The October Light of August

by Robert John Jenson

  Oh, some of them might try to convince you they were your best buddy at first – it all depended on your appearance. If you looked pretty healthy and clean, they assumed you had a nice stash in a safe place. If you were stupid enough to pal up with them and make the mistake of leading them to your stash, then it wasn't long before you got a slit throat or a bullet in the back of the head. If you looked ratty and malnourished, they might make it a sport of rooting you out and hunting you down. The warrior type was vicious, mean, and cruel, and he took joy in righting the perceived wrongs of the past. Killing the living was more fun than taking out the miserable, shuffling bodies that were the dead.

  The guy was being sensible. The rear exit door had been removed some time ago – probably taken to be used as armor for one of those rolling fortresses that were popular early on. He was letting his eyes adjust to the interior of the building, occasionally doing a quick check behind him. But the empty lot gave him a clear field of view for a good fifty feet behind him and he could probably see right down the hallway - from the back doorway to the busted-out windows and into the front parking lot.

  The crisp fall morning was silent and calm, and the crows were pretty quiet too. I could see one on the fence, eying the guy across the lot. Soon, another flapped in and sat alongside it and cawed softly once, but the guy didn't bother to look – he just moved one foot into the doorway, and across the lot I heard him whistle sharply through his teeth.

  Oh, for fuck's sake - do your sweep and get the hell out, I thought. I was frustrated and feeling territorial.

  The office building had been ransacked ages ago, and it wouldn't take long for the warrior to figure that out. The dead didn't wander into it much anymore – it was finally off their radar, so to speak. I had one regular that I didn’t mind at all, and there were some that made repeated rounds of the area. I had no idea how far they would range – perhaps, like me, they liked the area because it was familiar. The building was primarily an obstacle to them now. The dead seemed disinclined to climb stairs (they would of course if they thought they would take them up to a meal), but couldn't resist a shut door. They still had the instinct to turn handles and knobs. An open doorway seemed much less enticing to the dead than a shut door. Perhaps for many of them the last days of their lives had been holed up behind shut doors - their last desperate thoughts of keeping something between themselves and the hungry monsters. And perhaps those last thoughts were trapped in what was left of the shattered mind that propelled them. Or maybe they just weren't as dumb as everyone thought.

  What I was sure of was that they didn't have any super-human abilities. They didn't see any better in the dark, or day, than the living – maybe worse. The same with their hearing. And I can’t believe they could smell much beyond their own stinking bodies. So how did they know you were living flesh - hot blood coursing through your veins? You couldn't fool them by trying to act like one – I’d seen that end in disaster for a lot of people in the early days of the pandemic. I believe it’s partly body heat that clues them in. Countless times I’ve seen lone dead spotting each other and moving in, only to break off disinterested once they got within several feet of each other. Maybe they were so cold any living thing radiated heat like a furnace to them? Perhaps it was just a combination of things that shouted “alive” and the dead could read it. Whatever it was, it was best to just not get noticed.

  The crows on the fence began to shift their feet anxiously, and then one took off and shot over the office building. Soon, it gave out two quick calls, and the remaining crow looked over to me with a speculative turn of its head.

  Aw, crap, I thought. Sighing, I prayed that Pink wasn't wandering close. I think the crows knew that I left her alone, but the two-faced bastards would have no problem selling her out to this jackass.

  The warrior still had not paid any attention to the cries of the crow, and moved another foot into the building. Soon more crows began to circle over the building, and around the south corner the dead man shambled into view.

  And it had been such a quiet morning. Shit. I fought the urge to bang my head against the dumpster.

  The warrior hadn't survived this long by being stupid, or ignorant of his surroundings. Whether he finally registered the cawing of the crows as something different in his environment, or it was just intuition, I would never know. But the guy stepped back into the daylight, his boots crunching in the dusty asphalt as he pivoted towards the dead man. The warrior had plenty of time to decide how to defend himself, and I imagined him running through his options.

  The dead man had lost his pants some time ago. Or never had them – at any rate, he staggered forward in stained boxers and dress shirt and tie, sock-covered feet pigeon-toeing across the ground. His emaciated face was peculiarly intact for being one of the dead. Gore stained to be sure, but whole. There were still some white collar dead around, and I was pretty sure I had seen this one before. I didn’t recognize it by his face alone – my preferred method of approaching them was from behind, of course – but I thought this was the one I had mentally cataloged as “Shitty-Shorts” several weeks ago.

  The warrior gave a broad grin and cocked his head as the dead man finally noticed him. While they were supposed to be devoid of higher thought and emotion, sometimes a look of shock or even elation could flash across the features of the dead when they stumbled onto a meal. This one's eyes widened and his mouth began to work, jerking the stiffness in his jaw loose as flakes of dried blood and clumps of flesh dropped free. He tightened his arc around the building towards the living flesh that was irresistible. Was it a vital need for the dead? I don't know if anyone has ever figured that out.

  “Well aren't you an eager one?” the man laughed, and pointed the pistol towards the dead man.

  I wondered how often the guy had used that line before – they all seemed so damned eager. The warrior leveled his gun, aiming at the dead man's forehead and waited for the sure shot. When it got to within ten feet of him, I could see the index finger flinch but I couldn't hear the dry click as the gun refused to fire. I was as astounded as the warrior was – I imagined the man religiously caring for his firearms. Surely he loved them more than life itself?

  The warrior’s squint transformed into a stupid grin - as if there was a shared joke between himself and the dead guy. He then began shifting to his right and back-pedaling into the parking lot towards the dumpster - and me. Anger flared up in me, white hot and irrational. I was tired of hiding. I was tired of the dead. And more than anything, I was sick and God damned tired of the warrior wannabes.

  I stood and moved from behind the dumpster, dropped a ball bearing into the pocket of the Wrist-Rocket, pulled the tubing taught, sighted along my thumb and let go as if the ball was suddenly on fire. As soon as it was gone, I loaded another in the pocket. I had aimed for the head of the warrior. But the man had been twisting to grab at another weapon at his left hip, and the ball hit the side of his neck.

  Shit.

  Still, the impact had made him stumble forward and into the arms of the dead man.

  Shit!

  The dead man, never used to having its prey come towards him, didn't register the fact that he had his meal already and was still driving forward towards me with the man in his grasp. I darted to the left, and the two slammed into the dumpster. The warrior began to scramble madly, and the dead man finally realized he had something to bite and sank his teeth into the warrior's hand. The guy could only cough and gag and thrash until a sizable chunk was ripped out from the heel of his thumb.

  I fired another ball bearing, but my hands were shaking terribly and the ball only nailed the guy in the small of his back right next to the rifle's stock. The warrior fell to his knees, between the legs of the dead man. I grabbed the hammer dangling from my back-pack, and before the dead guy could register what was happening I stepped in and slammed him between the eyes with it.

  And then ran.

  * * *

  The crows hadn't settled down ye
t, so I was sure something was still moving in the parking lot. I had dashed between the gap in the fence and into the residential area, then dove quickly behind a line of shrubs. The crows were circling and calling, yet they hadn't descended once. I waited and listened, but all I could hear were the birds. I could see nothing between the slats of the fence. I waited about ten minutes, my heart slowing and tremors fading, then sighed and crawled to the gap and peeked around.

  The dead man was down by the dumpster – twitching, but down. I could not see the warrior, and that bothered me a lot. I didn't think the guy had a wound that was fatal – yet. He was going to die, to be sure. If not from blood loss (or choking on it!), then he was infected and the fever would take him in a short time – days, or within a day – there never seemed to be a fixed time frame for it. So he was dangerous until the fever made him incapacitated. I wasn't sure the guy even knew he'd been attacked from both sides. It had all happened so quickly.

  A hollow boom rumbled from the dumpster, and I saw that the warrior was now on his feet, on the far side of the metal container. I could see a raised hand – the uninjured one – shaking, either in pain or rage. Then the man stepped into view, pushing off the dumpster and again creating another miniature sound of thunder. His injured hand jammed against his neck, the man started gagging and hacking again. As he took another step towards the office building, he arched his back and his good hand shot around and down to rub futilely at the pain there.

  I wish I could say I'm sorry dude. But you came to my little patch of paradise and were looking to stir things up.

  The man continued to jerk across the parking lot. He seemed to be trying to walk on his tip-toes, as if he could somehow defy gravity and walk on air. I almost expected to see him begin to float up above the pavement, his tattooed calf muscle flexing to find leverage in the chill autumn air. Perhaps he thought if he could just get airborne the pain would ease in his back. And neck. And hand.

  You need to put him down, I thought.

  But I was afraid to get closer – the guy was still heavily armed. I imagined the self-recriminations running through his head right now, and how he would dearly love to take his misfortune out on someone.

  Is he lucid enough to begin to wonder what the hell happened?

  I began to scoot back from the gap in the fence, and a crow landed close enough to give me a reproachful squawk. I looked up at it and couldn't help but grin. “What do you want from me?” I whispered to the bird. It eyed me dispassionately, and cawed again, louder – scolding me for wasting time.

  I could hear the oddly dainty tapping of the warrior's footsteps cease, replaced by the sound of his boots pivoting and crunching in a much faster tempo. Towards the fence.

  Aw, shit...

  The guy couldn't be much of a shot at this point. But he could get lucky. I jumped up and spared a glance over the fence and immediately locked eyes with him. I felt as if all my muscles were fused solid. It was the first time I had frozen in fear in several months, and I was pretty startled by it. The guy looked just as surprised as me, and we gaped at each other for far too long.

  The warrior snapped out of it first, gurgled inarticulately and began to grope for the assault rifle across his back. Yet something kept him from swinging it around - two thin, dead arms had wrapped themselves around him from behind. Delicate, blood-stained hands began to grasp and claw their way across and up his chest as a blond head popped into view over his shoulder. It didn't take long for the dead woman to sink her teeth into the warrior's neck. The man's eyes were wide and full of shock and fear.

  The dead woman began to shake her head violently, sawing her teeth into his flesh and was soon rewarded with a gush of arterial spray. The warrior made keening, mewling noises deep in his throat, and thrashed in circles – trying to both dislodge his attacker and reach for any weapon he could find. Blood jetted and corkscrewed around them, and soon he lost his balance and they crashed to the pavement, pinning his good hand under himself. He gave a mighty shove with the pinned arm and was able to flop onto his back, the dead woman trapped under him.

  But now he didn't seem to know what to do. He stretched his arms up like he was reaching out to someone, a child begging to be picked up. His right leg rose, shook, dropped, the heel of his boot thumping on the pavement. And again, raising and thumping down. His arms sank slowly, shaking gently in sympathy with the gnawing motions of the dead woman. His leg rose and wavered, bent at the knee, then stretched out again.

  Still trying to walk on air, I thought.

  The crow on the fence cawed again, and I automatically looked in all directions. But we were alone for now, and I shot the bird an exasperated look. It's all about you, isn't it?

  The dead woman was still trapped under the warrior, feasting happily.

  Well, it's not as if she'll suffocate.

  The warrior had quit kicking out with his leg and only lay staring up into the bright sky of the morning. I stepped into the parking lot, walked quickly up to the dead man that was still twitching by the dumpster and gave his head a few more solid whacks with the hammer until the movement stopped (and so it ends at last for Shitty-Shorts). I then dragged the corpse, hauling it at least fifty feet away from the feeding dead woman, and shoved it snugly up against the fence. The crow had hopped-flew along the barrier with me and I muttered, “There you go, your majesty.”

  Not for the first time did I wonder why animals never caught the fever. Not even one, that I - or anyone else - knew of. Something to be thankful for... I turned away and after carefully surveying the area, walked back towards the dumpster, while the rest of the crows began to circle in to feast behind me. I looked to see if I could spot any of the ball-bearings, but I was feeling naked now. Later. I was tired, and the morning was getting late. Let the dead have the day.

  I toyed with the idea of trying to grab what I could off the warrior, but decided it was too risky to get that close to the gnashing teeth – even if she was pinned under her meal. Which wouldn't be for long - already she had wormed herself around and was able to wrap her left leg across the pelvis of the warrior. She wore gray fleece sweatpants. And even though I couldn’t see it, I knew that across her bottom, stitched in cursive, was one word: Pink.

  I suppose I should back up a bit. I thought that writing this down would just be my version of the final days of my life. Not that I think anyone gives two farts about that, or me in general. I need something to pass the time, now that I don’t find it all that desperate anymore. Being an avid reader, I think, makes you a frustrated writer. So what the hell - I can give it a shot. Is this just an exercise to justify the decisions I’ve made since 'shit got real'? I don’t see me doing anything a whole lot different given the options I had. I didn’t kill anyone. Or rape anyone. Or destroy anything with random wantonness. All I did was survive for a year and a half the only way I could - by staying the hell away from the rest of y’all.

  So I'll back up, at least to try and give some perspective on all of this. It seems I have more time than I thought to tell a longer story. Or at least more willpower than I thought I had. The tale grows in the telling, as they say.

  * * *

  I had first seen her at the gym. At 4:30 every morning, I would go work out. It was something I had decided that I needed to do, and very nearly abandoned it. Sure, I was unhealthy and overweight. I needed to exercise, and my mother convinced me if I just got into shape, I might feel better about myself and then find the courage to socialize. And maybe go on dates. Left unsaid was the possibility of marriage and grand kids. Baby steps, after all.

  So I joined a gym near the mall – one that was open 24 hours. But I didn't want to work out when a lot of people were around and decided that the earlier, the better. I should be able to get out well before the 6:00 crowd came in. For two months I grimly rolled out of bed at 4:15 and routinely drove the short distance to jog on a treadmill for 30 minutes.

  I met her on the third day of this routine as I gasped and wheezed aw
ay, trotting towards hell. Feeling foolish, I decided to give it up for the morning after 20 minutes. Stepping away from the treadmill I felt dizzy and I bent over, chest heaving and sweat dripping off my nose to plop on the gray carpet.

  “You are an utter moron,” I gasped to myself. The carpet seemed to grow several shades darker at the corners of my vision, and a queasy feeling started to build in my stomach. I sat down hard on the floor, and felt a warm hand on the clammy skin of my arm.

  “Are you okay?”

  I jerked at the touch, and flushed in embarrassment - which may have saved me from passing out. I nodded my head, and looked up to see a blur of tan skin, blond hair and blue, concerned-looking eyes.

  “Maybe you should lie down for a bit?” she asked me. “Get some water in you?”

  “I think...,” was all I could manage.

  The young woman stood abruptly and called out, “Hey Jordan? Jordan! I think this guy needs to hydrate!”

  Not getting a response, she squatted again and looked me in the eyes.

  “Just stay here, 'kay? I'll get you something to drink.”

  She stood again and turned, and I noticed her fleece-covered bottom displaying the word 'Pink.'

  Jordan was the popped-collar douche at the check-in desk, who was supposed to be paying attention to the members, but at 5:00 in the morning he could get away with playing with his PSP or flirting with any women who would show up that early. While annoyed to be bothered by the likes of an overweight man in his late twenties passing out from heat-stroke, he didn't mind at all dealing with the girl in the sweatpants with the word 'Pink' stitched across her ass. So he acted concerned with me, while admonishing that I should take things easy in the beginning. You can't climb Everest in a day after all, and other pearls of wisdom.