The Sword of Saint Michael

by D C P Fox

  “Is there any information you can give me about the zombies? Did you encounter any?”

  “We were recovering from a wild weekend—we all called in sick from work—when the news on TV broke to tell of a zombie apocalypse. Only a few minutes later, two zombies attacked us in my home. Two of us didn’t make it, but they slowed the zombies down enough for us to escape into my parents’ fallout shelter. The zombies tried to break the door down, but it was strong enough to hold. Thank the Lord for that or we all would have perished.”

  “You wouldn’t have,” Jocelyn said sheepishly. “I think you would have become infected.”

  “Sheesh. What a horrible life that must be. Thanks, Jocelyn, for killing us.”

  “Um . . . okay . . . wait, you said your parents were dead. How is it their shelter?”

  “I inherited the house from them.”

  “I see,” was all Jocelyn could say.

  “We decided to come here, to George’s house, after the power went out a few days ago and never came back on. It was a risk, but as I work in his store, I knew George had solar power.”

  George had mentioned to Jocelyn that he owned a general store nearby.

  “Oh, my God, what a disaster this is,” Kate continued. “After we left the shelter, we saw no zombies, but there was nobody else either! Dogs roamed around in packs, and there were a few stray cats, and a possum, but no people at all.” She paused. “Are they all infected?”

  “I don’t know. You mean you encountered no one at all?”

  “None until you.”

  Jocelyn searched the dead bodies until she found a live cell phone, which gave the time as 7:03 p.m., August 31. She tried dialing 911 on that phone but it rang with no one picking up.

  Jocelyn proceeded to remove the corpses from the house and placed them onto the patio next to George, whom she buried first. In order to have enough moonlight, but not wanting anyone to see her—she guessed being caught burying people wouldn’t go over well—she started as soon as it was dark, around eight o’clock. She buried them in the woods in shallow graves and covered them with leaves, and by the time she finished, the moon was disappearing behind the mountain she had called home for the month of August. Afterwards, she made the sign of the cross and went back inside. She thought about whether this whole thing was supernatural, mundane, or both combined.

  More pressing was to find a place to sleep with no blood. George’s house had three bedrooms, she remembered. She entered the previously unseen third bedroom. It was an office with a computer and desk, with bookshelves, but no bed.

  She reeked of body odor. She hadn’t showered since just after she killed George. So, after another long hot shower—George had a propane hot water heater—she made a nest of three clean blankets and a clean sheet on the floor. She turned out the lights and crawled in naked, refusing to wear her blood-soaked clothes.

  Day Seven

  When Jocelyn awoke, she felt a chill despite the layers of blankets on top of her. She searched George’s bedroom while using a blanket as a shawl, looking for something without blood stains to wear. The only thing that fit her were sweatpants, elastic on the waist and shins, as he was larger than her. She also identified a loose-fitting t-shirt and sweatshirt, which fit well enough. She looked ridiculous in the bathroom mirror, but that was the least of her worries.

  Jocelyn turned on the TV and flipped though the channels, but all of them were blue screens—either the stations were all out, or George’s satellite dish was broken. She found an old portable radio in George’s bedroom. Static filled the entire FM and AM spectrums, except on one frequency of the AM dial. She interpreted an occasional break in the static as some kind of station signal trying to come through.

  She left that station on as she drifted off to sleep again.

  When she awoke, it was still dark both inside and outside, and a mumbled voice came through. Unable to make out anything, she turned up the volume and moved the dial back and forth, trying to obtain a better signal. One time she made out a faint voice which soon became clear enough, amidst the static, to make out whole or partial words:

  Military . . . Colorado . . . ings . . . Peterson . . . Base . . . orld-Wi . . . portion has been . . . over . . . repeat . . . This is Military Radio in Colorado Springs broa . . . Kathryn Ber . . . st . . . president of the Uni . . . neath the White House . . . tion . . . ings under Military control . . .

  Static soon took over. Jocelyn inferred from the garbled broadcast that the military was broadcasting from Colorado Springs, maybe from this Peterson Base, and someone she’d never heard of was President. “Portion has been” and “ings under Military Control” implied the military shielded some or all of Colorado Springs from this draugar scourge. Or perhaps even a larger area than Colorado Springs?

  Saint Michael had said to focus on finding a pharmacy but hinted more tasks would come “down the road,” where she could prove valuable in the fight against the draugar. It occurred to her that if she reached Colorado Springs, she would have the safety to figure out her next step.

  More importantly, she realized that as someone immune to the disease, she could possibly be studied to find a cure. Her life would be that of a lab rat, but it would provide her some redemption for killing those innocent people. Despite knowing that she was mentally ill, that she had been off her meds through no fault of hers, and that the spirits of the ones she had killed had forgiven her, feelings of guilt washed over her again, and she lay awake, trying to go back to sleep, but unable to shake the thoughts, the memories, of slaughtering those people.

  She played out the recent events repeatedly in her mind. Her memories were a little fuzzy, and she remembered her therapist had told her her mind would block out some of the trauma her mental illness caused, but not all of it. But she remembered enough to torture herself with it throughout the night.

  When she was able to, she tried to focus on the hope Colorado Springs represented. But hope could be a dangerous thing.

  She had trouble sleeping the rest of the night, desperate to get another signal, but she couldn’t zero in on one to get any more information.

  At first light, she ate a hot breakfast of canned chili while covered in a warm blanket. She gathered everything bloody—clothes, blankets, sheets, et cetera—and threw them into the laundry room.

  She crammed a load into the washer and started it.

  What if she was still crazy? Clinically insane? Still in a psychotic state? She shuddered. Even though she recognized the “normal” people she’d killed weren’t zombies, there were still a lot of unusual things going on.

  Most people, despite identifying as religious, would conclude that her spirit guides were a delusion. Protestants didn’t believe in spirit guides. Catholics like herself believed in saints that would help you when prayed to them. But few ever thought the saints talked back to them, let alone appeared to them in meditation.

  How does one tell the difference between mystical experiences—like meditation with spirit guides, shamanistic journeying, shamanistic healing—and being insane? And what if none of this was real? What if her conversations with Saint Michael were a delusion? What if there was no zombie apocalypse at all? What if George was not any kind of zombie, but just a sick man, or worse yet, perfectly normal? How would she know the difference?

  And if she was insane, the best place to go would be to a hospital—not a pharmacy. Besides, hospitals had drugs just like pharmacies. In most cases, there was at least one pharmacy located close to a hospital. At least she figured there was.

  She could tell the difference, though, between being sane and insane. When she was insane, she wasn’t self-reflective as she was now. Whenever she had a full-on psychotic break, it never occurred to her that what she was experiencing wasn’t real. So, given her awareness level, she most likely wasn’t insane. But could she take that chance? What if she killed more innocent people? Saint Michael had said the zombie apocalypse was real, but most people would say he was a construct
of her mind.

  Just how insane was she? What, if anything, that had happened to her was real?

  Chapter Fifteen

  Day Zero

  Marty ran away from Amanda while loading one shell in the chamber, and as he turned around, he saw she was almost upon him. He pumped and shot her in the skull cavity from only five feet away.

  His wife was about thirty feet behind. He loaded one more shell and fired at her once she got close, dropping her.

  Marty backed away from the scene. The slickness of tears irritated his cheeks, and he absentmindedly brushed them.

  He took a deep breath in and out and stared at his wife and daughter, their lifeless bodies on his front lawn, half their heads sprayed all over the grass.

  He watched in fascination and horror as unblemished skin started to grow and cover what remained of their heads. But their heads weren’t growing, just the skin. More than half their brains were gone for good. Sores were breaking out.

  They were going to re-animate soon. From what he remembered of the other zombies, it would be well before the skin growth was complete.

  He continued to watch the skin grow. The passage of time didn’t register, but at some point, he remembered that his gun was unloaded.

  Keeping his eyes on the grotesque things that used to be his wife and daughter, more out of grief than fear, he fumbled in his pockets for his ammo, grabbed one shell and filled the chamber with it.

  He registered that no bones or hair were growing—just skin.

  Amanda’s skin growth was further along than Karen’s. She would re-animate first.

  He would need at least more than one bullet. He started to load the gun with more ammo as the fog of grief gave way to his survival instinct. Maybe a pathogen was at work, maybe there could be a cure, but even if there was, how could someone live with less than half a brain?

  His daughter began to rise. He stood up, lifted his gun, and pointed it at her. The skin had not fully grown back, and there was still a gaping hole in her head. Where it had grown back, it had just covered that portion of the cavity. The brains were not growing back.

  It was decision time. Life as a zombie, life with less than half a brain.

  He fired.

  None of Marty’s law enforcement training had prepared him for this.

  After blowing his family’s brains to smithereens, he finally looked around for more zombies. There were none. But it horrified him to see front doors open throughout his neighborhood. Every single one. Some were off one hinge, and some were detached and on the ground.

  What if the zombies purposely, methodically, canvassed the entire neighborhood? What kind of diabolical scheme was this?

  Could there be any survivors?

  Jamie.

  Jaime was all he had left. He had to get to him before he, too, turned into a zombie.

  He walled off his grief, his fear, his rising sense of horror—compartmentalized it, somehow.

  But his heart pulsed like a shaman’s drum beat, and he shook uncontrollably, in the pangs of full-blown panic.

  He could come back to bury the bodies. He would come back to bury the bodies. But first, he would have to find Jamie. Rescue him. Before it was too late.

  He found himself in his patrol car backing out of the driveway, when it occurred that he would need more ammunition. As much as he could carry.

  Going back inside his house, he found his feet barely felt the ground as he ran toward his open front door. He reached his gun cabinet and cleaned it out of shells, stuffing various pockets in his uniform.

  Once back in his patrol car, shock gave way to lucidity. He started the engine, squealing his tires as he backed out of the driveway. He gunned it down the slope of the road and turned onto the highway. Heading south in his police car, Marty weaved in and out of the Northbound stalled traffic, sometimes resorting to the shoulder, sometimes resorting to the median strip. He continued to encounter zombies traveling north and had to switch off the collision detector and ram down many of them. The least of his concerns was the bumper of the patrol car.

  He thought the entire population of Beaver Park, all five thousand, were heading north, but there weren’t many stalled cars in that direction—he guessed some had “escaped” north. He prayed for them, not that it would do any good.

  But once he reached the police roadblock, he realized that the roadblock only sealed many drivers’ doom. Past the barricade, the road was full of traffic now in both directions, so navigating his way into town was a tough slog, especially now that there were sign, lamp, and traffic poles in various places. Usually, he tilted his car with the one side on the sidewalk and the other in the bike lane. Sometimes he nudged cars out of the way, often moving one stalled car, put into neutral, into another. Other times, he clipped or side-swiped cars, unconcerned about the cosmetics of the patrol car’s body.

  He brushed an endless number of trees.

  Jamie was all he had left now. Fifteen wonderful years with Karen. Seven exciting years with Amanda. And then in one day, hell in one afternoon, in less than two hours, his life was turned upside down. Ruined. Over.

  Not entirely over.

  Jamie.

  He gave up on understanding God long ago, refusing to believe that God allowed suffering to happen when He could prevent it. Oh, there was all that new age crap about Free Will and “lessons learned” and all that bullshit. But this was a classic example. How can you justify a God that allowed a zombie apocalypse to happen? The simple answer is you can’t, and the more you reach for one, the more obvious it is that you’re reaching.

  For the longest time, until a few hours ago, Marty figured that, deep down, everyone believed God had only limited powers, that He couldn’t fix everything. But as far as Christianity goes, that renders Him useless, because the whole point is to give yourself up completely to God, because God has a plan and will take care of anything.

  Well, if this was God’s plan, He could take it and shove it up His tight little sphincter where it belonged.

  Marty was almost to Beaver Park when he sped by three small groups of zombies on his way to the turnoff, past the police station toward Gerald’s house. Luckily, the intersections weren’t completely jammed and navigable. He turned up Airport Road. There was no median strip, but there was a wide sidewalk. Still, to avoid light poles, he had to get creative, at one point having his right side wheels on the sidewalk, with his left side up on a short retaining wall. It wasn’t long before he turned into Gerald’s small development.

  With his watch partially broken, Alexander was forced to use his phone to dial his wife and son. His daughter didn’t have a phone. On every attempt, he got a fast busy signal.

  He texted his wife, “Im ok r u?”

  The text marked “delivered,” and he waited for a response.

  He texted the same thing to each of his parents, awaiting a response to both.

  After a few minutes without a reply, he sent another text, this time to all as a group, but he didn’t get a response to that one either.

  Alexander felt an escalating sense of horror the more time passed without an answer from his family. The apocalypse had swept the world. That’s what they said on TV. Emily had received comfort from others at the thought that her family was dead, but who would help him come to terms with the fact that his family may be dead, or worse, zombies?

  Everyone would have the same problem. Maybe they could help each other get through this, though he had trouble opening up to his wife, much less total strangers.

  By now everyone had their phones out and were reporting calling and texting but receiving no response.

  He looked at the battery charge on his phone: 59%. He didn’t have his charger with him, and he doubted he could find one in the supermarket.

  Some social media sites were active, and others were down. He reported himself “safe” on all of the ones that allowed him to, and he checked if anyone he knew also reported as “safe.” No one on the active sites reported �
��safe,” except for him. He got zero responses to his “safe” posts.

  Everyone else described similar experiences. No one was able to get in touch with anyone using their cell phones.

  Vin came back without a radio. It was unlikely that a supermarket would carry radios in stock, but it was worth a search. Vin eyed Jize on his cell phone, and Alexander explained about the phone situation. Vin went through his own efforts, with no more luck than the rest.

  The last person to give up was Jize. When he shut off his phone and put it in his pocket, he stood dumbfounded, shaking his head. Everyone looked at each other, and a sense of dread hung in the air.

  Jamie, Gerald, his wife Brittany, and their son Jake ran down the street. Marty was there just in time to save them!

  “Jamie,” Marty called as he slowed down his car, rolled down his window, and pulled up close to them.

  Blood matted down their hair. Sores covered their faces.

  Oh, no.

  Marty’s heart sank. He was too late.

  Gerald immediately rushed up to him. The others, including Jamie, held back.

  Jamie didn’t say a word. Maybe he hadn’t heard him. Maybe Jamie couldn’t hear him. Maybe Jamie didn’t care.

  Gerald thrust his arms in through Marty’s window. Marty stepped on the gas pedal, accelerating away, tires squealing, and, after a second or two, made a tight turn and came back around, and rammed Gerald, knocking him to the ground. Marty turned the wheel and sped up, ramming into Brittany and Jake.

  He executed another U-turn and slammed on his brakes, ABS working smoothly, stopping next to Jamie, his open window less than three feet from his son.

  Maybe he could save his son after all. His head was intact. What if the disease could be reversed?

  If it was a disease and not something supernatural. But the supernatural might be reversible as well.