The Undead: Zombie Anthology

by David Wellington

  Bridgett and Jimmy had headed toward one of these outposts, but they’d run out of gas here in Podunkville. The sound of the car had brought ghouls in droves. Bridgett and Jimmy had run, looking for a place to hole up. Jimmy had been dragged down, the creatures setting their teeth in him, tearing him to bits. Bridgett hadn’t even looked back; she had climbed up a small ladder onto this porch and had been trapped. The windows were barred, and the house was too far from another to jump. All she’d been able to do was pull the ladder up. Now her only option seemed to be jump down and run for it, which was not really an option since they’d be on her the minute she hit the ground. She could also put her gun in her mouth and blow out her own brains. Better that than sitting here until dehydration drove her insane.

  Bridgett screamed at the creatures. Though it meant nothing to them, it gave her some small feeling of comfort.

  Then she heard gunfire. Below her, ghouls began exploding. The creatures were staggering under the barrage of a heavy caliber weapon. The small gang that had treed her was gone in moments, only a few moaning parts left.

  The tallest man that Bridgett had seen in years calmly stalked down the middle of the street, reloading his weapon. A ghoul staggered out of the darkness of early dawn and moved toward him. Without missing a beat, the man brought a fist up and down, crushing the zombie’s head. Brains spewed out of its cracked skull like a spilled carton of cottage cheese. Bridgett stared. She’d never seen such strength! And his demeanor—how could he just walk out there like he was on a Sunday stroll?

  As the ghoul collapsed, the man reached into a pocket of his duster, removed a plastic flask and threw it to her.

  “Drink, then climb down. We have to get out of here. More of them are coming.”

  Bridgett swallowed the water, which was, even though flat and metallic, the best she’d ever tasted. She jumped down and ran to the man. His face was heavily scarred as if he’d been in a horrible auto accident, and his eyes were two different colors.

  “Can you drive?” His voice was rough, as if he didn’t speak often.

  “Yes,” she replied. “I have a car, but no gas.”

  He looked back over his shoulder to where the growing light of dawn revealed more creatures. “Take me to your car.”

  It was a jet-black hummer, civilian issue. She and Jimmy had found it when they fled from Kansas City. It ate gas, but could drive over ghouls with little problem. As they neared it, the scarred man said, “Get in. Put it in neutral.”

  Bridgett was going to protest, but the look on the scarred face, which was mutilated worse than she had originally seen, told her to obey. She got in, but he stayed, walking around to the back of the hummer. As Bridgett slid the gearshift into neutral, the scarred man began to push. The vehicle moved slowly at first, then picked up speed. The slow, shambling things were left behind as Bridgett, amazed at the man’s strength, steered.

  * * *

  When Bridgett saw the chain link fence, she braked. Her savior came around, unlocked the sliding gate, then pushed the Humvee through and closed them. Once the gate was locked, he motioned to Bridgett to come out of the car.

  “Wow!” She exclaimed. “How much weight do you lift? I’ve never seen anything like that!”

  He didn’t answer. “We’ll put fuel in your vehicle and eat. Tomorrow we can head for the outpost. Come with me.”

  As they walked, Bridgett stuck out her hand. “I’m Bridgett Conolly. I was a pre-Med student at Kansas State when the world came apart.”

  The scar-faced man stopped and took her hand gently. His flesh felt odd. It was cold and rough with a slight clamminess to it. Bridgett shook it but was glad when he let go.

  “Do you have a name?” she asked.

  The scar-faced man gave her a half smile. So curious! She reminded him of another from long ago. “I was never given one, so I use my father’s name.”

  Bridgett shook her head, short red hair going in all directions. “Your father never gave you a name?”

  “He was more of a creator than a mere father.” The man sighed. He hated telling anyone this, but some believed even when they were awed by the information.

  “My name is Frankenstein. Victor Frankenstein.” He looked up at the sky, ignoring the woman’s look of amazement. “We’re safe in here, we’ll stay until daylight. Sometimes a helicopter comes.”

  Inside the lone building protected by the fence, the man who called himself Victor Frankenstein began preparing food. Bridgett sat quietly staring at the man. In the light of the propane lamps, the scars on his hands and face cast deep shadows. His skin was lighter than hers, almost albino, but not the dull green of the ghouls, who were rotting away even as they caused their terror.

  “So,” Bridgett said, voice wavering. “You’re not really like Frankenstein’s monster, right? What happened? You survive some car crash and the doc did a bad job of putting you back together?”

  He smiled mirthlessly. “If it makes you more comfortable, call me Victor.” He put a plate of canned stew in front of her. His own plate held twice the amount. “I’m sorry there’s no bread.” He sat and began spooning the food into the jagged gash of his mouth. After seeing that she wasn’t eating, he put his spoon down. “It’s impolite to stare at the dinner table.”

  With a start, Bridgett began eating. The stew was warm and filling if somewhat bland. Her eyes kept flickering to her companion, who ate in a business-like way: spooning, chewing, and swallowing. If he enjoyed the meal, his face didn’t show it.

  After a few more moments of uncomfortable silence, Bridgett said, “You were really created from the bodies of the dead?”

  Victor put his spoon down, his meal almost done. “You can see that those creatures out there, the once dead, have risen to devour the living, yet find me unbelievable?”

  Bridgett shrugged. “It’s just that—I’ve seen the movies. I read the book. You don’t look anything like that.”

  Victor sighed. “The movies. That damned Shelley woman. I should have been more forceful in my warning to her. She made a travesty out of what had been an amazing accomplishment.”

  Bridgett’s eyes widened. “You knew Mary Shelley?”

  Victor pushed his plate away. “I have known many great people and some not so great.” He flexed his large hands. “In 1923, I could have crushed Adolf Hitler’s skull. I was as close to him as I was to you. But for years I stayed hidden, keeping away from human affairs, seeking only to be left alone.”

  “Then why come out now?”

  Victor’s two different colored eyes glazed for a moment as he stared into the propane lamp. “I feel more kinship with humans than I do the dead.”

  Bridgett’s heart ached from the sadness in Victor’s words. He was certainly more intelligent than most of the people she’d met.

  “Thank you,” she said in a low voice.

  He looked at her, lank dark hair nearly hanging in his eyes. “Don’t thank me until I’ve gotten you to an outpost.” He looked out the dirty window where a smattering of raindrops had appeared on the glass. As the rain increased, he said, “Will you keep my secret? I’ve told very few over the years.”

  “Why tell me?”

  Victor stood and went to the window. The small building they were in was drafty and indefensible. If the fence didn’t hold, neither would the building. “You remind me of someone I knew many years ago. She accepted me, horrible as I appear, for she could see beyond my crude flesh.” He smiled sadly, thinking of the Duchess D’Orly, who had been his friend and sheltered him during the 1850’s when revolution had swept through France again. He’d kept her safe from the radicals. He remembered standing in front of her estate, arms in gore up to the elbows, crushing bones and tearing flesh until the revolutionaries ran off screaming. That had been the last time they’d threatened her.

  A flash of lightning illuminated the yard near the Hummer. Victor tensed; he could see shapes out there. Only two or three, but that was too many.

  “Do you have a
weapon?” he asked.

  Bridgett patted the .357 semi-automatic pistol, which hung from her belt. “Yep. I know how to use it, too.” Jimmy had taught her to shoot when they were in the hills, hiding. She hadn’t thought of Jimmy since she’d met Victor. She didn’t want to remember how Jimmy’s flesh was peeled from his face, how he hadn’t even had time to scream before the creatures devoured him.

  “Wait here.” Victor stalked toward the door.

  “Why? What’s going on?”

  Victor lifted his shotgun, checked its load. “Some of them are inside the fence. Lock the door behind me.”

  Without a further word, he stalked out into the rain. Lightning flashed, letting him see that the gate was secure and that there were no holes in the fence. Still, there were three of them, each more worn and rotted than the next. Victor slowed and watched them. One had no eyes, following the others by sound. All were dressed in tattered coveralls. Perhaps they had been trapped here. Soon they would be free. Victor let his shotgun hang on its tether. These three would be done silently.

  The first ghoul, a savage-looking specimen whose wrists bore razor cuts, tottered forward.

  Raising his arms, Victor brought his fists together on each side of its head, shattering the skull like a cheap plate. The zombie collapsed, maggot-infested brain destroyed, danger ended. The second came from Victor’s left, grabbing him by the arm. Quickly, he grabbed it by the throat and squeezed. Victor’s fingers dug into the flesh like putty. Closing his large hand, he popped the creature’s head from its shoulders. The blind zombie turned its head stupidly back and forth. One blow from Victor’s fist and it collapsed, its potential for threat ended forever.

  Making a round of the perimeter, Victor found a small storage building, far in the back of the fuel compound. Its door was open. Inside lay a note addressed to whoever might find it. Trapped by the ghouls outside the fence, with no food or water, the men had chosen to kill themselves. They must not have known about the reactivation of the brain. When this place had been taken over for the use of the helicopters and stocked with food, the men had been overlooked, trapped again, doomed to wander and rot. No matter, thought Victor, they had gone on to their final reward. Closing the door, he made his way back to Bridgett.

  * * *

  “Aren’t you afraid I’ll tell who you are?” Bridgett asked, watching him take off his sodden coat and shirt, hanging them to dry. Victor was heavily muscled. The scars of his creation were present everywhere, as if someone had used Victor for an anatomy lesson.

  “If someone told you they had discovered Frankenstein’s creation, would you believe it? I can tell by looking at you that you still don’t believe it.” Victor sat at the small table, his pale flesh glowing oddly in the propane light. “You humans couldn’t even believe it when the dead were at your doors, killing you.”

  Bridgett nodded sadly. “True.”

  Victor lifted his hand and flexed it. “The Baron was a brilliant man, centuries before his time. I wonder, had religion not been shoved down his throat, would he have ever done what he did?”

  “Is the book real?”

  Her curiosity reminded Victor of the Baron as well. His burning need to know had led him to the act of creation. Was his life a gift or a curse? He’d been asking that same question for decades.

  “Some is true. Wollenscraft was a friend of the Frankenstein family. Before the Baron ran away, after he discovered I still lived, he told her everything. I met her once; it was from her I discovered that he had fled into the northern wastes.”

  Bridgett touched Victor’s hand. He appeared not to notice as she ran a finger along his cool, rough flesh. “So you were lost in the north?”

  Victor rose and peered out the window. “Yes. We were buried in a cave, in a glacier. He died. I slept. When a part of my prison broke free and drifted south I woke and decided to explore. All I ever found of the Baron was his head. It was withered and mummified. I brought it back to Europe and buried it in his family’s mausoleum.”

  Bridgett yawned, the events of the day taking their toll on her. “I can’t imagine the things you’ve seen.”

  Victor’s eyes were hidden in shadow as he replied. “Mostly cruelty and evil deeds. Men are more monstrous than I could ever be, even were I the terror from the films.”

  “Perhaps we’ll be better,” Bridgett said. “Those of us that survive the ghouls, that is.”

  Victor laughed, a sharp harsh noise. “Those who have the survival instinct are not usually the kind ones.”

  * * *

  Victor woke Bridgett by moving about their shelter. When she opened her eyes, he said, “It’s time to go.” Bridgett jumped to her feet, strapping on her pistol belt then pulling on her coat. She had dreamed strangely, visions of man-made creatures battling the undead, all of whom had Jimmy’s face. “Are the outposts really safe?” she asked.

  Victor turned from where he was opening the door. “Safer than here.”

  Bridgett followed him out. Several ghouls stood at the gate. One had no arms, and the flesh on its face had been peeled off. Another with an outlandish Mohawk, jingling with body piercings, was snarling and trying to bite through the chain securing the gate. The hope Bridgett felt faded from her green eyes. “We’re dead. We’ll never get past them.” Even as she spoke, more of the creatures were tottering toward their haven. Soon they would crowd the gates, making any attempt at escape futile.

  Victor turned to look at her, his different colored eyes flat and emotionless. “Start the vehicle. We’ll get out.”

  As Bridgett complied, Victor entered one of the other sheds. He came out dragging eight propane tanks, the kind once used for barbecues. He’d tied the canisters together. Walking up to the gates, taunting the ghouls with his size, he tossed one end of the rope, tied in a neat loop, over part of the fence. Tightening the line he brought the propane tanks up to the middle of the gate. Turning away from the ghouls, who were clamoring for a bite of his ancient flesh, he stopped and gave them the finger. Inside the Hummer, Bridgett laughed out loud. That was the last thing she’d expected to see her companion do.

  Pulling back the fabric that protected the Hummer’s interior from the rain, Victor stowed it in the cargo area. Sitting in the passenger side, he leaned to the side, auto-shotgun in one hand. “Start moving forward. After I blow the gate, drive fast.” He hated to forfeit this safe zone, but it was a small price to pay since most of the supplies had been used up.

  Bridgett nodded. “You got it boss!”

  Victor set his shotgun to single shot and aimed at the propane tanks. He pulled the trigger once, and the tanks exploded in a ball of fire, blowing the gates back fifteen feet. Ghouls disintegrated in the blast. Those that weren’t atomized fell back, some burning. Bridgett stomped the gas, and the Hummer peeled out, running over a few crippled ghouls. As soon as they were on the far side of the small town, she glanced at Victor. “Say, you’re a couple of centuries old and you don’t know how to drive?”

  Victor stared at her. “I never bothered to learn. Not many vehicles are made for someone of my size.”

  * * *

  They drove along the highway toward the Saint Louis safe zone. The road was beginning to show signs of neglect. Potholes were forming, railings had rusted and had fallen away, and road signs were fading. Bridgett concentrated on driving, but she was still amazed that she was sitting next to a legend. Myth. Fable. She wasn’t sure if any of them were the right word to use. She, like many others, had grown up with movies about the Frankenstein monster. But he wasn’t really a monster at all. Monstrous in appearance perhaps with his pale skin, odd colored eyes, and thin white lines of scars on virtually every piece of exposed flesh. His dark hair was thin and lank. But she had a feeling that he was an honorable being, a man of his word. On impulse, she reached over and patted one of his large hands.

  He started and stared at her. “Why did you do that?”

  Bridgett smiled at him. “Everyone needs a pat or a hug once in
a while. Think of it as a thank you for saving me.”

  Brooding, he replied, “But I haven’t saved you yet.”

  * * *

  The sky darkened and out of the west came forks of lightning and blasts of thunder. At each blast, Victor looked up, his eyes glowing oddly in the minute blasts of light. Drops of rain appeared on the windshield. Bridgett turned on the hummer’s heater and windshield wipers. The drops quickly became a torrent, the rain sluicing off the windshield, the wipers barely able to keep up.

  “Perhaps we should stop,” said Victor. He was looking ahead, where the beams of the headlights were barely piercing the darkness.

  “Good idea, but I’ll keep the engine running.” Bridgett slowed, staying in the middle of the road, allowing the vehicle to come to a stop. She put it in park and turned to face Victor.

  “Do you have any idea why this has happened to the world?”

  He shook his large head, eyes hidden in the dim light of the dashboard. “Perhaps the creator is annoyed at humanity’s intrusions in his domain.”

  Bridgett shut the headlights off. If the rain stopped suddenly, as spring storms were wont to do, they would serve as a beacon to any unfriendly things—not all of them dead.

  “What’s your first memory?”

  Victor was usually annoyed at questions and sought not to answer them, but his companion’s were so open, her curiosity so refreshing, he felt it would be wrong not to answer.

  “Pain. My rebirth was painful. The Baron was hoping that I would have my previous memories, but this was not to be. When the brain is starved of oxygen, whatever holds our memory fails and the memories, the personality of the person, is gone.”

  “Wow! You were like a newborn baby!”

  “Yes, for lack of a better way of saying it. But I was an abandoned baby. Many times I’ve wondered if the dead eat the living because they are in pain, or are jealous that they feel nothing. Perhaps that is why they attack me, even though my flesh is not appealing to them.”