All Our Tomorrows

by Peter Cawdron

  “Steve, please. There are too many of them. There has to be another way.”

  “I’m sorry, Haze. I can’t leave you there to die. This is the only way.”

  At this distance, I can’t distinguish between the astronauts, but I have a fair idea which one is Steve. One of the astronauts is taller than the other, carrying two large chainsaws. These aren’t the Home Depot specials I saw while growing up. With four foot long blades, they’re used for felling large pine trees.

  The second astronaut shouldn’t be here. He’s in pain, walking with a limp, dragging one leg slightly behind him.

  “Steve,” I whisper.

  My heart stops as I see him raise his hands to his helmet and twist against the locking ring on the collar. Over the microphone, I hear the hiss of air as the seal breaks.

  “NOOOOO,” I scream, but Zee ignores me. In unison, all heads turn slowly toward Steve.

  “Come on,” he yells, taking a chainsaw from Jackson and revving the engine. “What the hell are you waiting for?”

  Zombies run at them, charging up the rise. Hundreds of ragged, torn bodies descend on the two astronauts, converging from all sides. Even from where I am, I can hear the deafening, angry roar of the chainsaws. Blood explodes from the angry blades, spraying out across the sea of heads. Bodies fall, writhing on the concrete road.

  “Run, Haze. RUN!”

  “No, I can’t,” I cry, paralyzed with fear. I can’t lose him. Not like this.

  “Hazel,” David says, standing beside me with Jane in his arms. “We have to go. It’s now or never.”

  He’s right. Already, the zombies between us and Doyle have thinned. If we run, we could make it to the Tesla.

  “Go,” I say. “I can’t leave him.”

  “There’s nothing you can do,” David says, but I will not be deterred.

  I drop the headset and move away from the window.

  “What are you going to do?” he asks.

  “What I do best,” I say. “Something stupid.”

  I back up roughly twenty feet from the smashed window. There’s nothing to do other than run. Holding my busted, splintered baseball bat in one hand, I charge at the opening, pumping my arms and raising my knees as I thunder across the floor. The suit is thick and bulky, forcing me to exaggerate my run. My boots pound on the rotten carpet, tearing at the loose threads, and suddenly the aluminum window frame passes swiftly beneath me. I leap out over the street, sailing above the murderous horde.

  A sea of arms reach for me.

  Zee calls for me.

  My legs are still pumping, while my arms are swinging wildly as I launch myself out of the first floor window. Gravity obliges and I plunge toward the street, landing on top of an abandoned car parked against the curb. My thick boots crush the thin sheet metal on the roof, causing both the windscreen and the rear window to pop out, shattering and splintering into a million pieces of safety glass.

  Zee roars with excitement as I stand there defiant on the roof of the sedan.

  I’m not afraid.

  I am in a rage.

  I scream above the noise of zombies baying for my blood. I can see the two astronauts, fighting off the horde as they stand back to back. Somehow, they’re holding them off.

  Steve and Jackson swinging madly with their chainsaws, carving off limbs and slicing open skulls, constantly slashing at the crowd as they keep the horde at bay, but it’s just a matter of time before they’re overwhelmed by the sheer numbers. I’ve got to get to them. I’ve got to help.

  Although my motives are noble, they’re irrational. I’m less able than either of them. Even with his injuries, Steve is lethal with that chainsaw, far more so than I am with a broken baseball bat. David’s right. I should run, but I can’t.

  Zees surrounds me, reaching for me as I stand on the crumpled roof of the car. Torn flesh. Rotten arms. Dead eyes. Spindly fingers. They implore me to join their ranks. The stench is overwhelming, but I don’t care.

  Hands grab at my boots, clamoring to get hold of my legs.

  I can see them. Among the hundreds of zombies around me, I can see those that will follow. Their dark eyes. Their shattered faces. Their torn clothes and sickly green skin. They reach for me, but there’s no hatred behind their eyes. In that moment, I am one with Zee.

  But among them, rabid zombies snarl at me, ready to tear me limb from limb. Saliva drips from their lips. They growl, pushing through the horde, wanting to rip me apart.

  Those that follow watch my every move with fixed attention, trying to anticipate my actions. Perhaps I’m reading too much into their expressions, but they look sad, resigned to their fate.

  I jump down onto the hood of the car, feeling invincible in my spacesuit. The thick fabric is like a suit of armor.

  “Hold on, Steve,” I yell at the top of my lungs.

  I pick out an old man climbing onto the hood. He’s bloody and bruised. His shirt has been torn open. Scars run down his rotten chest. Sores fester on his arms. He clambers up to grab me, snarling and baring his teeth. I swing my baseball bat, catching him under the chin and sending him flying backwards into the crowd. No sooner has he fallen than another zombie lunges at me.

  Hands grab my boots, dragging them out from beneath me and I fall on my back, slamming into the sheet metal hood.

  Within a fraction of a second, I’m whipped off the hood of the car and dragged into the horde. Dark arms snatch at me, tearing at my spacesuit. Tortured, twisted, filthy faces block out the sun. Teeth snap at my neck, while my legs are pulled in different directions, and I’m dragged across the rough concrete.

  Zombies clamber over me, crushing my body against the street, but they’re fighting each other. For every zombie clawing at my suit, there’s at least two more sinking their teeth into each other. They’re vicious—wolves fighting over a kill.

  Suddenly, I’m dragged to my feet. A bald, muscular zombie has grabbed me by the steel collar in my suit. He lifts me off the ground, seizing my throat and crushing my windpipe with a single massive hand. His fingers close on my neck like a steel vice. I’m choking, struggling for breath, when a woman not much older than me leaps on his back, sinking her teeth into the side of his neck. Another claws at his arms as I peel his fingers from my throat. He lets go and I fall backwards into the horde.

  Gunfire erupts from the alley.

  David’s on the move.

  I’ve lost my baseball bat, but it makes no difference.

  Teeth sink into my right hand, tearing through my skin and breaking the fragile bones leading to my fingers. I scream in agony, ripping my hand from the mouth of a young child. Fresh blood drips from her mouth. I can’t hit her. Even though I know I should, I can’t. She throws herself at my legs, biting at my calf muscle, but my suit holds. Suddenly, she’s trodden under the surge and crush of zombies pushing around me, and I feel her fall to the concrete, still trying to tear open my suit.

  I struggle through the crowd, pushing off zombies biting each other in a frenzy. Hands reach for me, clawing at my spacesuit only to be savaged by other zombies. There’s yelling and screaming, but it’s hard to tell if that’s from the living or the dead.

  I’m pushed into a burned-out car by the curb. The rear door has been ripped off its hinges, allowing me to step up onto the frame and climb onto the trunk. From there, I scramble onto the roof. Blood drips from the torn flesh on my hand. Severed tendons and broken bones stick through the crumpled, bloody mess, but I have to push through the pain. A severed hand hangs from my shoulder, still gripping my suit. I pry it free and toss it into the writhing mess of zombies clambering around the car.

  From the roof, I can see Zee descending on Jackson and Steve. Chainsaw blades cut swathes through the horde, sending blood, bone, gristle, and intestines careering through the air. The madly whirling chains scream with anger.

  Doyle pushes through the mass of zombies behind me. He’s firing his pneumatic gun and dropping dozens of zombies, but they’ve seen him. They attack, r
ipping his suit and smashing the visor on his helmet. He retreats into a doorway. With his back against a steel fire door, and walls on either side, he limits Zee to one point of approach. Bodies pile up before him as the pneumatic rod at the end of his gun cycles back and forth, lashing out and puncturing skulls, breaking bones and smashing ribs. Somehow, he holds them off, kicking and punching at the swarm of hands reaching for him, trying to drag him into the horde.

  David leaves Jane in the Tesla. He goes to Doyle’s aid, swinging a metal pipe like a baseball bat.

  “Hazel,” he yells above the carnage, calling to me. “We have to go.”

  He beckons me to join him, but I can’t leave Steve.

  Broken, bloodied bodies lie everywhere. Some dead, others mangled and injured but still wrestling with each other.

  I run, jumping from the hood of the car to the back of a parked van, landing with my feet on the bumper. I clamber up onto the roof, kicking against zombies trying to drag me into the horde. From there, I run hard again, leaping onto the back of an SUV. Without breaking my stride, I continue on, scrambling quickly onto the roof of a UPS delivery van, staying just out of reach. Rusting, aging sheet metal flexes and groans beneath my weight.

  Blood runs in the gutter like rain after a storm.

  There’s only one astronaut still standing—Jackson. His golden visor has been ripped off, and his glass faceplate has been smashed open. Blood sprays across his white spacesuit as he brings his chainsaw down on the head of a fat zombie, carving through its skull and into its chest.

  Steve?

  Where is Steve?

  Zombies kneel over a kill, leaning in from all sides as they feed. Jackson fights to reach Steve. His chainsaw swings, severing two heads with a single blow, and bodies collapse on top of each other.

  “Steve!” I yell, running and leaping out into the crowd.

  I crash into several zombies, knocking them to the road.

  Staying low, I push through the horde as zombies tear at each other. A hand grabs my leg, dragging me backwards and I stumble. Another hand seizes a loose strap on my suit, jerking me to one side, but I pull free. Through the blur of arms, I see Steve lying face down on the concrete road.

  The chainsaw is just within reach. I grab it and squeeze the handle. The blood-soaked chain roars to life, spraying bits of soggy flesh into the air.

  I scream, bringing the chainsaw down on the back of a zombie crouching over Steve. The jagged blade cuts through the zombie’s shoulder and back, biting into his neck and catching briefly on his spine before tearing through the back of his skull. His head drops to the road and rolls to one side, his teeth still snapping at the air. Dark eyes dart back and forth, not comprehending what has happened to the body.

  David reaches me. He swings his metal pipe, collecting a zombie approaching from my left. Doyle has his helmet off. Blood drips from a cut to the back of his head. He fires his pneumatic gun again and again, puncturing zombie skulls with a sudden burst of violence. Blood and brains splatter across the road.

  Jackson holds his chainsaw at shoulder height, swinging it horizontally, and slices through another two heads, sending them tumbling to the bloody street, but Zee is overwhelming him. There are too many of them, and they get inside his swing, grabbing at him. Several of them try to tear the chainsaw from his fingers, wrestling for the handle.

  David drags Steve over a pile of dead bodies, pulling him off the road and clear of the melee.

  Zombies fight with each other, tearing and biting, clawing and slashing.

  David helps Jackson, brandishing his metal pipe like a battle ax and crushing the skull of a zombie climbing on Jackson’s back.

  I drop to my knees, rolling Steve over. His head lies awkwardly to one side, hunched against the collar ring of his spacesuit.

  “Oh, Steve,” I say with tears streaming down my cheeks.

  His spacesuit is torn and bloodied. The thick material has protected his arms and legs, but he’s bleeding from a deep bite to the side of his neck.

  “Haze,” he says softly, his eyelids flickering. “I—I’m sorry.”

  “You just hang in there, you hear,” I say. My lips quiver. Tears drip from the end of my nose. “We’re going to get you out of here. You’re going to be fine.”

  I’m lying.

  We both know that.

  Steve just smiles, letting out a slight laugh. Typical Steve.

  I fumble with my left hand, pulling the half empty packet of tablets from a pouch pocket on my thigh.

  “Take these,” I say, being forced to use my trembling, bloodied right hand to open the packet.

  Steve tries to shake his head, but that makes the bleeding worse. I force a few tablets between his lips. He crunches them beneath his molars, grimacing in pain. Flustered, I push the packet of tablets back into the pouch on my trouser leg.

  Jackson has the bulk of the zombies swarming around him. His chainsaw splutters, and it’s hard to tell if it’s becoming jammed or if the battery pack is running down, but the engine sounds as though it could fail at any moment.

  Zombies clamber over each other, biting and clawing in a mindless orgy of violence. If they fixated on us, we’d be dead. There’s so many of them, we’d never hold them back, but they’re confused and disoriented, snapping at anything in reach. It’s as though they’re drunk. Their strength is in their numbers, but for now their numbers are negated by the turmoil of infighting. Dismembered arms and legs lie scatted on the ground in a bloody mess.

  Somehow, Doyle and David hold back the swell of zombies bearing down on us, but only because the zombies are more focused on each other than us. I barely register that they’re there. My eyes are only for Steve. The growling and snarling fades into the background.

  “You’ve got to go, Haze,” Steve says softly. Through thick, gloved hands, he squeezes the fingers on my left hand as I cradle my wounded right hand against my chest.

  “I need to get you back to the Tesla,” I say, but as I go to move him, the pressure on his suit collar releases and blood squirts from the bite on his neck. Steve grimaces in pain. I grab at the deep wound, trying to stem the flow of blood, but I can’t. Warm, sticky blood oozes between my fingers.

  “Please,” he says. “You have to go.”

  “I’m not leaving you,” I say. “I can’t.”

  Steve doesn’t reply.

  “Don’t you leave me,” I say sternly to him, sniffing and trying to hold back more tears. “You can’t leave me like this.”

  His eyes flicker for a moment. Furrows form on his brow. It’s as though he’s carrying some heavy load on his back and he’s faltering under the weight. He clenches his teeth, grimacing, and then suddenly, he relaxes.

  “Steve?”

  Steve doesn’t look at me. His eyes look through me. It’s as though he’s staring up at the clear blue sky. A slight smile rests on his lips, and I know. I understand. In those final few seconds, he found the peace that eludes us in the apocalypse.

  The blood that had been pulsating beneath my fingers slows to a trickle.

  “I—I,” I stutter, but words no longer hold any meaning.

  I reach out and close his eyes.

  Steve’s dead.

  I’m numb.

  I rest his hand on his chest and get to my feet. My head is bowed, but there are no more tears. Perhaps it’s shock. Perhaps the realization hasn’t sunk in, but I can’t cry for Steve. He wouldn’t want that.

  “Haze?” David says, grabbing me by the arm.

  “We need to go,” I say, finally heeding Steve’s words. At first, David’s confused. Steve looks so peaceful. He could be asleep or unconscious. Maybe that’s what upsets David, but he sees me turn away, and with that simple act, he knows.

  “I’m sorry, Haze.”

  Doyle yells, “I’m jammed.”

  “Follow me,” David cries, pulling me behind him and making for a gap in the zombies sprawled out along the sidewalk. David moves with a sense of urgency I no longer h
ave.

  Jackson’s chainsaw splutters to a halt and he hurls the heavy frame at the closest zombie, but he can’t escape. There are too many of them. He sinks beneath the horde, his white gloved hand grasping at the air as Zee drags him down, clawing at his suit.

  So many bodies.

  So much carnage.

  So much sorrow.

  Small skirmishes continue around us as we weave our way back to the Tesla. I’m in a daze. Doyle pushes me on ahead of him. I barely notice as David swings his metal pipe, clearing the way for us.

  Several zombies ambling down the hill behind the vet clinic see us. They run. Others break away from the melee and charge after us as we reach the Tesla. My body and my mind are two separate entities. My body continues on even though my mind would have me collapse in a heap on the street. My thick boots stumble over rubble strewn on the road.

  Jane is in the back of the car. I tumble onto the floor of the Tesla beside her. She’s conscious, sitting up and leaning against a support pillar, reloading a magazine with trembling fingers. David takes a handgun from her lap. It’s only then I see the bodies lying on the far side of the Tesla. Jane’s held her own against Zee.

  The floor of the Tesla is littered with tablets still wrapped in their foil packets. David must have emptied his pockets before he came for me. He must have wanted to ensure some good came from this even if none of us survived. He had to know Ajeet and the others would eventually recover the Tesla and find the tablets.

  David stands on the open door frame beside Jane, leaning over the roof of the car and firing. The rapport should be deafening, but I barely notice each crack of gunfire as David unloads a full clip into the zombies charging at us.

  “Get us out of here,” David yells as Doyle climbs in the front of the car. He’s badly injured. Blood runs from a gash on the side of his head.

  We accelerate smoothly but slowly. It’s the weight. The battery is losing charge, and the Tesla is carrying four people this time, not two. I watch as fence palings pass slowly by the open doorway. I could run faster than this.