Author: Nicodem The Web Spinner

This wasn’t normal.  The shamblers were normally easy to predict.  They were easy to avoid if you were careful and they weren’t in huge numbers. That was their real danger.  Just the mass of bodies crushing towards you with no way to escape.  But small numbers, if one was quiet and careful, they could avoid them, predict their behavior, use that against them.

But, here he was, being pinned in by them.  It was almost pitch black.  The moon was waning.  The cloud cover was heavier than it had been.  Mostly it was dark, with faint light from the glow of the moon behind the clouds.  Every so often a beam of moonlight would reach out, a shard of incandescent white, illuminating something random.

That’s how he first saw it.  The different one.  The thing stood there, hunkered down, near a building, as if it were hiding in the shadows.  Then it grunted and he saw the shamblers come from the darkness.  He thought of opening fire but that always attracted more.  Instead, he just ran.

Any person could outrun them.  They didn’t move fast.  But he’d see that one, the odd one, every so often.  It would always be off to the side, or even ahead of him, forcing him to move again.  Was it herding him?  It couldn’t be.  

He’d encountered a lot of shamblers after the fall.  And he had his share of watching the bitten turn.  The only reason he was out now, in the dark, was medicine.  The small community of survivors he had hunkered down with was safe.  They just needed flu and cold medicine, antibiotics, pain killers.  Even over the counter pain killers had become as valuable as gold after the fall.

They were held up in an old library.  The thing was built out of stone and concrete, more like a gothic fortress than what anyone would expect.  It was easy to secure and lock down.  It was also nursed by a gravity fed fresh water cistern.  They had food, they had water, they had security.  

He had directions from one of the survivors in their enclave.  It was a private clinic that had everything they needed.  He insisted that he go to help.  A few in the group didn’t see the urgency but he pressed.  They were going to draw lots but he volunteered.  He hadn’t been good at much before the fall.  He had trouble holding down a job, trouble keeping a wife, trouble keeping his kids.  But this thing he was doing now.  This thing he was good at.

It was there again.  The creature stood up from behind an abandoned car and sprang out, diving on him.  Its teeth sank deep into the only exposed area on his upper arm.  He quickly drew his pistol and put two rounds into the thing’s chest.  The explosions rang out like giant bells in the silent night.  

The creature staggered back.  He put a round in its forehead.  The explosive force from the magnum revolver blew the top of the creature’s head off.  It crumpled back and fell, like a marionette with the strings cut.  But the damage had been done.  The sound had attracted the rest.  

He spun and darted down the alley.  The light from a window caught his eye.  It was halfway up the building, accessible via a fire escape.  He ran to the ladder that hung just out of reach.  He jumped up, missed, then tried again, grabbed the ladder, and pulled it down.  He quickly climbed and pulled on the ladder, desperate to get it back up and out of reach before the shamblers could grab it.

The bite began to burn and he ignored it.  Normally going up high meant you were trapped.  But the window with a light was inviting.  The building was large and he could make the roof if he needed.  He felt he could use the windows or ledges to escape.   He had done it before.  Far too many times to care to think about.

He climbed carefully, trying to be as quiet as he could.  They were gathering below him.  They must have been closer than he thought, maybe that thing kept them at bay?  Now they were swarming.  He had never seen a shambler jump or climb, or even figure anything out.  The fire escape ladder should be out of reach for them.

He reached the window.  It was open but partially covered by plywood on the inside.  He pulled his pistol and aimed into the open space in the window.  With his face following behind his gun, he peeked in.  It was a room, nothing more.  Just a single room.  He was able to push aside the plywood and force the window open the rest of the way.  He climbed in and forced it closed.  He returned the plywood, blocking the entire window, and picked up the boards that were there to hold pressure against it.   For the moment, he was safe.

The room had light.  A single bulb.  That meant power?  But there was no power in the city.  What building was this?  The room had a cot, a shelf filled with rations.  A large amount of rations.  It was an amazing find.  There were a sink and toilet to one side.  The water ran from the sink and smelled as good as the water in the library.  It was drinkable.  

He washed his wound.  He wore leather bracers, covering his elbow and part of his upper arm.  Normally when those things bit, their first target was the forearm.  It was natural.  This thing though, it aimed at the part that was not covered.  

His blood flushed out into the sink.  He forced the panic down.  A bite was always fatal.  And then one turned.  He reached into the belt pouch he wore and pulled out two vials.  One was bleach, he used it to flush the wound.  The other was acid.  It burned the wound closed and kept it from bleeding further.  There was also the hope that it could burn out the infection.  He almost screamed.

Though there were stories to the contrary, he had never seen the bleach and acid treatment work.  What he did see is that it had given the bitten extra time.  It was the same if the limb was amputated right away.  The bitten always died and turned.  It could just take longer.  He’d know soon enough.  He wrapped it and then began looking around the room.

Only one window out of the room.  Only one door.  A vent leading out near the ceiling.  It wasn’t a lowered ceiling like most office buildings.  The room was solid.  As his eyes scanned the room they were caught by a clipboard hanging from a hook on the door.  It held a pad of paper clasped in its metal clip.  At the top of the first page, he could easily see words, written very large and blackened, ‘If you’re reading this’.

“What the fuck,” he whispered, catching himself to stop talking.  He was so used to total silence when he was out, he never spoke, tried to never make a sound.  But the oddness of the clipboard, the room, caused the words to escape on their own.  He pulled the clipboard off the wall.  It was a sheaf of papers, multiple pages, hand written.  He looked at the shelves of supplies.  

He saw fruit cups.  Amazing, lovely, beautiful fruit cups.  He grabbed the entire case.  And then behind it, he saw beer.  He grabbed that too.  He went to the cot, sat down, opened a fruit cup and inhaled it.  He then opened a beer and drank deeply.  He then began to read.

“If you can read this then it means I haven’t eaten you.”  

He stopped.  He quickly looked around the room, then checked the door.  It was locked and dead-bolted from the inside.  He checked the window.  It was still secure.  He grabbed another beer and went back to the cot.

“I was bit.  I am turning.  The damn thing jumped out and bit my leg.  It avoided the leather greaves I was wearing and got me at the back of the knee.  It’s like it knew where to bite.  I shot it but then they all came.  That’s how I ended up in this room.  I was running down the alley and saw the light.”

He stopped again.  His pulse was increasing and he felt the tingles of fear crawl up the back of his skull.  He went to the door and opened the deadbolt.  He tried to open it.  It wouldn’t budge.  It was blocked from the other side.  He paced, beginning to freak out a bit.  Then he turned and returned to the cot to continue reading.

“The door is blocked from the other side.”

“Well dammit,” he said.

“Look, I don’t know.  But that thing was herding me close to here and that’s when it bit me.  It used the other shamblers to help draw me right to this spot.”

He stopped reading and recalled.  Yes, the letter was right.  They did that to him too.

“If it was smart enough for that,” the letter continued.  “Then why was it so easy to kill it after it bit me?  I don’t know.  I can’t figure that out.”

There was a space in the paper, some stains.  Tears?

“I used to be a good husband.  I used to be a good dad.  But when the kids turned I couldn’t stand to look at my wife.  I kept volunteering for shit like this.”

He stopped reading.  The words struck him hard.  He had no idea if his wife or kids survived.  They were with her new husband and three states away.  When the fall first happened, he had started to try and get to them.  But then, well things happened and as each day went by he knew that effort, that quest was becoming more and more fictional.  

But, the shamblers, killing them, fighting them, that he was good at.  He was far more important of a human being after the fall than he was before the fall.  And he gave up on his kids and their mom for that.  He bowed his head.  The truth of those words slapped him in the face.

He continued reading.

“I used to be a good person.  I don’t know.  I mean, before.  When everything was normal.  When I was worried about bills, stressed about getting a promotion, working too many hours.  I think that’s why I volunteer for the outings.  I think about how things were before.  I think about our bed, about getting up to watch cartoons with my boys in the morning.”

His tears were beginning.  He did that with his boys before she left him and took them with her.  He shoved the tears back down.  He wasn’t that person anymore.  He wasn’t even that good at being that person before.  He had snapshots of being good, his good dad memory pictures.  And that album was pretty shallow.

“After they turned my wife almost killed herself.  Maybe I should have let her.  I ended up ignoring her.  I’d watch her just sit there staring at the wall.  Doing nothing, just staring at the wall.  Waiting I guess.”

He thought he heard a slight noise.  He stopped moving and stood.  He got dizzy.  The change, it was starting.  That was too fast.  Too fast.  He checked the deadbolt.  It was still locked.  He went back to reading.

“You know what’s messed up?  I didn’t even have to go out.  I came up with a reason.  I kept spending all my time collecting supplies.  The school we’re in is well stocked.  Everyone is safe until their supplies run out.  But I kept going out.  Putting them at risk because I can’t stand sitting there.  I can’t stand looking at her.  I can’t stand just doing nothing.  I need…”

There was a space before he continued writing.

“Thought I heard a noise.  I’m turning.  I can feel it.  It’s coming.  I’m going to shoot myself.  I don’t want to turn.  I used to be a good person.  I don’t think so annnnyyyymmmmoooorreeee….”

The word strained.  His head began swimming.  It was starting.  He was going to turn soon.  He pulled his handgun and laid it down on the cot.  He wouldn’t continue the cycle.  He’d end himself before the time.  He returned to reading.

“I don haf much time.  It’s getting harrrder to rite.  I need to end it. IiImm sorry…”

The letter ended.  The change was happening faster than it should.  He felt it coming.  His vision was turning.  His brain slowing.  He picked up the handgun.  He looked at it.  He wasn’t even sad to end it.  Everything he’s done since before and after the fall.  He deserved it.  He put the barrel in his mouth and cocked the hammer.

There was a noise on the other side of the door.  Like a heavy bar lifting.  The door opened.  He tried to ask how, the bolt, but it stood there, swaying slightly back and forth.  Another one!  With his last effort, he started to pull the trigger but the thing moved quickly and stopped him.  It stood there, it’s rancid face inches from his.  It watched him turn.

 

END.

by Timothy Manley

manley_t@msn.com

 

Almost gave a lift to a hitchhiking zombie.

I am toolin’ on down the Yellowhead Highway, heading south towards Cache Creek, dodging potholes and jumpin’ an’ bumpin’ over the cracks an’ fissures in the pavement. John Denver croons “Some Days Are Diamond” on the CD player.

Pull into the Creek around noon. Coming up to the intersection where the Yellowhead and the TC 1 meet, right about where the driveway for the burned-out DQ gets neighbourly with the road, I see this feller standing on the shoulder, sign in one hand, stickin’ his thumb out.

Now, most times I wouldn’t even think of stopping. But I’m feeling pretty mellow still from a bit of Green I had last night. So I ease down on the brake and slow the Jimmy down.

Then I get me a better look at the hitchhiker. He is an it. As in Z for zombie.

Still mellow, though, and a bit curious, I do admit, I keep on slowing down until the Jimmy stops right across the road from this zombie hitchhiker. Close up, yup, definitely a zombie. Grey skin. Black, slack lips. Signs of decay everywhere. Got that “staring at infinity” look in the eyes.

The zombie’s hitching thumb is missing its tip. The battered piece of cardboard in one hand has the word RIDE scrawled across in faded black letters.

I look at the zombie. It looks back at me. I thumb the power window button, scrolling down just wide enough for talking. At the same time I slide the barrel of my sawed-off pump through the driver’s door gun port.

Feeling mellow’s one thing. Being stupid’s another.

“Where ya headed?”

The zombie lowers its sign. Eyes focus on me.

“Trrrraaaawnnnnaaaa!”

I shake my head. “Sorry, man. Vancouver-bound, me.”

Slow shrug of shoulders. Battered sign lifts back up. Infinity stare resumes.

I scroll the window up, and, still keeping the pump pointed out the gun port, steer one-handed while pressing down easy on the accelerator. After a couple car-lengths between me and the zombie, I holster the shotgun and roll on past the intersection.

Now I will confess here and now that I did give more than a moment’s thought at the time to pulling the trigger before I left. But I didn’t. I flip a coin in my head―heads, yes, tails, no. That imaginary loony lands on its side instead.

Quick, hit the brake. Slap the shift into reverse. Roar backwards, all the while looking over my shoulder. Slam on the brake just before the Jimmy hit the zombie.

I look at the zombie through the rear window. It looks back at me. I smile. Give a thumb’s up. Smack the gear back to forward. Stomp the gas pedal.

Tires squeal. Smoke billows. Stones fly. As the Jimmy peels away, I look back in the rearview mirror. The zombie staggers as the shrapnel storm hammers it bam bam bam bam bam!

I pop the Denver disc back in the player, hum along to the song.

That’s how it is out on the road.

Some days you’re diamond.

Some days you’re stoned.

 

END

by Gregg Chamberlain

 

Gregg Chamberlain is a community newspaper reporter, four decades in the trade, living in rural Ontario with his missus, Anne, and their clowder of cats, which are trained to attack zombies on sight and shred their legs to the bone, making it easier for Gregg and Anne to apply the double-tap headshot. He has other zombie fiction in Apex and Weirdbook magazines, and also non-zombie stories with Daily Science Fiction, Mythic, Pulp Literature and other magazines and various original anthologies.

The girl with the spiral scar pressed the point of a modified steak knife under the chin of a plump teenage boy.

“Say ‘Zombie Apocalypse’ again, you little turd, and I’ll slice your balls off and make them into earrings.”

The boy opened his mouth a quarter inch and whispered, “My dad says—” but shut it when the knife tip drew blood.

“Your dad’s bloated head is stuck up his bloated ass. Tell him that from one of the students he failed in Molecular Biology 303.” She moved the knife and the boy sidled out of reach. “Go try and steal from some idiot in the ’burbs. You’re getting fuck-all from us.”

Fat tears rolled down the boy’s round cheeks. “My dad won’t let me back in without beer and supplies.”

The girl laughed. “You eat all the food on him? Tough luck.”

A whine ratcheted the boy’s voice higher than before. “I have a condition.”

“Yeah, and it’s called stupidity. Get out of here.” She whistled the opening measure of “Deck the Halls” and two men appeared from behind an overflowing dumpster.

The boy took one look at the guns in their hands and rabbited. The slap of his feet in unlaced sneakers echoed down the empty streets.

The tall man with waist-length dreads pulled into a ponytail holstered his gun. “Who’s the asswipe, Holly?”

“Son of my old bio prof. Everything handed to him all his life.”

An older woman with long white braids came into the alley. “He’s the one who should get tripped so the rest of us can escape.”

Holly laughed. “Joan, you’re the best pack mother our band of Merry Men could want.” She wiped the drops of blood from her knife tip on her jeans. “Who else is hungry?”

Whispers of “We are,” and “I am,” came from behind the broken windows.

Holly looked up at the dirty brick walls. “Think of sugarplums and candy canes, you guys. We’ll be back as soon as we can.”

Rory stepped to her side. “You think it’s Christmas?”

Holly shrugged. “Nah. Not cold enough. The idea keeps them distracted.” She sheathed her knife. “I want to see if David’s hidden cellar is still ours for the picking.”

The mismatched pair—she stood nearly six feet tall, his head barely topped her shoulder—stopped at the end of the alley. Each scanned one side of the empty street, searching for any Squatter activity. Holly remembered when the Merry Men’s territory had been known as Georgetown, back when she’d been studying for her Master’s Degree in Biophysics. Back when Rory split his time between street magic and training for the Olympics. Back before some extremist fuckhead heard about NASA’s wormhole experiment and decided it was the perfect vehicle to nuke all the Enemies of His God.

The night the experiment went live the fuckhead drove a Hummer through the gates and blew his nuke. The wormhole connection sucked in the blast exactly like a giant vacuum cleaner. When nothing else happened, not even shockwaves or fallout, everyone said the world dodged a bullet. The Christians blamed the Muslims, the Muslims blamed the Christians, the talking heads on the 24-hour news channels blamed the Chinese and the Russians and the Taliban and everybody else currently on their shit list.

Until one-thirty four that afternoon when NASA exploded. Fifteen seconds later, the first Leechface stepped out of the new, improved wormhole in a confetti shower of human and concrete debris. Holly remembered that bit because TV and radio broadcasts hadn’t shut down yet and people always seemed to record everything on their phones back then.

Rory touched her arm and she shook herself back to the present.

“When I can’t sleep I wonder sometimes how many wormholes the Leechfaces opened,” she said with an apologetic smile.

“In technical terms? Enough to bugger us good,” Rory said. “I used to game—play online video games. Every single one of us had seen a Leechface wormhole in his own country.”

“Fuck me. Sorry about the derail. I’ll get my head back in the game.”

Rory cuffed her lightly on the back of her tangled brown hair. “If anything smelled the spineless asswipe, they appear to have followed him away from our place.”

“So he is good for something. Daddy’ll be so proud.” She turned to the right.

He watched her out of the corner of one eye as they walked the debris-strewn sidewalks, his other eye, and both of hers, constantly searched for Squatter signs. She touched the whorls of the red-brown scar that disfigured her entire right cheek, but her body language remained alert. After two years hunting with her, he knew better than to remind her of that Leechface brand.

Searching for a distraction, Rory touched the hollow gold collar beneath his football jersey. Perfect. “I’ve gotta get a new shirt.”

Holly punched him. “You say that every time we go out for supplies. Squatters don’t know from football. They only see meat on two legs.”

“Call me superstitious.”

“You think a Squatter’s synapses are still firing hard enough to remember back three years when all good residents of DC automatically hated the Cowboys? They can’t ever remember to—”

They flattened themselves against the nearest brownstone. She closed her eyes and he stopped breathing.

Holly pursed her lips like she was about to whistle, but no sound audible to Rory’s ears came out.

A Squatter plodded out of a doorway. It had been a teenage girl. Its short plaid skirt dragged off one hip and its glitter-covered sweater was a mess of holes and blood and filth. It didn’t even look in their direction.

“See? Minimal brain activity.” Holly murmured in Rory’s ear. “Even my mom’s yappy inbred poodle knew enough to search for the human calling it.”

She stepped away from the wall, balancing on the balls of her feet. Rory followed. They hurried in the shambler’s wake until its stench enveloped them. Rory always regretted the need to breathe at this point. With a single movement he pulled the Claddagh collar out of his shirt and opened the hinged crown.

Holly grabbed the Squatter by the throat and stabbed her knife up and in, piercing its brain stem. Its body collapsed against her, eyes wide open for the first time in six or eight months, judging by the Reek Gauge.

Rory put his lips on the Squatter’s lips—rotting teeth stank like shit—and pulled away. A trail of shimmering pink mist followed. He inhaled with all the power of his NCAA-champion swimmer’s lungs until he’d taken in every molecule of the mist. With an exaggerated gesture, he closed the Claddagh’s crown and settled the collar around his neck.

All the visible skin on the Squatter’s body bubbled and sloughed away. Holly set the body on the sidewalk and grabbed Rory before he collapsed.

Rory cursed in three different languages. “They killed her sister first. Then they killed her and put her spirit in her sister’s body.”

Holly cursed too. “You gotta teach me to swear better. Plain old English doesn’t cut it anymore.” She stroked her fingers across Rory’s forehead. “Close your eyes and talk to her, dummy. You know they calm down faster that way.”

“Nag.” Rory smiled as he obeyed.

Holly’s fingers kept their soothing rhythm on his forehead. His face relaxed. She wondered, like she always did, how he talked to the spirits he rescued from the Squatters. He kept the details to himself. The only snippet he’d ever given her involved the collar. He didn’t need it, but tangible act of opening the old Irish symbol for love and loyalty and friendship and then closing it when the spirit was completely inside him made the freaked-out spirits feel safe.

Her spiral scar burned in her memory as she kept her fingers moving. She understood freaking out and the need for a symbol of protection. Hell, if she’d been soul-raped and stuffed inside a dead body to Squat until her energy couldn’t hold the body together anymore, she’d grab at anything that reminded her of the pre-Leechface world. Hanging onto the meaning of an old piece of jewelry? Whatever kept these poor bastards clinging to Rory until he could get them back where they belonged.

At least she’d escaped Bobblehead Leechface before the worst happened.

Rory opened his eyes. She helped him to his feet.

“All set? Is she still herself?”

“Enough to tell me where she thinks her body is.”

“How far?”

“Over on Reservoir Road.”

Holly wanted to run, but Rory couldn’t keep up, not carrying a rescue. Fifteen blocks later she hustled him up cracked cement steps and hacked through the curtain of leafy green kudzu covering the door.

“Cellar,” Rory said.

They navigated gritty stairs, the outside light dimming at each step. Holly shoved the door open far enough to get them both inside. The cool air smelled stuffy. Holly allowed herself to hope.

“She says they left her in their storage unit.”

Holly walked Rory along the row of partitioned spaces filled with broken plates, ripped boxes, and dented appliances until he held up a wide brown hand. “This one.”

As she dragged open its bent door made of chain-link fencing and one-by-twos the hinged piece of wood snapped in half. The fencing slapped against the adjacent door. Holly grabbed the metal after a single clang and stilled it. When no other noises reached them after two minutes, they both exhaled.

Rory leaned against a dusty washing machine while Holly moved boxes. The smell hit them both at the same instant. The light wasn’t strong enough to see the body’s condition, so Holly knelt on the cement and touched its arm. The skin was loose, but not slimy. The phrase ‘dry desquamation’ popped into her head from a forgotten college class.

Holly helped Rory kneel next to the body. “She’s good enough. I didn’t check the eyes or the mouth.”

“Doesn’t matter.” He touched its face until he found the mouth. The lips had pulled away from the teeth and maggots writhed in the tongue. The timbreless voice inside him projected the word “Sorry” into his mind. He pressed his open mouth to the corpse’s, ignored the tickle of a maggot on his lips, and exhaled. The glowing pink mist flowed into the mouth. A maggot wriggled out and fell to the floor, pinkish in the fragile light.

Holly studied Rory’s face, the mist giving his brown skin a much healthier look than anyone had these days. She told herself she did it to watch for signs he was going to pass out. That was the truth, dammit. Using his magic sucked the life out of him.

The dead girl’s body sucked in the last puff of mist on its own. Holly dived to the floor and caught Rory as he fell away from the not-corpse-anymore.

“Wake up.” She slapped his cheeks. “Wake up, wake up. Don’t you die on me too. Wake up.”

“Ow.” His voice was weak, but nothing worse.

Holly kissed him so hard their teeth banged together. The not-corpse coughed maggots all over them. Holly brushed them off. “You gotta teach me more curses.”

Hoarse sounds came from the not-corpse’s throat. Holly covered their faces right before another cough sprayed maggots on them.

“H-hgk you.” It didn’t sound like a teenage girl, but any sound at all from that mouth was a minor miracle. The body reverted to its six months’ dead state as soon as the last syllable came through, and insta-rot took it.

Holly heaved Rory vertical and dragged him into the main cellar before they blew chunks from the stench.

She laughed. “Got no chunks to blow.”

Rory’s head turned to her, but he laughed a second later. “Let’s go cellar diving. I want a can of Spaghetti-Os.”

She dragged him up and out to the front steps and they sat on the kudzu as the weak sunlight peaked to noon.

Rory spat into the ivy. “Maggots are not tasty. Remember Listerine? I could use a whole gallon right now.” He leaned against the door. “I wish we could find them when they’re fresher.”

Holly leaned next to him. What the hell had she been thinking? She’d kept it to herself for two years, for Chrissake. She had five other adults and three kids to feed and protect. All her time was devoted to that. Period.

She pushed a hand through several layers of dead leaves and found a narrow line of real grass growing against the side of the steps.

“Here.” She handed him a fistful. “It’s not as good as parsley, but chewing it will clear some of the taste.” She popped a bunch into her own mouth and bit down.

He imitated her. He could barely remember what parsley tasted like, but this wasn’t it. Not bad in a pinch, though. When she spat out a gob of green cud he cleared his own mouth and tested his breath against his hand. It’d have to do.

“Hey.” He touched her shoulder. When she turned her face to his, a shred of grass clinging to her full bottom lip, he kissed her.

She didn’t pull away. That thought shone through all the sensations crowding into him: Her soft lips moving against his, her breasts meeting his pecs, the feel of her tangled hair when he pushed his fingers into it and pulled her closer. Two years of wanting her and doing nothing about it because protecting the Merry Men came first.

“You taste like grass,” she murmured. “That’s not how I imagined it.”

“Me neither.” He pulled her into his lap.

She nibbled his ear. “Think there’s an unbroken bed in one of the rooms above David’s cellar?”

“If it’s broken, we’ll drag the mattress onto the floor.”

“I’ve wanted you for two years.”

“Same here. We must be the last workaholics in D.C.”

She laughed. He kissed her again, loving her voice, her smile, and how he could make her laugh.

“Come on.” She slid off him and stood. “If that cellar doesn’t have Spaghetti-Os, I’ll scour every house on the block until I find some for you.”

They smelled the cellar from four houses away.

“Damn. It’s stronger.” Holly covered her mouth and nose with one hand.

Rory did the same. “One of the skunks must have died.”

“My grandmother would call that a mixed blessing. At least it’ll keep everything living, dead, or Squatting away from our stash.”

The skunk odor hit them worse than insta-rot when they opened the back door. Coughing and eyes watering, Rory set one foot on the stairs to the second floor and the wood shattered beneath his boot. He grabbed the banister and that shattered too.

“Termites,” Holly said through a cough.

“Cock-blocking insect bastards,” Rory took her arm. “Let’s just get supplies this time and get back to the Men.”

She kept hold of his left arm as he stepped on the first wooden cellar tread. It creaked but held. He gave her a thumbs-up and stepped down. She followed. The next-to last stair snapped in half when they both set their feet on it together, but they jumped onto the packed-dirt floor with ease.

“My lungs are threatening to pack up and leave,” Holly said, already at one of the two remaining full shelves.

“Should’ve been a swimmer like me. Ninety seconds of breath holding in three… two… one.” Rory handed her a plastic bag and they loaded themselves with canned peaches, applesauce, potato salad, and three kinds of beans. Rory knelt on the dirt to look through the bottom shelves and Holly stood on tiptoe to scan the top ones.

“Yes!” Rory stood with two cans in each hand, a spoon piled with circles of macaroni still discernible on their faded red labels.

They didn’t stop running until they were half a mile away. Panting, they cleared their noses and lungs with the usual city smells of dust and out-of control vegetation. This time of year they got dead leaves and—

“I smell apples,” Holly walked around a detached house and kicked in the door of a privacy fence. “Holy shit, we’ve hit the mother lode.”

A dwarf apple tree rose above a tangle of grass and blueberry bushes gone wild. The berries were withered but the apple tree’s branches bent under the weight of the fruit.

Holly stomped the bushes flat and reached for the nearest apple. Rory dragged her back.

“Wasps.” He pointed to an apple several inches to the right of his foot. As they watched, three wasps staggered from a hole in its side. One tried to fly in a jerky, confused pattern, and fell back to the grass. “They look drunk.”

“They are. My aunt had apple trees in her backyard. One really warm fall the fruit got too ripe. Wasps used at least a quarter of the apples as their personal liquor cabinet.” She stripped off her shirt and stepped around the fallen apples scattered in the grass. “Just don’t piss ’em off.”

They gathered as many as they could reach and loaded them into the improvised shirt sack. Her undershirt covered her chest so she didn’t tease poor Rory.

That didn’t stop Rory from staring at her. “Let’s go. The Merry Men Apartments must have a private room with a mattress.”

They shared an apple as they walked. Holly thought it might be a Macintosh, but three years without pruning or fertilizing had sent the tree back toward its wild days. The aroma and tart juiciness filled her nose and mouth with decadent pleasure.

They dropped the bags of food when they reached their alley. Even then it took several long seconds for the smells of warm blood and offal to cut through the appleness.

One of the kids hung halfway out of the dumpster. Sasha. Holly recognized her from the Hello Kitty shirt because Sasha didn’t have a face any more. Robbie, the adult who scavenged train sets for the kids to play with, lay naked in the right-hand doorway, spiral burns decorating one side of his body, stars still oozing blood carved into the other side.

She walked deeper into the alley. Her boots squelched but she didn’t look down. She needed Joan. Their den mother would have protected as many as she could. Holly almost pitied the Leechface who took on Joan.

Rory ran past her and tried to open the door, but it was jammed. Holly stepped on the closed half of the dumpster and hooked her fingers onto the window ledge. Rory gave her a boost and she climbed through the glassless window frame into the twins’ room. Blood everywhere. Down the stairs through more blood with small drenched shapes in it. Scattered teeth. An ear. A finger.

Joan Squatted against the door. Holly heard little whimpering sounds. No living human sat in that specific posture, but Squatters didn’t make noise. Then who… Holly pushed her hand over her own mouth and the noises stopped.

She tiptoed up behind Joan and gave her a small nudge in the back. Joan stood up, more or less, and shuffled in the direction of the nudge. Holly opened the door.

Rory stopped himself from gagging at the blood-saturated air when he saw the tears streaking Holly’s face. He followed her gaze and saw the Squatter. Joan.

Holly took out her knife. He pulled out the Claddagh collar and opened the crown. Holly clapped her left hand over the Squatter’s mouth, jammed her knife into its brain stem, and pulled its limp body down on top of her own. Rory clutched its head in his hands and covered its mouth with his.

Joan’s spirit sparkled pale green like sun glinting on new leaves. It lit the tears on Rory’s face—at least Holly thought it did, because her own tears blurred her vision into uselessness.

Rory clicked the collar shut. He cleared his throat. “She says—” He swallowed and cleared his throat again. “She says the twins are—”

He stopped because Holly made a gagging sort of scream and her blurry shape disappeared. He clawed the tears out of his eyes. A Leechface held Holly by her hair a foot off the ground and was licking its barbed tongue around the whorls of the scar on her face.

Joan’s wail inside Rory mingled with his incoherent roar as he slammed into the Leechface’s scaled legs. It made that brittle nails-on-chalkboard sound that passed for a laugh. Holly kicked and clawed until it unfurled its five suckers and wrapped two around her. Rory dug his fingers into the lower sucker arm and used his elbows for leverage to pry it off. A second later the other three suckers pinned him to the floor.

Three years into their invasion, Leechfaces still hadn’t bothered to learn the language. This one projected images into Holly’s mind: Of her terrified face twenty-three months ago, the first time it captured her. Of her agony as it branded her with its litter’s symbol. Of its relish at its drawn-out ways of killing one of her species in the proper way for the body to host a Squatter. Of the bets they placed on whose Squatter would last the longest. Last, of the revenge it had been planning ever since she escaped.

“Eat shit and die, you fucker! Why don’t you fight me if you want revenge so bad?” Holly forced herself not to puke from terror. “What kind of conquering Leechface doesn’t like a fair fight?”

“Holly, don’t provoke it.” Rory’s deep voice came out thinner than it ought to, what with a sucker squeezing his chest and Joan’s spirit crowding his own.

“I’m going to piss it off so it lets you go to wrap all these sucker arms around me and you’re going to get the hell out of here.”

“I’m not leaving you.”

The Leechface projected humor into her head: Its opinion of “love.” Its tongue rolled over her face as it’s mind planted images of pleasure at her fear-sweat. Its tongue cut diagonally across her lips. She opened them and bit two barbs off at the roots.

It made a worse noise, like microphone feedback mixed with a dentist’s drill. Its tongue dripped gray-green fluid where the barbs used to be. Its hate and revenge exploded into her head as it slammed its two-foot long tongue halfway down her esophagus.

Holly gagged and choked and tried to scream as the tongue withdrew with shreds of her larynx impaled on it. Burning agony ripped through her. Over it she thought she heard Rory’s voice. The Leechface clamped a sucker on her head and bent her neck down so she could see Rory. Her blood splattered his handsome face.

Then the Leechface planted suckers on Rory and ripped. Holly screamed his name with her voiceless mouth. The suckers came away stuffed with flesh and blood and nails and eyes.

And dragging two glimmering streams of color: Joan’s new-leaf green and the red-orange of the heart of a bonfire. The Leechface flung Joan’s spirit to the floor where it frayed and vanished. It yanked Holly’s head back and its puckered-tentacle rimmed mouth smiled. It raised the dripping sucker and shoved Rory’s spirit through her face and into her own. Her mouth stayed open but her useless throat couldn’t release their mangled howl.

The Leechface dropped her onto the curling linoleum. Her broken, shredded body Squatted where it fell. The Leechface settled on the floor in front of her, opened its mouth, and began to eat.

 

END.

by Kate Morgan

Bio: Baker of brownies and tormenter of characters, Kate Morgan grew up watching Hammer horror films and Scooby-Doo mysteries, which explains a whole lot. When she’s not inspiring nightmares in short and long fiction, her alter-ego Alice Loweecey is creating trouble for her sleuth Giulia Driscoll. If she’s not exploring the darkest parts of the human soul, she can be found growing her own vegetables (in summer) and cooking with them (the rest of the year).

Twitter: @KateMorganBooks

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/KateMorganHorror/

 

 

“Daddy, I’m hungry.”

The President of the United States of America patted his young daughter on the head. “I know, sweetheart. We’ll get you something to eat once we’re up in the air. Now buckle up.”

A man in a black suit sitting across from the President leaned forward. “Sir, I can have one of my men bring her something from the galley.”

The President shook his head. “Thanks, Riker. She’ll be okay until we’re up. Did the galley staff even make the flight?”

“Some,” said Riker. “It’s a skeleton crew, at best.”

Seated next to Agent Riker, Press Secretary Olivia Saunders pulled a package of peanut butter crackers from her purse and offered them to the child. “Would you like these?”

Lilly’s eyes opened wide and she nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, please.”

Olivia handed the crackers to the young girl who began to tear at the plastic wrapping. Olivia smiled until her eyes drifted down into her purse. On top of neatly filed papers and makeup was a small photograph of her own children. Olivia felt the President staring at her and quickly snapped her purse shut.

“I’m sure they’re safe,” said the President. Outside his window, the darkness had begun to envelop Washington D.C.

All of them knew. Nobody was safe.

 

The engines of Air Force One spun to life; louder than usual, the President thought. The 4,000 square foot plane had so many rooms and amenities that after only a few flights the President realized how easy it was to forget he was hurling through the air, but not this time. The whine of the engines continued to climb until every passenger was pinned into their seat. Interior panels vibrated and rattled as the plane launched hard to the sky.

As they pulled away from the tarmac, the President looked out his window and saw what looked like oil, spilling over into the runway.

The safest plane in the world passed through a layer of clouds and began to level off. The force pressing them into their seats began to ease, and the aisles and hallways of Air Force One quickly filled with people.

“Are you still hungry?” the President asked Lilly, touching her hand. The President looked at Agent Riker, who looked down at one of his men, who got the message without a word being spoken. As Lilly and the agent left for the dining hall, the President also unbuckled and stood. Olivia and Riker followed his lead and the three of them moved next door into the conference room.

The table in the center of the conference room seated eight, while the white chairs and couches circling the room could hold another dozen. The President took his normal seat while other staff and cabinet members entered the room. During a normal meeting in the conference room all of the seats would be filled. This evening, more than half remained empty.

“Is this everybody?” asked the President.

Riker, with a finger on his earpiece, nodded. “I’m afraid so, Mr. President.”

As each person entered the room their attention was drawn to the large flat panel television mounted on the far wall. On it, a cable news broadcaster was describing the chaos below.

“…not completely sure of the… Denise, are you there? Did we lose Denise?”

The right half of of the screen was black, with Denise’s name printed at the bottom.

“I think we’ve lost our video feed with… wait, something’s moving. What is that?” asked the reporter.

Denise’s window expanded to fill the entire screen. The remote feed wasn’t dead; something large and black had filled the entire shot. Whatever the blackness was, it was moving. Pulsing. Occasionally, a pair of eyes or set of teeth flashed in the middle of the mass.

“It’s sideways,” said Agent Riker, pointing at the screen. “The camera is laying on the ground, sideways.”

Everyone tilted their heads to the left and the images began to make sense. It was a mob of people, their bodies packed so tightly that they had blocked out the light. Their clothes, their skin, even their hair was dark. They were moving together, shuffling, but there were so many of them it was impossible to tell where one person ended and the next began. One big black, throbbing tumor.

“Jesus Christ,” said the President. “What the hell is going on?”

“I don’t know yet,” said General Banes, entering the room and taking a seat across from the President. “I’ve got twenty reports and don’t believe half of them.”

“Who are they?” asked the President.

The General looked down at his notes and then back at the President. “About an hour ago, we began receiving reports of large crowds of people moving through the streets of Washington D.C. Local police called on the Guard, but neither was able to control the crowd. So far, both nonlethal and lethal measures have been ineffective.”

“Ineffective?” asked Olivia.

General Banes looked at the President. “Permission to speak freely?”

The President nodded. “I suspect we’ll be doing a lot of free speaking before this is over.”

General Banes addressed Olivia. “It means after firing tear gas into the crowd they started firing bullets. Neither one had any effect.”

“How is that possible?” asked Agent Riker.

“There are lots of ways,” said the General. “Maybe they’re wearing body armor. Maybe they’re all under the influence of some drug. Pump enough PCP into the city’s water supply and this is the result I would suspect.”

“You think someone has contaminated the city’s drinking water?” asked Olivia.

The General shrugged his shoulders. “I did, at first.”

“Permission granted to keep speaking freely,” said the President.

General Banes removed his glasses. “It’s not just happening in D.C. They’re reporting similar mobilization in New York City. And Phoenix. And Houston. And Seattle.”

“Is it just the major cities, or…”

“I don’t know,” replied General Banes. “Again, the U.S. Military is not in the business of guessing. But if it’s not every city, it’s certainly a lot of them.”

Agent Riker leaned forward. “If this is an attack launched through the water system, it would be the most coordinated and widespread act of terrorism in the history of the free world.”

“The water thing is just a guess. There are other ways to control people. It could be some sort of mind control or mass hysteria. We just don’t know yet. And there’s something else bothering me.”

Everyone at the table leaned forward, prompting the General to continue.

“The Air National Guard is estimating that at least a million people are marching through the streets of D.C. right now.”

“Isn’t the population of D.C. just under 700,000?” asked Olivia.

“So where did they all come from?” asked Agent Riker.

The General shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“When will you know?” asked the President.

“My phone is lighting up like a Christmas tree,” replied the General. “I’ll let you know something when I know something.” On cue, his phone buzzed again and the General glanced down at the screen. “Maybe that’s something.”

“What’s the plan for now?” asked the President.

“To keep you in the air,” replied Agent Riker. “Whatever’s down there can’t get to you up here. We’ve got enough food in the galley to stay up here for a month. We’ll get a fuel tanker up in the air and keep circling until we figure out what’s going on.”

General Banes placed his phone down on the table without saying a word. His face had grown pale, and the chatter at the table died down.

“What is it, General?”

The General stammered briefly, searching for words. He grabbed the audio/visual cable from the center of the table and connected his phone. The flat screen television on the wall switched to display the photo the General had just received.

A gasp broke the silence of the room. Then another.

On the screen was a picture of a million black ants, piling on top of one another to form a dome shape.

Another gasp.

“Why are you showing us a mound of ants?” asked Olivia.

One by one, people in the room realized what they were looking at.

“I don’t see it. What?” said Olivia.

“Those aren’t ants,” said the General. “They’re people. And that’s not a mound. It’s the White House.”

Once the gasps stopped, Olivia began to sob. “Excuse me,” she said, quickly moving next door to the press offices. Agent Riker followed her.

“It’s going to be okay,” said Agent Riker, once inside the office.

Olivia stepped toward him and buried her face into his black suit, still sobbing. “Do you think so?”

Agent Riker could not tell if the plane was vibrating or his legs were trembling. “I don’t know, to be honest.”

The woman took a step back and wiped her eyes. “What is this? What’s going on?”

Agent Riker shook his head. “It’s my job to know everything, but I don’t know what this is.”

“What happened to everybody inside the White House? What about the kids?” Again, she began to sob.

Agent Riker put his hands on Olivia’s shoulders. “Listen. We don’t know what’s going on down there. But right now, we’re up here. Up here, we have to remain calm. We will solve this. Why don’t you go down to the galley and make sure Lilly got something to eat.”

Olivia dried her eyes and nodded. “Yes. I… Okay.” The woman wiped her eyes again, straightened her jacket, and left for the galley.

Agent Riker reentered the conference room and found the television full of static.

“It’s not us,” said a middle-aged man with glasses, inspecting the television. “They’ve stopped broadcasting.”

With the television out of commission, rumors filled the room. A woman said she heard the streets of Cleveland were completely filled with people. A man reported his cousin in St. Louis told him the interstates were completely shut down, blocked by people.

General Banes entered the room, holding his cell phone. “Mr. President, may I have a word with you in private?”

The President looked up. “If it’s about what’s going on, I think everyone should hear it. We’re all trying to put what little information we have together right now.”

The General looked around the room. “I’d rather not.”

The President raised an eyebrow.

The General responded. “All right, sir. We currently have enough fuel onboard to keep Air Force One in the air for approximately four hours.”

“Until we dock with a fuel tanker,” the President added.

The General shook his head. “We’ve lost all air-to-ground communication. Either the satellite dishes have been knocked out, power’s gone or… nobody’s down there to answer.”

“So where can we land?”

“Hopefully we can find an airport that’s not overrun with people. If the towers stop responding we’ll have to dip down for a visual, and that burns fuel.”

The President took a deep breath. “Any more good news?”

The General cleared his throat, and placed his cell phone on the table, face up. “Before I lost contact, I received a text message and this picture from my brother. The picture is of his television. He was watching the news and saw this. It’s a picture of my father, walking toward the Washington Monument.”

The President picked up the phone and looked at the picture. “I’m sorry. Is he okay?”

“Mr. President, my father has been dead for four years. I watched them bury him in Arlington National Cemetery myself.”

The President looked up from the phone into the General’s face.  “I… don’t understand.”

“I’m not sure I understand either, Mr. President.”

“Are you trying to tell me that the people marching in the streets are dead? Like zombies from a horror movie?”

“Mr. President, I don’t know what I’m trying to tell you at this point.”

A rough patch of air shook the plane and the General grabbed the doorjamb to steady himself.

“General, find out what’s going on up front, will you?”

“Yes, Mr. President,” replied General Banes.

On his way to the cockpit, General Banes passed Agent Riker.

“Agent Riker,” said the General. “Have you seen Agent Martin or Agent Willrath? I need someone on the radio, scanning every frequency for any messages.”

Riker shook his head. “Neither one made the flight. I’d say we’re half-staffed, at best.”

Another bout of turbulence caused Agent Riker’s knees to buckle and he grabbed the wall to stay upright. The General stumbled forward, grabbing on to Riker’s shoulder.

“Riker, I want you to do me a personal and professional favor.”

“If I can.”

“I’m going to the cockpit. Don’t let the President out of your sight. And if shit hits the fan… aim for the head,” he said, motioning toward the gun he knew Agent Riker had tucked underneath his suit.

“Shit hits the fan?”

“Don’t let him out of your sight,” said the General, before continuing up toward the cockpit.

Agent Riker watched the General disappear before continuing back to the conference room.

General Banes walked down the hallway leading to the cockpit and stopped to listen before knocking. Through the reinforced door,, the General could hear bumps and slams coming from inside. Two more steps and he banged his fist on the door. “Open up!” he shouted.

The banging continued and the plane bounced twice more.

General Banes raised his fist again and the banging stopped.

Then, slowly, the handle began to turn.

General Banes took a step back.

The handle continued to turn.

The General took a deep breath.

Suddenly, the latch clicked free and the door flew open. The pilot of the plane flew through the open doorway toward the General like a madman. He headbutted the General in the chest and the two of them fell to the ground. The pilot, covered in blood, quickly mounted the General and clawed at the man’s face with his fingers.

The General tried to roll and buck the maniac off of him, but his leg was caught between a row of seats and there wasn’t enough room to maneuver. He brought his hand up from underneath himself and pressed his thumb into the pilot’s eye.

The pilot’s head was forced back, and then with a snarl he came down upon the General, biting his neck and removing a large chunk with his teeth.

The General’s mouth begin to fill with warm blood. He struck upward with the palm of his other hand, hitting the pilot in the nose. Banes felt the man’s nose shatter, but it didn’t stop him. Banes jerked to his right and twisted back to his left, burying his elbow into the pilot’s temple and knocking him off. The General tried to stop his neck from bleeding by inserting a finger into the wound, but the flesh was torn and there was no hole to plug.

The pilot was working his way back up to his feet when the General kicked him hard, knocking him back into the cabin. The lock on the cabin door was designed to keep people out, not in. General Banes began to feel light headed. The pilot was laid out with his back against the console, but was already beginning to stir. Behind him, blood covered the plane’s instrument panel and windows. In the co-pilot’s seat, Banes saw bits of the other man.

When the pilot was back up on his hands and knees, General Banes stepped forward and kicked upward into the bloody creature’s ribs. The pilot howled in pain and his arms and legs frantically began to lash out.

General Banes, now completely inside the cabin, locked the door behind him. The pilot was almost upright again when Banes grabbed the fire extinguisher from the wall and bashed the pilot’s head with it. The side of the monster’s head caved in, spraying more blood across the cabin.

General Banes turned and smashed the door with the fire extinguisher in an attempt to jam it closed. He hit the door a second time and slipped in the sticky blood covering the floor. His head was spinning as he fell to his side, dropping the fire extinguisher.

General Banes reached for the extinguisher and spotted the pilot’s feet. Banes looked up, and the undead beast launched a furious attack that the General was in no position to defend.

 

“Everything is fine,” said Agent Riker, returning to the conference room.

“What’s going on up there?” demanded the President.

“General Banes is in the cockpit now. Everything is fine.”

“Where are we headed?”

“We’re circling, Mr. President, until a fuel tanker arrives or we find a place to put this thing down.”

“Look out the window, Riker.”

Riker looked and saw coastline approaching. They were headed out to sea.

“Well Mr. President, I’m sure they’re—”

“Look out the other window.”

The agent did as he was told. “I don’t understand.”

“The view’s the same,” said the President. “We’re not circling. We’ve leveled off.”

“I’m sure the pilots know what they’re doing.”

“I’m about to find out,” he said, placing his hands on the conference table and standing.

“Mr. President,” said Agent Riker. “With all due respect, General Banes asked me to keep you here. And stay with you.”

“With all due respect? Bill, I’ve known you for years. Are you telling me you’re going to disobey a direct order from the President of the United States and not let me into the cockpit.”

Riker pulled the front of his jacket back, revealing his pistol. “That’s what I’m telling you.”

The two men’s eyes were locked when a loud crash came from the rear of the plane. When Agent Riker directed his attention to the source of the noise, the President charged him. Riker was caught off guard and sprawled backward, tripping over a chair and landing on one of the couches, causing people to scatter. The President never stopped, streaking past the agent through the door.

Riker leaped to his feet and gave chase. “Mr. President!” he shouted. Hurdling a chair, the agent entered the hallway and saw the President running at top speed, hell bent on reaching the cockpit.

Riker heard another loud crash behind him and instinctively threw his arms up to cover his head. Riker looked back over his shoulder and saw them, coming. But how had they got on the plane? Someone on the ground must had been infected before boarding. That was the only answer.

The agent doubled back and slammed the door behind him. He looked for a lock on the door but there wasn’t one.

“Riker!” yelled the President from up ahead.

Agent Riker cut into the main hallway that connected the rest of the plane with the cockpit. The hallway served as a buffer between the cockpit and the rest of the plane. Riker quickly slid the lock behind him into place.

“Riker,” said the President with fear in his voice. “Something’s not right up here.”

“Something’s not right back there,” replied the agent. Riker watched the door he had just locked closely and walked backwards until he was standing next to the President.

The two of them turned to face the cockpit together. The only noise in the hallway was the wind, whistling past the oval windows. All that remained outside was ocean and sky. They were traveling due east it seemed, out over the ocean. The sun was setting behind them.

Something inside the cockpit banged against the door — once, then twice.

“Get behind me!” shouted Agent Riker.

The President dove past Riker as the agent pulled his pistol from its holster and aimed it at the cockpit door.

Another smash. This time, the door flew open. Inside of the cockpit looked like the remains of a gutted animal, covered in bloody bits.

A snarling creature emerged from the cockpit. Although his face had been torn to shreds, the General’s outfit was very recognizable.

“General Banes,” said Riker, but there was nothing left in the General’s eyes. They were white and cloudy. The General’s lip curled like a mad dog’s, and when he raised his arms and stepped forward, Agent Riker began filling him with bullets.

The first two shots left holes in the General’s uniform but did not stop his progress. Remembering the man’s own advice, Agent Riker placed a third bullet in between the creature’s eyes. The General’s head whipped back from the impact and he fell to his knees before collapsing on the floor.

Riker could hear the President yelling at him but could not make out the words over the ringing in his ears. A few seconds later, the ringing subsided.

“Someone’s banging on the door!” the President shouted.

“Don’t open it!”

A loud groan came from the cockpit as the pilot crawled into view. His eyes were also dead and white. His uniform was soaked in blood.

Riker didn’t waste any time firing twice more, placing two bullets into the pilot’s skull. The pilot dropped like a lead weight, twitching on the floor between the two captain’s chairs. Sparks flew from the control console behind the pilot as the bullets drove into it.

Riker’s ears were still ringing when they began to pop. Outside the window, the water was closer than before. They were losing altitude.

The President grabbed Agent Riker’s shoulder and shouted. “Someone’s trying get in!”

Both men pivoted to face the rear door. The wind outside continued to howl.

Agent Riker removed the earpiece from his ear.

And then, through the door, a voice.

“Daddy?”

“Don’t open that door, Mr. President.”

“But Riker, it’s—”

“Don’t open that door.”

The President of the United States looked at the door, Agent Riker, and back at the door. He took a step toward the door and Agent Riker raised his pistol.

“Mr. President.”

The President took another step.

“Mr. President, I’m warning you.”

The President looked back over his shoulder at the agent. “I have to.” After a few more steps, the President turned the lock and opened the door.

Press Secretary Olivia Saunders lay dead in the aisle, eviscerated. Straddled on top of the disemboweled woman was Lilly, with creamy white eyes and fine blonde hair slicked down against her face. In each of her small hands she held parts of Olivia.

The President stopped breathing and stumbled backwards. He opened his mouth but could force out no words. There were none. After several more steps, he bumped into Agent Riker.

Behind his daughter, more of them were coming.

Agent Riker placed his pistol in the President’s hand.

The young girl slowly lifted her head and turned it toward the two men.

“Daddy, I’m hungry.”

 

END.

By Rob O’Hara

Rob O’Hara is the author of Commodork: Sordid Tales From A Bbs Junkie  and Invading Spaces: A Beginner’s Guide to Collecting Arcade Games. Rob is currently enrolled in the University of Oklahoma’s Master of Professional Writing program, and doesn’t care much for flying, whether or not there are zombies on board.

Facebook: Facebook.com/RobOHara

Twitter: @Commodork

Web: www.RobOHara.com