by Jack Wallen
My city had become my enemy. The sidewalks and streets I’d spent a lifetime exploring were now enemy territory. The concrete jungle had become a grey waste, barren to human life.
My fingers tightened around the golf club. I’d pulled it from the bathtub after a fruitless search for a better weapon. It was still coated in gore and the remains of my innocence. I hadn’t bothered to wash it—it was futile to resist the past. The blood on my shoes had browned, but the smell had lingered.
I wrinkled my nose.
I was ten minutes away from Concordia. The pale green glass of the Engineering building towered in the distance, reflecting the light of the dying day. The sides of the street were lined with parked cars. Some were still at the intersections. The street lights cycled, but traffic would never flow here again.
I squinted, scanning for anyone or anything that might get in my way. There was a grocery store a few streets up—I made a mental note to raid it.
Fuck, this was insane. Alone in downtown Montreal, with only a golf club and my wits to protect me.
The memory of Sylvie’s sobs spurned me forwards. I began to jog. I’d lost precious time hunting through my closets for a better weapon. I’d considered a kitchen knife, but my short arms didn’t give me the advantage of reach. The pavement pounded underneath my sneakers. I pulled in a deep breath of crisp fall air, and tried to ignore the drifts of grey ash beneath the soles of my feet.
I didn’t want to know what it was.
A cascade of breaking glass showered down ahead of me. I ducked behind a red pickup truck. I chewed on the inside of my lip as I peeked around from my hiding place. A window on the fourth floor had been knocked out—blue curtains liberated from the confines of the interior. The wind was too strong—I couldn’t hear anything other than the musical tinkling of dropping glass.
My knuckles whitened. I sprinted across the street, taking shelter behind a large white van. I looked up—shards of glass were still falling.
I held my breath.
I swallowed and stepped out from behind the van.
Red pooled at my feet, a trail leading to the ruined head of what had once been a man. Young or old, I couldn’t say. He lay face down on the pavement, his limbs splayed at impossible angles.
Acid coursed up my throat. I stepped backwards until I bumped into the hood of a car. The golf club trembled in my death grip.
I spit out a mouthful of saliva. It was hot and bitter, each breath of cold air only brought new waves of bile.
Get a grip, Erica, I thought. At least he’s not moving.
At least?
I took out my phone, shivering as I walked the last few blocks. I frowned. What the hell is a snag? It’s raining corpses here and all he can say is snag?
What kind of snag? Love you! I swiped, my hands shaking.
I stowed the phone back in the zippered pocket of my old cargo pants. I started to run again, considering alternate routes to get back home. I stared at the road ahead, willing my mind to cleanse itself of the body in the street.
Sylvie didn’t need to see the despair of those not strong enough to face the new world. She needed hope.
Don’t we all just need a little hope?
Come home soon, Trey.
twenty one | Trey
I walked among a veritable graveyard of metal and rubber. Abandoned cars and trucks formed a maze on the highway … a maze I must walk. At the moment, the only sound was the wind whipping about the motionless hulks.
“Son of a bitch,” I whispered into the darkness. I flipped on my headlamp and began the trek toward freedom. I didn’t get one step into my journey before my phone buzzed.
What kind of snag? Love you!
Erica was still alive. That was the only thing that mattered to me at the moment. I grabbed the tips of my right glove between my chattering teeth and pulled my hand free. I tapped out my reply carefully.
Highway impassible. Have to walk a while. I need your words. Melt me.
Hopefully the subtext of the message would travel the distance. Erica knew me to the depths of my being ─ certainly she would pick up on my need to hear her professions of love and passion. It was a weakness of mine ─ but one I readily admitted. Surviving without constantly touching my soul to Erica’s simply wasn’t surviving.
Not to me. She was my breath, my blood, my grace.
With the message sent, I bundled back up and began, in earnest, the ducking and dodging of vehicles. My pack and my heart were heavy, my step slow. My hand brushed the gun at my side. At least, should push come to a hate-filled shove, I could protect myself ─ until I ran out of bullets. At the thought, I realized I had no idea how many bullets a gun contained.
“Am I going to make it?” I asked myself.
Before I could answer the question, a rage-filled scream drilled my ear drums. That one scream turned into two … and then three.
Without thought, my legs pumped hard and fast. My lungs sucked wind until my heart begged for release.
And then I heard it. Ahead of me, a simple word.
“Help.”
I dug deep and punished my legs onward. Someone needed help. I’ve never been one to turn away from offering a helping hand. It was, after all, akin to humanity.
The cry sounded a second time.
“Where are you?” I shouted and continued zigging and zagging through the maze. I raced past a tractor-trailer. When I blew by the truck, the source of the cry became all too clear. A young man stood on the roof of a Mini Cooper. The car was surrounded by the damned ─ all desperate to get their hands on the living flesh. As he kicked one off, another would jump for him.
Before my brain could wrap itself around the situation, my mouth unleashed a primal scream. The bastards all turned to me. And roared in anger.
I should have thought this through.
“Fuck,” I screamed. My hand anxiously grabbed for the pistol. Just as I raised the weapon, the monsters sprinted for me. In desperation, I raced back to the semi-truck, yanked open the driver’s side door, and scrambled in. Through the windshield, I spotted the man hop from the roof of the car and get inside. He managed to get the car turned around and out onto the shoulder. He was driving back toward me.
A rotten palm slapped against the driver’s side window of the truck. When the hand disappeared, it left remnants of flesh behind. Another hand smashed against the passenger window.
The Mini Cooper pulled up to the semi. Two of the monsters gave up on the semi and took their special blend of angst out on the Mini. The small car rocked as the bastards raged against the machine. The man inside pointed to me and then at the passenger door of the car. He wanted me to jump ship into safer, more mobile waters. The car was certainly small enough to maneuver through the labyrinth on the highway.
I continued watching as the stranger powered the Mini over one of the undead. When he backed up, all that remained of the beast was a pile of slop and bone.
One of the monsters managed to pull itself up the side of the truck to peer inside. Its ruined eyes stared on, unable to lock onto me. It knew I was there. By some trick of evolution, the thing could sense my presence. It smacked a meaty fist against the glass and roared to shake the cabin of the truck.
Holy fuck. I was its prey.
My train of thought derailed until my body refused to act.
Whatever it was, smashed its head against the window. Once. Twice. Before it had a chance to drop another crushing blow, I leveled the barrel of the gun at its face and pulled the trigger. For the second time in too short a period, my ears filled with a painful pitch.
The beast was gone. In its place, a hole in the glass.
I had no idea if the thing was dead, wounded, or just pissed off. I took a chance and looked through the window to see the Mini still parked at the side of the truck, the second beast missing in action. The driver encouraged me out ─ into the battlefield.
I wasn’t ready for this.
There was no choice.
I nodded back at the driver. He reached across to the passenger door and swung it open. With the grace of a cat, I kicked the truck’s door open, tossed my pack out, and jumped to the ground. Three strides and I slid into the passenger seat of the Mini and shoved the pack into the back seat. As soon as the door was closed, the stranger drove the Mini from the scene and made his way to the grassy median between the north and south bound lanes of the highway.
We didn’t speak a word for the first few minutes. As he drove, I drew in ragged gasps until my heart finally slowed from warp speed to sprint.
“Holy shit,” the stranger shouted. “That was awesome.”
His proclamation brought an uncontrollable bought of laughter from my lips. He was right. Amid the soul-devouring fear and fight to the death, the escape could easily have been categorized within the realm of holy fuck.
“Name’s Ratchet,” the stranger said.
I laughed.
“What the hell?” Ratchet replied to my outburst. “I save your ass and you laugh at my name?”
“I’m sorry. That was rude of me,” I replied. The heat of embarrassment rose to my cheeks. Any second, Ratchet would jettison me from the Mini and I’d be, once again, on my own.
“Dude, I’m fucking with you. It’s my nickname. My real name is Ray. I’m a mechanic. I was on my way from Atlanta when a very large pile of shit hit a very large fan.”
I turned to Ratchet. “Do you have any idea what happened?”
“Not a goddamn clue. The sky filled with ash and then those sons a bitches attacked.” It was Ratchet’s turn to laugh. “Aliens maybe?”
He reached his hand across to me. “Your name is?”
“Trey. Trey Hawkins.” I said, simply.
“No fuckin’ way. As in Trey Hawkins from …”
“Doubletap Suicide,” I completed Ratchet’s thought.
“You’re kidding me? How fucking coincidental is that?”
“I don’t understand?”
Ratchet tapped the play button on his stereo. From every direction, Doubletap’s latest hit blasted. I leaned my head back, closed my eyes, and listened to “Through The Veil Of Truth”. The song was one of my favorites to perform. It was also the song I wrote prior to proposing to Erica.
Ratchet turned the stereo down and laughed. “That’s what I was listening to right before those bastards cornered me back there. Hell yeah, I rescued Trey mother fuckin’ Hawkins.”
“And I rescued Ratchet,” I added.
He nodded. “That you did, my friend.” Ratchet cranked up the music again. “Sing it, brother.” He laughed again. “Come on, give me a concert.”
I started to protest, but realized there was actually reason to celebrate.
So I sang.
twenty two | Erica
I sprinted across Guy Street, ignoring the cautionary flashing of the crosswalk. The world was ending and my little sister was in danger. Jaywalking had gone from a citywide pass time to a civic duty. I’ve defined civic duty as dodging zombies and falling bodies—pure survival.
The green glass walls of the engineering building greeted me. I squinted through the glass as I rested the golf club on my shoulder. My empty stomach clenched—blood coated the floor, spreading like an oil spill on water. It had no shape, and it marred the black tiles. It was a slaughter. Broken bodies were strewn across the floor, their limbs bent at impossible angles. The one closest to me had his head split open, exposing an empty void in the place of brains.
A scream rose in my throat and I bit the back of my hand. I sucked in breath after cleansing breath. Think, Erica.
I grabbed my cell phone and pulled it free of my knee pocket. I checked around me, making sure I was alone. There were no signs of life.
I turned my back to the grotesque menagerie. It was out of sight, but not out of mind. A presence burned into the space between my shoulder blades, as though the blood could somehow watch me through the eyes of the dead.
I tapped out a message to Sylvie: Outside, where are you?
After committing the message to the graces of the ethereal wireless gods, I leaned back against the glass and closed my eyes. What a nightmare.
What would Trey do?
Trey probably wouldn’t have decided to play Rambo with a golf club.
Mild-mannered assistant professor by day, badass zombie killer by apocalypse. That’s me, Erica Fulton, in a nutshell.
I sucked in a chuckle, and sent Trey a text: At Concordia, waiting for Syl. Love still a constant. Not sure about dinner.
I took a moment to look at his picture, taken the same day he proposed to me. The glow in his eyes lifted mine up from the streets to the sky and clouds. The world was still beautiful.
The glass shuddered against my back. I jumped away, turning to face the hellscape. The ruined face of a woman glared back at me through a mess of blood caked blonde hair. Her nose was bent sideways, and her teeth jutted through her lower lip. She opened her mouth, her lips retracting downwards, slicing themselves further on her sharp, white teeth.
A scream reverberated through the glass, resonating in the air. Dead eyes bored into me, and she struck the glass again. My heart hammered against my ribs and my eyes raced around the street, looking for somewhere to hide.
She struck the glass again, leaving sour brown blood on the glass. It was holding, so far. I saw a flash behind her, leading to the staircase.
I glanced down at my phone as I took another step. A new text showed. I ducked behind a parked car and checked.
Syl’s message was simple: Meet at metro doors.
Metro doors. I can do that. It was one block up. But, I had to lose my newest friend before I could do anything.
I dropped to my hands and knees, crawling behind the parked cars. I controlled my breathing, making as little noise as possible. I put the golf club in my backpack’s straps.
Gravel cut into my palms and knees, and my back burned. I kept going. The banging faded into the distance as I pushed myself harder than I ever had in a mountain-side sprint. I jumped as a piece of glass lanced my hand. I stopped to pull it out, blood glazing its point. I tossed it aside, electing to continue crawling on my knuckles.
I peeked my head up above the hood of an old blue station wagon. The sign was close. I looked back the way I came, scanning the glass walls. I didn’t see her.
I waved at the door, sitting up on my knees. I grabbed my phone with my good hand and tapped a message with a dirty finger: Behind a station wagon.
The push doors of the metro opened, and Sylvie spilled out onto the street. Her hands covered her ears, and she sprinted towards me. Her jeans were covered in drying blood, and her ponytail hung in shambles at on her shoulders. I motioned at her to get down. There was a pipe sticking out of her backpack, its end coated in gore.
She ducked down and sprinted behind the car to my hiding place. She threw her arms around me and shook. I wrapped my good hand around her.
“It’s okay, Syl, let’s get home,” I whispered in her ear.
She pulled back, sniffling. She only nodded.
I grabbed the golf club in my injured hand, and nodded towards the other side of the street.
Then I heard it.
A moan.
I turned around—Guy Street had been empty, but I hadn’t been able to check the intersection before my crawl.
A group of five zombies were ambling toward us. Former students, now seeking personal betterment through eating the minds of others. I recognized one—a brunette with wavy hair from my mechanics class two years ago.
I swallowed. “Shit, run!” I said, sprinting towards home.
Sylvie gasped and followed.
I came to a dead stop as another group of three zombies turned the corner and started heading towards up.
Shit.
I hefted the golf club in both hands. My injury no longer hurt. I was calm.
It was time to go home. Trey would be back tonight, and we had a guest for dinner.
twenty three
| Trey
We drove the Mini, trading off for brief naps, until neither of us had stamina left for anything but sleeping. Ratchet pulled into the first rest stop we saw. My initial inclination was to race to the vending area with grand designs to calm my restless stomach.
Good news, bad news scenarios were never my forte. The bad news inevitably rendered the good news forfeit. In this instance, the good news was the vending machines were alive and well. The bad news? I had no cash. I turned to march back to the car, only to smack headlong into Ratchet ─ who was holding nasty looking pry bar in his hands.
“Hulk smash,” he said, raising the pry bar over his head. I ducked. Ratchet laughed and lowered the tool. “Whoa, dude. I’m takin’ the metal to the machine. The rule of law is in the hand of the people now.”
Ratchet stepped in front of the nearest vending machine and smashed the glass in one swift swing. I expected an alarm to call out to the shambling horde. The only sound was Ratchet’s celebratory woop.
“Pick your poison, rock star. Candy, chips … whatever kind of junk food you like, it stands before you.”
I knew I could have turned down the spoils of war and opt for my hiking rations. Those healthier options, however, will remain stashed away ─ emergency only.
I held back a laugh. The whole of the fucking world had become an emergency. Never the less, I played the starving card and scooped up a few handfuls of delicious snack food items.
With my various cargo pockets full, Ratchet laid hands on the soda machine. We each grabbed a couple of cans and made our way back to the Mini.
“You think the car is zombie proof?” I asked just before chugging down half a can of soda.
“From what I’ve seen of those things, they aren’t smart enough to use a door handle and they’re not strong enough to shatter auto glass. I’d say if enough of them came through the area the crushing force of a crowd could easily smash through the windshield. Outside of that, I’d say we’re pretty safe.”
At least he didn’t use the “n” word.
Never.
We situated ourselves into the Mini and locked the doors. The air inside the small vehicle would get stale and cold quickly.