Downfall

by Michael S. Gardner

  “What are you doing?” Dana’s voice cracked, and then she started sobbing.

  John checked the cylinder of the revolver to find it empty and snapped it shut. He looked at his family and smiled. “I’m gonna make it so they can’t get in here. There’ll be some loud noises, but don’t you worry, okay?” With that, he stepped into the elevator, leaving his wife and grandson behind. The doors shut, and the gears began their work.

  He loaded the revolver bullet by bullet, savoring the feel of the brass that might save his hide. What lay beyond the elevator doors, he couldn’t be quite sure. He only knew that it would be one of the low points of his life. Part of him hoped that he’d see only one zombie, but the experienced side of him knew better. Much better. Where there was one, there would be more.

  DING!

  The elevator doors opened. John readied the revolver, cocking the hammer back with ease. He held a deep breath, index finger tapping on the chamber, until the living room and front door were as visible as they could be from inside. Even though it had been only a few minutes since the window had been compromised, the smell of rot reeled through the house as if it had been interred during its construction.

  John stepped out into the hallway and brought up his firearm. To his left was an empty hall. The stairs leading to the locked front door and the basement held no threats. The living room to his right was bereft of anything hostile other than that damn floral couch Dana just had to have. He covered his nose with his free hand, wishing he could go back in time to when they’d argued for hours about that crappy piece of furniture. In that moment, John heard a footstep along with what had to be the remains of the broken window falling to the hardwood floor in the dining room. There was a dragging, clicking sound followed by another slow footstep and a groan.

  From his position, John could see most of the house, so he decided to wait for the undead bastard to come into sight.

  Three heartbeats later, a heinous abomination that would have driven those who had originally scribed the Bible to tear their eyes out in the name of blasphemy, round the corner. The thing was horribly burned, most of the defining characteristics melted away, leaving vibrant streaks of gore and undefined gunk racing toward its feet. Oh, but there were teeth, badly maimed and bloody teeth. And eyes. Almost everything was gone, yet two glazed eyes speared his direction when the thing finally sensed John.

  “May God already be having mercy on your soul, you devil.” John fired once. The report was immediately deafening. The zombie-thing dropped, leaving most of its brains on the light blue wall of the living room. It was such an abstract that some might have once called it art. Moving, bleeding, fucking maniacal art.

  John knew there had to be more negotiating their way inside, and he made for the dining room. His jaw dropped and he shook his head: it wasn’t the dining room window that had been breached; it was the one above the sink in the kitchen. The dead thing must have used the raised part of the deck, next to the benches to leverage itself through. Dana had him build that part on so she could place decorative flower pots there last month, so that when she cooked and cleaned she’d always have a nice view. Who was John to object then? Now, he cursed himself for such deplorable luck.

  Two rotting, flailing, and bloody arms reached in as the creature outside worked its decaying body through the opening. John hurried over and shot it in the head. He caught enough of a glimpse to recognize the corpse: one of the boys—the no-gooders—from up the street. The body went limp, tumbling back over the “steps” that shouldn’t have been there. John shook his head, remembering when he’d cursed this kid and his no good friends for lighting shit in a bag and leaving it on his porch last year… but this wasn’t what he’d meant.

  Another window shattered, this time in the dining room.

  To John it felt that the whole world was closing in on him, so much so that he could feel each breath strain and tug, not wanting to leave the sanctity of his lungs. He wanted to shoot the new intruder, but knew it would do no good. The zombie would be replaced by another, and then another.

  John dashed into the living room and dragged the couch toward the stairwell with a sudden burst of adrenalin. The piece was heavy, but so was the weight of knowing the dead were getting in. He could only imagine how Dana and Tommy were doing. They were probably both crying, fearing the worst had happened to him. This thought aided John in hoisting one end of the couch over the metal railing. Another push and there was a crash as the couch took a few pictures with it, leaving a decent-sized hole in the wall. He went down the upper flight of stairs and maneuvered the couch down the other stairwell; it thumped against the basement door, and two shrieks came from the other side.

  John made his way back up to see that two zombies had already made it through the exposed openings. He downed them then dropped the loveseat. Then went the end tables. By the time he’d finished, the stairs to the basement were inaccessible to anything that couldn’t process simple problem solving.

  Two more zombies entered from the kitchen. He dropped them with headshots and reloaded. This was a useless fight, he realized. John activated the elevator, but this time, instead of a “ding,” he was greeted with the echoes of gunfire from the front of the domicile. John had no doubt it was Matt and Cole, riding to the rescue. He reached for his radio, but realized he’d left it in the basement.

  The doors to the elevator opened. More zombies entered the hall, moving slowly, for which he was thankful. John let out a deep breath when the doors finally shut.

  Instead of finding Tommy and Dana cowering in one of the corners, he found them both smiling.

  “John! They’re right outside. We’re going to be okay!” Dana was ecstatic. In her hand was the radio Matt and Cole had given them, turned to channel seventeen.

  John was relieved too. He hadn’t wanted to ask for help. He hated being a burden, though he was sure neither Matt nor Cole saw him as such. “I know, I—”

  The elevator doors shut behind him.

  “What the hell?”

  “That isn’t them, John,” Dana shrieked. “They’re still outside.”

  More gunfire from the exterior resonated throughout the basement.

  John turned and ran for the elevator, but it was too late. The doors were shut. It must be a glitch, he thought. Because zombies can’t operate an elevator, right?

  What John and Dana couldn’t have seen was that an undead postal worker that had brushed up against the elevator button, recalling it almost immediately after John’s departure. That same zombie now shuffled into the compartment alongside several more.

  “Get to the corner. NOW!” John shouted.

  Tommy began sobbing again. Dana was shocked, inertia taking hold. Outside, the gunfight continued.

  John waited a short eternity for the doors to open once more. He had his revolver loaded, ready to fire on the first bastard he saw. That happened to be the undead remains of Patrick Carter, the postal man and an old friend from the shipyard. When Patrick’s body collapsed, it was pushed forth by those behind it.

  And one of the dead ran—

  “They’re in, Dana!” Cole’s voice came through the radio. “THEY’RE IN!”

  ***

  “They’re in the basement, Matt. We need to hurry!”

  Matt stepped out, slammed the door, put on his mask, and pumped a round into the chamber of his shotgun.

  “They’re in, Dana! THEY’RE IN!” he heard Cole yell into the radio from the roof of the van.

  Instead of a response, there were only muffled ghosts of shots fired.

  “We’re coming in!” Cole set the radio on the roof and squeezed off three rounds.

  Matt was the first into the yard. There were still so many. If they didn’t hurry up, the rotting demons would have another meal.

  Cole stayed back with Alex’s rifle, picking off those that were headed out of sight.

  Matt fired, littering the stale, rotten air with buckshot. He continued until he needed to reload. He only d
owned two or three, but he had done exactly what he’d intended to do: draw the horde to them. Backing away, Matt reloaded. A second volley saw four more permanently fallen. He set the empty firearm on the ground and unsheathed his sword.

  Each cut, each slice, brought back so little of what had been taken. Each death felt thrilling, yes, but something was just… lacking. He cut through wave after wave of the undead while Cole picked them off with his rifle. One creeper, a woman no older than twenty-five, by his guess, had flowing cherry blond hair which brought a sparkle to his eye. She reminded Matt of someone he’d known years ago, someone who’d broken his heart and had laughed about it damn near every day since. He cut the bitch down as those surrounding him dropped by Cole’s accurate shooting.

  They’re all starting to look alike, Matt thought, shaking off some gore caked on his jacket’s sleeve.

  By the time the last body dropped, Cole was already standing guard at the front door. “We’re clear, man. Let’s go!” He pulled on the handle. The door was locked.

  Matt sheathed his sword. “What, you think John would just let them in?” he said as he grabbed the empty shotgun and began reloading.

  Cole planted his left foot and kicked the door in with such force that Matt had to take a step back.

  The wooden entry hung from broken hinges, and from here they could see a small but ever-growing pack of creepers in the living room. Cole was first to enter. Matt followed, taking a quick assessment of the thick door. His friend a skinny guy, but when motivated he could do much more than one might assume.

  Cole fired several times, taking out every undead bastard in sight. He hadn’t missed a shot.

  Both men took notice of the piled furniture blocking the stairs to the basement; the very place they needed to go. They walked up to the elevator, mindful of what could go wrong and how much was at risk. Cole pressed the button, but there was no humming from behind the doors. They waited a minute and then gave up, retreating back to the ruined stair access.

  “Maybe they locked it so no one could come down,” Matt offered.

  Cole sighed. “I hope so, Matt.”

  Cole worked to pull out the small furniture. Matt kept an eye out and helped Cole with the love seat when the time came.

  Clambering down on the couch, Cole struck the door with the butt of his rifle. “John. Dana. You guys all right down there?”

  No answer.

  “Fuck this.” Matt nudged Cole out the way and tried the door. Locked. “If there’s anyone alive in there, back up!” He aimed the shotgun at the door handle and fired, then swung the door open and did a quick sweep.

  “Shit,” he said, stepping in.

  John and Dana lay motionless on the floor. Lurching over them, three zombies dug into their abdomens, splashing still-warm fluid and innards over the concrete floor. A clanking and squishing sound came from their left, yet they could only stare at their friends.

  “Bastards,” Cole said, putting the three zombies down with his pistol. He turned his head—as did Matt—to the elevator.

  A postal worker lay in a sprawl. The elevator doors were trying to close, but the mail carrier’s head got in the way.

  “At least we know why the elevator didn’t work,” Matt said, passing Cole and approaching the elevator.

  Both watched in a sort of macabre amusement. Each time the doors struck, the zombie’s skull collapsed that much more; viscous fluid dribbled free with every squeeze. A growing pool of the substance flowed in their direction, as if the infection were driving it toward them.

  In the far corner, just out of sight, came a wheezing noise and the sound of wet chewing. Matt moved past a few shelves and felt his heart sink as he laid eyes on a sight not fit to be seen.

  “Cole.”

  Behind a stack of boxes, a dead boy hovered over Tommy. The thing was pulling out the poor, scared kid’s eyeball. Defenseless, Tommy’s throat had been gnawed. Every time he tried to cry out, tendrils of flesh swayed, spraying now-infected blood to the floor. Pooling around the place where he was going to die.

  “God dammit!” Cole walked over, kicked the zombie child off young Tommy and put a round in its head. He turned his attention back to John and Dana’s grandson, who was gargling in horror, his remaining eye glazing over. “I’m so sorry, kid.”

  Tommy blinked.

  Cole rested the barrel of his pistol against the side of the boy’s head.

  Tommy blinked again, looking at Matt, then Cole, and blinked once more; breathing a wet and sloppy sound.

  Cole fired.

  ***

  They arrived home twenty minutes later, defeated and grieving, but the horde hadn’t discovered their house.

  Mary, though still upset, held in her feelings, realizing whether she liked it or not, Cole and Matt had done the right thing.

  CHAPTER 7

  Alex’s eyes shot open to see complete blackness; he sat bolt upright, when the fevered bashing against the front door continued. Hurriedly, he went to Cole and Mary’s room, opening the door without asking. This was something he’d been told not to do once or twice since the group had found him crying over partially-eaten corpse of his mother. One time he’d caught them… wrestling. This time, however, he found the two already out of bed.

  “Get the others,” Cole ordered, and his tone smacked of disapproval.

  Kristin’s room was next. Alex knocked on her door and received no answer. He didn’t want anything to do with Anna at this point, fearful of how she’d react, so he headed downstairs and found Matt rousing from his own sleep. Matt had had a few too many drinks over the loss of the Robinsons, as did Cole, so he’d slept particularly hard.

  “What the hell?”

  Alex needn’t have spoken a single word. The sounds of the assault boomed throughout the house.

  Matt looked at Alex, then the door. Understanding dawned. He reached under the couch cushion with his left hand and pulled out the P226. Racked and ready. “Go get your rifle,” he said, fighting off the sleep.

  ***

  “Cole and I will take care of these ones,” Matt told Mary and Alex. The front door behind him sounded like it was reaching its breaking point. “Then we’ll do a quick sweep of the street and backyard. We don’t know how many are out there, so we’ll need you two to watch the front until we return.”

  “Here.” Mary passed a flashlight to each and handed them their swords. Matt couldn’t help but wonder if she understood, now, what he’d been talking about earlier, about keeping the dead away.

  “If anything moves out there other than us,” Cole said, eyeing Alex first, Mary second, “don’t hesitate to shoot it.”

  “What if one of those screamers is out there?” Alex said, stuffing a handful of rounds into his pocket.

  Then we’re fucked, kid, Matt thought, feeling hollow, as if his world were about to come crashing down. Again. He knew he couldn’t dwell on these new feelings just yet; they needed to survive this first wave if they were to survive the next.

  “Be prepared for those two to go apeshit when we start firing.” Matt nodded upstairs.

  Cole counted to three with his fingers and opened the front door. One of the creepers occupying the space immediately fell inside. The heel of Matt’s boot met with its skull before it could recover. Three more fought so desperately to pass the choked opening they effectively locked themselves together.

  “Move!” Mary yelled.

  Before her shot sounded, a commotion stirred from one of the bedrooms upstairs.

  Matt and Cole both backed away as buckshot tore through the air and into the hungering dead. In moments the first of their pursuers were down for the count, and both headed out the front door as Anna opened hers. She was screaming, but her incoherent cries quickly diminished as the moans of the dead filled the house.

  “Jesus,” Matt said as he circled the yard with his flashlight.

  “They’re everywhere, man,” Cole exclaimed.

  “Think they’re others from earlier?”
Matt asked, shining his light on several targets.

  “Does it matter much, Matt?”

  “Not really.”

  They took position in the center of the yard, trying to keep the zombies away from the front door.

  “How you wanna do this?” Matt asked as the creepers advanced at a lurch.

  “I don’t.” A few shots sounded from Alex’s room, but neither man saw any bodies drop as a result.

  “I hear you. But since they’re here…” Matt fired at something far from human in appearance, the night shading the misshapen creature in all the wrong places. His shot hit somewhere it counted, and the moving cadaver fell to the ground in a sprawl.

  “Didn’t think they’d find us out here, at least not yet.”

  “Bet John and Dana didn’t, either.” Matt fired once more, hitting a shirtless woman in the cheek. She growled, and a headshot answered.

  They were both wondering what would’ve happened if they hadn’t gone over to John and Dana’s. Neither regretted the decision, yet couldn’t help wondering if they had inadvertently caused this attack.

  “For John and Dana,” Cole said, and then added with a sudden coldness, “And Tommy.”

  “Shit. For all of us.” Matt held the flashlight beside his pistol, drawing the Tritium sights on another creeper’s forehead. He missed. Tried again and missed again. Each shot echoed, more than likely drawing others.

  Cole had more luck, dropping at least four by the time Matt dropped the one at which he’d been shooting.

  A noise caught Matt’s ear. He turned to his left just in time to see a runner moving past the front of the van, out of Alex’s range. The bastard stopped once his light hit it, snarling, oozing thick, colorless liquid from its mouth and the numerous sores dotting its pale face. Its head shook as if it were having a seizure; its maw opened, closed, opened again.