by Howard, Bill
“We’re coming Frank, hold on!”
Every infected head turned at once and Thom faced a sea of yellow eyes and bared teeth. They all sprung to their feet and ran towards him, and Thom turned tail and descended the stairs, taking them two or three at a time. We could hear the stampede of feet as they all tore after Thom, some of them leaping over the railing, many of them climbing over each other. I took a glimpse over the railing and they all seemed to be at least as far down as the second floor, so Isabel and I ran to the fourth floor hallway again. We stopped once our feet hit the paisley carpet and we saw two infected women, both at Frank’s door. They stood in a partial crouch, their hands and faces pressed to the door as if they were listening for something. They turned and looked at us, but stayed in their position, letting out low growls, almost like a warning noise you’d get from an angry cat. We slowly approached them, our guns held out in front of us ready for action. We got to about two meters away from them when one of them took her hands off the door and held them out in front of her menacingly, barking a garbled, throaty snap. Isabel stopped, but I took one more step, testing to see what the thing would do. My foot rocked forward into the carpet slowly, deliberately, very tenuously approaching the infected women. When I got within a meter, both women jumped up into a defensive crouch, and held their hands out like claws, barking at me with foam flicking from their mouths. I wanted them to just run away--I didn’t particularly like shooting living things, even if they were raving cannibalistic monsters--and we couldn’t afford the sound of a gunshot alerting anything else in the building. I yelled, trying to get them to scatter away, but they stood their ground, ready to attack me. Isabel appeared beside me, and, nudging me aside, passed me, and stepped right into the women’s personal space. One of them raised their arms in the air, like it was going to give Isabel a smack-down like one of those TV wrestlers. Isabel swiftly plunged a knife into her throat, the point of the hunting knife sliding out the back of her neck. She screamed, and, with the expulsion of air, the blood sprayed out of the hole in her neck and soaked Isabel’s face. Isabel turned the knife to the side, thrust it in again, and then drew it back out quickly as the other thing grabbed her by the shoulder. It opened its mouth and lunged at Isabel. I rushed forward and rammed the butt of the shotgun into the other woman’s face, feeling the nose pushing back into her skull. She stopped mid-lunge and stumbled backwards. I pulled the gun back again and stepped into her fall, then raised the gun behind my head and swung it in a wide arc, hitting the thing on the side of her head, making her grunt from the force. She fell over sideways to the floor, landing on all fours. I drew the gun back again, but before I could act Isabel jumped onto her back and drove the knife into the base of her skull, severing the spine from her head. The thing collapsed on the carpet, and lay there motionless. The other one was still making noises, but she wasn’t moving, and small red bubbles were multiplying in a cluster at her neck wound. We turned our attention to the door and I knocked, telling them through the door that it was us. We could hear furniture being moved, latches being undone. The door finally opened and Frank’s face filled the gap. He smiled, although it was distressed.
“Frank. We have to get all of you out of here. The building, it’s literally crawling with those things.” I said.
Frank opened the door further and motioned us in. We went into the apartment, Frank locking the door behind us.
“Denny, I appreciate you coming back for us but I really don’t think we should leave. There’s no way we can survive out there with the kids.”
“You don’t understand” I pressed, “it’s just a matter of time before they get in here, there’s too many of them.”
“We’ll have to take our chances in here Denny, taking all of us into the open is a death sentence. We wouldn’t survive an hour.”
John spoke up in Frank’s defense.
“He’s right Denny, we can fortify the apartment even more, keep them out until they move on. We can’t travel with the kids, it just wouldn’t work. It’s too risky.”
Not knowing what to do or say next, we all just stood there in silence. Suddenly there was banging at the door and a voice from the other side.
“Denny, Frank, it’s me, Thom, open the door quick.”
I ran to the door, unlatched the locks, and opened it; Thom stood there, his face wet with sweat, breathing hard. As he was about to step inside, his head snapped to the side, staring down the hallway. I put my hand on his shoulder and pulled him in, leaning out to look as I did. The hallway was full of infected on both ends, rushing towards us like runners after the crack of the starter pistol at a marathon. As Thom entered the apartment, he was trying to explain breathlessly that he couldn’t get to the escape window, and he had run in circles before having no choice but to come back up. I stepped back in with him and slammed the door, but was impeded by a bluish arm that shot into the gap at the last second. I slammed repeatedly on the arm, hoping it would give up, but instead two more arms joined it. I called to Frank, who was already behind me and threw his weight into the door with mine. One of the arms retreated back into the hallway, but the force on the other side of the door was getting stronger, pushing back against us. One of the men was taking the women and children into the bedroom closest to the living room. They took some furniture and wood in with them, so they could start barricading the door shut from the inside once they were in there. Frank and I were starting to lose our battle; the force from the hallway was becoming too great to hold back. We gave it one last big push, but the door wouldn’t close, so we stepped back and pulled out our guns. The door crashed open, infected people spilling in like water, falling over each other. With Thom at our side we opened fire, shooting everything we could as they piled into the room. Isabel was in the other bedroom with Clive, a friend of one of the families, and they were preparing the room for the rest of us to barricade ourselves into once we could manage. Our three-man line of resistance kept backing up towards the bedroom, shooting anything that came near us. Everyone else was already locked into the first bedroom. A wave of infected ran in and clamored to the first bedroom door, banging their hands on it, roaring and crying out. We made it to the door of the second bedroom and went in one by one, Clive ready to slam the door once we were in. I got in first, followed by Frank, and, lastly, Thom. Clive pushed the door and began to close it just as an infected hand gripped the edge of the door. Isabel stepped in and slashed at the fingers with her knife, carving deep gouges into the flesh repeatedly until the fingertips slid to the floor. The hand receded with a yelp from the other side and Isabel turned back towards us victoriously as Clive shut the door. We quickly barred the door with a large dresser, and wedged a large armchair into the entrance beside it.
For a moment we just stood there catching our breath, glad we were safe in the room, but deeply concerned about where to go from here. The infected were banging on our door, and we could clearly hear the racket of dozens of hands slapping against the first bedroom door as well. I had no idea how many infected had made their way to the fourth floor now, or how many were actually in the apartment. It seems Frank had the same realization I did, because his face suddenly soured as he turned towards me.
“What the fuck have you done?”
I was dumbfounded. What could I say? We had done a selfless thing to come back and try to help our new friends, but it had backfired horribly, putting everyone involved into far more danger than they were in before we returned.
“Frank, I . . . we came back to help you, how could we have known this would happen?”
I pleaded with him to understand that we didn’t mean to make anything worse; we were trying to warn them. My words didn’t seem to console him, which was understandable--all of his family and friends were in grave danger now thanks to us. Frank started to pace, breaking into a sweat and muttering to himself.
“Frank, we’ll figure this out.” Thom pled.
But Frank acted as if we weren’t even there. He just continued
his conversation with himself and kept pacing. He stopped and looked up into nothing, not at any of us, just into space. And then he raised his finger like he was getting an idea.
“I have to kill them all. There’s no other way, I just have to kill them. Emily’s in that room, I have to go.”
“Frank, what are you talking about?" I asked.
Frank turned quickly on me, his finger swinging out to point at my face.
“Kill them I said, I have to kill them. It’s the only way we’re getting out of this. I have to get Emily and the girls.”
He turned quickly, grabbed the armchair, and tossed it aside as if it were a bag of garbage. His hands found the dresser and started pulling it away from the door. Clive got quite panic stricken and grabbed Frank by the shoulder.
“Frank, stop it, you can’t kill them all, there’s too many!" Frank moved his left arm back, knocking Clive away, and returned to his task of moving the dresser. Thom and I approached him, but he spun around and held his gun out at us, his hand shaking.
“Back off!” he shouted, “There’s no other way”.
He paused a moment, then returned to the dresser. We couldn’t let him open the door; it would mean the end of us. I raised the butt of the shotgun and brought it down hard on the back of his neck. He fell against the desk, shook his head, and started to turn. I panicked and struck him again with the gun, this time catching his temple as he turned his head. I knocked him back into the dresser again, and he lost his footing and fell to the floor. As he fell, his hand jerked up and his pistol went off. Instinctively, I ducked and put my hands up in front of my face, the shot flew so close to the top of my head I could feel it cut the air. Thom yelled stop and raised his gun to Frank, just as Frank fired off another round. This time he fired as he hit the floor; he wasn’t even looking, he was just firing blindly, this shot flying wild and striking the wall. I pulled the shotgun up and pointed it at Frank while yelling for him to stop. Clive didn’t have a gun, but he dove in front of us at Frank. He landed on top of him and they struggled, both of Clive’s hands wrapped around Frank’s wrist, keeping the gun away from his face. Frank grunted from the weight of Clive on him and squeezed the trigger again, the loud crack of the handgun deafening in the small room. Clive hauled back with one hand and struck Frank hard in the face with a closed fist. Frank’s head spun and blood shot out of his nose. He turned back towards Clive dazed, and Clive hit him again, this time making Frank lose his hold on the pistol. When the gun hit the floor, Thom reached for it and grabbed it away. Clive pulled back for another hit, but Frank wasn’t resisting anymore. He went limp and started to weep. Clive relaxed himself, slowly getting off Frank. Clive seemed overly distraught about the whole thing; I thought I even saw him do the sign of the holy trinity over himself after Frank gave up.
Thom and I stood up and took stock of the scene, exhausted from the brief but intense confrontation. Thom took a step back and turned around. From the sound of the gasp that followed, I thought someone had plunged a knife into him. Startled, I turned around and saw Isabel standing by the window, her hands folded over her stomach and blood seeping through her fingers, her face was as white as a linen sheet.
“Jesus Christ!" Thom screamed.
A loud crashing sound thundered through the room as broken glass from the window sprayed across us all. Isabel turned around just as a myriad of arms jutted in the room from outside, grabbing her arms and head. They pulled her out of the window so fast my brain couldn’t even register what was happening, and then she was gone. Thom screamed again and ran to the window, firing his gun through the broken window and into open air. He got to the window and half leapt out, screaming Isabel’s name over and over again. Clive and I both reached towards him and grabbed the back of his shirt, pulling him back in. He was freaking out, hoarsely screaming, and clicking the trigger of his empty gun repeatedly. I turned to Frank to get his help subduing Thom, and that’s when I noticed the open door and Frank’s back disappearing through it. Our impossibly horrible situation just got much worse.
CHAPTER 21:
CLIVE STANLEY MORGAN
Clive Stanley Morgan wasn’t quite sure where or when he was born. He grew up in the Belvedere Orphanage in St. John’s, Newfoundland. The nuns at the orphanage told him he was anonymously dropped off there when he was less than a year old, which would make him approximately sixty years old. You often hear terrible stories of children growing up in orphanages, especially those run by nuns, but Clive didn’t mind it. Even as a very young child, he liked the routine of it. He enjoyed the scheduled chores and having to wake up and go to bed at the same time every day. And he always had a good time playing with the other children at the orphanage.
As he grew into his teens, he wasn’t the only lifelong resident of the orphanage, and so many of the kids there were like brothers and sisters to Clive. When Clive was old enough he had started helping out around the orphanage, doing extra odd jobs and taking on more chores than the other kids. He quickly became a favourite of the nuns, and in his teens, he became close friends with a priest who worked out of the orphanage.
Father Anthony was in his sixties, kind and very easy to talk to. He had quite the acerbic sense of humour for a priest, and he often harassed the nuns with his teasing. He even managed to make some of them blush on occasion, which was no easy feat. Clive got to know Father Anthony better when one of the duties he took on was the regular maintenance of the chapel. When Clive turned 13, Father Anthony asked if he would like to be an altar boy, and Clive humbly accepted. He felt strange in the role at first, as he wasn’t sure where his beliefs lay about God and heaven and such things. Father Anthony had many long discussions with Clive after masses, talking to him as an equal and with respect. He did as best he could to answer Clive’s questions and educate him on the bible and on Father Anthony’s own beliefs.
As the years went on, Clive came to understand many of the things he had been taught, and he started to open his heart and believe that, despite the circumstances in his life, there was a higher power looking out for him. He found solace and redemption in the bible and a faith he never knew he had. He came to believe in God with all his heart. He believed so wholeheartedly that when he turned 18, and was free to leave the orphanage, he joined the same seminary school that Father Anthony had attended. Clive wanted to spread the knowledge that he had gained. The knowledge that, despite your situation in life or the horrors that our world contains, there was always hope. To Clive, that was God.
Once out of seminary school, Clive was assigned to the Church of St. Agatha in Scarborough. He presided over that parish for many years, and became a leader in the community. He was very outspoken about matters affecting his parishioners, including anything from neighbourhood gang violence to the city’s upkeep of the roads and infrastructure. He provided much-needed consolation to the people of his parish, taking a particular interest in helping the neighbourhood kids. He started an afterschool program at the church for kids who couldn’t go home right away because of working parents, and he gave guidance and tutelage to kids with difficulties, both educational and social. Father Clive was loved by his parishioners and treasured by his community.
On a warm October day a few years back, someone had intentionally set the church ablaze one night. It was one of many cultural or religious based hate crimes that took place in the area. Father Clive was not in the church at the time, but the groundskeeper, an older man by the name of Wilson Tettinger was in the basement of the church and he died in the fire. The fire department managed to save the basic structure of the century old church, but it was essentially gutted from the fire. It took two long years for the church to be rebuilt. The church offered to move Father Clive to another parish, but he refused to leave, at one point holding Sunday mass in the church with no roof on it at all--weather permitting. With the support of the community, and of the city of Scarborough as a whole, the church was renovated to its former splendor, and the incident only strengthened the bo
nd of the congregation and the community.
Much of the help that Father Clive had personally received was from some of the families that lived in the Bramford Towers, which was only a block or so away from the church. From their balconies, the families could see the black smoke rising in the sky the day the fire happened. Frank Callaghan had been the first person to call the fire department, and one of the first people to check on Father Clive at the parochial house next to the church. Father Clive had been crushed that day, his spirits dampened and his faith in man tested. But through the support of people like the Callaghan’s and the Cohen’s, his faith grew stronger in the end, as did his belief in the goodness of mankind.
He frequently dined with the two families, and when he couldn’t, they often brought him food as he worked on restoring the church. The day they officially reopened the church to the public was one of the proudest days in Father Clive’s life. His congregation was his family. He swore to protect and lead them with all the strength God had given him. He just had no idea how much of that strength he would eventually need.
CHAPTER 22:
HOUSEKEEPING
Mere seconds after Frank disappeared out the door, shadows filled the doorway and a mob of infected appeared before us. Thom was slumped over the windowsill, still half hanging out, but Clive picked up and reloaded Thom’s gun and we opened fire on the mad things that ran at us with carnivorous yellow eyes. The bullets hit the monsters randomly, taking out foreheads and eyes, bucking back shoulders, imploding arms and kneecaps. They fell in a wave to a pile in front of us, and kept on coming. We both ran out of ammo at around the same time, which was ill-timed on our part but there had been no time to think about ammo in advance. Clive reached over and flipped up the bed, covering us with the mattress while we turned our backs and reloaded. The weight of the creatures slammed into the mattress, almost knocking us right over, but Clive raised his back up against the mattress, holding it in place until I had finished reloading. When I finished, I took his place so that he could replace the magazine clip in his Beretta. Then we turned, braced ourselves against the wall, and pushed the mattress out with our feet, throwing the wall of infected back with the mattress on top of them. I took advantage of the spare three seconds and hauled Thom back in from the window, his face slick with tears. He dropped to the floor and put his head in his hands, sobbing. I took hold of his face and turned it my way, looking him in the eyes.