The Last in Line

by Thom Erb

  Warren froze. Headless. He took a chance and looked down at his father's body. Maico had run to Warren's side, all covered in blood.

  His father's eyes were gone. The dog had gouged them out with his claws. No red light emanated from their dark sockets. The black tears still stained his poor father's face, but the glowing was snuffed out.

  “Child, surrender to the Ma—” The side of Andy-thing's face erupted in a red spray of flesh, blood and gore. The shotgun smoke filled the air, and Warren's brother slipped to the cold cellar floor in a heap.

  Warren joined them and fell against the metal door as the dead pounded on the other side.

  Maico rushed to him, sniffed him all over, and finally nuzzled up against him, lying in his lap.

  Warren absently brushed his quivering, blood-covered hand through Maico's fur and wept uncontrollably as his fractured mind tried to put the bloody pieces together while he stared at his dead family through swollen, crying eyes.

  15.

  Balls to the Wall

  The Rock House Building

  Edinburgh, Scotland.

  The van ran out of petrol just ten miles shy of the outskirts of Edinburgh. Elton Habersham spent the better part of a day hiding in the shadows, inch by inch, from one building, one block to the next, to get to the heart of the city. It was a perilous run from the vehicle, filled with the sad, moaning undead.

  Night fell and his muscles burned. His heart thrummed feverishly, and he needed to find solace before he dropped. His mana-sense told him he was headed in the right direction to the nearest nexus point. Once he found it, he'd rest up to cast the Teleportation spell and get the bloody hell out of England and, hopefully, closer to the Child of Light. He crawled up the fire escape ladder to the roof of an old apartment building that overlooked the sprawling city engulfed in darkness.

  Sporadic beams of moonlight continued their struggle to pierce the thick clouds. It stood as a stark reminder through the rain, that all of this was real and those groaning undead, below the historic house, were there to make sure he didn’t make it to out alive. The Child of Light remained his only focus, and while for the majority of his life, he preferred to surround himself with the finest cognacs, whiskies, women, and books, his secondary burden of being a Keeper of The Eternal Flame was now the only thing that mattered.

  Elton reached the top rung of the ladder, grunting in disgust at the sight of the growing yellowish haze that floated over the dead city, cloaking it like a sallow body bag.

  Elton reached into one of his canvas bags and brought out two fist-sized stones. One was the color of blood, the other a clear crystal that emitted an orange glow. He held them out at shoulder width and began the five-minute incantation. The heavy, accented syllables filled the night air and floated over the chorus of the chanting dead below. He knew that by not casting the teleport spell within a nexus point, he risked death. However, with the number of the demon's undead servants growing in number exponentially, he had no choice. There was no way down from this dank roof, and even if there was, how could he get through the sea of clamoring undead, shambling below him with mouths agape in hunger?

  “Oh, Great Creator. The One, all-powerful being. Master over all things, give me the wisdom, compassion, and ability to open the gate and traverse the infinite pathway.” Elton spoke in the ancient language of the keepers, focusing all his remaining energy into each syllable.

  He closed his eyes, looked to the heavens, and completed the incantation. The traverse stones erupted in a bright glow that bathed the entire roof. His thin hands trembled as the power of the Aether filled them. The palms burned with scorching heat, and he felt his soul-essence drain from his body. The casting of all the keepers’ magic drained the caster, thus the price steep for using the power of the universe. Elton cursed the pain and hated it all the same.

  Elton smelled them before their clumsy footfalls gave them away, from the floor below. The sickly miasma of rotting flesh and sulfur rose up through the hatch in the roof. The dead's chilling words echoed into the air.

  “Don’t run, Keeper! We need to feed. You waste your time protecting the Children of Man. They will all be devoured, as soon you will be,”

  Elton kept the canticle going.

  “I seek to find the Child of Light and bring to it, your celestial protection. With your divine providence, send me. Usher me to the Child's side, Great One.” Elton finished, bowed his head, dropped his arms to his sides, and a bright fluorescent orb appeared before Elton. Silence ruled in a ten-foot circle around him. The undead attempting to climb the ladder fell backward and tumbled down the way they came.

  Elton let an exhausted smirk across his stubbly face and watched as the shimmering image of a door appeared before him. He stepped through, and a multicolored explosion of light flashed, and then was gone, and the keeper along with it. A thunderous boom echoed through the dark city.

  The undead howled in rage and reached toward the black sky. Their bloated stomachs growled, and their glowing red eyes wept tears the color of a raven's feathers.

  16.

  Like the beat of a Heart

  77 Colvin Street.

  Rochester, New York.

  “Well, brothers and sisters, I've lost all track of the days now. The one positive is the generators are still good to go. Your Uncle Al is hanging in there, and I sure hope you all are, too. The foodstuffs are, well, I'm down to a couple bags of Funyuns, Oreos, and warm soda from the vending machines. Guess all that training back in `Nam prepared my old ass for the end of the world. How you holding up? Stay strong, my family. It's not looking too good out there. From up here, I can see a whole shit-load of those dead folks walking about like it's the old St. Paddy's day parade. Yeah, well, this old troop is pretty damn sure those things aren't looking for green beer or a pot of gold. I've seen some serious shit, but...this...this...” the gruff-voiced DJ paused. “...this is some serious Revelation kinda shiznit, here.”

  Many long moments of silence crackled through the radio.

  “Well, I'll just let the music do the talkin'.”

  The opening notes of the Grateful Dead's “Friend of the Devil” filled the living room.

  Sam sat slumped in the center of the living room, on the last remaining chair from the kitchen table with the battery-operated radio on her lap. She blankly stared into the darkness of the cold house. Katie and Bobby slept on their mattresses she'd pulled from their rooms. They didn't want to be away from Sam or anywhere near their grandfather's bedroom.

  The thing that used to be her Abuelo, now thrashed, kicked, and called out in a horrific language Sam had never heard before, through the bedroom door. With each ghastly syllable he spoke, painful bits and pieces of her sanity and soul were rent from her body.

  She'd run out of tears long ago, but the engulfing sorrow demanded more and more. Hours and hours of praying hadn't worked. Sam couldn't scream because it would only draw more of those creatures to the house. There were enough out there already.

  Driving rain battered the windows, accompanied by savage wind gusts, causing the old house to eerily creak and moan under the relentless attack.

  The storm grew stronger with each passing minute, and all was dark save the small flickering light of a few candles and the soft orange glow from the dial on the radio. Sleep evaded her as much as her ability to find an answer to what transpired over the past few days.

  Her Abuelo shouted, moaned, screamed in that foreign tongue that Sam could only think of as pure evil. The voice never let up. Relentless, droning on and on, but the only words Sam understood were Children of Light, Orcus, and feed. Complete and utter nonsense, Sam told herself, and yet something rang true. The lack of sleep was getting to her. She needed to sleep soon or she would be useless for her brother and sister. They slept soundly on their mattress, but only after Sam had the put on their Walkmans with the headphones, the ones Abuelo or Santa Claus gave them for Christmas. The poor things didn't need to hear their grandfather, or whatever n
ow he was, speak such scary words.

  She nearly smiled, watching them sleep so calmly in the pale glow of the candles. Her head weighed heavy, but she knew slumber wasn't happening without help.

  After a long moment of contemplation, she rose from the chair and silently walked to the bathroom where she took two sleeping pills from her grandfather's bottle. She swallowed them with the last bit of Kool-Aid she had.

  Herky-jerky shadows welcomed her as she entered the living room and the red orbs in the black of night still watched her. Grabbing the radio, she gently lay next to Katie and prayed for a few hours of sleep.

  Cold winds lapped at the windows and sleep did indeed find her. So did terrifying dreams of the piercing red-eyes, gravestones, demons, and a sea of blood.

  17.

  Straight through the Heart

  The Brennan Home

  Arcadia Falls, New York.-

  It took all Warren had to clean up the remaining dead that had breached the damaged fence. After finding the large maple tree that must’ve fallen during the violent storms, crushing a section of that section. He had burned those bodies after mending the fence and he was grateful for the gruesome distraction. He knew he’d procrastinated long enough. With tears in his eyes and a burning pain in his heart, he set to finally laying his family to rest.

  Warren Brennan dropped soggy earth into the shallow grave and leaned heavy on the shovel. Tears blinded him, and he fought to keep on his feet. He could feel his mom’s dead stare watching him. Her once baby blues were now down to one. The other had been blown out by the 12-gauge. Her face was nothing but matted blood and destroyed tissue.

  Rain, the color of mustard, fell from a summer sky, mixing with his mom's blood, creating a greenish pool inside the fresh grave. It made a sad plunking against the water-logged earth. Warren barely even noticed. The rain had been his constant companion since the Sanctity Virus washed the world away.

  He fought to catch his breath as he looked at the other two graves next to the fresh one he stood in. His sedentary lifestyle was coming back to haunt him. He knew he was a fat kid and really didn’t give a crap. Back in school it made a difference. But here, now, being fat wasn’t the only ghost that tore at his soul.

  Warren liked guns, but he never felt comfortable with them in his hands. When it came to killing an animal, he just couldn't do it. His father had tried to get him to go deer hunting for several years, but it always proved a sad reminder that they had nothing in common. Ironically, because of the way things were headed, he knew he’d have to get intimately acquainted with guns and the potential of shooting people.

  He buried the shovel in the tall, unkempt grass, yanked his thick glasses off his face, and wiped his eyes. Sliding them back on, he grabbed his half empty bottle of diet soda and took a swig. It had been an overwhelming past few months. The long hours of solitary existence since the incident in the cellar, were beginning to wear on him. If it weren’t for Maico’s companionship, Warren feared he would’ve sucked on the business end of his father’s 12 gauge.

  He hadn’t seen a living soul in what seemed like a lifetime, except for a few wandering Fleshies, as he and Andy had dubbed them. It was their feeble attempt at humor, but humor was all they had. He really didn’t mind being alone. It wasn’t that he didn’t like people; it was just that he had a hard time growing up in a Podunk town full of rednecks and judgmental people. He was always the butt of the cruel fat jokes, dealing with daily doses of cutting laughter. Part of him was grateful for the attacks because it prepared him for what was to come.

  The bitter smell of rain intensified as it poured harder. He knew he had to finish fast, so he tossed the empty bottle aside and grabbed the well-worn shovel.

  As Warren covered mom’s face, he thought he spotted a tear in her remaining eye, but he blamed it on the rain, and then chucked a final shovelful of dirt into the grave.

  He tried to kick the caked mud from his Chuck Taylor’s while he grabbed the shotgun from underneath the pine tree he and Andy had planted when they were in kindergarten. He let the cold rain wash the memory away and called out to Maico. His only living friend was a chubby, old yellow lab. His loyal companion lay under the tree, guarding him.

  “Come on, buddy. Time to make the donuts.” He tried to hide the fear, tried to hide the insecurity, the loneliness, but it only fooled the drooling lab. The pooch wagged his tail impatiently. They had work to do before they could go in the cellar and warm up.

  Warren and Maico, the two remaining members of the Brennan family began their security check of the five-acre property. It was a heavily wooded parcel out in the sticks, which his dad had purchased before Warren was born. The land was close to Computex where his father once worked, yet far enough in the country to keep the urban sprawl from taken over completely. He knew he was lucky to be in a semi-secluded location. The nearest city, Rochester, would be filled with flesh eating undead, Warren imagined as he walked through the overgrown grass toward the garage.

  Terrorist attacks devastated all major metropolitan populations, and the Sanctity Virus eventually spread out into rural areas, small towns such as Arcadia Falls. Since the outbreak, some of the walking dead wandered the road in front of his house, and he was forced to deal with them. He tried to shut out the reoccurring images of his mom, brother and father. It never worked. Not completely. He did his best to shake the memories off, continuing into the wooded area behind the garage.

  Warren slowly walked the fence line. It was twelve-foot chain link lined with razor wire. Once it kept hunters out, but now it kept the zombies at bay. He held his father’s Ithaca Deerslayer tight as Maico sauntered beside him.

  He looked out over the rain-soaked pine and white birch trees. All was quiet except for the drumming rain. No birds sang and no squirrels chased each other through the trees. All signs of life were absent. It was just him and Maico. His breath turned to swirling white as he breathed in the cold air, grabbing a hold of the fence and squeezing the metal. He was forced to shut down the electricity to the fence, trying to conserve what fuel he had left. The links were freezing cold. He stared out into the thicket on the other side of the fence. Warren pretended to relish the isolation and protection the fence gave him, but he missed his friends, fellow geeks and outcasts that shared the same painful social fate. He wiped a tear from his mud-smeared cheek and made his way down a steep ravine.

  How he missed those late-night D&D games. Creating imaginary avatars took away his inferiority complex. Worries about his lack of normalcy—whatever that was—faded away, and he became a mighty paladin or a rogue with blurring dexterity. In these imaginary worlds, he could change the course of his life and become a great hero.

  The time spent, lost in those worlds, helped him feel less like an outcast, or at least less pathetic. Or maybe it was avoidance. He knew it really didn’t matter now, and he tried to let those memories fade away as daylight slowly crept behind the hill.

  Two large pine trees lay on top of a short section of fence. The bigger tree had smashed the closer section down to near hip-level.

  Beyond the fence, a loud rustling to his right cut off his thoughts. Maico stood still, but his tail wagged. The dog cocked his head and sniffed the air. Warren felt the blood drain from his face, and he tightened his grip on the Ithaca. The rustling grew louder so he raised the shotgun.

  “Easy, boy,” he whispered, fearing the yellow lab might run off. “Stay!” He squinted through the dying light.

  All went silent. Nothing moved.

  “I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

  Maico stepped forward and growled. The guttural sound reverberated deep in the dog’s throat.

  “What is it, buddy?” His arms shook. A creaking shattered the silence. Warren swiveled the shotgun to his right, but nothing came out of the thick brush. The creaking grew louder and closer.

  A sudden series of loud moans made him shiver, and the smell of rotted meat filled the damp air. The brush in front of him gave wa
y. Two forms crashed into the fence. A flurry of mud and blood-covered hands grabbed at him. He couldn’t make out any discernible features. Their stench filled his nostrils.

  The undead tore into the fence with savage groans. Warren gasped at the sight of the man and woman. They paid no heed as their bloated bodies tore on the razor wire. Their rotting arms flayed open, the force gushing pus and milky fluid out of the new wounds. Warren gagged and staggered backward.

  Warren saw the fence begin to bow inward and he looked to the posts in the ground and saw the soggy earth turned to mud, began to give way.

  “Oh no,” Warren said.

  He raised the shotgun, fighting the urge to puke. The male was dressed in a soiled red and white plaid shirt along with well-worn blue jeans. The razor wire bit deep into his flesh. He thrashed like a wild animal caught in a trap as he tried to move forward. His need to feed was the only focus the evil creature knew now.

  The tormented zombie let out a woeful cry and lunged at Warren. His green-brown skin tore- afresh. Oily white pus and black blood escaped the wounds. It was the zombie's sorrowful, black eyes that froze Warren. They were transfixed on their prey, like the monster great white shark in JAWS that scared the hell out of him. But these eyes held something fouler, eviler. Tears of ebony streamed down his peeling, blood-smeared face. His salt-and-pepper hair was matted to his rotting skull. A graying mustache hung above its hungry maw, gore-streaked bristles standing stiffly, as it fought to find purchase on food.

  “Oh my God, no!” Warren felt his blue eyes widen.

  “Goddammit! Mr. Goosman.” Screaming, he stepped back.

  Mr. Goosman was once a pastor in the local church. A long-time neighbor, the man had become a mentor to Warren in his search for self-identity and answers about God. Now the man was a rotting, godless creature that seemed to beg for forgiveness and absolution. Warren put two and two together. The zombie to his left was Mrs. Goosman. A sturdy woman of few words, she possessed her powerful glare after death.