The Living Dead 2

by John Joseph Adams

  He walked and walked. NEW ORLEANS 35 and 20 and 10, and though he didn’t know what that meant, he nonetheless knew it when he saw it, silent and dark and still.

  The sun was again going down as he ambled across a large bridge. All over the roadway were large machines of metal and glass, all of them smashed, many of them burned. There were motionless bodies inside most of them, with many more on the pavement. Many were not whole, but were just limbs or torsos in dried-up pools of blood. There were swarms of loud, ugly flies all over. He shook his head and kept walking, looking up at the beautiful angles of the bridge’s proud steel frame. There was another bridge next to the one on which he walked, and this meant something to him, too, though it made little sense: CCC. And: GNO.

  Halfway across the bridge, he saw a yellow metal box attached to it at eye level. The box was open and a plastic thing hung from it by a cord. The plastic thing was grasped by a right hand, severed sloppily just below the elbow. He looked above the metal box and read the sign there: “Call Now. Life is Worth Living. There Is Hope.”

  He stared at the words for some time. He tried mouthing them, but his lips and tongue felt like cloth flaps attached to his body without really being a part of it. The words were simple, but he couldn’t quite grasp them, or why those ones in particular would be written on a bridge. More and more, he concentrated on the first word of the second sentence. He tried to breathe out as he mouthed it, but he couldn’t control the vowel sound properly, or how to press his lower teeth against his upper lip to make the “f” sound, so it kept coming out differently as “Laf… lav… laf… lof… lov….”

  The effort taxed him mentally, but he nodded. He had made the right sound.

  He continued to the middle of the bridge. Here the wind whipped across him, driving off the flies. One vehicle in the center of the bridge was undamaged. He ran his hand along the smooth, warm metal. It remained a beautiful thing—a most pleasing combination of curved and straight, glass and metal, all of it governed by symmetry and grace. He balanced the little plastic bottles on the roof of the vehicle, stacking them in two little pyramids of three each. He put the circular, metal band between the two pyramids, and placed the last bottle inside the circle. As he knew they would be, the pyramids were precisely the same height, and they were spaced perfectly. The band and bottle in the middle were also formed and spaced to complete the whole. It was good how they combined, with each other and with the lines of the vehicle. If there were any people left, perhaps they would see it and admire or enjoy it.

  He turned from this creation to the guardrail. Behind him, the city was motionless, dead, and silent in the day’s dying light. Beneath the bridge, the water seemed to sit bloated and unmoving, a thing dead and stagnant, but if he concentrated, he knew he could hear its whispering rush, full of power, mystery, and promise—qualities he heard more and more distinctly as he spun toward the water’s black surface and his uncertain rebirth.

  Wayne had been counting on the path still being there, and it was. One of the very last efforts in the city during the outbreaks had been the National Guard attempting to organize things, forbidding unauthorized vehicle use. For their own travel, they had to clear two lanes of the Crescent City Connection. It was the only job they finished. Wayne drove them over the city.

  “I always found that amazing,” Sue said, “that you could pass through the center of New Orleans, right over the St. Charles cable car line, French Quarter to the north, Garden District to the south, and never even touch down, never even have to get your tires dirty.”

  “Mm.”

  “Just float thirty feet above it like a bird on a wire.” She sighed. “You can’t even see it now.” Wayne slowed as they went up the CCC ramp. The Guard had cleared it, yeah, but there were still bits of junk everywhere. Devon coughed. He looked like he was trying to sleep, or cry. Sue was holding him in the front seat, starting to cry herself, and Wayne was turned to look at them, like an idiot, when the Jeep went ba-KUNK. There was a huffing sound and Wayne knew they’d busted a tire. Devon was awake now, and definitely crying. He sounded worse than he had even an hour ago.

  Wayne pulled over, then got out and paced around the Jeep. He’d wedged the right front tire over a rusted bumper. It had sliced clean through the rubber. The tire was already empty. There was a spare on the back, but Christ was it dark. Sue said, “What is it?”

  “Just the tire, I’m fixing it.”

  “What?”

  “Stay there, Sue.” He heard her door open. Shit. “Get back in the car, I’ll be done in five minutes.”

  He had the spare and the jack already. This was ridiculous. “Where are you going?” He heard her blubbering further up the bridge. She’d grabbed Devon and was carrying him on her chest with his arms wrapped around her neck.

  “Christ, Christ,” she panted, as Devon’s green snot wet her shoulder. There were bodies all over. She jogged up the lane as fast as she could, thinking, There might be a car up there. Something with the keys in it, and some juice. She was hyperventilating again. She had no plan. Her face was hot with tears.

  Mosquitoes and flies fluttered in the headlight’s beams. She could only hear her sneakers thumping the asphalt and her own sticky breathing. She held Devon tighter.

  She reached the crest of the bridge to look down into Gretna on the other side. It was dark over there. She turned. Wayne crouched next to the car. There were no dead in sight, not walking, anyway. Maybe she should go back.

  She spun around again, and saw the pill bottle pyramids. Cefdinir. Citalopram. Prazepam. Tramadol. Amoxicillin, more. They were pasty-flaky with dark blood, but Sue could read the labels, and she recognized some of the names. Peggy had once told her the names of some medicines she gave to Brandy after she was attacked, the ones that should’ve helped but didn’t. Which were they?

  Devon whimpered into her neck, “I don’t like the dark.”

  “I know, baby.” Sue grabbed all of the bottles, stuffed them between her body and Devon’s and turned back toward the Jeep.

  Zombie Season

  By Catherine MacLeod

  Catherine MacLeod has tried to watch Night of the Living Dead, but every time she does, she spends so much time with her hands over her face she can’t actually claim to have seen it. When not cowering behind her hands, she writes fiction, which has appeared dozens of times in the Canadian science fiction magazine On Spec, and in other magazines such as Talebones, TransVersions, and the French-language magazine Solaris. Her work has also appeared in anthologies Tesseracts 6, Bits of the Dead, and Open Space. Forthcoming work includes her story “Stone,” which will appear in Horror Library #4.

  Death is a horrible and terrifying thing, but it’s a reality that has to be faced. When a loved one dies, most people don’t feel like doing anything but grieve. Sadly, there are a whole host of practical issues that have to be attended to—phone calls to make, financial affairs to be put in order, and funeral arrangements to be made. A coffin must be picked out, the body must be prepared, and a service planned. And, of course, before a person can be buried in the ground, someone’s got to dig the hole, and that’s when society turns to our gravediggers.

  We all know this is a vital occupation, but perhaps because of our discomfort with the idea of death, we tend to form some pretty strange ideas about those who dig graves. Ask your average person to picture a gravedigger and what do they imagine? Some weirdo, right? Some lurking creep with frenzied hair and haunted eyes, a guy with a strange voice who spends too much time by himself. It’s an ugly stereotype, and it’s high time that something was done to set the record straight. Gravedigging is an honorable profession, and our gravediggers deserve better treatment at the hands of authors and moviemakers.

  We hope that our next story, which portrays a gravedigger as a brave, zombie-battling hero, will eliminate those negative preconceptions and give everyone a more positive, wholesome image of gravediggers everywhere.

  The secret’s all in the salt. People jus
t expect the town zombie hunter to carry it, along with a shotgun and squirt-bottle of gasoline. I don’t believe it’ll protect me, but if carrying it makes folks feel safer, that’s fine.

  Of course, I’ve always carried salt, but not for reasons that would make anyone feel safe, and that’s fine, too.

  The first shriek shreds the air at 7 a.m., and I’m ready. I was a gravedigger, back before Judgment Day put me out of a job—no use digging holes if the deceased aren’t going to stay in them—and these days people say I just have a natural way with the dead. Privately, I don’t think much of their appetite for living flesh, but I don’t judge.

  Some people fear the dead, no matter what, and back then I didn’t understand. Now I do. The dead know too many secrets, and some folks have reason to worry.

  Like Adam Wade saying his crazy wife ran off to New York, only to have her shamble on home with her head stove in. Or the preacher’s pure-as-new-snow daughter dying of pneumonia, then wandering into church yesterday with the remains of a dead baby caged in her ribs.

  But everyone has secrets. I suppose how bad they are is just a matter of opinion.

  Then again, concern for opinion has always kept me closemouthed about my own.

  My seven o’clock job is a zombie on Main Street, who probably wouldn’t even have noticed Miretta Jackson if she hadn’t started screaming at it. Then again, it’s Henry Jackson, Miretta’s late husband. She screamed at him non-stop when he was alive, and old habits die hard.

  I shoot him down, spare the gasoline, and drop a match on the chance that—yup, you can always tell who’s been embalmed; they go up like marshmallows.

  I watch the fire from the coffeehouse as I eat pancakes and ketchup. The waitress, Gina, says, “Billy Martin, I swear you have no taste,” just like always. Then, like always, she glances at my shotgun and moves off.

  It’s coming on fall now, and the dead slow down in cool weather. They’re no good at all in winter. I’ll have to start curing meat to put by while the hunting’s still good. Gina has no idea, saying I have no taste. After all, isn’t my salt mixed with parsley and thyme?

  Life is easier these days. I don’t have to dig the dead up anymore, or worry about getting caught; and no one wants to watch me roast zombies, especially when one might be their own dearly departed. Still, I’m discreet. Only the dead know my secret, and I doubt they’ll judge.

  People say I just have a natural way with the dead, and I think that might be true.

  That, and the secret really is all in the salt.

  Tameshigiri

  By Steven Gould

  A Hugo and Nebula Award finalist, Steven Gould is the author of the novel Jumper, the basis for the recent film of the same name. Other novels include Reflex, Blind Waves, Helm, Greenwar, and Wildside. A new novel, 7th Sigma, is scheduled for May 2011. Gould is currently working on another entry in the Jumper series. His short fiction has appeared in Analog, Asimov’s Science Fiction, Amazing Stories, The Year’s Best Science Fiction, and Tor.com. When not writing, Gould spends entirely too much time killing zombies on his Xbox 360.

  Ninjas were spies, saboteurs, and assassins in ancient Japan. In Japan the equivalent term “shinobi” is more common, but Westerners prefer the sound of “ninja.” Ninja was an officially recognized job, and only those of a certain income were allowed to keep ninjas on the payroll. Ninjas commonly wielded swords (katanas), throwing stars (shuriken), and chain and sickle weapons called a kusarigama. While popular imagination pictures ninjas clad in black, in real life ninjas probably tried to blend into the local population by dressing as priests, entertainers, and merchants. Much of Japanese architecture was originally developed as a defense against ninjas, including the use of gravel courtyards and nightingale floors that made it difficult for intruders to move about silently.

  Gould says that this story is all my fault: “I made the mistake of saying on Twitter something like ‘Ninjas awesome. Zombies awesome. Ninjas and Zombies? Double awesome!’ John Joseph Adams saw it and asked if I was writing such a thing. I wasn’t, but I said that I could.”

  A student of Iaido—the Japanese sword as a martial art—for over twelve years, Gould didn’t need to do much research for the story, but he says he did stand out in the middle of his backyard with a bokken (wooden sword) for a while, working on some of the moves depicted in the story.

  Why zombies? “The scary thing about zombies, slow or fast, is that there will always be more,” Gould says. “It doesn’t matter how many you kill, eventually more will arrive. Zombies are a palpable, biting representation of our own mortality. And mortality stinks. And it has rotting flesh.”

  In medieval Japan there was a swordsmith who volunteered to execute a felon so he could perform tameshigiri—test cutting—on his latest blade. When the convicted man saw the sword maker he said, “If I had known it would be you, I would have swallowed stones to ruin your blade!”

  Some days you’re the sword maker, slicing cleanly through flesh and bone, and some days you’re the poor bastard forcing rocks down your throat right before they put the steel to you. Sure you’re going to die, but you don’t have to go easy.

  We walked twenty minutes through the kitchen gardens before we got to the southern wall. The gate wasn’t manned but we only had to wait a few minutes before the guard walking the parapet got there, slung his rifle, and came down the ladder, huffing and puffing.

  He checked Sensei’s pass and then Richard pushed forward, like he does, to be next. The guard glanced at Richard’s pass and then up at his face. “Richard Torres? You look like your brother. Didn’t he go missing a few weeks back?”

  “You think?” snapped Richard. “Why do you think—”

  Sensei touched Richard on the arm. “No sign of Diego, I take it?” Sensei said to the guard.

  “Not on my watch, no.” He gave Richard back his pass, took Lou’s, looked at her, and blinked. They all do when they see her. I mean she’s gorgeous most days but for some reason, today she glowed.

  “Louise Patterson? I think I knew your sister in high school. How is she?”

  “Dead,” said Lou.

  Nine out of every ten died in the infestation. You’d think he’d know better.

  He swallowed, gave her back the pass, and took mine. “Hello. I don’t think I’ve met you before. New to town?”

  I laughed sourly. “You sat behind me in Algebra, Danny. You kept copying my work.”

  He took a step back and stared down at my pass. His free hand touched the opposite elbow. “Wow, Rosa. You’ve, uh, filled out.”

  “Yes,” I said. I was skinny back then but now I had curves. He was stocky before, and still was. Surprising, that, considering the rationing. I didn’t comment, though, about his weight or what had happened back in high school. We wanted to get through the gate after all.

  He turned back to Sensei, as if I wasn’t there. “Weapons? Just the pig stickers, right?”

  We held open our packs so he could see. Guns and ammo were reserved for the defense of the community. You could travel outside but ammo and guns stayed in unless it was the guards going out to watch the fields during planting, weeding, or harvest. There are other reasons, too.

  “Just the swords,” said Sensei.

  Danny undid the massive padlock holding down the hinged bar, then said, “Don’t open it until I’ve checked from above, right?”

  Sensei nodded, his face impassive. “Understood.”

  Of course Sensei understood. He’d been outside more than anyone else in town.

  Danny went back up the ladder and unslung the rifle. “There’s some in the cornfield over there.” He pointed to the left of the gate. “Maybe six or so standing up, but there could be more lying down. The corn is getting pretty high.” He pointed to the right. “The soybeans are only knee-high and there’s one wandering around in there. The road—” He lifted his rifle and fired one shot. “There, the road is clear until it dips down toward the river.”

  Sensei glared at Da
nny.

  Lou frowned. “What’d he do that for? He’s going to draw them to the gate.”

  Sensei sighed. “It’s not as if we’re trying to avoid them, Lou.” He gestured, and I went to the bar and lifted it. Richard drew his sword and held it hasso, pointed straight up near his right shoulder. I heard Sensei sigh slightly but he didn’t say anything. Sensei gestured again and I pushed. The left-hand door opened outward on well-oiled hinges until it was ninety degrees open. Richard sprang out, looking around wildly. Lou rolled her eyes, and I nodded.

  The asphalt was cracked and weed-lined, but the field crews had cleared any sizable brush away twenty feet on either side. A hundred feet in front of the gate, a body sprawled across the faded median stripes—Danny’s target. Richard took several steps forward and stopped in the middle of the road, sword still raised on high.

  I looked behind the door, before moving forward, but it was clear.

  Sensei said, “Richard, put away your sword.”

  Richard looked back at Sensei, his eyes wide.

  Sensei said, “What do we study?”

  “Batto-ho, Sensei. The art of drawing and cutting.”

  “Yes. So, save your strength. Trust your training. We are out in the open. You will have lots of time to draw.”

  “Yes, Sensei.” Richard did noto, the sheathing of the sword, in the Shindo Munen Ryu style, first lowering the tip forward, reversing the grip, and swinging the blade up so the mune, the back of the blade, rested on his shoulder, then bringing the saya, the wooden scabbard, forward until it touched the mune. He brought the tskua, the handle, forward until the sword’s tip crossed the opening of the saya, and then reversed, sliding it home. Done smoothly and quickly it is beautiful to see.