Our Dead Bodies [Anthology]

by Wright, Jerry

  END

  DEAD EYES by Ashley Waymon

  Sunrise – the time of day when all the nightmarish atrocities of the world disappear like they were just figments of a teenage girl’s imagination. The time of day where running from a horde of blood crazed lunatics seems far-fetched and completely bogus. The time of day where even the most feverish mind can take a step back and think, yes, the world is a beautiful and righteous place.

  Mac wasn’t prone to such bullshit, though. Oh no, she had learned early on in the game that stopping to smell the flowers and appreciate a pretty sunrise was the easiest way to get your legs caught in a stiff’s teeth. Never let ‘em outta your sight, her dad had always said. She intended to follow that bit of advice until the cows came home. In fact, she intended to follow every bit of advice Lt. Harry Wilson had ever given her.

  The early morning air was nice and cool on her face as her feet hit the pavement. She’d camped out on a second story the night before. Doors barred, instant street access if you need it, Mackey. She wanted to write down all the survival gems her dad had given her over the last few months, maybe even give it a catchy title like How to stiff a stiff or Lt. Harry Wilson’s guide to avoiding death. It was something she kept her mind busy with late at night when she heard scratching at the door, or when she waited behind a dumpster until she heard those god awful guttural noises they made pass into a different alleyway.

  At present there were no stiffs prowling about in the street below, so she found it as good a time as any to be on her merry way. Her cherry red Doc Martens (a size too big, but who cared when the world was ending) were the perfect shoes for stealthy morning walks – they were quiet and properly attached to her feet. No tripping allowed in this part of town. And this part of town was bleak. The first reports on the news which mentioned the word zombie were some two months ago. Mac was surprised by the rate at which everything had gone to complete and utter shit after that. Her dad had said that society would survive this.

  “Mackey,” he said as he loaded up their SUV with water canisters, “civilization is too mighty a foe to conquer, you’ll see.”

  Well, she did see. And what she was seeing as she walked the dusty debris-laden streets of Tallahassee wasn’t a victorious civilization. It was a shit hole. Cars were parked in the street at all angles, some with their doors open. Others were still housing their owners now eternally clawing at the windows as she walked past.

  “Want me to crack a window?” she asked as she walked past a particularly swollen looking woman snapping her teeth at the glass. The string of pearls around her neck looked about ready to snap, and Mac wasn’t left disappointed. All the excitement of seeing breakfast walk past her Chevrolet prison caused the stiff to wriggle around like an eel in a bucket, providing that final bit of strain on the necklace, sending pearls bouncing off against the closed window and into the stiff’s lap.

  “Better get those fixed,” Mac snorted and moved on.

  She knew they were dead. She wasn’t talking to them to reach their souls or whatever. She wasn’t stupid. She was just tired of having no one to talk to. She hadn’t been popular in school and preferred books to people, so it wasn’t like she was a recovering socialite. But after spending her thirteenth birthday alone on the roof of K-Mart, she felt like it was time to start making conversation, even if they weren’t talking back. She didn’t know if Lt. Harry Wilson would agree. He was iffy on the subject of other people. One thing he had said as they drove through a small town somewhere east of San Francisco was, “People need other people. That’s why we’re going to Orlando. There are people there. Not stiffs, Mackey, but real people. They’ve made a stand. They have a type of barrier which keeps the dead out. Grammy and Bill are there.”

  She had no idea how her dad had known that her grandparents were in Orlando. At the time she filed it under Stuff Lt. Harry Wilson knows through his divine knowledge of pretty much everything. Mac felt something run down her cheek and wiped it away instinctively. Her fingers were wet when she looked at them. She had cried so much over the last two weeks that she wasn’t even aware of it happening anymore. She sniffed and lifted her chin higher, daring her eyes to shed one more bloody tear.

  She was hot and sweaty by the time she spotted a convenience store looking a little less menacing in the glare of the sun. The map her dad had left her put her on the eastern outskirts of Tallahassee. They’d come a long way from San Francisco, on a journey which would have only taken about three days to complete had they kept their SUV and not run into a million obstacles on the way. She was alone now, and the moving was slow. But if she kept to the road she could probably reach Orlando in a week or so.

  Her backpack was alarmingly light as she set it down next to her on the floor of the convenience store called Stop ‘n Go – exactly what she intended to do straight after she had a little browse. She went into Lt. Harry Wilson mode without giving it much thought.

  Be quiet. They’re not hiding from you – you’re hiding from them. One thing you can count on is that the sons of bitches won’t be stealthy. They make a lotta noise, and if you’re quiet, you can hear them comin’ before they get a whiff of you.

  Mac sat down on her haunches and waited, the door directly behind her if she needed to make a quick exit. The smell in the store was a sickening combination of rotting meat and expired produce. She hadn’t made a lot of noise coming in, but if anything had heard her, it would be making its way down one of the aisles towards the sound. They were attracted to sound like moths to a flame. She knew that all too well.

  It was a small store with six aisles, and she could easily see the freezer lined back wall.

  Don’t get cocky. Just cos you can’t hear them, doesn’t mean they’re not there. Secure the place one aisle at a time.

  Slowly and quietly she walked to the wall on her left, taking care to avoid any of the broken glass scattered on the tiles.

  Watch your feet.

  She cast a quick glance behind the cashier’s counter and stopped dead in her tracks. A shotgun was lying on the floor in a mess of putrefying body parts. The previous owner had died with the gun in his hand – virtually the only part of his body not clawed and chewed at. It hadn’t been an easy death, that much was obvious.

  Make a note of anything you can use, but don’t get comfortable. Secure the building before raiding it.

  The far left aisle was clear of both the dead and anything useful. She didn’t need shampoo or toilet paper, it would only weigh down her backpack and give the stiffs something to smell. Her stomach agreed in a sudden fit of gurgles. She retraced her steps back to the front of the store.

  There’s no point in walkin’ the store like you’re killin’ time, Mackey. Stay close to the exit. Your eyes know what they’re lookin’ for.

  The second aisle’s shelves were not so disappointing. Dried beans, sugar, and macaroni were strewn across the floor. She saw a few discarded cans lodged underneath the metal shelf, and made another mental note. The rest of the store was empty. No stiffs, and no buffet of hamburgers and ice cream. A girl could dream.

  Mac quickly made her way to the cans she had seen, her Docs crunching over the sugar and macaroni on the floor. She studied her plunder: Old El Paso Jalapeno slices, Green Giant whole kernel sweet corn, Bush’s Best Boston recipe baked beans, Campbell’s Chunky New England clam chowder and a cracked bottle of Smuck’s sweet orange marmalade leaking its contents onto her hand.

  Take what you can, and get out. Don’t burden yourself with anythin’ you can’t carry off easily. If you have to run, drop everything, and haul ass. Your life is worth more than a can o’ beans.

  She was busy stuffing the cans into her backpack when she heard a door creak. Her breath caught in her throat as she went completely still. A dragging sound came from the far right corner of the store, and with it, the ragged choking sound reserved for the living dead. Mac glanced towards the cashier’s counter, painfully aware of the shotgun lying only a few feet away from her. If
she was quick she could get it and be out of the door before the stiff even knew she was there. Should she risk it? A gun could mean the difference between life and death. 250 miles left to Orlando. Who knew what would be waiting on the road.

  She jumped up and snuck over to the expired shop keep without making a sound. It took her a few seconds to wrench the gun from his stiff cold fingers. She was just about to poke her head from behind the counter when she heard the sound of sugar and macaroni crunching under heavy feet. Her body went numb. The stiff was much closer than she had anticipated. She heard the door creak again.

  Shit! she mouthed.

  There were at least two of them now, maybe more. Why didn’t she secure the door when she spotted it earlier? Lt. Harry Wilson would shit his pants if he could see her now.

  She clutched the gun to her chest. It was loaded, but she wouldn’t risk firing it in here unless she had absolutely no other choice.

  If you think breakin’ some glass or bangin’ a door shut draws them in, just imagine what gunfire does. Easiest way to get yourself killed. Reserve gunfire for the most critical of situations, Mackey. Don’t you fire that thing unless you’re sure that 1) you can get the hell out of there once you’ve pulled the trigger, and 2) whatever you’re shootin’ at isn’t gonna get up again.

  Mac wasn’t sure of either of those.

  Her brain was working rapidly. She'd have to see what was happening on the other side of the counter before she could fully assess the situation. She was going to have to risk a glance around the corner. But she didn't have to. Just as she was about to move into a kneeling position, something rounded the bend at the far end of the store, coming up the aisle directly next to the counter. There was nowhere she could hide.

  The stiff shuffling along the aisle had been a teenager when he got bit. He was wearing a red apron with the words Stop 'n Go printed in cheerful white letters on the front. Half of his face was missing, and his teeth were clearly visible through the hole in his cheek. His eyes were two milky white globes in a mess of rotting black flesh. With each labored step chunks of skin swayed rhythmically from his jawbone on the side of his face which had evidently been eaten off by his killer. It seemed to Mac like an entire lifetime had passed by the time his dead seeing-but-unseeing eyes spotted her. He snapped out of his docile state and barreled down the aisle towards her, his teeth snapping against each other so hard she could hear them cracking.

  She had no choice but to jump up and over the counter. She felt his fingers get caught in her hair just as her feet touched the ground. With a painful yank of her head she tore free from his grasp, probably leaving a bit of her scalp behind. The other stiff came at her from another aisle, but she was quicker than its outstretched arms. In one swift movement, she grabbed her backpack from the floor and pushed through the door, her hands around the gun in an iron grip.

  She sprinted down the street. The commotion in the store was bound to attract others, she had to get out of the area, and fast.

  She rounded a corner and nearly dropped the gun. There was a whole horde of them shuffling aimlessly down the street. Cars were parked on either side of the road, creating an undead funnel straight towards her. No wonder she hadn't seen any that morning – they were all congregating in one bloody spot. They noticed her almost immediately, and before she could so much as catch her breath, an entire crowd of them came running at her down the road. She backed up into the street she'd come from, only dimly aware of another stiff in a red apron coming at her from the direction of the Stop 'n Go.

  She ran.

  Put as much distance between you and them as possible. One stiff attracts another. If they can see you, they're gonna chase you.

  Mac sifted through every bit of advice Lt. Harry Wilson had ever given her, but came up short. All she could do was run. Her brain was preoccupied with the sole purpose of getting the hell out of there.

  She had put quite some distance between herself and the horde when powerful hands grabbed her from below. Excruciating pain shot through her arm as a pair of yellow decayed teeth sank into her wrist. The shotgun clattered onto the tarmac as she pressed the palm of her free hand onto the rotting face of her attacker. She could feel the skin and flesh move under her hand against the stiff's skull as she shoved his head back. The lower half of his body was gone. His torso had been lying in wait in front of the car as she ran past. Her arm came free of his teeth, but only after he had managed to take a giant chunk of it. She stepped back, looking down at her arm in horror. Blood gushed from the wound onto the ground. She was in shock. The dead thing was clawing its way across the road to her, his teeth clattering together. With revulsion she saw bits of her own flesh lodged between its teeth.

  For the second time that day unseen hands grabbed her, this time from behind. But this stiff had somehow retained the ability to speak, cos it was saying something to her.

  "Move!" it shouted.

  She turned her head. What a peculiar stiff this was. His eyes weren't all milky and messed up either.

  "We have to move!" it said again, grabbing her by the shoulder.

  She snapped out of her daze and nodded. She followed him through a maze of side streets and alleyways until he burst through a fire door on the side of a large office space. Once inside he barred the door with a heavy desk and turned to look at her. He was young, probably the age of apron-boy, but his face was lined and grim like he'd seen the end of the world. Mac wondered what her face looked like.

  "Sit down," he said, motioning to a leather swivel chair next to another desk. She sat. She seemed to have lost the ability to speak or to make her own decisions. Yup, she was definitely in shock. The pain in her arm was throbbing violently, blackening the edge of her vision.

  "I'm sorry," he said as he stood in front of her, "but we have to do this quickly."

  In one sudden movement, he raised a machete above his head. Mac only had a brief moment to see it glint in the ray of sunlight shining through the window before it landed on the desk next to her with a dull thud. She looked down at it, surprised at the widening pool of blood forming on the polished surface. It was only after she saw her own severed hand twitching on the other side of the blade that the darkness overtook her completely and she passed out.

  …

  “Mac, get out of here!” her dad shouted.

  He was leaning against the door, holding the crowd of undead on the other side of it at bay.

  “Dad, I’m not leaving you!” she screamed back.

  “Mac, listen to me!” sweat was running down his forehead into his eyes as he strained against the door, the horrible sound of fingernails against wood chilling her to her very core, “you have to go. Take my bag. The map is there, everything is there. Go to Orlando.”

  “Dad, we can make it!”

  “Mac!” the door opened slightly, but he managed to bang it shut again, “Please, baby, you have to go. I can’t hold them for much longer. You can climb out the window, there’s a fire escape.”

  Mac looked to where he dad was motioning with his head, but she couldn’t do it. She couldn’t leave him. If he was going to stay, then so was she. They would die together.

  “Mac,” he said as if reading her mind, “No. You have to go. You have to stay alive!”

  “Daddy,” she cried, “I can’t do it without you.”

  “Yes you can, baby,” tears were rolling down his cheeks, “You’re so strong! Remember what I’ve told you, Mackey. Now go!”

  “Dad!” giant sobs were wracking her body.

  “I love you, Mackey.”

  “I love you too, daddy.”

  Mac jerked awake, a scream lodged in her throat.

  “It’s okay,” someone said from next to her, “You’re okay.”

  The room was dark except for a single burning candle. Mac was lying on a pile of blankets, her body drenched in sweat and shivering. She looked up into the face of the guy who had saved her. The guy who had cut off her hand.

  “You must be hu
ngry,” he said, walking over to the candle. The smell of cooking food made her stomach rumble shamelessly and loudly.

  “Does that answer your question?” she asked in a hoarse voice.

  He smiled at her over his shoulder. She could feel the weight of her arms next to her body, but she refused to look down at the one the stiff had sunk his teeth into. She couldn’t bear to see a stump right now. Not yet. She was mercifully free of any pain whatsoever.

  “I hope you don’t mind,” he said as he lifted an empty can of Campbell’s Chunky New England clam chowder, “I staked out that store for two days before you came down on it in one fell swoop.”

  He chuckled as he dished some of the chowder into a coffee mug missing a handle.

  “Sorry about that,” she croaked.

  “Don’t be,” he replied kindly, “We all have to take care of ourselves the best we can now. What with the world going to shit and all.”

  He placed the mug on a wooden tray and carried it over to her. With some maneuvering, he helped her to prop herself up against the wall and put the tray on her lap. Instinctively she reached for the tray with her left hand but found that there were no fingers to move. The end of her arm, where her hand used to be, was covered in thick white bandages. She could only stare at it for a while.

  “You’ll get used to it,” he said as he sat cross-legged next to her.

  “Are you a doctor or something?” she asked as she spooned some chowder into her mouth.

  “Med student,” he replied with a shrug.

  They finished their meal in silence. Mac couldn’t bring herself to consider the implications of traveling across the state with half of the hands she had yesterday. Orlando seemed further away than it had when she was on the other side of the country.