Redemption of the Dead

by A. P. Fuchs

  “Hank?”

  “Hm?”

  “Want to tell me how you met Nathaniel?”

  He looked at her as if he didn’t know what she was talking about.

  “You met him before, right?”

  “Uh, yeah, but . . . can’t remember right now.” He scratched his head and looked up into the trees.

  She’d lost him and he was back to his old self again, it seemed.

  Across the lake, the moans of the dead rose in volume. Billie got on her hands and knees and crept closer to the edge of the wide branch to get a closer look. The zombies shuffled in all directions, some going back into the forest, others sliding down the rocks and falling to the lake in heavy splashes.

  She kept an eye out for—I don’t want to use his name. Too creepy. I’ll call him “Bad Man.” It was difficult to discern anyone specifically out of the crowd of the dead beyond. The most she could do was just sit tight and watch.

  Hank came up behind her. “Them things are on the move.”

  “Wonder where they’re going?”

  “Maybe back where they came or some such?”

  “Maybe.”

  The two stayed on the branch and watched the movement below. The foul stench of the dead grew worse, their movement stirring up the funk and casting it on the air. Billie pinched her nose. Hank didn’t. A few minutes later, the gray water moved on their side of the lake and undead men and women began to slowly walk out, their raggedy clothes drenched and clinging to their bodies like cloth to skeletons. Some were able to smoothly transition up the shore onto land whereas others needed to climb the large rocks that separated the slanted forest floor from the lake. Dry branches snapped and dead leaves crunched beneath the creatures’ feet as they shuffled below them.

  “Don’t make a sound,” Billie whispered.

  “I won’t,” Hank said at normal volume.

  Her heart skipped a beat. She hoped the undead below hadn’t heard him.

  Below, the creatures marched in rank, their presence and stride seeming to emit an ambience of purpose and not just random shambling.

  Perhaps Bad Man’s visit changed everything? she thought. Even calling the devil “Bad Man” didn’t help make his presence any less surreal. It was one thing to imagine this creepy guy in a red unitard stalking around in some invisible way, causing mischief—it was another to actually see him and have every preconceived notion as to who he was cast aside like refuse.

  “Don’t dwell on him, don’t dwell on him, don’t dwell on him,” Billie whispered to herself. The evil one’s very image was disturbing, sickening and spirit-crushing, yet she found herself slipping into a moderate trance when his image—that beautiful white light when he first emerged—went before her mind’s eye. Something about him appealed to something within her . . . she just didn’t know what.

  “Billie?” Hank said, still not seeming to understand the concept of keeping one’s voice down.

  “Shhh,” she said.

  “I’ve called you four times. Where were you? You were there, but not there, you know?”

  “Keep your voice down!” she said, quickly slapping a hand to her lips when her own voice rose way above where she meant it.

  The grunts and groans of the dead grew louder, the steady shuffling footfalls of the creatures falling more and more in unison the longer they passed beneath them on the forest floor.

  “Do you think they can see us?” Hank said.

  Billie clenched her fist and sent a hard shot to his chest, shushing him.

  The dead marched on, then one of the creatures with a broken neck that had no choice but to keep its head lolled back caught sight of them. The undead man with stringy hair and strange black boils on his skin stopped, the other creatures coming up behind him, bumping into him then stopping themselves. They all stood around, seemingly clueless as to what was happening until a few more of the undead looked up in Billie and Hank’s direction.

  “Don’t. Move,” she whispered.

  Hank scratched his nose.

  She rolled her eyes.

  Some of the zombies below started to move again and her heart rose with relief, then began wildly thumping when a half dozen of the creatures started to move in the direction of the base of the tree. More followed suit and soon a pack of at least thirty of them were hording around the bottom of the tree, dead fingers scraping and clawing against the bark, moans of hunger and need growing louder and louder.

  Billie got to her feet; so did Hank.

  “What do we do?” he asked.

  “I don’t know, shoot your gun!”

  Hank blew off a couple of shots, taking out two of the creatures below before having to reload.

  The undead horde beneath them crowded in upon itself and the group pushing in from the edges began to claw and climb their way on top of their brethren, gaining height. Some were reaching up and swiping at the air as if they could already grab Billie and pull her down.

  “They’re coming! They’re coming!” Hank said.

  His panic was enough to send her own over the edge and she had to restrain herself from feeding him to the undead below.

  Okay, stay cool, she told herself. She glanced up and down the length of the tree branch. There weren’t any options in terms of escape and climbing the tree itself to get to higher ground would be impossible given the trunk’s girth and the height of the other branches above their heads.

  The undead continued to climb. The sharp snaps of finger bones breaking as they forced their hands into the cracks in the trunk and its bark sent shrills up and down her spine. Some of the creatures’ fingers completely ripped off when they tried to support their weight by them. Others were able to hang on, the muscles and skin along their fingers stretching like elastic bands but still remaining intact.

  Other undead climbed on top of those hanging as if their comrades were rope ladders; soon a handful made it to the branch where Hank and Billie stood with rubbery legs.

  Reloaded, Hank raised the shotgun. “Come on, you rascals, I ain’t afraid of you.”

  “Shut up!” Billie searched up and down the branch.

  “It’s not nice to talk—”

  She grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and dragged him down the length of the branch, away from the trunk and the undead that climbed up it. The ones that made it onto the branch began fumbling their way down its length toward them. One tripped over its own feet and fell off without a sound. The remainder kept coming, seeming to understand the idea of keeping single-file so they could keep going.

  Billie pulled as hard as she could against Hank’s shirt until, it seemed, he finally understood to follow her.

  “Don’t think we should be runnin’ this way none,” he said and blasted off another round. It tagged the zombie in the gut, sending it back a step but it kept its balance.

  “Don’t have a choice.”

  “There’s nothing ahead of us.”

  “I know!”

  The massive branch began to taper thinner and thinner, culminating at the end in a fan-like series of smaller branches and dead leaves, all tangled and meshed together in a large clump.

  Billie stopped short before a weave of branches. Hank took another shot and stumbled up behind her and bumped into her. Appearing panic-stricken, the shot went wild.

  Swallowing a dry lump in her throat, she tried to catch her breath. The undead kept coming up along the branch, each of their steps adding to the weight toward the end, the branch starting to dip lower a few inches at a time.

  “I don’t think we’re going to make it,” she said. “Help!” It was directed at Nathaniel or Michael or any other of their kind who’d care enough to swoop in and rescue them.

  Only the deathly groans and moans of the undead returned her cry.

  The zombies clamored closer, limp fingers outstretched from raggedy-clothed arms, mouths already opening and closing, preparing to feast.

  The branch dipped lower. The ground was a solid three stories below, ro
ck covered with dry dirt and dead leaves.

  Her stomach twisted at the momentary idea of shoving Hank toward them, thinking maybe they’d grab onto him, start eating, and get themselves so off-balance they’d tumble over the sides of the branch and hit the ground. It might also be enough to draw the others off the trunk and swarm Hank’s body like vultures to a carcass.

  As much as she hated to admit it, it was tempting, but only because of its purpose for survival. One look at Hank changed all that, his face set with determination yet carrying an air of innocence. He had this very subtle smile, a confidence that everything would be okay.

  “I’m sorry,” she said quietly.

  He didn’t seem to hear her as he went about reloading the gun.

  “I’m scared,” she said, the words tumbling out.

  “You’ll be okay,” he said. He sounded normal again.

  Maybe he got his faculties back? she thought.

  “I’ve seen squirrels bigger and badder than these guys.”

  Maybe not.

  Billie inched back, her heels dipping into the curves and grooves between the interwoven branches.

  Hank backed up, too, and bumped into her. She was going to tell him to be careful but bit her tongue as penance for her terrible thought moments before.

  The undead advanced without care.

  The branch began to crack and snap beneath her feet.

  Come on, don’t give out on me.

  Another of the dead fell off. The rest kept coming, two walking, two others crawling along the branch on their hands and knees.

  “Are you okay?” Hank asked. He shot the nearest undead. It went flying off the branch.

  She didn’t answer.

  “I said, are you okay, Billie?”

  “No. I think we’re going to die.”

  The undead were a mere four or five feet from them.

  Hank looked at her, his lips quickly opening and closing as if saying, “Yeah but, yeah but . . .” He shot another off the branch. With no time to reload, he swung the shotgun at one of the creature’s heads. It connected, sending it off the branch. The impact putting him off balance, he dropped the gun when he shot his arms out to steady himself.

  “I’m sorry, Hank.” She tried to sound cheery for his benefit. She wasn’t sure if he truly understood the concept of death. “It was nice meeting you.”

  The last zombie was three feet away.

  “It was nice meeting you, too,” he said. “I like you, Billie.”

  “Um . . . I like you, too, Hank.”

  Two feet.

  “I’ll say hi to Jesus for you,” he said.

  “Wha—”

  One foot.

  Hank smiled then turned and hugged the undead man in front of him. He tipped over the side, the zombie falling with him. They tumbled to the ground. Billie yelped then put a hand to her mouth as her breath caught in her throat.

  Below, Hank lay on the dirt, his legs bent beside him like chicken wings, blood pooling around his head, the undead that had been with him in the tree climbing on top of him and beginning to tear and chew on his flesh.

  Through teary-eyed vision, she wondered if sacrificing himself had really happened or if she had actually pushed him, had gone through with her sick idea of using him to save her own skin.

  Heart aching and pounding in quick, sharp thuds, she slowly moved forward on the branch, hands out beside her for balance, heading for a more stable spot.

  Below, the moans of the dead grew in volume. Others from further up by the tree trunk slowly turned and shuffled toward their kin.

  Forcing herself to keep her eyes forward, Billie maintained her balance, doing her best to stay quiet and hoping the undead were so preoccupied with . . . Hank . . . she’d be forgotten.

  “I’m sorry, Hank,” she said, tears rolling down her cheek. “I didn’t mean to push you.” Did I? Did he push himself? Am I a . . . killer? “Was it me or him?”

  The branch snapped.

  * * * *

  It took a while, but finally Joe and Tracy found a house that fit their criteria. They broke in by squeezing their way through an unlocked kitchen window. It was convenient but it was welcomed.

  They kept back-to-back as they toured the house, each room approached with caution and the expectation that something might jump out at them and try to eat them. Only the faint light coming in from outside lit their path.

  “Don’t have a match or anything, do you?” he asked.

  “No,” Tracy said. “Why?”

  “Make it easier to see. Make a torch or something.”

  The two headed toward the basement, each step cautious. Joe was confident in his partner, though. If something were to happen, not only would he lay it on the line for her, he knew she’d also lay it all down for him as well. It was almost like he was backing up himself, in a way.

  The stairs creaked, and when they got to the basement door, he stopped short when he noticed the knob was loose in its place, the door cracked around the knob’s edges.

  “What?” Tracy asked, clearly noticing his hesitation.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Door’s cracked.”

  “Could it have been like that before?”

  “Maybe. I know it seems like a small thing, but you and I both know that small things can quickly become big things.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  Joe gently tested the knob. It turned over, loose and quick. He put a hand behind him, guarding her. He felt her hand touch his arm as he did, dwelt on it a quick second, then took a step back and pushed the basement door open. The basement was dark except for off in the far corner where a faint bit of gray light came in through the tiny basement window, turning everything into various shades of dark gray.

  Joe sniffed the air. Musty, but he couldn’t detect anything that might be rotten.

  “Ready?” he said.

  “Always.”

  They went down the four steps leading to the cement basement floor.

  Both stepped quietly, and Joe didn’t need to ask to know she had her ears perked as much as he had his. No grunts, no groans, no deathly wheezing.

  So far so good, he thought. To the side were the furnace, the side-by-side washing machine and dryer, and the metal pantry shelf. It was hard to see everything that was on it, but what looked like torn-up toilet paper and paper towels littered the shelves, probably from mice.

  The basement was filled with stacks of records, books, cassette tapes, reams of fabric and an entire row of sewing machines that were side-by-side on two eight-foot-long gray, plastic-topped craft tables.

  “Busy people,” Tracy said.

  “Indeed. Scan the room again, just in case, then we can finally get some rest.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  Joe was relieved and even a little surprised that, thus far, nothing had happened to them and all had been more or less smooth sailing. Ever since leaving the Haven, it’d been one life-threatening situation after another, most of which were barely escaped from. Was Someone looking out for them? Pure luck? Was there even such a thing as luck?

  “Some of these records are really old,” Tracy said.

  “Same with some of these books.”

  “Didn’t you say you used to be a writer?”

  “Comic books, yeah, but I still read novels, too. Can’t write good comics without reading good novels. Just the way it is.”

  “Must’ve been fun.”

  “Used to be,” he said, thinking back to that simpler time, the one before zombies, before death, before even meeting April, the one girl he’d ever fallen in love with, so quickly, so easily. Her beautiful face—black hair, gray eyes, cute demeanor and such utterly soft lips—and the way she looked when he found her the day of the gray rain, when the world transformed and the dead began to rise. Her blood-covered mouth, an old woman’s trachea hanging between her teeth like a stringy turkey neck. Every time he thought of it, his heart broke anew, and the crushing defeat of his spirit when
he recalled what it was like to accidentally break her skull with a rolling pin swung full force.

  “Joe?” Tracey said.

  “Yeah.”

  “You’re crying.”

  He blinked his eyes. She was right. A couple tears leaked down his cheeks.

  “Sorry,” he said, embarrassed.

  She simply looked at him, eyes glazed over in compassion. Tracy understood his pain. She’d gone through something similar with a boy named Josh. He had been the one for her and all had been set for a happy ending until the day of the Rain and the world transformed, died.

  The two had finished most of the basement, the last place to check in, and around the washer and dryer. Joe knew nothing would be there, unless some undead creature was lying about with no legs and no mouth, the hunger for human flesh the only thing to keep it company. Still, had to be done. Safety first.

  Joe stood by the washer, Tracy the dryer. Together, they opened the lids, ready for something to pop out. Nothing.

  “I guess we’re in the clear,” Tracy said, sounding relieved. Joe knew she needed a break just as bad as he did.

  He nodded. “Let’s head upstairs and catch some shut-eye. We’ll get a fresh start tomorrow.” They left the washer and dryer lids up.

  “Food?”

  Joe checked the pantry. Aside from the torn bits of toilet paper and paper towel, there wasn’t much save for a can of chickpeas, a box of crackers with tiny holes around its bottom—probably from rodents chewing on the cardboard—and a fresh pack of No Name saran wrap.

  He grabbed the can and handed it to her. “Maybe there’s a can opener in the kitchen.”

  “There’s a freezer over there under all those books.”

  “’Kay.” He went to the freezer and began to take down some of the books and place them on the floor.

  Behind them, a loud metallic bang of a gunshot made them both duck, legs and arms already positioned for defense. Tracy stood by the dryer, its lid down.

  “Sorry. I got dizzy. Must’ve bumped it,” she said.

  Heart racing, he said, “It happens.”

  Releasing a sigh of relief, he moved closer to Tracy to help her, but stopped short when the books on top of the freezer began to shake as something pushed the freezer lid up from the inside.