When The Light Goes Out

by Jack Thompson

  "Jesus, no."

  When, exactly, my luck had gotten so bad I couldn't recall. Maybe it was that one time when I was a child, and the milk wouldn't stay fresh for more than two days, due to a faulty refrigerator. Maybe it started when I realized that none of the family pets seemed to be surviving more than a few months. Maybe it was a million other things. But common sense told me that my bad luck began at the same time as our undead epidemic.

  News Flash: The dead forget their place in society. News Flash: A Coffin Stuffer Special.

  "Why?"

  More an exasperated sound than a word. "Jesus, why?"

  As the hinges began to break, and the pole keeping the door in place, and the frame itself, I wondered how religion got brought into it. Really, thinking about it with the definition of a zombie in mind, a dead body that reanimates meaning to restore to life Jesus was, in a way, a zombie himself. The whole rising from the dead on the third day bit.

  Not that I'd say it out loud.

  I wasn't so sure I wanted the guns turned on me. "Dammit."

  "What do we do?" "There's no back door!"

  "Shush! Quiet down ye ninnies. There ain't a back door, but there's certainly a front door for ye to use." "But that's where they're coming from!"

  "That's why ye fight yer way through." The tone of Blaz's voice held a decided 'duh.' As if the answer was so obvious he just didn't understand why he needed to explain. Which was completely understandable to me. The answer was rather obvious.

  "Well than, everyone, grab a weapon." "A weapon?!"

  "No!" "Why?!" "You do it!"

  "I am going to be doing it. But if you want to survive you need to be able to make it out yourself, you know? If I'm taking them down in the front, someone needs to take them down in the back. I'm not going to hold your hand, and be your personal bodyguard the whole way. Really now, if it comes down to it. You or me. Who am I most likely to choose? My point exactly! So either grab a weapon, or prepare to die."

  The speech seemed to have at least a little effect, as the people started moving to potential brain whackers. But it was the sound of the door flying toward the ground at an unnatural angle that really cemented the deal. People grabbed whatever was there, and albeit reluctantly, turned to the front door.

  Glaring. Shaking. Cursing. Sniffling.

  Ready to kill or be killed.

  Or, at the very least, as ready as a group of college students, foreigners, and one child could get.

  I never thought that the sound of a zombie running was very distinct. But really it is. It's this uneven sort of noise that doesn't leave your head once you hear it. Because even if you don't realize that it's a zombie making the noise, it's just so unnatural that you can't help but remember. I was almost positive that the creature was running with a limp, but didn't wait to find out.

  Dustin was already running towards the door. We were all beginning to follow.

  As an afterthought, I grabbed Pixie's hand. Her's was the only back I was going to be actively watching. She was too little for me to expect her to take care of herself in such a situation. Considering this, I was almost shocked that it wasn't Dustin who scooped her into his protective embrace. Not that I could complain, he was taking the lead and had my deepest respect for doing so.

  I really didn't want to be in the lead no matter how much I'd been spouting.

  My weapon of choice was the closest broom, surprisingly one with a wooden handle. You never seem to see those anymore, so I was slightly shocked to find one. Slightly relieved too. I was quite positive that it would do far more damage than the dinky little aluminum handled brooms that were so popular. An opinion proven fact as it connected with a zombie head in a way that no light weight broom could have. And, if I sharpened the end, I'd have a spear too.

  When I got hit on the hip with a rather painful chunk of metal (probably a piece that had been ripped off of an unsuspecting bit of barbecue equipment) I realized that everyone was swinging their weapon around like an idiot. Maybe they were so scared that they forgot there were other living, breathing people in the room. Maybe they didn't care. Maybe they took the "prepare to die" bit far more seriously than I anticipated.

  "Calm the hell down!" I think I may have sounded angrier than I wanted to. "We need to beat them, not each other. Watch where you're swinging." Unfortunately the group didn't calm down at all. They actually started swinging even more wildly.

  I got hit again.

  I winced and grabbed my hip. Pixie screamed beside me.

  The moment I heard the high pitched, frantic noise I spun. In a full circle, as it turned out. But I couldn't see Pixie anywhere. I'd let go of her hand for maybe two seconds, and I

  was regretting it more and more as I almost dropped my broom. "Pixie?!" I called out. "Pixie, where are you?!"

  "What happened to Pixie?" Dustin's voice had a bit more of an accent than I was used to, so I figured he was just as scared as we were.

  I made contact with those green eyes as I tightened my grip on the broom stick. "I" I shook my head. "I don't know where she went! I let go of her hand for a couple of seconds.." "Could a zombie have grabbed her?!"

  "Maybe! But why would they grab her? Wouldn't they just" "Dustin!"

  Both of our heads shot in the direction of the scream, and there was Pixie. Struggling in the arms of a zombie who actually wasn't trying to devour her. He was just holding her, struggling back to the front door. Well, not struggling actually. And maybe that's what made it so scary. The other zombies were actually moving out of his way. Allowing him through.

  "Let me go!"

  I tried to move towards Pixie, but, suddenly, there was a wall of rotting flesh before me. They all seemed to crowd in at the exact moment I made my move. And I couldn't help thinking that the whole thing was planned. The motion was way too smooth otherwise.

  "Pixie!" I couldn't stop myself from crying out, from reaching out a futile hand. I knew she was too far away to come even remotely close to grabbing it, but I did it anyway. "I got her!"

  I watched in horror as Dustin took off in the youngster's direction. Not quite sure if I called to him out loud or not, because he looked back at me. Then he ran off without hesitation, body slamming a group of the undead. A glance showed me that several of the other kids had stopped all movement, and watched, completely terrified, as Dustin escaped the snapping jaws of the zombies narrowly several times.

  The moment he was out of sight the zombies seemed to fight with a stronger intensity. "We need to get out of here!"

  "Get to the door!"

  "Swing as hard as you can!" "To your left! Your left!" "Behind you!"

  "Oh my God!" "Get out!" "Get away!"

  I tried to block out all of the screaming, all of the voices. But several got through. I dwelled on the words, fighting my way closer, and closer to the door. Wanting nothing more than to get outside, where I would be safe. Or at the very least, where I would be safer than I was in the zombie infested warehouse.

  Swinging with a controlled force, I tried to think of where we could go once we got out. How we would find Dustin, and Pixie again once we left. Really, I couldn't think of anything. Other than leaving a note, there was absolutely no way that I could tell Dustin where we were going.

  I just had to have faith that they'd find us. Psht.

  Faith.

  Before I really knew it I'd made it outside, into surprisingly fresh air. Unfortunately, with the shocking number of the living dead in the warehouse, there were dozens more outside. All of which were suddenly staring at me. I could swear it. I could feel hungry eyes bearing holes into me from all sides. I could feel a gust of wind as the mass seemed to move towards me at once.

  Maybe we'd been safer inside. Trapped, yes.

  But safer all the same. "Dammit."

  Maybe it was the fact that I was being backed into a wall. "Dammit."

  Maybe it was the way, I friggen swear, they were licking their lips at me. "Dammit!"

  Or maybe it was jus
t the fact that I dropped the broom. "Jesus Christ, beat me with a canoe."

  Bang.

  I swear the noise was that exact word. "Bang!" It came from right next to my ear. I wasn't so sure if someone was shooting at me, or at them, or at something I wasn't aware existed, but it got me to collapse in an attempt to prove that I was already dead so shooting me would be a waste of lead.

  Then I heard laughter.

  "Ma Malachi?!" I demanded, eyes shooting open before I even finished stumbling over the syllables. Unfortunately, at first I simply didn't recognize the boy. There was something disgustingly different about him that made me want to cry.

  The bandage wrapped about his head. "You're still useless."

  "You're still a bastard." "So what else is new?" "How's about the bandage?" "I wasn't bitten."

  "Then what"

  "How about we get you away from the angry diners first?" "Good idea."

  I'm not ashamed to admit that I shot to my feet in that single moment. I'm not ashamed to say I was scared, and I'm even less ashamed to admit I was happy the boy was back. He was the man with the guns. He knew how to use it. Not me. Definitely not me. I'd proven that once before, and didn't wish to do so again.

  "Jesus, it's good to see you man!"

  "Yeah, yeah. Whatever." Was the weak response I got as I saw him hook his thumb in a direction somewhere North (maybe) of the warehouse. I wasn't one for directions but I did notice a group of people, fighting their way from the deathtrap, in the direction the boy had pointed. "Where would you be without me?"

  "In someone's digestive track, why?" "Useless."

  "We've gone over this." "Have we now?"

  I actually leaned over to kiss the boys cheek.

  "You do not realize how nice it is to have you back." "Nice to see I was missed."

  "The 'ell were ye? Ye snot nosed brat, goin' missin', making everyone worry like a bunch of 'tards! They were worried about ye, and here you are grinn'. Playing hero like the classic man. Where the 'ell were ye?!" My eyes shot up at the way that Blaz approached Malachi, and me.

  I simply can't explain the reasoning behind the action, but I stepped in front of Malachi. The one with the gun. The one who'd pulled my ass out of the fire more than once in the few hours I'd known him. I probably shouldn't have stepped in front of him, as it was an assumption of weakness. But I did anyway.

  "Blaz, don't get your panties in a bunch." "Me panties ain't in a bunch. Move kiddo." "No."

  "Move!"

  "Blaz! Enough! This is neither the time nor the place, and I'm tired of your damned attitude. Malachi doesn't need to answer you. He doesn't need to answer to anybody. So maybe you should lower your voice and ask nicely. Like a normal human being!"

  I didn't see the cane coming.

  I didn't even feel the pain after the first few blows.

  The only thought in my mind was the fact that he was wielding the damned thing like he had practice. Pulling back, and lashing out like a trained expert. His grandchildren probably got a good number of bruises from the damned thing, and all I wanted to do was break it.

  I went down.

  Really, it was the blow to the face that got me. The only one that made me make a sound.

  A whimper and a hand to my suddenly bleeding cheek. "Enough."

  "What d'ye mean enough?" "What does it sound like?" "The brat needs manners." "So do you."

  "Ye need a little bit of"

  "Raise that cane to me and you'll never see it again." "Don't doubt him Blaz."

  "Shut the 'ell up, Ianboy." "But I"

  Maybe it was an attempt to shut him up, but just as I started looking up, I was hit again. This time to the temple, which I promptly grabbed. Wincing. Silently cursing myself for opening my mouth in the first place. I didn't entirely know why I did such things. They never turned out well. Not even since I was a kid. Nothing ever worked well for me.

  "Jesus."

  I felt blood slipping from somewhere, and my face felt hot. I didn't understand it. What had I done, other than give a little lip? What had I done to get my skull cracked? Was he doing that? What was bleeding?

  "Jesus." "Enough!"

  I almost couldn't believe that Malachi brought his voice above a dull roar. As it was, he outright shouted, and it echoed. I heard people turn to the scene, rather than saw. However the moment I opened my eyes I blushed at the way everyone was looking at me.

  Sympathy.

  Damned sympathy.

  I didn't need sympathy.

  But I wouldn't tell them that.

  I just silently asked God to strike me with lightening. Take me out of my misery. Out of my embarrassment. Just take me out. I didn't want to deal with it anymore. The situation. The people. I specifically didn't want to deal with Blaz.

  Then I realized I was thinking of death again. Bad.

  "Bad, Excel. Bad."

  "What?"

  "See?! You knocked Excels brains around too much." "How do you figure?"

  "'Bad, Excel. Bad.'"

  Love how they were talking about me as if I wasn't there. "I'm fine."

  "Than what are you talking about?" "Green."

  "What?"

  "You may be right Ian." "Huh?"

  "Ye are right kiddo. Knocked Excels brains around too much." "Go die."

  I tried to ignore the thwap that followed, but failed miserably, and just covered my head. "Lift that cane again, and I'm going to shove it"

  "Zombies. Coming this way. We should go. You know? I'd like to live out the rest of my life as a human." "Technically zombies are human."

  "Regular, noncannibalistic, human." "I see."

  "Yeah, maybe leaving is a good idea."

  I was having trouble identifying voices as I was pulled to my feet. There was just a blinding pain where the cane made contact with my skull. The pain made me completely white out. It made my vision fail. I wasn't sure what was going on, at all. The one, and only thing I knew for sure was that it was most definitely Malachi pulling me up. He was the only one close enough, unless the villagers decided to attack while the world was phasing out.

  Damn, Blaz must have hit me hard. Really hard.

  Omega hard.

  "Jesus, Blaz. What did you do?" "What d'ya mean?"

  "Excel's all.. wobbly." "I dunno."

  "Why don't we get going?"

  I was promptly dragged by the wrist, tripping over my own feet as we moved, but walking nonetheless. I tried to remember the one foot in front of the other rule, as I didn't want to slow the group down. I didn't want to be left behind. I didn't want to be a problem. The problem.

  I wouldn't be the reason our group of survivors stopped being so. I wouldn't be the death of them.

  "Stop dragging your feet." "I can't help it."

  "Stop it anyway."

  So I tried. Picking my feet up unnecessarily high in an attempt to stop. Stepping faster to keep up. Taking smaller steps. But none of it helped until the world gradually came back into view, and I was able to see what was going on, and where we were going.

  North.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  North. What was north that could possibly be useful to us? Water was north, if memory served. The station was north, along with the graveyard. Ah the graveyard, tombstones, rotting flesh under soil, everything. A pleasant place really if you could get over the ever growing population of dead people under your feet. There were beautiful flowers, rows, and rows of them. There were bushes, and fields of various colors and sizes. However, with zombies running about, I wasn't so sure I wanted to be anywhere close to a graveyard, no matter how attractive it happened to be. But for one stupid reason or another I felt I could trust Malachi. He was smart; he had to have a plan somewhere in that mind of his.

  If not, we were all probably going to die, which wasn't something I wanted to think about. I didn't want to think about it with the world still white around the edges. My head was pounding, badly, and I couldn't help but wonder about Blaz. Wonder what it was that made him so
crabby, rude, and cruel. I hadn't done anything I felt was bad enough to have my head beaten in.

  Jesus.

  It really did hurt.

  Someone must have butt raped Blaz multiple times as a child (this, I do not say as a joke, mind). Drugged him up. Served him alcohol. Fed him lead. Something. Anything. Someone had to have done something terrible to him, something that could have messed up a growing boy, because he was messed up. Messed up in every sense of the phrase. He was an outright bastard, and I used the word often enough in my life. I'd met enough stick in the mud's in my short time on earth. There was just something not so right in the Irish man's head. I was positive of it.

  "Dammit."

  I raised a hand to my skull, wondering why no one seemed to give a damn. Maybe it was the whole running for their lives bit. But there was still blood running from somewhere down my forehead, onto my cheeks. It was uncomfortable, only slightly more so then when it was the blood of one zombie or another, some odd hours ago. I barely made the connection, almost didn't have the thought that the zombies might have been able to smell the blood.