The Dead Series (Book 1): Tell Me When I'm Dead

by Steven Ramirez

  As he positioned himself for another blow, the linebacker rushed him and, driving Landry into the wall, bit off his ear.

  Landry screamed as he pulled away and beat the dragger’s head to a black pudding. The buzzer went off, and soldiers came onto the ice, shooting the two remaining draggers in the head.

  Landry skated towards us, his ear gushing blood. “I almost made it,” he said. Despite the injury, he sounded strong and proud.

  I turned to Chavez. “Don’t let him suffer.” Chavez nodded and signaled to Estrada.

  Landry knew what was coming and fell to his knees, closing his eyes. It was the greatest demonstration of strength I’d ever witnessed.

  “Don’t give up, Dave,” he said, his voice steady and strong. “I know you can beat this thing.”

  “Sorry, old man,” Estrada said, and let a single bullet rip through the back of Landry’s head. He fell forward, still on his knees.

  “That was one salty old son of a bitch,” Chavez said, tipping Landry’s body over with his boot. Warnick, Ram and I glared at him. “Just sayin’,” he said, and walked off.

  All I could think about was Landry as I skated hard around the rink, holding Ram’s hand, trying to keep him from falling again. It was night, and we were alone except for a few armed soldiers.

  “You need to relax,” I said. “Keep moving forward.”

  “I know, I know.”

  Ram fell again, and I stopped to help him up. Looking towards the bleachers, I saw two bored soldiers, their AR-15s in their laps, watching with extreme disinterest as we drilled.

  I thought of everything—trying to talk them into letting Ram go, escaping through the emergency exit doors. In the end, I knew we were stuck. Even if we did make it outside, we’d have the rest of Chavez’s men to deal with. We’d have to go through with this.

  “I lied,” Ram said.

  “About what?”

  “Actually, I skated once. Badly. In New York. I traveled there at Christmas to visit a girl. She took me to Rockefeller Center. It was so beautiful. Everyone dressed in winter clothes, the shops, the Christmas lights. She did as you are doing. Held me up. It was a wonderful time.”

  “Did you …” I said.

  “Oh yes. I’ll never forget New York.”

  “What happened to the girl?”

  “She was attending Columbia. After graduation we lost touch. I think she’s married now.”

  “Hey, Ram? Don’t look, but you’re skating, dude.”

  Ram realized I was no longer holding his hand. He let out a whoop, which caused the soldiers to grab their weapons. When they saw him whizzing past and waving his arms like a madman, they laughed.

  “Time for hot cocoa,” he said.

  We didn’t sleep that night. We talked about everything that had happened, about the people we’d lost.

  “The inmates are running the asylum,” Warnick said.

  “And they have guns,” I said. Then to Ram, “You okay?”

  “I’m excellent.”

  “If we ever make it out of here,” Warnick said, “I’m going to find the other soldiers, the ones who are still trying to restore order.”

  “What makes you think there are any left?” I said.

  “They’re out there—I know they are. It’s like Landry said. Most of these guys are just following orders. I think we can turn this thing around.”

  “What are saying, Warnick? Have faith?”

  “How do you think I made it this far?”

  Sometime around dawn I drifted off. The last thing I remember was Warnick reading his Bible as Ram lay next to him snoring.

  Warnick and I were groggy when we entered the ice rink. Ram seemed alive and at peace. We stayed close as he put on his skates and wobbled over to the equipment bags for a weapon. After a few seconds, he picked up the pipe wrench. I thought it was kind of an awkward weapon, but when a man is about to stare down Death, you don’t argue about his choices.

  “Want to warm up?” Chavez said to him.

  “No, I’m ready.”

  “Suit yourself.” Chavez signaled for the draggers to be brought in.

  There were more this time. So far they hadn’t thrown any more than five or six at us. Now there were eight. I looked at Ram with concern. But he wasn’t frightened—he seemed pleased.

  As they released the shrieking demons into the rink, Ram skated in big circles at one end, swinging the pipe wrench as the draggers slipped and fell. These past couple of sessions had taught us that in a few minutes they would figure out the ice and learn to walk on it. Ram was patient. And he didn’t try to take advantage of the situation. It was as if he wanted them to walk.

  The soldiers in the bleachers booed and cursed. It was clear they wanted a show, and Ram wasn’t giving them one. One dragger after the next got to its feet, and they made their way clumsily towards Ram. He skated around one last time, did a perfect hockey stop, which I didn’t realize he knew how to do. As the draggers closed in, he threw the pipe wrench aside, shut his eyes and waited.

  “No,” I said.

  “Crazy Indian,” Warnick said.

  It took no time at all for the horde to tear Ram to pieces. Everyone looked on in silence. The disappointed soldiers couldn’t even celebrate his agony. He never made a sound. Never opened his eyes. Never moved. It was as if he’d already left his body behind for the undead to feast on while he went to whatever destiny had been chosen for him.

  When it was over, the soldiers took to the ice to kill the draggers and put a final bullet through Ram’s head. But they needn’t have bothered with him. There were only pieces and parts left.

  It was just Warnick and me now. As we sat in that dank basement prison, I felt the hatred from the soldier guarding us, like it was our fault their fun had been spoiled.

  “He might’ve chosen the better way out,” I said.

  I pictured Ram smiling with those beautiful white teeth, skating with his girl in New York at Christmas. Having the time of his life.

  “There’s always hope,” Warnick said, waving his little Bible in my face. “Always a chance for things to turn around.”

  “I left religion behind a long time ago.”

  As those words left my lips, I felt a sting in my heart because I knew how deeply Holly believed—enough for the both of us. But me, I was like a dragger with no thought of the future and nothing to hope for. I was already dead spiritually. Landry may have misjudged me. All I could see was blackness and ruin.

  “I’m not talking about religion,” Warnick said. “I’m talking about faith, remember?”

  “Warnick, is this how you survived so long?” I found that I was angry and wanted a fight.

  “Dude, I’m not that old.”

  I laughed, all the anger leaving me like an exhale of stale air. I knew it wasn’t him I was mad at. It was this place. What Warnick and I were in was madness. I don’t know how else to describe it.

  “I don’t even know your first name,” I said.

  “Nathan.”

  “So do you they call you Nate?” His glare told me no. “Nathan it is then.”

  “Just Warnick.”

  I touched his shoulder, then went to my bed to be by myself. All I could think about were Holly and Griffin. Would they be among the undead brought into the ice rink to fight me in the morning? If that happened, I would choose Ram’s solution. A deep, longing agony racked my body, jarring it out of the numbness I’d felt these past few days. I didn’t know what it was.

  “Hey, read me something,” I said.

  Warnick opened his Bible and read aloud from the New Testament. I now know it was from Colossians.

  Mortify therefore your members which are upon the earth; fornication, uncleanness, inordinate affection, evil concupiscence, and covetousness, which is idolatry:

  For which things’ sake the wrath of God cometh on the children of disobedience:

  In the which ye also walked some time, when ye lived in them.

  But now ye als
o put off all these; anger, wrath, malice, blasphemy, filthy communication out of your mouth.

  Lie not one to another, seeing that ye have put off the old man with his deeds;

  And have put on the new man, which is renewed in knowledge after the image of him that created him.

  I don’t know, maybe I was getting religion—or faith—in my old age. I felt a spark that cut through the pain, but only for a second. It warmed me and made me think there might be something else waiting for us out there.

  Those words sounded good to me now.

  AS I PLODDED TOWARDS the entrance to the ice rink, I puked, missing Warnick’s boots.

  “Sorry,” I said.

  “No Weezer for you.”

  He helped me through the doorway and led me to the counter, where Eddie waited with my skates. The old man had gotten me the best pair he could find—black leather with red trim and white laces. He even had polished them.

  “Thanks, Eddie.”

  He couldn’t look me in the eye. That’s when I knew Chavez had something special cooked up for me. As I walked away, the old man said, “See you, Dave.”

  Putting on my skates, I noticed the mood was subdued—or it might have been in my head. Warnick stood nearby talking with Estrada like they were old friends. Weird. Then Chavez came over.

  “You never meant for us to survive,” I said. “Except Warnick. Or are you saving him for later?” I knew this was the last thing Warnick wanted me to say to this guy, but I didn’t care.

  Chavez looked at me, his jovial grin hardening into a look of resentment. “Everyone has the same chance. The strongest will survive. Just the way it is.”

  “Whatever,” I said.

  I picked through the weapons in the equipment bags but didn’t see anything I liked. If I was going to die, I wanted to go out my way. The crap in those bags wouldn’t help me. I needed a better weapon.

  “Hey, Enrique,” I said. Chavez glared at me. “I want my axe.” As he stood there, I held my ground. “Look, I get this is all a show. Let me give you one.”

  He eyes drifted to Warnick and Estrada. I could tell from his expression that it wouldn’t make any difference one way or the other. Let this dumb bastard think he’s got a chance. It will make his death even sweeter. Whatever.

  “Hang on,” he said, and called Estrada over.

  We waited as another soldier left the rink.

  “Can I see your Bible?” I said to Warnick. Then I flipped through it, looking for strength.

  Fifteen minutes later, the soldier was back with my axe. By now those in the bleachers had settled down. I was actually happy as I walked towards the ice. Once inside, I skated fast around the rink, swinging the axe in each hand. Axes are much heavier than hockey sticks, and I had to work on my balance. But the feeling was exhilarating.

  It felt good to be on the ice. I remembered suiting up, putting on my helmet and going up against guys twice my size. It occurred to me I’d never in my life felt as free as when I played hockey. Why did I ever give it up for drinking?

  I pushed the bad feelings deep down inside and focused on skating. The only things that mattered were the ice, my axe and whatever was about to come through those doors.

  Chavez signaled for the draggers to be brought in. The emergency doors opened, but this time there was no cheering. I couldn’t make out the four figures backlit by the sun. Was this a mistake? Had they run low on combatants?

  As they entered, I made out three soldiers leading in a single female pulling against the catch pole like an enraged animal. Something about her. As she came into the light of the rink, I stumbled. This was what they were saving for me. This was how I would die.

  “We thought you’d enjoy mixing it up with Wanda,” Chavez said, laughing and touching Estrada’s shoulder in a way that was a little too familiar. “This little beauty took out eight of my men before we caught her. I won’t tell you how many she killed in the rink. It would only depress you.”

  I recognized the torn, blood-soaked clothes. The skin had mummified to a dark, leathery sheen. Thin strands of dirty brown hair adorned the mostly bald head, which was scarred and dented. The eyes protruded from their sockets, twitchy and searching. The nose had long since fallen off, and the lips had shrunk back savagely, revealing daggerlike teeth.

  Missy.

  They dragged her to the center of the rink as I skated around counterclockwise. My heart was in my throat, and I struggled to breathe. But I kept skating, trying to escape the death I knew awaited me.

  “She’s not like the others,” Chavez said. “We figured you already had an advantage, being a hockey player and all. We’re evening out the odds a little.”

  Soldiers hooted and whistled in the bleachers. Then they chanted, “Wan-DA! Wan-DA!”

  Missy’s dead eyes scanned me. I thought I saw a glimmer of recognition. Was it possible she recognized me? She shrieked so loudly everyone had to cover their ears. But it wasn’t the ungodly sound I’d come to dread. It was a name—my name.

  “Daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaave!” the voice said, sounding like red-hot bearings in a burned-out motor.

  “What the hell?” someone said. Then cruel laughter. “Does she know him? Aw, man. This is awesome!”

  On cue, the person in the sound booth put on Whitney Houston’s “I Will Always Love You,” and everyone screamed with approval.

  My blood went ice-cold, and I almost crashed headlong into a wall and had to scramble to regain my balance. I knew that, even dead, Missy would never stop till she killed me. She was my sin calling to me—every wrong thing I’d ever done. The drinking, the bad grades, the abuse I hurled at my parents. Betraying Holly.

  I felt I wanted to accept my punishment and die. But something in me brought back the words Warnick had spoken.

  Mortify therefore your members which are upon the earth; fornication, uncleanness, inordinate affection, evil concupiscence, and covetousness, which is idolatry.

  They were words that made me think I still had something worthwhile to do in this life, something precious to live for.

  Lie not one to another, seeing that ye have put off the old man with his deeds;

  Maybe it was better to stay alive asking for forgiveness than to die without it. Holly and Griffin were out there somewhere—I felt it. If Landry was right, I could still help them.

  And have put on the new man, which is renewed in knowledge after the image of him that created him.

  I needed to stay alive for them. With all my heart, I wanted to make amends. So I skated away as Missy lunged towards me. My chest was tight. A red band of blood pressed my eyes, almost blinding me. All I thought of was getting away from this terror-inducing demon that wanted to destroy me.

  Missy stopped as I whipped around the rink faster and faster. She seemed to be calculating where I’d be in the next few seconds. Then she leapt through the air towards me. The soldiers in the bleachers went wild. This was the show they’d been waiting for. As I skated past, I saw Warnick watching me, holding his Bible in both hands.

  There was no way to run out the clock. I glanced up and saw ninety seconds had passed. I had to decide. So I attacked.

  I did a quick hockey stop, sending a shower of ice at the wall. Missy hurtled towards me as if running on grass. I raised my axe and waited—waited those impossible few seconds—as she lunged at me. At the last moment, I shifted sideways and brought the axe down hard, taking off most of her left arm, which threw her off balance and sent her spinning into a fall and sliding hard into the wall as I skated away.

  “Keep her in front of you,” Warnick said.

  An excellent reminder, because as she came at me again, I skated backwards hard. Everyone in the stands stood, mesmerized by the death match. I’d have to turn around soon or risk crashing into a wall myself. Breathing deep, I spun and stopped cold.

  Missy was closer than I realized, and I didn’t have time to raise my axe. I whacked her hard in the face with the handle, making a crunching noise. Her jaw hung
open, revealing more deadly black teeth. She grabbed the axe and tried taking it away from me. Her grip was incredible.

  Gripping both ends of the axe, I dropped to my knees and hit the ice, throwing Missy over my head and behind me. People screamed, delirious at the spectacle. Then I stood and skated backwards in the other direction, taking care to keep the demon in my sight.

  Six minutes to go.

  I was exhausted. I needed to rest, but there was no time. She was already back on her feet and coming at me. My only hope was to take off the other arm—or her head.

  Chavez was right, she wasn’t like any of the others. She was cunning. It didn’t matter whether I feinted left or right. She always matched me, almost anticipating me. She was like a heat-sensing device that didn’t lose its target. The crowd booed, impatient for blood.

  Then I remembered something.

  When I was little, I didn’t start out playing hockey. I took figure skating. There must be something I could use. Though I wore the wrong kind of skates, I had to try. As Missy came at me, I spun. She didn’t appear to understand what had changed and kept coming. As I went faster and faster, I held the axe out. She lunged at me, and I caught the other arm and sliced it off clean, like a butcher cutting up a pig.

  I stopped and saw her spinning away from me, armless and shrieking with fury. She came at me again, but all she could do was sink her teeth into me. I had to finish her.

  There was silence in the room as I waited for her to close in. Then I crushed her kneecap, causing her to fall forward. As her head went down and forward, I swung the axe hard, finding the neck and taking off the head. It went skittering across the ice.

  I skated backwards, the head rolling after me, the jaws still snapping. As the head came to a stop near the wall, the hate-filled eyes stared up at me.

  It’s not true what they say about the undead, that they retain nothing of their former selves. Though they are no longer capable of rational thought, some of their old personality still remains. Like Missy. It reminds us that they once were people with dreams and memories.

  I split the skull in two. Then I skated towards Chavez.