Fire: The Collapse

by William Esmont

Kevin awoke thrashing and bathed in sweat. Sun streamed between the partially open blinds, hot white lines slicing the room into equidistant pieces. Fuck, it’s hot. Yawning, he staggered to his feet and shuffled to the window. He pulled the blinds back a fraction of an inch.

  He blinked, unable to believe the sight before him. There wasn’t a single undead in sight. The only evidence of their passing was a few twitching appendages and splattered stains, bodily fluids ground into the asphalt by tens of thousands of feet. He dashed over to the window on the far side of the condominium and peeked out. Nothing. Where the hell did they all go?

  His internal clock told him it was around eight or nine. When did they leave? As hard as he tried, Kevin couldn’t recall the moment he had finally fallen asleep. One minute he was curled up on the couch thinking about… something, and the next thing he knew, it was morning. He didn’t like losing control like that, and he especially hated blacking out.

  The passing of the horde brought both opportunity and a renewed sense of urgency. He was out of food, and he needed to get back on the road before they returned.

  A few minutes later, carrying his backpack and his helmet in his left hand and his pistol in his right, he bounded down the stairs of the condo to the first floor. He put his eye up to the peephole and methodically checked the street in front of the house. The upper floors overhung the ground-level entry, creating a narrow carport barely big enough for a family sedan. All clear.

  With as much stealth as he could muster, he unlatched the deadbolt and nudged the door open a crack. The leaves of a young fan palm rustled in the hot breeze, their woody shh shh the only thing he could hear. He listened for a moment and inhaled deeply, searching for the scent of rot. Still clear.

  Nudging the door all the way open, he stepped outside, careful not to make any noise. The wind shifted, and with it came a sickly-sweet whiff of putrescent flesh, like a piece of forgotten beef jerky rotting on the floor of his car in the summer. Kevin flattened himself against the wall and raised his .45. Why can’t this ever be easy?

  The creature was trapped in the carport of the next condo unit, stuck between an oversized recycling bin and the front bumper of a faded-blue minivan. It was silent, staring in the other direction. Waiting.

  Kevin crept to the edge of his carport and peered around the edge. The wind was in his favor for once. The street was clear in both directions. There were no others… that he could see. Hard experience told him where there was one, there would be more. Like deer, the undead traveled in threes.

  Slipping his .45 into his leg holster, Kevin withdrew the.22 and clicked off the safety. It was a much quieter gun, perfect for up-close work and unlikely to draw other undead. Running on the balls of his feet, keeping his body low and out of sight, he dashed to the rear of the minivan. The zombie hadn’t caught his scent yet.

  He stuck his head around the side of the van and inspected the creature. One thing was clear; it was once a woman. Beyond that, he couldn’t tell. Dark brown and leathery, wrinkled like an old shrunken head, this one was a wreck. Probably radioactive, he decided, noting random bald spots where the creature’s hair had fallen out. He looked closer. Ahh. That’s why it can’t move. It was tangled in a garden hose coiled by the front wheel.

  Kevin glanced over his shoulder, ensuring he had an escape route if things went bad. He tapped the muzzle of his pistol against the minivan. Once. Twice. The monster whipped its head around, teeth bared, nostrils flaring as it tried to capture his scent. Its arms came up, reaching for him. Man, that’s an ugly fucker, Kevin thought as he aimed. Must be from Phoenix.

  The creature opened its mouth to moan, but before it could make a sound, Kevin pulled the trigger twice. The bullets entered the creature’s head through its left eye socket. They didn’t come out the other side, instead rattling around like rocks in a can, liquefying the remains of its diseased brain like ice cream in a blender. The creature crumpled to the ground, finally at rest.

  “Lights out,” Kevin whispered. He checked his rear again. Still clear. A few minutes later, he was roaring south on his motorcycle.

  Next stop, Tucson.

  Nineteen