Dark Humanity

by Gwynn White

  She was well across the street when he finally had enough control of his body to take a step sideways, preparing to begin running for real—

  A gunshot rang out with a thunderous clap, and the woman's chest exploded outward. It didn't even slow her down.

  I can see right through her! He froze again, staring. A second shot ravaged the uninjured side of her head, but she was dangerously close. Reaching for him. Another couple of steps . . .

  Yoga lady tripped on the curb and slammed into the large maple tree beside him. She collapsed into a bloody pile of flesh and bones at its base.

  He could only stand there, staring, completely locked up.

  Another shot. Bits of wood and bark sprayed from the tree inches from him. That finally woke him up.

  The shooter was in a house across the street. Rather than aiming at him again, the man waved out of an open window, motioning Liam to keep moving.

  Are these things in every house?

  He waved his thanks to the good Samaritan, then—pretending he wasn't already exhausted—ran as fast as he could.

  He finally reached the corner of the street. He crossed to the other side and paused to look back in the direction he had come, half expecting to see a wave of crazy people pouring out of the houses. Even the people fleeing to their cars had diminished for the moment. As before, if he didn't know anything was wrong, the block would look pretty much normal.

  His ears throbbed from the shrill screaming of the emergency sirens above. He walked down the street with his hands over his ears, until he realized he could pop his ear buds back in. That brought it down to a constant—though still overwhelming—hum in his head.

  He arrived at the alleyway. Like most streets in this part of town, the flats lined the main streets, and each block was cut lengthwise down the middle with a small, paved alley where each house had a detached garage and homeowners parked one of their vehicles. He would go up the alley to a point behind Grandma's house, see what he could see of Angie, and plan from there.

  But before he could even step into the alleyway, he noticed Angie's car parked at an odd angle in the middle of the street, fifty or so feet beyond the alley. The car might be necessary for any kind of escape. It would also simplify the Angie problem. It would be nice just to run her over and be done with it.

  Wow. Seriously, dude? Murder?

  As he walked toward the car, he wondered if it was murder? Did the gunman who saved his life murder that crazed woman? Was she a person? He had read so many zombie books he thought he knew the difference between a living, breathing person, and the walking, infected zombies—but had he just seen one? Was that woman already dead when she attacked? Or just really sick? Either way, she meant to harm him. The gunman killing her had saved him. But what of Angie? Was she sick or dead? It wasn't so simple in real life.

  Something wasn't right about the car. It looked abandoned, parked as it was in the middle of the street with both front doors open wide. The passenger side was closest. He approached carefully and wasn't the least surprised to see the seat on that side was covered with blood. Lots of blood. Something bloody was in the space in front of the seat, but he couldn't get himself to look at it directly.

  That is not a foot.

  He looked over to the driver's side; it was mercifully clear of most of the blood. However, there were no keys in the ignition. He scanned around the outside of the car but saw no clues as to what went down there. He backed away, turned around, and slowly jogged back toward the alley.

  Not a foot. Not a foot. Not a ...

  He imagined the discussion he'd have when he finally saw Grandma. Rather than their usual rehash of the weather, he'd be able to tell her about being shot at, being assaulted by a yoga student, almost getting run over by a speeding car, seeing something disgusting in Angie's disturbingly abandoned car, and he could even toss in the bit about the librarian's freakout. Oh yeah, and he could share how he saw his 104-year-old grandma escaping the clutches of an insane nurse on the front porch of his house. “And how was your day Grandma?” he'd say with a cheery grin.

  It only took the collapse of civilization to give us something interesting to discuss.

  Soon he'd have that conversation. Right now, he needed to focus on how to get past Angie. He didn't have any weapons, but he would need something creative. She didn't seem to be in the mood for talking.

  If it came to it, he wondered if he could kill her, or anyone. As much as he detested the idea of being forcibly assigned to Grandma for the summer, he had to admit he liked the friendly nurse from upstairs. She had a knack for talking to him—she said she had a granddaughter about his age, so that gave them a shared frame of teen reference. While they never sat down over coffee and chit-chatted, he didn't mind running into her at the house. That made it all the harder to contemplate harming her.

  Glad I don't have to put Grandma down.

  That thought heaved his stomach and made him light-headed for a few seconds. He had to stop walking and lean against a nearby fence pole. He forced those feelings aside; there were more pressing matters at hand. He was coming up to the correct house. The sirens made it impossible for him to hear if Angie was rooting around out back, but for once, he thanked the sirens for covering his approach as he tried to get a look into the backyard of Grandma's house. He couldn't see Angie, so he passed Grandma's garage and went to the next house, hoping to catch a glimpse of her from that angle.

  Before he could get his bearings, he noticed a couple of men at the far end of the alleyway come out of a garage carrying some yellow power tools. A third man riding an ATV pulled out of the same garage. It was piled with stuff. None of them looked like they lived in the area. None of them appeared happy to see him. They dropped what they were carrying and swung rifles so he could see them. They weren't pointing them at him, but their message was clear—beat it!

  He rushed into the neighbor's yard, forgetting for a second they might not appreciate his intrusion. The men might come searching for him, but he doubted it. They appeared to be cleaning out garages, not looking for young boys to murder. The thought—and its normalcy in this situation—blew him away.

  This isn't at all how I thought the world would end.

  He spotted movement ahead. Angie was randomly walking around in Grandma's backyard, not thirty feet away. She was hidden from the alley because she was almost directly in front of the garage. Fortunately, Grandma had fences lined with many flowers and bushes, making it nearly impossible for anyone to see through without effort. It was unlikely Angie would notice him sneaking around the yard next to her. But he didn't know what to do next.

  There were probably many kinds of weapons in the garages behind any number of the houses, but the thieves in the alleyway put the fear of God in him. He'd rather face Angie bare-handed than face three men with guns and an angry look in their eyes.

  His only real option was to get her attention somehow, then get her to follow him out of her yard, giving him time to swoop in, unlock the cellar door, and then seal the door to keep her out. He formed a plan quickly, not wanting to delay to the point new elements wander in—such as the men in the alley, the zombies in the houses, or just trigger-happy neighbors who might think he was infected. A common scenario in the stories ...

  Each corridor between the flats met the backyards with two gates—one for each neighbor's yard. He could guide her to a gate that was closed so he could jump it and leave her in the corridor to rot.

  Unless she can climb.

  Maybe she could. Angie had gotten over the fence somehow and was heading his way. She must have noticed him after all. The noise of the sirens covered her approach as he was looking around the far side of the house, waiting to begin his great plan.

  She was ten feet away before his brain kicked in—much faster than the yoga girl incident—and he began to run up the corridor toward the front of the neighbor's house. Angie was fast, not running, but sauntering at a good clip on pretty long legs.

  How
did Grandma outrun her?

  He rounded the corner of the front of the house, not bothering to look behind him. He knew she was coming.

  He dashed across both front yards. If he slipped and twisted an ankle now, he would likely die twenty seconds later. Even a minor mistake would be unforgiving. When he was safely around the corner, he finally chanced a look back to see Angie plowing across the yards with that rope around her neck.

  He plunged into the final corridor, pushing his hand into his front pocket to retrieve the key he would need to open the back door. He made good time to the back fence blocking this side of the house and took a leap, hoping to clear it in one bound like a stunt man. He grazed the top and fell into the yard, dropping the key in the process—it squirted backward onto the walkway. It was now on the wrong side.

  Unbelievable, he thought. He was that guy from every horror movie ever made. The idiot who gets killed because he couldn't handle himself well enough to make good on his easy escape.

  He stood up just as Angie was rounding the front corner. She paused ever so slightly as if she had to reacquire him now that he'd been out of sight for a few seconds. Then she came for him.

  His brain was finally, thankfully, firing on all cylinders. He jumped the fence in one clean bound, stooped down to pick up the key, dropped it in his pocket, and turned around to repeat the process. As he leaped, a hand on his back shoved him hard into the fence's top bar. His strength and momentum carried the day, and he made it across, though he had some serious scrapes on his thighs and bruised his shoulder on his second landing.

  He was on his feet, not trusting Angie couldn't climb, and ran for his back door. He noticed Grandma's porch swing was lying against the gate on the other side of the yard. It provided a ladder-like way to get over the neighbor's fence.

  Was Angie a sly zombie?

  The key opened the basement door. Without a second glance, he shut the door behind him and locked it quickly. For the first time since he moved in, he was glad to be greeted by the aroma of mold mixed with mothballs. He unplugged the clothes dryer, yanked off the venting, and pushed the whole appliance, walking it across the floor until it was directly in front of the small door.

  He collapsed in front of the dryer to collect his thoughts. Strangely, he felt nothing. No fear. No sadness. Nothing. It was just a series of episodes culminating in him sitting here on this basement floor, alive. For now, that was all that mattered. He assumed his feelings would catch up eventually.

  It wasn't long before the sirens spun down. He estimated they'd been going for an hour.

  About the time it takes a dumb teenager to figure out his world is broken. As the shock morphed into quiet exhaustion, he drifted off into thoughts of what he'd just survived. He played the morning over and over in his head as if to confirm it actually happened. In time he returned to the present and stood on his shaky legs. He had to get upstairs to check on Grandma. He angled his forearm to see his watch; it had already been twenty minutes since the sirens stopped ...

  4

  Quantum Decisions

  Marty found herself in her backyard, barefoot.

  It was summer. It was sunrise. It was breathtaking.

  A bluebird had landed in the birdbath not five feet in front of her and was busy primping as if it didn't have a care in the world. Certainly, an old lady presented no threat. Soon other birds joined the pool party, and she just stood there like a giddy schoolgirl watching the magic of Mother Nature within those tiny creatures.

  “Welcome aboard, Marty.”

  A man's voice. Standing right there beside her was Al—short for Aloysius, a name he hated. Her deceased husband was with her once again—or she was with him. It didn't matter which it was. It felt as if he had always been there, just like the old days. In a sense, that never changed, even after he was gone. To be with him again was wonderful, she thought.

  And Al was young again! She drank in his blond hair, the deep blue eyes, and the smile that charmed her from the moment they met. He looked no older than the young man she met seventy-five years ago. He was dressed smartly in his Army uniform—just like the day he packed off to war. He knew how much she loved a man in uniform. And he was standing right next to her again.

  “Pinch me, Al. I think I'm in Heaven.”

  “Hiya, Marty. How ya doin'?” The Jersey drawl was exaggerated as he did when he was trying to impress her. And he called her by her nickname too. She really hated her full name just as much as Al hated his.

  “You aren't in Heaven, but I know how you feel. It's great to see you again.”

  She looked around. Everything was so perfect; it had to be Heaven. But if it wasn't—she had a sudden fear that if this wasn't Heaven, it might be ... somewhere else.

  “You aren't anywhere bad. We're merely taking a stroll in your mind. Your recent trauma has...opened new doorways. This is a way to reunite and look ahead. Are you ready for what comes next?”

  “What in Heaven's name are you going on about?”

  “The plague. The infected dead. The chaos. Are you ready to help your family survive this thing or not?”

  “Al, my love, you might not have noticed, but I'm 104. My days of doing much of anything important are well behind me.”

  “Said the lady who single-handedly fought off a horrifically infected woman who was once her nurse. Not many people would have been able to survive that. You're a fighter. Have been since the day we met. That was amazing how you remembered that old rope.”

  “I felt your presence helping me figure it out.”

  “My dear, you figured that out all by yourself.”

  Her mind had to be playing tricks on her. Her religious beliefs were very strong, and she didn't believe in ghosts or spirits or anything supernatural walking the earth. But she desperately wanted to believe this was real. That he was real.

  “What of poor Angie? Is she still alive?”

  “I don't think so. I think her soul has moved on. Her, and many like her, are succumbing to this sickness.”

  They prayed together. She and Al. Just like the old days. Somehow she was on her knees, and they both prayed to the Creator for guidance. When they were finished, Al took her hand and helped her back up, and they walked over to the patio to sit together as if it were just an average day. It could have been any day from among the 70-plus years they shared together. If it wasn't Heaven, it sure felt like it to her. But it also made her sad to sit there with him, knowing he couldn't be real.

  “But I'm real enough, my dear. I'm here to help you face this challenge. People out there are going to need you. Liam is out there right now. He's young and reckless, but you know, deep in his heart, he would stop at nothing to protect you. He's probably riding a fire truck on his way here right now.”

  They laughed together.

  “But why would anyone risk their life for an old woman? It doesn't make any sense.”

  Al had a twinkle in his eye when he looked at her but said nothing else on the matter.

  They sat there for a long time, chair next to chair, hand in hand. She didn't want it ever to end but knew it would.

  “I have to go, and so do you, my sweet Marty. I wish I could tell you everything is going to be all right and that everyone you love is going to survive this catastrophe. But you've seen outside your window. Things will get worse. Then they will get much worse. The sick will get sicker, and the survivors will become more and more desperate as their reality crashes. You have to look deep in your heart to help your family get through this. You're very special—that I'm here talking to you tells me that. You can help them. You can help everyone.”

  “I'm an unlikely hero. I can barely stand up on my own anymore. Someone is going to be saddled with taking care of me ... ”

  “You don't give yourself enough credit. In another universe, you passed away peacefully in your sleep today. The opportunities for you in this one are still endless. You could live to be 120!”

  She was full of questions, but at that mo
ment, a wounded raven dropped out of the sky and landed hard right in the birdbath, chasing the songbirds away. Its head was covered in blood as if it had been digging inside something … fresh. The dripping blood turned the pristine water red.

  “That's curious. I'm so sorry you must endure this filth.”

  “What caused this disease?” She asked him, as he got up and pulled her out of her chair.

  “My love, you were always whip-smart. That was one of the things I adored about you, and still do. That's the right question but the wrong time. The really important question right now is how can you survive the disease?”

  “OK, how do we—”

  “Grandma!” Liam was not quite shouting, but loudly whispering, if such a thing was possible.

  He ran up next to her bed and was comforted to see she was alive. She had been mumbling in her sleep as he approached. He tried not to think again of the possibility she might have been dead. Being alone scared him more than the plague right now.

  “I'm so glad you're safe, Grandma. Things aren't right outside.”

  He briefly considered mentioning he saw her out front struggling to get away from Angie, but something made him avoid the subject and instead focus on his tense encounter with the impaired nurse.

  “I ran into Angie, and she chased me around the house, but I managed to jump the fence and get inside the cellar door before she could touch me. She has some kind of sickness.”

  She gave him a clear-eyed look but continued to lay on her bed in silence. She was still fully clothed, shoes and all. She was holding her prized rosary, which wasn't unusual, but both her hands were on her chest grasping the string of beads and its crucifix as if she had lain down and never expected to wake up. It was very disconcerting.

  He watched her for a moment, expecting some sort of reaction, but she remained silent.