all he has to do is figure out how to get from where he is to the weapon without being the bottom of a Z dog pile. He thinks his options through, doesn’t like any of them, but decides to go for it.
Crouching low when in a group of Zs is not the best plan. It usually means they can get on top of you, overpower you with their weight, and then it’s only a matter of time before they rip you apart. These thoughts go through Alastair’s mind as he crouches low and starts throwing punches.
The first punch glances off a Z’s hip, spinning the undead woman to the side. His second punch tears right through a Z’s belly, moving through the rotten innards as if they are made of mud. He feels the thing’s spine and grips it as he pulls his fist back, snapping the Z in two. He doesn’t waste a second and punches through another belly, tearing out another spine.
Torsos fall from legs, and Zs start to snarl and claw at Alastair’s feet, but he doesn’t give two shits. His only focus is to create enough room to shoulder through and get to his carbine. He stomps on rotten fingers as he takes down another and another, shaking off Z hands as they try to tangle in his hair. A funny thought about how he’d meant to shear his scalp before deploying to Denver runs through his mind, but he lets it go and decides the time is right to make his move.
His shoulder down, he slams into a Z, then straightens somewhat and runs forward, using the thing as a battering ram to push through the others. Five feet, four feet, three, two, one, he drops and rolls, lifting up his carbine and taking aim. Rotating on one knee, moving counterclockwise, he empties all thirty rounds in the magazine, then stands as he ejects it and slaps in a fresh one. A mental tally tells him he has only two full mags left in his vest.
“Nice shooting,” Diaz says as he slams a Z’s head into the pavement over and over until the skull cracks like an egg and spills its bloody yolk. “Still want to haunt me?”
“Nah,” Alastair says, looking at the dead Zs that litter the street. “I couldn’t look at that ugly face for eternity.” He watches as Diaz keeps pounding the Z’s skull into the street. “Uh, you about done there?”
“Stress relief,” Diaz says. One more smack. “And done. I sure feel better.”
He picks up hi
s carbine, stands, and looks at all the Z corpses. “Better these fuckers than the blind fucks.”
“I hear that,” Alastair says. The sun cresting over one of the buildings hits him right in the eyes and he squints, pulling a pair of battered sunglasses from his vest. He puts them on and sighs. “That’s better.”
“Got an extra pair?” Diaz asks, pulling his own pair from his vest. The glasses are twisted and bent with one lens cracked down the middle. “Old buddy, old pal?”
“Nope,” Alastair says. “But keep a look out.” He nods at the fronts of the buildings around them. “I’ll bet there’s a pair in one of these old shops.”
“Like this block hasn’t been picked through already?” Diaz says. “Not worth the risk of getting jumped in there. I’ll squint.”
Alastair retrieves his knife from the Z he took down and the two Mates go from Z to Z, stabbing those in the brain that didn’t get stilled by bullets to the head. Done with stilling the zombies, they work their way up the street, eyes watching doorways and broken windowpanes, waiting for the next attack.
All night, they battled their way, block by block, stabbing and shooting Zs while fighting, and mainly running, from the occasional blind crazy. It didn’t take long to figure out that the blind were way more dangerous than the undead. Not something either of them would have thought to discover in their lifetimes, but evidence is evidence and they each have the wounds to prove it.
A rag is cinched around Diaz’s thigh, wet with blood, showing where a blind crazy had jumped out at him with a machete before Alastair could shoot the guy in the head. Alastair’s cheeks have long, deep furrows in them that have stopped bleeding, but look raw and red. The nails on the bitch he’d had to kill were deadly sharp, but not as sharp as the blade he put in her gut and jammed all the way through to her spine. He’s more worried about infection from what may have been under those nails.
They make it a few blocks before they come to South Santa Fe Drive. Across the four lanes is an old warehouse store, the parking lot of which would have normally been filled with milling Zs, since they tend to congregate in places that meant something in their old lives. Malls, schools, bars, clubs, the Zs go there and no one can figure out why. The ghost of memories looping through rotting synapses is the theory.
