by J. Thorn
“Playing?” he asked. “Do I look like a child? I’m not playing with my food. You can say I’m praying for it.”
Nicole chuckled. “Praying for it? Why?”
“Maybe God will make it something else. A big old hunk of sirloin.”
“Do you really think that’ll happen?”
“Welp.” He sat back with an exhale. “A couple months ago I didn’t think there’d be walking dead, but God made that happen.”
“Point taken.” She smiled gently, retracting her hand, then reached for Del’s empty plate.
“You don’t have to do that,” Del said. “I can really do my own dish.”
“Then what? I’d be bored.” She took the plate and turned.
“Thank you.” Del stood, pushing in his chair.
Fr. Owens peered at him. “You gonna go play that guitar of yours? I enjoy the music.”
“Nah, actually, gonna read.” Del reached into his back pocket and pulled out a rolled up magazine. “Saw this when I was out. Think I’ll read it.” He unfolded the magazine on the table.
Fr. Owens grabbed his glasses and looked at the headline ‘God’s End Part Two.’ He lowered them some to peer at Del over the rims. “Thought you didn’t buy into the God’s End bit.”
“Still don’t. But, thought it’d be interesting to read. I mean, this was written before the Rising, right? Most of us were holed up.”
From across the room, Rick shouted, “I wasn’t. I watched the news until the end.”
A plate dropped, and Nicole called from the sink, “The news went down when the Rising went on.”
Rick shrugged. “True.”
Del winked and smiled. “Still gonna read. See what they said in those last three days.”
Magazine in hand, he walked from the kitchen area pausing briefly before Mack. Mack sat at a desk, writing. Next to him was a sparkling CRK. Close Range Kill Weapon, Mack had originally designed—and everyone eventually learned how to make them. Mack was pretty neurotic about cleaning them, making sure the ejection system worked. He didn’t need a CRK at that moment, Del figured it was there because Mack had performed maintenance on it prior to his nightly letter writing.
“How’s the letter coming?” Del asked.
“Good.”
At that instant, both men looked up when the sound of a gunshot rang out.
Del tilted his head. “That’s only the third shot. Must not be that many.”
“Maybe she’s waiting to get a bunch at once. It is much more fun to go for groups.”
“True. Or it’ll get busy later.”
“Maybe.”
Del nodded and headed to the couch.
“Del,” Mack called him. “When you’re done. Can I read that? I wasn’t holed up, but I was on the front lines, missing a ton.”
“Absolutely.” Another nod and Del plopped on the couch. He watched Mack for a moment. How Mack did it was beyond him. Every day, maybe even twice a day, he wrote a letter. Sometimes brief, sometimes long. And it wasn’t as if they were for a diary purpose. Mack mailed them. Walked them to the nearest postal box, opened the hatch and tossed them in. Mailed it as if some ghostly postman would come by and pick it up, delivering the letter to its recipient.
Del thought maybe it was Mack’s way of making heads or tails out of what happened. Del himself was constantly trying to do that too.
While others like Rick, Alex, and Fr. Owens were pretty certain of what happened and accepted it at face value, Del constantly sought to understand. To reason it. Hoping that eventually a light would switch on and the whole world’s end would make sense.
He stared at the cover for a moment, the image of fire and bodies burning.
Del never got to see that.
In fact, he preferred not to be around. He wouldn’t have either. Then again, had he accomplished his original plan, he may have never met up with Fr. Owens, Mack, Alex, or the rest.
He flipped open to the story and a picture of a blonde-haired woman wearing a face mask screamed out at him. Her blue eyes caught his attention. They were like Janice’s eyes. Janice was his fiancée. They had been together since high school, moved in together during college, and swore they’d get married as soon as they got their life together.
They were in their thirties and comfortable with the ‘engaged’ title.
Del wasn’t affected emotionally at all by what they called ‘God’s End Part One.’ But his job as a professional musician was hit hard by it. The whole world nearly stopped spinning. No one was really in the mood to buy music or go see a band when the world was meeting its demise. Just as things began to slightly go back to normal, people started getting sick.
The first wave of people had flu-like symptoms, and then gradually they grew worse until death was inevitable. Not many, the atypical one percent of the population.
Then all of a sudden, the symptoms that originally only took three days to worsen, hit hard at the onset—and people just dropped.
Panic ensued.
Del wouldn’t say he panicked. He merely planned.
The fateful day that sent him into a forced barricade, didn’t play out as he planned.
The moment he woke and saw more and more people were getting sick, he knew it was time. When he watched the images taken on the Manhattan sidewalks, images outside of the MTV studios, people dropping, just dropping—Del knew his apartment in the Bronx was just too close.
He wasn’t even positive that he could make it over the bridge; military had been called in to stop people from traveling.
Del didn’t see the point. After all, the whole world was sick.
The question was asked, where could one run to?
Del knew where he wanted to go.
His father had a cabin Upstate New York, buried away from civilization, and before Janice even rolled out of bed, he was packing. Sirens blaring in the street, gunshots rang out in the air; Del ignored them and focused on his task.
“Good thing we went to the store last week,” Del said. “Lots of Spam.”
“Del,” she asked. “What are you doing?”
Del continued placing items in a box. “Only a couple boxes. I have the backpacks loaded, just in case.”
“In case what? What are you doing?”
Del looked around. “Where’s the can opener.”
“Del! Are you listening?”
“I hear you.” He faced her. “What does it look like I’m doing? I’m packing. We’re headed to my dad’s camp. The sooner the better. At this rate, the Plague is gonna wipe everyone out in a week. We can run and hide for a week.”
“Are you serious?” she said sarcastically. “You think running and hiding will help?”
“Running and hiding from the air, will.”
Her hand reached out, grabbing him as he tried to continue packing. “Del, you can’t run from this. Didn’t you learn anything two weeks ago when—”
“I know what happened two weeks ago, Jan. I know what’s happening now. This is war. Biological war.”
Suddenly her eyes just went blank, staring out, not blinking. Her fingers slipped from their grip on him. Janice didn’t move.
Del shook his head, thinking he stunned her with his brilliant words. Just as he turned, Janice—without warning—dropped to the floor. Within seconds, her body began to convulse, and blood spewed from her mouth.
Del’s first instinct was to grab her, try to help, call out for help.
But who would hear?
It didn’t hit him, really hit him, until he lifted the phone and was told there were no more emergency services.
He carried Janice from their apartment to the car. Fortunately, he was able to get out. Police had blockaded his street, but they let him pass on the secured route to St. Joseph’s.
But that was useless, he couldn’t even drive close enough to medical facility. The next hospital was just as bad.
A police officer directing traffic informed him that the hospitals weren’t taking people, but he co
uld try St. Mary’s Church. He heard the younger priest was a doctor and they were helping people. That’s what he heard, but he couldn’t confirm.
St. Mary’s was actually in Del’s neighborhood. Yet, he could only drive so far, and due to gridlocked traffic, he was forced to abandon the car and carry Janice the last four blocks.
She stopped convulsing, stopped responding, and her limp body was dead weight he struggled to bear.
The steps were empty, and Del feared that St. Mary’s was a rumor. He made it up the steps and through the big outer wooden doors into the foyer of the church. The second he stepped inside, he dropped. He couldn’t go any farther.
“Someone!” Del called out. “Someone!”
The interior double doors opened, and Fr. Pat slipped out. He was the younger priest. He had to be the one the police officer was speaking out.
“They stopped taking the sick at the hospital,” Del said. “They told me you were helping. Can you help her, Father?”
Fr. Pat crouched down. “We have quite a few, but we can make space. I’ll help you bring her in.”
The second he stepped through the doors, he received a double dose of reality. The huge cathedral-style church, with magnitudes of pews, was packed. Packed with barely space to move. People lay on the aisles, altar, and pews—anywhere they could rest their head. Their moans, filled with suffering, carried out and merged into one continuous hum of agony.
Del wanted to fold. Just run. But he didn’t.
He squeezed Janice in over by the confessionals, her eyes catching the fifth station of the cross, just before they closed again. And then before he knew it, Del was helping out.
It didn’t take long, a couple days, and then everyone just died. No one ever returned to a responsive state, they just died peacefully in their sleep.
Del, Fr. Pat, and Fr. Owens were the only ones to deliver what little care they could. The loud moans weakened, until it became eerily quiet, and then they were replaced with the low buzz of flies.
The summer heat hadn’t really hit, and it had been two days, at least, since the last person died. The smell was getting unbearable. They did what they could to relieve that. Taking turns, pouring bleach.
However, the flies were everywhere, and Del grew frustrated. How Fr. Owens remained so calm was beyond him. So, Del went outside for air, that wasn’t any better; the only place slightly tolerable was the rectory house.
Last he had known, Fr. Owens was trying to call authorities again. Del heard him on the phone, pleading their case. Saying they brought in people to the church and now they had all died.
Del knocked once and entered, just as Fr. Owens hung up the phone.
“Anything?” Del asked.
“Nothing.”
Del tossed out his hand. “It’s been over two days. Our only saving grace is that it’s not summer yet.”
“I know.”
“What do they expect? Did they say? Do they want us to just keep the bodies piled up?”
“Until authorities can pick them up, yes.”
At that moment, Fr. Pat’s voice entered the room, “Not gonna happen.”
Both Del and Fr. Owens looked at him.
“What do you mean?” Del asked.
“Just saw it on the news. They are no longer picking up bodies. It’s out of control. We have to take them to the curb, and they’ll get them there. Trucks will be by.”
Fr. Owens ran a hand over his face. “Good Lord, it’s a desecration.”
Del shook his head. “Bodies will just line the street until they rot. You guys realize that, right? If this is out of control, there can’t be enough living to collect all the bodies.”
Fr. Owens shook his head. “God has a plan for all this. He has a plan.”
“God?” Del asked. “This isn’t God. This is man. Man did this. A sick biological weapon gone bad. Really bad. If there is a God. He’s long since abandoned us.”
Fr. Owens swung a fist down to the desk as he stood. “I will not have you speak like that in God’s house.”
“Enough!” Fr. Pat shouted. “Enough. Now is not the time to argue. We have hundreds, hundreds of bodies in the church. We need to do something about them. For us as much as them. We have to do it and do it alone. No one is going to help us.”
Del lowered his head, he was right … Fr. Pat had a point.
What choice did they have?
How many times had Del been in that darkened church since they all died. Ten? Twenty? It looked the same—gloomy dark with only a slight bit of sun making it through the stained glass windows. Bodies overlapped everywhere.
But it felt different, really different.
“I don’t want to do this,” Del said.
“We must,” Fr. Owens replied. “We have to.”
They entered from the altar, Fr. Pat leading the way.
“Where do we start?” Del asked.
Fr. Pat took a step toward the main portion of the church. “Let’s start from the front. That way, when we wear down, there won’t be that far to carry bodies.” He approached the first pew. “How about we all take a pew.”
He had just spoken those words, when a hand shot up and grabbed his arm. Fr. Pat smiled widely, turning to Del and Fr. Owens. “He’s alive! This man is alive!”
Crunch!
A bloodcurdling scream emanated from Fr. Pat as the man sat up, sinking his teeth into the flesh of Fr. Pat’s arm.
Both Del and Fr. Owens rushed to him, but not before every body in the church rose.
At first Del couldn’t move, and then he slowly backed up.
“Someone, help!” Fr. Pat screamed.
Fr. Owens rushed to help him. But it was too late, Fr. Pat was encompassed and soon buried beneath layers and layers of bodies. His screams were muffled, weakening, as the sound of the crunching and breaking of his bones rang out.
Fr. Owens barely made it when a man leapt at him. His face was white, covered in sores, and his mouth agape as if it controlled his lunge. He knocked Fr. Owens to the altar, and then Del sailed a foot into the side of the man’s head, sending him back.
With a quick reach down and a tug, he helped Fr. Owens to his feet.
Fr. Owens resisted. “We have to help Pat. We have to—”
“No.” Del pulled and dragged Fr. Owens backwards.
“Pat!” Fr. Owens struggled against his rescue. He reached outward with an extended arm.
“Let’s go.” Finally, Del wrapped his arm around Fr. Owens’ waist. Within seconds, they were pursued by hundreds of them.
They managed to make it quickly across the altar to the rectory office. They slammed the heavy wood door as they crossed into safety. Locked and latched, it was silent for a second, and then the bangs began. The door jolted and moved—the moans from the other side grew louder.
The two men stood there, shoulder to shoulder, with their backs against the thick door.
Fr. Owens closed his eyes. “Dear God, help us.”
++++
The images in the magazine had brought on that particular memory and when Del snapped out, Fr. Owens stood above him.
“You do this every city,” Fr. Owens said. “You search for clues. And every new city you relive it. I see it on your face. I’m not understanding, son.”
“Neither am I. That’s why I’m looking for clues.”
“Clues to what?” Fr. Owens held out his arms. “How the world ended. We know how—”
“Don’t.” Del shot up a hand, halting the priest. “Don’t hand me the religious angle.” He smiled, stood, and handed Fr. Owens the magazine. “Meaning no disrespect, Padre. But there is no God.” With another flash of a smile, Del walked by Fr. Owens and as he did—Fr. Owens whacked him in the back of the head with the magazine.
“Hey!” Del grabbed his head.
Mack laughed.
“Whoops.” Fr. Owens handed him the literature. “Meant no disrespect hitting you.” Like Del, Fr. Owens gave a quick smile, only it was Fr. Owens who ended up
leaving the room first.
CHAPTER TWO
It didn’t matter to Alex how many times she did it—it was the same thing. Whenever she’d see a dark, curly-haired man through the scoop of her rifle, she saw her husband.
Gary.
Although Mack likened it to a kind-of-twisted thing, that she thought of her husband whenever she saw the walking dead, Alex found it quite logical.
Everyone had their own flashback, one that they replayed vividly. Alex had her own, every time she would shoot one of those things.
She’d aim, see Gary, flinch, shoot, and hear her own voice in her head. Replaying the same scene. “Someone help me,” she screamed. “I just shot my husband.”
When it all went down, Alex was surprised that Gary was even home. He was actually on duty as a police officer at a barricade point. But he got sick, and his partner brought him back.
He didn’t last long.
Alex had him in bed for only a few moments when he passed away.
Barely undressed, she knew he wasn’t going to make it. No one was.
She placed a phone call to emergency services, but the circuits were busy.
How long did she stare out that bedroom window, watching the chaos unfold. She always loved that view, living on the third floor, until she heard on the news she was to take the body outside.
Take his body outside and leave it on the curb like a piece of trash.
She pulled herself away from the window and drew up the courage to figure how to take Gary below.
As she turned to the bed, her heart dropped.
It was empty.
She walked to it, lifted the sheet, and turned.
With a wide mouth and gasping sound, Gary stood before her.
++++
“Hey, there.”
The memory shifted and Alex jolted in shock as much as she did that day.
Mack took a seat next to her on the roof.
“Hey.” She smiled.
“You had that far-off look, thinking again?”
“Always.”
“I heard a lot of shots here recently. You been busy?”
Alex shook her head. “No. I missed.”
“You … missed?”
