Unhappy Endings: Tales from the world of Adrian's Undead Diary

by Chris Philbrook

  Jesse's uncle Martin sat behind him on a crumbling stone wall covered with thick vines. Martin wheezed and forced a smile. "It'll be good to spend a night or two indoors." he replied. Martin had long ago realized that he was too damned old to be sleeping outside.

  Jesse nodded and examined the dilapidated structure again. The sun was a sliver of orange melting on the horizon and it was difficult to make out details in the gloom. Someone, long ago, had spray painted the word "haunted" on the sides of the house. Jesse just hoped it was free of the dead. There was a chill in the air, the first whiff of fall. They would have to find real shelter before winter. The cities and towns, infested with zombies, weren't an option. They needed someplace isolated to hole up in and the old farmhouse would be perfect. Jesse's stomach growled a reminder. Maybe there would even be food. They were down to two despised granola bars and Jesse and Martin were trying to see how long they could go before hunger forced them to finally eat the damn things.

  Martin hooked a vine with his finger. The creeping plant had the fence in a snug embrace, its tendrils were pulling the stones back into the earth where they belonged. Martin closed his eyes and imagined the vines pulling him down into the moist ground where it would be cool and quiet. There he would be free from the illness and dread that plagued him.

  Martin had been sick for weeks. His chest ached from a constant cough. His head pounded and burned and his clothes were soaked with sweat. Martin was sure he was dying.

  A flashbulb went off in Martin's head. The image of a white room smashed his bleak fantasy into black shards. The shards turned into crows that winged away, cawing, until they were blotted out by whiteness.

  An unseen voice tickled the inside of Martin's head. "There is no solace in death." The refrain was repeated two more times. Angels maybe, whispering warnings in his ear?

  Martin didn't need angels to tell him the dead no longer enjoyed the peace of the grave. He could see the damned things walking around. They'd been trying to eat him and Jesse for months. The living dead. Ghouls. Zombies. Martin shuddered. Even worse than the zombies were the dreams. He could sense an intangible evil riding the ether. An arcane presence reflected in the few fitful snatches of sleep he could manage. Unlike the zombies, the evil wasn't interested in Martin's flesh, it wanted his soul.

  Jesse mumbled something and Martin opened his eyes.

  "Can you make it?" Jesse asked again. Martin coughed harshly and a wad of phlegm flew from his mouth, barely missing Jesse's leg. The sputum was flecked with blood. Jesse's face revealed both concern and disgust.

  At sixty-four Martin had been surviving the zombie apocalypse remarkably well. Months of walking and a forced diet had shorn his frame of its flabbiness. Stern eyes were flanked by tangles of long black hair run through with gray. He had cast off the weight of resentment and disappointment that burdened his life and replaced it with a focus on survival. Then he'd gotten sick.

  "I'll be fine." Martin said, taking a sip of water from his canteen. "Just need some sleep. Maybe there's a bed in there with a bottle of Jack under the pillow."

  Jesse grinned. "Or maybe there's a bottle of that nasty cough syrup mom made me take when I was a kid. How'd you like that?"

  "Up yours." grunted Martin.

  He stood and leaned on a four foot length of lead pipe that served as both a walking stick and a bludgeon. The grooves on the end of the pipe were caked with dirt and dried blood. Martin had bashed in many a zombie skull with it. He poked Jesse in the ass with the pipe. "After you, chico."

  Martin often kidded his nephew about being a boy even though Jesse was thirty-six. It surprised him that Jesse had lasted so long after June 23rd. If Martin had known what was coming he would have bet that Jesse wouldn't have survived the first day. Lots of better men hadn't.

  Jesse was soft. Martin knew that. As an only child Jesse had been spoiled by his parents. He was gangling and gentle by nature and was blessed with the traditional dark family hair that made him look like a latino version of the character Shaggy from that famous cartoon. Unlike Shaggy, the monsters would have gotten Jesse long ago were it not for Martin.

  Jesse was still regarding the farmhouse and stroking the stubble that covered his face. Despite months of not shaving, the hairs refused to blossom into a full beard. Martin poked him again.

  "Ow!" cried Jesse. "That hurt!"

  "A bite from one of those things would hurt even more." said Martin. "Now let's get going."

  The house was completely boarded up. Even the second floor windows were shuttered. The front door had been replaced with a sheet of plywood reinforced with two-by-fours. Jesse thumped the barrier with the rusty crowbar he carried as a weapon. "Anyone here?" he called.

  Jesse and Martin waited a few minutes. Nothing. Jesse shrugged. "Guess no one's home. Probably went to a square dance!"

  It was common to find homes full of zombies. Even though the farmhouse was abandoned and probably empty, they had to be careful.

  Jesse pulled a hand cranked flashlight from the duffle bag that held their few possessions. Charging the flashlight reminded Jesse of a movie camera he'd seen in a silent film about Egypt. He felt like Howard Carter at the tomb of Tutankhamun. But if there were monsters in the house they wouldn't be mummies.

  When the flashlight was charged Jesse ran the light over the sagging porch they were standing on. He saw the outline of a welcome mat, dead leaves and an old wine bottle probably left behind by a transient. Jesse wondered if the man was dead and shuffling out there in the dark, watching them.

  Beyond the trees that fringed the yard squatted a barn that Jesse had already explored. The barn was in much worse shape than the house. It was collapsing in on itself, sucked in by the black hole of decrepitude. Salvador Dali couldn't have envisioned a more twisted architecture.

  The interior of the barn had smelled of piss and was littered with the boozy detritus of other bums. "We can't stay here." Jesse had said to his uncle Martin. "One sneeze from you and the whole thing will come down!"

  "Quit daydreaming and open her up." Martin said with a grimace. He wanted nothing more than to lay down.

  Jesse held the flashlight under his chin, illuminating his face. "They're coming to get you, Martin!" he intoned, mimicking a famous horror movie scene.

  Martin rolled his eyes. It was good that Jesse still had a sense of humor but sometimes the jokes really grated on his nerves.

  A wave of pain washed up in Martin's skull. He wavered on his feet. Phantoms danced in his eyes. A white room spun madly and dark lurching figures reached for him with decayed fingers and gnashing teeth.

  The evil loosed on the world had seeped into Martin's very being, poisoning him. Martin knew the cure lay east of them, his fevered dreams told him so. Go east and find redemption. They may have been hallucinations but they gave him hope. Hope that there was still good in the world.

  "Quit daydreaming and take the flashlight." laughed Jesse.

  Jesse handed the flashlight to Martin and attacked the two-by-fours with his crowbar. The door frame they were nailed to was dry and brittle and gave up the boards without a fight. The plywood proved more difficult to remove as it had been cut to fit within the door frame. Jesse managed to pry one corner loose. He stuck his fingers in the gap and wrenched the barrier free with a shriek of rending nails.

  Jesse held the plywood out like a shield as Martin stepped forward and shined the flashlight in the doorway. No zombies came shuffling out. Not even a cat or a bat to startle them with a cheap scare. The house offered nothing more dangerous than raggedy cobwebs and a musty odor that wrinkled their noses.

  Jesse kicked at the dust on the floor inside the house. "No one has been here for a long time." he said. They were standing in what had once been a living room. Jesse mulled that over. Empty houses depressed him.

  Martin waved the flashlight around the living room like a lighthouse keeper searching for wayward ships. The beam revealed an enormous couch that had likely been considered too big to b
other moving. The couch sagged in the middle, mocking them with a fat grin. An empty gun cabinet stood against a wall, a disarmed sentinel left to watch over the house in its years of decline. The front door, more a large pane of intricately embossed glass, lay covered in dust on the moldering carpet. Martin imagined it to be a portal to the underworld. The only thing of promise was a yawning fireplace that beckoned with the promise of crackling warmth.

  Three open doorways and a set of stairs called out for further investigation. It was like being on the set of a macabre game show. Behind which door is the flesh-eating zombie?

  The first thing they had to do was secure the front entrance. Martin laid the sheet of plywood against the door frame while Jesse dragged the gun cabinet over to hold it in place. "No wonder they left this behind." he said with a chuckle. "It's heavier than your last girlfriend!" Martin ignored him. He didn't like to joke about women.

  Martin walked over to the couch and thumped it with his pipe. No critters or unduly large spiders emerged so he sat down. He handed the flashlight to Jesse. "Take a look around." he said. "I need to rest for a bit. I'm really tired." Martin sighed and closed his eyes. "Maybe I'll start a fire and take a nap. Don't let me get eaten."

  One door led to a kitchen. Jesse whisked the flashlight beam back and forth. The cheap linoleum that covered the floor was curling with age. An ancient refrigerator squatted in a corner bleeding rust. Jesse saw no point in opening it. The back door, as fortified as the front, looked like a scab on the peeling kitchen wall. Open cupboard doors mocked Jesse by showing off bare shelves. Then his light revealed a single can sitting on a counter littered with fly corpses. Jesse's stomach growled in anticipation. He picked the can up and read the label. Lima beans. He hated lima beans.

  People ate much worse than lima beans when they were starving. Jesse moved the flashlight closer and read the expiration date: 4/18/92. He had been eighteen when the beans expired.

  Jesse had read that canned food was edible far past the expiration date and the can looked undamaged. Still, if he was going to get food poisoning it may as well come from something he liked. He put the can down and sighed. He knew Martin would want to try them anyway.

  Something in the dark shifted and laughed. Jesse could hear his uncle snoring away in the other room so it must have been his imagination. "Don't let your fear get the better of you." Martin had told him. Jesse took a deep breath and decided to finish checking out the rest of the house. Then he noticed the letter.

  The can of beans had been holding down a yellowed envelope. The name Charles was scrawled on it in a terse script warped by the rounded impression of the can. Jesse opened it and pulled out a single piece of lined paper.

  "Charles,

  If you get this letter I thank God you have returned. I am sorry for what passed between us. I should have told you sooner that you weren't my my biological son. Please believe me when I say that in my heart I always felt that you were. I may have treated you harshly but that was not the reason why. Your dear mother went to Heaven last year. I am happy that she is with the Lord but I cannot stand living in this house without her or you. I am going to Texas to live with my brother Robert. I have left the house in your name. Mr. Evans at the bank has all the details as well as some money for you. Please take some flowers to your mother's grave and say goodbye to her.

  Your loving father, James"

  The letter also included a black and white picture of a family of three. The photo reminded Jesse of the painting American Gothic with the pitchfork replaced by a young boy. In the bottom of the envelope was an obituary notice for an Ada Martins that left Jesse's fingers smudged with ink.

  Jesse felt an ineffable sense of sadness. Apparently Charles had never returned. He and his father were likely dead, their differences never resolved. What was the point in going on? Life on earth had been reduced to a mad scrabble for survival. Every day was a trial of hunger and despair. Every road led to death. Why not just give in? Everyone Jesse knew was dead. Except for uncle Martin and Adrian.

  What? Where had that come from?

  Jesse hadn't thought of Adrian Ring in years. Adrian was a boy Jesse had known in elementary school back east. He remembered playing dodgeball and smear the queer with Adrian and some other boys during fourth grade recess. The faces of those other boys flickered in his head like images in a faded Super 8 film but Adrian's was crystal clear. Weird.

  Jesse left the letter and the can of lima beans on the kitchen counter and checked the other two rooms on the ground floor. One was a bathroom boasting an antique clawfoot bathtub and an empty medicine cabinet that was hung slightly crooked. The other room was a study lined with bookshelves that offered Jesse a set of dusty encyclopedias dating back to 1968. A beat to hell Davenport desk sat dejectedly in the center of the room, its drawers empty save for pencil stubs and mouse droppings.

  Jesse rumbled upstairs, the rotting steps crying out with every footfall. A hallway separated the stairwell from two bedrooms. One was empty. In the other was a bed covered in plastic sheeting. A dresser stood in one corner. In the top drawer was a bible. Written on the inside of its front cover were the words "To Charles from mom and dad."

  Jesse put the bible back and closed the drawer. The second and third drawers held bed covers and pillows that reeked of mothballs. Jesse shrugged. At least uncle Martin had his bed. No Jack Daniels though.

  Jesse tromped downstairs. "That you?" asked Martin. The couch had all but swallowed him. Jesse turned the flashlight on his uncle. Martin was flushed and sweat beaded on his forehead. He wheezed and his chest rattled. "I'm in a bad way, kid."

  Jesse nodded. "Found you a bed upstairs." he said. "But no Jack."

  Martin pushed himself up and out of the couch. Spittle hung from one corner of his mouth. He wiped it on a sleeve in disgust. "Never wanted to go out like this." he thought to himself.

  "Come on, gramps!" laughed Jesse. "I'll help you up the stairs!"

  It bothered Martin that he was now weaker than Jesse. And that made him ashamed. He pushed Jesse's outstretched hand away. "I can manage." he grunted angrily. "You worry about yourself."

  "How is it?" asked Jesse. Martin was lying on the bed. The climb up the stairs had worn him out. His body ached so badly that it was a struggle to find a comfortable position.

  "Beats sleeping under a bush." Martin replied, tucking a pillow under his head. "Plus I always wanted to die in a bed that stunk of mothballs."

  Jesse frowned and sat down next to his uncle. "You're not gonna die here." he said. The thought of his uncle dying scared Jesse more than anything.

  Martin made a fist and thumped Jesse's back. "I think it'll be better if you sleep in the other room." Jesse understood what his uncle meant but protested anyway.

  "Don't argue with me." Martin told Jesse. "If I die the last thing I want to do is take a bite out of your skinny ass."

  Jesse nodded. He was glad the darkness hid his tears.

  "Lock the door on your way out." said Martin with a grin. "I don't want you sneaking back in here after I'm asleep!"

  Jesse locked the door and went into the other bedroom. He tried to get comfortable but his duffle bag made an uncomfortable pillow and the dusty carpet aggravated his allergies. His stomach rumbled. He thought of the lima beans down in the kitchen but he was saving them as a surprise breakfast for his uncle and he wasn't quite famished enough for another granola bar. Oh well, it wouldn't be the first time he went to sleep on an empty stomach. Sometimes Jesse envied the zombies. At least they got fresh meat every once in a while.

  Jesse could hear his uncle coughing through the wall. Martin was all Jesse had left. Without him what would he do? It was Martin who had saved Jesse in the days after June 23rd. That had been the first day of the end of the world.

  Jesse had been working in the comic book store. Stocking comics, listening to Cream on the radio and flirting with Maddie, his favorite customer. Maddie was young, petite and perky. She had striking green eyes that sparkled beh
ind her over-sized glasses. A delightful package topped off with a pixie cut.

  Maddie was polite and had listened as Jesse told her all about a Mustang convertible he had his eye on. His old beater had finally went to the junkyard in the sky and he was saving for a new one. Then the music had been replaced with a frantic news report. Some crazy story about the dead returning to life. Jesse had switched to another station but it was reporting the same ridiculous story. Maddie had left after that. Jesse remembered her saying something about a dream she'd had the night before.

  Jesse was sure the news reports were some sort of hoax or exaggeration. He had also hoped that sales of his zombie comics would skyrocket. No such luck. Maddie had been his last customer.

  By the end of the day the stories had been confirmed by government sources. His mother and father hadn't answered their phone so Jesse had locked up the store and walked to their house. When he got there, his uncle Martin had been standing on the porch with a funny look on his face.

  "They're not here." Martin had said. "Come on, let's go to my place. I left them a note to join us."

  Martin owned a bar and lived in an apartment on the second floor. The only value in the place as a sanctuary were the barred windows and solid doors. Unfortunately the streets were packed with cars, many of them wrecked. Fights were breaking out. A disaster movie come to life. That was when Jesse and Martin saw their first zombie.

  Jesse closed his eyes as his recollection sped up. A kaleidoscope of horrors marching by in fast forward.

  A man trapped in a smashed pickup truck, his chest crushed. A passerby reaching in to help and getting bitten on the arm for his trouble. The good Samaritan screaming and another man blowing his head off with a shotgun. The man with the shotgun killing the thing in the truck.

  Uncle Martin pulling Jesse from his car and pushing him through the crowd. Running with him through a field and into a stand of woods.

  Standing on a corner and watching Martin's bar burn to the ground. With it went Martin's invaluable gun collection.