Zombies - A Finale

I had a better title, but it wasn't relevant.

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"Shit," I muttered. Again, "shit!" with more urgency.

Lynette snapped out of a haze at this and started moving, whipping me around in a tight circle and moving back through the maze of hallways at a near sprint.

I tried to keep an eye on the signs whizzing past in case I had to come back at any point, but it was useless. We turned left when I swore we should have turned right and went down a level when we should have gone up--this, by the way, was the nearest I've ever come to taking a bite out of my own knee. Stairways are murder to a wheelchair.

Suddenly, we stopped. Lynette slapped at the Up button beside--you've got to be joking--an elevator.

I stared at it and said, "Um."

"We're going a level higher than the main floor. There's no way in hell I'm going out there before I get a good idea of what's safe."

Huh. She was smart! I marvelled. I would never have thought of that. (Don't read too much into it.)

The doors dinged open and Lynette somehow managed to move into the car at a dead run. My head spun. The doors slid shut.

"What if there's fighting on the top level, too?" I watched the floor number uneasily.

"When we've already lost."

But we're still alive, I wanted to say. Instead, I went with, "Oh."

We were quiet for a bit.

"I was eating a pizza before," I ventured.

The number flipped to a 3, the door parted with cheer, and hell broke loose.

The back wall of the elevator blossomed forward in a screech of steel and roar of fire that pitched me forward and out of the car. The second floor only took up half the building, ending in a loft-type of railing that overlooked the main atrium. I watched the balcony railing sail closer before something caught my eye. It was Lynette, body limp, sliding across the floor on her belly and turning in a lazy half circle before coming to a rest against a bookshelf.

One of my wheels caught the top rail and I hurtled downward in a weird, painful-legged flail through a cloud of fire, smoke and scorched debris billowing out ahead of me.

Falling sucks. Especially when it's a far enough fall that your view of the impending impact is suddenly obscured by a view of the wall, and then the ceiling. I went so far as to catch just a glimpse of a second wall before all I saw was floor tile and what looked like a piece of my tongue.

My vision went flashy black in that kaleidoscopic way only severe head trauma can go. I thought I would at least pass out, but I didn't. One of my feet kicked me in the throat, then followed my hips down to the floor after what has to be the most awesome spinal-injury-evasion-not-accomplished-with-a-skateboard-at-hand of all time.

I blinked, ignoring the buzzing whine in my ears and the accompanying migraine, and tried to find my wheelchair.

It lay beside me, somewhat blackened and missing an armrest, but otherwise unscathed. With heroic effort, I lifted myself to an almost-sitting position, blinked a few times and wiped some blood from my nose.

I was in the main atrium now. Bookshelves had been moved to create a staggered V-shape of barriers that provided minimal cover. I noticed they were arranged in doubles, in hope, I guessed, that a double layer of oak would stop the bullets.

I fumbled my wheelchair closer and clumsily hefted myself into it, almost tipping right over again. I couldn't help noticing the trails of wetness extending from my ears down both sides of my neck, but blinked a couple more times to clear my vision again and wheeled myself cautiously toward the first shelf to peer around.

I counted six gunmen that looked like ours--they were facing the doors--and at least a dozen returning fire from the receptionists' desks near the entrance.

The ringing in my ears was drowning out every other sound, I noticed with a twinge of worry. I wasn't even sure if they were taking in any sound at all.

With another spattering swipe at the blood under my nose, I put both hands firmly on the wheels of my chair and hustled forward, across the room. Somebody out there had the virus and I assumed it was the General. He seemed like a good place to start.

Something zinged past my head. They were shooting at cripples now? The bastards! I gritted my teeth and moved faster. Ahead, across a small stretch of open space after one last bookshelf, a gaping, charred and burning opening led to the blue-tinged twilight outside. I was forced to assume the General was now doing what he had done in the earlier fight--that is, run and hide while his minions did the dirty work.

I found him long before I expected to. He leaped mutedly into my path just as I emerged into the open air. His mouth gaped in a soundless battlecry to accompany the shotgun in his hands.

"You fuckers have no sense of decency," I grumbled in a very muffled voice. I never expected to die in a wheelchair or from a shotgun wound. But life's a bitch that way.

I watched him chamber a shell with a menacing grin. His mouth was moving through what looked frighteningly like a victory monologue.

In my everyday life, if somebody blocks my path, I am instinctively inclined to stop moving to avoid a collision. I feel this is normal for most people. Strangely, I have never before had to factor in my being in a wheelchair.

Where I would otherwise have stopped, I now rocketed along, hands lifted in surrender. His eyes widened, he stepped back, and I plowed into him.

The wheels of my chair caught on his feet as he went under and I was catapulted forward once again. But this time, I didn't pull a Superman from one storey to the next; I just flopped. His knee came up and caught me right in the family jewels--I have to assume out of the goodness of my heart that it was an accident--and my elbow slammed down on the bridge of his nose (that wasn't an accident. He had done more than enough to make me overlook any heart-goodness at that point.)

Then, I could hear again. My hearing cleared like angst-ridden teenagers when mall security shows up. Shaking my head to clear the disorientation, I spat out runoff from my nosebleed and sat up just as a military truck swerved into the far end of the square.

Something nearby squawked. I looked at the General and started. He was out cold. How convenient, that! His radio was staticking like mad. I realized it was someone speaking.

"...just pulling in, General. We have the package and are arming it now."

"Oh hell," I groaned. A glance showed the truck halfway across the square. Gunfire still staccatoed from inside the Library. The truck drove closer. "Ohshitohshitohshit!" I looked around frantically for something--anything!--I could do.

Something gleamed on the General's belt. A grenade. Better to, at the very least, keep the virus from getting inside, right? It was probably airborne, judging by its quick spread, but the open air would disperse it a lot quicker, I reasoned.

Besides, I had a bum leg, was outside all by myself--at the mercy of whatever decided to come along--and was suffering from a serious concussion. And I had a migraine. So to hell with reason.

I picked up the grenade, pulled the pin and waited with my hand clamped firmly on the detonator, prayin gI was doing it right.

The truck was about to bounce off the curb and cross the street to the library when I threw my last ditch effort and hoped it wasn't only smoke.

The drab green truck went up like a Christmas tree being torn in two by a gigantic, billowy, orange monster thing with a lot of black and green smoke! A wave of heat washed over me, forcing me to blink madly until it passed.

When my watery eyes finally cleared, I saw the truck, still pouring smoke, sitting flat on the pavement with no wheels in sight. The entire vehicle looked like a giant, burnt raisin with bits of orange licking at its edges.

A loud buzz filled my head, my fingers went tingly and I lost all my strength. I slumped weakly to the ground and waited for the next zombie with the munchies.

It wasn't a zombie I saw next, though. It was Mel. He came out through the same opening my wheelchair lay across and knelt beside me.

"You okay?"

I looked at him indignantly.

"Well, you know, all things considered..." He stared at the burning truck. "What happened?"

"Had the virus," I groaned. I hurt. "We need to get inside. Away from it..."

He frowned. "I doubt it could live through heat like that. We'll be okay."

"Oh." I suddenly felt very sleepy. "Lynette?"

"Knocked out cold, but in better shape than you. Let's get you inside."

I muttered something to the affirmative, wondering if I would get more morphine. A few more men appeared with a stretcher and helped carry me inside. I let sleep steal over me. It was kind of nice to take a break... We would be okay as long as there were no more mercenaries around.

After all, what could be worse than a group of power-hungry vigilantes with a virus designed to put humankind on the endangered species list?

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That pretty much ties this bad boy up. If you liked it, recommend it to your friends. Give them links. Stuff like that.

On an aside, I'm not sure if my next story will be a continuation in the same world or not. At some point, I know I'll go back. I enjoy writing in the first person too much not to. But I'm going to start dumping actual hours into a novel and see how that turns out.

I am not in any way disinclined toward feedback or ideas, so keep them coming. Other than that, though, I'll keep writing if you keep reading. You guys rock.

The Maestro of the Silver Cord

Writing is a lot like brewing coffee. You have to prepare it and grind the beans just right before adding almost-boiled water at the right speed before you can step back and wait for it. But then you have to wait--and you can't wait too long or else it comes on too strong--just the right amount of time before you try it.

I think a lot of what I've been doing recently is waiting, whether by option or circumstance. This is why a lot of what I've been working on remains unfinished. At some point in the next few months, I promise you, more will be complete than in the process of brewing.

'Zombies - Finale' is still on its way. I haven't really had time to work on it for a long time, but what time I have had is now preserved in a notebook that may be permanently irretrievable. If that is the case--and I should find out soon--a rewrite should be more daunting than difficult.

The following is what happens when I ask Maria what I should write about. Now, before you get your hopes up, it's a complete freewrite. The only character I spent any time fleshing out at all is the one you may never meet. But I like this setting, so I may stick with it a while. Anyway, read and enjoy. Comments are welcome.

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It was a little after eight when Miles left the pub and stepped into a sheet of rain. A strong gust of wind flung hair in his face with a vicious howl and tugged meaningfully at his coat. Hurriedly, he brushed hair from his eyes and pulled his coat up a little higher to shield his neck from the stinging gale. With a single upward glance, he turned and hurried down the sidewalk, figure hunched against the penetrating downpour. Billowing clouds overhead loomed darkly, setting the city in shadow so deep it looked like night.

Around the corner, Miles stopped in front of a small corner store and waved madly at a taxi parked half a block down, almost invisible in the glistening sheets of silver raining from the sky. There was no sign of acknowledgement for a moment, then the vehicle started with a glow of taillights and puff of steam from the exhaust. It pulled away into oblivion to find a place to turn around and Miles retreated to where a few others stood under the cover provided by the building's meager awning and folded his arms against the chill, bowing his head as he did.

Before him, in the street, runoff gathered in a quickly rising pool above a gutter, driven to madness by more rainfall. A small, pockmarked whirlpool whirled about in its center like a dervish.

Then, the sidewalk shook a little, ever so slightly, as if something had been dropped on it and the dervish began to slurp up a new rivulet, this one red. Miles squinted. That couldn't be right.

A cry broke through the sound of pounding rain, Miles whirled to its source. A woman lay face down on the sidewalk, arms flung out before her as if in humble petition. A man was stooped beside her, shaking her gently by the shoulder. He was sobbing.

"Maya! Maya!" he was wailing. Miles stepped closer to pull the man away and inside the building, struggling against the man's futile attempt to revive his Maya.

Forcibly, Miles pushed the man to the floor against the counter, ignoring the startled cashier. "Listen to me!" he shouted. He swatted the crying man's hands away and tried again. "Listen! She's dead!" At that, the crying stopped.

"H-how?"

"I don't know. Stay here. I'll call 911."

The man listened, obviously in shock and Miles did as he promised just as the taxi arrived. The cab driver came bolting through the door just as Miles hung up the phone.

"There's a--"

Miles shut him up with a glare. "We are very well aware of what is out there."

The cabbie swallowed and nodded, casting a nervous glance to the now prostrate man by the counter. Then up at the cashier, who shrugged helplessly.

After that, nobody uttered a sound except for the occassional sob from beneath the counter. Miles spent his time browsing through the store, poking at filmy bags of potato chips and Cheezies until boredom overcame him and he strode over to stand by the window. He quickly returned to browsing, though. The site of the body was too unnerving.

A distant wail of an ambulance quickly manifested itself in flashing red lights outside. Miles glanced around, saw no one else willing and headed for the door to speak with the paramedics himself.

"Wait!" This from the cashier.

Miles obeyed and drilled the short Asian with an annoyed glare. "What?"

"It might not be safe."

"Safe? We're in New Jersey, not Iraq! Whatever happened, happened." He started for the door again, annoyed all over again when he saw the paramedics waving to him. "I'm coming, I'm coming," he grouched and slapped a wet palm against the door to open it.

It looked like someone slashing across a page with a red paintbrush, followed by a limp body crashing to an awkward slump in the street with one shoulder propped up on the sidewalk. The second didn't take long to follow his friend and flung himself backward onto the hood of the still-running taxi. Miles cried out, backpedaling from the door as fast as he could. He collided with the cashier who had been tentatively creeping to look out the window.

"What happened?" he stuttered.

"The fuck you think happened?" snapped Miles. He hurried to the far back corner and sat down with his back to it, placed his head on his knees and breathed deeply. This would all come to an end and then he would wake up and it would just be a dream. Make it be a dream, make it be a dream...

"It's real."

His head snapped up. Had he been speaking aloud? Gathered by the counter, looking worried, stood the cashier and a couple he hadn't noticed before. They looked like a movie couple. She was wearing leather boots that complimented her jean-hugged legs nicely and a large, gray sweater that obviously belonged to her man but looked fantastic on her anyway. He was dressed in simple dark jeans and a black t-shirt with a sport coat thrown carelessly over one shoulder. His free arm curled protectively around the woman.

"It's real," repeated Mr. Protective. "We're stuck here."