Echoes of Violence

by Glen Krisch

  “You better get up there as soon as you can,” Billy said, already regretting his words.

  “That’s a promise, little brother. You think I want to hang out down here?” Charlie said with an energetic smile. “I’ll probably already be waiting for you slow pokes by the time you get up there.”

  Billy nodded, even though he felt like he’d signed Charlie’s death warrant. He didn’t hesitate, however, guiding his mom toward the stairs. She seemed more lucid, or at least more compliant, as they slowly made their way up to the second-floor landing.

  “That’s it, Mom. Almost there.”

  “The adventure?” she said distantly.

  “Yeah, exactly.”

  They reached the landing. With the sounds only escalating below, Billy positioned his mom as far away from the stairwell as he could in the small alcove. All three bedroom doors were closed—Billy’s, Kendra’s, and his parents’. The door to the bathroom stood open.

  Charlie was lucky enough to have moved into their dad’s old office on the first floor when they arrived the previous spring. The two brothers were getting on each other’s nerves to the point that their dad had given up his office to separate them. Now, going against his dad’s last wish, Billy regretted leaving his brother behind more with each passing second.

  “Come on,” he said under his breath, checking the stairwell for Charlie.

  “What now?” his mom asked.

  So he wouldn’t have to explain anything that might upset her docile mood, Billy said nothing. Instead, he leapt high in to the air and, unfortunately, missed grabbing the pull-down rope for the retractable stairs by a few inches.

  “Oh, come on!” Billy said in frustration, and then squatted lower, determined to reach the rope.

  “Here, let me get that!” his mom said, easily reaching the rope with a little hop.

  As she pulled down the retractable steps, Billy shouted downstairs, “Charlie, hurry up!” Billy not only heard more crashing in response, but the thump of heavy-footed strides. Multiple sets, too, from all directions. “Charlie, they’re inside!”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m coming!” his brother called out.

  “Let’s go, Mom.”

  “Are we going up there?” she asked, looking into the gloomy space above.

  “It’s the only way,” Billy said, his voice straining with desperation.

  “Okay then,” she said, smiled, and then started climbing.

  She was nearly to the top of the stairs when feet pounded along the stairs.

  “Go-go-go!” Charlie said, taking the steps two at a time, a grocery bag of supplies jostled in his grasp.

  Billy breathed a sigh of relief and started up after his mom. He found her already seated on an old steamer trunk, her hands folded in her lap, expectant yet disconnected from their predicament. Soon, his brother’s strides bounded in the wake of his own, and then the plastic grocery bag came flying up, landing next to him.

  Charlie’s pained face appeared in the opening, and then he heaved himself up the remaining steps, sprawling next to the gaping hole leading to the swarming zombies below.

  “Made it!” Charlie said, gulping air.

  “You sure took your time!” Billy said and laughed, despite the situation.

  Charlie took one more deep breath before reaching down and pulling up the retractable stairwell, consigning the crowded, dusty-smelling attic to near-darkness.

  “I grabbed this at the last second,” Charlie said, reaching into the grocery bag. “Thought it might come in handy.” He held up their dad’s heavy flashlight and pushed the button. Blazing light pushed away the shadows, revealing an odd mix of newer bric-a-brac and antique tables, a couple closet rods bending under the weight of clothes either too small or too out-of-fashion to ever be worn again by anyone in the Upton family, as well as unknown items covered by fading canvas tarps.

  “Good idea,” Billy said.

  One small window overlooked the front lawn. Billy pulled the cord to raise the wooden blinds. Enough sunlight streamed through the dirty glass that Charlie switched off the flashlight.

  “What’s the situation?” Charlie asked.

  Staring down at the advancing horde—now numbering in the hundreds—Billy said in a choked voice, “Not good.”

  Charlie maneuvered among the stacks of cast-off furniture and clothing until he stood behind his brother, looking over his shoulder. “Damn, will you look at that?”

  The zombies, for the most part, still appeared to be flocking toward their house. Already the moans of those individuals within the house melded into one tormented cry, one final desperate plea.

  Billy felt the heat pulsing off his brother, the breath on his neck in jagged pants.

  “Dude, you should’ve grabbed your toothbrush while you were down there. Your breath stinks!” Billy said, trying to lighten the mood.

  “Prick.” Charlie grunted and punched him in the shoulder. He left Billy standing at the window, and went rifling through the grocery bag. He gave off a satisfied sigh and uncapped a bottle of soda. He chugged until half was gone, his eyes tearing up from the carbonation.

  “Want one?” Charlie said and held up another.

  “Sure, toss it here.”

  Despite being parched, Billy held off on twisting the cap until the bubbles calmed.

  “Mom?” Charlie offered, holding up another bottle.

  She looked at him, smiled, then looked away.

  Billy had to avert his eyes from the sight of the milling zombies. Witnessing such madness would certainly bring about its own form of madness. He sat on an old bean bag chair with a split seam. Stale air and miniscule foam balls shot out, but after a cursory glance in his direction, no one said anything. The only sounds came from below: the unrelenting groaning, the brief scratching of either cracked fingernails or the bones beneath exposed flesh, the occasional failed attempt at articulate vocalization.

  Charlie sat near the closed-off doorway; their only way out. He rocked slowly, clutching his arms in front of him. Perspiration beaded his forehead as if he had a fever.

  In the uncertain light, Billy believed he saw a tear trailing down his brother’s cheek. It was a shock to see him so vulnerable, so insular and scared. He didn’t want to think about his own feelings or fears, didn’t want to think about anything at all.

  So much had gone wrong today. So much.

  Instead of thinking about it, Billy retreated from the waking world. Under a backdrop of unnerving cries, he closed his eyes and sleep quickly took him, and its arms were gentle, deep, and warm.

  CHAPTER 12

  “So it’s true, isn’t it?” Mom said.

  Billy woke from a deep slumber—his head tilted back and resting awkwardly on the bean bag—somehow hearing her every word.

  “Is what true?” Charlie said, weak and groggy.

  “Your dad … my Mark … he’s gone?”

  “I’m so sorry, Mom,” Charlie said with a nod. His lower lip quivered and he looked away, the skin of his face waxy and drawn.

  “He saved us,” Billy chimed in. “He distracted them so we could get away.”

  “The zombies. That’s true too?” she asked.

  “Yes,” Billy said. “He was so brave, Mom.”

  “I’m sure he was, dear,” she said and stood.

  He couldn’t recall her moving from that spot since they’d escaped into the attic. And that had been, by his best guess, a few hours.

  She walked to the window and said, “And what about Kendra?” and let out a long, slow breath that threatened to morph into hitching tears. By sheer force of will, she held in the emotion, watching the zombies infest their land, defiling it with their every step.

  “She’s … well, we came straight home,” Billy said. “She’s over at Blake Tanner’s. At least that’s what we thought at the time.�
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  “I pray that she’s found shelter. A mother’s first duty is to protect her children. And I’ve failed in that,” she said, still staring out at the zombies. Sunlight washed over her face, outlining her in golden filaments. Specks of dust drifted into the light, becoming brief sparks of white brilliance before succumbing to the shadows below the windowsill.

  “Mom,” Charlie said, “we didn’t know what else to do.”

  “I know, dear,” she said, looking over her shoulder. “You tried to make the right choice, I’m sure of it. If you would’ve gone searching for Kendra, the three of you might be lost to me.”

  “We’ll go find her,” Charlie said. “Just as soon as we can get out of here, we’ll find her.”

  Their mom offered a sad smile, then turned back to the apocalyptic sight below.

  “The world has come undone,” she whispered softly. “Demons walking in the flesh of the dead … It must be the end. Armageddon, the great unmaking of mankind.”

  “Mom?” Billy said, but she didn’t look away from the window.

  Charlie came over and put a hand on his shoulder, silencing him, his hand like hot embers. Billy looked up at him, and the sickness in his brother’s eyes made him want to cry out. But he didn’t.

  Charlie shook his head and pointed to the bean bag.

  Billy sat, and feeling as parched as ever, finally got around to opening his bottled soda. It was warm, and stung his eyes and throat as he drank it down.

  His brother sat on the floor next to him—practically falling down with the effort—and closed his eyes.

  “Now we must wait to see if He thinks we’re worthy,” their mom said. She crossed herself and started to pray under her breath.

  It frightened Billy hearing her so unmoored, so unlike the anchor she had always played in their family. He wished today had never happened. He wished it could be last night, the five members of the Upton family still sharing a noodle casserole with just about anything perishable from the fridge thrown in before it went to waste. It’d tasted pretty horrible at the time, but Billy wanted to be back in that moment, at a last family meal, sharing in their inside jokes, their silly nicknames. That moment could never happen again. The Upton family would never be the same.

  CHAPTER 13

  Billy awoke with a start in the pitch black of night, unsure of his surroundings. A noise had roused him—the single, ceaseless cry of the zombie horde; it had gotten louder. The din had intensified, closing in on him. He blinked several times, sat up higher. His feet tingled from his cramped position on the bean bag.

  “Mom?” he said, his voice a mere croak in his dry throat. “Charlie?”

  Nothing but the antagonized cry.

  “Mom!”

  Billy scrambled off the bean bag and crawled around on his hands and knees until he came across the grocery bag Charlie had brought up with him. He reached inside, and with a sigh of relief, pulled out the flashlight. Before he could switch it on, there was movement. Two blood-colored orbs glowed in the black murk of the attic. Whatever it was, it gave off a throaty growl.

  Billy fell back on his butt, pushing away with his still-tingling feet. The embers moved, blazed brighter, closed in on him. He felt the weight of the flashlight in his hand, switched it on. A cone of light illuminated the darkened space, revealing the source of the blood-colored orbs.

  Charlie.

  His brother’s eyes glowed, but his skin had become slack, waxy, and deathly pale.

  “Charlie? What … what happened?”

  Billy scrambled away until he ran out of room, bumping into a tower of boxes in the corner. He never took his eyes off his brother, never shifted the trembling light away from his advance, as he pushed himself up to standing.

  His brother’s upper lip curled into a snarl, and his hands extended, reaching for him. His gums had taken on a gray pallor, a shade or two darker than the skin of his face. The wound on Charlie’s forearm, half-hidden by his rolled-up shirt sleeve, had become an angry infected red, the same red of his eyes. He growled a raspy, curdled cry that excited the zombies below.

  Billy heard the clamor of feet on steps, and despite his brother’s lurching advance, he twitched the light toward the stairwell.

  “My dear, come to me!” Mom said, standing at the threshold of the now opened stairwell. She held her arms out to embrace whoever was coming up the steps.

  “Mom!” he shouted, then shifted the light back to his brother—those red eyes never blinking, never showing one trace of humanity, just hunger. “What are you doing?”

  Billy moved along the edge of the packed boxes, keeping his distance from Charlie.

  “She called for me,” Mom said. “I heard her. At first, I thought it was a dream, then I opened the door, and like an answered prayer, my Kendra came for me.”

  “You’ve got to close that door!”

  “Come on, dear,” she said, her voice warm and reassuring in the roiling black of the attic. “You’re almost there. Just a couple more steps!” She could be speaking to a toddler trying to master walking.

  No matter how insane his mother’s actions, he couldn’t help her, not with Charlie—the more immediate threat—only a few feet away. Billy’s feet bumped into an old bookcase, and when he groped around with his free hand, he encountered their dad’s old office desk. That was it. Billy had nowhere else to move.

  “Charlie, it’s me,” he said desperately, to no effect. “You have to stop this.”

  Charlie closed in, his lips pulling back as he readied his attack.

  Billy waited until the last moment, when Charlie lunged, before cocking the flashlight behind his head and bringing it down on his brother’s skull. The audible crack was sickening.

  Charlie staggered, and the red of his eyes dimmed, but only for a moment.

  Still trapped by the bookcase and office desk, Billy lowered his shoulder and plowed into his brother, knocking him back over a waist-high dollhouse their dad had built for Kendra more than a decade before.

  “Oh, my dear girl. Yes!” their mom said ecstatically.

  Billy rushed forward, panning the light over the floor. He found his brother on his back, struggling to free himself from the jumbled mess of the attic.

  “I’m sorry, Charlie.”

  Billy’s tears were thick in his throat, and blurred his vision as he hurried to the doorway.

  Charlie snatched at the air as he passed, and cried out from his prone position.

  Billy grabbed his mom at the threshold, just as a zombie climbed free of the stairwell, falling on top of her.

  “Kendra!” Billy cried.

  “She came to me!” Mom called out, the full weight of her daughter pinning her to the floor. “I just knew it was her. I prayed to God, and He delivered her to me.”

  Kendra let out a savage growl, reared back with red eyes rolling back in her head, and plunged her teeth into their mom’s throat. The pain seemed to diminish her smile, but didn’t extinguish it for good. No, Mom seemed satisfied in some small way to have her prayers answered, for her daughter to take her away from this dying world. As Kendra bit even deeper into her throat, their mom hugged her tight.

  Billy felt like he was going to be sick.

  Other zombies gathered behind them on the stairs. There was no way he could ever make it down that exit unscathed. He was never going to make it out of this, he felt certain.

  He turned toward the zombie (Charlie, he’s Charlie! My brother is dead!) advancing on him, and stood with his back to the stairwell. He raised the flashlight beam, but there was no redeeming the monster before him. All he saw was rage and hunger, longing and loneliness. When the zombie (Charlie, Charlie, Charlie) charged, he waited until he was within striking distance before shifting his weight and pulling the flashlight across his body like he was readying to backhand a tennis ball.

  All his
pent-up anger and sadness let loose as Billy swung a mighty backswing that would’ve knocked him off of his feet if the hard metal hadn’t struck the dead thing (Charlie … I’m so sorry …) in the cheekbone. Gore splattered him on impact, and what was once his brother cartwheeled into the crazed zombies feasting on the remains of his mom. The pile of frantically feeding undead collapsed down the stairwell.

  Sobbing, Billy hurried to close the stairwell. He shined the flashlight onto the second-floor landing, but it was no use. Countless eyes stared back: hundreds of gleaming, unblinking blood-red embers. They saw him, like chum in the water, and started for him with renewed rage.

  Billy had only one other choice, if you could call it a choice. He rushed to the attic’s lone small window, flicked open the lock, and pushed it open on its rusty hinge.

  He glanced back long enough to see them surge from below—their red eyes glowing as they moved toward him across the shadow-draped attic—and leaned out the window.

  The pale moon, a sliver hanging low over the tree-lined horizon, revealed a writhing, gray-skinned blanket below him. The cries of the undead had become a monotonous drone that was slowly driving him insane.

  Without looking back, Billy scrambled on top of a low pile of boxes below the window. He reached outside, overhead, hands flailing for the edge of the roof. He took a deep breath and swung out, giving his full weight over to his hands.

  He hung so precariously outside the window that a stiff breeze would send him tumbling down into the waiting arms of the undead horde. The window so far away. It didn’t matter; he could never return through that window. He had no other possible option that would allow him to live another minute unless he reached the rooftop.

  With his sweaty fingers losing purchase on the roofline, Billy stood on the window ledge until he was stretched out on his tiptoes and his leg muscles strained with bee stings. The full span of his palms gripped the roof, and he felt confident enough, desperate enough, that he swung out with his full weight into the dark empty night, sending the milling zombies into a frenzy. With all his strength, Billy simultaneously pulled up with his arms while flinging his foot upward. His foot hooked the edge, and he was able to swing his body to the roof.