by Thom Erb
The broken forms of Bobby and Katie stood a few feet away when their black tears came into view. That soft vibration Sam felt during the attack with the initial dead-thing still remained.
The radio in the living room erupted through the din of the storm and clamoring undead. Capt. Al's voice offered one sentence of hope. That was all Samantha Quinones needed.
“Hey, brothers and sisters, I just got a call from the Army Depot on Main Street and good ol' Sgt. Samuel told me they're taking in folks. So time to shit or get, my family. It's too damn late for this old soldier, but get yourself down there now. Don't worry, I'll keep the good times rollin' as you make your way. Don't wait, don't hesitate. The last chopper is leavin', kids. Get your asses on it!”
The radio blared with a deafening static, then went silent.
She fought to keep the energy within her, not knowing what danger such newfound strength held. All she knew was that she needed to get out of the house and run.
She couldn't allow what was inside her house to escape, though.
Through tear-filled eyes, Sam grabbed her backpack by the door and ran to the stove, opened the gas valves, kicked out a window, and jumped.
In the drenching downpour, she found a copy of Newsweek in her backpack; glanced at the cover that featured the mystery of some Noble Prize winning German scientist that went missing months before, and then lit it with her lighter. With tears welling up in her eyes, she chucked it back through the kitchen window.
The frantic teen never looked back, even as her childhood home exploded in a fiery blast that lit the early morning sky.
19.
Innocent Exile
Brennan's House
Arcadia Falls, New York.
June 1985.
Morning came and Warren awoke with a shudder. Maico lay next to him, providing an additional blanket and sense of security. Looking around the dark cellar, he realized it wasn’t a dream, everything that had happened was real and with a bleak heaviness, he got off the cold, damp cellar floor to straighten out his stiff back and knees. They cracked and popped.
“Okay boy, today is the day,” he said, looking at the groggy yellow lab nestled in his blanket.
He went to the fridge and took out the last can of Diet Coke, shaking his head.
“Ah man, son of a bitch.” After pulling the tab open, he took a long swig, cherishing every drop. He set it down and walked to the water-filled basin to wash his face and brush his teeth, donned a Stryper T-shirt and some jeans, and set about stuffing anything that was usable into two of his father's Army surplus backpacks. He heaved them over his shoulders, grabbed the shotgun, some spare shells from the large box his father had left, and turned to his trusty companion.
“You ready, big guy?”
Maico looked intently at his master and hopped off the cot to grab a quick drink of water from his bowl next to the stairs.
“Well, I guess you’re good to go.” Warren grabbed the truck keys from a nail hanging near the gun rack. “Let’s do this."
He unlocked the metal doors, shoved them open, and the gray and mustard-colored light of morning shattered the murk of the cellar. Maico bolted between his legs, nearly knocking him back down the stairs.
“Dammit, get back here!” It wasn’t a normal June morning. The weather had been closer to early October, and the air was much crisper. A light frost clung to the trees and the overgrown lawn. The yellow haze muted its shine.
Maico found the nearest tree and raised his leg. Warren closed the cellar doors and locked them. He glanced about the area, made sure it was safe, and ran to the green garage. The heavy wooden door opened with a creak. His father’s truck sat covered in dust. His father wouldn’t be pleased to see his favorite toy in such a shoddy state.
A sturdy snow plow was still attached, and if the temperatures kept dropping, it might come in handy sooner rather than later.
Warren hoped the battery was still good. He had charged it a couple of weeks ago but hadn’t checked it since everything happened in the cellar.
Opening the door, he jumped onto the cold vinyl seat and shoved the key into the ignition. The big block 454 rumbled to life. Warren placed the shotgun in the gun rack, leaned over, and opened the passenger door so Maico could climb in.
“Come on, buddy, you can make it.” Warren encouraged the pudgy lab, and after a few clumsy attempts, Maico managed to climb in and collapsed in an exhausted heap next to Warren on the seat.
“Hell to get old, huh?” Warren teased, petting the less-than-impressed pooch.
Maico let out a gruff huff of what Warren guessed was full on derision and smiled, leaned over, and closed the door, then checked the gauges to make sure everything was running okay.
He dropped the truck into gear and drove down the long driveway to the gate at the bottom of the hill. Warren scoured the yard and the road before him. Nothing moved save a few walking things out in Walker's corn field-high up on the other side of the valley.
“Hang here, bud,” Warren said and got out of the truck and ran to the gate, unlocked the two padlocks and swung one side open.
He stood on the edge of the road, and heavy black, pregnant storm clouds swept southward from Lake Ontario. A biting wind came with the clouds, and Warren zipped up his jacket and ran back to the truck and drove out onto the road. He then quickly hopped out, closed the gate and locked it, shoved the keys in his pocket as a heaviness filled him, not knowing if he'd ever see his childhood home ever again.
The first fat, lake-effect raindrop splattered the windshield as Warren drove north toward Arcadia Falls. He flicked the wipers on as the rain increased. At the intersection, Warren stopped the truck and looked to the right and for a second considered heading up to Sadie's Country Story but changed his mind when dozens of the undead things clogged the road and turned their haunting red eyes his way.
“So much for that. Shit. Guess town it is, pal.” He scratched Maico behind the ear and sat there for a long moment. The engine rumbled, drawing the dead things closer. Warren stared absently at the gray clouds and the pounding rain against the windshield.
The truck rocked, Maico yelped and Warren startled back to the moment. A set of red eyes glared at him through the passenger side window, fists pounding on the glass, leaving dark red smears behind.
“Oh, shit.” Warren's hands flailed, trying to grip the gear shift.
“Child of Light.” muffled cries came through the bloodstained glass.
Warren dropped the truck into gear and stomped on the gas pedal. The back tires spun on the wet roads, then found purchase, causing the back end to fishtail, smashing the dead with the bed and bumper and sending their rag doll bodies flying off into the ditch.
Warren didn't look back until he'd made it over the muck fields and turned the hairpin corner that led passed old man Ford's farm.
“You okay?” He slowed the truck down and pulled Maico closer. All the dog did was give Warren's cheek a quick lick sniff and he went back looking out the milky, brown smudged window.
“I'll take that as a yes. You are an ornery s.o.b, aren't ya?” Warren said, trying to smile. It worked a little.
Crossing another large cornfield, Warren grew tired of the monotonous rain and turned the radio on. He hoped the old DJ was still on the air. While the guy had horribly bad taste in music, Warren really got into his Army and Vietnam stories he'd tell from time to time.
The speaker crackled with static as the truck crested the rise of Cambier Road. The comforting, gruff voice of Capt. Al broke through the air.
“...seen some shit, brothers and sisters, but man, I tell ya, this broad could have bench-pressed a Harley. I shit you not. Anywho, I hope that little tale took your minds off the shit storm going on out there, kiddos. I know it ain't much, but it's all your Uncle Al can do from up here, high atop the Monroe Building. I used to like the view from up so high. That changed when the crap hit the fan, and the fine folks of Rochester started dying, and then chowing down on each o
ther. A damn nightmare.” A sudden silence filled the airwaves, and Warren thought he heard the DJ crying or sniffling, he wasn't certain.
“Sorry about that, gang. `Nuff of me blubbering, let's play some groovy music and let it wash all the bad stuff away. Here's some Jimi for your ears.” The psychedelic strains of Jimi Hendrix's “Rainy Day, Dream Away” filled the cab of the truck, and even though Warren wasn't a big sixties music fan, Jimi was a huge influence on Eddie Van Halen so he had to be good. He was happy to hear that the DJ was still broadcasting and continued driving toward Arcadia Falls.
The harsh winds punched at the truck, and the rain made the road into a slippery sheet. Warren fought to keep the truck under control. He was glad it was only a few more miles to the outskirts of the small hamlet.
The song stopped and Capt Al came back on the radio. “Hey, brothers and sisters, I just got a call from the United States Armory on Main Street, and good ol' Sgt. Samuel told me, they're taking in folks. So, time to shit or get... It's too damn late for this old, soldier, but get yourself down there now. Don't worry, I'll keep the good times rollin' as you make your way. Don't wait, don't hesitate. The last chopper is leavin', kids. Get your asses on it!”
“Here that, pal? Once we check on Dex and grab some chow, we'll head to the Armory. I guess there's hope after all.” Warren let go a small smile and never noticed the group of slowly moving forms following him in the gloaming storm. “Maybe we'll stop and see if Capt. Al needs a lift. What do you say?”
Maico huffed and offered an energetic tail wag.
“That's my boy.” Warren scratched the old pooch and drove on.
PART TWO
We are all travelers in the wilderness of this world, and the best we can find in our travels is an honest friend.
-Robert Louis Stevenson
20.
Turn up the Night
Corner of Wilder and Grape Street.
Rochester, New York.
Sam ran between a sea of wrecked and parked cars. A voice came into her weary mind. “You are not alone, child. There are two more children of the light. As long as you live, the darkness will not succeed and evil will be abated.”
The rain bore down as she ran through the clogged streets and the strange words in her grieving mind did little to soothe the growing wound in her heart.
A flurry of gunshots rang out in the distance, and the glowing light of several fires lit up the sky.
The Armory was a handful of blocks away, but it seemed like the best and the only option she had.
Sam ran, hiding behind an abandoned Ford Pinto, and held her breath.
She saw the glowing eyes before anything else. The stench of fresh and dried blood commingled with rotten meat. The wind at her back saved her the nauseating reek of necrotic tissue. Sam made herself as small as possible behind the car door.
A series of lightning crashes lit the street. Sam nearly screamed.
It looked like an undead street party, as their chilling groans filled the cold air. There were far too many to count. Sam knew she'd have to find another way to get to get to the radio station.
Sam jumped the fence behind the Holy Redeemer church, whispered a prayer of hope as her sneakered feet splashed down into the muddy grass of Mrs. O'Brien's house— a wonderful, gentle old woman who gave Sam piano lessons. The house stood dark and silent. Sam froze and caught her breath beneath the wide, enclosed front stoop.
She squatted down, taking inventory of her backpack. There were various books, notebooks, pens, pencils, a few dollars in change, her Sony Walkman, and a few cassettes, mostly Miles Davis and The Cure. Eyeing the neighborhood from under the awning, she made sure nothing came her way.
She placed the Walkman's headphones over her ears and smiled, happy to find the batteries still good. The small glow of the dial made it easier to dial in the radio stations. She couldn't explain it, but she'd felt a connection with the old man on the radio over the past few weeks. With the television and electricity being cut off, it was the only contact they'd had with the outside world. It was a truly frightening world, but Sam always was one for being informed and not blindly accepting things as they were perceived.
The continued plodding of raindrops on the canvas awning forced Sam to turn the volume up on the Walkman. Her finger feverishly pushed the dial to 95.1. Her ears filled with the same static she heard back at the house. Not sure of the interference, Sam hung her head, looking out into the swirling winds and sporadic lightning flashes.
“Sorry, Capt. Thanks for everything, Bro,” she mocked the old DJ's gravelly voice, smiling softly, and zipped up her backpack, stood up, ready to make a run for the Armory.
Sam turned to look one last time into the house, letting her fond memories of Mrs. O'Brien fill her tired mind. A blast of thunder shook the stoop and house, lightning filled the yard, and Sam screamed as the bloated, rotting face of her old piano teacher stared at her through the smeared glass of the storm door. Her once, beautiful green eyes had been replaced with the conflicted and familiar red glow.
“Shit!” Sam huffed, fighting for footing on the slippery porch.
Mrs. O'Brien's well-coiffed, white hair hung off-kilter and matted with a dark red that clung to her face and the gaping wound in her neck. The twitching muscles in her jaw and cheek flexed as the old woman tried to chew through the glass window, leaving bloody smears with each fruitless attack.
Sam watched, fought back tears, and mouthed the words, I'm sorry, as she clumsily stepped down the stairs.
The woman punched at the window and stress lines creased the pane, and Sam knew she had to run.
Backpedaling down the walkway toward the street, Sam couldn't look away from the house. Her mind raced and her heart ached. The energy she felt back at her house was long gone. She didn't know if what she was doing made any sense at all. All around her, the world crumbled. The dead were getting up and walking and eating people.
Was this God's plan?
What in the world was the voice in her head, and what the heck happened to her body with all that unexplained energy?
Standing there in the driving, freezing rain, her dead piano teacher smashing through a door, Sam wanted, begged, for an answer from God, the universe, any sign at all.
That's when the radio cracked with static and the voice came back on the air.
“Not sure what happened there, but Capt. Al is back and rockin' and rolling. While the power lasts, I guess. You’re doing okay out there?”
Sam smiled, ran to the street, and looked toward downtown.
Bright lightning flashed, silhouetting the Rochester skyline in an ominous shadow. The large red glowing letters reading KODAK filled the night's sky, and her attention was abruptly caught by from high above. From the tall building just to the east, one lone light breached the darkened sky. It was WSMF.
She thanked God and ran east toward the Genesee River.
21.
Home Sweet Home
South Mill Street.
Arcadia Falls, New York.
A large white painted sign hung from one chain and swung with a hollow squeal in the night breeze that came from Lake Ontario to the north. It read: “Welcome to Arcadia Falls, Where life is golden!” The words were barely visible through the blood-soaked smear of handprints that crisscrossed the Beaver Cleaver-esque hand painted calligraphy.
Arcadia Falls was a small, tightly knit, farming community that prided itself on a wholesome, homespun, homogeneous image. Hardworking folks greeted their neighbors with a smile and a wave, held bake sales, and attended church on Sundays. It had been the perfect picture of small town America that would make Mayberry look like Compton.
Now Main Street was dark and ominous. It was lined with maple trees and cozy houses that ranged from the early 1800s to post-World War II construction. The lawns were once perfectly manicured and pristine picket fences were painted white to match the racial makeup of this 1892 founded town in upstate New York. The quaint town offered far more c
hurches than trees and gave the pious residents ample choices for salvation.
The sporadic shafts of moonlight lit the way for Warren. He turned the truck onto Mill Street. The centuries-old maples formed a haunting canopy over the road. Their finger-like branches reached from one side of the street to the other, creating a sylvan embrace that sent shivers down Warren’s spine. He had been down this street hundreds of times and often got lost in the beauty of the mighty maples. On this night, they were not nearly as welcoming.
The houses seemed sad and empty. There were no signs of life or death. No starving zombies wandered in the black of night. Nothing moved at all. Not even the crickets gave out their nightly chorus. Stillness gripped the night. Dark shadows moved, back and forth, and created elusive and menacing apparitions in the many windows of the silent homes. Warren forced himself to look forward so that he didn’t let his fear and terror take over. He didn’t need to create monsters that weren’t there. The world was full of them already.
There was only one major road that traveled through downtown. All that there was to see in the small town lay on Main Street. As he drove along, there was no sign of movement. Not even the birds flew, which was almost worse, Warren believed as he slowly continued down Mill Street. He brought the truck to a stop in front of an old Victorian style house with its peeling yellow paint hanging from its clapboard siding.
“You still out there, man?” Warren asked out loud. A lump in his throat tightened, and he swallowed hard. The all too familiar reminder of death was never far away, and it never got any easier to handle.
Warren felt tears form in the corner of his eyes and quickly turned back to the road in front.
He remembered talking to Arnie a couple of times the first week or so. Then the phones went. “The bastard was always a scrapper. He'd won the state wrestling title the past two years in a row so he could at least have pinned a few of these damn things,” Warren said, and just uttering the words seemed hollow. What do state titles and that shit matter anymore? He let out a small, forced chuckle and pressed on the gas pedal.