BloodoftheDead[UndeadWorldTrilogyBookOne]

by A. P. Fuchs

  "Hey, how ya doin'?” Des said and offered his hand, hoping the dude would let go of Billie's.

  The two men shook hands.

  "And you are?” Billie asked.

  The man seemed to consider her words carefully before he spoke. “Name's Joe.” It sounded like he didn't want to reveal his real name. Did “Joe” have something to hide?

  They all stood in awkward silence. Joe was clearly not used to talking much or, probably, hanging around anyone. Most people looked at you straight in the eye when they spoke. Joe kept his gaze downward or over your shoulder.

  Billie nodded toward Joe's gun. “You seem to know what you're doing with that thing."

  "I try,” Joe said.

  "Have you, I don't know, had to use it a lot recently?"

  "Today, yeah. I can't tell you what's going on, but I think they've discovered the Haven or at least realized that this is the least dead place in the city."

  "Seems that way,” Des said, trying to contribute something. All of the sudden, it seemed like Joe was the star and Billie was his biggest fan. Don't sweat it, man. You got tenure.

  "Where were you headed?” Joe asked.

  "My place,” Billie said. “Now I'm not so sure that's a good idea. Who knows how many more are out there?"

  Joe nodded.

  "I don't know, what do you think? Think we should go back that way and risk it?” Billie said.

  "We can go to my—Wait, never mind. Rats,” Des said. The drone of flies filled the air as they began buzzing around the dead. “We have to get moving.” To Billie: “Know anyone around here?"

  "A few, but I don't know their specific addresses and I'm not in the mood to go banging on each and every door."

  Low moaning in the distance, a street or two over.

  "They're coming,” Joe said. “Let's go."

  "Where?” Des asked.

  Joe walked past them, bending his elbow and resting the barrel of his gun on his shoulder. He didn't look back when he spoke. “My place."

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  9: Ghost Town

  The TransCanada Highway led straight into Winnipeg, becoming Portage Avenue once it hit the outskirts of the city. August had hoped he would have been able to take his van right in, but when he drove into town, he was greeted by a clogged street filled with abandoned vehicles. Even the turn-offs he could have taken for an alternate route into the city were packed with driverless cars, trucks, vans.

  Even now, as he neared Portage and Main on foot, the hub of downtown, he remembered standing at the door to the Ford, one hand on the doorframe, looking out onto a ghost town. Not a sign of life anywhere. A part of him had expected it, for there not to be anyone left, but a greater part had held out hope and wanted to see a few folks wandering the streets, helping each other out, maybe even a person or two who could have told him that the undead had left the city and they were in the process of rebuilding. Not in Winnipeg and, August suspected, probably not anywhere else in the world, either.

  He wasn't sure what he was going to do once he made it to the city, whether his own plans or ones from above. A few times during the trip he muttered a few words to the Big Guy upstairs. The lines to heaven must have been down, because he hadn't heard a peep, only static. It was either that or God wasn't picking up the phone.

  The radio had been filled with static, too. No news, no music, no emergency broadcast of any kind. Nothing.

  Talk about wandering in the wilderness, August had thought more than once.

  Rifle in hand, he had hoofed it down Portage Avenue, his old legs enjoying the walk after sitting for so long, but also crying out every now and then with a cramp or tired muscles. Quite a few times he had sat on a bench or at a bus stop to catch his breath and give himself a break. And more than a few times he had yearned for a drink, something stiff and solid, preferably Tequila.

  He had already downed the little that was in the bottle he brought from the cabin. And to bring everything else he took from there and lug it all the way down Portage, he might as well set up an antique stand and invite the dead for a coupon day.

  He had hit up a few of the bars on the way downtown and each one was the same: empty, with toppled over chairs and tables, blood spattered on the bar tops and walls and pool tables. The only plus was that he did find one bar with a half dozen or so empty liquor bottles lying on the floor, probably having fallen there during a struggle. An old Jack Daniels still had a bit of whiskey in it. But only a sip. He sloshed the teaspoon's worth of alcohol around in his mouth a few times before swallowing. It was enough to take the edge off, but that was it. Nothing to really calm him down and put his mind at ease.

  He checked a couple of gun shops along the way for bullets. Most were cleaned out, just barren shelves that cried out to him, saying, “Wish you'd been here.” Only one had a bit of ammo left and he scored a couple of boxes of .22s.

  Sometimes it was better to proactively pick off the dead lest he cross paths with them later.

  He could have taken on a number of them, that would have been fine, but it was this empty city that got to him right now, the utter barrenness a constant reminder of his lonely time at the cabin, the heavy weight of being in complete solitude when he should have been with his family. Their deaths hung over him the entire walk down Portage, the painful memory of their demise switching between the fore and back of his mind, depending on what he was doing. But they were always there, sometimes alive, sometimes dead, all of it overshadowed by the looping images of putting holes in their heads.

  August arrived at Portage and Main.

  This was not the city he left behind.

  The looming towers of the Richardson building, CanWest Global, the Scotiabank building and the Bank of Montreal building were no longer the pillars of beauty they once were. Broken windows checkered the facades. Here and there, bodies lay bent over the broken glass, half in and half out on the higher floors as if the jumpers had chickened out and decided falling on broken glass was the best option. August wondered if some were still alive—undead alive—and would start walking soon. Then again, the bodies probably had a portion of their heads missing but he couldn't tell for sure from this far down. Those creatures didn't stay dormant, so far as he knew.

  Cars cluttered the intersection, many with their doors open, echoes of panicked screams from their former drivers still lingering on the air. Many looked as if they had been on fire at one point, portions of some of the hoods black with soot.

  Overturned military vehicles sat here and there—a few jeeps, a tank—a testament to the city's last stand before the zombies took them, too.

  One part of the street had water pooled in the gutters, a black car smashed up against a no longer-running fire hydrant just beyond.

  Blood stained the concrete in several places and August could clearly imagine the undead dragging half-eaten, still-breathing people up and down the street, taking them into the shadows to be devoured.

  A lone tricycle sat off to the side, its tiny young owner long gone.

  A few rapid shots fired in the distance.

  August got his rifle ready in case any creatures wandered out of the alleys and side streets, looking for someone new to gnaw on.

  Through the dark glass looking into the Scotiabank lobby across the way, August made out a few humanoid shadows, unmoving, lying in a heap.

  He glanced around at some of the neighboring buildings and squinted, seeing what was behind other windows. He made out a few more bodies, but that was it. Most of the windows were too dark or too far away for him to make out anything else.

  "What are you doing here, old man?” he whispered. “There's nothing.” There's no one. He felt fresh tears building up, rising to the brim of his eyes but refusing to spill out.

  The deep gray sky overhead seemed to grow darker, as if it, too, was pointing out his predicament and telling him he was too late for ... for.... And that was the problem. He didn't know what he was too late for. He hadn't had a plan
when coming here. He just knew he should make his way back and that was all.

  Using his rifle as a makeshift cane, August slowly walked over to the shoulder-high cement wall in front of the Richardson building and leaned with his back against it.

  Once more he glanced around. To his left was the Fairmont Hotel, the only one in the city that changed its names more times than any of the others. Sticking out from one of the top windows was a small, light blue biplane. He could only imagine the scene the day it crashed, its pilot at first happy to escape this place only to be thwarted in the end and plowed into the building's side. Judging by the way it was situated, it appeared the doors to it were still closed, whoever had been in it probably still dead inside. Maybe undead.

  He thought about firing a shot into the plane's side window to see if anything within moved but thought better of it because he knew he'd have to conserve ammo for when, not if, the time came.

  The drive into the city, the long walk down Portage, the stress of being alone—it caught up to him and he slumped against the wall. He needed to rest but he couldn't stay out here in the open.

  Maybe the hotel will have an unspoiled room and I can catch some sleep for a little while? he thought.

  He started to make his way over there but stopped himself when he remembered the small plane lodged in one of its windows. If something was still inside the plane.... No, he didn't want to risk it.

  He looked around. Nothing but office buildings. Yet there had to be a secure place he could go and rest in. Some place away from all this death, some place fortified enough so that should the dead come a'knockin', he'd be safe.

  The bodies behind the lower window of the Scotiabank seemed to look at him.

  The Scotiabank.

  The bank.

  A bank!

  August rounded the cement wall and found the set of stairs that led down to the entrance to Winnipeg Square. There were six banks down here: Scotiabank, Royal Bank, Bank of Montreal, TD, CIBC and a Credit Union.

  Surely one of them had their safe open. If he remembered correctly, it was still business hours when the rain came.

  August went downstairs and through the doorframe with its glass missing, and walked down the motionless escalator.

  One of the banks was almost straight across from where he entered.

  As he crossed the wide hallway, he kept his ears open and listened intently for any sign of life. He considered shouting hello, but decided against it.

  Rifle at the ready, he cautiously approached the bank, a part of him eager to fire and work off the anger that had built up within. These creatures took everything from him. These creatures weren't even supposed to be here.

  The world wasn't supposed to end this way.

  The thought of how the apocalypse was supposed to happen constantly filled his mind, years of Bible study forming the backbone to all he believed about the End of Days. He still couldn't get over the fact that the undead walking the earth wasn't mentioned anywhere in the Scriptures and now that they were here, it brought a lifetime of faith into question. Even for a time, at the cabin, his belief in God melted to nothing, whatever lump that constituted his belief no more than a small pile of residue and it was only that residue that still made him hang onto God when everything else inside him said He didn't exist. No matter how long he thought about it or how much he tried to shake it, his belief wouldn't falter. It only dimmed, faded to the back of his mind and heart, then resurfaced now and then, depending on how he was feeling or what was going on.

  The enormous wall-to-wall glass doors to the bank were shattered, jagged pieces of glass lining the frame like shark teeth.

  The lights were off except for a faint yellow glow from somewhere in the bank's corner. He didn't know what was causing it other than whatever it was was on the floor.

  Ensuring his rifle was ready to fire, August glanced behind himself, didn't see or hear anything, then stepped over a sharp triangle of glass in the frame and went in. He scanned the dimly lit room side to side as he moved, already his mind imagining one of the dead jumping out at him and him firing.

  Palms sweaty, face hot with anxiety, he slowed his breathing, cutting back on the sound his frantic exhaling emitted.

  The row of teller stations in front of him were covered with scattered papers, those stupid pens attached to chains dangling off their corners, hanging above the floor.

  He took another step and a foul smell greeted him. Immediately he got his eye behind the site at the end of the barrel and pointed it toward where he thought the smell was coming from. The stench grew thicker the nearer he came to the teller counter and when he was right up against it, he scanned the carpeted floor on the other side. Nothing. Just a few swivel chairs, a couple still upright, three more on their sides on the floor.

  His eyes immediately drew to the source of the light.

  A flashlight. It was still on, barely shining, in the far right corner next to the cash dispenser.

  There's probably a heap of dough still in there. For a second he wondered if the .22 had enough gusto to blast it open. Not a chance. Then he felt ashamed at the thought and was about to raise eyes to the ceiling to say sorry when a foul waft of something sharp and thick pierced his nostrils.

  He exhaled through his nose, blowing the smell out and decided to breathe through his mouth from here on in.

  Rounding the teller counter, he went straight for the flashlight in the corner. Crouching down, his old knees creaking, he picked it up, straightened, then checked the bulb. The light wouldn't last the night, he suspected. It was more orange than yellow.

  "Who dropped you?” he wondered. And how long ago? A day or two at most. Probably a day.

  He slowly shone the light around the room, listening carefully.

  Quiet.

  That smell.

  The flashlight's beam settled on a lump of something on one of the chairs.

  That wasn't there before unless I missed it.

  The chair was on a three-quarter angle so he couldn't see what it was. He placed the end of the flashlight in his mouth, held the rifle tight in both hands, and approached the chair. Even at a couple of feet away, the shape was still difficult to make out. It looked soft, like a black cat curled up. A dead cat, maybe? Whatever it was, its funk made him want to throw up.

  Slowly, he reached out a hand, grabbed the backrest and spun the chair around.

  The flashlight dropped from his lips when a gaunt face stared back at him.

  With a shout, he hopped back, his heart going from zero to a hundred in half a second.

  Hands shaking, he bent down, picked up the flashlight and shone it again at the chair.

  A woman's head sat on the chair, her eyes open and rolled so far back that the irises were half circles at the top of her eyeballs. The mouth hung slack, rimmed with black and red. The skin, though he couldn't be sure in the light available, seemed a dark, dark gray, with small black craters spotting the cheeks. Buckets of blood soaked the chair and the floor beneath it.

  It took a second for it to register that the light glimmered off the blood; it was still wet.

  Scccrpt. Scccrpt. Scccrpt.

  August shone the light higher. “Who is it? Who's there?"

  Nothing but a dark room answered him.

  Scccrpt.

  "I mean it! Answer me!"

  He put the light back in his mouth and aimed his rifle high, ready to blast the head off anything that approached him whether it was alive, dying or dead.

  Silence.

  Five long minutes of it.

  Legs trembling, August resolved that whatever it was, it was now gone.

  He panned the light around the room. The safe was embedded in the wall behind him to his right. The door was open.

  He sidestepped over there, listening for that scraping sound.

  When his back bumped up against the safe door, which was sitting flush against the wall, he shone the light into the safe.

  A body lay at his feet.
>
  Bang!

  The fabric of the man's white collared shirt burst and blood sprayed with the pieces.

  August's hands still vibrated from the instinctive pull of the trigger. He shone the light on the man and discovered the fellow's legs were eaten away, his arms and his head.

  He closed his eyes, pressed his lips together, then opened his eyes again.

  Man, could he use a drink.

  As quickly as he could, he pushed the torso out of the safe with his feet then grabbed the large, steel bar on the inside of the safe's door and tried pulling it closed. The door weighed a ton. He set his rifle down and this time used both hands. It was slow-going and he shuddered to think it was because he was too old and weak.

  You're tired, that's all, just tired. This'll be easy come morning.

  August closed the door and left it open a crack so he could get out. He wasn't sure if it'd lock itself automatically if he closed it all the way, and with next to no light, he didn't want to be trapped in there in the dark.

  The place smelled of rot, the torso having fouled the air. August wondered if there were more bodies in the dark. Or had they already been eaten or, worse, only partially eaten and were now walking around again?

  Slowly, he lowered himself next to the door, mindful to keep his feet away from the crack in the opening, and leaned sideways against it. If something did try to open it, he'd surely feel the door pressing against him and he'd awake.

  Lying there in the dark, rifle across his chest, hands folded on top of it, August listened for movement outside.

  Silence was his only friend.

  * * * *

  August's eyes shot open, his heart drumming a good one. Throat dry, he discovered he had slid flat against the floor. Body aching from being in such an uncomfortable position, he walked himself backward on his elbows and leaned up against the corner near where the safe door's hinges met the wall. He swallowed, the spit moistening the back of his throat a little. He thought about going out into the main area to check for water. He was too tired. His body and mind begged for sleep.

  He closed his eyes again and let his mind drift. He thought about praying but just before the words came, he was gone again, until later, when something stirred outside just beyond the door.