Only the Light We Make

by James Dean

  James has always been interested in writing, penning his first very short story in 4th grade. He's written several short stories over the years, from horror to sword and sorcery genres. But he gave up writing for several years, until he discovered the world of indie authors, thanks to people like Mark Tufo and Eric Shelman. James was bitten by the writing bug, which has led to his first full length novel, This Dying World: The End Begins.

  The Beacon

  James Pyne

  Jessica Willows glared down at her husband through the broken bedroom window, shards of glass pointed up like uneven fangs. Dave stood outside the front door while the silent dead limped toward the farmhouse. Their crying nine-month old baby girl, Hortensia, was wrapped in a dirty toddler blanket on the dusty mattress with cigarette burns all over it. Graffiti covered the walls and the floor was littered with broken beer bottles.

  She knew this day would come. When the flesh eaters would catch up with them.

  One job, Dave. One job and you fucking dropped the ball and now we’re all fucked. She felt horrible for thinking that.

  Dave--or the thing that he had become--bumped into the old wooden door. The farmhouse had been vacated long before things went to shit. This was only supposed to be a pit stop. It wasn’t safe to stay in one place long. The living dead knew no boundaries, devouring flesh whenever they came across it. They didn’t rest. She thought about running with Hortensia but last she looked, they were coming from the other side too.

  “I don’t know what to do, Dave.”

  He didn’t look up. He didn’t address her with that trademark smirk of his just before he said something smartass like; But you’re a woman, you know everything.

  “God dammit, shut up,” she said to the baby, but Hortensia kept crying. She was their shiny beacon to warm flesh. Jessica felt pretty sure Dave hadn’t returned to the farmhouse from memory. Like the others, he was drawn to Hortensia’s bawling.

  The dead slowly thumped up the old wooden steps of the porch. They bumped into Dave, knocking off the part of his left arm had been almost torn away. He blended in perfectly with them now, when just yesterday he wanted to burn every last one of them. Jessica wanted to shoot him in the head. She wanted to give him some dignity. A small part of her liked the idea that he’d be wandering aimlessly about, slowly rotting away for a long time.

  That’s what you get for coming back with them. That’s what you get for failing us. You son of a bitch. You failed us.

  “Shut up.” She turned to Hortensia. “Just shut the fuck up.”

  Dave always went out to get the lay of a new area. They never stayed at a place for more than a few days and that was pushing it. Always keep moving, that’s what some Adrian guy advised them to do. He had rescued them from sure death once. He just came out of nowhere and kicked some serious ass.

  "Always keep moving unless you have a good food source and are heavily fortified," he had said. Good luck finding that. Such places were all claimed and no one was taking on any extra bodies. If you were lucky someone might throw you a few jugs of water and some canned goods and send you on your way. But like Adrian said, eventually they’ll just rot away. Until then, keep fucking moving and unless you can grow food in a day, forget about setting your roots in the countryside.

  That was easy for him to say. He didn’t have a newborn to worry about. Dave figured if they got out in the countryside far enough, that they could start growing their own food. They had the packets of seeds and Dave used to grow some wicked vegetables back in Maine. The plan was--until the gardens were ready--he’d forage through nearby towns for food. She had secretly hoped maybe this place was out far enough but the dead cover a lot of ground when they don’t sleep.

  The monsters crammed the porch and pressed against the front door, making the old door come off its hinges with a grinding note. They didn’t moan or growl. The stairs creaked at their approach. The bureau was against the door, not like that would stop the collective weight of them pushing against it. She swooped up Hortensia and cuddled her within one arm, the other hand pointed the pistol at the door.

  “Hush, baby girl. I won’t let them take you.”

  She couldn’t imagine a zombie baby. That was just wrong.

  “Why won’t you say something?” She shouted at the zombies out in the hallway. “Fucking say something.”

  Thump. Thump. Thump. Over and over, becoming louder after each thump. She imagined them crowding in the hallway and pushing at the door, not in a synchronized effort, just out of their primal need for flesh. She’d shoot as many as she could. Then what? Jumping out the window meant death, or broken legs that left her and Hortensia prime for eating.

  “You won’t take us, you hear me. I won’t let you.”

  The more Hortensia cried the more the door threatened to burst open and when it finally did, the face of her dead husband was front and center among the rest of the horrid things, but that wasn’t him anymore.

  “I won’t let you.”

  She pressed the gun barrel against Hortensia’s temple.

  ABOUT JAMES PYNE

  James Pyne was born in New Glasgow, Nova Scotia. His writing has recently appeared in Colour Me Dead, Rain, Nocturnal Natures, Jack O'Lanterns, Only the Light We Make, and the forthcoming Grey Matter Monsters, Renegades of Prose, Buried, and a few other anthologies. He’s also working on the completion of his latest graphic novels, Woe and Big Cranky.

  Feel free to add him on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/jjamespyne

  Going Nowhere

  Chris Philbrook

  June 23rd 2010

  Brandon Hughes woke up without the alarm. His eyes snapped open and shut immediately; the beam of sun boring its way through the crack between the shade and the window frame was a smidge brutal. For it to hit his face as he woke, something had to have been off.

  "What time is it?" he muttered aloud as he rolled over and looked at the flea market find nightstand, and the old digital clock resting on it. The clock read eight a.m. "Christ. I'm going to be late. Any day but today. Any other day."

  Brandon tossed the jersey cotton sheet off of his naked body and sat up. The beam of golden light crossed his chest like a golden sash from neck to hip, and he snickered. I look like a Miss America contestant. Or, Miss half-Korea. Brandon gulped down swig of tepid water from a glass beside his alarm clock. After letting the haze in his head brought on from waking up clear, he grabbed his phone, and dialed the law firm. Two rings in, the receptionist answered.

  "Gordon, Leftowitz and McDowell, how may I help you this morning?"

  "Good morning Helen, this is Brandon."

  "Good morning Brandon, what can I do for you this interesting day?" Helen replied, almost purring at him. He'd been flirting with her for months, and the sound of how pleased she was hearing him gave him a tiny rush. It almost drowned out how nervous he was to talk to her, and how frustrated he was about waking up late. And speaking of which…

  "I overslept. Can you let Clarice and Abdul know that I'll be heading straight to the courthouse in the city and that they need to bring all of the case files with them? I won't have time to stop into the office on my way."

  "Aww," Helen comforted him. "Too many martinis after work last night?"

  "I should be so lucky. I stayed up late studying for the hearing this morning. I really want to get this case won. I'm up for partner in less than a year, and I need to have a stellar run on my cases to lock that opportunity in," Brandon said as he stood, and walked into his bathroom. His feet pressed against the cold marble tiles veined in white and black and a sense of satisfaction came over him. He put that tile in himself. He pulled the glass door to the shower open, and turned the chrome handle until hot spray burst from the circular shower head above.

  "You'll do great. You're a wonderful lawyer. Don't feel bad. Half the office has either called out, or is running late."

  "Good, I don't want to be the only one late today, and thank you. That compliment means a lot to me. Look, if
I make it into the office after, let's grab a coffee or something? Are you free after work for that?"

  She stuttered a bit. "I um, yeah, maybe."

  "Did I make you uncomfortable? I'm sorry. I didn't mean to, at all. I just thought you and I would have a good time." Brandon felt terrible.

  "It's not that, not at all. Have you listened to the news yet? Things are a bit wacky out there."

  "Wacky eh? I figured you ran screaming from my date request because my mom is Korean. Us half-Asians have it rough. But, wacky really?" Brandon laughed as he felt the temperature of the water in the shower; not hot enough. He turned the handle a bit, and the steam grew. "I haven't heard that word in years."

  She laughed and it sounded authentic. "I have no problem with you being half-Asian, Brandon. And yeah, wacky. I don't know how else to describe it. Lots of violence in Asia and Africa. Unrest, you know. Some of the less intellectual media sources are throwing around the 'zombie' word. There was an emergency alert thing on the television and radio a few minutes ago. Said there were a few isolated incidents of violence here on the east coast, but to stay calm, and not to worry. All that did was make me worry," Helen said. She tried to hide her anxiety behind a laugh and failed.

  "Well, you'll be fine. No reason to be anxious. And I'll be fine too. I'm a tough guy, and I have my concealed permit, and so long as the violence stays mostly overseas… Maybe we can get coffee later. Or tomorrow. I don't mind waiting for good things. Zombies don't scare me."

  "Deal. I'll tell Clarice and Abdul to get the files for you, and meet you at the courthouse."

  "No later than 9:30. I'll call the judge and see what we can do if they wind up running late. Thanks Helen, you're a saint."

  "You're welcome Brandon. I'll talk to you soon. Bye."

  "Bye."

  She was right.

  *****

  Brandon exited the shower--clean of body and ready of mind--and put his courtroom attire on. Fresh underwear, a clean white t-shirt and over that his brand new Brooks Brothers suit. He picked it up with a coupon when he visited his brother (also a lawyer) in Manhattan a couple months back. Spending huge money on a wardrobe of tailored suits had never been Brandon's wish in life, but when he saw the sale, and had the referral coupon to a small suit shop in the big city, he snapped at the deal.

  The money he saved on the deal let him renovate the old cape he bought in town, which had always been one of his life's goals. Like the house with the new bathroom he put in with his own hands over a month of weekends he treasured the suit. Today, he would win the case wearing it and from then on… it would be his lucky suit.

  Brandon hummed as he snapped his grandfather's Bulova watch on his left wrist. Out of the drawer of his nightstand he produced his small handgun; a Ruger LCP in .380 ACP. His brother chided him for buying such a small handgun (a handgun at all; Brandon's brother Terry was a staunch anti-gun person) but Brandon felt the gun important. Brandon had worked as a public defender for years to earn his way into a good private practice, and despite the idea that you were working for the defendants, they often hated their lawyers when their case failed them. Their cases failed a lot.

  Brandon wanted the pistol to protect himself from angry clients, and he wore it over his right kidney, in a low-profile holster, inside his waistband, under his suit. His soon-to-be lucky suit. He left his small first-floor bedroom and stopped into the kitchen. He fired up the kettle on the stove to feed his French press, but abandoned the mission when he saw how much time he'd lost getting ready. He put the milk back in the fridge next to the jars of homemade kimchi his mother sent him every month, and he grabbed a protein bar out of the cabinet. Honey-almond with flax. The bar wasn't much of a breakfast but it would have to do until he could stop at the Dunk's on the way. He'd grab a toasted everything bagel with butter and grape jelly, and a small two and two. Frugal, and sufficient. He had to be if he wanted to afford that Italian marble countertop he'd been eyeing. It would really make those cabinets pop.

  This case against the private school in town would be his key to that countertop. The students claiming they were discriminated against had a thin case, but there was enough there that if he and his team pushed hard long enough, they'd get a settlement. He was sure of it. Today felt like the day they'd get the settlement offer from the school's lawyers. If the process went any further, the case would go to trial, and things would get very expensive for the school. The amount of billable hours they'd be hit with? Bad press? Over a silly comment by a line cook in the cafeteria? Hell, with what they get for tuition there this settlement is a drop in the bucket. Cheaper than a year's scholarship to their own school.

  He hated to see anyone or any business suffer, but the case had enough merit, and the school had enough money to spare.

  Brandon grabbed all of his paperwork off the kitchen table from under the empty coffee cup that stood as a monument to the previous night's study session and arranged the documents neatly before putting them in his briefcase and clicking the lid shut. He looked out the bay window of his eat-in kitchen and watched as his neighbor across the street slammed the back hatch of her minivan shut, and got in. She moved so haphazardly she banged her forehead on the frame of the car getting in, but paid her injury no mind. She backed up faster than he'd ever seen her drive, and sped away, pushing through the stop sign as if it weren't even there.

  "I hope everything is okay."

  But it wasn't.

  *****

  Brandon exited into his garage from the breezeway and opened the passenger door to his Audi Q7. He rested his briefcase on the seat of his beloved diesel and shut the door before walking around to the driver's side. He pulled his door open and sat in the seat he loved. The gun on his back dug into his flesh but he wiggled a bit, and the pistol found a more comfortable spot. He pulled the door shut and reached up to the visor to tap on the garage door opener.

  Nothing happened.

  "You have got to be kidding," Brandon said as he tapped the wide black button again. Still nothing. He opened the door of the car and checked the eye sensor but it was clear. The door wasn't jammed either. He shrugged his shoulders and walked over to the door's button on the wall and hit that with a knuckle. He stopped walking away when the door still refused to respond.

  "Right. Perfect. Figures. Of all days, today," he said as he looked up at the manual release hanging above the roof of his wagon. He kicked off his shoes, took off his suit jacket and used the tire of his car as a step to get on the hood. He balanced his weight and adjusted his stance to compensate for the slippery dress socks. With one outstretched hand he reached up and pulled on the cord at the opener, and released the latch to the garage door. After climbing down and brushing his suit pants off, he lifted the door one palm at a time until he could grab the bottom edge of the door and lift it up. He cleaned his shirt off, and headed back to the car to check it for scratches.

  Brandon slipped his shoes on, put his soon-to-be lucky jacket back on and sat in the SUV. He put the key in the dash and turned it to start the car. Silence returned his efforts. Nothing happened. He tried the key again, removed it and started the process over several times, but the dash refused to light up, and the engine refused to turn over. His car had somehow died during the night.

  He leaned forward, and rested his head in defeat on the steering wheel. After a minute of that, followed by laughter to force away the tears, he dug his phone out of his pants pocket, and searched through his contacts for the number of the judge.

  "Why am I always pushing a rock up a damn hill?"

  *****

  "Your Honor, I apologize for the early time and nature of this call," Brandon said. "It pains me that I have to bother you."

  "Mr. Hughes, this morning has been a strange one, and its getting stranger by the minute. Can we cut to the chase and have you tell me how you're going to make it all the more strange for me?" The judge shot back.

  He sounds pissed. "Much to my dismay, my car has decided to not start, and
I will be late to the courthouse. My associates are on the way to the court right now, but I will be at least an hour late at this point. Would it be too much to ask for a few hours postponement?"

  "I'm not granting you a continuance because the discount sparkplugs failed in your Mercedes, Mr. Hughes. Get your ducks in a row and show up on time."

  My mom was so right about me. Always thinking, but rarely about the right thing at the right time. She'll laugh when I call her. "I understand, Your Honor. I apologize."

  "You're in luck though. There's certainly a domestic crisis brewing, and we're in the process of shutting the court down for all non-essential… things. Your case is far from essential today, and I'm suspending it until further notice."

  Brandon's heart started beating like a normal person's. "May I ask what for? Something I should worry about?"

  "Mr. Hughes, have you listened to the radio yet? No, I suppose not if your car won't start. There is a… I don't know how to describe it--a disturbance--but Homeland Security and the State Department are having a bit of a fit over widespread violence overseas and it spreading here. My bailiffs are telling me the State Police are already receiving numerous calls of very strange batches of violence. Injured people suddenly lashing out at the help they're getting. Hospitals are experiencing very odd occurrences, too. We seem to be experiencing the events of a Tom Clancy novel, or one by Dean Koontz. I don't know which plot to root for."

  "Wow. I don't know what to say. That sounds terrible. I'm sure everything will be alright. Media always inflates these things and the government has to react accordingly. I don't want to tie you up any longer, I'm sure you've got other things to do. Thank you for the continuance, despite the circumstances for it. Is there anything I can do for you or the court today? Perhaps after I get my car functioning?"