Afterbirth: A Strandville Zombie Novel #2

by Frisch, Belinda

  Sunlight broke through the clouds and blinded him through the windshield. He put on a pair of dark sunglasses, and after a cursory check for undead, stepped out onto the cracked and weed-infested parking lot.

  St. Margaret’s, the only cemetery in rural Strandville, was a testament to the town’s age. The oldest headstones marked graves that had been made anonymous by weather and time. Black mold marred the white stone tabs--some of which were intact, the rest broken and ignored. St. Margaret’s cathedral cast its shadow over the left bank of plots. A vestige of hope, many flocked to the church during The Collapse only to be devoured by unholy hordes with no sense of religion or morality. The busted stained glass windows on the ground level testified to the lost stand-off. Bones scattered in front of the church and throughout the cemetery told of those who hadn’t made it.

  Frank leaned against the rusted entrance gate and pushed it with all of his diminished strength into the tall grass. The gate gave and opened just enough for his thin frame to fit through sideways. The grass crept into his pant legs and tickled his calves. His foot snagged on a sun-bleached femur and he kicked it away before heading toward the maintenance shed that had recently been broken into.

  A broken lock hung from a rusted hinge and the door was ajar.

  He made sure the safety was off on his pistol and went inside to look for supplies. A medical kit lay open on a weathered, wooden work bench. It was empty except for a half-used roll of medical tape and a pair of tweezers, both of which Frank pocketed alongside the flask of whisky in his chest pocket.

  “What do we have here?” He reached behind an empty oil barrel for a pair of hedge trimmers and a hatchet, which he tucked into his belt. The van was full of assorted supplies, but everywhere he went he foraged for more.

  He stepped out of the shed and looked out over the expansive memorial wasteland, settling his gaze on a patch of late-blooming blackeyed susans. He made his way through the knee-high weeds and used the hatchet to cut a large bunch.

  Some traditions needed to be held onto.

  He followed the trodden foot path to his family’s plot, sat on the grass in front of the makeshift wooden headstone, and split the bunch of flowers in two. Holly Krieger, 1980-2012. Beloved daughter. The homemade marker with the epitaph burned into it was the only option to an unmarked grave. He set half of the flowers on her grave and the other half on his wife’s, directly to Holly’s right. Tears rolled down his deeply creased cheeks and dripped onto the grass beneath him. He took a long pull off the flask of whiskey and sighed. With the hatchet at his side and the pistol in his waistband, he felt as at-ease as one could in open air. He spoke to both Holly and his wife as if they could hear him and wondered, when his time came, what was waiting for him in the hereafter. He’d killed Billy, and for that, he believed he’d burn in Hell.

  “Frank?”

  The sound of his name made him jump. He turned to see John Malkin standing behind him. Red lines shot through the whites of his brown eyes and his dark hair hung in messy curls around his sallow, unshaven face.

  “What are you doing here?” Frank wiped the tip of his nose. He hadn’t seen John since before Holly’s funeral when he helped dig the hole she was buried in.

  The silver heart promise ring on the chain around his neck glistened in the sunlight. “Visiting April.” He sniffled, having clearly been crying.

  Frank held out the flask. “Join me for a drink? I never got the chance to thank you.”

  John sat down next to Frank and took a mouthful of whiskey. “You don’t have to thank me. I’m sorry I didn’t make it to the service.”

  Holly’s death preceded The Collapse by less than a month and the virus was already spreading by the time of her funeral. Those that would have come to pay their respects were either deceased or terrified and Frank was the only one, other than Father Matthew, the priest who led the standoff at the church, who attended Holly’s services.

  “Don’t worry about that. No one did,” he said. “At least she’s at peace.” The familiar lightheadedness settled in and Frank leaned into his right palm to feel grounded.

  “Are you all right?” John capped the flask.

  Frank took a deep breath and waited for the dying pacemaker to fire. “Ticker’s about ticked out,” he said and sighed when he felt the slight jolt. He took the flask from John and drew another mouthful. “We can’t live forever.”

  John lowered his eyes. “Ever think about speeding that up?”

  There was an air of confession in the way John spoke and Frank looked him over. A grimy, white bandage stuck out from the cuff of his navy blue hoodie. “Who in what’s left of this world hasn’t? Some days I’d give anything to be with them.” He gestured at his family’s graves. “Lord knows even when that day comes, I won’t get back here.”

  “That’s the thing of it. I knew I’d never get back here to April.” John pulled up his sleeve, peeled a length of stained medical tape from the gauze, and unwrapped the bandage. “I couldn’t stand the idea that if I died, I wouldn’t be buried next to her.”

  “You don’t have to explain anything to me.”

  The bandage fell to the ground and John turned his wrist toward Frank. “Think you can fix it?”

  Frank examined the gash, which was deeper than he had expected, and sadness set in as he realized how intent the young man was on joining his deceased beloved. Redness surrounded the wound’s edge and it oozed a foul-smelling, yellowish fluid. “I can, but it’s infected.” He looked around the cemetery for another car or truck, wondering how John had gotten there. “Where are you staying?” he asked, hoping to clean him up anywhere other than the back of his cluttered van.

  John pointed at the remains of St. Margaret’s. “In the catacomb, beneath the church.”

  “Are there others down there?”

  John shook his head. “Just me.”

  “How about supplies?”

  “Some.” John nodded.

  Frank said goodbye to his wife and daughter and struggled to get to his feet. He handed John the flask and forced a smile. “Drink up,” he said. “You’re going to need it.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Michael rubbed his eyes, exhausted from a sleepless night of worries and what ifs.

  Earl and Randy waited downstairs, eager to resume the previous night’s search for Adam.

  Michael wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep up the ruse. He walked to the bathroom to splash water on his face and stopped at the closed door. He set his hand against the bloody print on the jamb and lined his ring up with the void left by Ashley’s.

  Earl called up from downstairs. “Did you sleep at all?”

  Michael shook his head, grief-stricken.

  “No sign of him?” Randy asked, loading his gun.

  Michael shrugged. “No, and Rex is missing, too.”

  “That could be a good thing,” Earl said. “Rex will keep him safe. At least today we have daylight.”

  Randy holstered his pistol and unsheathed his knife, thumbing the blade to test its sharpness.

  Michael started down the stairs and Earl held up his hand to stop him. “Maybe you should let Randy and I search a while.” He looked up at the bathroom door. “You should stay here in case he comes home, maybe tend to other things, you know?”

  Michael did know, but burying Ashley meant accepting her death and though he needed that closure, he wasn’t ready to.

  “We’ll bring Adam home.” Earl clapped his hand on Randy’s shoulder and ushered him out the door.

  Michael sighed and considered his options. He couldn’t leave Ashley to rot in the house, no matter how badly the idea of her burial hurt him. He headed to the garage where the cold air grew even colder. A draft fluttered the weathered door seal, vibrating the cracked rubber. He took a shovel down from the wall and headed for the back yard through the side door.

  Leaves rustled across the browning lawn and Michael gazed through the bare branches of the Magnolia tree. The pink and white flowe
rs had been Ashley’s favorite and he couldn’t think of a better final resting place. He stepped on the shovel head and forced the spade into the dirt with his weight. The morning frost made the earth hard to dig and his tears magnified the already chafing windburn on his cheeks.

  He thought of Ashley upstairs in the tub, the blood motionless in her veins.

  Relegating her to the unforgiving cold of a particularly brisk fall felt like neglect. Acceptance was still too many steps away for any of this to feel right. He dug, harder and faster, pouring his frustration into the work. The cold air stiffened his hands and his palms burned as blisters formed where the wooden handle rubbed his soft skin.

  The hole spread through the lawn, inches turning into feet and the cold becoming secondary. Sweat rolled down his back and armpits, soaking through two layers of clothing. He only stopped when the shovel hit an impassible boulder that sent a jarring pain into his elbows and shoulders. The ringing noise of the metal on rock hummed in his ears and he collapsed. A ridge of blisters tore open and blood covered his palms. Moist dirt caked his knees. He dropped the shovel and squeezed his eyes shut.

  Why had any of this happened?

  He secured the gate and never went out at night. He trained Rex as a guard dog and kept a vigilant watch. He’d done everything to keep his family safe, and still, he failed. It all came back to the front door, the one he’d been the last through and was too preoccupied to lock.

  He pulled himself out of the hole and the sidewall caved slightly, filling his boots with dirt.

  “I’m so sorry,” he said, looking up.

  He walked to the house and stood with his hand on the sliding glass door handle.

  Time wasn’t going to change circumstances and he forced himself to go inside. Each step felt like ten, an impossible climb toward a scene that if he lived a hundred years, couldn’t be erased from his memory. He opened the bathroom door and a shower curtain ring crunched beneath his foot. Dead leaves clung to the soles of Ashley’s shoes and clothespins hung from the waistband of her sweatshirt. He stared at the blank expression on her lifeless face. Blood dried around the bullet hole in her forehead. Her once radiant, green eyes had turned white.

  Michael unfastened the remaining rings holding the curtain in place and wrapped the two layers of plastic and fabric around her. The smell of vanilla lotion radiated from her skin and he cradled her in his arms, breathing the scent in deeply. His eyes burned with tears. Her dead weight made her hard to manage and he carefully moved her through the door and downstairs. Walking through the sliding glass door, the thought came to mind that this would be the last time he’d ever hold her.

  He moved across the lawn, shielding her as best he could from the wind, and knelt down. His muscles shook from the strain as he gently lowered her into the hole.

  “I love you,” he said and slowly let go.

  He said a brief prayer and shoveled in the first scoop of dirt, which was the hardest part yet. Each pass made her death seem that much more permanent. The tears came so hard and fast that he could barely see. He piled the dirt back into the hole and patted the mound flat, numb to everything around him.

  Footsteps rustled the leaves on the other side of the fence and Earl called out to Randy.

  “Hey, over here.”

  The gate hinge creaked as Randy unlocked and opened it.

  Adam’s blue shirt dangled from Earl’s weathered hand. He opened the small tee and showed Michael the bloodstains.

  “I’m so sorry,” he said.

  Michael couldn’t have been more distant. He blinked and tears spilled from his eyes.

  Earl set his hand on his shoulder and tried to comfort him. “What can I do to help you?” he asked.

  Unable to so much as speak, Michael didn’t answer. He pressed his lips together and broke down, sobbing.

  At least now they’d stop looking.

  CHAPTER 10

  Penny joined Foster in a large, two-floor Colonial which had belonged to Dr. Ralph Halstead, a Nixon Center employee who died the night of the escape. The infection took his wife and three children shortly after they had gone there to look for him. The news reported their deaths with the usual sterile verbiage, warning those not yet sick to steer clear.

  The marble floor radiated cold through her feet. She toweled off and pushed her shoulder-length, black hair behind her ear. The cold shower barely took the edge off her exhaustion and she wondered if a single night would pass without nightmares of her parents’ deaths. She leaned in to the mirror and wiped the remains of her mascara from under her lids. Her bright blue eyes, now dull and gray, sank into the purple hollows beneath them. Sleep was sporadic even before the attack. She couldn’t remember her last uninterrupted night and, as she picked at the crusted corner of her right eye, she stopped trying.

  She’d all but starved herself so that her parents, especially her mother, could eat. Her baby fat had melted away, leaving her with an unfamiliar body and a handful of stretch marks on her arms, belly, and thighs. She pulled on a pair of slim-fit white jeans and a navy blue button-down top made from the softest cotton she’d ever felt. She couldn’t help feeling like a thief for taking the clothes, even if their owner was never coming back for them. She opened the bathroom door and stared at the wall of photos across the hallway.

  The Halstead children were almost exactly one head apart in height and photographed liked steps, shortest to tallest. She said a prayer for each of the smiling faces and comforted herself with thoughts of Heaven, a place free of infection and fear.

  A tear rolled down her cheek and she bent down to pick up the pile of clothing covered in her mother’s blood.

  Foster appeared at the top of the stairs with a plastic bag covering his hand. “Don’t touch them.” He scooped up the clothing, turned the bag inside out around them, and knotted the top. “We have to be careful.”

  They hadn’t said more than a few words to each other since leaving her house and she wondered if she’d made a mistake agreeing to go with him. Her mouth bent into a frown and she cried, giving into another wave of unrelenting sadness.

  Foster set the bag down and ran his hand through his reddish-blond hair. Faint, bloody cast-off speckled his glasses and he moved with the stiffness of an ax-wielding murderer.

  She knew, in her heart, he was anything but.

  “I am sorry,” Foster said, not for the first time. He reached out to hold her and she backed away, crossing her arms over her chest. “If there were any other way…” His eyes welled up with tears.

  A long silence passed between them. She could sense his genuine remorse, but had to blame him to keep from blaming herself.

  “They’re in a better place,” she said. “God looks after His own.”

  She needed to believe it if she was ever going to forgive him.

  CHAPTER 11

  The remains of the Nixon Center sent chills through Carlene as she staggered through the cluttered parking lot, holding her swollen stomach. Blood-stained gurneys stood as proof of the emergency site she had hoped was still running now that she was ready to deliver. Black liquid soaked her delicate pink dress, staining it in a monochromatic watercolor pattern. Another contraction came and she clenched her teeth, trying not to scream. Noise drew hordes, a fact that those who managed to survive The Collapse quickly learned. Her knees buckled, she grabbed the hood of an abandoned car, and waited for it to pass.

  She hadn’t seen another living soul in months, though time wasn’t a thing exactly kept track of. Kurt, her father, had gone missing after a supply run, and though she presumed the worst, she waited for him as long as she could. Holed up on her small, ranch house, she watched the world fall apart, keeping company with the infant growing inside of her. The days passed, each growing closer to an uncertain deadline when being alone was no longer an option.

  Deciding to go back to the Nixon Center after being forcibly impregnated and held captive there hadn’t been easy. Looking up at the mutilated bodies swinging from the l
ights, she knew she’d made a mistake.

  “Keep out.”

  The message was clear, but she had no choice.

  She closed in on the burnt-out entrance and covered her mouth and nose. Her lungs protested, forcing out the dirty air with a deep coughing fit that expelled her water in bursts.

  Fragments of pulverized bone crunched under the soles of her canvas sneakers and mixed with the dark fluid to form a grim, human mud. Mold grew on the walls, and what the fire hadn’t destroyed, water and weather had. The power was out and the elevator shaft had been propped open. An aluminum ladder peeked out at the top and a series of footprints stamped in the grey dust said someone had been, or was still there. She didn’t know whether to follow them or run away.

  A sharp, gnawing pain radiated through her stomach and she knew leaving wasn’t a choice. She dropped to her hands and knees and lowered herself until her forehead was nearly touching the floor. The burned smell intensified as she drew the deep, calming breaths she’d read about in her motherhood books. The mud stuck to her bare knees and scraped them as she crawled slowly forward.

  “Help me,” she said, holding onto the hope that someone might be there to do so. “Can anyone hear me?” Tears rolled down her cheeks, mingling with the beads of sweat formed by intense, unrelenting pain. “Please.”

  The pressure inside her increased her urge to push. She refused to give birth surrounded by the charred and dismembered dead.

  “Hello? Can anyone hear me?”