Innocence Ends

by Robinson, Nikolas P.

  Ben snorts and rouses himself with the sound. He looks around, disoriented for a moment, before catching a glimpse of his father sitting in the shadows near the window.

  In a whisper he asks, “Are we still safe here?”

  “So far, so good,” Abraham replies. “There’s been no noise from downstairs and no one outside has so much as glanced up this way.”

  Ben eases his way over to sit beside his father, taking in the scene below where the mobs have closed on the figure still struggling to fight.

  “How long will we be safe here?”

  “I wish I knew, kiddo,” Abraham mutters, his voice sad and defeated. “I don’t think we’re safe anywhere as long as we stick around this town.”

  He sighs, watching the violence in the street below for a few seconds before continuing, “We need to get back to Gale’s house before we do anything else. That’s where the rest of them will be.”

  The individual being hunted outside has stopped struggling. Unconscious or dead, Abraham supposes it doesn’t matter. A couple of the larger men from the mob kneel next to the body on the pavement, doing something he can’t make out. It takes a minute before Abraham is finally able to see that they were lashing the victim’s wrists and ankles together.

  After the work of binding the captives is done, one of the men hefts the prisoner over his shoulders in a fireman’s carry and the collective moves away down the street, probably in search of more prey.

  “Alright, son, now is probably as good a chance as we’re going to get,” Abraham says as he stands, stretches out the stiffness he hadn’t noticed while sitting there for so long, and bundles himself in his jacket.

  Ben follows his father’s lead and gets himself prepared to return outside.

  They silently lower the hidden stairs back down from the ceiling of the second-floor hallway and cautiously descend to that position.

  Abraham carries a camping hatchet he located in a shed a few houses away and Ben holds a wrought iron fireplace poker at the ready, their eyes searching the nearly impenetrable darkness for any hint of movement. The weapons leave a lot to be desired, but they both feel better armed with something than they had earlier in the night.

  The house remains still and silent as the two make their creeping progress downstairs and to the front door.

  Abraham peers outside and sees nothing at ground level he hadn’t seen from above.

  “We’re going to stick to the shadows as well as we can and we’re going to follow that crowd at a safe distance. They’re going the direction I think we need to be headed.”

  Ben looks up to his father, confused and frightened.

  “They’re heading the same direction we are, there’s no avoiding it, unless I’ve totally lost my bearings,” Abraham responds to the unspoken question from his son.

  They remain in silence a little while before he continues, “Besides, I’d rather have these psychos in front of us than sneaking up from behind.”

  Ben nods in response after a moment of contemplation and stands ready to venture outside.

  As Abraham opens the door, the rain pelts their exposed skin like hundreds of tiny bee stings. They dart outside, closing the door behind them.

  23

  Beams from flashlights sporadically break up the otherwise absolute darkness of this residential block between the strobes of lightning. Sweeping through the shadows, these beacons are the only reliable way to discern where the hunting townsfolk happen to be on the prowl.

  The rainfall is too heavy for footsteps or conversation to be overheard until it is far too late for the warning to make a difference. Mariah and Gale know that the same ambient conditions offer them some degree of comfort. For Mariah, though, attempting to navigate an unfamiliar place with no light source of their own is hellish.

  They know the approximate direction they need to travel to get back to Gale’s house and the tenuous security that might offer, but avoiding the scattered hunting parties all over town has kept them from making a straight shot of it or allowed them to proceed with anything like good time.

  Mariah has had to focus on Gale, he was the only one who could direct her safely to the house. Unable to let herself worry about what was going on with the others or whether any of them would be there at Gale’s when the two of them finally arrived.

  From shadow to shadow, yard to yard, they gradually find themselves in a neighborhood that seems familiar to her and Gale confirms it; houses emerge from the darkness that should be only a block or two from their destination if Mariah recalls correctly in her admittedly rattled state of mind.

  Gale is scared, as anyone should be, but he doesn’t seem to be nearly as frightened as she is. Mariah is proud of him, but she wonders how much of that stoicism is shock and how much of it might be that her friend simply isn’t grasping just how real and mortal the danger happens to be. Gale was never one for survivalism or violence for sport the way most of them were, and this sort of situation could be taking a massive toll on her friend’s state of mind.

  Slogging through pools of standing water seemingly every few feet, they finally see the massive home looming ahead of them. It is illuminated briefly by a flash of lighting but otherwise residing in impenetrable blackness, sheltered from any traces of light from the occasional streetlights that seem to still be operational. There doesn’t appear to be anyone there, but she hopes their friends wouldn’t be stupid enough to do anything obvious to announce their presence if they had made it back to the house. More important than the apparent emptiness of the house itself, there doesn’t appear to be any of the frenzied mob blocking the path.

  “We’re going to make a break for it and run from here, buddy,” Mariah shouts, leaning in close so that Gale can hear her over the sounds of the storm.

  He nods, acknowledging that he heard and that he’s prepared to make the run for safety.

  “No more sneaking,” she continues. “Straight up the center of the road this time.”

  Again Gale nods and this time tosses her a thumbs up and a crooked smile she can only halfway make out.

  Another couple of flashes, to imprint the scene as best they can in their minds’ eyes, and they bolt from a hedge where they’ve been sheltering themselves from the worst of the storm’s fury.

  The street is wet but there isn’t the standing water to contend with in the center of the road that they were dealing with in the yards and alleys on the way here.

  Mariah moderates her speed to keep Gale slightly ahead of her, and they run as fast as either of them ever has.

  Almost there.

  As they approach the half block of undeveloped real estate that separates Gale’s property from his nearest neighbor Mariah happens to catch a trace of movement from the corner of her eye during a momentary burst of light.

  Staring out, hungrily, from a giant picture window is a woman who looks indistinguishable from something out of a horror movie, the sort of midnight broadcast with zombies or possession involved. Whatever had been in effect with that stranger who had murdered Kateb, this lady had it worse. She looked inhuman, ravenous. The noise from the storm drowns out everything but Mariah swears she almost hears the concussions as the trapped woman beats against the glass with her ruined hands, leaving bloody prints all over the interior surface.

  There is no doubt that this woman saw them. The banging became noticeably more frantic after Mariah had seen her because they’d seen one another at the same time.

  It was lunacy.

  She was clearly ill and suffering from whatever sickness the woman at the diner had been afflicted with. She and Gale needed to keep running, and fast because she had no idea how long those panes of glass would hold and she didn’t want to be anywhere within sight when that crazed bitch came careening through the window.

  It seems to take them forever, like in those dreams where the ground seems to give with each step and no matter how hard you push yourself, the speed just isn’t there.

  Finally, they do reac
h the house and Gale approaches one of his cars in the driveway. He nudges Mariah gently by the shoulder, prompting her to stay where she is.

  It takes him only a minute or so to fish his keys from the pocket of his sodden jeans, access the driver’s side door, and retrieve a Glock 9mm from under the seat where it’s fitted into a holster. He and Mariah slowly make their way to the relative shelter of the overhang at the front door. Gale hands the gun to Mariah while he flips through his keys for the one he needs to get them inside.

  Ejecting the magazine to be sure it’s full before slapping it back into place, Mariah feels much better. She doesn’t even think to question why Gale would have a firearm in his car.

  The gun might not be much help, under the circumstances they’d encountered so far, but it makes her feel better than being unarmed and exposed.

  They’ve regained some semblance of having solid ground beneath their feet, she comforts herself with that small victory.

  Gale pushes the door open and gestures for her to follow him in. At least they can relax, finally out of the downpour.

  24

  End Transmission by AFI transitions into The End by The Beta Machine as Hewitt continues his repeatedly failed attempt to cut back the direction he knows he’s supposed to be going. His end of the world playlist is feeling more and more appropriate each time the locals have his path blocked and he’s forced to navigate a new route.

  They know he’s out here and they seem to have some idea as to where he’s trying to go. He could be reading too much into things, but he can’t shake the thought that he’s all alone out here and that his friends heading to Gale’s house are fucked. Two more streets are no-go, filled with locals milling about.

  This whole process of going street to street, only to be cut off isn’t working for him. He needs to think things through and find a better way to go about all of this. Quickly checking all directions he only takes a moment to finally look up.

  Taking a moment to catch his breath as he sorts out his next steps all he can do is dwell on wondering how they got here, whether there was some way this whole turn of events could have been foreseen.

  Tristan is gone, swallowed by his misery

  Kateb is gone, brutally murdered in front of his closest friends.

  They had come together as children, an unlikely group consisting of individuals who simply didn’t fit into any of the other cliques that began to develop as early as those final years of elementary school. They bonded over their inability to connect with the other kids. That bond just kept flourishing as they grew up, growing together rather than apart as so many childhood friendships seem to go.

  Many of the ways they spent their time together were like any other eclectic group of children; hiking through the forest and letting their imaginations run wild, hanging out at the arcade for more hours than any parents would appreciate, or climbing around on playground equipment in ways not recommended by adults.

  There were other ways they spent their time that would have probably not been quite so typical, though not necessarily alarming; trespassing in abandoned or condemned buildings, sneaking out at night to explore construction sites and finding ways onto rooftops of apartment buildings and businesses to see if they could navigate their way to neighboring rooftops and new, unexplored places. Everyone appeared so small from so high above. Down below they were always oblivious. Crowds of drunken revelers would mill about on the sidewalks below with no idea what was going on above them. There was a definite thrill involved in being able to watch strangers going about their evenings without any knowledge that they were being stalked and monitored by a group of peculiar children.

  As they got older the explorations began to lean more heavily toward those latter activities and other things that could have gotten the whole group of them into trouble.

  A fascination with horror films and post-apocalyptic movies influenced them heavily, as it does adolescents all around, those of a certain personality type at least.

  They would meet in the middle of the night at the cemetery near Gale and Mariah’s neighborhood, at first just to wander around and soak up the ambiance and to drink and smoke the cigarettes they were too young to be smoking as they progressed further into their teen years.

  As they became teenagers, the explorations of off-limit locations began to take on a different quality and they started to refer to it as “post-apocalyptic boot camp.” They were kids fascinated by any and all manner of apocalyptic scenarios, not an uncommon thing in and of itself. Their preferred fantasies, naturally, combined their mutual love of horror with the apocalypse. All of them were avid fans of George A. Romero, Lucio Fulci, and other directors who specialized in zombies overtaking the world of the living.

  The kids collected knives, swords, hatchets, and all other things that they thought might prepare them for the most unlikely of futures. Gradually, as they got older, they joined family members on hunting trips and visits to shooting ranges, for the simple fun of it as well as the preparation they felt it would provide if the end happened to come.

  For the most part, they were just kids being kids, but there was a darker bent to the way this group of seven friends chose to entertain themselves. Others came and went over the years, joining and leaving the group for a variety of reasons, just the way children naturally come and go in one another’s lives. Those seven friends were virtually inseparable.

  There were certainly areas where interests diverged. Hewitt, Gale, Mariah, and Tristan became rather fond of role-playing games. It began with D&D and the numerous expansions on that universe but it wasn’t long before Shadowrun, Cyberpunk, and Call of Cthulhu became regular parts of the rotation as well.

  While the four played their games, Miles, Kateb, and Abraham participated in various athletic activities either for the school or other organizations. Miles and Kateb both signed up for ROTC as soon as it was an option for them in school.

  As their lives expanded into different, larger circles, they remained active in one another’s lives and never neglected to support each other in their assorted pursuits.

  On weekends, Miles and Kateb would often run the others through drills that were variations of what they experienced in ROTC. The whole group was happy to remain active; and though Gale was the first to complain during these strenuous exertions, he was still present for these exhausting activities just the same.

  Whenever possible they would study together or work out tutoring schedules to assist anyone that might be falling behind. Through high school graduation, they worked together to ensure that everyone got through it all just fine. Most of the tutoring was done by Tristan and Hewitt, as those two seemed to excel at any subject put in front of them. Gale was superb where science and mathematics were concerned and Mariah was an excellent student of history and the arts; they would both chip in with tutoring duties where their areas of expertise came into play. Kateb was a good all-around student, but nowhere near the top of the class. Miles only really felt that he was standing out where athletics were concerned, though he also displayed a surprising proficiency in drama. Abraham’s skill set didn’t appear until he was provided with a woodshop and the ability to work with machines. Working together though, all seven of them graduated with honors.

  They spent a couple of weeks, all of them together, following graduation, before they struck out on their own and went their separate ways.

  From that autumn forward they tried to keep in touch and get together as best they could manage. Life got in the way a lot of the time, more often than not, for some more than others.

  Adulthood changed their relationships with one another, but the friendship and connection remained strong.

  Creeping along the rooftop of a general store he accessed by a ladder in the alley, he catches a glimpse of a familiar and comforting pattern of lights only a couple of blocks away. It may be clutching at straws, but the presence of a police cruiser is at least some potential chance that he isn’t alone. He watches long enough to
assure himself it’s stationary. Assured, and with renewed purpose, he returns to the ladder and scrabbles down to the alley below.

  He drops to the alley floor just as another of the zombie things was passing by. He holds his breath and flattens himself against the wall, willing himself to be invisible and hoping that he’s been unnoticed.

  Too late. The noise of his impact drew its attention and as it turns toward him, hungry and rasping, it’s inarticulate language impossible to misinterpret, Hewitt freezes for a second.

  He’s never killed anyone before and though he’s not entirely certain this counts, he is having a difficult time accepting what he needs to do.

  Grasping, desperate hands reach for him and he knows that this is death approaching in the most unlikely form.

  He raises the hammer he’d collected from the shed and swings it down with the claw end impacting the man’s forehead just above the left eye with a crunch that immediately makes him feel ill. In the half-light, he imagines he can see splinters of bone jaggedly protruding from the wound. Spurts of blood mimic the rhythm of the stranger’s fading heartbeat. The man quickly becomes dead weight, pulling at the hammer in Hewitt’s hand and it slides from his grip as the victim falls to the asphalt of the alley.

  He stands there staring at the ground in front of him, fixated on the dead man, hammer still protruding from his vacant face, the rain washing away what little blood there is from the wound.

  He can’t bring himself to extract the hammer from the zombie’s skull; leaving it where it’s embedded, he backs away the direction of the lights he’d seen. The hatchet will have to be good enough to get him safely there, and he desperately finds himself hoping that he doesn’t need to use it.

  Just Another Day by Oingo Boingo ends and Hewitt rips out the earbud as Lars Frederiksen’s Army of Zombies begins playing. What had seemed funny and amusing before just isn’t funny anymore. There’s nothing cute about what’s happening and what he’s just been forced to do has soured what his friends had always considered an indomitable sense of humor and levity. Deep inside, somewhere he rarely ventured, he had always been aware that his ability to find humor in pretty much anything was a mask of some kind or little more than a coping mechanism. He’s becoming conscious of that fact now as despair floods through the cracks in that facade. It’s only his focus on finding someone in some tenuous position of authority that pushes him onward from the site of the murder he’s just committed.