Red Paint
Proceed with Caution
by
Yesenia Stall
To Nallely and Brian, for far too much to be able to put into words. To Nikki, for being you, and always keeping on. And to my husband; thank you for helping with laundry and feeding yourself.
Copyright © 2017 by Yesenia Stall
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
Chapter One
History 101
Ambrose wasn’t ready for the end of the world. It didn’t happen as scientists had warned. The ecosystem didn’t fall. Pollution didn’t erode the Ozone Layer. It wasn’t crazed weather or a spectacular meteor impact that took out human life.
Ten minutes into first period American History, Ambrose was falling asleep at her desk. The night had been dedicated to studying for her final exam, instead of dreaming of the concert she and her friends were attending that night. The bubbles on the answer sheet blurred into one another; the questions stopped making sense long ago. As her eyelids flapped, her head slid off her raised arm. She jolted into consciousness when a loud thud sounded at the front of the class.
Bentley was the first to rise from his front row seat. Ambrose could still recall his light blue letterman jacket - the giant number twenty-seven under his last name, Williams. Everyone’s eyes locked in on him. Their upper bodies were comedic interpretations of a metronome’s wand as they tried to see past the head of the person sitting in front of them.
Another classmate, Zach, stood from two seats behind Ambrose. Together, they approached the long metal desk piled with papers, markers, and Mr. Harkins’ brown briefcase.
“Holy shit.” Bentley had whispered.
“’ey Mr. H?” Zach called out. “You okay?”
When Ambrose stood, her eyes bugged. Mr. Harkins’ legs peeked at the edge of his desk, each brown footed loafer pointing in a different direction. “Someone call for help!” Another classmate yelled.
Bentley reacted first. He went around the teacher’s desk, crouching down away from view. Everyone could hear as he talked to Mr. Harkins, could see Mr. Harkins’ legs move as Bentley shook him. Everything happened so quickly – Ambrose would always remember that.
Raspy breath sounded as Bentley looked over the desk, yelling at them, any one of them, to go find help for their teacher. It wasn’t their teacher who needed help. The frozen class had all been too innocent or stupid to realize what was happening at the time – to pull Bentley away before it was too late.
Sickly grey hands rose up, curled around Bentley’s neck, and dragged him back down.
It was the scream of a child that rang through the classroom. Shrill and frightened, one without reservation as it broadcasted horrific pain. Zach ran to his friend, his face blanching at whatever site he beheld.
Bentley’s legs flailed as inhuman growls and crunches emanated alongside his pleas for help. Clear liquid pooled beneath Bentley’s struggling legs, the puddle swiftly joined by red of the boldest cranberry.
Girls at the front of the class stood at their desks, screaming in fright at the grotesque sounds that made Ambrose’s stomach churn. Zach’s face pinched. Petrified tears rolled down his cheeks as he slowly backed away from his thrashing friend until his back collided with the door. Bentley’s leg kicked back once… twice… thrice more before going limp, the crunch, crunch, crunch, never pausing.
Ambrose couldn’t understand why no one was rushing to help. Not just her classmates – who were all as paralyzed as she was – but others. Couldn’t the teachers down the hall hear their screams? Hear as students began to lose their breakfast?
Zach was hyperventilating, mumbling incoherencies as he shakily gestured to whatever was transpiring behind the metal desk. Unconsciously, Ambrose’s feet took her towards the front. Her mounting fear needed to know what was happening, needed to uncover the source of the sickening sounds making the small hairs across her body stand on end. She rounded the desk opposite were Bentley now lay, unable to understand the scene unfolding before her.
Mr. Harkins was kissing Bentley?
The teacher’s mouth was certainly suctioned to her classmate’s, but Bentley did not seem to be reciprocating – Bentley didn’t seem to be moving at all. Suddenly Mr. Harkins flipped Bentley over. Their positions now reversed, it seemed the teacher was providing mouth to mouth resuscitation to the student.
A wire basket trashcan lined with a clear plastic bag stood beside Mr. Harkins’ desk. A wrinkled sheet of paper cradling a bright pink chewing gum was stuffed to the bottom. They were soon joined by the cream cheese bagel Ambrose had chowed down for breakfast that morning.
It had been a mistake to get so close. Drawn by the sound of her retching, Mr. Harkins slowly knelt up over Bentley’s unmoving body.
He turned to face her, his mouth covered in red. A long piece of pink flesh hung from his lips as he chewed the contents in his mouth. Mr. Harkins’ eyes were no longer the clear blue that made most of the female students swoon. They were chalked over, spotted red where capillaries had burst. Stabilizing himself with a hand upon his desk, he rose to his feet, turned to where Ambrose still coughed into the trashcan. His light blue shirt, his hands, even his pants had splotches of blood. It was the sudden silence of the class that made Ambrose look up.
Students at the front row began to back away, leaving Ambrose cornered by her teacher. He took a step forward, the fingers of his left hand twitching as he reached for where she stood. As he stared at her, his eyes turned down at the corners, giving him an appearance of sadness – of pleading. And then they changed.
A violent rage possessed Mr. Harkins as he lunged forward, his hands circling Ambrose’s neck. The furnace running along the wall beneath the windows dug painfully into her lower back as Mr. Harkins pinned her with his body. Ambrose paled as his glistening red mouth veered down to cover hers. Whatever he had done to Bentley, she didn’t want him doing to her. She struggled against Mr. Harkins, but his hold was too strong. With her air flow cut off, Ambrose’s vision began to blur. His mouth was a hairsbreadth from her lips when Mr. Harkins was jerked away. “Get back you son of a bitch!” Zach yelled.
Mr. Harkins flew backward and stumbled over Bentley’s bleeding body. With impossible speed, he regained his balance, his aggression mounting as he now targeted Zach. Flinging himself onto Zach, the two collided onto the teacher’s desk. That bloody mouth wrestled with her classmate, growling and snapping its teeth until it found its mark. Ambrose screamed as a chunk of Zach’s arm was ripped – no; chewed right off of him – as easily as if it was a cloud of cotton candy. Skin, fat tissue, bone, were all visible beneath the sickening wound.
A pair of scissors glinted in the pencil holder atop Mr. Harkins’ desk. Ambrose snatched them as Zach tried to shove Mr. Harkins away, screaming for someone to help him. With frightened tears streaming down her face, Ambrose roared as she charged her teacher’s back. She succeeded in ramming the scissors between Mr. Harkins’ neck and shoulder.
Blood trickled down his back yet the injury did nothing to slow his attack on her classmate. If anything, the wound incensed him more. Horrified, Ambrose watched as Mr. Harkins closed his mouth around Zach’s neck, digging his teeth deep into the tender skin. Zach’s eyes went wide – whether in pain or in shocked horror Ambrose couldn’t tell; likely both.
Zach gurgled and choked on a fountain of blood as it gushe
d from his mouth and cascaded down his chin. Over Mr. Harkins’ shoulder, he caught her eyes and mouthed, ‘run’. Then his brown eyes went blank and his body turned limp. Student and teacher fell to the ground where Mr. Harkins continued his feast.
Ambrose turned to stare at her dumbfounded classmates, sure their horrified expressions were a mirror image to the one contorting her face. They were all standing, all shaking and crying as they watched their teacher devour the sweet class clown. It was when Bentley’s body began to twitch that she repeated the last word to leave Zach’s lips. No one hesitated as they all stampeded for the door.
Chapter Two
A Bottle to Drown In
Marek finished taking a piss next to the dumpster behind Alexander’s Pizzeria. Shaking out his penis, he flicked away the remaining droplets before zipping the jeans that had seen better days. Maneuvering around the glass covered ground of the alley, he was careful to keep noise to a minimum. It would be his luck to attract unwanted attention.
At the mouth of the alleyway he paused to scan the open road ahead. Cars – some on their backs, others smashed into buildings or twisted around lampposts – lined the streets. Trash tumbled in the occasional wind, more glass lined the sidewalks. A handful of bodies lay motionless here and there in various states of decay – motionless was really the only part he cared about.
The coast clear, Marek made his way to the bar across the street. If there was a God above – which at this point he very much doubted – the place would still have a stashed bottle or two and be free of the Altered.
His luck held as the door opened with ease, though the hinges loosened a squeak into the darkness beyond. Holding tight to his trusty crowbar, Marek waited for the familiar stumbling and heavy breathing that was a prelude to unwanted company.
“Fuck me,” he sighed.
Slowly he walked through the threshold, one foot still halfway out the door. His flashlight battery had died long ago and the place was pitch black. But damn if he didn’t want at least a sip of drink. He weighed his options. They weren’t many.
He could die on the street. He could die inside. There wasn’t much to live for either way. Going inside meant a chance at a drink, a chance to forget the shit-storm the world had become. Marek waited a few more seconds before stepping all the way inside, allowing the door to close behind him. It took longer than he would have liked for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. Very little light spilled in through the colorful mosaic windows that lined the front of the bar. Using his crowbar, Marek tapped the wooden wall. He became breathless as he continued to listen for signs of the dead – or undead to be precise. Relief washed through him as everything remained silent.
The bar looked like all the other places he had taken refuge. Chairs were toppled and broken, the tables were no better off. Napkins, ash trays, salt and pepper shakers all littered the floor. And there was so much glass.
The place was a large square layout with a wooden bar at the back, the stools still standing, probably fixated to the ground. Two bathroom doors were to his right – men’s and women’s. To his left was another door, the kind that swung both ways with a circular window near its top. Blood coated the window. Marek couldn’t tell which side the stain was on, not that it mattered much. Something had been in here, might still be here, waiting for him to come closer, to make one wrong move. He had to keep his guard up before he could look for the much needed drink.
The last feature in the room was a raised platform, likely used by little known bands trying to make a name for themselves in a past lifetime. Who knew; Marek might have even gone to see a few of them. Pamela had certainly enjoyed dragging him along to different venues, even as he protested that the bands were never all that great. Didn’t matter how good or bad they might have once been – they were all dead now. He should have taken Pamela to more shows when there had been time. But back then… he had thought there would always be more time.
Squelching the memories, Marek took measured steps as he moved to the first bathroom door, tapped it, then waited for any sounds from beyond.
Nothing.
He repeated the action with the second door. Same result.
Marek had never been a religious person, had never given much thought to the supposed Big Guy in the Sky. It didn’t stop the small prayer that formed on his lips as he slowly moved closer to the back door, weapon at the ready.
The path to the door was clear, too clear. Sure there was a mess, but where were the bodies that had made it so? As he walked deeper into the room, he could see the dark stains that marred the carpeted floor. His knees grew weak, his stomach plummeted. He was grateful he had emptied his bladder moments before.
Beyond the window of the swinging door was an unexpected amount of light. A small, stainless steel kitchen in an all too familiar state of disarray was on the other side. Beyond the burners, the large sink, and an industrial fridge, was another door, one likely leading to a back alley. It was flung open, more bloodied hand prints coating the chipped grey paint.
From his vantage point, Marek could see two torn bodies, mercifully motionless. He couldn’t risk staying in the building with the door open – it left him too exposed. After an uninspiring pep talk, he walked through the door planning to secure the back exit.
The reek reached his nose first. You’d think four months into the apocalypse, with all the waste and decay, all the smells of the world would blend until you became so accustomed that you couldn’t tell the difference between your own shit and the rot lining the streets. But that smell, so concentrated, so close… it could only mean one thing – there was a horde just beyond that door, and he had rung the dinner bell the moment he entered that damn bar.
“Fuck me.”
Chapter Three
Tetris
Ambrose woke to a scratching at her bedroom door. She didn’t want to wake up. If she stayed quiet enough, her mom would surely allow her another hour of sleep. The scratching came again, more insistent than before; it must be cleaning day.
Her eyes snapping open, Ambrose surveyed her surroundings. She wasn’t home. In fact, she hadn’t been home in over four months – hadn’t seen her mother in almost all that time, either. And her father… he had been swarmed not long after. The continued scratching brought her back to the present. It was followed by a vicious pound on the door as well as a dry moan.
The magazines she lay under crinkled as she shifted onto her back. Normally this is the part where she would pack up and run. Everyone knew to do so when they come knocking – everyone who was left alive anyway.
It was the first rule of survival: run. And when you grew tired… you kept running. Ambrose was tired of running.
The book store she slept in was empty. Or she had thought it was empty. All the other buildings down this block had their windows smashed in save for this one. Night had started to creep in before she had noticed – a big no-no in the world after. She had taken refuge inside the store and moved quietly through the aisles as she scanned for Eaters. A dead – really dead, not fake-dead-try-to-eat-your-face-off, dead – corpse lay behind the cash register. The front of the store had been clear otherwise. It was good enough for her.
Ambrose had placed a makeshift wedge beneath the door that likely led to a stockroom. She wasn’t going to tempt fate by opening it and having something jump at her from the darkness. After securing the wedge, she really got to work.
At the very front of the store were a few tables and chairs. Ambrose took her time as she arranged them against the back door. Then she went through the shelves, clearing them of their thickest books, stacking her finds beneath and on the tables, balancing them on the chairs. It was like playing Tetris – each item needed to be arranged just right. The extra weight of the books would help keep the door shut if anything came knocking during the night… hopefully.
The front entrance and windows had blinds she quickly pulled down, obscuring her from the hungry attentions of the Eaters that would soon be flooding the
streets. She debated placing another barricade along the front door, but it could be dangerous to block her only other exit. Best to leave it clear.
After so many miserable months, you would think one would grow used to the moans and thumps of the dead. Even so, it had still taken her hours to fall asleep pressed against the back wall of the clearance section; as far away as she could get from the hungry things outside.
Ambrose continued to ignore the pounding coming from the backroom. She really should do something about the noise. If it became too loud, others might hear… and come. As if her thoughts were an invitation, a second pounding joined the first, then a third… and a fourth. The tower in front of the door began to quiver, a few books slid off their perch and thumped loudly onto the carpeted floor. The pounding became more frenzied; her barricade wouldn’t hold forever.
Sighing, she rose from her resting place, her body aching from sleeping on hard ground. She rummaged through her backpack, taking a quick swig from her second to last bottle of water. She would have to forage soon. She hated foraging. Too many people had been selfish enough to die inside grocery stores.
Peeking through the front blinds, Ambrose made sure the streets were empty. Three stragglers lumbered at one end of the road, two at the other. There wasn’t much out the for her to use as cover, and she’d had no time to scout the town when she’d arrived last night. It would be a risk to run outside without knowing where to go, but the pounding was growing louder and soon other Eaters would be drawn by the noise.
Her backpack held a small, very small, arsenal. It consisted of a kitchen knife, a screwdriver, and a pair of fabric scissors. They were all weapons requiring her to be uncomfortably clothes to those things if she were to have any chance of taking them down.
Ambrose was forced into action as her barricade came crashing down. Four Eaters tumbled into the front of the store. Ambrose had little choice but to fling the front door open and make a run for it. Her only hope was that none of the stragglers happened to be Runners.
Red Paint: Proceed with Caution Page 1
