by Fuchs, A. P.
“Mark, down here,” Rhonda said.
“Dillon’s probably in there, Mom. Probably.”
Michelle marched closer to the pile and stood at the bottom where Rhonda was halfway up to her son. “Mark, listen to your mom and get down.”
“Let’s go, guys!” Mark said with a wave of his hand and got down on his belly in front of the nearest hole.
“Mark, don’t!” Rhonda said. She shot out an arm; it was enough for her to lose her balance and she slid down the rubble. When she came to a stop at the bottom, she rolled over and cradled her stomach.
“Are you okay?” Michelle asked her.
Rhonda winced. “Stings like the dickens.”
“Let me see.” Michelle went to help Rhonda pull up her shirt to expose her stomach, when Mark said from the top of the hill, “There’s room in here. Just got to get past—” His legs squirmed side-to-side, then he yelled as he disappeared into the hole.
“Mark!” Andrew called after him.
The heavy footfalls of a giant undead lit up the air and grew louder and louder.
Michelle glanced past Rhonda.
Lying several meters away from the mouth of the parkade was a car. One that appeared crumpled up.
“My son . . .” Rhonda said, still wincing from the pain. A faint bit of red began to soak through her shirt. Michelle quickly checked. Rhonda’s belly was torn along the left side, presumably from a sharp rock. The wound didn’t look too bad, though, but if she stayed out in this fetid air, the wound would surely become infected. Medical supplies were hard to come by; it would be the death of her.
“Put pressure here,” Michelle said, covering Rhonda’s stomach again with her shirt. She guided the woman’s hands over the wound. “You’ll be fine. Not too deep. Just relax.”
“O-okay.” She looked into Michelle’s eyes. “Get Mark. I don’t think he’ll be able to get out of there on his own.”
Michelle nodded. “Rest here.” She stood and went over to Andrew. She didn’t want to have to leave Rhonda alone with a stranger, but she didn’t have a choice. “Think you can watch her ’til I get back?”
Andrew looked at Rhonda. “Yeah, sure. Don’t mind helpin’. Think you could help me after? Really need something to eat.”
Michelle looked from him to Rhonda then back again. “I hope so.”
“Thanks,” he said and headed over to her. “Just holler if you need anything, ’kay?”
“Will do,” Michelle said and climbed the rubble heap to the hole where Mark had fallen in. She grabbed a flashlight from her belt and shone it into the hole. Seemed pretty deep as the light couldn’t penetrate it to the bottom. Small chunks of cement, shards of metal that appeared manicured from a car were all she could make out.
She crawled on her stomach as close to the hole as she could and shone the flashlight further in. “Mark, you hear me?” No answer. “Hello?”
“Michelle?”
18
Josh
Tracy was on the rooftop when the giant zombie fell forward against it, rocking the entire structure. She had slid across the roof down to the opposite side of the creature and had to use her feet against the inside of the building’s ledge to stop herself from going over. Now she was right up against it, leaning into it with her side. For the past while, hordes of the undead roamed the city block at the bottom of the building. At first, it didn’t look like their presence would thin, but as of a few moments ago they slowly began to get more distance between themselves as some began moving away from the pack.
This particular side of the building had a gas line running from almost ground level to up and over onto the roof. It was severed now; the heating duct connected to it snapped when Joe and the duct had gone over the edge.
Tracy was worried for him, though she knew better than to sit up here and dwell on it. If Joe had proved anything since she first saw him it was resourcefulness and downright luck. It wouldn’t surprise her if he had somehow gotten out of this alive.
And if he hadn’t . . . then he hadn’t. Her only hope for him was he had been eaten by the undead instead of transformed into one. Death was relief from living in this world. Undeath was a sentence to a living hell, one worse than being alive on a zombie-infested planet.
She knew the pain the dead felt even though they couldn’t show it. She’d seen it firsthand.
Saw it in Josh.
Up until the undead rose from their graves and this world was transformed from life to death during the worst rainstorm she’d ever seen—rain laced with ash—Josh had been her whole world. And she knew she had been his, too.
He was a couple years older, which she didn’t mind. They had been three and a half months into their relationship when it happened, when the Rain came down without warning.
She had been taking an animation course at a local vocational school, the hope being to one day get a job with Disney. She always imagined that at some point her and Josh would get married and, if they could get the paperwork all lined up, move down to Florida and, eventually, she could land a career at the greatest animation studio in the world.
Josh was behind her completely and was big into the art field himself, comic books being more his thing. He wasn’t quite sure where to begin in terms of getting his stories out there, and he didn’t want to go through years of sending samples out to DC and Marvel and face the possibility of rejection. If anything, he was a more do-it-yourselfer and spent a lot of time developing his own comics while he still lived with his parents. They’d go to work; he’d stay behind to draw. For a while, he was allowed to do that—just draw—but soon friction grew at his place and his folks wanted him to get a real job. It didn’t take long, it seemed, because he had just started pursuing his comic book goals when they first started dating and already within a couple of months there were problems on the home front.
At one point, the gauntlet came down and he was forced to put comics on the backburner or get out of the house.
She never forgot the look on his face when that day came.
“I always thought they’d get behind me,” he told her.
“Your parents just don’t understand,” Tracy said.
“Just wish . . .”
“Just wish?”
“Just wish I had yours. They believe in me.”
She smiled. “They’re business owners. They get it. They know these things take time and results don’t just magically appear.”
“I got nothing, though, Tracy. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t mind working. That’s not it. The problem is I always thought home would be the place you could really be you, you know? Just be yourself. No expectations, no preconditions. Just yourself.”
“It is. Your house is.”
“You don’t understand. No one does.”
“Maybe I don’t,” she said. She took his hand in hers. “But I can try. Besides, you got me. You got my support. I believe you can do this.”
“But I can’t do this by myself. Not the drawing. Just need a place to get things done. Art’s slow. Getting comics out is slower.”
She gave his hand a gentle squeeze. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
“Can I live with you?”
She knew he was joking, but the look in his eyes—there was a hint of desperation there. It was only a couple of months into their relationship and things were already moving so fast. Falling in love had been easy, so simple, that within a week of dating, “I love yous” were already exchanged. And real “I love yous,” as well. Heartfelt. Sincere. Truthful. She was his first love, she knew, and though she had cared for a couple other guys in the past, this one was different and it scared her. She was crazy about him. “This has really rocked my world,” she told him on the day she poured out her heart to him and told him all she felt. But to move in together? That was something too much too soon, and not because she didn’t want to, but because the idea of it was so immersive that she was afraid she’d be so lost in him she might never find a way out if she g
ot hurt.
Even now, on that rooftop, Tracy’s heart still ached for Josh, and thinking about him made it easy for tears to prick at the corners of her eyes. How her heart could be so cold in one area and so gentle and soft in another, she didn’t know.
On the day the Rain came, she had been alone in her apartment, sitting at her drawing board, which was by the window. At first she thought nothing of the rain, even when it really started to come down thick. Big raindrops were nothing new, but when she noticed the drops weren’t clear or slightly fuzzy, but instead thick, gray droplets, she knew something was wrong. She got up from her table and went up to the glass, staring outside. She couldn’t see a thing; not the street below or the neighbor’s trees across the way; not the sign with her street name or the bench on the opposite apartment’s balcony. Just gray rain. The way it ran down the window, so slow like syrup, yet still thin-looking enough to seem light in appearance—what was it?
She ran to the television and flicked on the news. The story ran on every station that had a news team.
Josh. Her first and immediate thought. Tracy bolted for the phone and dialed his number.
It rang over and over.
“Come on, pick up,” she said, the super long phone cord intertwined between her fingers as she paced back and forth across her front room. “There’s three of them there. Someone’s got to pick up.” Another four rings. “Come on, Josh. You got to be there.”
Screams rose from the streets outside her window. She returned to the glass and jumped back when she heard the sound of a couple of cars slamming into one another. Horns honked. People cursed. Others shrieked.
Tears immediately filled her eyes, her heart tripling its beat.
She hung up and dialed his number again. The monotonous ring came down the line over and over, at least a dozen times before she waited it out a few more seconds then put the phone back in its cradle. She sat down on the giant blue beanbag in front of her TV and stared at the news. As much as Chuck Olsen, the city’s salt-and-pepper-haired “always on top of it” reporter, tried to maintain a neutral expression, it was easy to see the subtle way he dealt with his fear in front of an audience: frequent blinks, a pair of lips that would quiver for a couple seconds before going still for a few minutes, then quiver again. He was making up the newscast on the fly, responding to information as it came in.
“Not only has Winnipeg been covered in this soupy gray mix, but we’ve heard from our sister station in Toronto that they’re undergoing the same thing. Same with Ottawa. We’re also seeing—wait” —he glanced at a report handed to him— “Vancouver’s been hit as well. One meteorologist just” —he touched his earpiece and said quietly— “I was getting to that.” Louder, to the audience: “One meteorologist has informed us that the Northwest Territories, the Yukon and other northern regions are experiencing the rain as well. As you all know, rain up north—rain like this—will only cause damage if its incessant.”
Tracy sat there staring at the screen, mouth hanging open. She got up and tried Josh’s number again. No answer.
Chuck said, “The States are covered. Europe. Australia. Land masses all around the globe—it’s raining everywhere.” He paused and took another report from a female hand that passed it to him off-camera. Chuck stared at the paper. “Recent satellite photos show—this can’t be right—that only land masses are being targeted. This includes off-shore places, even islands dotting the Pacific and Atlantic. Recap: only land masses seem to be under rainfall. Downright bizarre, but true. It might be wise to get on a boat and get on the water. Get away from the land.”
Tracy still let the phone ring. More screams rose from the streets on the other side of her window. “Oh man, Josh, are you okay?” Should call my folks. Should see if they’re all right. She didn’t have call waiting and every moment spent trying to get a hold of Josh meant another moment clogging up her line. She set the phone down, stared at it a moment, then sat back down on the beanbag.
Chuck went on. “It is advised to stay indoors. If your house has leaks, don’t touch the water coming through.” He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “By now you must be seeing what we’ve been hearing here at the station. The rain is transforming nearly everybody it touches. Why some seem to be okay after getting wet, we don’t know the answer yet. The advice is to stay indoors. If you’re viewing this newscast from outside and are not affected by the rain, get inside, just in case, or find a body of water and either take a boat or swim out into it. This is life or death, folks. Life or death. You need to save your lives!”
Unable to sit still, Tracy got up and went to the window and looked out. There was so much gray rain on the glass she couldn’t see anything.
“Stay inside, stay inside,” she said to herself, echoing Chuck’s words. “Josh. Josh, don’t be outside in this.” She looked at the phone. It sat silent. She tapped her fingertips together as she paced. “Can’t stay, can’t stay, can’t stay, can’t stay.”
She ran to the hallway closet, slipped on her shoes and blue raincoat, pulled the hood over her head and grabbed the umbrella. Taking a deep breath, she grabbed the door handle. I should stay. Her legs were antsy. She tapped against the side of the knob with her thumb. Heart racing, she opened the door and went into the hallway and locked the door behind her. She took the elevator to the main level then headed to the building’s front doors. They were glass and metal-framed, the glass mostly covered in the goopy gray rain and any streaks smeared across the panes didn’t reveal all that much: just more gray rain falling on the other side.
Tracy went to the door, hesitated a moment before touching it, then pushed the handle and threw up her umbrella. Outside, the rain beat down on the umbrella with force, each droplet pelting it with a solid whap. Over and over, fast, fast, fast. She could barely see in front of her, the rain was so thick. She’d be fortunate if she could walk five or six feet without bumping into something.
Hope the shoes hold, she thought, wondering—if indeed what Chuck said was true—if the rain soaked through her shoes if it would affect her.
She was careful when she stepped and did her best not to heavily splash the puddles of gray on the sidewalk.
Screams. So many screams. Shadows moved behind curtains of rain, some sprinting, as if running for their lives, others slow, stumbling, as if certain people didn’t know where they were going. Tracy thought about seeing if they needed help, but instead kept her focus and made her way toward Josh’s house.
The journey was long and more than once someone ran past her, clipping her in the shoulder. Normally it was about a twenty-minute walk, but with the rain so thick and visibility so poor, she had to rely heavily on street signs and careful footing to ensure she got there without getting wet.
One guy she walked past just stood there in the rain, covered in gray, seeming lost. As she went past him, he raised his hand in the air as if trying to get her attention. There was something in his eyes that didn’t look right so she briskly walked past. She knew that taking a chance to talk to him could lead to trouble, especially in this city.
When she finally arrived at Josh’s place, she stood on the driveway. The house was covered in gray, the once-beige brick now filthy with the rain. The eaves overflowed with gray water as the downspouts gushed out what they could. The main door was on the left, the garage door on the right. A chain-link gate on the right of that led to the backyard.
“Front door,” she said and headed toward it. She stopped short when out of the corner of her eye she caught somebody move near the garage. “Hello?” She couldn’t hear anything but the rain coming down. “Hello? Is somebody there?” She rounded the front past the garage, expecting to see somebody. Instead, she was met with only the rain.
The chain-link gate was open. She peered into the backyard. There was a side door with a bell so she figured she’d just ring them that way.
“Hello?” she said. “Anybody back here?” As if they would be. The rain was dangerous, Chuck Olsen said.
No one would be back here.
A shadow moved not too far from her. It was hard to see who it was, the rain was so thick.
“Hello?” she said.
No answer, but the shadow stopped. Behind the fog of the rain, the shadow appeared male, tall.
“Josh?”
The shadow stood there.
Tracy took a step closer. The shadow only grew slightly bigger in her frame of vision, but didn’t become clearer. “Josh, is that you?”
The shadow raised its arms, palms out, fingers curling and uncurling against the rain. Slowly, they emerged from between the thick gray droplets. The fingers were coated in paint; some of the nails that were visible were black and others bruised.
The fingers soon gave way to hands, hands to bare, pale forearms covered in gray, then a soaked-through, red Iron Man T-shirt and . . . a face.
It was Josh, his black hair soaked, covered in gray rain, pressed flat against his skull. Dark rings covered his eyes like a mask, his irises and pupils gone, only milky white remaining. His mouth hung slack and the reason she recognized him even though he was covered in gray was because of his mouth, that jaw line only she knew, and lips as soft as velvet, but smooth like cotton.
“Josh?” she said from underneath her umbrella.
He shambled slowly toward her, arms outstretched.
“Are you okay?”
He was less than a foot away. His hands and arms passed beneath the underside of the umbrella and took hold of her shoulders. Something was wrong. He seemed hurt. Not himself. Did he need someone to hold him, is that why he tugged on her and drew her near? His mouth drew in toward hers. A kiss. Maybe he was just thankful she was all right and needed to express it. But she couldn’t kiss him. He looked sick. His face . . . his hands.