by M. D. Massey
But a vehicle is not all I am looking for.
I jog across the parking lot pavement to the nearest road turning and keeping pace. My legs and lungs burn with the exertion as I near the middle of the city. It feels good. The fresh air helps clear my head as I make my way down the road, ever alert.
They could be anywhere.
Up ahead I see movement on the road.
At first, I think it is another deer or a badger or something. Not until I get close enough, do I realize that it is a zombie, crouched over a raccoon at the side of the road. Shame I had not gotten there first;I have never eaten raccoon before. I have my crossbow, but at this close range, I can save the arrow.
I pull out my knife as I slowly reach down and pick up a handful of pebbles. Hitching back my arm, I take aim and toss one of the small rocks over the monster’s head so it lands on the other side of him. The sound catches its attention, and its head cranes up toward the noise.
I toss another handful of pebbles sending them skittering across the pavement. The creature stands and shuffles towards the sound. I take advantage of the distraction and stalk up behind it, taking slow, sideways steps. Then I spike the knife into the side of its head.
I feel vindicated each time I take one down. One less to worry about. Not that I had to worry about them, but I did not want Rachel or Marcus to know about that just yet. I stand up and walk forward toward the town. Up ahead, I can see the tops of the buildings rising beyond the horizon. Long lost skyscrapers, now just empty tombs jutting towards the sky.
The world as I know it has no more hope left within it. I often wonder what my life would have been like if the Fall of humanity had never happened. I collected bits and pieces over the years of what it might have been like. The lay of the cities alone gives me enough information. They were a busy lot, the people who lived before. The sheer number of vehicles left abandoned in their tracks gave evidence of rushing here and there.
A few years ago, I found some pictures from a school I had found inside one of the large buildings. The empty halls were lined with photographs of children, groups of about thirty, with one adult standing next to them, all of them smiling out at me. I can only guess what the purpose was of the pictures or what the role was of the adult. I remember trailing my fingers over the faces behind the smooth glass, wondering what their lives consisted of, what they talked about.
I remember little, but I still recall the presence of the woman in white. She showed me kindness, how to fight, and how to protect myself. These traits had always been something I assumed everyone had been taught, but as I move through this world, I learn over and over again that this is not the case.
The familiarity of my surroundings increases the closer I get to the middle of the city. The buildings loom around me now as I walk down the center of the street, subconsciously following the yellow, painted double line. Keeping the space around me, away from walls and windows, ensured that nothing would reach out and grab me. Here and there I see a few of them clustered and stranded under shadowed corners, unable to turn, reaching through bars of windows and vents, through the grating on the sidewalks and alongside the buildings.
I ignore them and move toward my destination. The roads, the signs, the shapes of the buildings, all become increasingly familiar as I walk. The building had once been a hotel, yet another piece of evidence that leads me to believe there had been more people to fill a building this size. The glass doors welcome me, as friendly as the maniacal grin of a carnival clown.
I push open the doors and step into the lobby.
The flash of returning memories nearly kicks me back off my feet. The glare of the sun on the marble floor. The new dusty smell of the chemicals permeating the building. I remember that the upper half of the building had been converted into apartments, where most of the doctors and scientists lived. It creeps up on me slowly, the realization that the entire structure had once been a self-sustaining community. Shops, grocery, and clothing on the first three floors. Then the laboratories on the floors above the arboretum. It all comes back, tumblers in a lock falling into place opening up the doorway to my memories.
My stomach drops with a feeling of vertigo as a memory of an elevator washes over me. I reach out and catch myself against the back of a faded chair. The table in the center of the lobby is rotted through; the legs lay crooked and broken, the top askew against the marble floor. I have a sudden vision of myself as a child, surrounded on all sides by mirrored glass, my own face, curving away into infinity. My hand is tucked into the hand of the woman in white standing next to me, warm and happy as she smiles down at me. She has a crinkle around her eyes. As clear as day, I see the curve of her lips, the whiteness of her teeth.
The elevator doors open and we step out, turning left. I see a flash of the office door within my hazy memory.
Room 642. That is where I need to get to. I shake my head and look up at the high vaulted ceiling above the now empty balconies. Darkened shadows seem to move in the tomb-like silence.
The elevators are out of service. Good thing I know where the stairs are. I cross the lobby to the small green door behind the elevators. I know better than to just open it outright. A building of this size and height would not be fully abandoned. Not completely.
Slowly I slip the handle of my knife into the palm of my hand before reaching for the door knob. The weight of the crossbow is comforting against my back. I know I won't be able to use it in the close quarters, but at least I know where it is. Part of me wishes I still had the other knife too, the one I had left behind with Rachel and Marcus. But they need it. I would find a way to make do. I open the door quickly with my weapon raised, prepared for the possibility of a mini-hoard pressing against it from the stairway.
It is vacant.
I exhale, taking careful steps forward, making my way onto the first landing. I turn and note the number on the door behind me. L1. A staircase leads up to the next landing while another leads down into the basements. I had never been down there, but I recall there are several levels of sub-basements.
I stop and listen.
If there is anything moving in the upper levels, I cannot hear it. The same cannot be said for the basement. The growling, grasping, sickeningly slick sounds of the creatures rises up from the lower levels. That many caught together, unable to escape, have most likely turned on each other. I can only imagine what horrors the lower levels have become. Nothing but a mass of rotted bones and decaying meat, writhing on itself in the ultimate orgy of the macabre.
I press myself against the wall, glancing upward, keeping my free hand on the strap of my crossbow. Close quarters often make for difficult self-defense. I stretch my neck around, trying to gauge the six flights I have to climb to get to my destination. Back to the wall, eyes upward, I move forward one careful step at a time, unable to fully see what may be around the corner. I make it to the second landing.
And then the third.
If it comes down to it, I know I can slip back into the doorway mirroring the one I had entered on Level One, although that would put me back into another place I would have to clear out. Might as well stay put, I decide. By the time I get to the fourth landing, I start to hear a distant rasping sound. Scratches against a concrete wall. Bloodied fingertips pressing against the surface, acting out the illusion of life itself. They just know forward; I think to myself. Nothing more. They have become so status quo, I hardly consider a solitary one to be much of a danger anymore. Regardless I do not like to be around them any more than I have to.
I ascend up to the next level. Up ahead, I can see it, trapped on the landing, walking back and forth adjacent to the door. Running into the corner wall, turning on shuffling feet and back towards the other wall. And again. Back and forth like a broken toy. I watch him for a few minutes, noticing it leaves a nasty red smudge of viscera behind every time it touches a part of the wall.
By the the level of decay, it has been trapped here for a while. I could not fathom how it beca
me trapped in the first place, as there are no marks on the stairs either coming or going. It wears a standard lab coat, long since faded brown with blood and dirt. I would have to kill it if I wanted to get by, even though the thought of getting close to it makes my stomach do flip flops.
I wait until it turns away from me before I take the last few steps to the landing. Moving in quick strides, I pike it in the fleshy hollow between the ear and the jawline, wincing as the black ichor spurts out. It falls limp. I am able to pull my knife out before it wobbles and pitches over the side of the railing, spinning in a gruesome free fall to the lower levels. At any rate, that would give the others down there something new to munch on.
The last two flights have no noticeable threats. I make my way up to the level, still holding my knife, and keeping my eyes open. Another doorway marked L6 in those large blue letters. I stop at the door and place my ear as close as I can.
I hear nothing.
Except that the door is remarkably thick, enough to block out any noise perhaps. I test the door handle. Not locked. The security system shut itself off long ago. I open the door and step through. The vacant hallway stretches out on either side of me.
642.
If there are, in fact, forty-two rooms on this level then I have my work cut out for me. I try to stretch my mind to allow a flow of memories, which might make it easier for me to find my way around. I have been here before. That much is certain, but I have no recollection of how or when. Relying only on guesswork, I turn right, taking my time down the hallway. I do not hear anything threatening retreating or moving around, but I have been fooled before.
I always have my senses on high alert,. I cannot stay against the wall as I had in the stairway as there are doors on either side, some open, some closed, none of them locked. Papers and broken vials spill out into the hallway, an indication of the panic which set in when the world fell.
The hallway echoes silence as I move forward.
I cannot hear anything other than the sound of my own footsteps, scraping against the floor and displacing the papers and glass shards. They would have been one of the first to evacuate. I have a small flash of memory of this location in the hallway, something to do with the alarm. I can very nearly hear the sound of the dim buzz echoing off the walls.
Someone had grabbed my hand. I could not have been any older than seven or eight.
I recall pulling the pillowcase from the bottom of my bed before I was whisked away. First the elevator. We were running, surrounded by the chaos of people all around us, all trying to escape, but with nowhere to go. Then a car. I was shoved forward into the back seat. I recognized the driver as one of the attendants from the laboratory.
Voices talking fast.
“Get her to safety. Follow the plan!”
“I'll meet you at the rendezvous.”
“Go, just go!”
We drive fast, trees moving past the windows faster than I had ever seen. Had I been in a car before then? What had my life been like? I have no memories beyond that.
The sun streams through the wide glass window, locked forever now that the security system was shut down. Finally, I see the hallway where I would find the place I seek. Room 639 crosses my vision. Not far now. I keep walking down the hall, counting the doors until I see the number I need. 642.
The door stands ajar, and I push against it, keeping my ears alert to any sounds. I tap carefully on the wood, trying to revive anything that might be lurking within. At first, it looks just like any other office on the floor. I pull the door open as wide as it will go. Across the room, a large desk fills the other half.
That is her desk, I realize. The woman in white.
I walk forward, oddly mesmerized by the unexplained feeling of vertigo washing over me. The whole office looks like it had been turned upside down. Papers, the contents of her filing cabinet, strewn about, covering the floor. Beneath the papers, I see a flash of the red oriental carpet, which solidifies the idea that I have been here before.
On the surface of her desk, I see a framed photograph turned away from me, the only thing left standing. Her computer is overturned onto its side, the monitor screen staring up at me like a dead, gray eye.
I pick up the picture frame and turn it over, rubbing my hand across the glass, smearing the dusty surface. I see the face of the woman staring back at me with a smattering of freckles over her nose, blond hair coiffed into a low bun. Her teeth matches her white lab coat.
The woman's left hand was wrapped around the hand of a small child, a girl with her gap-toothed grin shone just as ferocious as the woman's. She had been laughing when the picture was snapped, taken just days before the Fall. I crack the glass against the edge of the desk, pulling the photograph out and quickly tucking it into my shirt before I scramble out of the room.
It does not take long for me to get out of the building, knowing the stairs are still clear. I have what I need, but I keep my knife out and ready as I make my way back down the stairs. I sprint across the lobby and push my way into the street, squinting against the brightness of the sun.
I remember that little girl in the picture. I remember the way she had laughed when the photographer held up the funny bird puppet. I know that she had laughed that day, for the last time in a long time. I know what happened that day because the picture was taken on the day the world changed. I had grown up in this building. My search for answers has only just begun.
4
Standing in the middle of the road, the sun gleams off the dusty glass exterior of the tower and memories slowly start to come back. I face the building clutching my crossbow against my chest for comfort. My grip tightens on the handle of my bow. It all comes back, the memory of being here before, that same little girl clutching the hand of the woman in the white coat. Margaret Donovan.
I remember her. She is the woman who has appeared in my dreams, the vision in the elevator. Her office had been one of those rooms which felt like a shrine to the adult who inhabited it, silent and solemn. I brush my fingers over her face in the picture before I tuck it into the side pocket of my backpack.
I turn, walking at a slow pace down the center yellow line of the road, mulling the memories over. I used to live in that place. That woman, Margaret, had taken care of me, raised me I think. She was not my mother, though. I had a room, books, toys... this is where my childhood took place. This had been my home.
I make my way down the road eyeing the cars, parked on the side of the road, abandoned on the day humanity died. I see movements here and there in the shadows. The creatures, the zombies, tend to get stuck in the nooks and crannies, less of a threat than they would be out in the open.
Up ahead I spot a sky blue pickup truck veered off the road, nose first, into a small bridge over the ditch. There is no sign of impact. As I get close, I notice that the driver's side door hangs open and the poor creature is still buckled inside. Though the macabre scene is one of this undead man pulling against the seat belt, he must have been quite a character during his living days if the sideways jaunt of his cap of his hat means anything. His face appears skeletal covered with a thin layer of decayed gray flesh. A papery flap of torn cheek-flesh jiggles against his chin each time his body jolts forward.
I circle towards the creature inside the truck. On his dashboard sits a small plastic woman wearing a hula skirt and a tiny painted bikini top. Gold plastic stickers spell the name ‘Buddy’ across the front of the glove box. I spike my knife into his temple. His body goes limp, hanging against the taut seat belt.
“Sorry, Buddy,” I say. “I need your truck.”
My shoulder brushes against him as I reach across to unbuckle him. His head lolls from side to side as I maneuver his body out of the way. With his weight pulling against the strap, I have difficulty pushing the release button. Finally, it gives way and he falls forwards, lurching towards me. For a moment I think I missed his brain stem and perhaps he still has some semblance of movement in him yet. For a split second and I th
ink I made a fatal mistake of being too casual about my kills. We tumble to the ground and I push him off to the side, lifeless and still, his mouth nothing but a bloody gash across his desiccated face.
The keys are still in the ignition, just where I had hoped they would be. The truck rumbles to life as the keys turn under my fingers, louder than I feel comfortable with. I know I need to get out of here before it draws attention from the roaming zombies. I get out onto the road, heading towards the nearest strip mall for supplies.
Now that I have a vehicle, it will take me only about ten minutes to get back to the others, so I still have plenty of time for a supply run before the sun sets. I pull into the parking lot of the grocery store with the broken out windows, and I back the open truck as close as I can to the entrance. I don't see any creatures, but I exit the truck resting my bow against my shoulder, just in case.
First stop is the canned fish and meat section. I grab one of the canvas bags from the front and fill it with as much as I can carry. Tuna, salmon, beef jerky, any kind of animal protein I can get my hands on. Better to have it on hand in case hunting is scarce, and the boy needs more than refried beans and canned tomatoes. I check the bottled and gallon water shelves already knowing they would be empty. I return to the truck and pile the bags into the front seat, shaking my hands out relieving them from the effort.
Rachel had been right about getting caught in that herd. If I had not found the two of them, they would have died. The restaurant is a good spot for now, but it is only a matter of time before we get caught in another herd like that. They are joining together, the ones that are not stuck repeatedly walking into the same corner in the middle of a city. There are thousands of them still out there, lost in the plains and wide open spaces, coalescing together like droplets of an oil slick.
I grab what I can from the camping section: sleeping bags, canned heat, battery powered lanterns. Tomorrow I will ask Rachel if they want to come with me since the city won't be safe for much longer. The safety window after a large horde is only about three days before they start to trickle back into the city. I put the truck in reverse and twist the steering wheel back towards the road, heading to the restaurant.