Category: Astounding Stories

“I’m sorry Donovan,”
I knew she was. I could see it in her eyes, even as mine were finishing their necrotic glaze, I could still see her sorrow. I shambled a little closer, and leaned my head onto the point of her revolver. I couldn’t speak; I couldn’t tell her how much I had realized she meant to me. I was too far gone, my vocal chords were shot, but I hoped my gesture told her everything, everything I had realized too late to matter.

 

It had been a rough mission, we’d lost two men. The new guy hadn’t been out from the walls in almost six months, and I’m not sure how he ever survived outside in the first place. He panicked, broke formation, opening a hole and Cedric got bit because of it.

Once we’d finished the mission, I put him down myself, hardest thing I’ve done in a while. I waited as long as I could. Doc says we basically have  24 hours after we reanimate before we become full on flesh eaters. Cedric was getting sicker by the hour, and would have died any minute. So I looked him in the eyes and pulled the trigger. The least I could do was look him in the eyes. We’d almost been friends.

We lost number 22 a few days later. You have to be on patrol for three months of outside time before I even wanted to know your name. It’s easier that way, easier to put the nobodies down when they get bit, easier to insulate myself. 22 was grabbed by one of the sealed ones.

A few weeks into the chaos some general somewhere decided to start catching zombies, and sealing them in wax, metal, and shellac. They never decomposed, and with a little armor they were perfect infantry. They were completely expendable, and harder than hell to kill. Probably was a great strategy for taking shit from other people, but now five years in, the generals are all gone and those of us that are left have to deal with the sealed ones. 22 had walked away from the dune buggy to take a leak, and we think it bit his dick off. We can’t be sure, we heard him scream, and then two shots, one into the dead’s head and the other into his own. I made the newbie grab his gear, and burn him. You had to burn your dead outside of New Hope’s walls. If not then the zombies, or the scavengers, or the cannibals would dig ‘em up, and well that just ain’t right.

“Four score and seven years a go,” the voice recorder said as honest Abe reached from his chain to try and grab number 12.

“Why do you always stare at this one sarge,” 12 asked me.

“I just find him funny. What’s not to find funny, honest Abe a fucking flesh eater. He freed the slaves and here he is chained putting on a show. It’s ironic 12 and funny, not much else is anymore.”

“I dunno, maybe, but I can’t get past Colonel Tom’s voice on the recorder.”

“That makes it funnier, and besides at least the Colonel is trying to brighten up things.”

“Zombie go go dancers behind bulletproof glass and celebrity zombies chained to the wall isn’t what I’d call cheery.”

I looked around the Zombie A Go Go for a second. There were four dancers on stage. Dancers, well that’s what the Colonel called them. They mostly just swayed in time with the music, “Psycho” by the Sonics, I thought. Every so often a drunk would get too close to the glass and they’d try to break loose and get some, but the chains were strong, so it never happened.  Chained to the wall, teeth pulled, were Marilyn Monroe, Elvis, the fatter version, and honest Abe each one with their own audio track.

‘It’s better than outside.”

“And you’re buying, right Sarge?,” number 12 gestured towards the bar.

“For the fallen, and their memory.” I walked towards the bar, Louie was working, he wasn’t bad, but the dead were probably smarter than he was.

“Tell your fat boss to get out here I’ve got some trading to do.”

“I can trade, Donovan.What you got?” Louie asked.

“It’s above your pay grade.” I pulled a fancy bottle of tequila from my pack.

“Sweet,” said Louie. “Too bad no one around here can afford to drink that.”

“That’s why it’s above your pay grade. The colonel will want it for himself, and I aim to make him pay for it.” Louie walked off towards the door behind the bar, and briefly stuck his head in.

“The colonel says he’s not interested.”

“Bullshit,” I said, grabbing a decent bottle of Scotch and an even better bottle of Bourbon.

“Hey, leave those be, those aren’t yours.”

“Yes, they are, and that’s just for starters, every second the colonel makes me wait the price goes up.” I continued reaching under the bar, I pulled up a jar of olives.

The colonel stepped out of his office he wasn’t a tall man, but what he lacked in height he made up in girth.

“Put those down Donovan. We ain’t agreed yet,” he said with his slight southern drawl.

I turned the tequila around, “Forty years old before the fall. I figure that means it’s at least fifty now, and never been opened.” I could see him salivating as he licked his lips. The Colonel had lots of vices, but food and good tequila were his biggest.

“I’m listening,” he said.

“We lost two this time, Cedric and another one. I’m taking what I’ve got here, and you’re giving the rest of the crew whatever they want.”

“Except the upstairs.’

“Including the upstairs,” I said starting to rip the plastic seal from the bottle’s top.

“You don’t even like tequila, Donovan. You won’t drink it.”

“No, but I’ll gladly pour it on the floor, just to watch you lick it up.’

“Now, Donovan, my friend, there’s no need to be extreme. Of course your friends can have the upstairs. Least I can do for you boys, our first defense and all.”

“Everyone. Everyone but the newbie. He got Cedric killed. He gets nothing.  And I need Cherry for the night ” I took my stash with me as I walked towards a table at the front. I never liked the go go show, but tonight I needed the entertainment.

“You’ll need a glass for that,” Cherry said. ‘And probably company too.” She was a waitress, and sometimes companion, upstairs. I liked her, she was honest, and still had an air of the time before the fall about her.

“I need the glass, but you may want to bring two.”

“Oh you’re buying drinks. What’s the occasion?”

“Just bring the glasses.”  I loved scotch. The bourbon was for her. She’d been Cedric’s girl.

She returned with the glasses and I poured us each a double. I told her what had happened, except the part about the newbie. She’d have killed him if she’d known. I didn’t really care if he died, I almost killed him myself, but I cared about her. She didn’t need to become part of this world, the killing, the fighting. Like I’d said, she’d kept an air of the old world around her. We needed that. I needed that, to know there were still some dreamers left.

She cried and we drank until the bottles were empty.

“I need some air Donovan,” she said as she stumbled up from the table. I tried to get up with her.
“No,” she said. “I need to be alone for a few minutes, don’t worry I’ll be back in a few.”
I fell back into the chair, almost missing it entirely.

“Sarge?”

I looked up. The newbie was standing in front of me.

“You don’t get to call me that. You don’t get to call me anything!”

“It wasn’t my fault. I mean…”

“You’re damn right it wasn’t your fault. I never should have let you out there. You weren’t ready. It was my fault.” I stumbled as I tried to stand. The newbie caught me.

“Why’d you even want back outside.” I asked him.

“I needed to prove I could. When you found me with my other group, they were all dead. I’d fallen asleep on watch and we got overrun. I needed to make up for that.”

“By getting Cedric killed,” I took a big swing at him, only connecting with the air. He returned the favor and connected with my gut.

“I hope you enjoyed that,” I said while heaving my guts up. “In the morning I’m removing you from the patrols, you piece of shit.”

There were only two rules at the Zombie A Go Go, no fighting, and no puking. I’d just broken both of them. The Colonel’s goons would throw me out the back door, before I could even get off the floor. I could hear them rushing towards me, when I saw Cherry’s face in mine.

“Donovan, I need to show you something.” She tried to help me up, but we both kept falling every time we almost got our balance. She kept trying to talk to me, but her words were too slurred, too desperate to understand.

I could fee Tiny’s boot on my hand. “Get her upstairs, and get them out of here.” Several arms grabbed me and I could feel myself being dragged towards the back door. I could hear the bar lifting from the door. I swung as hard as I could. A goon’s fist cracked against my jaw.

“You’ll stand a better chance if you don’t fight. The fresh blood will only rile them up if they’re out there.” The city was surrounded by a series of barriers, we called rings, the back door opened to the outer ring. It wasn’t zombie proof. We’d decided to give them access, they get in through the open arch and wander around impaling themselves on traps we’d left. The few times we’d been attacked by marauders, a patrol had gone out the back door of the club, and shut the arch. If the marauders got in the outer ring acted like a zombie moat. You didn’t want to be in the outer ring  ever, let alone drunk and at night.

I could feel the air rush in carrying the stench of decay and death with it, as I felt myself  hurled outside. The newbie landed next to me as I heard the door slam shut.

“What do we do Sarge,” the newbie asked.

“What we always do, survive,” I stood as best I could, and the newbie helped steady me.

“Cedric and I buried a gear pack in an old refrigerator four buildings to the left.” I gestured as best I could to the end of the alley. The full moon lit the ring fairly well. In the afternoon, I’d tell the council and suggest we put up some tarps to block out the moonlight, no need letting potential invaders have a good view.

“If we move quietly the dead might not hear us.” Newbie nodded in understanding. We stumbled down the alley. He was ready to turn the corner when I stopped him. I wished I’d still had my gear, but the goons had taken my pack. I peeked my head around the corner. Of course there was a zombie in front of the fridge. I reached into my pocket. They hadn’t taken my pocket knife.

I pulled back from the corner. “If we move slowly towards it, it may not notice us until we get close.” I showed him my knife. “I’ll shank it before it even knows we’re there.”

“What if it does notice us?”

“I’ll run towards it, when it moves for me you run for the gear. Grab the crossbow and shoot it, If I haven’t taken it out already.” I was a fairly simple plan, the dead weren’t that smart, so one zombie would be easy. We turned the corner and started staggering towards the zombie. We were halfway there when it turned towards us and started moving our way.

“It knows we’re here,” he whispered.
“No, they move in herds. It probably just wants company.” I could see him shaking as we inched closer. It let out a yowl as we got closer. It didn’t want company, it wanted dinner.

“What do we do,” he shouted.

“Keep your voice down, and stick to the plan.” I pushed him out of my way as I charged the zombie.

“Shit.”

“What?” he said as he dashed towards the refrigerator.

“He’s sealed. Get the axe before the bow, I need to bash this fucker.” The zombie grabbed me and we rolled toward the building wall. There was no way I was getting my small blade into his skull. I could keep him at bay, even drunk, but I needed to get that axe. I looked at the fridge. The newbie had the door open and the pack out. He grabbed the crossbow.

“The axe, not the bow. I need the axe.”

“Look behind you, we need everything.”

“Shit,” I had forgotten to look both ways. I flipped my dancing partner towards the wall and could see at least three more shambling towards us. I started stepping back towards the newbie. As long as he stayed put, he could hand me the axe when I got there. I tried jabbing my knife through the zombie’s throat, but the sealed skin was like leather and refused to budge. I heard a bolt fly through the air. It struck one of the approaching ones in the neck. The second hit its eyes and it fell. They weren’t sealed. The next few bolts whizzed into the night, as I reached my hand behind me feeling the axe handle. With a quick swing the sealed one fell as the axe split his head like an overripe melon.

I could see several more in the moonlight, trailing behind the ones almost on top of us.

“Give me the crossbow, I’m a better shot.” There was no answer. I turned quickly to see the newbie running into the distance carrying all of the gear with him.

“You fucking coward. I’m getting you thrown out in the morning.” I charged the zombies, as long as they weren’t sealed the axe was all I needed. The first two fell easily under the axe. I stopped in front of the backdoor alley, catching my breath, as the other three approached. I was sure one was sealed. The spiked football pads and helmet were a sure sign it had been someone’s infantry.

They surrounded me. I pushed them away with the axe and my free hand. The infantry man raised its head lunging for me. I swung with all my might at his neck. The axe stuck for a moment, but then his head rolled to the ground with a thud. With him gone the other two were quick work.

I stood straight, fuck exile. I’ll kill him myself, I thought. That’s when I felt a sharp pain in my chest and everything started spinning as I fell to the ground. “The fucking coward shot me,” I thought, as everything went black.

I woke up face down in the dirt. I must have killed all the undead, before the noob shot me, since from what I could tell nothing had taken a chunk out of me. I couldn’t believe he shot me in the back. If he had managed to kill me I would have turned. No one does that to a person. When I find him I’m going to kill him slow.

I staggered a little getting to my feet, and started brushing myself off, when I snagged my hand on my chest. It didn’t hurt, but my hand was clearly stuck to something. I looked down. My hand was stuck to the tip of the crossbow bolt sticking out of my chest. I froze.

“Shit!” I stood still for a moment, then pulled my hand free.

“Shit!” There wasn’t any blood. I grabbed my wrist with my other hand.

 

There wasn’t a pulse.

“Fuck!”

“I’m dead.” I turned slowly around looking at the outer ring. Everything moved in slow motion. It was crawling with zombies, a herd must have moved in last night after he killed me. With this many zombies the city would be on lockdown until the clean-up crews came to thin the herd.

“Shit.”

They’d kill me on sight if they knew I’d turned.  I had a few hours until I’d really start to turn. Right now, I’d risen, but I still looked alive and could speak. According to Doc, it took twenty-four hours to go full on flesh eater. I grabbed the bolt and pulled as hard as I could. It made a sucking sound as it exited my chest. Next I needed something to cover my wounds. I looked around. I didn’t think my fellow undead would mind if I borrowed some of their clothes. I saw a biker a few buildings down, still decked in his leathers. It’d be a new look for me, but the gloves would cover my hand, and the vest my chest.

I walked through the zombies with ease, occasionally taking one out with the axe. From what we knew they hunted by smell. I could do whatever I wanted because I didn’t smell alive.

Thunk. I could hear the bar on the Go Go being moved.

“Shit,” The cleaning crew was coming out. I grabbed the biker by the shoulders, he almost looked shocked as I spun him around taking his vest and one glove. I was fighting for the other one as I heard the door fully open. No time for stealth now, I thought. I smashed his head with the axe handle and started dressing. I could smell something faintly in the air, like iron mixed with raw meat. I could smell the cleaning crew, and so could the herd. They all started moving towards the door. I could hear 15 sparking the flame thrower, and 22 muttering.

I watched the herd fill the alley, there were too many for the cleaning crew. There were  at least two other crews coming out other doors, the watchers would have seen how big the herd was, but they weren’t going to get here nearly in time.

“Hey you dead fucks! Over here!” I yelled banging on the old refrigerator. The back of the herd turned towards me breaking off from the alley.

“What the hell?” asked 15, as he turned the flame thrower too high.

“Is that you, Sarge?” I could hear 22 grunting as he thrust his pike into a few dead heads.

“Who else would be dumb enough to be out here with the herd?” I swung for the nearest zombie taking the top of his head with my axe blade.

“We looked for you when they called for clean up.” I could hear the gravel and broken asphalt crunch under their feet as they moved forward into the herd.

“I puked last night. Tiny threw me out here. Sobered up just in time to hide in the fridge.” I started swinging harder, taking several with one blow. If they’d had expressions, they would have been confused. After all, I was one of them.

We met where the alley opened into the outer ring. 15 turned the flamethrower off, not wanting to burn me, and we took the remaining ones out with our blades.

“New look, Sarge?”

“Yeah, I told you I puked. This smelled better than what I was wearing. Or at least I think that’s why I changed, some things are a little blurry. Have you guys seen the noob?”

“No I heard he got tossed, when we were upstairs. Tiny was busy,” said 22.

“I thought he got tossed with you Sarge,” 15 said as he looked me over.

“Yeah, a lot of things are blurry.” I said as I turned towards the ring. “How many crews they send out?”

“Just us. Herd was pretty centralized here.”

“You sure they threw the noob out with me?”

“That’s what he heard.”

“You guys can go back in. I’ll circle the ring once to see if I can find him, or at least what’s left.” 22 started for the door. 15 paused, like he knew something was up.

“You sure, Sarge?”

“You haven’t been with us long enough to know an order. Let’s go,”

“Listen to him 15. Thanks Dan. Cedric has me shook up a little. I just need to clear my head.” 22 smiled. I’d never used his name before. I knew I was going to get put down before him, so distance didn’t seem so important anymore. I walked away into the outer ring. I needed to find the noob, so I could put my axe right between his eyes.

I followed the ring, heading in the direction he’d ran from me. There wasn’t a trail. The herd and the breeze had muddled the tracks. Every so often I’d see a zombie with a few bolts in him so I knew I was going the right way. I walked a few more meters, and in the distance I could see the crossbow on the ground. He’d dropped it. Why? There were plenty of bolts in the bag, from what I’d seen he didn’t use them all.

I looked ahead I could see a dumpster, and the gear bag besides it. The dumpster was right on the other side of the alley where we’d started. I hadn’t noticed how far I had walked. I guess being undead, distance had no meaning. I could see from the tracks in the dirt the dumpster had been moved at least a few times recently.  

I pushed it to the side. There was a hole in the wall, just big enough for a person without gear. He’d dropped the bag, and the bow, when he saw the tunnel, and crawled in.

The outer ring was supposed to be secure. It was when we built it. Someone had opened this tunnel into the city, but who? I wanted to know, but more importantly I wanted to find the coward. I backed into the tunnel, really more of a crawl space, and pulled the handle welded to the back of the dumpster closing it as I backed in. Normally I wouldn’t back into anything, but what was the worst that could happen? I was already dead.

I crawled downwards a few meters when the space suddenly opened into a room. I stood up turning around in a very dim light.  Looking up, I could see I was in an old basement. The windows on the floor above were mostly boarded up. I could see them because the floor above had all but collapsed, leaving some studs and rotted floor boards. There were a few doors at the tops of stairs along the walls leading up to the ground floor. They were crudely made, and had obviously been made after the fall. Most were dusty and hadn’t been used recently.  Two were cleared. One lead to the Go Go, and it was closed. The other was slightly ajar. He’d gone through that one.

The stairs creaked as I climbed them. I could hear the music blaring from the other door. They must be opening early today, I thought. I opened the door slowly. It lead into a storeroom, probably the Colonel’s but I didn’t know for sure. I could see a partially covered window past the boxes and clutter.

When I got to it, it was locked. He hadn’t gone out this way. I stepped back to see the rest of the room. The boxes were medical supplies and junk food. The Colonel had been holding out on the rest of the city. I could make out something slumped in the corner. I sniffed the air. Raw meat and iron wafted from whoever it was. It had to be the noob.

I could see the cowards head peeking out from under his coat. I raised my axe. I could split his head open and then eat him. Fitting, since he’d killed me. I’d probably turn immediately.

The doc said giving into the urge and feeding, probably made the process speed up. One of the goons would find me and put me down later. I raised the axe higher and then put it down. I cleared my throat instead. If the goons didn’t find me I might get out into the city, and hurt someone who mattered. I cleared my throat again.

“Do you always take a nap after shooting a man in the back?”

He jumped to his feet. “Holy shit you’re not dead.” He smiled wide. He was glad to see me? He wasn’t a coward, he was fucking nuts. I raised my axe. He looked startled and started to retreat.

“I found you face down in the dirt, no pulse. Are you dead?”

“Undead,” I said lowering my axe. He wet himself as he started shaking. “You didn’t kill me did you?”

“If you’re going to eat me, get it over with. I can’t imagine I taste good.”

I started laughing, “What’s your name noob?”

“Michael,” he stammered. “Why?”

“Because I always name my food. Last burger I ate was named Chuck.” He started crying a little. I think I smiled, but I can’t be sure because I was losing feeling in my face.

“I’m sorry Michael, but you have to admit it was a little funny.” He looked me in the eyes.

“Cherry was in here when I found the room, at least I think it was her, they beat her up bad.”

“Are you sure?”

“No, she didn’t say anything, she was unconscious. I heard Tiny and the goons coming up the stairs so I hid. They dragged her off.”

“Then you fell asleep?” I was beginning to think I was going to have to kill him again.

“I couldn’t go back to the ring, there was a herd coming in. I couldn’t go to the Go Go, and I can’t get out of here. I sat down waiting to die. Must have dozed off.”

“How’d you get in here?”

“After I found your body I started running back into the ring. I don’t know why, I just ran. I saw the dumpster and the tunnel. Some of the goons were coming out of it. They didn’t see me. So I dropped the bow trying to shuffle like I was dead.” I slumped down next to him. My body was starting to stiffen, and even though I couldn’t feel much, I hurt.

“One of them saw me. He was about to shoot when he heard the herd. They threw some bags of stuff in the dumpster and crawled back in.”

Odd I thought. We reused everything. No one was making anything new. We didn’t throw things away.

“What was in the bags?” He shuffled his feet, like he was searching for an answer.

“I don’t know. I waited as long as I could by the dumpster and then crawled into the tunnel. The goons were better than the herd, I thought. I’m not sure anymore.”

Why did the Go Go goons have a secret passage?  Who shot me? Michael wasn’t  going to be much help, so I decided to go back to the tunnel.

“Noob, you got two choices. Since you didn’t shoot me I won’t kill you.” He looked relieved and somewhat surprised.

“Decent of you.” He smiled a little bit.

“Don’t smile. I’m less than a day from eating your face off. Not much to smile about from my end.”  He jumped to attention like I had just called a drill.

“You want to go out the tunnel and see what’s in the bags, or watch for goons at the entrance?”

“Neither,” he mumbled.

“Fine I guess I could just eat your face off now,” I reached for him. “Stand still, dammit I’ve got to get used to this.”

“The herd’s dead, right?”

“Deader than me.”

“Fine. I’ll dumpster dive.” He started for the door, as I struggled to stand.

“Michael give me a hand.” I reached out for him. Ten minutes ago I was going to kill him, now he was my only life line. That was irony. Not Abe irony, but still irony. He gently grabbed my arm, and started to pull.

“It’s not going to come off damn it. Well not yet. I think it takes a while to rot.” We walked from the storage room into the basement, and it was clear. He started to crawl up the tunnel. He was about half way up, when I heard the Go Go door start to open. I ducked under the stairs as fast as I could. I could smell the raw meat and iron. This time was different, than last, I could taste the meat, and it tasted good. I could hear the footsteps as they came down the stairs. I held still, even though every instinct I had told me to lunge, to feed, to feast.

Tiny walked past me first, not seeming to notice. Like the colonel he was a man of many vices, food being the most obvious. He weighed at least 350, and he used that weight to demolish anyone in his way.

“Why can’t we keep the fucking chips in the bar?” He muttered to himself as he started up the second set of stairs. “I’m getting tired of the stairs.”

He entered the other building. I moved to under the other stairs. I could smell meat again, but different than people. I scanned the room to see what else was here. I could hear scurrying sounds in the wall behind me, as dust began falling on my face. I looked up, as a rat poked its head from a hole, and the rest of it followed. It dropped on me.

Being dead was an advantage. It could crawl on me all I day and I couldn’t feel it. It crawled around my chest sniffing the vest. Maybe the biker had some food in his pockets. It stopped on my chest looking up at me. Maybe I had a pet. Then it bit me. I was the food.

The door opened above. I could hear the boards creak under tiny’s weight. I grabbed the rat, pulling it away from my face, Tiny thudded down the stairs. The rat squirmed in my hand, as Tiny reached the bottom. The rat started to squeak, I squeezed it. Blood burst from its mouth. I could smell the blood, it smelled delicious. It smelled like life. It smelled like salvation. I thrust the rat’s head into my mouth and bit. Its head tore loose from its body and it crunched in my mouth. I tried to savor it, but I could feel the frenzy coming.

“You’ve looked better, Sarge.” Tiny was standing over me holding a gun in one hand and a half empty bag of cheetos in the other. “I guess I’ll finish the job now.”

“Hey Sarge, you gotta see what was in the dumpster.” Michael shouted as a duffle bag slid down the tunnel. Tiny turned and I leapt as fast as I could, which wasn’t very fast, but Tiny was slower. I pushed him to the ground. I wanted to eat him. I need to tear into his flesh, but I maintained control as we grappled for his belt knife.

“Finished?” I couldn’t get the rest of the words out, my vocal chords were stiffening.

“Oh, this is going to be fun,” Tiny said as he used his weight to crush me to the ground. “You ain’t full on zombie yet. Never did like you.” His fist slammed into my face. I grabbed again for his knife.

“Why?” He looked down at me, puzzled.

“Colonel said you knew too much.”  He slammed his massive hand into my face again.

“Watered down booze? Mugging passed out drunks? I don’t care.” I almost got my hands on his knife. He pulled back a little laughing.

“You didn’t even fucking know?” His belly rolled with his hard laughs. I grabbed for his knife again.

This time I got it, and thrust it into his fat belly. He started punching harder. I heard my nose snap, and then I saw the axe split his skull. So much blood, so much delicious blood. I wiggled the knife trying to free his guts.

“Sarge, snap out of it.” I looked to see Michael standing over me, Tiny’s pistol pointing at my head. “Sarge, you still in there?”

I spit a piece of Tiny’s flab out of my mouth. “Barely,” I growled.

“You’re not too far gone yet? The blood must be triggering you.” I hoped he was right. He kept the pistol pointed at me. “As long as you’re still good you need to see this.” He opened the bag, dumpling it out. I looked at the stuff, books, and sketch pads. Michael was pointing at a charcoal of me and Cedric.

“That’s you.” I nodded.

“Who’d draw a picture of you?” I struggled to push the last of Tiny off of me.

“Cherry,” I struggled for the sounds, “drew it.” What did they do to her? I could feel my flesh lust residing a little, but my blood lust was raging. Michael helped me to my feet. I ripped the picture from her sketch pad folding it as I put it in my pocket.

“I need to go into the Go Go. I need to find Cherry, and settle a score.” He looked sympathetically at me. I paused for a minute, words were getting hard to find.

“I won’t be coming out, but I could use your help.”

“I owe Cedric, Sarge. What’s the plan?”

“We walk in the door, and go straight for the colonel.” Michael handed me the axe, which I tucked into the back of my jeans, then started to hand me the gun. I waved it away. “Shoot me if I try to eat anyone that doesn’t deserve it.” He nodded, putting the pistol in his jacket pocket.

“You look like a fucking zombie, Sarge. Won’t get ten feet.” I felt my face. Tiny had shoved my nose half way into my head.

“Here use this,” Michael said as he tied his do rag around my face. Having them think I might rob them would get me further than them thinking I was a zombie.

I opened the door into the Go Go. The music was blaring and the dancers were on stage, but the club was empty, other than a few goons at the bar. No colonel. As long as the goons didn’t look up we had the advantage. I glanced at the dancers as we walked by. There was a new one, she started grabbing at me.

We were halfway to the bar when a goon turned around. “We ain’t open yet. How the fuck did you get in?” I grasped for a response.

“Tiny let us in, special show upstairs,” Michael said. The goons settled a little, as we walked towards them. There were only three. We could probably take them if we could get close enough, and Michael didn’t panic.

We were close enough now I could smell their meat. The goon turned towards me.

“Which girls?” I grabbed my axe and swung.  He fell before the other two could even move. Michael shot one in the stomach. His aim still sucked. The other one lunged at me thrusting a knife into my side. I tried biting him but the bandana got in the way.

Michael quickly pulled him off of me, before I could bite him.

“Where’s the Colonel motherfucker,” Michael hissed as he pushed his pistol into the goon’s temple. I pulled down my bandana, ready to bite.

“Right here,” the colonel said as Michael’s brains splattered all over my face. I could smell them, and the gunpowder from the Colonel’s shotgun.

“Damn, Donovan. You’ve seen better days haven’t you?” He walked around the bar keeping the shot gun aimed at me. The goon moved, closer grabbing his knife sticking out of my side and twisting it.

“I can’t feel it you moron.”

“Too bad,” he said stooping to grab Michael’s pistol. I brought my knees into his chest as quickly as I could, pulling him between me and the shotgun barrel. He stood up just as the gun went off. The blast ripped through his chest pushing me backwards. As I fell, I ripped the knife out of my side, slashing it towards the colonel. He dove for the pistol, but I grabbed it first.

He looked at me as I oriented the gun between his eyes. “It was nothing personal Donovan, just business. Without the dancers I don’t have a club.” I waved the pistol gesturing him towards the dancers.

“I,” I moaned, “Don’t… know what… you’re talking about.”

“Sorry to hear that, you always paid your bills.” We reached the stage glass, and he unlocked the door. The dancers stopped dancing. I could smell their blood, and their meat.

“You sick… fuck… they’re alive.” As he walked over towards the girls, all of them cowered away from him, as much as their chains allowed, except the new one. She was mumbling and grabbing towards me. I kept the pistol on the Colonel as I shambled towards her. I pulled her blonde wig off as I peeled back layers of sealed zombie flesh from her face. Cherry. The Colonel started to run. I shot him in the leg as I stripped the rest of the undead from Cherry. He’d sewn her mouth shut, except for a small opening in the middle. I looked at her and turned to him.

“They had to eat Donovan, but I couldn’t have them talking.” I ran towards him, shoving the pistol in his mouth. I couldn’t pull the trigger, and I knew that. All the blood and brains I’d turn on the spot. I’d eat him, but then I’d turn on Cherry and the other dancers. I couldn’t risk that. “Keys,” I said pulling the gun from his mouth. He fumbled in his pocket pulling the key out and trying to hand it to me.

“You do.” I gestured the gun towards Cherry. He waddled towards her unlocking her chains. With her free hand she gave him a right cross that made Tiny seem weak. As he fell to the floor she grabbed the key and finished unlocking herself. I kept the pistol trained on him. Cherry unlocked the other dancers. I could feel myself getting weaker. I tried to say something. “Arrghwa dalt,” is all that came out.

“He’s turning. Kill him now!” the Colonel shouted. Cherry walked towards me and gestured for my knife. I handed it to her. He was right. She took the knife and I closed my eyes.

“Fuck you asshole,” she said. I opened my eyes to see Cherry and the others girls attacking the colonel more savagely than any undead.  I put my hand on her shoulder. She turned quickly to face me. I could see the broken stitches hanging from her mouth.

I pointed at the colonel with the pistol and gestured towards the back door. She pulled the other girls off of him,

“Let’s get him up girls.” The dancers yanked him to his feet. And dragged him to the door, he was barely conscious and started to cry. I pried the bar off the door, and they drug him outside.

“Please don’t do this,” he sobbed. “Don’t leave me out here. I don’t stand a chance. I can barely walk.” He got to his feet and showed how he couldn’t put weight on the leg I’d shot. I walked over to him pointing the gun at his head.

“Thank you Donovan.” He closed his eyes waiting for the kill shot, that wasn’t coming. I pointed the gun down quickly and shot him in the gut. The gut shot would immobilize him, and I knew any deads in the outer ring would hear the shot and come for him. Besides, all the fat drenched blood smelled delicious.

I could feel the frenzy coming on- the sweat, flesh and blood. I tried to put the gun to my head. I couldn’t bring my arm above my waist. I was losing control fast. I lifted my hand towards Cherry, the pistol loosely dangling from it. She took the gun, stepping back, and pointed it towards me.

“I’m sorry Donovan,”

I knew she was. I could see it in her eyes. Even as mine were finishing their necrotic glaze, I could still see her sorrow. I shambled a little closer, and leaned my head onto the point of her revolver. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t tell her how much she and Cedric had meant to me. I was too far gone, my vocal chords stiff. I reached into my pocket and gave her the folded piece of paper. She opened the sketch she had made of Cedric and I. I couldn’t say what I was feeling, but I hoped my gesture told her everything.

I shut my eyes. I could smell the gunpowder as everything went black.

END.

 

By DS Maiorca




















“

 

We stagger into the thick bush, pushing aside branches and debris. I can’t see clearly; the sun is too bright, and it’s right in my eyes. It blinds me. But dusk is only two hours from now, and we can’t afford any delay. Jack is a few meters ahead – she prefers scouting the territory, to make sure we don’t fall straight into a trap. Unintentional as it might be, given the nature of the danger. But deadly nonetheless.

I detect movement into the woods, but she’s too busy avoiding the twigs to pay attention. I slow down, waiting for the hidden shape to emerge. I’m not disappointed. A whoosh – a low, snapping sound, followed by a squelching noise of trashed leaves. She turns her head, alarmed, whilst my arrow hisses and darts just a few inches away from her left ear.

“Norman, what the-”

A body falls to the ground at her feet, and she jumps back in a hysteric jolt. “Christ!”

“You’d better be careful, my friend.” I come forward, collecting the tiny bolt from the corpse’s head, dipping it in an iodine-arsenic solution and putting it back into the quiver. “Birmingham is known to be one of the most infested areas in the whole country. I wonder why this one was all by himself. Poor chap. He just wanted a taste of your sweet blood.”

“Well, he can taste this.”

She shoots him twice in the mush of its exposed meninges that scatter further on the ground. As if we needed additional infectious stuff. But Jack always goes for the overkill. It eases her tension. And she prefers bullets, whilst I’m more confident with my silver, recurve crossbow and my wooden darts, which I personally make. They’re cheap, fast and mortal, and good wood is the only thing I need. I also carry mini-frag hand grenades though, for fast-paced action. My victim lies there, lifeless as the dead forest that surrounds us. We call them Raptors, and that’s somehow a misnomer. But they don’t get offended, I guess.

Jack looks back at me. She’ll never admit it, but she has been scared shitless by the ambush. “Americans were just right. Let’s leave this shithole.” She says eventually, putting her gun back in the holster.

“Where for? Space, maybe?”

“You’re so funny.”

“And you’re so smart. Me, I’m European. I’m not leaving my country to hordes of famished Raptors. They’ll have to kill us before.”

“They will.”

“They won’t. We’re not as soft as you whiny North-Americans – yes, Canadians included.” I say with a smile on my face. I like provoking her – hurt national pride always reacts on cue. As if this bullshit made sense any longer. Who cares about who you are, provided you’re not one of Them? And fuck nationality too. But Jack never disappoints me.  “You French faggot!”

Should I remind her the whole story? At the beginning, we gave this weird plague a fancy name –the Andromeda virus. Because it happened as in an old novel of the late XX century. One day a satellite came back carrying a nasty bug from outer space, escaping all decontamination procedures. After a while, we didn’t call it anything any longer. We were too busy dealing with the disaster. The world witnessed humans turning into monsters impossible to define, even less to contain. Their ghastly look and their predatory behaviour did resemble zombies of the best movie tradition. But they weren’t zombies. They didn’t eat flesh; they feasted on blood, without being vampires either. Not that luck – they didn’t turn victims into something like them, just into tiny lifeless shreds. And they were blind, with oddly bluish corneas. The plague that created them shattered the planet like a thousand cataclysms. The ones that escaped being infected started running and hiding, before deciding to fight back. For us, the Children of the Apocalypse, running has never been an option. We’re the second generation after Andromeda. Not only do we not remember a world without the Raptors; we’re not even able to imagine one. For us it’s as far away in time as the fucking Roman Empire. Our amazing progress of the last fifty years has given us clean fusion energy and blossoming space colony projects, but not a goddamn way to deal with this virus. Not yet – not anytime soon. Our only option is to chase and kill them, as many as we possibly can. “I’m Scottish French. And wait at least to try me before calling me names. Tonight?”

“In a parallel universe.”  She sneers in defiance. “You can have all your blood sucked first.”

I probably will.

“You’re too noisy, both of you.” Ethan comes forward, put his gloves on and quietly starts examining the corpse. He turns it on its back, concentrating on its vitreous eyes. Good for him: they’re still there.

And he’s right of course. You don’t go hunting this way, even less on a high-risk mission. Ethan has been with our group since year one or so, but we don’t know jackshit about him. He’s older than us, this much I can tell; he looks in his mid-twenties – long dark hair, tattoos and a handful of earrings and bracelets. But he’s built like a special forces operative, and the precision of his sniper rifle is likewise.

From the accent it’s impossible to tell where he come from, no matter if his English is flawless. His complexion is darker than ours, and yet his eyes are the clearest I’ve ever seen. Almond-shaped ice blue. The girls like him – all of them, Jack included  – but grudgingly: he doesn’t pay attention to them. Or to anybody. He shows affection just to the little ones – and once he admitted he had two baby brothers. And hell no, I didn’t dare to ask what happened to them. Ignorance is bliss, in our age.

Jack observes him with an impatient regard. “What are you checking the bastard for, exactly? A passport?”

Her sarcasm is obviously misplaced. Ethan ignores her.

“Happy with your findings? Maybe you haven’t realised it yet, Einstein, but they’re all the same, ugly and nasty and famished.”

“Quiet.” I interrupt her with a gesture. Another muffled noise. A far away screech, carried by the wind, and a not so far away sound of broken twigs.

Ethan stands up. “Let’s clear the area. We’re not in for a fight today.”

He’s right again. An annoying trait of his, this one – no wonder Jack always gets so pesky. But today we do hunt for something else, and as he has succinctly stated, it’s time to fucking leave.

*****

It’s almost night when we finally reach Solihull. Birmingham looms in the distance. I look at the city – at what remains of it. My mom worked here as a History lecturer in the University. But she, as many others, had been obliged to abandon it and go North during the second Escape. In retrospect, that came as a surprise. Yes, because after ten years or so of complete disarray since Andromeda, the world had reorganised. Asians – Indians and Chinese – had cleared up their premises and shown the rest of the world how to deal with a threat you can’t get away from. First, selecting an area conveniently remote and then luring over as many Raptors as possible. Then, blasting them with high-yield neutron nukes. Success. Replicated ever since whenever possible. The US government chose instead to quarantine entire states, leaving them to the ghouls. Hoping them to die sooner or later for lack of nourishment. Some of them did, according to estimates. And what about Europe? In Europe, now as before, we were structurally incapable to come out with a coherent strategy. While politicians discussed in their underground bunkers, people on the surface had taken interesting initiatives. Like survival, for example, and restless hunting expeditions. For twenty years furious fights ravaged the whole continent. And just when things seemed going into the right direction, a new wave of Raptors came out of nowhere. Giving origin to what has been called the Second Escape, six years ago.  In the UK, all cities have been abandoned, apart from London and Glasgow. Small communities represent, now and since the beginning, the best bet for survival. But whenever packs of Raptors are famished enough to attack en masse, things can still go horribly wrong. This is what happened in Tweedmouth, near Berwick, two years ago. Myself, Jacklyn, Kiera, Aidan and Marie are the only ones left from a community of more than 10,000. We took away all the children we could carry and we settled down in the outskirts of Newark. And Raptors apart, life isn’t smooth. Diseases exist nonetheless, and the long-forgotten smallpox now threatens our small community. Kiera is the only one with medical training. She has put all sick children in isolation, but that’s not enough. With no doctors and no facilities, we need medical supplies. We have to go to a big city, into one of the old hospitals, and pillage their storage.

It was a simple decision to head South hunting, this time for medicines – as dangerous as it might sound. Less simple was to decide who had the best chances to get the job done and make it back to camp alive. We’re roughly the same age, with the sole exception of Kiera, Jacklyn’s sister. But she’s barely nineteen nonetheless.  The two are the foreigners in our group: their parents moved to Scotland ten years ago. Both dead in the siege of Tweedmouth – together with the other adults. We drew straws. Chance kept us alive, chance had to select the hunters. Kiera was excluded from the ballot and Jack and I won the lucky draw. Ethan joined us.

“Do we know if anybody still lives here?” Jack sounds uneasy as we walk through the deserted streets.

“Apart from the Raptors, you mean.”

She doesn’t reply. She looks worried, but I’m not. It has been a while since the last time I’ve fought, and I’m right in the mood now. Truth is, I’m after a good hunt today – and they are my prey.  I’ll worry about medical supplies later.

I don’t have to wait a lot. A compact screeching group emerges from a gutted building, waving rather enthusiastically at us.

Jack swears and starts firing. Ethan and I take position at her side. The Raptors fall with impressive regularity, one shot, one down, and while the two of us advance to make it quicker, Jack remains behind. Too bad, because another group comes out from a lateral street, few meters from her. She screams and stumbles, falling down. What comes after is just too fast: Ethan drops rolling on the ground and hauls Jack away, while he keeps shooting at the nearest ones. I reach for my pouch and throw a hand grenade to finish up what Ethan has started.

Screeches stop. There’s a moment of eerie silence. We’re look around – nobody else is coming. We’re safe for now. Ethan collects Jack’s weapons, while I get her into my arms, still trembling.  

* * *

We decide to stop for the night – an abandoned house in the suburbs. It’s not safe for us to be there – no need to make things any worse by wandering after sunset. The Raptors are more aggressive at night, and diminished light makes us vulnerable. Ethan checks the place and decides it’s reasonably ok for us to stay. And stay we do.

Jack is shaken, and she’s right. What if Ethan had not been there? And talking about him… he looks concerned too. Somehow I feel it’s not the Raptors he’s worried about.

“Can’t you sleep, mate?”

He shrugs. “You know why so many people died in the beginning? Because they could not believe what they were seeing.”

“Well, how to blame them? At the beginning, people even believed the Raptors were rising from their graves. Like zombies, you know, or ghosts. Not exactly common sense, you’d give it to me.”

“Is it so? In your religion, that’s a given. The God you worship came back from the dead on the third day in an aura of immortality. He promised the resurrection of the flesh, and that’s why you stopped cremating the bodies.”

“Yes, but …He said nothing about a penchant for blood. Without mentioning an alien virus.”

“Alien? I rather think Andromeda was caused by an Earth-born bacterium, whose RNA was altered by cosmic rays. It won’t be impossible, you see. Not even unlikely.”

I nod. “I’m sure I’ve read something of the kind. But it was sci-fi.”

“Reality is stranger than fiction, and on top of that it has not to make sense. I’m sure you’ve read this too.”

Ethan remains in silence for a while. “We’re going to die, all of us.” He says eventually. “Our species, Norman.”

“You mean the Europeans? Our generation – the Children of the Apocalypse?”

He shakes his head. “The Homo Sapiens Sapiens has dominated this planet for how long -60.000, 70.000 years? Maybe we’re at the end of the road.”

Ah. It’s not just us he’s talking about. “C’mon, mate. They’re humans too, the Raptors – even if they don’t remember it. Name apart, they’re not fucking dinosaurs. Or aliens.” I wave at the stars. “OK, they’re as dangerous. We’re not sure even now how Andromeda spreads. But the Raptors still belong to our species. And we’ll find a way to fight them down.” I’m suddenly annoyed. I believe what I’m saying. “They’re not dinosaurs, and they’re not smart either. You mentioned the Homo Sapiens. Right, we’ve inherited this planet with our brain, the same this sort of monsters seems devoid of. And it will be the key to our survival, as it has always been.”

Ethan’s stare makes me shudder. There’s something in his cold eyes that scares me silly. “What if this is not the whole story, Norman?” He never blinks. Maybe that’s the reason why he makes people nervous, me included. “What if they are the new species and we’re like the old Neanderthal – stronger, maybe smarter and yet condemned to extinction?”

“No – species reproduce and have a sort of primitive organisation.” I say. “Not just mammals, even insects. Guess what? They’ve none.”

He doesn’t reply. He’s asleep in minutes, leaving me wondering about that strange discussion.

*****

The sun is high in the sky, but weather is so bad that we can’t see shit ten meters ahead. There’s fog, too, as if we needed any more excitement. We cross the city centre, quietly walking into that ramshackle area near the canal once known as Brindley Place – with its fancy bars and its glimmering lights. Nothing has survived. Gee – I expected desolate, but this is a notch up.

We advance in formation, covering all sides. We want to avoid yesterday’s incident.

I hear a click, like the safety of a rifle going off. I turn at once – I can’t see anything. But I know I’m right – somebody’s there. Ethan looks at me and put his hand on the gun. Before he’s able to take it out, an acute voice makes us stop.

“Freeze.”

Three people, armed like ninjas, appear. I attempt a step forward, but one of them aims straight at my head – her gun loaded and ready.

“Who are you?”

“Norman. Scottish. Hunter.”

“Hunter of what?”

“Generally Raptors, but not today. I’m more into medical supplies at the moment.”

“And you search for them in Birmingham?” Her sneer conveys her surprise.

“Why, London or Manchester are any better?” Being sassy is perhaps not the smartest thing I can do right now, but hey, it’s not as if I’m not in danger already. I’m in danger since I was in my mother’s womb.  “And you are…?”

“We own this place. Nobody goes in and out without checking out with me first. Not even those fucking Raptors.”  The girl’s eyes squint a little. She observes me for a couple of seconds, and then she lowers her gun. “Shelby, lead them to the old hospital in Edgbaston. Let our guests get all they can pack and escort them out.” She says with a wicked grin. “I’ll tell the others to hold fire until they clear off.” She’s dazzlingly pretty, now that I look better. Leggy and willowy, with gleaming amber eyes. She catches my stare, and smiles. “Want to come over to our place? You can rejoin your party on the way back.”

I consider the tempting offer. I’m used to the Raptors, not to street hoodlums with stunning bodies. Jack says nothing, but something wary in Ethan’s eyes makes me think again. “No, thanks. We prefer staying all together.”

“You don’t know what you’re missing.”

I sure get a fair picture. I’d better leave before I change my mind.

The girl and the other boy walk away, while the one named Shelby remains with us. He’s our age or younger, and, from Jack’s admired stare, I can see she finds him sort of cute. I wonder the hell why. That waxen-faced dickhead with pale green eyes doesn’t look appealing to me. But girl I’m not. Thinking better, maybe that’s why she has not objected when the hot babe wanted to snatch me away. Great. I decide to pay them no attention.

We walk for a fair while, and finally reach the hospital, deserted and derelict as the rest of the town. We’re damn lucky it’s in working conditions. Facilities of the old days. Civilisation here may well be a memory of the past, but electricity still works.

We check the area and prepare for the night. Shelby boy is quiet, speaking exclusively to Jack, who seems appreciating his conversation. A tad too much for my own taste. But I’m tired, and when they go outside to smoke after dinner, I don’t object.

When I get up in the morning everybody seems busy with a purpose. Ethan is listing supplies, while the boy and Jack are fixing breakfast. I sit nearby, taking a cup of coffee. “Hello guys – you had good night?”

Shelby nods and drinks his tea, while Jack smiles. “Hi, Norman. Everything’s fine here.”

Her eyes however suggest otherwise. And the way he touches her arm makes me think something happened last night. But it’s only a fleeting moment. Maybe I’m just jealous.

Shelby stands up. “I’m done here.”

“Yes?” Ethan says, looking at him with an unreadable expression.

“Yes. Tomorrow I’ll come and walk you out.” His backpack on his shoulders and his rifle in his hand he leaves quickly, while Jack follows him with a disturbingly wistful stare.

*****

We spend the day packing what we can. I observe Jack. She’s weird, but maybe it’s just my impression. However, when at night she comes on to me, I decide it’s not just an impression. She undresses and remains stark naked – her pale skin shining in the moonlight. “What are you doing, Jack?”

She takes my hand and put it on her breast. “I’m ready, Norman – let’s do it.”

Uh-oh. “What’s up? Raptors haven’t drunk me dry yet.”

“I’m serious.” She hugs me and takes out my shirt. I should be excited, but I’m not. There’s something that makes my hackles spike up like a frightened cat.

A sudden noise disrupts this intimate moment, making her jump.

“Norman, you need to come with me.”

We turn toward the entrance. Ethan is there, rifle ready to shoot. We both look at him amazed. Jack reacts first, covering her body best as she can. “You wanker -go away.”

“Now, Norman.”

There’s urgency in his eyes and a concern I have never seen before. I step back.

“Where are you going?” Jack looks alarmed, her eyes wide-open. “I was right, you’re a damn faggot.”

I don’t reply. I follow Ethan outside.

“We’re going to sleep here in the lobby.” He says, handing me a sleeping bag. “Nobody can access the storage room from here without hitting us first.” He says slowly, reading my thoughts. Jack is going to be safe there, alone or not. I could ask for explanations, but I’m not sure I want to know. And something tells me the night won’t be boring.

I hate to be right. Only a couple of hours have passed, when we hear noises. Actually, footsteps. Ethan loads his rifle. After a few moments, we see Shelby heading toward us, while I hear Jack coming out from the storage room and slowly walking into our direction.

He looks at us, and then looks at her, smiling. “Games are over.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” I don’t like his grin, that strange light in his eyes.

“She didn’t she tell you.”

“Tell me what?”

“About us.”

“About…the two of you?”

“No. About all of us. Including you.” He says, and I notice his eyes are dangerously bluish in the low light of the lobby. “Have you ever wondered how the Raptors could possibly be in control of such extensive territories after all these years? How they could keep going on and on and on after generations? They’ve been almost hunted down in Europe after the first wave, and exterminated; yet, they have managed to provoke the Second Escape. What do you think they are, fucking immortals? I’ll tell you how.” He takes a step in my direction. “They’ve learnt, asshole. They might have forgotten how to speak, but they still communicate, and exchange information. And in this evolutionary process, they learnt how to reproduce. How? They use us for it. Infected people but still humans, able to breed and transmit the virus. Spreading Andromeda to as many other humans as they can. Until, one day, we fully convert too. The Raptors are creating a new species, stronger than any human, or animal, can ever be. Like viruses can’t survive without their hosts and learn how to keep them alive, they hunt and capture us to spread their DNA, produce new specimen and keep going. The new Master Race, the one that will eventually inherit this world. Here, in Europe.

“The centre of world renaissance.” Ethan says coldly. “Once again.”

“Yes – an entire new world.” Shelby laughs. “Humans don’t stand a chance, and you should be grateful for the membership ticket. You’re part of the elite now.”

Jack starts crying, but Ethan has his own way to thank him for the offer. He shoots him right in his head. We look at the body on the ground. Yes, he had blue shades in his eyes. But human he was. He spoke, too. “He doesn’t seem one of them. Maybe he was just high.”

“Maybe.” Ethan starts checking him out.

“Norman I’m so sorry, so sorry….” Jack is on her knees, crying. “You may think this is why I’ve approached you last night. But I had no idea.”

“I believe you.” I do, really. “And I don’t believe his story. Andromeda turns people into monsters in a matter of hours. And was never sexually transmitted anyway. This boy was not infected.”

“Wrong.” Ethan loses no time in volunteering details. He starts rummaging into his backpack. Out there, in the countryside, the only way to tell if you’re infected is by using leeches. They react with disgust to the virus, and this is why everybody grows them as pets. But here we’re in a hospital and more sophisticated methods are available.

He tosses Jack a testing kit. “Do it yourself.”

“And then what? You will kill me if I test positive?”

“Do it.”

“Answer me, you Chinese half-blood. You think I don’t know where you come from? You bastards have killed your own people in thousands.”

He smiles to her. A suave smile. Then he raises his gun and points it at her face. “Good. I haven’t to explain you how I deal with Andromeda. Now give me a reason to keep you alive.”

She turns to me, her eyes brimming with tears. “How can you let him threatening me like that?”

“He’s right, Jack. If you’re infected we can’t bring you back to the children. Test yourself.”

Resigned, she does it. She inserts the testing unit on her forearm while she winces in pain, and she closes her eyes. There are a few seconds of silence. She looks at it – an allergic reaction’s already there – and starts crying again. Then she turns toward Ethan in anger. I see his eyes squinting and I know he’s going to fire. No. If somebody has to kill Jack, it has to be me. I raise my crossbow and I shoot straight into her heart.

Silence. Doom. Fucking white moon shining outside, nowhere as white as my girl’s sleek skin.

I’m still observing her in a sort of reverie when we hear a familiar noise. They’re coming. Hunting time.

*****

The sun is rising. We walk into the desert road that takes us away from Birmingham. We have not spoken since the carnage at the hospital. Because carnage is what it has been.

They were there, blocking our way out of the building. Most of them not older than twenty, and humans. Only their corneas were too bluish and their movements too feverish. But they didn’t screech – they swore like Jack and I in our most inspired days. I keep telling myself they were Raptors like the others, in another form but even more dangerous, if possible. I can close my eyes and see again, as in a nightmare too vivid, my parents ripped apart by those who have announced themselves as the new master species: and I hate them. But the truth is, what I’ve just killed were not famished monsters. They were boys like me, children of the same Apocalypse, but not as lucky: no Ethan around to save their ass. And I’ve butchered them.

My throat feels dry – those images are dancing in front of my eyes like transparent butterflies.

The blood flowing away from their wounds, their screams and my rage. Ethan shoots them down with the precision of a sniper. His eyes are cold, and his hand never waves. I shiver, and need to adjust my target more than once – and yet, my crossbow is as deadly.  I slaughter the hot babe, when she attacks me; I jab a wooden arrow in one of her pretty eyes, that will never be pretty again. And even when I start having enough of all that blood, and tears run down my cheeks, I keep going, slashing their necks, looking at their bluish corneas and repeating myself – hunting is my life, this is what I have to do. Killing, killing, killing.

The howl of a dog gets me back to the present moment.

Ethan is looking at his compass, he doesn’t trust anything else, and certainly not GPS.  Things look not that good. We’re covered in blood. We can only hope we don’t have scratches. We make a stop into the first canal we encounter on the way out. We strip down naked and we wash ourselves in the water with bleach and iodine. Then we test ourselves, just to make sure not to carry any infection back to camp. I give Ethan a sidelong glance. He’s even quieter since we have left, looking tired and worn out. I suddenly remember our conversation the first night we arrived in Birmingham. “Ethan, did you know it? I mean … Shelby’s story.”

“Yes. I heard rumours. But I wasn’t sure. Not until tonight.” He stares at me with his almond-shaped eyes.  “Hong Kong, three years ago. We had an outbreak – one of the many. One of my baby brothers got left behind, and survived. We believed he had got away. But he had not. He kept a human shape for one year, without showing any symptom. I guess this is how they started mutating, the Raptors. It hasn’t happened in a day, and what we see yesterday are the results of that evolution.” He lowers his voice. “My brother…he infected our mother, his twin and my little sister too. I had to take them out.” He finishes suiting up. “We could not understand. It was nothing we had ever seen before. I was a biochemistry student at the time, volunteering in a crisis unit. After that, I decided to travel to Europe and search for evidence that ours was not an isolated case and we were indeed facing something new.”

“I don’t understand. The Raptors – they’re not even able to talk.“

“Do bees or termites talk? This doesn’t prevent them to build huge structures and develop complex societies. I guess we are witnessing an admirable example of swarm intelligence applied to a new human species. They adapt and evolve, learning what once made us a winning species.” He smiles, a dark hue in his eyes. “Maybe this is mother nature protecting herself. This new version is certainly less harmful for the rest of the species of this planet, considering that it only consumes the previous one. It doesn’t need to slaughter anything else on its path to supremacy.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Alert homebase. Send my report over. Prepare for counterattack. Go hunting them, before it is too late.” He loads his rifle, smiling at me. “And taking these supplies back to camp.”

 

END.

By Russell Hemmell

 

Things Fall Apart

Sammi Milva barely contained the shudder which threatened to roll up her spine.  Once had been bad, twice had been worse.  But this would have been the third shudder in the five minutes after she awoke, and she thought that that might drive her mad.  Assuming, that was, that she wasn’t mad already.

She sipped at her first cup of coffee; a wonderful brew that had come from a well-stocked kitchen that was almost as big as her house.  Her watch had actually started twenty minutes ago,  but Miguel had let her sleep a little longer.  That was nice of him, she thought, even though all it means is that I’ll do the same for Sarah, and she’ll do the same for Miguel, and we’ll all be right back where we started.

She looked out the window at the vast lawn, and the things walking around on it.  The infestation didn’t seem to be quite as bad today.  Of course, that was like visiting a death camp with only twenty or thirty dead Jews and saying, “hey, that ain’t so bad.”

As she thought this, an image popped into her mind.  A fellow with a cane and a red-banded straw hat, dancing around in his striped suit and crooning: “Heeey, that ain’t soooo baaaaad…”  She almost laughed at this, but bit her lip instead.  Laughing would be worse than shuddering.  Besides, there was no sugar-coating the situation.  If it was two million zombies she was looking at instead of three million, she was still being fed a shit sandwich.  The shuffling dead stretched from the steps of the front lawn all the way out to the Washington Monument (and probably beyond).

The third shudder came anyway, and when her sanity didn’t completely melt away in an instant, Sammi took another sip of coffee.

They were both gone, they weren’t coming back, and that was that.  POTUS, the Prez…whatever you wanted to call him, had boarded Air Force One two weeks ago, assuring them that, while he was leavin’ on a jet plane, he most definitely would be comin’ back again.  The Royal Jackass, Mister Second Fiddle himself, had left three days later aboard AF2, not bothering with platitudes.  Meanwhile, she and what remained of the White House staff were “holding down the fort”.

She had hummed several bars of the song before she realized that she was doing it.  When she did, she was a little amused to find that it was the chorus of an old Elton John song; “Bennie and the Jets”.  She christened it with new words, mumbling them out of a half-smile of exhaustion and fear and tottering sanity, as she watched the zombies:

“P-P-P-POTUS and the Veep!”

 

*    *    *

 

The press conferences had been almost as bad as the problem itself.  She couldn’t remember how many times she’d had to assure reporters that this hadn’t started at Area 51, for example, but it had to have been at least four.  As White House Press Secretary, she’d had to go round after bloody round, sometimes answering the same question two or three times a session.

And the Prez?  Fuck, they’d jumped all over him about it.  Was this some kind of terrorist attack?  If so, how come it seemed to be popping up all over the world all of a sudden?  Did the White House know why (or have anything to do with the fact that) international communications were beginning to black out left and right?  And on and on and on.  She had reflected to the President – a touch grimly – that the only reason the relentless press conferences had eventually stopped was that most of the reporters were finally eaten.

What had been the most maddening thing about it – to Sammi, at least – was that the tone of each conference seemed to be one of finding a place to lay the blame, rather than a solution to the problem.  She supposed that at least part of that could be chalked up to the CDC.  The President’s budget cuts the year before had slapped them right in the face, so it wasn’t too surprising that when they got caught with their pants down, they immediately tossed the hot potato through the Oval Office window.  As if Capitol Hill didn’t have enough on its hands already.  This snowballing clusterfuck was a political, economic, military and religious catastrophe all rolled up into one, and the last thing they needed to have been doing was trying to place blame.

So yes, that was part of the hell of it.  But…not all.  No, the other part was the fear in the eyes of the reporters.  These were, after all, the type of people who would’ve been pushing to get to the front of the line to cover a nuclear holocaust, or to take the first temperature readings on the day that hell froze over.  Barely human themselves, it sometimes seemed to Sammi.

And yet, as two weeks turned slowly into the first month, she had seen the color first fade on their cheeks, then drain away entirely.  Naked fear played across their features, and many began to seem distracted, as if they were only coming to work because there was nothing else for them to do.  And who knew?  For some of them, that was probably exactly the case.  Toward the end – of the press conferences, a week and a half ago – some of them had begun to ask if they could stay.  The White House might not be the absolute best place to be, but it was better than others in that it was at least fortified.  By then, the gas was running out for the press helicopters, and many of them were having to brave the streets to come on foot.  These had not really been press conferences, of course; by that point they were just gatherings for refugees, people somewhere in the valley between name tag and toe tag, a ragged band brandishing digital recorders which no longer had anything to dock with, and staring into the eternally-dark eyes of their i-Phones.

 

*    *    *

 

She set her coffee down on the table, and her fingers brushed the butt of the Walther.  One of the zombies was getting too close.  They were unable to climb stairs, but this guy had made his way over a pile of bodies, and was now stumbling around just a little north of Sammi’s comfort zone.  She brought the pistol most of the way out of its holster – the fingers of her left hand began curling to fit the shape of the door lock – and then she dropped it back.  No sense waking everybody.  Instead, she studied the zombie as it shuffled around, still a safe thirty or so steps below her.

It was the corpse of a very large black man.  Sammi had no doubt that it must have taken at least five or six zombies to have been able to do as much damage as had been done.  The left arm -which hung uselessly at its side – had been chewed down to the bone in most places, although here and there she could see little chunks of meat that had been missed, small hills of sun-browned musculature casting their own unimportant shadows on the blood-bathed expanses of radius and ulna.  The same could be said of the face, which on the same side as the arm was mostly gone.  One whisker from that side of the face curled in a kinky arc, and the tip of it came to rest against the protruding sharp edge of a fractured cheekbone – she realized that she could tell when it was moaning because a ragged chunk of his cheek would jiggle back and forth with the breath of it.

And what terrible breath it must have.  What terrible breath they all must have.  For some reason Sammi could not identify (unless it might be another step on that increasingly short road to insanity), she found this concept to be very funny.  Monsters with bad breath?  Try Colgate!  Try Altoids!  Try Lis-teh-fucking-rine!

She laughed a little, and her own breath reached forward and fogged up a little section of the window.  She realized that she had damn near been pressing her nose to it, watching this guy.  On a whim, she decided to name him.

“Fred?  Do you look like a Fred?” she whispered at the corpse.  It did not hear her, and may not have seen her at all.  Although, why else would it be trying to get up here?  “No, not Fred.  Fred’s a white guy’s name…unless you count Frederick Douglass.  Or that other guy, what was his name?  Frederick the Entertainer?  No, that’s not right…”  She paused ponderously.  Finally, she looked back up, grinning now.

“Fine, fine.  Fred it is.  How ya doin’, Freddie boy?”

The monster made no reply, not even a moan.  At that moment, its gaze wasn’t even fixed precisely in her direction.  It was looking off a little to its right, although she thought that “looking” wasn’t really the word for it.  She didn’t think they did much “looking”.  It was more like…well, just pointing their eyes, in one way or another.  She thought that “looking” implied a little more intelligence than these bastards deserved credit for.  “Looking” was something you did when you had a reason to “look”, right?

But maybe that was just more nonsense.  Maybe it was more madness.  Pretty soon, they’d be hauling her off to the funny farm.  Except, the funny farm didn’t exist any more, did it?

Why of course it does, dear.  Just take a look at the world all around you.  It’s nothing but one big happy funny farm out there, you crazy bitch!

 

*    *    *

 

The reporters hadn’t been the only ones, either.  Refugees from all over D.C. had come off and on, desperately seeking shelter from the onslaught of the undead.  It had been hard to turn them away, and Sammi was grateful that she hadn’t always been the one to have to do it.  The Prez had done it himself, the first few times, citing known shelter areas in the city in which people were more likely to be safe.  These shelter areas – “military zones” was the technical term – had likely been overrun within the first week or so of the outbreak.  That had been before all the data had come forth on preventative measures, and thousands of the infected had slipped past dozens of checkpoints throughout the city.  Could the Prez be blamed for that?  No, probably not.  The information he got on the situation was almost as sketchy as what the rest of them got.  He probably really did think he was sending them to a safer place, at least at first.  Later…well, who was she to hazard a guess?  Besides, all that did was go back to the blame game, and that wasn’t going to help anyone now.

After POTUS and the Veep had gone, it had been up to her.  She was the highest ranking officer in the remaining food chain by then.  And hadn’t she believed that she was doing the right thing by sending them away?  Hadn’t it been in these refugees’ best interests to keep moving, and to try to eventually get out of the city?  Surely that was the case.

And yet…

And yet part of her nagged at that.  Because part of her knew that if they let people in, two new elements would be introduced, one of potential and one of fact.  The potential element was the infected, and if the law of averages was worth a shit, that could almost be counted as an eventual fact, couldn’t it?  Sooner or later, they would let the wrong person or persons through the door, and then it would all be for nothing.  Oh, they might catch one or two in time to do something about it, but wasn’t it more likely that they wouldn’t?  That some poor schmuck would expire in the middle of the night, and then come back as one of those things within the walls of the White House?

The other thing was the food supply.  There was enough food to feed a few people for a very long time.  But a lot of people?  How long would it last then?  How long before they all began to starve?  How long before hunger would drive one or all of them to do something crazy, like try to run away from this place, or worse?  For that matter, what if their hunger drove them to sink to the level of their undead foes, dining on the flesh of one another?  It could never, ever come to that, of course, but…

She was ashamed of herself, mostly because she knew that the predominant reason in her mind during these refusals was not at all concern for the refugees’ safety, but concern for her own.  That was what it all boiled down to, and it was driving her mad.

 

*    *    *

 

Fred was definitely looking at her now.  The sliver of cheek on his face flapped back and forth a little, and she almost thought she could pick out his individual moan over the low drone of the rest of them, as if her ears were capable of picking out the sound of one poorly-tuned instrument in a cacophony of poorly-tuned instruments.  Silly, of course.

Fred’s lips seemed to pull back a little, almost as if he were affecting some kind of hungry sneer.  Sammi returned the gesture, but she found it was almost more of a smile than anything else.  And why not?  Fred was sort of cute, in an undead way.  One part of her mind was suddenly appalled to hear the other part give voice to such a disgusting (and crazy) utterance, but she ignored it.  She allowed herself to wonder what Fred had been like in his life.  He was wearing a business suit, but it was too dirty and too tattered for her to be able to tell if it was expensive or not – usually she could tell about these kinds of things with at least a fair amount of accuracy.

So, all right, she couldn’t tell whether he was wearing Armani or Bill Blass, but that was no big deal.  He was wearing a suit, at least, and that was something.  Also, as large a man as he had been, it almost certainly had to have been tailored.  Guys Fred’s size didn’t usually just walk in and out of The Men’s Wearhouse in thirty minutes, loaded for bear.

Fred resumed his attempt at upward mobility, bringing first one foot forward against the step in front of him, then the other, his useless chewed arm swinging like a horrific pendulum by his side, his other arm reaching toward her as if he would love to fondle her nose.  When the second shoe hit the step, Fred overbalanced and tipped forward.  Sammi wasn’t sure if she had actually heard him moaning above the others, but she was almost positive she could hear his face hit the pavement as he self-administered a curb check.

She started backward, giving off a little shriek as she did so.  Her hands rose to the side of her face, her now-jagged fingernails digging into the skin just beneath her temples.  Was Fred all right?  Had he hurt himself?

What in the blue fuck do you care? another voice in her head asked.  You’d better hope he – it – did.  You’d just fucking better!

But the truth was, she didn’t.  And when Fred began to pull himself back up into a standing position, slowly managing some sort of half balance on his one useful arm, she felt a sigh of relief whistle out from her clenched teeth.  She lowered her hands from her face, and placed the left one against the glass of the window, leaning on it for support as she continued to watch.  She half expected Fred to dust himself off, then give her a goofy grin as if to say “well, I did it again.”  But he didn’t do that.  Instead, he rose to his full height, his eyes staring – well, pointing – off into the nothingness again, as if he had completely forgotten that she existed…which he most likely had.  His face was worse now.  The torn cheek now hung much more loosely off the frame of his face.  His lower lip was torn open, and because no blood had come out of it, she was able to see the broken lower teeth behind it.  As she watched, two or three flecks of those teeth went tumbling out of the V shape that his new lip configuration had created, and bounced on the steps below him.  Again, she half-imagined that she could hear each individual clink as they came slowly to rest.

You poor thing! part of her mind said.  The rest shot back: What?!  What the hell did you just say?!

Her palm began to sweat, and her hand slid several inches down the glass, leaving behind it five damp fingerprint streaks.  She had been leaning heavily on this hand, and now it was her turn to regain balance.  This she did with much more ease than Fred would have or could have, and once she was back in place, she looked out to find that he had seen her again.  This time, the trembling of that torn jowl was more pronounced; it sent the curly beard-hair away for the briefest of seconds, then allowed it to reunite with the cheekbone again.

Fred started forward toward her once again, and once again he fell.  This time, he managed to land atop the corpse of one of his fellow zombies…

 

*    *    *

 

Zombies.  That’s what you have to keep telling yourself.  That’s not a man out there, it’s a living corpse.  And you, little Missy, would be crazy to think anything else of him…it.

Crazy.

But it didn’t seem crazy.  Was it possible to anthropomorphize what had already once been a human being?  Surely that was prohibited under some sort of homo sapiens double jeopardy law, right?

She laughed, this time more than a little titter, but covered her mouth with her free hand to stifle it.  No sense waking the others up, especially when waking them up might mean exposing them to her…well, her little fit.  If it had to have some kind of label, she supposed that should be it.  She wasn’t crazy, after all; she just occasionally had a crazy idea or two.  Like the idea that Fred out there – that zombie out there – was sort of cute, and that he might actually want just to talk to her.

Yes, that was even what it looked like, now that she thought about it.  He seemed to be extending that one working hand in a gesture of friendship, diplomacy.  Anyone, but particularly a White House Press Secretary, ought to be able to recognize diplomacy on sight.  Perhaps he wanted to meet with her, tell her all about the demands of the zombie population.  She could imagine how such an interview might go.

Sammi: Good afternoon, Fred Zombie.  Welcome to the White House.  Can I get you anything before we begin?

Fred: (distortedly) Well, normally I’d take a forearm, but I’m trying to watch my belly.  It sort of gets distended, you know…

Sammi: I understand.  How about some fingers, then?  Just to take the edge off.

Fred: That would be wonderful.

Sammi: Here you go.  Okay, let’s get down to brass tacks, Mr. Zombie…

Fred: (through a mouthful of finger-meat) Please, call me Fred.

Sammi: Thank you, Fred.  You really know how to lighten a tense situation.

Fred: Well, that’s why I’m here, and not some of the others.  I have a tendency to set people’s minds at ease.

Sammi: Well, you’ve set mine.  So let’s get started.  What would you say the core demands of the zombie population are?

Fred: First of all, we’re discussing among ourselves the distinct possibility that the term “zombie” might not be very politically correct…

Sammi: Oh, my apologies, Fred.  Did you have another title in mind?

Fred: (thinks for a moment) We talked about “the Undead”, also “the Living Dead”.  We don’t think the latter applies, really, since we’re not living, after all.  And, let’s face it, “Undead” conjures up a fairly negative association, wouldn’t you agree?

Sammi: Undoubtedly.

Fred: The jury’s still out, of course, but for now let’s work with one of the suggestions from the group: the Posi-Humans.  You know, kinda like antimatter, the positron?  Guy named Craig thought that one up.  He used to be a physicist or something.

Sammi: That sounds just fine, Fred.  All right, what would you say the core demands of the…the…

Fred: Posi-Humans.

Sammi: …the Posi-Humans are?

Fred: (bringing his working hand up to his chest and drumming the fingers there) Well, you’re really probably not going to like them.  First of all, we demand the right to eat humans.

Sammi: Yeah, that’s a pretty tall order.

Fred: (sighing dismissively) You asked.  Second of all…and this really isn’t so much of a demand as a request…we’d appreciate it if the majority of the stalled traffic throughout the city could be moved to allow passage on foot.  We…can’t drive, you see.

Sammi: Yeah, I know.  Now, how are we going to go about moving the traffic if your people – sorry, Posi-Humans – are eating us while we do it?

Fred: (with a nervous laugh) Point for your side, Miss Milva.  I can’t promise that none of your people will be harmed, but after all, you are the superior species in terms of intellect.  Surely you can figure something out.

Sammi: I’ll see what I can do.  Moving on to…

 

*    *    *

 

…the next step.  Sammi blinked, unsure of what she had just seen.  But when her eyes opened again, it was just as true as before she had closed them.  Fred had made it up to the next step.  It was impossible, of course, but it had happened nonetheless.  It wasn’t much progress, and Fred fell down again once he had attained the next step.  But it was shocking nonetheless.

Was it possible that they were beginning to learn?  Surely not.

And yet there he – no, it, dammit!  It’s not a he, you moron! – was, getting back up on the next step.  Sammi’s stomach lurched, and she felt like she might throw up.  The others needed to know about this.  She wanted to turn around and go wake them up.  She desperately wanted that.  But her feet wouldn’t move from their spot.  She was rooted to the floor, staring helplessly out at Fred.

His name’s not fucking Fred!  Quit calling him – it – that!

And an incredible thought occurred to her at that moment.  She could just unlock the door.  Yes, unlock the door and run out to him, run out to Fred.  After all, it was cruel to make him climb the rest of those steps alone!  The man had only one working arm.  How much of a bitch could she possibly be?

“Sammi?” a voice said from behind her.  Sammi had had no formal training in the use of firearms, yet she whirled and produced the Walther from its holster with a speed and ferocity that might have made Clint Eastwood shit his pants.

But it was only Miguel, standing there, pale as a sheet as he stared down the barrel of the Walther.  She lowered it slowly, then uttered a high, tittery laugh.

“They can climb stairs,” she said.  Miguel only stood there.  His eyebrows raised, but the eyes themselves did not leave the lowering gun.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“I mean I saw Fred climb up a fucking stair, you dumb shit!” she yelled, but it only came out as a hoarse croak.

“Who’s…”

“Not Fred!” she said, shaking her head as if to clear it.  “What I mean is, I saw one of the zombies climb a step.”

“Sammi, I don’t think…”

“I fucking saw it, Miguel!  I was watching, and he just…that is, it just took a step up.”  Her eyes blazed, and the hand that held the gun began to move back and forth in a seemingly aimless arc.  Miguel regarded it, a little fearfully.

“All right,” he said, and the reasonable tone in his voice told her that he thought she was cracking up.  “So one of them managed to take a step.  I’m sure it was a coincidence.  These things can happen, you know.”

“Don’t you patronize me, Miguel!” she said, and to her own horror, she raised the gun at him.  His eyebrows shot back up again, and he raised his hands.

“Sammi, what are you…?”

But that was when she shot him.

 

*    *    *

 

Night lay across the D.C. sky like a blanket full of tiny holes; the moon and stars shone down vaguely through it, penetrating the underlying sheet of thin, wispy clouds and illuminating the dead – the Posi-Humans – beneath that.  The moans were louder now, but Sammi guessed that that was because the door was open.

The cold night breeze blew in through it, chilling her and driving her arms up to and around her knees.  She drew them up to her breast, hugging herself tightly as she began to rock back and forth a little.  The feel of the Walther against her thigh was a good one.  It beat the shit out of the feeling on her face, the one the breeze produced when it blew across the tacky surfaces of the blood flecks.  Those had come from Sarah, of course, who had been much closer than Miguel when…

Fred was still down there.  She couldn’t see him now from where she was sitting, but she knew that he was still down there.  And who knew, he might have made another step or two.  She doubted it; she now imagined that Miguel had probably been right about that.  But it was possible.  She rocked back and forth, alternately fighting and embracing the panic, and all the things it brought with it.

Had she been so wrong?  After all, Miguel and Sarah had shot just as many people as she had.  Not zombies, but people.  That last day, when the remaining reporters had stormed the White House, demanding refuge?  What had happened then?  Had she been the only one to open fire on them?  Had she even been the first?

“Fucking right I wasn’t!” she breathed into her knees.  She felt a new wetness on her face, and for a horrible moment she thought it was more of Sarah’s blood, perhaps some that she had missed before.  But of course it wasn’t.  The tears began to stream down, slowly at first, then building up to a torrential flood.  She began to sob wildly, rocking harder and harder until her back was slamming up against the wall she sat near.  Her heels left the floor, banged down on it, left it, banged down again.  The fingers at the ends of her hands began to shake violently, and the Walther clattered to the floor with a clank which was almost noisy enough to block out the loud noise of her sobs and the louder noise of the moans.

Those moans!  Those insufferable, God-forsaken moans!  A thronging chorus of the damned, come to see another soul wing its way downward through the cracks and fissures of the Earth, and into the eternal blissless existence saved only for those burning in the deep fires of hell.

This was Trenton Milva’s little girl Samantha, who had always wanted to grow up to be a singer – at least until her junior year of high school.  The girl who, at seven, had once plucked a bouquet of daisies, and had proceeded to place one on top of each of the gravestones in the Morton Hills Cemetery, which had sat in timbery shadows across the street from the small house where she had lived and where she would continue to live until her nineteenth year.  The girl who had lost her virginity in a broom closet, of all places, and to Gabe Hirsch, of all people.  The girl who had decided late in her high school career that singing was fine, but it wasn’t going to get her where she really wanted to go.  The girl who had, instead of applying at Julliard or the Royal Academy of Music, applied at Harvard and Yale, and who had gotten Yale.  This was the girl who was now a woman, and who had spent the last decade clawing and biting her way toward the top.  And hey, White House Press Secretary was pretty fucking close to the top, wasn’t it?

And now she was, be it ever so humble, at least at the top of the stairs.

But not for long, she thought.

She got up slowly.  The tears were still streaming down her face, and two or three of them fell from her cheek, plopping on the marble floor and shooting up a tiny cascade of saline in all directions.  She grabbed the Walther, not even noticing them.  She tried to walk over to the open door, and found herself hobbling a little instead.  She was thirty-seven, but even at such a tender age, her body didn’t take kindly to her sitting in one position for too long.

Fred was still there, but he hadn’t made it up another step.

“Fucking fluke,” she said idly.  Her voice shook from having sobbed, but her mouth turned up into a horrible, mean grin.  She raised the Walther and pointed it at Fred’s head.  Then, thinking better of it, she lowered it a little, and blew off most of Fred’s useful arm.  Fred did not cry out, but he did fall backward.  He went tumbling down, head over heels, unable to use either arm now to slow his fall (not that he would have).  When he reached the bottom of the stairs, he landed among some of his standing brethren, his legs splayed outward and both of his arms beneath him.  He began to move immediately, and Sammi knew that eventually he would get back up, eager to be back at the task of making it up the stairs to get at her.

“I won’t make you wait, Fred darling,” she said, and laughed into the bitter night air.  She raised the still-hot muzzle of the Walther to her temple, and fired the one shot allowed to a human in such instances.

Moments later, her body did indeed land very near to Fred’s.

 

END.

by J. M. Jennings

 

Corbin had been a physician for five years when his Vanessa hung herself in the garage. It was a Thursday, and his wife had left the car out on the street rather than pulling in to her normal spot. It’s strange, what you remember about these things.

Fuck the car and fuck you, Ness, he thought bitterly, hooking up Ellie’s IV for what could have been the last time. It wasn’t the last time, but it definitely could have been – vCJD was the last piece of Vanessa left to him. Cruztfeld-fucking-Jakobs, human variant, handed down from Ness to her daughter like a diamond should have been, or a favorite recipe. Ellie’s brain was rotting, but how do you tell a nine-year-old that her brain is rotting from anything but television? How do you explain to flesh and blood why all the lines and needles and shiny gallows-y IV stands are better than the searing pain the poor kid’s mother must have felt, and had most likely driven her hang herself?

“G’night sweet pea, daddy loves you.” Ell wheezed a little in her sleep, one leg shuttering perceptibly under the covers. Kuru. Mad cow. He tapped the bedside lamp to life, flipped the switch to the ceiling light, reflexively adjusted the door so he could see her fair little face from the recliner (more for his sake than hers, he knew,) sat his ass in the LaZBoy, and fell asleep watching the news. Corbin’s brain, too, was rotting.

——-

6:30 the following morning, Ellie’s hospice nurse arrived. Yelena hadn’t slept any better than the little shuddering doll in the bed, limbs all akimbo and trembling, fine sandy hair tacked to a spot of slobber on a cheek, sunken cheek. Back in the old country, Yelena would have stood her up, helped her walk, played a game in the fresh air. Yelena of the new country resisted the urge to yawn, brushed the lock of sticky hair from the sallow cheek, and yelped when Ellies’s little milk teeth sank into her wrist, cutting nerve and vessel, tearing to the bone. Yanking her arm away tore the flesh out of the wound as Ellie, once cherubic, snapped her little jaws with alarming vigor on the morsel, still connected by a tendon and a rose-hued string of saliva. The nurse pulled away, speechless and unable to scream, unable to breathe. The tendon snapped off at the gnashing teeth, and Yelena bolted.

“Mighty bitey,” an unkept Alabaman in an oily baseball cap had described an encounter with an unidentified assailant on the previous night’s 10 o’clock news. “Mighty bitey, came outta nowhere.”

The strigoi, as Yelena had chosen to call them, had dominated the news for the past few nights. She knew it was being blown out of proportion – this is America, after all – but surely every legend has a seed of truth? Surely the zombies, as her neighbors called them, lusted for blood? This was an especially pervasive trait of America; had the sopping wound on her arm been the product of a dream cultured into Ellie, a Pavlovian response to the beating heart of a foreigner? The steering wheel swung before her eyes in the car, probably shock, the snapping tendon echoing in her ears, where is Ellie? What have I done?

What has she done?

——-

Corbin’s keys landed on the counter with a clatter. He was on the edge of fuming. Where the fuck is Yelena? Is this tomato some-damn-thing on the linoleum? Looks more like… Is this trail going to, from…? Oh, fuck…FUCK….

Ellie, in a staggering motion some would call walking, stepped in perfected profile view past the kitchen island. The plastic lines dragged behind her, still taped to pallid forearms, needles torn from their careful placement. One lock of sandy hair had blackened with smeared blood, stuck to a once-rosy cheek, all grown cold since roughly 1:20 am. The watery green eyes, so like his own, had paled over in death, same as the bit of skin hanging by gristle from Ell’s lips. She wheezed a bit as her face lolled over the rigid shoulder, locking eyes with her daddy. Corbin was frozen.

She no longer trembled, but for the first time since the disease set in, since the prions punched holes in her little brain, since she found Mama “flying” in the garage, since the Alabama broadcasts, Ellie screamed.

——-

Yelena hadn’t left her apartment since she gave her statement to the Sheriff. The crusted wound, throbbing and necrotic, had spread over the forearm and hand, now limp and useless. Between her fever dreams, or when she was capable of thinking at all, she thought only of her grandmother’s stories of strigoi, the iron stakes they put through her grandfather’s belly, and of red, red meat. One option left.

Auspiciously, her aged but well-kept apartment was neatly situated above a garage in the older part of town, and while her landlords had intended to gentrify the property with vinyl fencing, they simply haven’t gotten around to it. Good for me, the thought seeped through the mental fog as the screen popped out, clattering two stories down. Is not aesthetic, but it will do. The fence, wrought iron and seven feet tall, looked a thin black line to her as she balanced her trembling self on the window sill. Paint chips and dead moths crunched under calloused feet, unnoticed, and remained stuck as she leaped, clearing the eves, arms spread wide. Iron bars crashed through flesh and bone, punctured her torso, and swayed slightly under the burden of a bleeding body. Yelena watched her blood trailing down the posts, feeling only hunger as her vision darkened.

END.

As Melody lay in the field enjoying the sun’s warmth, she thought she might be happy for the first time in months. Winter had been hard and dismal, but she’d survived. She was blissfully enjoying the moment; not thinking of the dead or the past or the hardship; just enjoying the sun and the chirping birds. Then a twig snapped and her revelry disappeared in a heartbeat.

She was on the move, jogging slowly beneath the weight of her pack, wondering how she could have let one get so close. Her legs had never been as strong as they’d been in the fall, but the winter’s inactivity turned her soft. She’d have to get back in shape. No workout routine was required. She would either get stronger or die. It was that simple.

She’d been jogging for about an hour before she felt she had gained sufficient distance to rest. She broke open her pack and pulled out a candy bar that she ate slowly, enjoying each bite, not knowing when she’d find another. As she ate, she watched the Shambler slowly cross the field. Occasionally, it would trip, but it always stood back up, coming toward her with an insatiable hunger.

 

She didn’t think of them as men, not anymore. Now they were Shamblers. Why the disease only affected men was a mystery no one ever solved before the Great Unraveling. Initial reactionaries thought it had to do with testosterone, but the more prevalent theories dealt with the smaller Y chromosome. Her college roommate once joked that she could never trust a man because he was born missing part of his DNA. Maybe she was right.

None of that mattered now. Science and theories were replaced with running and scavenging. It wasn’t the strong who survived, it was the swift.

Melody had been on the run for three years. Sometimes it was house to house, other times town to town; sometimes alone, sometimes with a group, but she was never all that comfortable with others. Groups often had their own weird power structure and as the newest member, she was always suspect. They rarely listened to her if she disagreed with their direction, so she’d inevitably slip away to be alone again. The one exception was Dana. Melody met Dana six months after the Great Unraveling and they instantly hit it off. Even though Dana was ten years older, they got along like sisters. They survived their first winter together and during the spring thaw, they ventured into Randall Park Mall on a scavenging run. They ran into a horde of Shamblers that forced them in opposite directions. Melody returned to their former hideout and waited a week, but Dana never showed. Melody had to believe she was dead. Why not? So was everyone else she knew.

Melody hadn’t seen another living soul in a year and she was beginning to think she might be the last person alive. Not that it mattered. Nothing mattered anymore. But after eight months of isolation, Melody missed the simple comfort of a conversation.

She finished her candy bar and resumed jogging. She was feeling every ounce of the weight in her backpack and the once soothing sun was now burning hot, but she managed to maintain a comfortable distance. Unfortunately, her shambling friend had found some company. There were now five Shamblers following her.

Finally, she made it to her destination. Fox Springs was a small town, just a few dozen buildings, in the middle of nowhere. Melody’s supplies had dwindled to nearly nothing in her old hideout so she needed to resupply. She hoped this would be her new home. At least for a while.

Looking back, her pursuers were gaining. She headed for the nearest building, but changed course when two Shamblers stumbled through an open doorway. Making as much noise as possible, she broke to the left and weaved her way between a few buildings. She needed to attract every Shambler in town if her plan was to work.

It wasn’t long before nearly a dozen Shamblers were slowly following her up and down the streets. It wasn’t hard to keep ahead of the Shamblers, but she was hungry and tired and eager to complete her plan. Melody had already spotted the perfect building, a church at the end of the street. Now that she had herded them all into one group, she would lure them into the church through the front. She would escape out the back, lock the door, then, while they clawed at the exit, she would circle around and lock the front entrance. Once they were all trapped inside, she would have free reign over the rest of the town. It was a maneuver she’d perfected with Dana.

Satisfied that the town’s Shamblers were all following her, though wondering why there were so few, she reached the front steps of the church. She waited till the group was closer before she opened the door. Melody stepped inside, ready to dash across the room when she heard something move. A mottled hand appeared on the back of one of the pews and behind it came the Shambler’s head, its eyes hungry. It groaned, and now a dozen more starving faces appeared. A second later and she realized the entire room was filled with them.

Quickly, she retreated, but the other Shamblers were almost on her. She ducked right, but didn’t have time to close the church doors. That meant that every single one in the church was now free and she’d easily seen more than forty hungry mouths yearning for her flesh.

With an entire horde now on her heels, this once beautiful day was turning ugly.

Fox Springs was a trap that she needed to escape, but she wasn’t sure how much longer she could keep running. There were plenty of cars, but she’d long ago given up relying on them for escape. Too often they didn’t start and after the long winter of disuse, many were looking the worse for wear. As panic slowly crept over her, she tried to sprint. That’s when her leg cramped.

The pain was so sudden and sharp that Melody first thought something had grabbed her. She let out a yell, then felt foolish. She needed to stay calm, to think. Taking a deep breath, she told herself not to panic.

The cramp slowed her down to a limp as she hobbled her way to the nearest house. Too many months of sitting around doing nothing! She’d let herself go and now she was paying the price. Melody knew that if there were any Shamblers inside, she was dead.

She ran through the front door, turned and locked it. She looked out the front window and watched some of the Shamblers wandering past the front door. She pounded on the glass to make sure she had their attention. She could hear them stumbling onto the porch, clawing at the door. A window crashed as she limped toward the back. She hurried before they trapped her inside. She pushed through the backdoor and was about to step off the porch when something caught her eye. Sitting on the porch was a bicycle.

The tires were flat, but that didn’t matter. She jumped on and pushed off down the hill, letting gravity do most of the work. A few Shamblers saw her and followed, but she was too fast. The bike carried her down a long, gentle slope until it flattened out as she rolled her way to freedom.

Melody peddled onward, pushing for whatever lay ahead. She preferred to plan her forays ahead, but she knew she would have to improvise until she had time to check the maps she carried in her backpack. Right now she needed to find a safe place to spend the night.

A few miles down the road she found a lone house. She checked for inhabitants, living or dead, but it was empty. She pulled the bike inside and locked the doors. She took a deep breath and laughed in relief. Then she cried.

She found several cans of peaches and creamed corn in the pantry. It was her first hearty meal in months. Before the Great Unraveling, Melody had hated canned food, but now she was certain that these peaches were the most delicious thing she ever ate.

Melody nervously passed the night, and at first light, she left. The house was too close to town and she was certain the Shamblers would find her. She gathered what she could and headed south.

Riding on nothing but rim was incredibly bumpy and uncomfortable, but she didn’t care. Riding along the roads, passing open fields and covering distances that would normally take her hours to walk was exhilarating.

As she rode, she wondered what day it was. There had been a calendar hanging in the house where she spent the winter, but it was two years old. It was hard to believe that at one time, days and dates and times seemed important. Calendars and clocks no longer mattered. All that mattered now was the next town and the next meal. She needed to find both.

She checked her maps and decided on a town called Willoughby Hills. It was a larger town than she normally liked to approach, but her bike’s rims were taking a beating and she worried they would soon be useless. She needed to find a bike shop.

It didn’t take her long once she found a house that had a copy of the old Yellow Pages. Melody never used anything other than her phone to look up information, but Dana taught her the old ways, which were once again useful.

She cautiously made her way through the streets until she found the shop. She had spent the night imagining how she would care for her tattered bike which saved her life, but once she entered the shop, she gave up on the idea immediately. Before her were dozens of brand new bikes just waiting to be dusted and oiled. Once she found her new ride, she tricked it out with everything she could: saddlebags, a basket, even a little trailer meant to carry a toddler which she used to load all the food she had scavenged. She also made sure she had plenty of spare inner tubes, oil, wrenches, a nice bright light for the handlebars, and a pump with an air pressure gauge. The ride was unbelievable. Compared to the constant shaking and shuddering of her previous bike, this felt like heaven.

For the first time since the Great Unraveling, Melody left town not knowing or caring where she was going.

That night she dreamt of Lake Chautauqua and the summer cottage she and her family visited when she was a little girl. They would go for two weeks each summer and Melody realized these were some of her happiest childhood memories. When she woke up, she resolved to go there. It was hundreds of miles away, but what else was she doing?

As a pedestrian, she avoided the highways; they were too open and often remote. A Shambler follows tirelessly if he can see you, so open spaces were avoided. But now it was the easiest, most direct route to get her to New York so she made her way to Route 71 and headed north. The asphalt was still in good shape and the miles melted away. She rode an entire day without seeing a single Shambler.

That night, Melody lay awake beneath a vast array of stars, stars she had never before seen when electricity still ran. She worried returning to Lake Chautauqua might stir up too many memories, but she told herself not to worry about it. Having a destination was enough.

Melody started early the next morning, but by midday, the scent of rain permeated the air as she watched dark clouds roll in from the north. She was traveling in a very rural expanse so she stopped at a remote gas station to wait out the storm.

She checked the place for supplies, but it had long since been ransacked. She left her bike beneath an overhang and went inside. An hour passed before it started, but it was a downpour. Melody was glad she had a safe haven.

She unrolled her sleeping bag and lay on top of it as she listened to the rain and before she knew it, she drifted off. By the time she awoke, the rain had passed. She could see the dark clouds moving south and a rainbow arched across the sky. She was about to step outside when she heard a noise that sent her dashing for cover. It was a quick noise, but it startled her. When she dared to look out the window, she realized that it wasn’t a Shambler she heard, but the sound of another bicycle!

Melody’s heart pounded as she dashed outside, but her bike was still there. Looking down the highway she was stunned to see a small figure getting smaller. Another rider!

Whoever it was hadn’t noticed her parked bike or they would have stopped to scavenge her supplies.

Melody stood next to her bike, uncertain what to do. The longer she hesitated, the further away the stranger rode. In a moment, they would be gone.

It could be anyone, she told herself. Murderer, rapist, thief; someone only too happy to take everything she had so painstakingly gathered.

Fuck it. She would follow.

Melody’s bike was heavily laden with supplies and for a long time she wondered if she would ever catch up. Her legs were getting stronger, but they were sore from the constant exertion. Discouraged, Melody was ready to give up when she realized the rider’s pace was slowing. She pressed forward until she closed the bulk of the gap.

As she approached, Melody wished she could see who she was dealing with. She had learned to tell a lot about another survivor by what they carried and she wanted more information. Like her, the rider carried a massive backpack so she couldn’t make out any features from behind. What did it matter? Whoever it was they were alive.

Melody wondered if she wasn’t crazy for following a complete stranger who could just as easily shoot her the moment she spoke. She was debating how to introduce herself when a familiar sound came to her ears. The rider was whistling!

She recognized the song; it was an old one she learned in grade school. For whatever reason, this put Melody more at ease and now she had an idea. She waited for the tune to return to the chorus, then softly, so as not to startle the stranger, she sang along, “Summertime, and the livin’ is easy. Fish are jumpin’ and the cotton is high.”

A woman’s voice sang back, “Your daddy’s rich and your ma is good-lookin.’ So hush little baby, Don’t you cry.”

Then they sang in unison: “One of these mornings, you’re going to rise up singing. Then you’ll spread your wings, and you’ll take to the sky.”

Both riders slowed and came to a stop. They leaned across their bikes and awkwardly embraced, trying not to fall over from their heavy packs. Melody wouldn’t let go and she found herself shaking as she let the tears fall down her cheeks. After all the months, and the doubts, and the dreadful fears, she couldn’t believe it.

Dana was alive!

 

END.

by Samson Stormcrow Hayes

Author of the critically acclaimed graphic novel Afterlife (YALSA quick picks selection), screenwriter of “The Deal”, a ghost writer on a Steven Seagal film (advance apologies if you’ve seen it, I was following the producer’s instructions), and author of numerous stories and poetry. Hayes has written for Nigel Lythgoe (producer of American Idol), The Weekly World News, and his epitaph. Originally from Cleveland, Ohio, he now resides in Los Angeles where he expects the smog to slowly kill him. He can be found in old parking lots, abandoned malls, or at www.Stormcrowhayes.com.

 

As Melody lay in the field enjoying the sun’s warmth, she thought she might be happy for the first time in months. Winter had been hard and dismal, but she’d survived. She was blissfully enjoying the moment; not thinking of the dead or the past or the hardship; just enjoying the sun and the chirping birds. Then a twig snapped and her revelry disappeared in a heartbeat.

She was on the move, jogging slowly beneath the weight of her pack, wondering how she could have let one get so close. Her legs had never been as strong as they’d been in the fall, but the winter’s inactivity turned her soft. She’d have to get back in shape. No workout routine was required. She would either get stronger or die. It was that simple.

She’d been jogging for about an hour before she felt she had gained sufficient distance to rest. She broke open her pack and pulled out a candy bar that she ate slowly, enjoying each bite, not knowing when she’d find another. As she ate, she watched the Shambler slowly cross the field. Occasionally, it would trip, but it always stood back up, coming toward her with an insatiable hunger.

 

She didn’t think of them as men, not anymore. Now they were Shamblers. Why the disease only affected men was a mystery no one ever solved before the Great Unraveling. Initial reactionaries thought it had to do with testosterone, but the more prevalent theories dealt with the smaller Y chromosome. Her college roommate once joked that she could never trust a man because he was born missing part of his DNA. Maybe she was right.

None of that mattered now. Science and theories were replaced with running and scavenging. It wasn’t the strong who survived, it was the swift.

Melody had been on the run for three years. Sometimes it was house to house, other times town to town; sometimes alone, sometimes with a group, but she was never all that comfortable with others. Groups often had their own weird power structure and as the newest member, she was always suspect. They rarely listened to her if she disagreed with their direction, so she’d inevitably slip away to be alone again. The one exception was Dana. Melody met Dana six months after the Great Unraveling and they instantly hit it off. Even though Dana was ten years older, they got along like sisters. They survived their first winter together and during the spring thaw, they ventured into Randall Park Mall on a scavenging run. They ran into a horde of Shamblers that forced them in opposite directions. Melody returned to their former hideout and waited a week, but Dana never showed. Melody had to believe she was dead. Why not? So was everyone else she knew.

Melody hadn’t seen another living soul in a year and she was beginning to think she might be the last person alive. Not that it mattered. Nothing mattered anymore. But after eight months of isolation, Melody missed the simple comfort of a conversation.

She finished her candy bar and resumed jogging. She was feeling every ounce of the weight in her backpack and the once soothing sun was now burning hot, but she managed to maintain a comfortable distance. Unfortunately, her shambling friend had found some company. There were now five Shamblers following her.

Finally, she made it to her destination. Fox Springs was a small town, just a few dozen buildings, in the middle of nowhere. Melody’s supplies had dwindled to nearly nothing in her old hideout so she needed to resupply. She hoped this would be her new home. At least for a while.

Looking back, her pursuers were gaining. She headed for the nearest building, but changed course when two Shamblers stumbled through an open doorway. Making as much noise as possible, she broke to the left and weaved her way between a few buildings. She needed to attract every Shambler in town if her plan was to work.

It wasn’t long before nearly a dozen Shamblers were slowly following her up and down the streets. It wasn’t hard to keep ahead of the Shamblers, but she was hungry and tired and eager to complete her plan. Melody had already spotted the perfect building, a church at the end of the street. Now that she had herded them all into one group, she would lure them into the church through the front. She would escape out the back, lock the door, then, while they clawed at the exit, she would circle around and lock the front entrance. Once they were all trapped inside, she would have free reign over the rest of the town. It was a maneuver she’d perfected with Dana.

Satisfied that the town’s Shamblers were all following her, though wondering why there were so few, she reached the front steps of the church. She waited till the group was closer before she opened the door. Melody stepped inside, ready to dash across the room when she heard something move. A mottled hand appeared on the back of one of the pews and behind it came the Shambler’s head, its eyes hungry. It groaned, and now a dozen more starving faces appeared. A second later and she realized the entire room was filled with them.

Quickly, she retreated, but the other Shamblers were almost on her. She ducked right, but didn’t have time to close the church doors. That meant that every single one in the church was now free and she’d easily seen more than forty hungry mouths yearning for her flesh.

With an entire horde now on her heels, this once beautiful day was turning ugly.

Fox Springs was a trap that she needed to escape, but she wasn’t sure how much longer she could keep running. There were plenty of cars, but she’d long ago given up relying on them for escape. Too often they didn’t start and after the long winter of disuse, many were looking the worse for wear. As panic slowly crept over her, she tried to sprint. That’s when her leg cramped.

The pain was so sudden and sharp that Melody first thought something had grabbed her. She let out a yell, then felt foolish. She needed to stay calm, to think. Taking a deep breath, she told herself not to panic.

The cramp slowed her down to a limp as she hobbled her way to the nearest house. Too many months of sitting around doing nothing! She’d let herself go and now she was paying the price. Melody knew that if there were any Shamblers inside, she was dead.

She ran through the front door, turned and locked it. She looked out the front window and watched some of the Shamblers wandering past the front door. She pounded on the glass to make sure she had their attention. She could hear them stumbling onto the porch, clawing at the door. A window crashed as she limped toward the back. She hurried before they trapped her inside. She pushed through the backdoor and was about to step off the porch when something caught her eye. Sitting on the porch was a bicycle.

The tires were flat, but that didn’t matter. She jumped on and pushed off down the hill, letting gravity do most of the work. A few Shamblers saw her and followed, but she was too fast. The bike carried her down a long, gentle slope until it flattened out as she rolled her way to freedom.

Melody peddled onward, pushing for whatever lay ahead. She preferred to plan her forays ahead, but she knew she would have to improvise until she had time to check the maps she carried in her backpack. Right now she needed to find a safe place to spend the night.

A few miles down the road she found a lone house. She checked for inhabitants, living or dead, but it was empty. She pulled the bike inside and locked the doors. She took a deep breath and laughed in relief. Then she cried.

She found several cans of peaches and creamed corn in the pantry. It was her first hearty meal in months. Before the Great Unraveling, Melody had hated canned food, but now she was certain that these peaches were the most delicious thing she ever ate.

Melody nervously passed the night, and at first light, she left. The house was too close to town and she was certain the Shamblers would find her. She gathered what she could and headed south.

Riding on nothing but rim was incredibly bumpy and uncomfortable, but she didn’t care. Riding along the roads, passing open fields and covering distances that would normally take her hours to walk was exhilarating.

As she rode, she wondered what day it was. There had been a calendar hanging in the house where she spent the winter, but it was two years old. It was hard to believe that at one time, days and dates and times seemed important. Calendars and clocks no longer mattered. All that mattered now was the next town and the next meal. She needed to find both.

She checked her maps and decided on a town called Willoughby Hills. It was a larger town than she normally liked to approach, but her bike’s rims were taking a beating and she worried they would soon be useless. She needed to find a bike shop.

It didn’t take her long once she found a house that had a copy of the old Yellow Pages. Melody never used anything other than her phone to look up information, but Dana taught her the old ways, which were once again useful.

She cautiously made her way through the streets until she found the shop. She had spent the night imagining how she would care for her tattered bike which saved her life, but once she entered the shop, she gave up on the idea immediately. Before her were dozens of brand new bikes just waiting to be dusted and oiled. Once she found her new ride, she tricked it out with everything she could: saddlebags, a basket, even a little trailer meant to carry a toddler which she used to load all the food she had scavenged. She also made sure she had plenty of spare inner tubes, oil, wrenches, a nice bright light for the handlebars, and a pump with an air pressure gauge. The ride was unbelievable. Compared to the constant shaking and shuddering of her previous bike, this felt like heaven.

For the first time since the Great Unraveling, Melody left town not knowing or caring where she was going.

That night she dreamt of Lake Chautauqua and the summer cottage she and her family visited when she was a little girl. They would go for two weeks each summer and Melody realized these were some of her happiest childhood memories. When she woke up, she resolved to go there. It was hundreds of miles away, but what else was she doing?

As a pedestrian, she avoided the highways; they were too open and often remote. A Shambler follows tirelessly if he can see you, so open spaces were avoided. But now it was the easiest, most direct route to get her to New York so she made her way to Route 71 and headed north. The asphalt was still in good shape and the miles melted away. She rode an entire day without seeing a single Shambler.

That night, Melody lay awake beneath a vast array of stars, stars she had never before seen when electricity still ran. She worried returning to Lake Chautauqua might stir up too many memories, but she told herself not to worry about it. Having a destination was enough.

Melody started early the next morning, but by midday, the scent of rain permeated the air as she watched dark clouds roll in from the north. She was traveling in a very rural expanse so she stopped at a remote gas station to wait out the storm.

She checked the place for supplies, but it had long since been ransacked. She left her bike beneath an overhang and went inside. An hour passed before it started, but it was a downpour. Melody was glad she had a safe haven.

She unrolled her sleeping bag and lay on top of it as she listened to the rain and before she knew it, she drifted off. By the time she awoke, the rain had passed. She could see the dark clouds moving south and a rainbow arched across the sky. She was about to step outside when she heard a noise that sent her dashing for cover. It was a quick noise, but it startled her. When she dared to look out the window, she realized that it wasn’t a Shambler she heard, but the sound of another bicycle!

Melody’s heart pounded as she dashed outside, but her bike was still there. Looking down the highway she was stunned to see a small figure getting smaller. Another rider!

Whoever it was hadn’t noticed her parked bike or they would have stopped to scavenge her supplies.

Melody stood next to her bike, uncertain what to do. The longer she hesitated, the further away the stranger rode. In a moment, they would be gone.

It could be anyone, she told herself. Murderer, rapist, thief; someone only too happy to take everything she had so painstakingly gathered.

Fuck it. She would follow.

Melody’s bike was heavily laden with supplies and for a long time she wondered if she would ever catch up. Her legs were getting stronger, but they were sore from the constant exertion. Discouraged, Melody was ready to give up when she realized the rider’s pace was slowing. She pressed forward until she closed the bulk of the gap.

As she approached, Melody wished she could see who she was dealing with. She had learned to tell a lot about another survivor by what they carried and she wanted more information. Like her, the rider carried a massive backpack so she couldn’t make out any features from behind. What did it matter? Whoever it was they were alive.

Melody wondered if she wasn’t crazy for following a complete stranger who could just as easily shoot her the moment she spoke. She was debating how to introduce herself when a familiar sound came to her ears. The rider was whistling!

She recognized the song; it was an old one she learned in grade school. For whatever reason, this put Melody more at ease and now she had an idea. She waited for the tune to return to the chorus, then softly, so as not to startle the stranger, she sang along, “Summertime, and the livin’ is easy. Fish are jumpin’ and the cotton is high.”

A woman’s voice sang back, “Your daddy’s rich and your ma is good-lookin.’ So hush little baby, Don’t you cry.”

Then they sang in unison: “One of these mornings, you’re going to rise up singing. Then you’ll spread your wings, and you’ll take to the sky.”

Both riders slowed and came to a stop. They leaned across their bikes and awkwardly embraced, trying not to fall over from their heavy packs. Melody wouldn’t let go and she found herself shaking as she let the tears fall down her cheeks. After all the months, and the doubts, and the dreadful fears, she couldn’t believe it.

Dana was alive!

 

END.

by Samson Stormcrow Hayes

Author of the critically acclaimed graphic novel Afterlife (YALSA quick picks selection), screenwriter of “The Deal”, a ghost writer on a Steven Seagal film (advance apologies if you’ve seen it, I was following the producer’s instructions), and author of numerous stories and poetry. Hayes has written for Nigel Lythgoe (producer of American Idol), The Weekly World News, and his epitaph. Originally from Cleveland, Ohio, he now resides in Los Angeles where he expects the smog to slowly kill him. He can be found in old parking lots, abandoned malls, or at www.Stormcrowhayes.com.