by A. P. Fuchs
The steel running through the building groaned beneath them; more rumbling shook the concrete.
“Not like this,” Joe said and pressed his heels into the ground and pushed up with all his might. He held his arms out to keep his balance.
“What’re you doing?” Billie asked.
“My life. My call,” Joe said and peered over the edge of the building. “My choice.”
See you in a minute, April, he thought.
“Don’t, Joe,” August said.
Joe ignored him.
Finally free.
He jumped over the edge.
* * * *
“Joe!” Billie screamed and swiftly made her way to the edge. She hesitated before peering over, not wanting to see his body plummet all the way to the street below.
August rushed over beside her, his eyes fixed on hers, and took her in his arms.
“I have to know,” she said.
“Don’t. Not this way.”
She shoved him away, brain numb, confused and completely unsure why Joe decided to take his own life.
Again she was interrupted from looking over the edge by the roar of aircraft overhead.
“Billie,” August said. “Look!”
* * * *
The back of Joe’s head throbbed like the dickens. He had meant to overshoot the protrusion of flooring from the level a couple floors down from the roof, but instead hit it with his feet anyway. His legs had folded under him, his body twisted and the next thing he knew black dotted with green stars burst before his eyes. A sudden rush of dizziness, his body spinning, then dark followed by the echoey sound of a kind of muted thunder.
Gazing up into the gray and brown sky, his heart didn’t ache at the realization he wasn’t dead. It burned with grief over the way his body seemed to take over, manifesting his thoughts of death, and hurled him over the edge. Yet at the same time, a part of him did want to run with it and wake up on the other side next to April, finally reunited after over a year of hell in a world filled with zombies.
The muted thunder returned and a series of fighter jets rushed toward the building. Joe counted three from where he lay.
Two of them sped ahead of the other and zipped passed the teetering building. The third let loose a couple of missiles. Joe rolled over onto his stomach and crawled to the edge of the sheet of flooring he lay upon, taking it in full-view as the twin missiles plowed into the giant zombie that was about to bring another fist into the base of the building. The missiles struck it in the chest and gut, spiking clean through it. Black syrupy blood burst forth from the wounds right after, gushing to the street below in a deluge of dark bodily fluid.
Were these massive zombies like the others? Would these two shots kill it? It was difficult to say. Joe wasn’t sure how much had changed in this world upon their return. He briefly wondered if they could somehow get back to the past, interfere with themselves from entering that bank and then return here, perhaps restoring things to the way they were—an undead world but without the giant zombified killing machines roaming the streets.
The huge zombie below rocked forward then stumbled back a couple steps. It touched its giant middle, coating its hand in blood as if scooping water from a pond. It took the handful of black blood and hurled it at one of the jets as they rounded back. Quickly, the dark gray jet went black as if instantly covered in tar, and sped hard and fast into a neighboring building. A violent explosion lit the area as orange and yellow flame and a large plume of black smoke shot toward the sky. A part of the building blasted out and fell to the street below.
The giant zombie growled and brought up its hands as if about to swat down the remaining planes like flies.
Another jet came for it, launched another pair of missiles, then banked sharp to the left, just missing the zombie. The zombie spun around, following the jet with its gaze. The missiles caught up from behind and took the creature’s head out in a gushy explosion of giant shards of bone, glops of brain and sprays of black blood.
The building groaned.
It’s gonna fall, Joe thought. He quickly got to his feet. “Billie! August!” No one came to the edge above. “Anybody?”
* * * *
“She’s coming in quick,” August said from behind Billie’s shoulder. He pointed to a white bi-plane coming in from the west. The plane was near level with the building. If they thought they could land the thing over such a small area—
Billie jumped over, seemingly too excited to contain herself. She waved her arms back and forth in giant Xs. “Hey! Here!”
The side of the bi-plane opened and the vague visage of what appeared to be a female poked its head out the door. It then retreated back into the plane before reappearing again with something large and dark in its hands.
The plane came toward them. It was a woman, partly sticking out the side of the plane. The large dark cylinder in her hands look familiar but August couldn’t quite place it.
As the plane rushed by, the woman shot out the dark cylinder and a black rope ladder tumbled out of the plane. The rungs struck the rooftop and dragged along it, coming for August and Billie.
“Better act fast,” he told her. “To be safe—” He grabbed her hands, jerked her behind him, and set her arms around his waist. “Okay?”
She didn’t reply but he thought he felt her head nod against him.
The ropes came by.
August grabbed on. Within a second of doing so, both he and Billie’s feet left the ground.
They looked down to the street far below. August saw the small form of a man wearing a trench coat on an outcrop of concrete.
“Joe!” Billie screamed.
But it was too late. The bi-plane moved further and further from the building.
3
Left Behind
Billie pressed up against the tiny window, on some level wishing she could just push past the glass and somehow fly down and get Joe to safety. Instead, Joe slowly grew to a black dot standing on a tiny outcrop at the side of the building before vanishing altogether.
“I can’t believe it, I can’t believe it,” she said.
“Billie,” August said from across from her.
“He’s down there. We left him. First Des and now him. No. Nonono.” She put her face in her hands. “They’ll kill him and eat him and maybe change him into one of those things, and I don’t know. Joe’s gone. Gone. Gone!”
“I know. I’m sorry,” August said.
“I don’t want to hear that.”
“It’s all there is to say.”
She pulled her face from her hands and gave him a cold stare. His gaze in return was gentle and kind, with a slight glaze over his eyes.
August glanced back over his shoulder to a woman sitting in the co-pilot seat.
She didn’t wear a headset, only sat there eyes fixed forward, her long brown hair hiding most of her face. She was a heavier girl, somewhere in the one-sixty-plus column, Billy guessed, not that it mattered, but her size made sense with how easily the woman helped them into the plane.
“Thank you,” August said to the woman.
She turned in her seat; her thickly-lined and dark-makeup eyes glanced at August then to Billie before settling back on August again. The pilot, a male with circle-framed dark sunglasses, a toque and a headset, kept his eyes on the sky. Billy couldn’t help but feel the woman was in charge.
The woman nodded at August.
“Where are we going?” August said.
“A safe distance away.”
Billie cleared her throat loud enough to get August’s attention. He looked at her. Her mouth had trouble forming the words. She wanted to talk about Joe again, but not in front of these people. They didn’t know her. She didn’t know them. Something about their female rescuer didn’t sit right, either.
Billie tried speaking again. “What about—what about the zombies?” She thumbed back over her shoulder. “They were taller than a house back there.”
August’s eyes went wide and his mouth ma
de an O-shape. He shook his head slightly. No, was what he meant.
Billie spoke slowly this time, emphasizing each word. “They were as big as a house.”
“And we’re safe from them,” August said.
The woman in the co-pilot seat rolled her eyes and faced forward again.
Think I’m dumb? Billie thought. She cleared her throat and spoke loud and clear to the front of the cockpit. “So, do you guys have a name?”
Neither responded.
“Hey,” Billie said, “can I have your names, please?” She was purposefully polite. A girl thing. The woman would know Billie’s Ps and Qs were meant as a “screw you for not responding.”
The woman turned in her seat again, curled up her mouth in an obviously-phony smile, and said, “I’m May. This is Del.” Then with an even bigger salon-hostess-smile, “Are you guys okay?”
“Fine, thank you,” August said with a bit of a grin, crossing his arms. He brought one leg over the other, and turned his head to look out the window. He clearly knew what was going on and obviously didn’t want any part of it.
Billie smiled back. “Just fine. Thank you for saving us.”
“You’re welcome,” the woman replied. “Anything I can get for you? In-flight movie, perhaps?”
“Do you have Drop Zone?”
“Not for you, dear. Not yet.”
* * * *
Joe looked off into the distance, hoping to catch a glimpse of the bi-plane that had come and rescued August and Billie. He couldn’t see it. It wasn’t coming back for him.
On the other side of the building another giant zombie appeared who, in one more blow to the structure, would send it tumbling to the ground.
This wasn’t his future.
“Or present,” he said. “Whatever happened in the past . . .” . . . changed everything here. Can’t even think about what happened. Can’t even get down. If it wasn’t for April—He caught himself. Though every life had a watershed and April was his, he couldn’t blame her for what was happening now, especially because she had fallen victim to the same creatures that now ruled the planet.
He still loved her, though, even now in this place beyond death. Even after having been to Hell.
“And if I die now, where will I go?” he said.
He took a step closer to the broken wall and tried to find a place in the disarray where he could perhaps look through clearly to the other side and get an idea of what that giant zombie was doing.
“Too hard to see,” he said. And Des wasn’t dead. Alive—human?—zombie again. And I shot him but somehow missed, or shot him but he wasn’t hurt or—
A metallic clunk came from behind him. He spun around to see a black iron grappling hook latched onto the side of the chunk of cement he stood on.
Carefully, he stepped over to it, brow furrowed. The hook’s claws seemed to grip the cement tight. He peered over the edge as best as he could to a black rope that ran all the way to street level.
No one was at the bottom.
A trap? There was no way to know, but there was a choice: stay here and die and hopefully see April, or take the rope and possibly survive and, if he got lucky, regroup with the others.
His heart ached. He wanted to end it. He was tired of living, tired of the garbage, tired of the dead—and this wasn’t the first time he wanted out from this awful and heartbroken existence. But if what he saw beneath the bank was true, if the vision or insight or whatever you wanted to call it was indeed reality, then maybe there was still a chance of redemption, a way to make up for April dying. She’d still be alive if he had gotten to her place an hour sooner, perhaps even a half-hour.
“I love you, April,” he said and got down on his belly. He reached over the edge, grabbed hold of the rope, and swung over, half-expecting the hook or the cement to give way and for him to swing into a death drop.
The rope held. It was a long way down.
The building shook.
* * * *
If August learned any one thing from spending all that time alone in his cabin with his family members dead beneath the floorboards, it was patience.
Like Billie, he wanted to know what was going on. Wanted to know why the undead stood fifteen stories high, why they had the trip to the past, the encounter with the angel, the flight through the storm of skulls and everything else that happened to them. He also wanted to know where he and Billie were being taken, yet he was also aware that in this new world of the undead, sometimes silence was more valuable than speaking. Information, though critical to survival, was sometimes best kept to oneself or remaining unknown. A common thread running through human nature was the need to know everything. Another common thread was the discovery that needing to know everything wasn’t always a good idea and often led to conflicts, wars, broken relationships, lies and destruction.
He would bite his tongue for now. He hoped Billie would do the same.
Every so often the girl would glance out the plane’s window in an attempt to look back on the city, one last-ditch effort to see Joe.
August was sorry they had to leave him behind.
Take care of him, God. You’re the only One who can, he thought. And watch over us, too. I have a feeling things have only begun for Billie and I, and there’s more You want to show us.
* * * *
Though the rope was set securely above, Joe still had the uneasy feeling it could give way at any moment. He descended the rope a foot or two at a time, trying to get to ground level as quickly as possible. He did his best to work the rope as efficiently as he could without friction-burning his hands.
The building vibrated and the rope unexpectedly dropped a few feet. Joe came to a jolting stop, feet and body swinging side-to-side, the ground still at least a hundred feet below him.
“You drop you’re dead,” he said through gritted teeth as he doubled his efforts to get to the bottom even faster.
He glanced up. Where the rope and grappling hook was affixed above still seemed sturdy, but the slab of cement upon which it gripped rocked up and down like a see-saw jutting out of the side of the building. Joe bobbed with each rise-and-fall of the cement slab above.
Sixty-five feet.
He briefly thought about letting go, falling ten to fifteen feet then grabbing the rope again. He chose not to, knowing what worked in the movies didn’t work in real life, and even if he did manage to pull off such a feat, he’d skin the heck out of his hands so that what was left of them wouldn’t be able to hold onto the rope anymore anyway.
Fifty feet.
The cement slab above see-sawed again. A low drooom shook the building through and through. The loud metallic creaking of steel girders sent a nails-across-the-chalkboard-like chill up his spine.
“Go, go, go,” he whispered quickly to himself. Faster.
Forty feet.
The cement slab bobbed deep, sending Joe down a good dozen or so feet before zipping up again so he was only a few feet less than he was moments ago.
He slid down the rope like a fireman’s pole, using his feet as well to guide him and slow his descent when needed. His hands stung. He didn’t have to look at them to know they were as red as tomatoes.
Twenty-five feet.
The cement dipped again and stayed low.
A violent jerk snapped down the rope as the cement above came loose and slid a couple feet further down before catching on something and coming to an abrupt halt.
Joe yelled and slid down faster.
Twenty feet.
Girders creaked above.
What sounded like thunder inside a dome boomed through the air as the building was hit a final time.
The cement slab holding him gave way.
He dropped.
4
Dirt and Shadows
Where are they taking us? Billie wondered. The bi-plane was well out of the city now, with nothing but empty suburbia and desolate streets below them. A few giant zombies wandered in between the housetops. A few others the siz
e she was used to—human-sized—lingered in the streets and shuffled down sidewalks and across lawns.
“I think we’re going out of town,” she told August.
“Hm?” he said, apparently lost in thought.
“I said I think we’re going out of town.”
“Oh. Yes. Probably. Hopefully to somewhere safe.”
Billie glanced down at the streets again. Memories of her life before the Zombie Apocalypse occupied her thoughts: the simplicity of living with her parents and sister; the homework; getting ready for graduation; fighting with her folks; just school, eating, sleeping and hanging out with friends. Easy. Simple. No running. No killing. Just life.
Her thoughts ended with that mysterious gray rain that washed the old world away. The rain that transformed everyone she knew into the undead. The rain that hadn’t affected her for some reason. Hadn’t affected August, or Joe, or Des.
She didn’t know why, but she wanted to find out.
There had to be a way to know.
* * * *
Joe’s feet hit the ground, the shock of the impact riding all the way up his legs and into his hips. Immediately he fell over and even through his trench coat, his skin burned as it skidded against the ground.
WHAM! Something huge hit the ground, shaking the pavement. The cement slab.
A spray of cement pelted him in the shins and feet, some whipping across his stomach and chest like stones skipping across a lake. He raised his hands and arms to shield his face from the dust and pebbles pummeling into him like hail.
Insides shaky, he coughed through the dust and got to his feet, thankful the cement slab hadn’t landed directly on him.
Girders creaked and groaned; the crunchy crumble of cement told him he had about three seconds to make a break for it or he’d be buried alive.