“Yeah far, far away from here,” Lena says.
Dad rolls his eyes but no one sees in the dark. His wife is doing her final texts as her iPhone battery runs down.
“That's it. It's out,” the wife says. She breathes deeply to avoid crying.
“What was the last text?”
“Sally and I praying. I prayed you'd rescue them.”
“What?”
“She prayed you'd rescue them too.”
“Oh my God, wife.”
“Don't blaspheme,” one of his daughters says.
“It's okay if you don't. I told her you saved us. Sally prayed for you to keep us safe. She was glad you saved us and once we were safe, then maybe you could rescue them.”
Dad shrugs it off in the dark. They're eyes adjust but they are mostly shadows. His discontent is plainly visible.
“Dad, zombies,” Lena and Charlotte whisper from the living room. They are peering through the closed shades.
Dad hurries over.
Lena says quietly, “I remember when everything was so orange at night. It's so blue and dark now, like the stars.”
Dad quietly motions to them. “Hey, you shouldn't be up here.”
The front living room window is very big and easily breakable. A zombie could bang on it and the whole thing would come crashing down. The house is raised on a foundation, so the expansive front window is shoulder height. But they could easily pile over each other to get in.
Dad lifts the shades a bit to peer out. Past the cover of the hedges is a horde passing on the street. At first, Dad can not see the zombies. He has to look at the shape of the cars to see the shadows, the silhouettes passing. His eyes adjust to see a horde passing and going up the street. They are like a slow river of dark bodies meandering and flowing through the cars. It's at first intriguing but then overwhelming. Charlotte is the first to be paralyzed with an overwhelming fear, Lena next, then Dad. The wife comes up to see and pokes her head through the other side of the shade. She quickly backs away.
There are hundreds or thousands of zombies flowing up the street. The noises outside are strange; fewer car alarms, fewer sounds at all. There is an indeterminate hum which is coming from the zombie horde: their shuffling feet, their feet scraping the ground and their incessant moaning. It sounds like a vast sprawl of them migrating.
Dad prays under his breath. Please, don't let them hear anything nearby, not us, not anyone. That mass would not only tear through their house, it would crush the whole of the house under their grabbing and clawing hands. It would be a massive yet powerful flood, obliterating anything it wants. Dad awakens to a horrific vision of The Horde feasting on his family's flesh.
Rondo comes up to the front fence and begins barking. Lena and Charlotte in a moment of terror nearly scream in panic. But Dad hits Lena hard and grabs Charlotte's shoulder, yanking her whole body away. “Shhhhhhhhh.”
In the fiercest gritting of his teeth and lips, the most intense nose breathing of air and sound, he is able to shut their immediate reaction of fear that would have alerted The Horde and wiped them from the face of the Earth. He pushes and punches them back as tears roll down their eyes and as they choke back their cries of pain from his violent control. And Rondo, outside, barks and barks.
He waves for his wife to take them back and hide them in the attic. Right now! She nods with restrained hysterics, pulling them back.
He quietly scrambles to the window. Up against the gate, Rondo barks at the passing ocean of the undead. Several zombies mingle there like an eddy on the side of a wide river. They circle about the driveway as Rondo barks furiously at them. They come up and scan in their instinctive way at Rondo or around him and sort of meander back into the dark wall of movement. It would repeat with other zombies. What if just one sees Dad through those doors or senses anything at all besides a barking dog?
The Horde would wash over the house like an avalanche, a flood, a deluge.
“Dear God, oh dear God, please, please save us. Please save us and I'll save others. I'll do what you say, dear God. Please, not my children, not my wife. But I know, I know, your will, whatever may come. If you take them, if you take me, I know your will God. But I ask, not this way, not by them. And I swear God, I won't let them take my family. I'll kill them first. I won't let them die. No way God. Know that from me. Please, God, please, and I will do whatever your will. Oh Lord, in the name of Jesus Christ. Amen”
Rondo still barks, but less and less, watching as The Horde passes through. Somewhere up the street someone fails, and then a growling can be heard. It is amazing to watch them; they are like a sports arena wave or a school of fish spluttering in sequence. Their pace quickens. The vast flow of walkers jams and overflows up their driveway. Rondo is fearful and backs away.
Dad backs quietly toward the dining room. He crawls to the dining room table where his armor lays. He gently brings the pieces to the floor to stay low. He puts on the padded leggings, and starts buckling on his armor. No telling. He puts it all on. No telling. His hands quiver with each buckling. The buzzing, the deep toned rumble, reverberates the house.
Fully armored, he stays low as best he can and goes up to the front. He is careful to avoid being seen from the French glass doors. They should put a sheet there at some point. His helmet limits his vision. He must turn to look. He reminds himself not to turn too quickly. He slowly reaches the window and the covering blinds. He remembers that they shouldn't recognize a human via a helm. He slowly, carefully moves the blinds just enough to peer out.
The Horde is excited about something up the street and is pushing forward. Cars move to the flow of The Horde. The fence and vines are shuddering. He could lose the front fence as The Horde is swelling against it. Thousands of flailing bodies build momentum. Across the street in the dark, he can see the schoolyard fence shaking from their weight. But the fence holds. It is a strong fence.
Whatever excited them from up the street did not last long. The Horde continues to pass but they calm and slow their fixated movements. He feels good for whomever it was. Perhaps, they ducked down or got away before The Horde built up any momentum. Or maybe they were consumed in the mass so quickly?
Dad waits. He tires of crouching by the window. He slowly backs into the house. He sits in full armor on the couch and waits. Hours pass. His mind becomes numb sensing the vast slow-moving river of zombies. One that could at any moment rise up and wash you away with a freak wave. But it doesn't. The Horde passes.
It is the quietness that first notifies him of their passing. He senses the lessening of the rumble. He peers through the shades on his knees to stay low. He sees the cars pushed up against the sidewalks and fences. He can see their shapes in the predawn glow. He sighs relief. He sweated profusely in his armor, sitting in his enclosed house with no breeze to cool him down. This is what it must have felt like in a castle ages ago, in a siege, waiting for the harrowing battle. Sitting stiff, and then finding out that the battle would not come. He is very stiff.
The sheer massive stress of the event is gone. The light of day hints across the dark sky. The morning hues slowly spread. A ray of sunshine winks at him. He takes off his sweaty sticky helmet and breathes in the stench of his own body. He carefully opens the window to get fresh air.
The air is foul and corrosive and smells of death, but it flows nonetheless. He hears a bird chirp. Now that's weird.
9. Fortress
After a brief nap on the couch facing the living room window, Dad wakes in full armor. He hears the girls eating the last of the greens and arguing over bowls of cereal with funky smelling milk. Dad is propped up by his armor. He glances about the living room at the many windows. He realizes his home is not very safe. Should they go somewhere else? Or stay here?
He had napped in his full armor. The sun is shining a bright haze through the living room shades. He feels stiff. No one bothers him. He gets up and looks back to the kitchen.
“Dad, you were snoring,” Lena glances.
> He stands up. His steel clinks and clangs. He stretches and yawns. The shade is down but a side window is slightly open. The morning air still smells of death, smoke, many bad things. At least they are hidden. Dad peers out the opening, shifting to view the front yard, the street. The front gate supported by the rear of the Rav4 is closed. But if they were heard, the zombies could easily get in.
“Was I loud?” Dad asks.
“Nahh, but still,” Lena shrugs.
Charlotte is gulping down the milk and cereal. “Mmmm, warm milk.” Her milk mustache and big annoyed eyes say it all.
Dad looks at the living room and the windows. He shivers at the horror of zombies racing in and grabbing and pulling his daughters and wife, biting into their flesh, them screaming horrifically at being pulled apart. A quiver crosses his body, him knowing this has happened millions of times across the city.
“Dad, Dad?” the girls and wife whisper in unison to get his attention.
“Whah? What?”
“What are you thinking?” his wife asks.
“We have work to do.”
In his armor, he opens the garage and picks out some wood boards, some two by fours, and a few Ikea cabinet pieces left over from their kitchen redo.
He brings those pieces with hammer and nails, screws and screwdrivers. He brings some metal wire and cutters. He drops them off in the front living room. Things must be sealed off, each piece an obstacle for the horde to overcome. These things would give them a few moments, enough time for his family. He lets the girls work quietly, moving the furniture to block the front door. No need for this to be an exit or entrance. Running out this way would only alert others.
They place shelves and cabinets within the foyer to block it off. They use the metal wire to tie it together. Dad shows them how to cut and tie, then stands over them as their guardian and father. He helps push things up or together but stops frequently to listen.
Once in awhile a furniture scrapes or a picture frame drops. Some noises are just a bit too loud and they freeze. They look at Rondo who sits quietly not barking. He is a good indicator that there is no horde charging their house. They collectively sigh relief and continue. The foyer is packed full of furniture stacked high. They use metal wire wraps and tie everything together. It looks like an industrial spider web with cocooned furniture.
At the living room window, long boards are placed at the bottom of the window sill to strengthen it. The zombies will have to reach higher to get in. Charlotte suggests placing nails as spikes poking through the boards. When the zombies grab at the boards, they'll hurt their hands.
“No, zombies don't feel pain.”
“Maybe they'll get stuck?”
Lena adds, “At least they'll rip their hands up and can't grab us.”
Dad likes the way they're thinking. He finds the biggest nails and hammers them into the boards. He has to do it in the bathroom with the door closed. They listen to see if it's too loud but the sounds are muffled.
The window sill ends up looking like something out of a road warrior apocalypse film. If only the nails were barbed. They board up most of the windows and then use the living room furniture to blockade the room. The house is somewhat more secure now. The front will limit the zombies’ abilities to rush in.
The rear doors are secured with metal frames and meshes. They are narrow so only a few zombies could bash on them at any one time. Dad has no illusions that a horde, The Horde, could still tear through. He thinks the best option is to lure The Horde away and these defenses will hold up against stragglers.
Dad goes through the garage sifting for more wood. He finds his rattan poles. They are eight feet long. In his medieval re-enacting, they used the rattan to make wooden practice swords. The rattan is made of solid bamboo and quite strong. If it breaks, it doesn't splinter like regular wood, so it’s safer. His eight foot poles were going to be cut shorter to make practice swords or axe handles. Now it seems they may be better used for spears. When he is fighting, his girls could thrust the spears from behind him. Or better yet, they could be on the roof spearing down into their craniums?
“Honey, what do we do with this?” his wife asks, coming to the back. “They'll go bad if we don't use them now?”
Dad looks at the packages of defrosting chicken and steak and sausage. He'll risk it.
The girls sit atop the roof on cushions watching him as he prepares the grill in the back. It is a nice grill, a large metal cart with the tank inside and stove like knobs for the ignition and gas.
The stench of zombies reeks from the other side of the backyard wall. A crazy buzz of flies can be heard and many seen. In the heat of the day, there is no telling what that pile must be erupting into.
Dad pushes on the ignition, the grill fwoomps on as the spark catches the propane gas. He looks down the driveway. No zombies. Rondo wags his tail. Dad gets back to the grill and begins the process of grilling. He slow cooks the chicken and sausage first. As it cooks and smokes, he constantly checks for zombies. He can't help it. He has got to eat this meat. He applies the barbecue sauce hurriedly then adds the seasoned steaks. There's a bit of a spoiled smell to the steaks. Or is it the zombie dead? Whatever! He keeps cooking them on the grill. His mouth waters with delight. He can't help but risk it.
He is so glad the butane tank is new. He got these for the beginning of summer, the grilling season. But with the girls’ basketball season in full swing, he never got around to barbecuing. He has two replacement tanks in the garage. He'll have enough to use as a fire starter or warmer for the coming winter. He wonders if this horror will last that long? Will it last forever? He shakes it off and keeps grilling. As he does, he takes off his upper armor, the brigandine coat of plates and gambeson with tied arm greaves. He plops those on the deck table. This was his last meaty cooked meal he figured. He wasn't going to grill and eat it in armor.
Lena and his wife are lying on blankets, tanning themselves on the roof. He wonders why. Old habits die hard? Do they think they're on vacation? At least Charlotte is on the lookout with her 22 rifle. At least she gets it. He nods to her. She gives a thumbs-up.
Dad passes the meat up to them. He gets out the long ladder and uses it to climb straight up to the roof. They sit cross-legged. Dad eats a sausage on the way up. Dad skills!
“Dad, we gotta pray,” Charlotte reminds.
“Oh, yeah,” Dad stops chewing. He swallows a piece prematurely. He sits on the blankets with them.
They wait. Dad realizes it's his turn. He is the father.
“Dear God, thank you for this meal, for this last supper, well last barbecue supper, for a little while. That we are together, alive, healthy, and living out this nightmare. That you are here, that you will help those who call out your name. In this city, cursed with many evils, that you will find and help others, and that your name will be known. Bless this family, bless our future, bless this food we are about to eat and give us all strength in the days to come. Amen”
“Amen.”
The meat is delicious. They sit atop the roof in the back. They are on the back side of the roof which was built as an add-on to the house. It is a flat roof, not the slanted original roof. It is well hidden from the front. They opened up the wall into the attic from here just like the one at the front. Now they have an opening into the attic at the front, the rear, and from inside at the closet.
The rear roof addition is the perfect safe spot to sit in the sun and out of view from the front. The nearest neighbors' yards can be seen but all the rest are covered by dense foliage.
They enjoy the barbecue and sausage on bread with ketchup, mustard, and warm mayo. Eating scrumptiously, they know this may be the last real meat for some time. Dad thinks on that, on the change in their lives. They are blessed to deal with it as they have, that he was able to grill. It is a small bit of sanity amidst the sprawling insanity.
They see Rondo below looking up. Charlotte waves a chicken bone.
“You can't feed it chicken bones,
stupid!” Lena says.
Dad realizes and shrugs. “I think at this point, we can't be too picky.” He nods.
Charlotte lets it drop. Lena quickly grabs her bones and drops them too. Rondo chews on splintered chicken bones. They watch to see if anything happens. Rondo swallows the last bit of splintered poultry bits and looks up, wagging his tale.
They all shrug. Dad decides to work on the spears. His daughters are interested in helping. He gets the sharpest kitchen knives and has Charlotte sharpen them. He cuts grooves into the wood to nest the knives. Since he can't drill, at least not electrically, he uses small nails and gently hammers small tack nails through the knife handles. Lena wraps them tight with leather straps then covers that with masking tape.
Dad goes up and down the ladder from the roof and back and forth to the garage. They turn the backyard rooftop into a work area.
Lena finishes one and tests it out. Dad shows her how to hold it and how to thrust. They practice pointing down to the ground near Rondo their dog. He looks up and playfully barks. But as Dad pokes the spear closer, Rondo whimpers away.
“Dad! Don't!” Charlotte whines.
“He better shut up.”
Charlotte tries the spears next. Not as adept or strong. What if she fell? He gets her to lie down and thrust downward. It feels awkward.
“Hmmm, I need to test this,” Dad says.
“Aren't we testing it?” Lena asks, thrusting downward and bored.
“No, I mean for real.”
“Now? Here?” Lena asks.
“Hmmm. No, no. I ain't drawing zombies to our house. I can't do that.”
“Why don't you use the ladder and go over to the next house?” Charlotte asks.
“What? Wait, hmmm...” Dad looks at the ladder. If placed against the fence, it would lean over to the neighbor's roof. The house next to theirs is the first resident on their block. The rest of the block, down to Sunset, are old brick-style store fronts with apartments on their upper levels. Dad is not sure who survived or is holed up in them waiting to be rescued.
Knight of the Dead (Book 1): Knight of the Dead Page 9