Adrian's Undead Diary (Book 5): Wrath

by Chris Philbrook

  Such an appropriate comparison she realized.

  The little boy had appeared to her when she woke up the morning of June 23rd in the Congo, hundreds of miles away by now. Michelle and her research partner Michael had traveled deep into the jungle at midnight to witness an ancient and primordial burial ceremony there. Something had happened. Something had gone wrong, as wrong as anything can possibly go.

  The temperature in the hidden glade had dropped sharply that night, and a foul taste had pervaded her senses. More powerful than just a smell, or a scent on the air, the slippery, metallic copper essence of blood had wormed its way inside her, and she knew something more powerful, more eternal than anything she’d dreamed possible had visited them.

  Speaking in a voice that seemed to penetrate her mind far more than just her ears, the voice issued a decree stating that humanity had failed, and we were to be judged by our dead. Michelle had nightmares even to this day about the looks on the faces of those gathered with them at the ceremony, bearing witness to the almighty’s judgment. They all knew deep down inside, deeper than the darkest recesses of their souls, that the end was nigh.

  Then, almost as a threat, the voice spoke to her and only her, and the words clung to her mind like black mold, sickening her thoughts. “Your people will earn their redemption, or all will suffer with me for eternity. YOU will bear witness to their trials Michelle Annabelle Lewis. YOU will tell all those that listen.”

  Despite a lifetime of religious study, and almost sixty days of walking amongst the dead since, she still didn’t know what that statement really meant. Was she a witness? What did that mean? Was she a prophet? It was the first and strongest thought in her head whenever she found herself obsessing over that night, and the cold voice in her head.

  Michelle couldn’t start another day like this. Not another headache, not today. Her body ached from sleeping curled up in the fetal position on the torn van seat. Her mouth was dry from too little water, and her belly ached from too little food. If she started another day thinking about that horrible night back in June, she’d be insane by midday.

  Fat load of good a Doctorate in Theology did her as she sat up and put her tired and worn shoes on the metal floor of the old van. She shivered in the dawn chill. To her right, out of the corner of her eye she could see the dead boy standing in the dirt just outside the van, watching her. He did that a lot when they weren’t walking. Staring, observing, judging. Almost as if he was assessing her condition, or her behavior.

  “Hey buddy,” she greeted the dead boy in her gravelly, dry voice. Two months of dry dusty roads, intense sun, and sparse water had ruined her voice. She’d had such a nice voice before… the dead started killing the living.

  The dead boy cocked his head sideways birdlike as she talked to him, which was about as conversational as he ever got.

  “Yeah, I hear ya. Just another day in Africa.” Michelle ran her fingers through her matted blonde hair. The golden sheen was long gone, replaced by a dull tarnish of dust and oil. She was a rough girl, and had gone many a long stretch without shampoo before, but this was starting to wear on her. She couldn’t stop moving to bathe if she was awake, the dead boy saw to that. Her choices were walk or sleep. Eating came on the move when she saw something edible, and going to the bathroom earned her a milky white stare. It took her a week to get used to him looking at her every time she went on the side of the road.

  Michelle Lewis started towards the opening in the side of the van and the dead boy backed away, giving her room to exit. As soon as she finished stretching out, he passively turned, and began the day’s march down the African dirt road.

  “I wish he’d tell me where we’re going,” Michelle muttered under her breath as she started off after him.

  *****

  About an hour later Michelle figured out where she was. They were entering Douala, a giant port city in Cameroon. She recognized the city’s name from a college course. Douala had been the home of great sin in the recent past. It had been the center of the slave trade for some time, and grew into a modern metropolis as a result.

  Now, it was lying in ruin. As they entered the sprawling city the fact dawned on her that it had crushed itself under the weight of its own dead. Douala was a massive city by any measure. It rivaled any American or European city in population and sprawl. Stucco and slate colored apartment buildings and office towers rose dozens of stories out of the filth and heat. Michelle looked at the silent carcass of the African city and wept inside. She knew when judgment day happened this city had been found lacking.

  Bodies were strewn about everywhere. In the road, lying on guard rails, propped up against the side of buildings, sitting, and standing, the people had died everywhere she looked. Many were partially eaten, thousands were shot, many had their skulls smashed apart, and not too few were hacked apart by crude machete strikes. Burnt out hulks of cars and trucks were crashed everywhere her eyes wandered. Dead soldiers and police, their heads destroyed, clung desperately to empty weapons. The stench was overwhelming. They had passed through many small towns and even some small cities on their journey, but the smell here had no comparison. It was a city overflowing with rotting human flesh. It instantly reminded Michelle of the Rwandan genocide, and the recent tragedy in Darfur.

  Even with her hope squashed by the all encompassing visions of death and destruction all around her, Michelle was faintly reassured that at least the people of Douala had realized that for whatever reason, destroying the brain of the undead rendered their release from the divine power fueling their unnatural presence. Even with the locals armed with that knowledge she could see hundreds of the dead walking about in the streets aimlessly, far off the path the one armed child led her on. She couldn't see any signs of survivors.

  The dead boy led her through the heart of the city, straight down the center roadways, deftly weaving her around the wreckage, human and constructed alike. In the scorching heat of the midday sun his small black form stopped next to a glass fronted café. Michelle nearly bowled him over, surprised at his sudden pause.

  He turned and looked over his shoulder at her, ensuring that he had her attention with his milky white corneas. His tiny face nodded and with his one good arm he slowly pointed at the strangely pristine café.

  “What?” Michelle asked him.

  The dead boy responded by doing nothing. His withered, blood stained finger sat leveled at the glass counter inside the café.

  “I’m not going in there. That place is probably rotten with disease and fungus now, and there are dead all over this city, I won’t go inside. No way.” Michelle shook her head at him, starting to feel the frustration and confusion build inside her.

  The little black boy slowly lowered his arm and turned to fully face her. His expression was blank, as it always was, but Michelle felt there was something else there, a new expression, something… faint, something subtle, just under the surface. The dead boy closed his eyes with gentle intent.

  Just as she narrowed her eyes her skin tingled from a charge in the air. A warm breeze stirred the air around her, and the delicate smell of lilies filled the world. Her palate suddenly warmed with the subtle hint of the sweet flavor of honey. Michelle was suddenly made buoyant with inexplicable positive energy. The warmth of the midday sun, the taste of honey on her lips, the sudden scent of the flowers overpowering the stomach churning stench of the city, and the breeze rustling her hair all spoke to her on a primordial level. Michelle felt like she was transported to a wholly different place without moving an inch. She felt small suddenly, and enveloped in the presence of greatness.

  The small boy opened his eyes again, and the milky white deadness was gone. In its place were the twin brown eyes the child had been born with, innocent, full of life, and pure. Without opening his mouth the boy spoke to her, much like the voice from the glade, yet entirely different.

  “There is clean food and drink in there. Do not let this bounty pass, our journey through the city will not allow f
or rest after this.”

  Michelle heard the voice in her mind absent of words and accent. It was transcendental pure communication on a level mundane humans never experienced. The meaning and intent was emblazoned into her consciousness as if it were her own thoughts that she had only just realized. Before she could understand what she was doing, she felt herself nodding rapidly in agreement with the child, and backing away towards the café to get the food the voice told her about. As she turned to walk away the boy blinked again, and his eyes reverted to their cloudy, hazy state.

  In the café Michelle found food and drink, just as the voice told her she would.

  *****

  Michelle and the dead boy spent the rest of that oppressively hot August day worming their way through the center of Douala. Many times along their frightening journey the boy stopped moving, freezing like a statue. Michelle knew this to be the boy warning her of the presence of other undead. As long as she precisely followed the dead boy’s instructions to move or not move, the undead left her alone, and she passed unscathed. The one time she’d strayed from his path there had been blood, and tears. A painful lesson learned every day with the limp she was just now almost over.

  Once the boy started his stilted, dead movement again she resumed hers. He was her guide through the center of the African necropolis.

  The tallest of the buildings loomed over her, casting down a pattern of shadows that cut the sun’s heat. Michelle had to dig into her pocket to fetch out her red bandana to tie across her face. The stench of the dead was threatening her stomach and the fresh food she’d just put in it. The rag didn’t keep the stench of rot out, but it contained enough of it that she didn’t feel like she was about to retch.

  As she and her dead guide finally began to cross the massive bridge spanning the waterway that fed the mangroves inland, they saw their first and last survivor of Douala. Michelle froze when she heard the tell-tale pattern of feet hitting the pavement in rapid succession. The undead never ran, they only shuffled, or walked. Once she’d seen one leap at a man to kill him, but that was rare. The sound of running on the pavement stood out to her as alien, and an optimistic sign of life.

  Michelle ran to the side of the bridge and looked back into the city they were leaving. Beyond a row of trees lay a large gathering of low warehouses. The buildings were sturdy, and had been a center of business and industry before the end. The sound of running came from there, and she watched intently, leaning on the railing of the bridge. She realized the boy had stopped to wait for her, but she was fixated on whoever was making the noise.

  Far down in the warehouse area she caught a glimpse of a man sprinting from one building to another. He was as thin as she was and as dark skinned as she was light. Even from this far away she could see he was wide eyed with fear. He dove to the ground behind the corpse of a car, badly scraping his knees and elbows. She could feel the sting and see the bright red of his blood seep out.

  Following the man slowly across the expanse between the two buildings was a large gathering of the dead. Both white and black skinned they pushed forward like the tide rising, inexorable, and unstoppable. The man gathered himself and took off running with a limp, reaching the opposing warehouse door and desperately banging on it. She could hear him screaming, and didn’t need to know what he was saying. Some language is universal.

  He tugged at the door handle, pathetically crying out in fear and pain. The door held strong and didn’t budge, and after looking over his shoulder at the crowd of the dead bearing down on him, he let go of the handle, and ran around the building and out of her sight. The undead followed him, and soon they too were gone, pursuing their prey.

  Michelle was overwhelmed by the moment. All she could think of was the desperate man, trying to escape his grim fate, and running further into the city filled with dead. It was a miracle he’d survived this long, and she knew he would be dead by sundown unless another miracle happened for him. With grimy hands she wiped away the tears streaming down her face. She felt something bump up against her, and she jerked away.

  The dead child had slid up next to her against the rail, and was looking up at her with his wide, dead white eyes. His one remaining hand sat on the rail.

  “Why is this happening? You know. I know you know.” Michelle pointed an accusatorial finger down at the dead child. “If God is telling you what to do, then ask him why is he doing this!” Michelle snapped at the walking corpse that served as her guide. Predictably, the dead boy said nothing in return.

  “Of course. Silence. To hell with you. Fuck you.” Michelle was filled with fury and indignation. She felt spurned, ignored, and hurt. Her faith had been tested to the breaking point.

  The small boy looked at her, and as she’d seen only once before, he inhaled deeply, forcing his long unused lungs to fill with air that did nothing for his body. It seemed to Michelle more like the mechanical action of a bellows than the natural breathing of a child. She wondered who or what was operating the machine.

  His tiny lungs filled with enough dirty air, and he spoke to her aloud for the first time. As he said his peace, she felt the same breeze from earlier that day pick up once more, and the scent of lilies fill the air around her again, “All knowledge comes with a price. Have faith Michelle Annabelle Lewis.”

  Michelle’s eyes froze open, unsure of whether or not to be amazed, or furious. The soothing breeze died down as suddenly as it had picked up and she swallowed, and calmed herself. The one armed boy slowed, turned and walked away, leaving her behind.

  After a few moments of unsure thought, Michelle started walking behind him again.

  *****

  It was more than a month before the dead boy spoke again. By Michelle’s wearied reckoning his words came in the first days of October. She couldn’t be sure of course. Her little dead guide wasn’t interested in stopping anywhere to allow her to look at a calendar.

  Just as before Michelle walked in his stead, wondering day after scorching day when the relief of the cool breeze and the scent of lilies would return, signaling the presence of something greater. The long days since the knee-deep disgust of Douala had shown more of the same to her. Every large population center was a den of filth and villainy. She’d watched from afar as people murdered one another for food, water, or sex. The little dead boy stopped on many occasions just in time for them to witness the horror of the dead killing one more of the living. They always waited long enough to see, and long enough to let the undead wander away, looking for its next victim. Michelle still didn’t know why the dead boy stopped for these moments.

  Was it to illustrate a point to her? Was she to witness every possible moment of the massacre of human life from the face of Earth? Was she supposed to bear witness to the continued sins of mankind against one another, even in the face of that apocalypse?

  Michelle had so many questions, and the only answer she’d been given was that “knowledge came with a price.”

  And to Michelle, that wasn’t an answer. She reminded herself constantly, multiple times each day that her faith had to carry her through this. That is easier said than done, as anyone who has had tragedy thrust upon them can attest. Michelle wondered day in and day out which religion applied to the state of the world. Should she be seeking to improve herself, and focus on the Buddhist Four Noble Truths? She certainly was suffering.

  Should she seek out the truths contained in The Old Testament, and apply the beliefs of the Torah? Should she return to her years as a practicing Wiccan? Seeking out the support of the energy of the Earth? Should she work up a spell to repair the fabric of the world? Or should she turn to Christian beliefs, and seriously start looking for the second coming of Jesus Christ? So many avenues of faith to try to analyze the state of the world with, and not one good answer supplied from any of them. She had nothing but piddling morsels of guidance, and snippets of wisdom.

  That all changed for her in October. By the signs on the side of the road they were somewhere in Ghana when it happ
ened. The overpowering heat of summer had finally begun to wane into the merely oppressive heat of the fall, and it was the end of another long day’s walk. Michelle’s stomach was empty, and growled at her fiercely that night. She dragged her feet searching the surroundings of the road they walked on for something to eat. Anything to shut the noise of her emptiness off.

  Michelle had recently lowered herself to eating insects. Frequently if she wasn’t willing to eat something with more than four legs, she didn’t eat at all. The route her dead guide took her on didn’t take them past many shops that had food inside. On a good week they might find two or three places where the little boy would stop and point his emaciated finger and let her know food or water was present. He was never wrong, and that cheered her up. She now lived for those moments. Even if all they pointed out to her was a spoiling fruit, or a small lizard she had to catch and cook herself. Sometimes she’d start to make a fire at night to stay warm, or cook with, and the small boy would shake his head no to her, and she’d have to eat the lizard raw. She’d gotten used to that. It wasn't so bad when you were starving to death.

  That evening in October the little boy led her off the main road for a bit, down a drive to the coastline that was straight as an arrow, and lined with budding palm trees reaching towards the blue sky like a row of outstretched fingers. At the end of the drive she discovered a large house perched right against the water that looked like it belonged in the Caribbean on an island resort. The tall stone walls circling the estate were a pinkish coral color, and topped with giant iron spikes. As they approached the massive wrought iron gate of the palatial estate, Michelle wondered for the first time if the boy was leading her to other survivors.

  The two halves of the baroque gate swung apart and inward as the boy approached it, as if by magic. A sea breeze picked up at that exact moment, and mixed with the customary scent of sea salt, Michelle noticed the gentle caress of lilies. Her skin prickled with anticipation, feeling that another moment with the greater power was near at hand. Unconsciously she picked up her gait to close the distance between her and the boy.