Three weeks into mayhem and destruction that looked like it would never end, the zombies quit trying. It happened literally overnight. One moment, they were slapping halfheartedly at our shiny glass doors; the next, the only sign they had ever been was streaky red-brown handprints. Our headquarters in the library went from DVD-bent-to-near-breaking-point tension to a stunned silence that lasted days.
Not that the undead completely up and vanished. Groups of stragglers could still be seen from time to time, but they didn’t seem to care anymore. Lyn grumbled something about us having lost too much weight to be appetizing, but even her dry musings soon died off as we realized that she might just be right. Our food supply was dwindling.
Which was why I now sat at Mel’s desk on the upper half-level of the library, scheming. Most of the book shelves had been moved downstairs in that first onslaught from the mercenaries and the rest had since been pushed out to the walls. Most of this floor was taken up by a kitchen-type area that consisted of a couple deep freezers, some commercial fridges, a scavenged receptionist’s desk and a couple rows of collapsible tables and flimsy chairs. Someone had managed to drag in a stove, too. Aside from that, there was a seating area against the far wall. A few couches and recliners made a cozy nest around an electric fireplace with towering stacks of books interspersed among the furniture. That area was separated from the rest of the floor by a semicircle of bookshelves. And between our nested “library” and the kitchen was where we now sat
Floor plans littered the table between us, wrinkled from heavy use. Every outside doorway was marred with the word “Secure” in red Sharpie and a blue line drew a path from our building to the food court of the nearby mall. I had breathed thanks to the city engineers more than once for the network of pedways that spiderwebbed beneath the entirety of Downtown.
“It’ll be like ordering takeout,” I said, tapping the Sharpie on the nearest food court in the mall. “I can take care of a few stragglers. And that’s assuming there are any. Your guys didn’t see any.”
Mel frowned. “I know what they saw.” He leaned forward on his elbows. “I can’t put these people at risk, Jimmy. We have food left for a few more days, at least. We can hold off a bit longer.”
“Hold off for what?” I demanded. “None of us are getting our fill at meal times anymore. There’s a huge supply of food a block away and you want to sit here and just wait?”
He hesitated. “I can’t jeopardize the safety of the people under my charge,” he said at last. “You have to understand my position here.”
“Dammit, Mel!” I barked, leaping to my feet. “You’re jeopardizing them already!”
The small amount of children we’d found who had survived the outbreak had been gathered together by a few would-be mothers and put immediately into a makeshift homeschool system. They were gathered in the dining area. A few of them glanced our way at my outburst, but quickly returned to what they were doing.
Mel noticed and looked back at me. “Would you keep it down?” he muttered tersely, then motioned with a sigh for me to sit down. I sat, grudgingly.
“Look,” I said, “I don’t like our options any more than you do. But we’re going to have to take risks if we want to make it out of this.”
His eyes asked the question none of us dared give voice to. Make it out of what? And to where? But all he said was, “Okay. But we’re locking the doors behind you.”
I nodded and grinned. “Just open them when I get back, will ya? I’d hate to come home to find the locks changed on me.”
* * *
Lynette found me downstairs, in the corner with the gun racks, as I selected a Sig Sauer M1911 model from its bevy of companions and holstered it at my hip. I had already donned a black t-shirt, matching fatigues and sturdy boots.
“You’re an idiot if you think you’re doing this alone.”
I glanced at her. “Then stop me.”
She snorted. “Hell no. I’m coming with you.” Her shoulder clipped mine as she reached past for her own sidearm.
I looked at her, weighing this time. Finally, I said, “You’re sure?”
She spared me time enough for a quick glare, checked the Glock’s magazine, slid it back in and racked the slide, then turned to give me a meaningful look. “I’m sure.”
Shrugging, I said, “Okay, it’s your skin.” But inside, I wondered if I would ever win an argument with her. I swear, women do the dumbest things for a little conflict. I picked up the shotgun I’d laid on a nearby table and slung it over my back. I glanced at a second ammunition belt, studded with red shotgun shells, and grabbed it after a moment of thought. You can never be too careful. “Don’t get left behind,” I told her and jogged away.
The pedway looked completely deserted as the doors slammed shut behind us with an echo that rolled ahead of us down the hallway. I grimaced. “Honey, I’m home,” I muttered.
Lynette glanced at me questioningly, but didn’t say anything. She had eyes only for the hallway ahead. We moved quickly, both unwilling to stay in this place longer than we needed to. The place looked completely deserted, but that only got me worried. It’s terribly unnerving, hearing only the sounds of boots. People had once milled about down here, hurrying more than they needed to, absorbed in cell phones and iPods that put them somewhere else, anywhere but here.
Funny how desires like that never seem to change.
We passed through another set of doors and into the train station. A long, brownish streak of blood stretched from the far doors all the way to the stairs leading down to the platform.
“I wonder if they had a ticket,” I mused.
Lynette drilled me with a hard look halfway between mirth and disgust. I wasn’t sure which I felt either. “Let’s get out of here,” she said.
The next set of doors opened to an upward sloping hallway of blue-grey tiles under harsh, flourescent light. We moved ahead at an easy jog. I unslung the shotgun at the crest of the hallway. No need to go in unprepared.
“I hate this,” Lynette growled. She was running with her sidearm in her hands.
“What?”
“Give me safety or give me a fight. I hate this in-between shit!”
Boy, did she ever have it right! My heart was beating way faster than my jogging was cause for.
Another set of doors, and the hallway changed direction again. We passed through a parkade without incident and slowed to enter the mall through a set of automatic sliding doors.
“Yeeeeaaaaaggghhhhh!” A skeletal figure was sprinting for us with two bony arms raised high over its head. My shotgun blast obliterated its chest as Lynette’s single handgun round punched through a cheek. It landed shoulders first on the floor and slid for a few feet before coming to a final rest.
I gave the room a quick survey, checking for more undead. An abandoned cart sat against one wall beside a mop pail and a Wet Floor sign. I motioned for Lynette to follow me and hurried over to peer inside the cart. It was half filled with folded New York Fries uniforms. Quickly, I snatched them out onto the floor.
“We’ll use this. I hope you like potatoes.”
Lynette gave me a questioning look between darting glances around the room, but followed when I led forward again. I pulled the cart up in front of the New York Fries booth and vaulted over the counter.
“What’s that smell?”
“Four-week-old fries,” I replied. The deep fryer was still bubbling. “That’ll be a hell of a power bill.” I poked my head into the back room. Empty, except for all the boxes. “Perfect!”
“What’s that?”
I turned back, holding a box with “NYF” printed boldly on the side. “Potatoes,” I grinned and handed it to her.
A guttural groan came faintly from somewhere inside the mall.
“You’d better haul ass,” she muttered as she dumped the potatoes into the cart, then turned to watch the room.
I agreed by tossing boxes two at a time into the cart until it was full. “Okay, kids, play time’s over!” I hauled at the cart with my left hand, Sig in the other.
The groan came again, in choir form this time. “You’re kidding...” I groaned. The cart was damned heavy! We left the food court and made for the sliding doors, past the dead skeletal zombie. The doors slid open, and Lynette barked a curse. I turned.
A group of fifty or more of the undead were shuffling out of a hallway near the food court. “Can you take the cart?” I barked at Lynette as I swiveled down to one knee and grabbed for my shotgun.
She didn’t answer, but grabbed the cart and started moving back toward the parkade. The shotgun roared, zombies fell, but the rest kept coming. Buckshot doesn’t do a whole lot to a zombie at far range. Not when you’re trying to kill all motor function.
We passed through the parkade and entered the hallway. Lynette strained with the cart with her Glock in her free hand, watching ahead for any threats while I hurried backwards alongside her, dropping smoking shells on the floor. For a brief moment, I was intensely thankful I had decided to bring the second belt of shotgun shells, but then a group of sprinters broke free of the growing crowd of undead.
“How’re you doing, Jimmy?” Lynette yelled.
“Oh just”--I slammed a round of buckshot into the gaping mouth of the nearest runner--”fine! How are you today?” I thought I heard her tsk, but it was drowned in my next shot and the sound of two more falling bodies.
We stopped at the doors exiting the train station. “We have to make sure they don’t follow us through here,” I told her as I whipped out the handgun and send more zombie brain matter splattering. Something caught my eye, then, as a figure darted through of another set of doors. “Shit!”
“What?”
“Stay here and hold them off!” There was no time to explain. That had been a kid, and he had been alone, and he had been alive! A couple zombies were on his tail, I saw, as I pounded through the doors and ran after him. I dropped them easily; the bastards never thought to look for prey behind them.
The boy stopped to eye me carefully in a suddenly very quiet hallway. I slowed to a walk. “You okay?”
He shrugged. “Fine. You?”
I stopped gaping. The kid looked to be no older than ten years old, but acted like an adult. There was nothing to show that he had just been chased by two dead men. “Come on, kid. It’s not safe here.” I motioned for him to follow.
“I have to find my mom,” he said. This time, a hint of childishness showed through. He looked tired.
Shots rang out behind us. Lynette hollered, “Jimmy!” She needed help. I couldn’t just leave the kid, though.
“Come on,” I said. “I’ll help you find your mom.”
His eyes brightened. “Really?”
“Yeah, yeah, come on!” He followed eagerly.
I crashed back through the doors to see Lynette fending a few stragglers off with the cart. Hurrying closer, I opened fire and watched them fall limply.
“Where the hell were you?” she demanded. “I ran out of--” She spotted the new arrival. “Who--are you okay?” That was directed at the kid. She didn’t wait for a reply, but looked back at me. “We should get back.”
“My thoughts exactly.”
Saturday, June 19, 2010
Friday, March 26, 2010
Zombies - A Finale
I had a better title, but it wasn't relevant.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
"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?
---------------------
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.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
"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?
---------------------
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.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
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.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
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."
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.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
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."
Saturday, January 23, 2010
Zombies - Dead and Walking
My extended Christmas vacation is finally over, so I can start writing again. I'm actually surprised at how hard it is to get going after a break. Anyway, here's another Zombies entry. I see about one more for this story. After that, it's on to something new, hopefully. Enjoy.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
I woke the next morning to a steaming plate of scrambled eggs, toast and hash browns with a giant mug of coffee and glass of orange juice to boot. After staring at it in delight for a few moments, I lifted my gaze to the foot of my bed where Lynette stood.
"Good morning," she said wryly. 'You almost missed it."
I glanced at the clock on the far wall. It was almost quarter after eleven. The first half of the night hadn't granted me much sleep with my leg wound throbbing like mad. After a few hours of writhing, the nurses had taken pity on me and dosed me full of morphine again. I had fallen asleep not long after. Who says drugs are bad?
Lynette helped me sit up and waited for me to start eating before she spoke again. "Mel's waiting outside. He has someone he wants you to meet."
I glanced up. "Now?"
She didn't have to answer me, because Mel came marching through the door just then.
"Morning, Jimmy."
"Hi Mel." He had yet to indicate that he cared for a formal title, so I was going to hold out as long as I could.
He took no notice of it. "We have some bad news. We found one of your fellow soldiers last night. In the car wreck. It seems God's Talon doesn't have much of a heart for deserters because they shot him and tied him into the vehicle." Then he paused to give me a meaningful look. "If you hadn't come along, he'd be dead right now. Or worse."
"What? We're not letting him crash his own funeral?" I shoveled some eggs into my mouth, surprised at how hungry I was.
My humour was lost on him. "Hopefully not. But it looks like he may get another chance. They're coming here, Jimmy."
"Here? Who?"
"God's Talon has apparently taken issue with us rescuing one of their men. Seems he knows something we shouldn't."
I sat up a little more, ignoring the twinge of fury in my leg. Dammit, there were more of them. "Is he talking?"
Mel shook his head. "Not at the moment, no. He's scared to death of these guys."
"How long do we have?"
"I'm surprised they're not knocking on the door already."
"Shit."
Mel left soon after that to check the doors again. Taking shelter behind glass doors from a tide of the undead is one thing, but angry mercenaries with big, scary guns is quite another. There was apparently a small team of able bodies working on it at the moment, but I could tell Mel was worried. We were in a library for fuck's sake. We could have at least taken shelter inside the Worker's Compensation building or something, some place that was used to hostiles.
A wave of claustrophobia swept over me. Of all the conditions to be in at the moment, lying in a bed had to be someone's cruel joke.
"You'd better not be thinking about leaving this room," Lynette warned.
I awarded her with my best innocent face. "And do what? Get myself killed?" I concentrated on eating my hash browns for a few minutes. Whoever was in charge of the food had my fondest regards.
The mercenaries arrived, then. I knew they had because an explosion thumped in the distance and the floor shook just a little. I noticed Lynette glance toward the door.
"Don't let me keep you here," I said nicely. She shot me her darkest look.
"I'm on duty," she snapped, then muttered, "Even if it's the shit shift."
"I resent that," I grouched as I slumped back on my pillows. Part of me had to feel sorry for her, though. I wanted to be out there, too. Another explosion sounded off somewhere. Lynette fidgeted. I drank some juice.
I thought back to my first meeting with the mercenaries. It had almost seemed like the squadron we met with was guarding the bridge. The flaming, charred remnants of chasm that had been a bridge... Were they waiting for someone?
"Lynnie," I began.
"Lynette." She was sitting on a plastic chair, chin in hand, staring out the door.
"Lynette..."
"What?"
"Did it look like they were guarding the bridge?" I started on my coffee. It tasted a little burnt, but it was good anyway.
"What from? Zombies? It was on fire, Jimmy."
"That it was. So why were they there?"
She shrugged. "Should I care? They're all dead now."
"And it almost seemed as if they knew we were coming, didn't it? I mean, they left as soon as we got there."
"Sure, it's not like they had much to do there. They probably had other orders to follow."
"But then they died."
She stiffened. "Hey, remember all the blood and bodies all over the ground after they died?"
"Yeah..."
She glared at me now. "Well I don't want to! For the love of God, Jimmy, let it rest! Let all those dead men rest!' Her voice cracked and she returned to a sullen silence.
I decided to shut my mouth and keep my thoughts to myself. How could she not want to talk about it? Women confuse me.
But what if the mercenaries had been there to stop all the people from getting across the river? What if none of this was an accident? If that was the case, it would make sense for them to try and control the virus--or whatever it was. And if somebody else found out about it, they would be smart to try and shoot any of the culprits who made it across the river.
My leg was throbbing. I drank some of the coffee and took a bite of a piece of toast. It sounded deafeningly loud in the quiet, but I persevered.
That could be why they were coming after their man now. If he knew what they were guilty of, they would stop at nothing to silence him. They might even unleash the virus on us.
"Oh hell..." I moaned as all the pieces fell together.
Lynette glanced over, concerned. "What's wrong?"
"They're going to hit us with the virus!"
"What virus? What are you talking about?"
"The fucking zombie virus! The one that turned everyone on this side of the river into a zombie!"
She scowled, obviously irritated that I wouldn't just sit and be quiet like a proper injured person. "Not everyone got turned, Jimmy."
"No, but almost everyone did. And yes, there was destruction further south, but it wasn't extensive like this."
She frowned but didn't say anything. Gunfire started up inside the building as faint shouts and screams wafted in through the open door.
"I need to talk to the other merc!"
"Like hell you do. Jimmy, you are staying here!"
I stared at her, mortified. "And let everyone else die? No! I need a wheelchair!"
"Jimmy, no! It's not safe out there."
"Because it'll be safe in here when the virus hits again. Get me a damn wheelchair!"
Maybe she saw the truth in what I was saying, or maybe she was just tired of arguing with me, but Lynette hurried out and returned with a wheelchair in two minutes flat. When she did, she was all business, wasting no time or breath on useless words like "please." She simply ordered and I obeyed, also aware of how little time there could be, even if the virus was a last resort. There was no telling how long Mel's men would hold out against trained soldiers. More gunfire clattered down the hallway.
The hallways seemed a maze to me, but Lynette seemed to know her way. We arrived in a room similar to mine in moments. The injured mercenary was eating a breakfast similar to mine, though he had no nurse attending him at the moment. He glanced up lazily when we entered.
"Are they going to use the virus on us?" I demanded.
He froze with the fork halfway to his mouth. "The virus?" His speech was lightly accented with something European.
"The thing that turns us all into walking corpses!" I snapped. "It could mean your life."
His eyes widened. "They have one, yes. But I don't know if they would use it on us..."
"They left you for dead, didn't they? They used it on the whole rest of the city!"
"Yes, but if you survived, that means you are immune." He hesitated. "At least, I think..."
"That's not good enough, man!" My voice was getting high pitched. "If there's any chance they'll use it, we have to know!"
He reached under the bed and retrieved his radio then, but hesitated once more. "If they know I told you..."
This guy really was scared, I marveled. They must have some badass bosses. "I don't think it matters to them anymore. They've made up their minds."
And so did he. With a flick of his thumb, the radio chirped to life.
"Is it ready to use?"
A pause.
"Doctor! Is the virus ready?"
Then, a shaky voice came online. "Yes, General. Are you sure...?"
"Of course I'm fucking sure! How soon will it be here?"
"About five minutes, sir."
I glanced at Lynette and saw the same horrified determination I felt.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
I woke the next morning to a steaming plate of scrambled eggs, toast and hash browns with a giant mug of coffee and glass of orange juice to boot. After staring at it in delight for a few moments, I lifted my gaze to the foot of my bed where Lynette stood.
"Good morning," she said wryly. 'You almost missed it."
I glanced at the clock on the far wall. It was almost quarter after eleven. The first half of the night hadn't granted me much sleep with my leg wound throbbing like mad. After a few hours of writhing, the nurses had taken pity on me and dosed me full of morphine again. I had fallen asleep not long after. Who says drugs are bad?
Lynette helped me sit up and waited for me to start eating before she spoke again. "Mel's waiting outside. He has someone he wants you to meet."
I glanced up. "Now?"
She didn't have to answer me, because Mel came marching through the door just then.
"Morning, Jimmy."
"Hi Mel." He had yet to indicate that he cared for a formal title, so I was going to hold out as long as I could.
He took no notice of it. "We have some bad news. We found one of your fellow soldiers last night. In the car wreck. It seems God's Talon doesn't have much of a heart for deserters because they shot him and tied him into the vehicle." Then he paused to give me a meaningful look. "If you hadn't come along, he'd be dead right now. Or worse."
"What? We're not letting him crash his own funeral?" I shoveled some eggs into my mouth, surprised at how hungry I was.
My humour was lost on him. "Hopefully not. But it looks like he may get another chance. They're coming here, Jimmy."
"Here? Who?"
"God's Talon has apparently taken issue with us rescuing one of their men. Seems he knows something we shouldn't."
I sat up a little more, ignoring the twinge of fury in my leg. Dammit, there were more of them. "Is he talking?"
Mel shook his head. "Not at the moment, no. He's scared to death of these guys."
"How long do we have?"
"I'm surprised they're not knocking on the door already."
"Shit."
Mel left soon after that to check the doors again. Taking shelter behind glass doors from a tide of the undead is one thing, but angry mercenaries with big, scary guns is quite another. There was apparently a small team of able bodies working on it at the moment, but I could tell Mel was worried. We were in a library for fuck's sake. We could have at least taken shelter inside the Worker's Compensation building or something, some place that was used to hostiles.
A wave of claustrophobia swept over me. Of all the conditions to be in at the moment, lying in a bed had to be someone's cruel joke.
"You'd better not be thinking about leaving this room," Lynette warned.
I awarded her with my best innocent face. "And do what? Get myself killed?" I concentrated on eating my hash browns for a few minutes. Whoever was in charge of the food had my fondest regards.
The mercenaries arrived, then. I knew they had because an explosion thumped in the distance and the floor shook just a little. I noticed Lynette glance toward the door.
"Don't let me keep you here," I said nicely. She shot me her darkest look.
"I'm on duty," she snapped, then muttered, "Even if it's the shit shift."
"I resent that," I grouched as I slumped back on my pillows. Part of me had to feel sorry for her, though. I wanted to be out there, too. Another explosion sounded off somewhere. Lynette fidgeted. I drank some juice.
I thought back to my first meeting with the mercenaries. It had almost seemed like the squadron we met with was guarding the bridge. The flaming, charred remnants of chasm that had been a bridge... Were they waiting for someone?
"Lynnie," I began.
"Lynette." She was sitting on a plastic chair, chin in hand, staring out the door.
"Lynette..."
"What?"
"Did it look like they were guarding the bridge?" I started on my coffee. It tasted a little burnt, but it was good anyway.
"What from? Zombies? It was on fire, Jimmy."
"That it was. So why were they there?"
She shrugged. "Should I care? They're all dead now."
"And it almost seemed as if they knew we were coming, didn't it? I mean, they left as soon as we got there."
"Sure, it's not like they had much to do there. They probably had other orders to follow."
"But then they died."
She stiffened. "Hey, remember all the blood and bodies all over the ground after they died?"
"Yeah..."
She glared at me now. "Well I don't want to! For the love of God, Jimmy, let it rest! Let all those dead men rest!' Her voice cracked and she returned to a sullen silence.
I decided to shut my mouth and keep my thoughts to myself. How could she not want to talk about it? Women confuse me.
But what if the mercenaries had been there to stop all the people from getting across the river? What if none of this was an accident? If that was the case, it would make sense for them to try and control the virus--or whatever it was. And if somebody else found out about it, they would be smart to try and shoot any of the culprits who made it across the river.
My leg was throbbing. I drank some of the coffee and took a bite of a piece of toast. It sounded deafeningly loud in the quiet, but I persevered.
That could be why they were coming after their man now. If he knew what they were guilty of, they would stop at nothing to silence him. They might even unleash the virus on us.
"Oh hell..." I moaned as all the pieces fell together.
Lynette glanced over, concerned. "What's wrong?"
"They're going to hit us with the virus!"
"What virus? What are you talking about?"
"The fucking zombie virus! The one that turned everyone on this side of the river into a zombie!"
She scowled, obviously irritated that I wouldn't just sit and be quiet like a proper injured person. "Not everyone got turned, Jimmy."
"No, but almost everyone did. And yes, there was destruction further south, but it wasn't extensive like this."
She frowned but didn't say anything. Gunfire started up inside the building as faint shouts and screams wafted in through the open door.
"I need to talk to the other merc!"
"Like hell you do. Jimmy, you are staying here!"
I stared at her, mortified. "And let everyone else die? No! I need a wheelchair!"
"Jimmy, no! It's not safe out there."
"Because it'll be safe in here when the virus hits again. Get me a damn wheelchair!"
Maybe she saw the truth in what I was saying, or maybe she was just tired of arguing with me, but Lynette hurried out and returned with a wheelchair in two minutes flat. When she did, she was all business, wasting no time or breath on useless words like "please." She simply ordered and I obeyed, also aware of how little time there could be, even if the virus was a last resort. There was no telling how long Mel's men would hold out against trained soldiers. More gunfire clattered down the hallway.
The hallways seemed a maze to me, but Lynette seemed to know her way. We arrived in a room similar to mine in moments. The injured mercenary was eating a breakfast similar to mine, though he had no nurse attending him at the moment. He glanced up lazily when we entered.
"Are they going to use the virus on us?" I demanded.
He froze with the fork halfway to his mouth. "The virus?" His speech was lightly accented with something European.
"The thing that turns us all into walking corpses!" I snapped. "It could mean your life."
His eyes widened. "They have one, yes. But I don't know if they would use it on us..."
"They left you for dead, didn't they? They used it on the whole rest of the city!"
"Yes, but if you survived, that means you are immune." He hesitated. "At least, I think..."
"That's not good enough, man!" My voice was getting high pitched. "If there's any chance they'll use it, we have to know!"
He reached under the bed and retrieved his radio then, but hesitated once more. "If they know I told you..."
This guy really was scared, I marveled. They must have some badass bosses. "I don't think it matters to them anymore. They've made up their minds."
And so did he. With a flick of his thumb, the radio chirped to life.
"Is it ready to use?"
A pause.
"Doctor! Is the virus ready?"
Then, a shaky voice came online. "Yes, General. Are you sure...?"
"Of course I'm fucking sure! How soon will it be here?"
"About five minutes, sir."
I glanced at Lynette and saw the same horrified determination I felt.
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Zombies - Ignition
Ignition
Mel talked as he drove and I listened as well as I could over the growing pain in my leg. As overwhelming as everything was, it was nice to have somebody explain the situation to me for once, instead of having to figure it out for myself.
"They say the virus hit sometime last night," he said, eyes fixed straight ahead, voice devoid of emotion. I got the feeling he was relaying the information purely for my sake, so I sat in grateful silence and listened. "All of the important sources are saying it's a freak of nature and nobody is responsible for it." He turned to me. "Of course, those are all the media sources that have ties in the government. Our smaller, more independent and trustworthy people said it was man made until they got shut up." His expression hardened and he returned his attention to the road before he continued, "But that doesn't matter now. We gathered together as many people as we could--the ones that were...safe..." Here, he trailed off, unable to continue perhaps because of emotion. I wasn't sure.
Buildings passed by, looking oddly ethereal. Golden bars of light reached past them almost horizontally now, casting long shadows across our path and onto the city as the Humvee's shadows flitted across uneven terrain beside us. Mel paid the scattered bodies no attention, but I stared in horrified fascination at the various death poses, some lying in dark stains of their own blood. How many people were dead, I
wondered, but forced my thoughts elsewhere. Thinking too much would just break down the damn I was so carefully holding up.
"You look like you've had better days," he finally said wryly.
"Can't think of a worse one," I muttered. Then, after a moment of recollection, "I had a normal life just this afternoon. I was eating a pizza..."
He smiled, but it carried no mirth; only sadness. "We all did, Jimmy. Goddammit, we all did."
"You seem to have expected all this, though," I ventured and reiterated, "I mean, you seem prepared."
He barked a laugh. "Prepared? No. Everyone has that fight-or-flight instinct, though. My group is just one of those who chose to take a stand instead of run. The only real difference between people like us is the amount of time it takes to make the decision. We--" he paused to gesture at himself, "--just made that decision quicker than most." He glanced at my leg. "Though not all. How does it feel?"
"Like hell on fire," I grumbled.
The Humvee jostled almost painlessly over a curb and pulled to a stop in the middle of a square, empty but for the dead bodies strewn about one side. The rest of the pavement had already been cleared, the bodies piled several feet high in one corner. A group of men in orange construction vests worked with the remainder.
"We're claiming this part of the city," Mel explained. "Judging by your leg wound and a few radio transmissions, we're not the only group of survivors." His face darkened. "Seems not every one of us shares the same sentiment, though." He continued in a lighter tone. "But, those are only rumours. Nothing to propogate just yet."
I nodded, but my mind was begin to cloud over with pain.
Mel noticed. "I can send for someone to take you inside. I'll wait out here until my men come back with your friend, though. I'm still not confident of everyone's abilities around here."
"But she'll be safe, right?" Sue me, but we'd been through quite a lot together in the last few hours.
"She's in as good a group of hands as I can manage right now, I can assure you. Who knows? In a couple months, the rescue teams I send out could consist of these same men. I'm holding bets until I can see my cards is all."
I nodded. "I'll wait with you if that's alright."
He grinned. "That's what I hoped." He reached into his coat with a creak of leather and produced a paper bag. "Normally, I don't encourage drinking to ease pain, but given what's happened today, I think this is a damn good time for a stiff drink." The paper bag pulled away to reveal a bottle of whiskey. "Hope you're not a germ freak." The cork squeaked free of the bottle and he sloshed back a sizable amount, then offered me the bottle.
I took it with less enthusiasm. Not that drinking myself out of my own mind was unappealing; I just felt that the time wasn't right. Something was nagging at me. I turned to Mel. "Who was that in the car down there?"
He scanned the square. "Down where?"
"The hillside. The person Lynette was helping. Who was that?"
He shrugged carelessly. "Fucked if I know. Probably just another casualty. Why?"
Now it was my turn to shrug. "Not sure..." I tried to brush away the nagging, but returned to it a moment later. After all, had there been someone alive in that car, wouldn't they have freed themselves somehow? And if not, what about the undead? I had yet to see how quickly they responded to fresh meat, but it seemed like a long time to leave it untouched. "She'll be back soon, right?"
"Should be back already," he enthused. "Nothing to worry about. Have a drink."
What was he hiding from? I took a small swallow and let the drink burn down my throat, warming my stomach. "The sun's setting."
He took the bottle back from me. "Give it another fifteen minutes. If they're not back by then, we'll go looking."
I nodded uneasily. The pain in my thigh had plateaued now, though it still hurt like hell. Spots were starting to dance at the edge of my vision and my limbs felt weak.
"You okay?" Mel asked, voice twinged with concern. I nodded weakly, but nausea was starting to twist my gut into pretzel shapes. The bottle sloshed back into my view. "It'll help dull the pain at least." Now he was just pitying me.
I waved it away. "Frankly, Mel, now is not the time. But I think I need to get to a doctor. I must have lost more blood than I thought." I fumbled with the door handle. My fingertips felt kind of numb. Things were starting to get a little blurry and my movement was sluggish. "Shit..."
And then I lost all motor function and fell against the dashboard while my eyes closed of their own accord. Sleep swept over me gently and I let it carry me away.
A Fuse Ill Lit
I woke up under white sheets in a white room with a woman dressed in white bending over me. She wore a white mask. I felt no pain. On the contrary, I felt right as rain. I giggled.
"He's awake."
Another masked face appeared beside the first. I could tell this one was a man because he had no breasts and his eyes were more manly somehow. "Sure took him awhile," he muttered, gruff voice confirming my perception.
"Doc..." my voice came out slurred, which struck me as funny, and I continued amid stifled laughter, "some things just can't be rushed, like steak. If you're gonna cook a steak, you have to cook it right. And I, sir, am no steak." My composure dissolved into fits of laughter that only intensified when he glanced at the woman, rolled his eyes and muttered an irritated oath before vanishing from my sight.
"Shh," said the woman. "You need your rest. You lost a lot of blood."
"Blood," I deadpanned when I could compose myself. "It's in you to give."
She shook her head, but I could see the smile in her eyes. "Just lie back. I'll be back to check on you later." She left.
That left me all by mysel in a room I saw as I twisted to take in my surroundings. I didn't know where they had found a room so white, but it was no hospital room. I could tell by the lack of medical equipment. "They are ill equpiped," I informed myself morosely. "Well, better that than illy quipped." I snorted a laugh.
Somebody knocked on the door and stepped inside a second later. It was Lynette.
"Lynnie!" I cried. "It's so good to see you again!"
She stopped and glanced over her shoulder hesitantly. Then she seemed to draw herself up resignedly and approached my side. "They told me you passed out in the truck, waiting for me."
"Lying in wait."
"Yeah. Well, thank you. You really should have been here instead, you know."
"I was just in the right time at the right place, baby."
She rolled her eyes. "How high did they make you, Jimmy?!" But she was smiling. "They did manage to confirm that you are immune to the virus, for which we can be grateful, I guess. Apparently, open wounds are much more vulnerable than the lungs."
"Always wear a condom," I snickered.
She stood. "Well, with that, I have to go. Mel said he'd be by to see you later." And then she, too, was gone. I lay there in the quiet muttering to myself every now and then. Maybe being drugged up wasn't such a good thing. But then I thought about how it must seem to everyone else and I giggled again. It was worth it.
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Zombies - How To Kill Stuff and Annihilate Zombies
I was curled in a fetal of agony on the floor of a Humvee that loomed vertiginously off the ground, watching blood spurt from between fingers clenched in a death grip around my thigh. The shooting had stopped courteously, though something told me it had nothing to do with the intention of any kind of apology. They owed me a hell of a good one, though.
A clatter. Then, Lynette was leaping over the back of the driver's seat and stomping on the gas. The truck roared into action, churning its tires into black swaths of rubber on the asphalt with a hula motion and rocketing down the street like a Humvee being driven by a damsel in distress. With her knight in shining armour curled in agony on the floor beside her. I could almost taste the poetry.
The engine screamed. My blood spurted. Reinvigorated gunfire faded into the distance.
Then, without warning, we lurched to a halt, the truck's door opened and closed, then somebody was shooting again. I counted, twelve rounds, then a pause. Then twelve more shots, after which silence dominated. A fan ticked under the hood. Something howled.
Another shot.
More silence filled with ticking, but no more howling.
The door opened again and Lynette clambered inside with a paper bag in hand. Quickly, she dumped out the contents with a clink. Everything seemed to strangely quiet. There should be music playing or something. My blood was still forcing its way between my fingers. The pain in my thigh seemed to have spread to the rest of my body so that even my toes throbbed as they grew numb.
To grant Lynette a bit of charity, I did hear her pull the cork from the bottle, although I was too delirious to put two and two together even when she ordered me to remove my hands from the wound. But I caught on like flies to a dung heap when she tipped the bottle and set free a gout of amber-coloured liquid directly onto my profusely bleeding leg.
I don't faint often. And I find it ironic that alcohol was what did me in, but maybe the blood loss factored in there somewhere, as well. Whatever the case, I woke up a few minutes later to find my pant leg cut off and my thigh wrapped in clean white gauze. It throbbed with pain, but only slightly as if muffled somehow. I blinked and shook my head to clear it of the cottonballs that stuffed it.
"Oh thank God," Lynette breathed. "Here, drink some of this." She handed me a water bottle, which I took and sipped at obediently. After a moment, she spoke again. "I was worried you'd lost too much blood. How is the pain?"
We were still in the truck. I sat in the passenger seat now, reclined back as far as it would go, and Lynette sat, shoulders slumped, behind the steering wheel. The woman looked exhausted. Deep shadows rimmed her eyes and her hair was a mess. I nodded thankfully. "Better."
She seemed to take this in with some amount of satisfaction. "I injected you with morphine while you were asleep. It should keep the pain at a manageable level for a while. The bullet just missed your femur, for which you should be glad, but it hit an artery. I've stitched you up as well as I can out here. I'm not sure when we can get you proper medical treatment, though."
She watched me ponder all this for a moment. Then, answered the question before I could ask it. "I'm a nurse." She fidgeted for a bit before coming to some silent conclusion. We admitted the first infected case last night. It only took a couple hours before the hospital was overrun. I...don't know what happened to everyone. I just left." She finished her confession with her head bowed, in shame I guessed. And who could blame her, on both counts? Her duties as a nurse would be to keep people healthy and ensure that no condition grew worse on her watch, so watching a sterile hospital environment deteriorate into a chaotic, brain-munching orgy, not to mention fleeing the scene in a desperate attempt to save her own life, would be the ultimate self betrayal. But to her credit, here she was, alive.
I started to speak, to try and comfort her somehow but shut my mouth and sat mutedly. Some wounds have to be dealt with in silence, or risk being aggravated with insensitivity. I pushed myself into a sitting position as carefully as I could and took in our surroundings. The Humvee was parked in a rarely used lot somewhere along the river. Autumn leaves blanketed the pitted asphalt and lush, green grass that surrounded it. We sat facing the river which glided past several hundred feet below at the bottom of a gentle slope that arced away from us until it plunged almost clifflike into the gray-brown depths. A single ribbon of road lined by black lampposts cut through the hillside ahead and below us.
Lynette gasped, catching and drawing my attention a bit further down the roadway below us where a troupe of zombies ambled nonchalantly in the direction of an overturned car halfway up the slope. I squinted, straining for a clearer view. Sure enough, an arm hung limply through a broken window in the crumpled fuselage. The zombies drew closer.
What if whoever was in that car was still alive? I frowned and watched for movement but saw none. Still, the zombies were advancing. I had to make a decision.
"Fuck me," I grumbled as I loaded my shotgun, then my handgun.
"Jimmy?"
I glanced at her with a blank expression on my face. "Whoever's in that car may still be alive," I explained simply. "I will go save them."
She blinked. "Your, um, leg?" But I was already opening my door and hurling myself onto the pavement.
It didn't hurt, but my leg felt funny. Like it wouldn't hold me up or something. It carried me as far as the grass before I sprawled facedown, again without pain. There was just a dull sort of numbness that spread through my body when I landed. Another door slammed behind me and Lynette was helping me to my feet, leading me back to the Humvee where I could lean against it. I shook my head to clear it as she snatched the shotgun from my hands and replaced it with an assault rifle.
"It's loaded," she snapped brusquely and slapped a few extra magazines onto the hood of the truck. "Just don't blow my head off." With that, she was tacking down the hillside, shotgun at her hip. I noticed how she gave the zombies a wide berth before closing in on them and opening fire, allowing both for me to get a clear shot and for the shooting to come from more than one direction.
It was a passing thought, though. I sighted through the small scope on top of the rifle and pulled the trigger. My first few shots went wide, but I soon got the hang of holding the crosshairs on my target until the bullet was fired. The group started out with eight leering undead, two of which I dropped before Lynette got within mulching range with her shotgun and began cutting the things down like a madwoman. I was only able to drop one more, this one right through the skull. It rained brain matter back onto the grass as it flopped onto its back reluctantly.
I watched as Lynette approached the wrecked car tentatively. She held her gun ready to fire, but seemed to lower her guard as she neared the wreckage. Then, with a cry, she hurried forward and knelt in its shadow, working hurriedly at something I couldn't see.
I was so focused on her, in fact, that I didn't notice the newcomers until a group of men was hurrying past me, presumably to assist her. One of them stayed back to lounge against the truck with me.
Strangely, he seemed almost as if he'd expected the zombies. That, or he just knew how to adapt really quickly. The newcomer was taller than me by a few inches and adorned in heavy jeans stuffed into big, black boots. He wore a simple black t-shirt with the words 'Anarchy or Bust' in white flanked by a thick, leather duster. His brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail over a smooth face with a pointed nose, accented only by a day of stubble. He held out a hand in greeting.
"Mel Henson," he spoke in a rich, deep voice. "You look like a natural."
I tucked the assault rifle under my other arm to take his hand. "Thanks. Jimmy." I don't give out my full name unless I absolutely have to. Mel nodded and returned his gaze to where the men were helping wrestle someone out of the car. I opened my mouth, hesitated, then asked the question. "How bad is it?"
He grimaced. "It's a clusterfuck. We're not sure how it hit, or why, but the whole city is cut off. There's no way of knowing of anyone else in the country--or world--has been hit." His expression darkened. "We do know that we've been quarantined, though."
"Quarantined?"
He grimaced again, apparently displeased by the thought of it. "They've blocked all the major roads. The smaller ones might offer some kind of escape, but you can only go so far before you run out of gas."
"I'm sure there's a way to get to at least one," I insisted. "We're not in the middle of nowhere."
He shrugged and reached into his pocket for a cigarette with a creak of leather. "Like I said, there's no telling how far this has spread." He lit it with a flick of a lighter and puffed once. "I'd rather take my chances where I know I've got supplies. Wouldn't you?" He drew deep and exhaled a stream of smoke.
I had nothing to say to that. If it was true, if a virus had really caused all this and had spread to the countryside, then we were truly better equipped to stay in the city. For the time being, at least. The pain in my leg was returning so I hauled myself onto the hood with a grunt and sat there, resigned for the time being to watch the work further down the hill in the light of a setting sun. Though, I did glance over my shoulder time and again to check for more undead. They gave me the willies.
"You need a doctor," Mel noted.
I nodded, but said nothing.
He finished his cigarette and threw the butt on the ground, then drew himself up with that same creak of leather. "We should go, then. My men will take care of your friend and whoever's in the car. Can you walk?"
I shrugged. "Last time I tried, I nearly broke my nose."
He grunted in reply "We'll take your truck then. I look forward to finding out how you got one of these."
I forced a crooked smile. "Long story." I hobbled around to the passenger side and got in clumsily. My thigh was starting to throb with surprising vigour. I case one last glance at Mel as he started the truck. I had no reason to trust him, but nothing had presented itself to the contrary, and I had a feeling we both needed the companionship. After all, a disaster like this would no doubt bring people together, probably solve a lot of differences in light of higher necessity. I could at least be thankful for that.
A clatter. Then, Lynette was leaping over the back of the driver's seat and stomping on the gas. The truck roared into action, churning its tires into black swaths of rubber on the asphalt with a hula motion and rocketing down the street like a Humvee being driven by a damsel in distress. With her knight in shining armour curled in agony on the floor beside her. I could almost taste the poetry.
The engine screamed. My blood spurted. Reinvigorated gunfire faded into the distance.
Then, without warning, we lurched to a halt, the truck's door opened and closed, then somebody was shooting again. I counted, twelve rounds, then a pause. Then twelve more shots, after which silence dominated. A fan ticked under the hood. Something howled.
Another shot.
More silence filled with ticking, but no more howling.
The door opened again and Lynette clambered inside with a paper bag in hand. Quickly, she dumped out the contents with a clink. Everything seemed to strangely quiet. There should be music playing or something. My blood was still forcing its way between my fingers. The pain in my thigh seemed to have spread to the rest of my body so that even my toes throbbed as they grew numb.
To grant Lynette a bit of charity, I did hear her pull the cork from the bottle, although I was too delirious to put two and two together even when she ordered me to remove my hands from the wound. But I caught on like flies to a dung heap when she tipped the bottle and set free a gout of amber-coloured liquid directly onto my profusely bleeding leg.
I don't faint often. And I find it ironic that alcohol was what did me in, but maybe the blood loss factored in there somewhere, as well. Whatever the case, I woke up a few minutes later to find my pant leg cut off and my thigh wrapped in clean white gauze. It throbbed with pain, but only slightly as if muffled somehow. I blinked and shook my head to clear it of the cottonballs that stuffed it.
"Oh thank God," Lynette breathed. "Here, drink some of this." She handed me a water bottle, which I took and sipped at obediently. After a moment, she spoke again. "I was worried you'd lost too much blood. How is the pain?"
We were still in the truck. I sat in the passenger seat now, reclined back as far as it would go, and Lynette sat, shoulders slumped, behind the steering wheel. The woman looked exhausted. Deep shadows rimmed her eyes and her hair was a mess. I nodded thankfully. "Better."
She seemed to take this in with some amount of satisfaction. "I injected you with morphine while you were asleep. It should keep the pain at a manageable level for a while. The bullet just missed your femur, for which you should be glad, but it hit an artery. I've stitched you up as well as I can out here. I'm not sure when we can get you proper medical treatment, though."
She watched me ponder all this for a moment. Then, answered the question before I could ask it. "I'm a nurse." She fidgeted for a bit before coming to some silent conclusion. We admitted the first infected case last night. It only took a couple hours before the hospital was overrun. I...don't know what happened to everyone. I just left." She finished her confession with her head bowed, in shame I guessed. And who could blame her, on both counts? Her duties as a nurse would be to keep people healthy and ensure that no condition grew worse on her watch, so watching a sterile hospital environment deteriorate into a chaotic, brain-munching orgy, not to mention fleeing the scene in a desperate attempt to save her own life, would be the ultimate self betrayal. But to her credit, here she was, alive.
I started to speak, to try and comfort her somehow but shut my mouth and sat mutedly. Some wounds have to be dealt with in silence, or risk being aggravated with insensitivity. I pushed myself into a sitting position as carefully as I could and took in our surroundings. The Humvee was parked in a rarely used lot somewhere along the river. Autumn leaves blanketed the pitted asphalt and lush, green grass that surrounded it. We sat facing the river which glided past several hundred feet below at the bottom of a gentle slope that arced away from us until it plunged almost clifflike into the gray-brown depths. A single ribbon of road lined by black lampposts cut through the hillside ahead and below us.
Lynette gasped, catching and drawing my attention a bit further down the roadway below us where a troupe of zombies ambled nonchalantly in the direction of an overturned car halfway up the slope. I squinted, straining for a clearer view. Sure enough, an arm hung limply through a broken window in the crumpled fuselage. The zombies drew closer.
What if whoever was in that car was still alive? I frowned and watched for movement but saw none. Still, the zombies were advancing. I had to make a decision.
"Fuck me," I grumbled as I loaded my shotgun, then my handgun.
"Jimmy?"
I glanced at her with a blank expression on my face. "Whoever's in that car may still be alive," I explained simply. "I will go save them."
She blinked. "Your, um, leg?" But I was already opening my door and hurling myself onto the pavement.
It didn't hurt, but my leg felt funny. Like it wouldn't hold me up or something. It carried me as far as the grass before I sprawled facedown, again without pain. There was just a dull sort of numbness that spread through my body when I landed. Another door slammed behind me and Lynette was helping me to my feet, leading me back to the Humvee where I could lean against it. I shook my head to clear it as she snatched the shotgun from my hands and replaced it with an assault rifle.
"It's loaded," she snapped brusquely and slapped a few extra magazines onto the hood of the truck. "Just don't blow my head off." With that, she was tacking down the hillside, shotgun at her hip. I noticed how she gave the zombies a wide berth before closing in on them and opening fire, allowing both for me to get a clear shot and for the shooting to come from more than one direction.
It was a passing thought, though. I sighted through the small scope on top of the rifle and pulled the trigger. My first few shots went wide, but I soon got the hang of holding the crosshairs on my target until the bullet was fired. The group started out with eight leering undead, two of which I dropped before Lynette got within mulching range with her shotgun and began cutting the things down like a madwoman. I was only able to drop one more, this one right through the skull. It rained brain matter back onto the grass as it flopped onto its back reluctantly.
I watched as Lynette approached the wrecked car tentatively. She held her gun ready to fire, but seemed to lower her guard as she neared the wreckage. Then, with a cry, she hurried forward and knelt in its shadow, working hurriedly at something I couldn't see.
I was so focused on her, in fact, that I didn't notice the newcomers until a group of men was hurrying past me, presumably to assist her. One of them stayed back to lounge against the truck with me.
Strangely, he seemed almost as if he'd expected the zombies. That, or he just knew how to adapt really quickly. The newcomer was taller than me by a few inches and adorned in heavy jeans stuffed into big, black boots. He wore a simple black t-shirt with the words 'Anarchy or Bust' in white flanked by a thick, leather duster. His brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail over a smooth face with a pointed nose, accented only by a day of stubble. He held out a hand in greeting.
"Mel Henson," he spoke in a rich, deep voice. "You look like a natural."
I tucked the assault rifle under my other arm to take his hand. "Thanks. Jimmy." I don't give out my full name unless I absolutely have to. Mel nodded and returned his gaze to where the men were helping wrestle someone out of the car. I opened my mouth, hesitated, then asked the question. "How bad is it?"
He grimaced. "It's a clusterfuck. We're not sure how it hit, or why, but the whole city is cut off. There's no way of knowing of anyone else in the country--or world--has been hit." His expression darkened. "We do know that we've been quarantined, though."
"Quarantined?"
He grimaced again, apparently displeased by the thought of it. "They've blocked all the major roads. The smaller ones might offer some kind of escape, but you can only go so far before you run out of gas."
"I'm sure there's a way to get to at least one," I insisted. "We're not in the middle of nowhere."
He shrugged and reached into his pocket for a cigarette with a creak of leather. "Like I said, there's no telling how far this has spread." He lit it with a flick of a lighter and puffed once. "I'd rather take my chances where I know I've got supplies. Wouldn't you?" He drew deep and exhaled a stream of smoke.
I had nothing to say to that. If it was true, if a virus had really caused all this and had spread to the countryside, then we were truly better equipped to stay in the city. For the time being, at least. The pain in my leg was returning so I hauled myself onto the hood with a grunt and sat there, resigned for the time being to watch the work further down the hill in the light of a setting sun. Though, I did glance over my shoulder time and again to check for more undead. They gave me the willies.
"You need a doctor," Mel noted.
I nodded, but said nothing.
He finished his cigarette and threw the butt on the ground, then drew himself up with that same creak of leather. "We should go, then. My men will take care of your friend and whoever's in the car. Can you walk?"
I shrugged. "Last time I tried, I nearly broke my nose."
He grunted in reply "We'll take your truck then. I look forward to finding out how you got one of these."
I forced a crooked smile. "Long story." I hobbled around to the passenger side and got in clumsily. My thigh was starting to throb with surprising vigour. I case one last glance at Mel as he started the truck. I had no reason to trust him, but nothing had presented itself to the contrary, and I had a feeling we both needed the companionship. After all, a disaster like this would no doubt bring people together, probably solve a lot of differences in light of higher necessity. I could at least be thankful for that.
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Zombies - What The Cat Dragged In
This one's shorter than most. I figured I'd end it here, though, since it seemed appropriate. Watch for more next week.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - --
Zombies - What The Cat Dragged In
We drove. The river dragged its way through the city in a meandering, whimsical path that only allowed for bridges at the least opportune places. After about half an hour of U-turns and confusing, hilly streets, we found one that hadn't been completely destroyed. The sign, now hanging askew, claimed it was the High Level Bridge. It was named appropriately enough, a shaft of I-beams that spanned the area between two hills on either side of the river. At almost exactly halfway across, the pavement smoked at the edges of a crater, allowing just enough room for us to squeeze past. Below, the murky water crawled.
"What happened here?" Lynette's first words since the battle site.
"Damned if I know," I said blandly. I didn't want to know. Something had exploded and now the bridge was half gone! What was left to wonder?
"I don't see any bodies," she kept peering at the rearview mirror, watching the crater retreat.
There, I conceded, she had a point. I could still taste a bit of the vomit from the last time I'd seen bodies, though. The smell of it would linger in my nostrils for hours, too. The fewer bodies, the better.
"Might have just been an accident..." Now she was just musing, talking to keep the silence at bay. I gritted my teeth and focused on driving. There had been enough dying for one day--hell, for a lifetime!--and I'd be happy to blame it all on the undead. At least I could take my anger out on them. Later.
The bridge came to an end, the sky sprung into view again--sunny with a patch of clouds--and we crested a small rise in the road. Apartment buildings rose on the left side of the street here, and a few other roads converged in an awkward intersection I paid no heed to. The lack of traffic was creeping me out.
Ahead, the condos gave way to body shops, restaurants, furniture stores and whatever else mankind had seen fit to make money with. After the towering skyscrapers of downtown, I was thankful for a break in oppressive scenery. It's easier to see an enemy when you have a line of sight on it.
Lynette twisted in her seat to look at me. "Did it look to you like they tried to blow up this bridge, too? Dawson was no accident."
I thought back to where we had made our brief acquaintance with the mercenaries. It sure hadn't looked like a battle scene. Maybe they were trying to contain the undead to one side of the river. I wondered how long that would hold out.
"We're lucky we got across!" Now she was indignant. "Those bastards almost got us--hey!" She pointed at a figure disappearing behind a building. I squinted and slowed the truck.
"Looked alive..." I muttered. And it had. None of this reanimated dead person lurching business. That had been a kid seeing us and running, possibly to go find an adult. I pulled the vehicle to a halt.
"We're stopping? It might be nothing."
I held up a hand distractedly. "He's going to get someone. Watch."
The kid never came back, but the message had been delivered. A group of men, all of them armed with scowls and weapons, emerged from the alleyway. Then, they took aim and opened fire on us. Wildly, I thought about taking cover and shooting back, but I was too busy cowering and trying to find a place in the vehicle where their bullets couldn't get to me. Lynette had somehow wriggled into the back between the gun case and the wall, which left me the entire front of the truck where there was no cover. Glass exploded all over my back. More bullets pounded into the fuselage.
And then I was shot. My gaze was just passing by my leg and I saw the blood erupt from a mini crater in my thigh. I felt wind on my forehead and then I was screaming, rolling into the space between the seats and the dashboard. Nothing existed but pain and safety glass.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - --
Zombies - What The Cat Dragged In
We drove. The river dragged its way through the city in a meandering, whimsical path that only allowed for bridges at the least opportune places. After about half an hour of U-turns and confusing, hilly streets, we found one that hadn't been completely destroyed. The sign, now hanging askew, claimed it was the High Level Bridge. It was named appropriately enough, a shaft of I-beams that spanned the area between two hills on either side of the river. At almost exactly halfway across, the pavement smoked at the edges of a crater, allowing just enough room for us to squeeze past. Below, the murky water crawled.
"What happened here?" Lynette's first words since the battle site.
"Damned if I know," I said blandly. I didn't want to know. Something had exploded and now the bridge was half gone! What was left to wonder?
"I don't see any bodies," she kept peering at the rearview mirror, watching the crater retreat.
There, I conceded, she had a point. I could still taste a bit of the vomit from the last time I'd seen bodies, though. The smell of it would linger in my nostrils for hours, too. The fewer bodies, the better.
"Might have just been an accident..." Now she was just musing, talking to keep the silence at bay. I gritted my teeth and focused on driving. There had been enough dying for one day--hell, for a lifetime!--and I'd be happy to blame it all on the undead. At least I could take my anger out on them. Later.
The bridge came to an end, the sky sprung into view again--sunny with a patch of clouds--and we crested a small rise in the road. Apartment buildings rose on the left side of the street here, and a few other roads converged in an awkward intersection I paid no heed to. The lack of traffic was creeping me out.
Ahead, the condos gave way to body shops, restaurants, furniture stores and whatever else mankind had seen fit to make money with. After the towering skyscrapers of downtown, I was thankful for a break in oppressive scenery. It's easier to see an enemy when you have a line of sight on it.
Lynette twisted in her seat to look at me. "Did it look to you like they tried to blow up this bridge, too? Dawson was no accident."
I thought back to where we had made our brief acquaintance with the mercenaries. It sure hadn't looked like a battle scene. Maybe they were trying to contain the undead to one side of the river. I wondered how long that would hold out.
"We're lucky we got across!" Now she was indignant. "Those bastards almost got us--hey!" She pointed at a figure disappearing behind a building. I squinted and slowed the truck.
"Looked alive..." I muttered. And it had. None of this reanimated dead person lurching business. That had been a kid seeing us and running, possibly to go find an adult. I pulled the vehicle to a halt.
"We're stopping? It might be nothing."
I held up a hand distractedly. "He's going to get someone. Watch."
The kid never came back, but the message had been delivered. A group of men, all of them armed with scowls and weapons, emerged from the alleyway. Then, they took aim and opened fire on us. Wildly, I thought about taking cover and shooting back, but I was too busy cowering and trying to find a place in the vehicle where their bullets couldn't get to me. Lynette had somehow wriggled into the back between the gun case and the wall, which left me the entire front of the truck where there was no cover. Glass exploded all over my back. More bullets pounded into the fuselage.
And then I was shot. My gaze was just passing by my leg and I saw the blood erupt from a mini crater in my thigh. I felt wind on my forehead and then I was screaming, rolling into the space between the seats and the dashboard. Nothing existed but pain and safety glass.
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