by A. P. Fuchs
Those eyes . . . she’d only seen cows in pictures, never up close like this. They didn’t look like that in magazines; they were gentle, even cuddly. Those white eyes stared at her with malice behind their gaze. She imagined the demons within the beasts, each of their sinewy frames wearing the cow like a bad suit.
The cows bellowed a deathly moan, and started stomping toward her. Billie tore off down the path; the sound of hooves on dirt and grass rose up behind her, growing louder and louder. She sprinted as hard as she could, not knowing where she could go to escape these things. She had precious few seconds if escape was even possible. They’d gain on her in no time, four legs to two, even if those four were undead.
Digging deep and summoning as much leg power as she could, she bolted down the path, not daring to look over her shoulder at the herd coming after her.
The yelps of panic bubbled out involuntarily and soon she was shrieking as she ran. She never was like this even when the dead first rose, but she was broken and couldn’t take any more. Nothing mattered but instinct and survival.
The undead hooves clomped hard and quick along the ground, each fifteen-hundred-pound beast gaining ground with each passing second. Soon their moans were so close Billie’s innards began to vibrate. Her legs fatiguing, she pushed herself harder, her only hope being Nathaniel wouldn’t just drop her off simply to die and go back to that terrible place.
A loud buckshot cracked through the air; the sound of dead weight thundered behind her. A wild series of thuds and moans followed right after, presumably some of the cattle tripping over the fallen one.
The fallen one? Who did that? she wondered. Too terrified to look back, she hoped that whatever just happened would happen again. It did; several gunshots rang out, the blasts heavy and powerful. Thuds and trampling hooves filled the air. Billie dared herself to take a sneak peek over her shoulder, but couldn’t bring herself to do it. The path in front of her was the most stable so she chose to follow it instead of veering off to the side and onto the rolling hills.
More gunshots, probably upwards of ten having been executed since she first heard them.
“Thanks! Thanks! Thanks!” she screamed, hoping whoever was out there would hear her. It was all she could do.
Low, deep moans came in loud along with a wheezing snort. This time Billie did look over her shoulder and saw a mid-sized undead cow with sloppy patches of rotten flesh over its body chasing her, just mere feet away.
Screaming, she ran fast then felt something harder than rock slam up into her backside, knocking her up and off her feet. She flew face forward into the dirt and grass, skidding her arms, knees and chin. Immediately a harsh pinch gripped her Achilles through her shoe.
She crawled on her belly, trying to get some distance, but was instead pulled back by her foot. “No!”
She rolled over, the cow’s muzzle twisted to the ground with her foot. The beast jerked its head up, trying to get her foot back to the way it was, lifting her legs off the ground in the process before they fell back down in a hard bump. Billie used her other foot and kicked at the thing’s head. Stomping against its skull was like stomping hard on a cement floor.
A couple more gunshots took down two more cattle in the herd beyond. The remainder were still heading toward her.
“This one, this one, this one,” she screamed, pointing at the cow that had her ankle in its mouth. Its powerful jaws squeezing down, she felt her ankle pop out of place. Yelping from the pain, she kicked against the thing’s head with her other foot nonstop until after a thunder crack, the cow’s head exploded in bone, brain and black blood. She kicked free the foot that’d been in its mouth, did a reverse crabwalk and got back to her feet, only to trip when the foot that the cow had injured gave out from under her in a sharp spike of pain. Either her ankle was broken or it was indeed out of place.
Doesn’t matter, keep going. She got back onto her good foot and hobbled and hopped down the path. The last of those things would be on her in a hot minute—a hot second—if a miracle didn’t happen soon.
More shots rang out. More thuds. More scrambling hooves.
A shadow figure swooped in from the side, grabbed her in its arms, and picked her clean off her feet as it ran. Now upside down over the figure’s shoulder, it took Billie a second to realize that whoever this was was huge, wore jeans, and smelled smoky like from a wood-burning stove.
“Hey, slow down,” she said, bouncing up and down against their shoulder, her gut taking the punishment. “You’re hurting me.”
“Better me than them,” he said. There was an accent to his voice. Polish? Deutsch? It was hard to tell, but definitely European, thick European. “My brother got the rifle. You come with me. He take care of the beasts.”
At least you speak English, she thought. Maybe Nathaniel did know what he was doing?
After a few minutes, the man slowed his gait, eventually stopped and put her down. He towered over her—he must have been nearly seven feet tall!—the width of his chest and shoulders was wide enough three of her would be able to lay across his torso. He wore a gray and beige plaid shirt, had blond hair and a scruffy golden beard. His eyes were green and despite the danger of what just happened, Billie just stared at them. So green.
“You okay, yah?” he said. His voice was smoother now, less choppy and whispery than when he was running.
“Yes,” she said. A sharp pain in her ankle told her otherwise. “I mean, no. No. My foot . . . ankle . . . the cow bit me.”
“Come here, yah?”
Before she could reply, he knelt down in front of her, and pulled her close so hard she fell against him. He lifted her sore foot.
“You have shoe that’s ripped,” he said. “Did it bite hard?”
Billie winced from him handling it. “I don’t know, maybe. It bit, but I don’t know if it bit through. Didn’t feel any teeth, but I’ve never been bitten by a cow before so I don’t know.”
The man tugged the shoe off and felt up and down her ankle, squeezing it in parts. Each time he applied pressure it sent a deep shockwave of ache through her foot and calf. A sudden, violent inner pop rocked her leg and she collapsed into his arms.
“There, better,” he said.
She pushed herself off him. She still couldn’t put any pressure on her foot without it hurting and feeling weak, but it did feel like something inside had realigned itself. “Thanks.”
“We go this way,” he said and pointed toward a small hill that, she saw, hit the path she’d originally been on on the other side.
A couple more shots rang out.
“That’s it,” he said.
“What’s it?”
“All dead, the cows. Twenty-two shots, twenty-two cows.”
“Oookay.” She followed him over the hill and back onto the path on the other side. That cottage was close, and it took only a few moments more to understand this was where they were going. She pointed to it. “You live there?” He didn’t seem to have heard her. “I said, do you live there?”
“We do.”
Hard footfalls closed in behind them. Billie turned around with a start and saw a smaller, thinner version of the man she was with. He had the same face, same hair, same beard, but was only slightly taller than she was and had a bony, farmer-strong kind of build. He also wore jeans and flannel, his a plaid of baby-blue and dirty gray.
He spoke to the larger man in a language she guessed as German. The big man replied in the same, the two never breaking stride ahead of her during the exchange. She jogged to catch up. The men stopped talking.
Oh please, she thought, don’t be those people who show off by talking in a different language and look at you as if you’re stupid because you don’t understand them. “Um . . .” she started, but couldn’t think of anything to say.
The three walked in silence, each passing minute making her feel more and more like an outsider. After a few minutes more, they reached the cottage. It was quaint, but very old, probably eighty-plus years. Most of
it was made with stone, the rock streaked with gray from the day the Rain fell. The roof was gray as well, with patches of brown shingle showing through. Obviously the roof hadn’t been up kept over the years. The windows were filthy and she couldn’t see inside. The door was made of thick wooden boards, with age cracks running through it. It was dark brown and not as gray-stained as the rest of the place. She assumed the door being partly inset in the frame protected it from some of the Rain.
“We go in,” the big man said.
Billie waited for him to enter then followed behind the shorter one. When she came in, she felt like she was in a museum. It was one room with a wooden table in the middle, a kitchenette from the sixties off to the side with a wood-burning stove, fridge and a faded pink countertop. It looked terrible. A stone fireplace against a wood-paneled wall was off to the other side, closer to the door. A coat rack was beside the door and not much else aside from a wooden chair and a few iron pans hanging on the wall. There was something cozy about this place, though, something homey.
There was a door against the back wall.
“You eat first, yes?” the big man said to her.
“Hm?” she said and stopped scanning the room.
“You eat first.”
“Actually, I’m starving. Sure. And—” He raised his eyebrows. “Thank you for helping me.”
The big man smiled at the other.
The shorter one said, “He’s happy.”
“Happy?”
“Yes. Before, he told me he thought you were very pretty.”
A flush of warmth came over her and she was mad at herself for suddenly going all girly from the compliment, but it was amazing to hear after so much sadness and tragedy and depression. All she could do was smile.
“I cook for you,” the big man said.
The smaller man grinned. “Just let him have his way. He treat you nice. Don’t worry, you safe.”
She hoped he was telling the truth. Being in a cottage in the middle of nowhere with two strange men wasn’t any girl’s idea of safe.
The big man seated her at the table and told her to, “Wait while I make you specialty.”
You mean I get to have real food and not just scroungings of leftovers and canned beans? She couldn’t help but be excited.
The two men went to work, the big one doing the cooking, the other leaning against the counter, arms crossed. They exchanged words, once again leaving Billie alone to her English thoughts and musings.
Tired, she rested her head in her hand. She didn’t mean to fall asleep.
* * * *
11
The Window
Coming up on April’s apartment building instantly took Joe back to the day of the Rain and him running out into the storm to see if she was all right. The building before him looked more or less the same as the one from his world—filthy brick streaked with gray, broken windows, blood scraped along the sidewalk.
Holding the knives—he hadn’t yet found something to wipe them on—he went toward the door, ears open to any sound that would indicate he wasn’t alone. He checked the apartment registry inside the door for her name. The glass over the listings had been smashed, most of the tiny white plastic letters scattered on the floor.
“Doesn’t matter,” he said quietly and started heading up the stairs to the top floor where April’s suite was.
The hallways and stairwell were quiet, the silence amplifying his footfalls on the linoleum steps. Once at the top floor, he scanned the hallway, remembering the little girl who originally pointed him to April’s suite in the other world, the girl who ended up getting devoured right after by her own father.
“Sorry I couldn’t save you,” he whispered. The man he’d been the day of the Rain was a far cry from the man he was now. Himself—Joseph—died after April did. The man of tenderness who loved words and poetry, comics and cereal, no longer existed. The days of hoping for love and a future . . . no more.
The door to April’s suite was closed. The handle looked untainted, which he took as a good sign. He didn’t expect her to actually be in there if she was alive, but he hoped he’d find something within that might lead him to her whereabouts.
He put all three knives in one hand and carefully gripped the handle in the other. The knob turned a quarter inch then stopped. He turned it the other way. Same thing.
Locked.
Heart sinking, he knew there was no way he’d kick this door down. Apartment doors were thick, heavy, and locked in place so severely that it’d take a bear to barrel through. The deadbolt alone was unbreakable never mind any other locks that might be in place inside the door. In the other world, the door had been unlocked and he had kicked it open.
“Options, options, options,” he said to himself, the words slurred together. “All right, here we go.”
He went to the suite next door, checked the handle. It was locked as well. He hit the suite at the end of the hallway and was relieved to find the door open. He went in and checked the place over for any creatures. Books and open movie and videogame cases covered the living room floor, the TV gone, the unit that held it tipped over onto the ground. The kitchen was an equal disaster; same with the bedroom and bathroom. The place had obviously been looted at one point.
Joe went back to the kitchen, found a dish towel, and wiped down the knives. After replacing them in the slits in his belt, he sat the kitchen table back on its legs and opened the window above it. The window was about three feet by two, big enough to fit him, but also dangerous because he was three stories up and there wasn’t a ledge to climb out on. Joe hoisted himself on to the sill, turned around so his back faced the outside, and drew his legs up so all his weight was on the sill’s edge. Carefully, he gripped between the bricks around the window and used them as small handholds while he slowly got himself onto his feet, his toes still hanging inside the kitchen on the sill.
He glanced at the ground below. “This is dumb.” If he fell, he’d break his legs for sure, and that was if he even landed on his feet. He didn’t want to think about what would happen if he landed on anything else. The window to the next suite was a far reach from where he was, but the windows themselves linking the bedrooms to the kitchens were possible to climb along if he was careful.
He reached slowly, straining his fingers to grab around the corner that led to the next sill—the bedroom window—then slowly did the same with his foot. Only the tip of his toes touched the sill he was aiming for.
Maybe it’d be better if I went back in, went down and tried this from outside? He quickly scanned how the windows were situated and the height going from one to another would be impossible to scale. You’re crazy for doing this for a girl. He drew himself back to the kitchen sill and regained his balance. You’re also the guy who vowed to do anything for her if needed. This falls into the category of “anything,” if that was ever true. There was only one way to have a chance of doing this if he was going to go for it.
Taking a deep breath, he went to the edge of the sill again and reached for the other one. Fingers barely touching around the brick, same with the tip of his toes, he knew the next move he’d make would determine if he lived or died. Don’t fight it. Use the adrenaline. Keep your hips in, don’t think about the ground or where you actually are. Inhaling and exhaling three breaths in rapid succession, he took the leap. The second his reaching foot set more of its weight on the sill, he immediately hopped it over down its length and leaned the same way, keeping himself more or less in balance. He made it, heart racing. His fingers ached from gripping in between the bricks so hard. There was no going back now. He had to do this two more times before he’d hit April’s bedroom window. From there he could kick in the glass and climb in.
He didn’t know how long he stood there on the sill, gathering himself and psyching himself up for the next leap, but once he did, the second jump came easier than the first. His legs were shaking so badly from the rush he didn’t know if they had the strength to do it one more time an
d keep him stable.
The seconds slowly ticked by; Joe steadied his breathing, imagining he was somewhere else, like a sidewalk where balance wasn’t an issue. He tried not to think about his fingertips and how numb they were along with the sharp pain in his wrists from holding on so tight.
“Take it easy,” he breathed. “Just sloooow down. Relax.” Heart racing, he decided the best course of action was to just do it, live in the moment of the leap, and get it done. He was at that place that any more dawdling and he’d have to give up and climb in the window in front of him.
“Okay, go,” he told himself and reached for the brick bordering what should be April’s bedroom window. He took hold and reached out with his foot. Once he found purchase, he took a deep breath and leaped sideways. Gravity took over as his hand slid down the brick, scraping it. He caught the edge of the sill where his foot should have landed and hung there with one hand, yelling from the surprise. His right hand was so tight up against the corner of the sill that he couldn’t squeeze his other hand beside it. His only choice was to reach up and cross his arms in an X, his left hand over his right and grab the sill that way. From there, he brought his right hand out from under his left and worked it beside it. Hanging there, ready to let go, he tried to do a pull-up against the sill, maybe get his elbow on it and hold his weight that way. He couldn’t gain more than six inches when he tried. The sill was too narrow to accommodate his elbow, forearm, and his shoulder that would inevitably lean forward against the glass.
He imagined letting go, the spike of pain rushing up his legs and into his hips when his feet hit the ground, the loud snap of bones cracking as they shattered from the impact and he collapsed.
“Can’t go out like this,” he said. If he broke his legs, both of them, he’d probably pass out from the pain and lay there helpless as zombie food.
He needed to break the glass, but needed leverage to make the impact count. “Yeah,” he said, thinking of a way. He cautiously reached for his belt and pulled out the steak knife. He worked his hand past the handle and up to an inch or so from the end of the blade, then flipped the blade over, dull edge on the inside. He brought his palm onto the sill, giving his other hand a rest of taking all the weight.