Holiday of the Dead

by David Dunwoody

  Suddenly he had an idea.

  “Bill,” the words came out louder than he had planned and he saw Masters look up in shock. Doyle ignored the other man’s motion of silence, he was too excited.

  “We’ll use the canoe oars.” Doyle disappeared back inside and reappeared with a long, double-bladed oar. It was shorter than the cushion but if they bundled the material they should at least be able to keep it off the ground. Masters nodded and ran into the room to get another. By the time Masters had reappeared Doyle had already positioned the first oar under the cushion. Masters quickly followed suit on the other side and together they lifted their ends experimentally.

  It was a little shaky and the oars were bending alarmingly but the large cushion remained wedged on top of the make-shift splint. It might just work.

  Once Doyle had left, Theresa stayed close to Atkins to be best placed to help. She could see Johnson and a few others throwing desks down the stairs. They had already cleared out one full room and had begun on another. As she passed the stairs she looked down and could see the jumble of broken desks that filled the stairs from about half way down right to the bottom where they pooled in a mess at the foot of the stairs.

  The resulting obstacle course should keep the creatures busy for some time. With their crude, stiff movements they would find it difficult to work their way up and it would buy them some time. But would it be enough?

  Everything had happened so fast. It was only eleven in the morning. Two hours had passed since she had come into Richard Doyle’s classroom. Two hours since the world ended. She looked over at the frightened faces of the boys as they looked to their teachers for re-assurance. She tried to smile at them but her lips wouldn’t move. She dropped her eyes. How could she offer them the strength they needed when she was so terrified? Her stomach was wound so tightly, her head throbbed and her heart was beating so hard that she was certain she was going to have a heart attack. She hid her hands in the pockets of her jacket before anyone noticed how badly they were shaking and looked down the stairs again. She could see the first of the creatures appear at the end of the stairs. The first of them fell on the broken desks but the ones behind simply clawed their way over them. They were slow and awkward but it wouldn’t be long before their sheer numbers made it up to the first floor. She prayed silently that Richard Doyle would hurry.

  Doyle nodded and the two men began to make their way back to the school. The return trip was easier than they thought but it still took another five minutes because they had to stop a number of times when the cushion slipped off the oars. They quickly dragged it into place beneath the first floor window and the first boy began to drop down before they had actually finished.

  “How’s it going up there?” Doyle asked one boy as he pulled him clear and moved him to safety.

  “I don’t know, sir. There’s a lot of shouting but I couldn’t see much from where I was.”

  Doyle nodded and moved to help the next boy as he landed with a whoosh.

  After an hour they had the line working quite well. They averaged about three bodies a minute but that still meant another two hours before they cleared the school. Theresa and two other teachers had already come down and they had taken charge of getting the growing number of boys out of sight and safe. They had been lucky so far.

  About twenty minutes ago one creature had appeared around the corner and had shuffled towards them. They had easily taken care of the thing and had crushed its head with one of the wooden runners they had made into weapons. The most unnerving thing about the incident had been the eerie silence of the action.

  Doyle assumed that the creature was not capable of speech as there was no air going through its windpipe to make any noise. He’d always wondered how films could portray these creatures as moaning zombies when they were dead and didn’t breathe. He shrugged, was there any point in looking for logic in the first place? It was what it was. If he got out of this alive he’d write Romero a letter.

  The creature had been alone and the rescue had continued. Twenty minutes later Guy Fallon leaned out the window and shouted down.

  “They’re almost at the top of the stairs,” he panted. Doyle could see the blood on the man’s forehead and felt guilty for his own relatively safe position.

  “Send then down two by two,” he shouted up and Fallon nodded and disappeared. They had delayed as long as they could but now the risk of injuries with two jumping at the same name far outweighed the certain death of the alternative.

  They ran out of time a half hour later. As if they were working to some diabolical timetable, the creatures inside the school reached the top of the stairs at the same time that another crowd appeared around the eastern end of the yard and finally became aware of their presence. Doyle was helping two boys off the cushion when three more suddenly dropped on top of them, crushing one of the boys and snapping another’s arm with an audible crack.

  He looked up, ready to shout his annoyance when the window suddenly shattered and rained shards of glass down on to them. The boy beside Doyle cried out, the cry cutting off abruptly as a large sliver of glass sheered half his head clean away. Suddenly the ledge above became crowded with screaming boys as they all panicked and jumped together.

  Doyle grabbed the boy with the broken arm and threw him off the cushion just before the first wave hit the cushion. The boys hit the material hard, one missing it entirely and landing on his ass with a sickening thump, his body seemed to stay upright for an age before he fell over and lay still.

  The other boys hit the cushion together and the seal along the end burst with a loud tear, like sails on a ship being ripped in two. The stale air within the canvas rushed out and made Doyle gag. The material was already slick with the dead boy’s blood and everyone on it was coated in red. Screams filled the air as panic reigned. The appearance of blood-stained boys screaming in terror sent those around them into a panic and many of them ran straight into the approaching hoard. The smell of blood was heavy in the air, cloying and the creatures shuffled faster towards them as if they could smell it. Already the next wave of boys was jumping and he screamed at those still on the canvas to move. There was already too much screaming and his warning was lost in the mad cacophony. Many of the boys sat rigid on the canvas as they looked dumbly at the blood on them and at the near headless body of the boy beside them. More boys fell from above. For a mad moment he thought that it was raining children as they fell in ever greater numbers. Many of those who miraculously managed to survive the fall were crushed by those falling after them. Doyle tried vainly to pull the boys from the canvas but there were too many.

  The cushion was completely flat and offered no cushion for the falling tide but the boys above were too panicked to notice. They continued to jump, oblivious to the carnage below, anything to get away from the creatures above. There was a pool of dead and injured boys on the ground and Doyle just couldn’t get close enough to help the injured.

  The dead bodies, however, did serve a macabre purpose. With the air gone they acted as a soft landing for those still trying to escape.

  The boys that did manage to survive stood in shock as they watched their classmates die before them. Some of the stronger ones tried to help but the constant flood of bodies from above made it impossible. Doyle was so focused on the carnage in front of him he didn’t notice how close the creatures had managed to get to them until he heard a high-pitched scream behind him. He spun towards the noise and saw four creatures right beside him. Two of them were tearing at a boy who stood mute as they tore his flesh from the bone, his mind so frozen in terror that the pain, mercifully, barely registered. Jesus, that could have been me, Doyle paled as he saw the other creatures reach for him.

  He ducked below the swipe from a desiccated arm. The stench hit him like a blow and he retched as he reached down for the weapon at his feet. He brought the wooden runner up hard and caught the creature under the chin sending it sprawling into the things behind.

  That gave him a
few seconds and he used them to order those survivors he could reach to get to the outer field where the others were gathering. He grabbed a boy from his class; dimly aware that it was the ever optimistic Henshaw, and instructed him to tell Theresa to start the group moving and that they’d follow as soon as they could. Henshaw didn’t have time to ask questions as another creature came up behind and Doyle pushed him away with a shouted command to move.

  Doyle was vaguely aware that the rain of bodies was slowing, either they had gotten most of the boys out or the rest were dead. He saw Atkins appear on the ledge above and saw him drop and then Doyle was swept away by the crush of undead bodies.

  He swung the runner from side to side, hitting dead flesh with each strike but he only succeeded in driving them back a little, and even that effect was reducing as more bodies forced them forward from behind. Before he realised it they had closed around him entirely and Doyle decided to make one more push and bet everything on the vague hope that he could power his way through and use his speed to get past them.

  He took a deep breath, lifted the runner in front of him and launched himself with a scream at the creature in front of him. His speed and momentum carried him past the first creature, pushing it back against the next one and caused a domino effect. He felt his heart lurch as he saw a clearing just past the last few creatures and he kept his legs pumping against the wall of cold flesh. His arms ached from holding the runner out in front but it served to keep them at arm’s length and kept those gaping maws away from his skin.

  For just a second he thought he would actually make it but just as he cleared the way through he tripped over one of the creatures that was struggling to rise. He felt his leg buckle and then collapse as he stood on the creature, knocking him off balance.

  He fell with a thump and the air gushed from his lungs leaving him gasping and wheezing on the ground. He tried to move but he just couldn’t. He couldn’t even look up to see them come for him. He felt a hand snatch at his shoulder and he tried to move away from it but his strength was gone. He closed his eyes.

  He felt himself lifted off the ground and thrown back down some feet away. He opened his eyes in shock and saw Atkins standing over him.

  “Get up, man,” he wheezed as he tried to regain his breath. “We’re the last. Come on.”

  Doyle would have laughed if he had had the energy. Instead he raised his hand and allowed Atkins to help him to his feet.

  “To think,” Doyle panted as they ran away from the creatures, “up till now I thought you were a useless, smug bastard.”

  “The feeling was mutual, I can assure you,” Atkins replied with a grin.

  They caught up with the group an hour later. They had found a deserted office block some twenty minutes walk away. The light was fading from the sky rapidly and the absence of street lighting threw the area into darkness much earlier than usual. They would have to hole up in the building and see what tomorrow would bring. They found limited food supplies in a canteen; not much but enough for the night.

  Teachers and pupils alike sat stunned in the growing darkness. No-one asked questions, they were too afraid that they might not like the answers. They had lost forty two boys and had another twenty injured. Some of the injured had bites that were already looking infected. No one said anything but most had seen and read enough to suspect what might happen to those. Atkins had quietly organised a guard detail to watch the injured for any signs that they might become dangerous to the rest of the group. Despite this they had been very lucky that the numbers had been so small. Four teachers had died; at least they weren’t in the building with them so it was assumed that they were dead.

  Boys cried as quietly as they could for parents, family or friends. The feeling of despair was almost palpable. Doyle struggled with his own worries and growing fears. He hadn’t been living with Jill Moroney for long but his heart ached for her touch and her quirky smile. Was she still alive? He hoped so. He would search for her but he had a responsibility to these boys for now. He gently pushed his thoughts aside. He had to remain positive. If he survived, then Jill could have as well. For all they knew the army had already regained control of the streets, though he doubted it. He knew that if they gave into despair then they were really done for. He desperately searched for something to say to lift everyone’s spirits. Anything to give them hope, but nothing came.

  “Hey guys,” he heard one of the boys suddenly shout. “School’s out for summer.”

  Doyle looked up but couldn’t make out who had spoken. It sounded like Henshaw but he couldn’t be certain. It didn’t really matter. The faint rustle of laughter that swept over the group was like a pressure valve opening and he looked around to see boys wiping away tears. Already the riff from the Alice Cooper song spread through the group with some taking up the sounds of guitar while others played drums on their legs and the vocals began, quietly at first but then stronger until everyone joined in. He looked over at Atkins and Theresa and smiled.

  It didn’t change anything, they would still wake up tomorrow and have to deal with the nightmare that awaited them but for now it was enough to keep them sane.

  THE END

  GUISES

  By

  S. Michael Nash

  … One times two is two.

  Two times two is four.

  Two times four is eight.

  Two times eight is sixteen.

  Two times six …

  A firm knock on the front door interrupted Mira's mental gymnastics. She closed her eyes, blocking the stucco ceiling from her sight. She was tired, so tired. Given everything, she just wanted to lie on the hardwood floor and let it's coolness soak into her skin. Maybe if I just ignore it …

  A second knock assailed her ears. She sensed the determination in it this time. Sighing in annoyance, she pulled herself off the floor by holding the arm of the couch.

  "Just a minute!" she called.

  Even the end of the world doesn't stop the automated calls or Jesus freaks from knocking on the door. Dodging into the bathroom, she dropped the jeans and t-shirt that were covered with four days of dirt and gore. She ran water in the sink until it was warm, then began scrubbing her face and body.

  The knocking became more insistent.

  "I said in a minute! I'm not fit for visitors!"

  I haven't donned the uniform of the happy, young mother yet. She was always wearing a uniform. For years she wore the short skirt and fashionable boots of the 'perky grad student.' Then the layered outfits of the 'blushing newlywed.' And finally, she had morphed into the loose dresses of the 'new mother.' Even when naked she wasn't really naked, she was then the flirtatious lover. When completely alone, she would just stand, staring blankly. Unsure of whom she was when nobody was around to define her.

  Quickly, she began dragging the brush through her long, raven hair.

  The knock at the door was changing just as she was. It was becoming less of a 'knock' and more of a concerned 'pounding.'

  "Ma'am! I'm going to have to insist you come to the door!"

  She had pulled on her pink and white summer dress and was staring into the mirror, trying to raise some colour by pinching her cheeks. It wasn't working. She was simply not going to be a beauty today. Her eyes were set in deep, pained sockets and her skin was sallow white.

  Well, it had been a rough couple of days. They were going to have to take what they got and be thankful for it. Chuckling at her own folly, she walked to the door and pulled it open, leaning casually against the jamb.

  "Can I help you?"

  One week ago the sight of her visitors would have panicked her. Today, they were refreshingly armed and dangerous. That was a good thing. The walking dead didn't use tools or weapons.

  She smiled her obligatory smile, revealing those peroxide-whitened teeth that so offset the black of her hair. Her gentlemen callers could have been termed the police, she guessed. Not that there was any formal civic organization anymore. There were two of them, and as always she th
umbed through the mental Rolodex of character types to file and categorize them. Must know your audience before you can cater to them. Mustn't step out of character, not even for a second.

  The closest of the two – the knocker – was the easiest. An older man, he wore a trim and tailored uniform, fully matching, and had a cool, competent manner. Cinched around his slightly enlarging belly was a thick belt and holster containing a heavy-looking revolver. The man’s sweat-filmed hand never drifted far from it. She pegged him as a real cop, probably the only one on this tiny island. He had likely worn that uniform for years before Armageddon, and really didn't think much about it at this point. He had a carefully trimmed moustache and the wide, expressive eyes that bespoke of years of 'being a friend to the community.' She would’ve been happier if he had taken that hand away from the gun, but other than that she instinctively trusted and liked him.

  "Good afternoon Ma'am. Do you have a few minutes?" The voice was crisp and clipped. He had questioned strangers like this a million times.

  Do I have a few minutes? Buddy, I have the rest of freaking time!

  The second man fit even more firmly into one of her predefined social pigeonholes. He was just out of high school, not educated and not likely destined for any. He probably worked out furiously and ineffectively, trying to keep the pounds somewhere south of ‘obese.’ With little self-control, dieting was out of the question. If she went to his gym and opened his locker, she knew there would be a nude picture pinned up on the inner door. Not that he was really attracted to this girl, but he wanted the other guys to know he was the type of man who likes a naked woman. Probably listened to the twangiest country music he could find. Or maybe he's a rocker, his CD collection divided between new heavy metal and old Lynyrd Skynyrd. The shotgun he still held jammed against his shoulder was both a weapon and part of his personal disguise. The gun made him a man, even though he clutched it the way a child holds a security blanket.