by Thom Erb
Maico rushed toward the undead as valorously as any cavalier Warren had ever seen. He lunged for the dog’s collar as the ex-Mr. Goosman swiped a gnarled hand at the pooch. Maico yipped when the gory fist struck him in the head; sending him tumbling into the tall weeds. Before Warren realized, he let off a shot at the encroaching zombies.
The slug sunk deep into Mrs. Goosman. It ripped through her left breast. Green and black flesh sprayed out of the hole the slug left. Quickly, Warren pumped the shotgun and let loose a second shot. It bored into her forehead, making a quick escape out of the back of her Jell-O brain.
Mr. Goosman breached the razor wire, leaving the majority of his right arm behind as a sacrifice.
Warren staggered and fell to the ground.
The love this man once gave, the pious advice and peaceful calm he once instilled upon his congregation, was now replaced with unbridled, evil hunger.
Warren backpedaled as fast as his large frame could carry him. The undead pastor gave him an unearthly growl. Warren rolled as Maico moved to put himself between the evil attacker and his master. The yellow lab bit at the oozing priest, then snapped at the air after the undead creature reacted to the attack. Warren tried to regain his balance. Maico continued his staunch defense, holding his ground as the undead creature swung with claw-like hands. The zombie struck Maico and sent him flailing into the weeds.
Warren raised the shotgun, taking aim at his once revered mentor.
“Forgive me.” Warren prayed.
The blast echoed throughout the valley.
The setting sun cast a ghastly shadow upon what was once Franklin Goodman’s face. A handsome man in his mid to late fifties, the slug from Warren’s shotgun had made a softball-sized hole in his head. Blood ran down his body from the gaping chasm, spilling over his wife’s corpse.
At least they could rest now, Warren hoped, but he was fully well aware he was probably just fooling himself.
How could anyone rationalize all this madness as an act of God, or all part of some grand master plan? That's just self-serving crap.
He stared down upon two of the most honorable, pious people he’d ever known. Wiping tears from his flushed face, he caught a glimpse of shiny metal in Mr. Grossman's hand. He opened the zombie's putrid fingers.
A necklace. Looking closer, Warren laughed. An ironic sadness emptied his heart. It was a silver cross. A religious symbol that brought solace to Mr. Goosman in times of need and in the darkest hours.
“Well, this is a pretty damn dark hour we're having now,” Warren murmured, cutting off the cross from the bloated wrist with his buck knife. He placed it in the front pocket of his faded blue jeans.
A low whimper and the rustling of grass caught his attention. He swiveled the shotgun to meet the sound. A shape moved slowly in the brush, and he soon recognized it.
“Maico!” He rushed to his faithful friend, kneeling to comfort the old lab.
“Ah, Maico, what you go and do buddy?” he whispered. It seemed the sly old canine was unscathed. A bit dazed, but the blood covered pooch got to its feet and shook the bloody gore off.
“Man, you lucky old son-of-a-gun.” Warren's eyes grew misty, and he noticed darkness filling the sky.
“Let’s get back before it gets completely dark. What do ya say, pal?” He motioned toward the house, and Maico replied by wagging his tail, then running ahead. They didn’t stop until they reached the overgrown yard.
The faded green, one-story house was shadowed and silent. Doors and windows were boarded up. In the cellar of the one-hundred-year-old home, Warren and Maico made their sanctuary. A gas-powered generator welcomed them with a steady chug as they drew closer.
He and Maico passed by the three-car garage, which housed his father’s `84 blue Chevy 4x4. In the second bay, sat a dust covered 1985 Chevy Caprice classic. His dad’s pride and joy, and he seemed to love those goddamned vehicles more than his own kids. Many of the brother’s Saturdays were spent washing, waxing, and preparing the Caprice for some American Legion outing that night.
Andrew Brennan Sr. was ex-Army and would come out to inspect the car when Warren and Andy had completed their lengthy chore of car duty. Many times, Warren had to redo some aspect of the cleaning process. No matter how hard he tried, he could never please the man.
A cold raindrop struck Warren in the face, speckling his glasses, and brought him back to the present. He left the garage and headed to the house. The rain grew steadier as they approached the cellar door. He unlocked the cellar door and shooed Maico down the stairs, making sure he locked the double metal doors behind him. He could hear the rain pelting the steel door, sending an echoing ring through the cellar.
The sandstone cellar was damp and housed his mother’s canned goods. These were now a part of his stash, which was now one of his only means of survival. Glass jars were filled with tomatoes, pickles, green beans, beets, and his favorite, savory sauce. The room was fitted with four roll-away cots, but only one was used. The other three were made neatly as if waiting patiently for their users to return. Cardboard boxes stacked neatly on the eastern wall contained clothes and other hunting supplies his father had stockpiled for the next hunting season. Next to Warren’s cot sat a wooden box containing stacks and stacks of comic books: X-Men, Conan the Barbarian, and Fantastic Four. On top of this long box sat a boom box radio with piles of worn cassette tapes, a barrier of sound waves that helped Warren escape the outside world. What was left of it.
Underneath the cot sat his dusty collection of Dungeons & Dragons books, plus a worn Crown Royal bag so full of dice that the seams looked about to burst. Neglected, they stolidly waited for Warren to use them again.
A crack of thunder startled him, and the rain grew in intensity. Maico rubbed up against Warren’s leg, trying to get his attention.
“Oh, yeah, I’m sorry buddy. Let me clean ya off.”
He grabbed a towel from the shelf and walked to a makeshift spigot that drew cold, clear water from the well. After wetting the towel, he knelt and wiped the gore off his dog.
“How you survived, I’ll never know. I thought only cats had nine lives, bud,”
After he finished, he grabbed some meat from the freezer and a jar of canned beets of the shelf. While preparing the mundane dinner, he reminisced about what he looked forward to eating. He loved pizza from The Pizza Stop, a joint on Main Street that his buddy’s brother had owned. He and his friends would go there after school to grab a slice, some soda, and play Spy Hunter for hours.
On a propane stove near his cot, he warmed up the beets and fried a venison steak. While they cooked, he stripped off his blood and pus covered clothes, pausing when his hand brushed something in his pocket.
Mr. Grossman's cross. The sight of it hit him like a ton of bricks. He fell to his knees as nausea washed over him. Everyone he had loved was dead. He shook uncontrollably as tears poured from his eyes. Vision blurred, Warren ripped the thick glasses off his face.
The storm picked up its fevered intensity. Booming thunder and the beat of the rain echoed through the cellar. A perfect soundtrack for his new life.
He ran his trembling hands through his dark hair and pulled, as if tugging hard enough would help him find the answers to this horror he’d been thrust into. On the cold cement floor, he curled into a fetal position. All his strength was gone. His head spun with thoughts of before the world fell apart, and sleep took him.
What sounded like an artillery burst shook the cellar. Warren woke from his convulsion-filled nightmare. His nostrils were filled with the smell of burning meat. Maico whimpered from somewhere in the smoke-filled room.
Warren rushed to the stove, turning the gas burners off. He took the pan from the heat. He waved his hand to clear the smoke away. Maico whined from the thunder, so Warren knelt to find him. The dog hated loud noises. Warren found his trembling pal underneath his mother’s cot.
“It’s alright, Maico. It’s only thunder, you big baby.” Coaxing him out from under the empty
bed, he scratched him behind his ears.
“Sorry about the burnt dinner, pal.” His smile turned into a grimace as he recollected the dream.
“I miss those guys so much.” He looked over at the empty cots as he headed to the shelves to find something else to eat.
Opening the chest freezer, he found one venison steak left in his frozen food stash.
“Dammit! How could I have been so stupid?” Grabbing the steak, he slammed the freezer door.
He rummaged through the shelving for three jars of pickled beets, two jars of stewed tomatoes, and four jars of savory sauce. Not much sustenance in Mom’s good old savory sauce, he thought.
Exhausted and frustrated, he took a jar of beets, found some green beans, and dumped the burned contents into the garbage bag next to the old stove. He tossed the final steak and vegetables into the pans and lit the burners.
“Well, pal, looks like this is the last of the good stuff.” Warren had been doing all he could to stay positive. His mom wouldn’t have wanted him to give into hopelessness. But, the inevitable shadows and fate were inching closer by the moment. Maico came and sat next to him and looked up, waiting patiently for his share, blissfully unaware of their desperate situation.
While the new meal cooked, Warren walked; head hung low, to the makeshift nightstand and turned the radio on the beat-up boom box resting there. He listened to the WSMF DJ ramble on and play his hippie music and welcomed the company.
Smiling, Warren headed back to cooking food. He realized the inevitable had come. Looking down, he patted Maico on the head. “I guess tomorrow we need to head out and find some more food.” He dreaded the thought of leaving the safety of his house. Who knew what was out there, beyond this fenced-in haven.
Tomorrow, he would find out.
18.
Evil Walks
The Quinones' House
77 Colvin St.
Rochester, New York.
Sam awoke to a flurry of screams, and her eyes fought to focus. Murky daylight filled the living room. Her head spun from thick fog of the sleeping pills, her eyes blurred, and everything sounded like it was miles away.
“Sissy...Wake up!” Katie yanked on her shoulder, pulling her off the mattress.
“What?” Sam rolled clumsily to her knees, wiping the sleep from her eyes.
She heard the cries coming from Abuelo's room, and when she didn't see Bobby anywhere, her heart sunk with dread.
“It's Bobby, come on.” Katie tugged at Sam's arm as she ran toward the hallway.
Sam froze when she reached the doorway and saw the furniture had been moved and the door to her grandfather's room stood open.
“Oh, please, God, no,” Sam said.
The world was cold and still.
The wind howled, the storm raged on outside, and Sam yanked Katie backward.
“What is wrong, child? The Dark One was hungry. The thirst must be obeyed. Do not fret; you and your little bitch will be next.” The man...thing, sitting in the chair Sam had taped it to, was not her Abuelo. It looked like him. It held the same vague features: the balding white hair, the thick mustache that was slathered rich with blood and skin, fat, muscle, and sinew. Bobby's, Sam realized and heard herself scream.
The monster in the chair mocked her scream that echoed through the house and hurt her ears. The room was pasted in blood and bits of flesh.
Entwined among the undead thing's legs and hands, laid the long, blood-slicked, snake-like rope of intestines and the end of it hung from its overstuffed maw. The thing twitched and smiled at Sam, its eyes alight with the same taunted red glow as the people outside.
“Do something!” Katie cried, yanking at Sam's arm.
Sam stood there, tears burned down her cheeks, and hopelessness like an insidious cancer swept over her.
Glass shattered and splintering wood came from the living room.
Sam turned, grabbed Katie. “Stay here. Do not go in there. You hear me?”
Katie tearfully nodded, fighting to catch her breath.
By the time Sam got to the living room, snatched up the baseball bat, two things crawled through the front window. The thick stench of rotting meat filled the room, and their sickly red eyes glared at her with a vicious hate.
Sam closed her eyes and prayed. “Father, please, please hear my prayer. I've been a witness to the Word all my life. I've put you on the throne of my heart, no questions or doubt. I need you now. Please hear my words. One last time for God to offer me a shield and show me the righteous path.”
A bellow of hateful laughter mocked her from the bedroom, and the dead-things closed in as Sam held the Louisville Slugger in the perfect position her beloved Abuelo taught her...and she waited.
A distant voice spoke in her mind. She jumped.
“My child, you have always had the strength inside you. Now is the time to fight.”
Sam paused, opened her eyes. “Abuelo? God?”
The dead things sneered, now a mere five feet away.
“Do not listen to the lies, Child. Come back and let me feast on your delicious soul. The Master needs you.” the thing in the bedroom wailed.
“Sissy!” Katie's terrified scream tore at Sam's heart.
“No, child. I am more than that. Open your mind and heart and you will fully see the truth. Now is the time to fight.” The voice in Sam's head calmed her and a small, warm vibration filled her body.
A loud crash of lightning struck, mixed with a series of violent thunderclaps, and the dead things rushed Sam.
“Ssssissssi...”
The scalding hot energy welled up from Sam's feet and spread to her arms as she swung the bat at the first attacker.
A blinding flash of light filled the room. Agony-filled screams followed, and Sam watched the creature explode into a bloody spray, and then disappear in a crimson cloud.
“Sissy?” Katie cried from her spot.
“Stay there!” Sam heard the order shot from her mouth, but it was as if she were dreaming.
“Not that easy, child. The more you slay the more we become,” the second undead figure said in a gravelly, rolling voice.
It chilled Sam, but something, maybe herself, forced the coldness away, and she turned to face the thing staggering toward her in the shadowy darkness of her living room.
A sudden voice flashed inside her head, nearly dropping her to the floor. “Child, do not let the soulless puppets of the darkness corrupt your mind. You are not alone. Fight, my child.” The voice left again.
The burning fire inside Sam filled her and a cooling, calmness overtook her. She took a deep breath and ran toward the red-glowing eyes of the dead intruder and swung her bat. She smiled as the thick wood met with soft flesh, and she heard herself scream and kept swinging until the ungodly creature's lights went dark.
Sam stood, exhausted. The thing underneath her didn't stir. She was certain it would never move again. Her chest heaved as she fought to catch her breath.
A harsh, freezing wind whipped through the broken window, but nothing and no one made an effort to climb inside.
Wiping the sweat and blood from her face, Sam said through tired breaths, “Katie? You okay?”
Only the cold howl of the wind and soft moans of the dead outside answered.
“Katie?” Sam turned, walked toward the bedrooms.
A low, growl mixed with a sickly tearing sound filled the small hallway.
Sam froze at the sight of four red-haunting eyes staring at her in the darkness.
“Oh...Katie,” she said, her voice but a whisper in the looming blackness.
A harsh barrage of rain drove into the side of the house while thunder echoed through the streets. In the living room, DJ Capt. Al spoke unintelligible words, muffled by the storm and the sudden laughter filling the hallway.
“Surrender now, child. Give in to the Master. The Dark One demands your soul.” The mysterious shadows took form as the eviscerated corpse of her little brother stumbled into the soft light creeping th
rough the living room windows.
Sam felt the fragile remaining tethers of her fragmented mind loosen, and her knees buckled.
“That's it, child. All is futile.” The dead chorus of her Abuelo and brother taunted her, and the frosty wind bit her back.
Bobby drew closer, leaving a long trail of blood-slicked rope of half-chewed intestines and thick, yellowy fat behind him. “Sissy.” The dead thing laughed and snapped at the air, drawing closer. “I'm sorry. The Master has called our little bitch of a sister home. She was tasty, too.”
“Oh, God, no!” Sam screamed. The baseball bat hung loosely in her hand.
Bobby laughed, holding up a softball-sized lump of meat in his tiny, trembling hand.
A loud shout from the bedroom echoed, “Tell the bitch the truth, wee one,”
Bobby's red eyes grew bright and illuminated the still-beating heart as he tore his teeth into the soft tissue. Small fissures of blood, like a sanguine fountain, spurted into the air, landing on Sam's pant legs as she backed away.
“You can't run, Sissie. Don't leave us precious ones behind. After all, I don't think you have the heart for it.” Bobby smiled; shredding pieces of what Sam guessed were Katie's heart. Veins danced between his teeth.
“Sissie.” The thing that used to be Bobby stood in the hallway, his sunken eyes alight with a devilish glow of red and chubby face caked thick with blood.
“Don't leave us alone, Sissie,” Another earthy voice joined in from the darkness.
“Leave me alone!” Sam closed her eyes and ran to the boarded-up kitchen door.
“Oh, no, child. There's nowhere to go. The Master's day is dawning, and your blood and soul are destined to be devoured. Stop fighting.”
The undead banged on the door outside, and Sam's dead brother and sister joined the abyssal chorus. All around the young girl erupted in a nightmarish chorus of Hell on Earth. Sam held the bat tight in her hands and prayed for an answer as her known world dug, clawed, and pounded around her. Bobby wasn't alone. Behind him, the twisted form of Katie joined him in the living room. Their sad, glowing eyes created a horrific visage as Sam felt her heart scramble inside her pulsating chest. All was lost, and she prayed for the end.