After the Bite

by Lovato, David

  Elliot sat with his belongings on his lap and stared at his drawing for a little while. Not long after he’d settled down, the conductor came by with a hole punch and smiled as he approached Elliot.

  “Sir, may I please see your ticket?” The man’s mustache twitched a little as he spoke, with his hand outstretched. Elliot nodded and gave his ticket to the conductor, who punched a hole in it and passed it back to Elliot.

  “Thank you, sir. We will be departing shortly. I do hope you enjoy the ride.” The older gentleman grinned, and there was a small glint of cheer in his eye that bothered Elliot just a little bit, but he smiled back and gave a simple “Thank you.”

  The conductor called over a loud speaker for everyone to board, and a few minutes later the wheels when the train started to move down the tracks. Between strokes of his pencils on the paper Elliot heard the sound of a squeaky trolley, and the sweet alluring voice of the stewardess running it. Eventually she made her way to Elliot, who looked up from his drawing and smiled. The woman’s face had a hint of familiarity to it; he thought she looked similar to Beth, but felt too embarrassed to tell the stewardess.

  “Sir, can I interest you in something from the trolley?”

  Elliot marveled at the near infinite selection of food and drink on the two shelves of the bronze-plated cart. He ordered a beer and a submarine sandwich with turkey and lettuce. The woman walked past Elliot, asking the people behind him if they fancied something. Elliot’s attention returned to his dark but colorful-skied city as the world outside passed him by.

  It was not long before the quiet chatter of the passengers and the steadfast clacking of the wheels rolling down the tracks lulled Elliot to sleep. He had set his pencils away, covered his drawings, and leaned back in his seat.

  Soon Elliot woke from his nap and looked out the large window next to him. It was dark out, and the world was illuminated by lightning strikes every few seconds. Heavy winds blew the trees, it was pouring, and the lights on the train were flickering. Screams were beginning to pierce the air.

  Elliot looked around. The people that once sat in the seat to his left were nothing but bloody masses of flesh and organs, and there were several bloody handprints on the window. Above the seat was a handrail, and from it hung human entrails. They swung side to side as the train took a strong curve.

  “What the fuck?”

  Elliot nearly vomited when he saw these horrific images, and even when he looked away he could not remove them from his mind. Elliot saw that almost every surface had blood smeared on it. The train appeared to be empty, save for the stewardess from before. She was walking calmly up the aisle with her trolley, looking from side to side at the bloody mess with a sickeningly blithe look on her face. Elliot wanted to get up and run away, but his feet were stuck in the train floor. It was like pulling out of quicksand, and he made no progress as the woman drew closer and closer.

  “I will take that trash if you are finished, sir.” The stewardess pointed to the sandwich wrapper in Elliot’s lap. He handed it to her with shaky hands and looked at the apron she was wearing. It was splattered with blood, and then he looked at her once auburn hair, but it was not bouncing and pretty anymore; it was flat and dark, the color of Death’s robe, and ragged. She continued to smile as she tossed the trash into a bag hanging from the trolley.

  “Is there anything else I can get you, sir?” She pursed her lips for a moment, and then flashed another smile, this time with two gleaming rows of pointed teeth. She waited for an answer, but Elliot was frozen with fear. He could not move even as she opened her mouth wide, wider than any human should be able to, lurched forward, and clamped her mouth down on his side. A huge section of his skin, muscle, and inner organs came out in the woman’s mouth and blood poured like a faucet as Elliot fell limp against the window.

  He breathed heavily for a moment, and then closed his eyes.

  When he opened them again he realized he no longer heard the rain or the screams. The lights were dim in what was now his room as he lay in his bed. Shuffling feet grabbed Elliot’s attention. A fuzzy silhouette appeared in the doorway; he hadn’t remembered leaving the bedroom door open.

  Elliot sat up, his palms were sweating, and he called out to the figure. It fidgeted and began shambling across the room. Elliot quickly grabbed the gun off his nightstand and aimed for the head.

  “Answer me, or I’m going to shoot!”

  “Rehhhhh!”

  Elliot pulled the trigger, but it only clicked.

  “Shit!” He pulled the gun back, spied some ammunition on the table where the gun had been, and frantically began loading. The creature got very close and lurched forward, grabbing Elliot and pushing forward on him. He dropped the gun in the struggle, and the creature was dangerously close to getting a snack. It was a female, and long hair was hanging down scraggly below her shoulders. She pulled forward and sank her teeth into Elliot’s neck, ripping a large section of his skin off. He screamed as loudly as his lungs would allow, and blood poured out, spilling over his shirt and onto the bed and floor.

  Elliot pushed on the woman with both hands, and her grip loosened and she fell backward. She made a loud thud when her back hit the hardwood floor. He picked up the gun, finished reloading, and aimed it at her. Elliot pulled the trigger, and the bullet hit her forehead. Elliot let out one quick sob, as sudden as a sneeze, and then looked down. He raised the gun to his head, but only held it to his temple. He did not pull the trigger.

  I must be dreaming this.

  He put the gun down and walked to the bathroom. If I see myself in the mirror, I know I’m awake. He opened the door with his eyes closed, holding his hand on his neck. The mirror was the first thing Elliot saw when he opened his eyes, and he screamed.

  “No! I’m not awake!”

  Elliot turned on the light, grabbed his notebook, and opened it to his latest work. The half-finished drawing of the dark city stared up at him, mocking him: You’re not going to finish me.

  The pencil moved across the drawing, but Elliot grew sluggish rapidly. He wanted to finish the drawing before it was too late, as it was for someone special. Hope became more lost to him as the minutes passed.

  While Elliot made his desperate marks on the page, he remembered what had happened the night before. He and Beth were together when things went south, and people on the block began changing. As news came in that anyone bitten changed too, he and Beth tried to block every entrance. Despite their efforts, there was a breach in the system. The attackers forced their way through a door in the basement. In the end, one took Beth’s life, despite how desperately Elliot tried to save it.

  He had taken care of her body carefully; he set up a pyre. The flames surrounded her quickly, her ashes ascended softly with the breeze of the afternoon. Elliot watched from a distance, but his emotions had not allowed him to stay long. He had a present to finish. It would have been Beth’s birthday just a few days later. He went inside to work on his city drawing.

  As Elliot worked now he began to drift off, not into sleep but into something else. He felt he was losing control of his body. After a short time, Elliot dropped the pencil on the paper. It rolled off and clicked as it hit the floor. Blood dripped from the side of Elliot’s hand where it was running from the bite wound. It fell down onto the drawing, smudging some of the softer pencil strokes.

  Elliot could have sworn he heard the faint fluttering of Death’s robe in the distance as all of what he was flew away like a flock of startled birds. He groaned as he slowly headed for the door, and his wound continued to bleed. He did not feel the pain anymore, but he was losing too much blood, and would likely not make it to the front door of his house before Death arrived. The city just lay there, unfinished on the floor, blood soaking into the pages, growing very cold.

  Grampa’s War Story

  It was dark in the house. It was early. They kept quiet most of the time, even though it seemed like they had found a place where nothing could reach them.

  It
was a miracle the family was alive at all, let alone had stayed together and grown. The kids seemed happy enough; this was the only world they knew.

  Allen entered the room. His mother entered just behind him.

  “Allen, don’t bother your grampa, he’s trying to sleep.”

  “I’m awake.”

  “I’m bored,” Allen said. “I miss Uncle J.”

  A pain rose in his heart. The one casualty the family had suffered. It was a year before, but it still hurt.

  “I do too.”

  “Tell me the story again. Your last mission with Uncle J.”

  “Your grampa doesn’t need to tell you that one again,” the boy’s mother said.

  “No,” he said. “It’s okay. If I don’t tell it from time to time, I might just forget.”

  Allen laughed. “You can’t forget it, grampa. He was your brother.”

  There was some truth to the boy’s words. He smiled.

  “All right, sit down. Let’s see, it was… 2013? Yeah, that’s it. We were on assignment in the Middle East. We’d just finished the mission, but getting to our extraction point was a mission all on its own…”

  ****

  “Forward!” McCready said. He kept his head down and headed out. Shots and blasts rang out on all sides. One particular blast hit nearby, sending chunks of dirt and rock toward him, sticking to the sweat on his face, getting into his eyes. McCready pressed on.

  He reached the street and kept going, finally reached the embankment and ducked down, safe from enemy fire as far as he could tell. He looked behind him for the first time, and a steady line of men followed, making it to cover safely.

  “Sir, what do we do?” private Wilk shouted over the din of the battlefield.

  “Stick to the plan!” McCready said. “We have to get to the extraction point!”

  “We’re pinned down!” Tate said.

  “Then we’ll have to try harder!”

  McCready moved again. He crossed over a small hill (a risky move) and then moved behind a brick wall. He looked back at the small handful of his men who were left.

  “On my signal,” he mouthed. Wilk nodded, and repeated the message to the others. McCready saw Tate and Chancellor nod in agreement.

  McCready looked around the corner. He saw figures moving in the dark, amid the rubble and debris, the blown-out walls and burnt-up cars. It was night, and it might’ve been pitch black if not for all the fire.

  “Move!” McCready said, waving his men over. They filed over the hill in a single line, crouched low. As each man reached the crest, McCready’s heart skipped a beat. He hoped and prayed for each one’s safety, seeing them fully exposed at the top of the hill.

  Wilk reached it, and then moved swiftly down the other side. McCready hardly had time to breathe a sigh of relief as Tate reached the crest right after, and then descended. Jared Tate was McCready’s friend, a brother to him, even if he had a short fuse. The two had been together longest, but McCready didn’t care for the others any less.

  Chancellor reached the top of the hill, and there was an explosion at the bottom of it. Dust and dirt exploded in all directions, a cloud of smoke billowed up. McCready saw the dark figure that was Chancellor lifted up into the air. The smoke gathered so quickly, McCready didn’t see the figure come back down.

  “Shit!” Tate said as soon as he ducked behind the wall. Ears ringing, McCready helped pull him behind the brick, then turned to him and to Wilk.

  “Stay here!” McCready said. “I’m going to get him!”

  “We’ll cover you,” Wilk said. None of them could hear much at all, but they communicated just the same. Part of it was their voice, part was their movement, but most of it was something more, something indescribable yet known to others like them, to soldiers.

  McCready rushed out from behind the wall. The smoke was still thick and provided a bit of a screen that he hoped would yield some cover from the enemy fire. He found Chancellor lying on the ground on his back, staring up into the sky.

  “Chancellor!” McCready said. “On your feet!”

  “I can’t feel my legs,” Chancellor said.

  “Don’t give me that!” McCready said, grabbing Chancellor by his uniform and lifting him. “I said on your feet, soldier!”

  Chancellor stood and leaned into McCready for a moment. He looked around, tried to shake the dizziness.

  “Let’s go!” McCready said. He helped Chancellor move, and together the two reached the wall and ducked behind it.

  “Get him some water!” McCready said. Tate set to work.

  “What do we do?” Wilk asked. “We’re pinned down!”

  “We have to lose them,” McCready said. The sound of gunfire and explosions still pierced the night, but the ringing in his ears was dying down. McCready had no way of contacting the other squad they had been with, but he feared the worst. “If we aren’t at the extraction point by morning, they’ll leave without us.”

  “I’d say we need a fuckin’ miracle,” Tate said.

  The gunfire continued, but the dust around the soldiers began to settle. They could hear people shouting from other parts of the town, mostly in Arabic, though some English was audible.

  McCready peered around the wall. He could see sparks in the darkness as guns continued to fire, but nothing approached his direction.

  “What the hell are they shooting at?” Tate said.

  “I don’t know,” McCready said, “but we should take this chance to get out of here. You guys ready?”

  “Yeah,” Wilk said. Tate nodded.

  “Chancellor?”

  “Yeah,” Chancellor said. “I’m good to go.”

  The men moved. They walked toward the area where the bullets and grenades had been coming from only moments before, not knowing whether they would come again. McCready spotted a nearby alley between two hovels and made for it. The men tucked into the darkness.

  “What now?” Chancellor asked.

  “How long do we have to reach the extraction point?” McCready said.

  “A few hours,” Tate said.

  “How far are we to the edge of town?”

  “…Too fuckin’ far.”

  “You still have that C4?”

  “Yeah,” Tate said.

  “Good,” McCready said. “We may need it to punch a hole if we get trapped. We’ll move on my mark.” He peered out of the alley and down the street. It was dark; there were no street lights to guide the way, just the occasional flare or explosion to light up an otherwise pitch black night. The enemy continued firing, and McCready had no idea what they were firing at.

  Then he saw motion. Between two cars, something moved. McCready wiped the dirt and blood from his eyes and looked again. It was a small boy with dark skin and dark hair, walking slowly.

  Then there was more movement, six enemy combatants running down the street toward him. They spotted McCready, but didn’t seem to notice the boy at all.

  McCready moved. He shouldn’t have, and he knew it, but he did it anyway. He held his gun outward, his other arm raised in the air. He shouted but said no words, he didn’t think they’d understand him anyway. He motioned at the boy several times, and the enemy spotted him.

  “Stop!” McCready said. He dared not look back to the alley to check on his men; that would only give them away.

  McCready reached the boy. “Just let me move him!” he said. He was surprised the six men hadn’t fired upon him already. For all he knew they assumed he was taking the boy hostage, though that was unlikely. McCready was no stranger to the honor of United States soldiers being used against him in battle.

  “Back away!” one of the combatants said. So at least one of them knew English after all.

  “Let me move him!” McCready said. He reached for the boy, and the boy looked at him with vacant eyes. He had blood caked around his mouth, and he snapped at McCready’s hand. “I’m trying to help you!” McCready said.

  One of the enemy raised his gun and fired, but not at McC
ready. He killed the boy with a single shot to the head.

  “No!” McCready said. He tried to move his gun into firing position, but they were upon him.

  “Don’t move,” one of them said. That made two who knew English. They took his gun, and one of them hit him in the head with the butt of his rifle. McCready dropped to his knees.

  “Why?” McCready said.

  “It isn’t what you think,” one of them said. He turned to another and said something in Arabic. Then he turned back to McCready. “There were four of you. Where are the others?”

  “They died,” McCready said.

  “No they didn’t,” the man said. “I am not blind. I saw at least two get behind the wall before I… became occupied with other things.”

  “What were you shooting at?” McCready said. “Are there more Marines?”

  “You would no doubt enjoy that. Are any of you medics?”

  “I told you, the others are dead.”

  Quick as a bullet, the man pulled a pistol from his belt and hit McCready in the head with it. McCready felt fresh blood run down his face.

  “I will not be lied to again,” the man said. “Do you have a medic? My friend needs help.”

  McCready turned to the one the man had spoken to in Arabic. He was clutching his wrist, which was bleeding profusely.

  “I have bandages on me,” McCready said.

  “That is not what I asked,” the man said. He knelt down, looked McCready in the eyes. “Is one of your men a medic?”

  “I am,” Wilk said. McCready cringed. The man before him stood, and all raised their guns.

  “Right now is not for killing,” the man said. “We have questions.”

  “You’re in no position to ask them,” Tate said. The man laughed.