Mortie the mortician lives just outside of town. His home is beyond the Washington Bridge that crosses the Charles River. His backyard is actually the largest cemetery in the area and the perfect place to set down. He can’t wait to get home so he can be safe and comfortable when he commits suicide.
Mortie had taken too much liberty with his flight, wasted too much time. His eyes are now having trouble focusing; he can only see a blurry smudge where his instrument panel should be. If he wasn’t already planning on killing himself, he would be worried. Mortie isn’t concerned. He is totally at peace for the first time in a long, long while.
68
The jeep isn’t turning over. Dan and Jason had grabbed all the ammo out of one and put it into the other. They had snagged the gas can off of the back of the one they were leaving behind as well.
“Maybe it’s flooded?” Jason suggests from his perch behind the .50 cal. “We should wait for it to drain.”
The soldier watches the blue bus get smaller in his rearview. The sound of the chopper blades cutting through the air is getting closer.
“He’s really flying low.” Jason says. Dan looks up. The craft is flying only a yard above the roofs of the cars on the bridge.
Dan tries the ignition again.
“I told you we have to wait.” Jason tells him.
“We can’t wait.”
The struts below the chopper bounce off the roof of a delivery van 200 yards away. They are scraping along the tops of the vehicles.
“Fuck me.” Dan says as the feet of the flying machine catch a convertible by its windshield. It lifts the car and the two fly into a semi. The chopper is now somersaulting forward onto the line of traffic.
The blue shuttle is safely away as the propellers of the craft slices into steel and asphalt. They break off as it travels nose first into the bridge becoming a fireball. The inferno rolls towards Dan and Jason.
69
Oz had watched as the helicopter flew over his truck. He has been pushing cars out of his way to get through Main Street. The powerful machine bullies its way towards the Washington Bridge. He knows living folks are heading north and he plans on catching up to them.
The janitor watched as the low flying craft scraped the roofs of the vehicles stalled ahead of him. He stopped when the chopper took its sudden nosedive. The truck full of children has almost made it to the bridge. Oz can see open road ahead, just passed the apparent roadblock that had caused the traffic jam. The helicopter explodes, setting off the neighboring cars. Oz is stunned for a brief instant.
“Fuck me.” He says. The explosion is heading towards him. The stand still traffic is erupting in a chain reaction. Car after car bursts violently, approaching like a fuse.
The transmission is in reverse as he tries to back away from impending doom. He doesn’t have much experience with driving vehicles while towing, but he has no choice. Oz carefully guides the truck through the opening he had made.
He is worried about the children inside the trailer that weaves stubbornly. If he was by himself he would probably just let the fire take him, but he can’t let these kids down like he feels he had Toby.
The cars continue to explode in succession, chasing them. He shifts his glance from the windshield to the mirror as he desperately retreats backwards towards the hospital. The trailer sharply banks to the right as the inferno ultimately catches up to them. Oz has to shield his eyes from the brightness of the fire. “Sorry kids.”
70
The shuttle is accelerating across the bridge. Nurse Cindy is having a hard time keeping it under control as the ground below them shakes incessantly like a tectonic tremor. Flaming pieces of debris rain down like the wrath of God. One of the green jeeps falls from the sky and almost clips the frontend of the bus as it lands, smoldering and upside down. It strikes the pavement so hard it leaves an impression.
Heather looks back with disbelieving eyes at the fireball that expands where her husband used to be. Her mouth hangs open, tears falling down her cheeks. She cradles the child they had made together, wanting to scream, but unable to find any breath.
The tanker truck explodes. The force clears the twisted wreckage from the surface of the bridge sending it over the sides and into the icy Charles River. Sections of the structure are starting to fall apart, weakened by the intense blast.
The shuttle makes it to the other side of the bridge and cruises along solid ground. Heather can’t take her eyes off of the orange hell that claimed her husband. She sobs for the man who had gone through so much to get to her and their child. Tears fall for the man who had saved not only his family, but also so many strangers. She vows to herself to tell Vincent everyday what kind of man his daddy was. She hopes he will grow up to be just like him, a hero.
Section II. The Dead of Winter
1
Black smoke billows up into the dusk sky, choking the diminishing light that filters down from the clouds. In the frigid waters of the Charles River below, the body of Daniel Williamson surfaces. It floats limply; face down along the quick current as chunks of concrete and steel fall all around him. Dan floats like drift wood under the bridge he had been on top of just moments ago, giving the water no resistance.
A heavy gasp of air and Dan lifts his head out of the Charles. He flails his arms, disoriented. He has no idea where he is, or why he is so cold and wet. His legs kick, instinctively treading the water. It slowly comes back to him as the swift current takes him passed the industrial park. Zombies on the shore watch the unattainable meal leave the city.
Dan and Jason were in the jeep trying to get it started when the fireball was born, coming at them fast. They ran to the edge of the bridge to jump off, but as soon as their feet left the cement guardrail something pushed them hard from behind. Dan recalls a blast of scorching hot air he thinks was probably the gas truck. The concussive force had knocked him out; he doesn’t even remember hitting the water.
The floating man turns himself around, trying to find Jason. His partner is nowhere in sight. He feels he should be doing something, but is at a loss as to what that something might be. His lean body is shivering, numb from the chilly water. He isn’t certain how long he’s been in the river, but he’s getting very tired.
The dead upon the banks bar him from attempting to beach himself. The soldier is in desperate need to get out of the frigid stream. He lies on his back and lets the current take him away. A song enters his head. He doesn’t know who sings it, but he’s always liked it, and feels it fits his situation. Momma said there’d be days like this. He sings internally while waving to the dead on the shore.
He is becoming delirious. His trembling body picks up speed as the river narrows. The water becomes choppier as the towns pass by.
The carefree crooner can’t remember any more words to the song, so he just keeps singing the chorus, pausing just long enough to yawn. He feels so sleepy he figures a nap can’t kill him. I’ll just close my eyes for a minute, he thinks. Then, I will save myself.
His body goes under, submerging in an eddy. He comes up gasping, wide-awake thanks to the brisk dip. He tries to speak, but his face is numb and immobile. I have to get out of this, he concludes. The cold water makes his head ache, and makes formulating a plan even more difficult. He knows if he doesn’t get warm soon, he will die.
A footbridge crosses the river up ahead. He can see zombies upon it and hopes not to be spotted as he nears them. He wants to grab onto one of the support beams that hold the structure up, and then he can plot from there.
He is spotted; one of the dead sees him and stops abruptly. The dead man’s gaze is transfixed with the meal floating under the bridge.
The soldier tries to grab the first beam he comes to, his numb hands betray him. He is unable to open them wide enough to latch on. His knuckles just rebounded off the old post.
He is able to get a hold of the next one by swinging his arms around the beam and locking the wood in the crook of his elbow. The current is still pulli
ng his body. His feet point down river. Dan clings to the beam while his body waves like a flag in the wind.
He struggles to hold on and formulate a plan. A splash draws his attention behind him. A new song pops into his head, without its intended mirth. It’s raining men.
Two zombies have dropped into the river and are floating towards him. Dan pulls himself closer to the post and is able to dodge the first corpse. The second dead man grabs him, and pulls him from the beam. They sink into the water together.
The soldier can barely see under the dark and murky water, he knows he needs to keep this thing’s mouth away from him. He is able to jam his forearm under the aquatic ghoul’s chin, but the zombie has a tight grip on Dan’s shoulders. The water logged corpse tries to pull his meal to his mouth as its dead weight pulls them both deeper and deeper.
Dan’s lungs burn from the lack of oxygen, he tries to swim to the surface with his free hand. It is a losing battle. The two figures, each desperate in their own right, continue to struggle as they sink to the silty bottom. The soldier is able to pry one of the dead man’s hands from his shoulder. He brings a foot up and lays his heavy combat boot onto the deceased man’s chest. Straining causes Dan to lose a precious bubble of air, but he has to push the corpse away to free the other hand.
Once out of the zombie’s clutches, Dan finds the creature’s face with his other foot and uses it as a step to launch towards the surface. He swims for his life, though weighed down by his uniform and heavy shoes. Paranoid that at any moment he will feel a hand grab his ankle has him kicking faster in the black, wet void. Luckily, his fear doesn’t transpire.
His head breaks the surface and he starts swimming at an angle, trying to reach the shore to his right. There is a rocky area up ahead that is free of zombies as far as he can see.
He has difficulty pulling himself from the river. His clothes are drenched and feel many times their usual weight, which is already pretty heavy. It feels like the water that soaks his clothes doesn’t want him to leave the Charles and is trying to pull him back in. He fights against its pull and walks on solid ground again. His clothes are dripping wet, his flak jacket pours steady streams of water from its corners.
The man is exhausted and just wants to sit on the rocks for a minute. He can’t stop though his body shivers uncontrollably and he can see his breath. Bill was right, Dan says to himself. We were in for a cold snap. He wipes his nose with the back of his hand, looking around for inspiration. His nose always runs when it gets really cold.
The rocky shore he has landed on inclines up and meets a long chain linked fence, sheets of metal have been welded to it. Beyond the barrier Dan can hear dogs barking viciously as he climbs the embankment. His unfeeling feet are unsteady on the stony terrain.
The soldier’s hands tremble when he reaches the fence. He holds onto it for support while he looks for an opening. His clothing is getting stiff, freezing to his skin. He locates a space between the panels of sheet metal and looks through the breach. It appears to be some sort of junkyard. There is a small building among the piles of unidentifiable rubbish. There is also something he can’t pass up: A truck.
The dogs howl and wail as he climbs the fence. He hobbles across the packed earth on feet that are virtually immobile, they feel like prosthetics. He trips and falters over ruts and age-old potholes in his rush to the building. He moves as fast as his current condition, and the treacherous ground will allow.
To his left he can see a large section of the fence is actually a gate. The panels move aside on runners. That is where the dogs are. Three large black beasts are in the junkyard with him. They bark and snarl into the night, however, they don’t bark at him. The trio is making all of their noise facing outward, intent on something on the other side of the fence that they find to be more threatening than the intruder.
Dan is at the building. He has to use both of his frozen hands in tandem to turn the knob. They are placed on either side of the brass orb and squeezed together. He is relieved to discover the door is unlocked.
He can’t see a thing inside. He knows his lighter will be useless to him until it dries. Damn, he curses. That means my cigarettes will be useless too. Luxurious warm air emanates out onto his face, enticing him to blindly enter the shack.
Dan’s body tingles, regaining sensation. He revels in the warm air that caresses him. He was starting to think he would never know warmth again until now. His eyes adjust to the darkness aided by the minimal light that enters from the open door. He can see something glowing red against the wall near the floor, his heart swoons when he discovers it to be a fireplace.
Embers pulse trying to stay alive. Dan drops to his knees near a pile of newspapers. He begins wadding them up into balls and carefully placing them in the dying fire, not wanting to smother what he is trying to resuscitate.
“I’m home.” He says as he gently blows on the embers.
“Hi, honey. How was your day?” He asks himself in a high-pitched voice.
“Well mom, it started out kinda rocky this morning when I burned my toaster strudel…” Dan watches as his paper balls start to burn around the edges until the entire mass is aflame. He adds small sticks and a thin round log.
“Let’s just say it was downhill from there.” Dan crumples more paper and tosses it on top of the heap.
“What else did you do today?” He asks himself again in the same female voice.
“Oh, this and that. Boy meets girl. Boy losses girl during a zombie holocaust. He finds her, only to lose her once again after he gets blown up. That old chestnut.”
The fire is burning very well now. Dan forces himself to stand so he can close the door. He can see the dogs are still at the gate, howling into the night. Their wailing is muffled once the door is closed.
The soldier’s shoes squish as he plods back to the hearth. He wants to get these wet rags off, but his fingers won’t cooperate just yet. He has to hold them closer to the flames. Dan welcomes the painful tingling in his palms as his hands regain their mobility.
He disrobes starting with his boots and socks. His flak and uniform blouse come off next. His water logged fatigue slacks fall to his ankles as soon as he undoes the fasteners that held them in place.
Dan bashfully looks over his shoulder before going the full Monty. The room is washed in the flickering radiance of the fire. His shadow makes itself at home on the back wall, stretching itself out. His boxer shorts cling to his skin as he peels them off. He hops around trying to get them off his feet and the clumsy stripper almost falls. Dan catches himself with his palms on the wooden floor. He can see his shadow has stumbled as well.
Without Dan’s body eclipsing the fire’s glow a spectator is revealed. The nudist is startled by the presence of a grisly looking man seated in a chair gently rocking. In the gentleman’s hands is a rifle.
“Oh shit!” Dan yelps, covering his privates. The man isn’t moving from his seat. He just stares at the intruder, the light dances on his face revealing his full bushy beard and straggly hair.
“Hello.” Dan laughs, trying to play off his embarrassment. The man still says nothing; he just rocks slightly in his chair. Dan moves a little closer. The chair he is in isn’t a rocking chair. It is the flickering light giving him the appearance of movement. The naked soldier can see a dark splash on the wall behind the man’s head.
Dan moves along the wall, creeping even closer to Grisly Adam’s peripheral. The top of the man’s head is opened like a soup can. An exit wound, Dan acknowledges, and concludes the man had put the barrel in his own mouth. The rifle lies across his lap, the man’s right hand still holds it at the butt, his finger is still in the trigger guard.
Since his new roommate is deceased, in the permanent sense, Dan reaches for the weapon forsaking his modesty. Rigor has set in and the soldier must pry the man’s fingers from the gun to claim it. Touching the guy gives Dan the chills as he bends each digit back and forth to loosen the cold dead hand.
His affinity f
or police dramas was not enough for Dan to go on to place the time of death. He can tell it was rather recent judging by the embers in the hearth. He would venture to guess the man had killed himself 3 to 4 hours ago.
Dan is about to inspect his new weapon when his body spasms involuntarily, touching the dead man has really creeped him out. Dan takes the gun to the fireplace, once his willies pass. It is a high caliber hunting rifle with a scope, fed by a seven round magazine.
Happy to be warm again, and armed, Dan figures he should dry his gear. He lays his garments flat on the floor and organizes them by importance. The things he wants to be sure get dry go closest to the hearth.
He stuffs newspaper into each shoe, all the way down to the toes, and then sets them upside down against the stones that line the fireplace. He removes all the objects from his pockets, wishing he had done that before taking them off. He can now inventory what he has to work with.
Becka’s razor had fallen out of his boot when he took it off. He sets his lighter next to it, and then his wallet. The wallet is unfolded and propped up to stand like a school kid’s diorama. Dan tosses his useless pack of cigarettes into the hearth. The river water boils out of the tobacco as the cellophane crinkles and evaporates. He really wishes he could have salvaged the smokes; the white paper had dissolved leaving the pack full of brown mush. Dan sets his useless keys down by his lighter and razor blade. His survival knife needs to be unsheathed so it doesn’t rust.
“That’s still useful.” Dan hates that so much of his supplies and items are useless. Muzzleloader ammo. Useless. Spare magazine and box of ammo for my pistol. Useless.
“I should have given Heather these.” Dan regrets. He doesn’t remember how many shots his wife has left with the 9mm. Dan sets the bullets in his useful pile.
Life Among The Dead Page 24