“Don’t exist, huh? Just look outside.”
Ian runs to the door. The woman in the blue Volkswagen has climbed out the broken window, and there’s movement in the back of the station wagon. “God damn it,” he mumbles.
Lightning whips around the dark clouds and thunder follows. It starts raining. The water chases away all the smoke that had accumulated, increasing the visibility.
Movement is all over the place; behind a wrecked truck on the roundabout, over by the park’s brick wall, and by the gas station garage.
“I don’t feel so good, dude,” Ben mumbles. He turns and throws up on the magazine rack by the door, really heaving.
Sympathy nausea comes over Ian.
Ian can’t stand it. He can’t just watch this happen. A sharp pain rips at his heart as he watches those dead kids move around in their car. “Fuck this,” he snaps.
Ian pulls his huge pack on, flings the door open, and runs. Ben follows. It’s hard to run with his pack. He passes by a body that slowly tries to get to its feet. “Stay dead!” Ian yells.
As the two slog through the rain they get wet, but don’t care. The clouds are as dark as oil and a mile high. The storm will get worse. Ian rounds the garage corner and slides his pack off. In the middle pocket is a lighter. “Stay right here,” Ian orders Ben and runs back to the gas pumps.
The woman who had climbed out of her station wagon limps toward Ian. The broken glass on her car window had cut her arms the entire length, but it isn’t red that pours from her wounds, it’s black. She looks right at Ian with those root-filled eye sockets. There’s a creature inside the dead, something growing, moving.
Thankfully, she is slow and stiff, slow enough for Ian to run around her and continue to the gas pump. He bends down to the puddle of gasoline that pooled under the motorcycle and lights it on fire. He runs back to Ben, screaming, “RUN!” They take off down 110th Street, which borders Central Park.
Seconds later, the gas station’s holding tank explodes. The sound of the blast is deafening. Ian slows down and looks over his shoulder. The fireball rises along the red brick building that blocks their view of the gas station.
Ian wipes rain from his eyes and face, still, there’s movement everywhere.
“What the hell are you stopping for?” Ben yells, having stopped just ahead.
“I have to see what happened.” Ian runs back toward the gas station, stopping at the corner of the red brick building to peek around the edge. Ben catches up.
The explosion threw the woman into the middle of the roundabout, her clothes were burning but she has stopped moving. Over by the pumps, the station wagon now sits on its roof in the middle of the road. A small arm hangs out of the back seat, black as tar and still. The rain slowly puts the fire out, but the gas fire still flickering from the rubble might burn for days. A chemical stench enters Ian’s nose and irritates his lungs. He covers his mouth and nose with the collar of his shirt and looks away, not wanting to see any more. There are a few other burning vehicles with nothing moving inside them. “Looks like fire works better than bullets,” he says to Ben.
A smile surfaces and he nods. “Nice work, Commando.”
“Don’t celebrate just yet,” Ian begins. “There are ten million zombies waking up.”
Ben looks around. “Fine, I won’t smack your ass just yet. But don’t call ’em zombies. It’s too damn weird. This is something else.”
“Walkers then,” Ian says and takes off running. Another explosion rocks the ground under his feet. Ian runs harder, feeling lucky that it didn’t blow up in his face. He turns on 7th Avenue. Ben follows. Ian is in decent shape, but with sixty pounds on his back he feels like a sloth. After half a block he has to slow down.
Ben gasps for breath. “Good, let’s walk, please. I’m a fat bastard, you know.”
At the corner of 111th Street and 7th Avenue, a black man in a dark-gray suit stands alone. He is older and bald, and has a thin gray beard. He stands in the middle of the road with his arms out as if he’s waiting for death to sweep him up and take him to heaven.
Ten, no, eleven walkers approach him from the buildings. He sees Ian and Ben approach. Ian recognizes him. “Hey,” Ian say to Ben. “That’s Markus Coburn. My father’s company rebuilt his church after it was burned to the ground. The new church was the largest one built in New York in over fifty years. Pretty cool building, too. They spared no expense.”
“I’ve seen it. Damn huge.”
Markus picks up a baseball bat that had been leaning against his leg.
Ben yells to Markus, “What are you doing, dude? There’s, like, a million fuckers comin’ at us! I only have two bullets left, and they don’t do shit!”
Markus kicks a walker away from him just as he swings his bat into the skull of another one. His baseball bat is already soaked with black goop.
Ian thinks he’s being helpful, but in only a few breaths walkers surround the three. They grab and try to rip them apart. The dead’s hands are so strong.
A young gangster with long braids bundled in a do-rag grabs Ian’s collar and pulls him close. He screams a shrill cry. His eyes are gone, replaced with those moving white roots. Markus pulls him off and beats him with his bat until its head caves in. Ben pushes a walker away, then another one. A group of them stumble backward, locked together by proximity. The three run.
Everyone that had died is getting up and attacking them. It’s surreal, confusing.
While the three are running, Markus says, “Thank you, young man. I got surrounded faster than I thought possible. My name is Markus. And who are you?” There is no fear in his eyes, or confusion. He’s a rock. He must think God has his back.
“Ian,” Ian answers between breaths.
“You look familiar,” Markus replies. “I know your father!” he realizes. “Did good work on my church! Yes, I knew him well. And his team. He’s got photos of you on his desk.”
“Had,” Ian replies. Markus doesn’t answer.
Ben is so out of breath he’s hardly understandable. “Got an extra baseball bat? Or a flame thrower?”
“Sorry, son,” Markus answers.
The three continue jogging, soaked by the rain. Ian is glad for it. It keeps him cool.
A couple of blocks later, Ian hears gunshots behind them, rapid-fire shots. He hopes it’s the marines or the army or someone coming to help. He’s wrong, again.
Chapter 1.14
Josh
Venture Out
Josh huddles in his apartment for days, hungry, sad, as stir crazy as a beetle tied to a string. It’s been quiet for a while now. He sleeps in fits so time isn’t quite slipping away. He’s aware of every hour that clicks by.
It takes him a while, but eventually, he gets the courage to peek out the window. The sight makes him regret his decision, but he continues to watch, oddly fascinated by the death and destruction. One can only mourn one’s losses so much. The very act of crying for over a day seems to have purged him of lingering regret, doubt, and sadness. The cars below are bumper-to-bumper and the pedestrians lay around in odd clumps like sacrificial clusters. The skies have been blackened by ash from multiple fires around the city, which he can smell. He wonders how good of a job he did sealing himself in his room.
He’s really missing his computer, but any working electronic device would make him feel better. He assumes an EMP was set off because nothing with a circuit functions.
His stomach rumbles loudly. It’s actually concave. He pulls out the plastic liner in the cheese cracker box and lick the salty crumbs. Then gives the mini donut bag the same treatment. It has some chocolate smears, but they barely taste like anything.
It’s abundantly clear that he must venture out and look for where the destruction ends and normal life continues on. He stands and looks around his gloomy cave. If he’s going outside, he’ll need a plan.
The sound of movement inside his apartment startles him. Initially, it makes him want to throw up. It’s like his ears were
clogged and suddenly pop open. It’s a shuffling sound, no a ripping sound. He presses his ear to the door, hard.
Someone’s ripping down his tape!
Josh turns, leaps over the bed, and hides on the other side like he was dodging a grenade. A door opens. Is it my front door? There’s no squeak, meaning it’s not the front door.
Josh finds his face mask and situates it over his nose and mouth and pulls off the tape covering the door. She must be walking around. Maybe she survived? How can that be? She was dead, really dead. Josh opens the door. There’s mom, shuffling around the kitchen looking for a snack. She hears him and looks up. Worms protrude from her eye sockets! She screams long and shrill.
Josh slams the door, flicking the lock. What the hell?! It only takes her a minute to get to the door and claw at the wood like a cat. Having been conditioned by decades of horror movies, Josh knows she’s not his mother. She’s something else. The virus is mutating her DNA. This is something this Earth has never seen.
He needs a weapon.
The closet is full of crap and is his best hope. Inside the first box—he’d never unpacked—are old photo albums, books, notes from college, and some science fair awards. He holds the award like a club, but the figures are plastic and already bent. He picks up a notebook and hacks the air with it. No good.
The next box has some camping gear and inside is a small stove, some cans of sterno, a knife (which he pockets), and a sleeping bag. It had been years since he’d dug through this stuff. Under the bag is a foil thermal blanket. Underneath that is a first aid kit, an emergency water filter, and a small electric chainsaw. Initially, he disregards the chainsaw, thinking it wouldn’t have survived the EMP. But he grabs it anyway, flicking the sharp, unused blades with his finger. It was a gift from his sister; one he never used. The six D batteries were still separated by a plastic tab. He pulled out the tab and presses the trigger, no good.
Mom kept clawing on his door, but something else was screeching in the building.
He looks the device over, finds and holds the safety lever and pulls the trigger again. The chainsaw spins to life! The thermal blanket must have shielded the circuitry!
Gotta do this quick. These D batteries won’t last long.
Josh flings open the door. Mom, or something that only slightly resembles his mom, comes at him, arms outstretched, black blood leaking from her broken fingernails.
The chainsaw revs as he swipes it across her grabbing hands, ripping her fingers open. She loses her balance and falls to the side. He brings the chainsaw down on her head and pushes the spinning blades into her surprisingly soft skull.
I’m sorry, so sorry.
Chapter 1.15
Isabella
Tossing Brains
Isabella steps up to some crazy looking thing that used to be human. Now it’s just a headless body covered with black shit or something. It walks right up to her with an attitude. She notices ten or so dead people around. They look beaten and badly broken. They struggle to move like broken puppets on strings. There’s something under their skin, slithering and twisting.
She nests her assault rifle in her shoulder and pumps a few rounds into the puppet in front. It doesn’t go down. This has gotta be a joke. Maybe I’m seeing shit. Isabella flips the rifle’s automatic switch and pulls the trigger, hard. She unloads the entire clip into the crowd stumbling toward her, but they keep comin’. Puppets stream onto the street from alleys, buildings, and cars.
Isabella slings the rifle over her shoulder and grips her Beater with both hands. It’s time to vent some aggression. She runs head on into the group of puppet people, swinging. The Beater lands on the head of some dopey looking woman. Then she jabs the next sucker in the throat, easily pushing through the soft tissue and getting stuck. Isabella pulls it free and spins to strike the headless fool across his knees. That takes him down. It feels good. Her muscles vibrate like guitar strings. She turns and punches puppet flesh with everything she’s got. The air fills with screams weirder than anything she’s ever heard. The background blurs as she spins and fights. The blood is black and splashes everywhere. She tastes bitterness as she stabs and bashes. Fire rages in her soul. She feels a burn in her muscles that makes her feel strong, stronger than any man and stronger than these puppets. Isabella dominates the fight.
When the headless guy comes for more, Isabella realizes these bastards aren’t staying down. One of the bodies she’d taken down grabs her ankle, causing her to fall. The hand squeezes, breaking skin. Isabella’s stick gets stuck on something and her right arm is torn into. She screams. Another hand grabs at her upper leg and tears her jeans. A dead but strong hand grabs her hair. Shit, shit, shit.
Isabella is held. Time dilates as she notices a white worm-like creature as big as a middle finger slink up her arm. It’s tacky and leaves a slimy trail. Another worm slithers out of the nose of some lady and lands on her shirt, moving up to her face.
That’s when an electric motor fires up. It sounds like a small chainsaw. Isabella’s vision blurs from the rain or that black shit they’re bleeding and she struggles but can’t get free. More worms fall on her, trying to get inside!
The motor sound revs and idles, then revs again. Liquid splashes all over her. Finally, she gets one hand free. The Beater is hers again. She jabs and swings, though she can’t see with all the blood and black stuff in her eyes. Finally, she gets her left hand back. The chainsaw revs, freeing her leg. She slips away from the puppets, crawling like boot camp taught her to.
Isabella wipes her face until she can see. Worms are all over her! She furiously slaps them away. Shivers wrack her body. The things are trying to bore into her skin through any available opening. UGH!
When she’s worm free she sees her rescuer. He’s a thin man with a white medical mask covering his nose and mouth. He has curly, dark brown hair and thick glasses. After chopping at one of the puppets, he turns to Isabella, extending his hand.
Isabella grabs ahold and stands up. He’s tall, but scrawny and looks like the typical gamer dork that plays video games until the sun comes up. He sports a Ghostbusters shirt and very tight jeans. Isabella doesn’t care if he’s a dork, he just saved her life.
He holds on to her hand, helping her run. Pain tears through her ankle, arm, and waist. As time passes more cuts and bruises complain. Those bastards almost tore her limb from limb. She stops and notices one last worm and slaps it off then stomps on it.
“See any more? The fuck if any of those things are gonna bore into my skin!”
The guy looks her over. “I don’t see any more.”
Isabella doesn’t scare easily, but that freaks her out. “They seemed smart like tapeworms with brains.”
“Didn’t have eyes but they could see. They’ve completely taken over their host bodies,” the man says.
Isabella didn’t know what to say to that. It was obvious the people are totally gone. Her mind has a hard time accepting the whole walking dead crap. It’s like trying to fit a metric wrench on a standard bolt; it doesn’t work. Fucking things are more like an alien invasion or something. Body snatchers.
More puppets emerge from the buildings, cars, and alleyways. They’re slow, which makes her feel better. Isabella hobbles along, forcing her brain to ignore the injuries.
“You’re welcome. My name is Josh,” he says quietly.
“I had it covered,” Isabella snarls at the boy. He looks away.
“Where are you headed?” Josh asks.
“What’s it to you?”
“I can help you get out of the city,” he says shyly. He’s obviously looking for company.
“I don’t need help.” Isabella’s reluctant to let him tag along, but then she looks at the gaping wound on her ankle. There are two large sections of skin that are ripped off, exposing muscle. “Fine, you can shadow me, but I move fast.” Isabella sits on the bottom step of an apartment building then tears a piece of cloth from her shirt. She wraps it around her ankle and cinches it tight.
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Josh points. “Even with only one good leg, huh?”
“Just watch me.”
They start walking. Pain tears up her leg with every step, but she’s good at ignoring pain. It isn’t too hard; you just have to focus on something else. You have to close off the pain, lock it up, and move on. Isabella picks up speed and Josh keeps up. They rush past more and more puppets and around the next block, and it becomes obvious they’re being followed.
Josh slows. Isabella can tell he’s out of shape. He’s also whiter than white. He either doesn’t get outside much or his pigment has high-tailed it out of his skin due to fear. Even still, after a few blocks she has to slow. Pain bursts out of her calf muscle with every step. Isabella reaches out and grabs Josh’s shoulder for support. He doesn’t seem to mind.
“So, you didn’t get sick?” he asks her.
“Neither did you,” she snips back.
“I’ve got a condition,” he starts. He still has his medical mask on.
“You don’t say.”
“I’m afraid of germs. When my mother died from some crazy infection I sealed my apartment with tape and plastic,” he says. “But then people started coming alive. I knew I couldn’t stay locked inside anymore. Then I saw you needed help.”
He’s so proud of himself it makes her ill. “Told you, I don’t need help.”
“Yeah, okay. I just wanted to help. I haven’t seen anyone in days. Well, besides some gangsters. And I did see a tank or something come through with a handful of mean-looking guys.”
“Yeah, I saw those fools, too.” Josh reminds her of a guy she served with in Iraq. He was smaller though, but had the same look on his face. Smart, but not too smart. Anyway, Josh isn’t all macho or always staring at her tits, so she finds herself being okay with him.
They move quickly down 7th Avenue like they’re late for a court date. It’s raining hard, but she likes it. It washes all the black shit off and clears her hair. She knows They’ll get to the river soon, but has no idea what to do after that.
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