Holiday of the Dead

by David Dunwoody; Wayne Simmons; Remy Porter; Thomas Emson; Rod Glenn; Shaun Jeffrey; John Russo; Tony Burgess; A P Fuchs; Bowie V Ibarra

  Doyle was vaguely aware that the rain of bodies was slowing, either they had gotten most of the boys out or the rest were dead. He saw Atkins appear on the ledge above and saw him drop and then Doyle was swept away by the crush of undead bodies.

  He swung the runner from side to side, hitting dead flesh with each strike but he only succeeded in driving them back a little, and even that effect was reducing as more bodies forced them forward from behind. Before he realised it they had closed around him entirely and Doyle decided to make one more push and bet everything on the vague hope that he could power his way through and use his speed to get past them.

  He took a deep breath, lifted the runner in front of him and launched himself with a scream at the creature in front of him. His speed and momentum carried him past the first creature, pushing it back against the next one and caused a domino effect. He felt his heart lurch as he saw a clearing just past the last few creatures and he kept his legs pumping against the wall of cold flesh. His arms ached from holding the runner out in front but it served to keep them at arm’s length and kept those gaping maws away from his skin.

  For just a second he thought he would actually make it but just as he cleared the way through he tripped over one of the creatures that was struggling to rise. He felt his leg buckle and then collapse as he stood on the creature, knocking him off balance.

  He fell with a thump and the air gushed from his lungs leaving him gasping and wheezing on the ground. He tried to move but he just couldn’t. He couldn’t even look up to see them come for him. He felt a hand snatch at his shoulder and he tried to move away from it but his strength was gone. He closed his eyes.

  He felt himself lifted off the ground and thrown back down some feet away. He opened his eyes in shock and saw Atkins standing over him.

  “Get up, man,” he wheezed as he tried to regain his breath. “We’re the last. Come on.”

  Doyle would have laughed if he had had the energy. Instead he raised his hand and allowed Atkins to help him to his feet.

  “To think,” Doyle panted as they ran away from the creatures, “up till now I thought you were a useless, smug bastard.”

  “The feeling was mutual, I can assure you,” Atkins replied with a grin.

  They caught up with the group an hour later. They had found a deserted office block some twenty minutes walk away. The light was fading from the sky rapidly and the absence of street lighting threw the area into darkness much earlier than usual. They would have to hole up in the building and see what tomorrow would bring. They found limited food supplies in a canteen; not much but enough for the night.

  Teachers and pupils alike sat stunned in the growing darkness. No-one asked questions, they were too afraid that they might not like the answers. They had lost forty two boys and had another twenty injured. Some of the injured had bites that were already looking infected. No one said anything but most had seen and read enough to suspect what might happen to those. Atkins had quietly organised a guard detail to watch the injured for any signs that they might become dangerous to the rest of the group. Despite this they had been very lucky that the numbers had been so small. Four teachers had died; at least they weren’t in the building with them so it was assumed that they were dead.

  Boys cried as quietly as they could for parents, family or friends. The feeling of despair was almost palpable. Doyle struggled with his own worries and growing fears. He hadn’t been living with Jill Moroney for long but his heart ached for her touch and her quirky smile. Was she still alive? He hoped so. He would search for her but he had a responsibility to these boys for now. He gently pushed his thoughts aside. He had to remain positive. If he survived, then Jill could have as well. For all they knew the army had already regained control of the streets, though he doubted it. He knew that if they gave into despair then they were really done for. He desperately searched for something to say to lift everyone’s spirits. Anything to give them hope, but nothing came.

  “Hey guys,” he heard one of the boys suddenly shout. “School’s out for summer.”

  Doyle looked up but couldn’t make out who had spoken. It sounded like Henshaw but he couldn’t be certain. It didn’t really matter. The faint rustle of laughter that swept over the group was like a pressure valve opening and he looked around to see boys wiping away tears. Already the riff from the Alice Cooper song spread through the group with some taking up the sounds of guitar while others played drums on their legs and the vocals began, quietly at first but then stronger until everyone joined in. He looked over at Atkins and Theresa and smiled.

  It didn’t change anything, they would still wake up tomorrow and have to deal with the nightmare that awaited them but for now it was enough to keep them sane.

  THE END

  GUISES

  By

  S. Michael Nash

  … One times two is two.

  Two times two is four.

  Two times four is eight.

  Two times eight is sixteen.

  Two times six …

  A firm knock on the front door interrupted Mira's mental gymnastics. She closed her eyes, blocking the stucco ceiling from her sight. She was tired, so tired. Given everything, she just wanted to lie on the hardwood floor and let it's coolness soak into her skin. Maybe if I just ignore it …

  A second knock assailed her ears. She sensed the determination in it this time. Sighing in annoyance, she pulled herself off the floor by holding the arm of the couch.

  "Just a minute!" she called.

  Even the end of the world doesn't stop the automated calls or Jesus freaks from knocking on the door. Dodging into the bathroom, she dropped the jeans and t-shirt that were covered with four days of dirt and gore. She ran water in the sink until it was warm, then began scrubbing her face and body.

  The knocking became more insistent.

  "I said in a minute! I'm not fit for visitors!"

  I haven't donned the uniform of the happy, young mother yet. She was always wearing a uniform. For years she wore the short skirt and fashionable boots of the 'perky grad student.' Then the layered outfits of the 'blushing newlywed.' And finally, she had morphed into the loose dresses of the 'new mother.' Even when naked she wasn't really naked, she was then the flirtatious lover. When completely alone, she would just stand, staring blankly. Unsure of whom she was when nobody was around to define her.

  Quickly, she began dragging the brush through her long, raven hair.

  The knock at the door was changing just as she was. It was becoming less of a 'knock' and more of a concerned 'pounding.'

  "Ma'am! I'm going to have to insist you come to the door!"

  She had pulled on her pink and white summer dress and was staring into the mirror, trying to raise some colour by pinching her cheeks. It wasn't working. She was simply not going to be a beauty today. Her eyes were set in deep, pained sockets and her skin was sallow white.

  Well, it had been a rough couple of days. They were going to have to take what they got and be thankful for it. Chuckling at her own folly, she walked to the door and pulled it open, leaning casually against the jamb.

  "Can I help you?"

  One week ago the sight of her visitors would have panicked her. Today, they were refreshingly armed and dangerous. That was a good thing. The walking dead didn't use tools or weapons.

  She smiled her obligatory smile, revealing those peroxide-whitened teeth that so offset the black of her hair. Her gentlemen callers could have been termed the police, she guessed. Not that there was any formal civic organization anymore. There were two of them, and as always she thumbed through the mental Rolodex of character types to file and categorize them. Must know your audience before you can cater to them. Mustn't step out of character, not even for a second.

  The closest of the two – the knocker – was the easiest. An older man, he wore a trim and tailored uniform, fully matching, and had a cool, competent manner. Cinched around his slightly enlarging belly was a thick belt and holster containing a heavy
-looking revolver. The man’s sweat-filmed hand never drifted far from it. She pegged him as a real cop, probably the only one on this tiny island. He had likely worn that uniform for years before Armageddon, and really didn't think much about it at this point. He had a carefully trimmed moustache and the wide, expressive eyes that bespoke of years of 'being a friend to the community.' She would’ve been happier if he had taken that hand away from the gun, but other than that she instinctively trusted and liked him.

  "Good afternoon Ma'am. Do you have a few minutes?" The voice was crisp and clipped. He had questioned strangers like this a million times.

  Do I have a few minutes? Buddy, I have the rest of freaking time!

  The second man fit even more firmly into one of her predefined social pigeonholes. He was just out of high school, not educated and not likely destined for any. He probably worked out furiously and ineffectively, trying to keep the pounds somewhere south of ‘obese.’ With little self-control, dieting was out of the question. If she went to his gym and opened his locker, she knew there would be a nude picture pinned up on the inner door. Not that he was really attracted to this girl, but he wanted the other guys to know he was the type of man who likes a naked woman. Probably listened to the twangiest country music he could find. Or maybe he's a rocker, his CD collection divided between new heavy metal and old Lynyrd Skynyrd. The shotgun he still held jammed against his shoulder was both a weapon and part of his personal disguise. The gun made him a man, even though he clutched it the way a child holds a security blanket.

  "I do. What can I do for you gentlemen?" Again, the disarming white teeth came out.

  The knocker smiled back, just for a moment before catching himself. He then carried on in his carefully crafted, easygoing formality.

  "Well, first of all, we were wondering who you are? Do you know this is private property?"

  "Yes. It's mine. Or rather, it was my husband's parents. So now … I mean there is no will or anything. But I have a right to be here, I think. I'm Mira Effayant."

  The knocker looked at her extended hand carefully; trying to judge its pliability and warmth. Finally, he smeared his palm down his pant leg to rid it of most of the damp and deftly took her hand.

  "Sheriff … Well, just Roger Wilkins, now. Pleased to meet you Mrs. Effayant. You understand, of course, that we want to check on anybody who shows up suddenly on this island. Given …"

  "Yeah,” she agreed. "Understood."

  "So, if I might ask. How did you get here? I've been watching what’s happening from the church bell tower with a telescope. Tough to tell from this distance but, I was fairly sure that there’d be nobody coming from the mainland anymore. Are there any more survivors?"

  She inhaled deeply, and then let it out rather sharply. "Maybe. But not with me. I arrived alone."

  He nodded, giving her time to elaborate. Instead she turned to more immediate matters.

  "Having survived this long, I'd really appreciate not being blown to bloody ribbons by your friend." Her eyes glanced over his shoulder to the left.

  He turned and snapped his fingers at the heavy kid, who shifted the muzzle of the gun a little, but didn't lower it.

  "I dunno. She don't look too good to me."

  Briefly, Mira's eyebrows knitted. I don't look good! The fourth horseman just passed the Norman Rockwell painting of my life through its digestive tract, and you don't think I look good! At least I once looked good, fat boy.

  "She's fine, you damn dolt! She can talk. She hasn't attacked us. Put it up."

  The kid gritted his teeth, clearly not happy about being dressed down in front of Mira, and he slid into an even more specific notch in Mira's mental Rolodex. The category she called 'the little big man.' A large part of his self-esteem comes from his perceived position in the male hierarchy. She should have guessed from the outfit. Clearly, he felt he had been 'deputized' by Roger, but he had to come up with his own uniform. He had a white t-shirt, with a camouflage coat over it. There was a badge affixed to the left breast and he had a black hunter-style hat with a second badge of some sort attached. Clearly, he couldn't find anything for below the waist, so he had just grabbed something that was at least part of a uniform, even if not the right one. Brown shorts. She wondered if he had worked for UPS himself or if he had stolen them from someone who no longer cared so much about his modesty. He was the kind of kid who always took boxing or karate, but never got good at them. He surely had a collection of knives and pointy, Chinese looking things. He dropped the stock of the gun from his shoulder in a swinging, underhand arc and caught it with his right hand. Clearly a well-practiced manoeuvre. He probably practiced it in front of a mirror the way she practiced her disarming smile.

  Wilkins looked sour as he turned back.

  "I'm sorry. But I'm sure you understand we've had a difficult couple of days ourselves. There was a small cemetery here on the island. We had some work to do to secure the island for the living."

  "Of course." Mira replied, acutely aware of how desperately they were applying layers to the thin veneer of civilization that coated the current reality. Of course I understand being threatened. If fat boy had shot me, my last words would be forgiving and sympathetic. Because my own uniform doesn't come off. Not until I'm cold and … Dead?

  "I'd invite you in but I have nothing to offer. And I wasn't exactly clean when I arrived. I'd like time to get in order before I have guests."

  "We'll be fine right here, ma'am. But if we could steal some of your time, it would be appreciated. We've talked to nobody from the mainland since this started. The Internet went down almost immediately, and the news was very confused and uninformative before it went off the air. You’ll know things we won't, and if nothing else would offer a fresh perspective on what we already know."

  She was not really in the mood for a talk, but it was a nice June day. Blue skies, dotted with white clouds. The sound of sparrows filled the air, along with one cardinal, all puffed up in his scarlet finery, chirping out his dominance over this area of the island. The concrete smile nearly cracked with tears as she listened.

  The birds are singing.

  The dead walk the Earth and the birds are singing.

  But she gestured to the two chairs perched about the small drink table on the porch. Wilkins made a 'ladies first' gesture in return. She sat, sweeping her skirt beneath her primly as she landed. Without even offering to the boy, Roger sat in the other chair, sighed deeply, as if dreading what was coming next, and spoke:

  "Is it safe to assume your husband will not be joining us?"

  Her eyes slammed shut suddenly. Blunt. Very blunt. But then, how could he have phrased it? Her cold breath hitched as disjointed flashes of her journey here projected against her lids.

  The long, weeping drive with that horrible smear of Jeff's blood on the part of the windshield the wipers won't swipe. The sick baby that wouldn't stop crying. Jeff pounding on the moving figures, holding them at bay as the tank filled. And the bites. Oh, Jesus the horrible bites on his arms as he smashed their bones with the baseball bat. But they didn't stop. You could shatter them down to skin bags of broken bones and they just … Won't … Stop.

  "Mansfield," she whispered, staring at the wood planking of the porch. Then, clearing her throat, she spoke more clearly. "We came from Columbus. A huge city, full of … We had to go. It was death to stay there. We made it to the car …"

  She and Jeff and ran from the house. She had the baby and he had that old wooden slugger Jeff’s father had given him a few years back. A week ago that bat had been worth more than a thousand dollars. It was signed by Johnny Bench, Tony Perez and Pete Rose (whoever they were). Now it was worth nothing in dollars, but if it could just get them to the car it would be worth all her remaining possessions and a thousand times more. Their little suburban neighbourhood had become a horror show. Friends and neighbours, all came. It was like they knew. They knew there was fresh meat in the house. The car was parked on the street. Thirty feet of shambling feet
and blunt teeth away from the front door. They ran for it, Jeff smashing the walkers out of their path with the bat. She running behind, head low, the baby wrapped like it was the dead of winter, though it was unusually hot, for June. They made it to the car, and they left their little three-bedroom single family home with city taxes but a good, suburban school district behind.

  "Jeff was an airline pilot.” She shook her head, realizing she was speaking in a disjointed manner. “Jeff is my husband. Was my husband. We g-g-got in our car and started driving north. His folks were from Shaker Heights and they owned this vacation home here.” She looked up at Roger, as if seeking approval. “We thought it might be safe here. You know, sixteen miles off the shore …”

  "Yes,” Wilkins soothed. "It was a good plan. Please continue."

  "But we didn't have … I mean who thinks of these things? Keeping your gas tank full in case the dead come back? That would be crazy. It still sounds crazy." Her voice started to hitch.

  "So you ran out of gas?"

  "No. We saw immediately that we were low. But to stop and take, how many minutes outside the safety of the locked car? To fill the tank? We'd have been dead in seconds in the city. So we drove, figuring we would find something outside of town. Where the population was lower. And the number of-f-f-f …"

  Calm and easy, Wilkin put a hand on hers.

  "Yes. Again, you were very smart."

  "But we weren't! Once we left town there was no power anywhere. Hundreds of gallons of gas in those big tanks under the parking lots, and no way to get it. How were we to do it? Siphon? Get out and look for a hose? Then find a tool to pry up the covers. There were fewer walkers out of the city, but there were some. We couldn't leave the car for long enough to do all that. So we kept driving. We kept driving and the gauge kept getting lower and lower. Finally there was a place with power."