by Thom Erb
“You mortals would call it the state of New York.” The warm voice made Elton stop for a moment and take a calming breath.
“Could you provide a bit more detail, please?” he pleaded, looking anxiously at the creaking boards across the windows.
“Ah, yes. The child is in the upstate New York town of Arcadia Falls. A small town indeed. You should have no problems finding the child,” the voice in Elton’s head told him.
The only sound in the dank room was that of creaking and splintering of wood from the boarded up windows.
“Ah, splendid! That means the evil ones can find the children easily as well!” Elton screamed, kneeling on the mattress.
“You have a head start, good keeper. Use your given magics and you should be there within the hour.” The omnipresent voice trailed off and disappeared.
“It’s never as easy as that!” Elton quibbled.
The window straight across from him exploded with broken pieces of wood. Dozens of reaching, rot-filled hands and arms jutted through the new opening.
The undead shrieked, pried, and tore at the remaining wood to gain entrance. The reek of the dead rushed into the room and thrust bile up into Elton’s throat. Part of him let his thoughts drift to just giving up and resigning to the fact that he would be their midnight snack, but his instinct for survival was strong. He didn’t linger long on the thought of the former. The moans turned to howls of hunger, sorrow, and sadness as he snatched up the backpack he used as a pillow and swung it over his shoulder. He grabbed the two other smaller bags and slung them over his other shoulder. Picking up the automatic rifle lying next to the mattress, he headed for the stairs that led to the roof and a walkway to the building next door.
Sir Elton Reese Habersham III's next destination, a crypt belonging to a once great keeper. The nexus point had been prepared once the child of flame had passed onto another generation.
The next stop: Arcadia Falls Cemetery, New York.
23.
Running Wild in the Streets
Broad and Smith Streets,
Rochester, New York.
The mighty Genesee River raged northward below her as Sam stopped behind a smashed Oldsmobile and Ford truck that blocked the entrance over the bridge that cut the city into two parts. She cursed into the cold air. The bright red letters of WSMF cut through the dark sky, a beacon, taunting her from the other side.
The Armory lay on that side of the river as well, and one way or another, she'd have to find a way over the rushing waters below. Three bridges crossed the river but there was a heck of a lot of dark buildings, and who knew how many monsters waited in the darkness. The driving storm soaked her to the bone, and deep cold chills shook through her like harsh waves. She needed to get out of the rain, and soon. Peering over the two tangled vehicles, the entire bridge was a Tetris-mess of jammed up cars, trucks, ambulances, and even a school bus.
Sam figured she should be able to climb through the jumbled mash and prayed there weren't any of those dead things among the wreckage. The light and thick scent of burning wood mixed with the growing stench of the dead people of the city. The sickening thought made Sam shiver and her stomach to churn.
A load roar split the night, vibrating the street beneath her rain-soaked feet. Several long shafts of light pierced through the darkness and rainfall. Gripping the baseball bat tight in her hands, she searched for a place to hide.
Motorcycle engines echoed off the buildings, drawing closer to Sam and the bridge.
“Oh crap, oh crap, oh crap,” she said, realizing she had nowhere to go.
She estimated over a dozen beams lit up the intersection as they turned toward the bridge. Seeing only one option, she jumped under the Oldsmobile. A sharp pain tore at her arm as she rolled under the car, but she swallowed the pain and clutched the bat and prayed, hoping no one saw her.
The motorcycles came into view and Sam caught her breath. Over two dozen big men on motorcycles came to a stop only ten feet away. The biting pain in her arm throbbed. Looking at it, she caught it on a jagged piece of rusty metal of the car's quarter-panel. “Oh, not good,” She thought, holding a hand over the wound.
Only booted feet could be seen from her spot, and Sam controlled her breathing and continued putting pressure on her arm.
“Well, what now, oh great prodigal son? Think your magical Harley can ride on water?” One guy followed it with a heavy smoker's cough laugh, getting off his motorcycle.
The rest of the bikers shifted uncomfortably, while some laughed.
The biker in the lead, climbed off his bike, and Sam watched his worn, bloodstained combat-booted feet slowly, methodically, make their way to the taunting biker.
They stood close to her; the pungent stench of stale beer, earthy-onion body odor mixed with grease and gasoline burned her nose.
The sea of crisscrossing headlights and violent lightning cast uneven, aggressive shadows on the street before Sam, hiding in the darkness under the old car.
A low grumble ran through the gathered guys on the bikes, and Sam looked for an escape route only to accept the fact that she wasn't going anywhere soon. Recoiling as far as the safety of the car had to offer, she prayed, focused on stanching the blood from the cut on her arm.
The combat boots stopped in front of the questioning biker. “Savior? Yeah, that's pretty hilarious. Funny.” A deep voiced laughed coldly. Sam watched the other set of boots step back.
“Hey, Finn, man, I was just, you know, just busting balls,”
“Oh, I get it. I do. But you see, Sully, I'm getting tired of your bullshit and your rambling mouth. You're worse than a chick. And while I won't beat a girl’s ass, well, I have no problem knocking your pansy-ass dick in the dirt. You read me?”
The other bikers hooted, hollered, and laughed.
“Oh, yeah, man, `course.”
“I'm glad, brother, I am, but we need to square your shit right now before we move one inch further. The club is far more important than any bitch-ass-hurt feelings you might have.” Something bad was about to happen and Sam wanted no part of it. Now was the time to move.
A harsh wind blew through the intersection, and with it, came the foretelling rot of those dead things. The bikers all moved in unison, forming a tight circle around their motorcycles.
Over the panicking din, Sam heard the guy in combat boots. “We need to get to that Armory no matter what bullshit you have with me. Get in line, or you'll find yourself in the Genny, brother. Get me?”
“We cool?”
“Yeah, Finn, we're good.”
“I won't have this talk again.”
It was met with a grunt, and then gunshots filled the air, washing everything else away.
The dead and the living clashed in the raging storm, and Sam used the opportunity to slither out from under the car on the other side and used the shadows to make her way across the bridge, never losing sight of the call-sign letters of Capt. Al's radio station
24.
Losfer Words (Big 'Orra)
South Main Street.
Arcadia Falls, New York.
Warren collapsed against the cold steel of the mailbox and fought to catch his breath. The images from the apartment haunted him, and there was no way of getting away from there fast enough.
He took one last look up at the window of Dex's place, and a violent cold chill shook him from head to toe. Once inside the truck, he dropped it into gear, and Maico cringed away from him, whimpering from the passenger side of the cab.
The air still hung with the same yellowish-green thickness it had for the past few weeks after the attacks. A southwestern breeze kicked up, and the stench of rotting meat filled the empty street. The moon sporadically broke through the rainy haze and created ghostly images on the cracked pavement of Main Street. The rain continued pouring down, stirring the yellow haze that filled downtown.
The baying of a lone dog grew closer.
Warren drove toward The Store and was met with a flurry of licks and
nudges. He scratched the excitable lab behind the ears and knew he would be safer inside the truck, and just needed to try and wrap his mind around what the hell had just happened as he slowly drove down Main Street. The brackish haze mixed with his own inner chaos as he grasped for any handhold on reality. Nothing was forthcoming.
Empty cars stood watch over a silent town, which no longer needed any caretakers. The Ballinger Reality store stood empty, with its two large windows shattered and its contents splayed upon the sidewalk. Broken pieces of several wooden bookcases with reams of potential property listings lined the concrete outside. There are all kinds of property for a steal out there now, he thought and bleakly moved on.
The large blue truck hummed along as Warren continued on his cleansing drive northbound down the barren street of his hometown. Dark clouds rolled in and far off, toward Lake Ontario, lightning flickered and storm clouds gathered.
Warren came upon Kennedy's Drugs and it, too, had its windows shattered upon the damp sidewalk. The moonlight cast dancing figures inside the once familiar store where he had spent many hours and as many dollars. His mom gave him a five dollar a week allowance. It was a far greater payment than his father would ever dream of giving. If his father knew about the secret allowance, Warren would have paid a hefty price with his hide. The old man had no use for less masculine pursuits. That shit was for geeks and fags, his father would say.
Warren smiled, remembering spending hours perusing, drooling, and pawing at the latest issues of Marvel and DC comics offerings.
A raindrop splattered the windshield and, for an instant, Warren felt tempted to stop in and see what comics were left on the stands, but something in him burned with a sense of resolution and embarrassment. I guess I don’t have time for such childish crap anymore. His hands tightened on the steering wheel, and he turned his attention back to the street ahead and the hopes of finding food and supplies. That was his priority. He hoped the rain would hide the pooling tears in his eyes.
Lightning danced all around and cold sprinkles hit the pavement, causing yellowish steam to rise into the cold June air. An all-encompassing heaviness rode on the chilling breeze making its way down Main Street. The empty buildings on both sides created a funnel that forced the wind directly toward the truck, causing Warren to sweat in the oddly, cold night.
The Store sign hung by a steel pole above the front door and creaked in the increasing wind. The glass was missing from the door and, like all the other buildings on the street, it was pitch black. Empty soda cans and food containers littered the street in front of the mom and pop store.
Warren parked the truck in front so its headlights shone into the store.
“Okay, buddy, hate to do this to you again, but you have to stay here.” He kissed Maico on the snout. The obviously insulted pooch indignantly pulled away and stared out the window toward the elementary school.
“Fine. Bastard. If I wanted to be treated like that, I'd get a girlfriend,” Warren said, trying to force a smile. Grabbing the shotgun, he hopped out of the truck and approached the front of the store.
Adjusting his eyes, his pupils dilated in reaction to the sudden bright light. He raised the shotgun and disappeared into the store.
Inside the trashed store, Warren found ransacked shelves and empty coolers. The wooden floor was covered with broken glass, destroyed soda and milk bottles, and all kinds of garbage. He made his way along the parameter of the store and found nothing. Then something caught his eye.
On the ground was a form, a body. He raised the shotgun, taking aim at its head. He waited for it to rise and smile its black-toothed grin of death and hunger. After a few intense seconds, it didn’t move or make a sound. The lights from the truck lit the barren coolers behind Warren and the ambient light shone down on the lifeless form.
Warren approached the body cautiously, gave it a kick, and stepped back, fearing and praying it would stay dead. It did. He looked closer and saw it was Jerry Cramer, the old man who owned the store. He was in his usual white collared shirt, suspenders, and blue work pants.
Warren knelt, pulled the flashlight out, and turned it on. There was a pool of coagulated blood surrounding the man, and Warren was careful not to get any on his bare skin.
He traced the light from the dead man’s shoes, up his urine and feces-stained work pants, then the blood-soaked shirt, and finally onto his face. Warren gasped and dropped the flashlight, and it splattered in the inch-thick blood. Mr. Cramer had no face. It was blown clean off, and what remained of his head now painted the empty Hostess display behind him.
Warren shook his head in sadness and disgust. Mr. Cramer must have been defending his store when the looters came in, a Louisville Slugger just a few feet away from his lifeless left hand.
“Jesus, man,” Warren whispered. His stomach performed circus-like feats, and his gag-reflex kicked in once again. He liked the old shopkeeper. Mr. Cramer would let Warren come in on his weekly comic book trips and let him have free Diet Cokes. Warren would love to listen to the old veteran talk about his time in World War II, and about how he and the Big Red One fought off those “kraut bastards in the Ardennes.” Not many kids of Warren’s generation gave a shit about history or the sacrifices made. Warren did, and he had a feeling Mr. Cramer knew it and rewarded him handsomely with sodas and junk food.
Tears formed in his puffy red eyes. He swore he would have to run out of tears sometime, yet somehow they kept coming. He stood, deciding to leave the flashlight in the sticky blood. He gave the old vet a sad salute, smiled, and walked toward the door.
He walked with his head down and noticed a few bags of Doritos and Funyuns behind the counter. He grabbed them up and shoved them in his backpack. He remembered that Mr. Cramer always had a secret stash of soda put aside, solely for him, underneath the counter. He smiled softly and reached over the splintered counter and his hand found a six-pack of cans. He smiled as his tears splashed down on the wooden counter top.
The roars of loud diesel engines broke the silence of the wrecked store, and Warren turned to look outside. The light from the truck blinded Warren as he exited the store. He couldn’t see past the harsh lights of the halogen headlights, but he could sense something was wrong.
He heard Maico let out a loud, piercing bark, followed by a shrill yelp. Warren dropped the soda to the floor, swung the shotgun off his shoulder, and walked slowly to the door.
A sudden blast of light blinded him. Then twangs of Hank Williams Jr. and mocking laughter filled his ears.
25.
The Weight
West Main Street.
Rochester, New York.
Once she was on the other side of the bridge, and free of the multitude of abandoned and mangled vehicles, Sam tried to put the thought of the bikers behind. Her headphones crackled with Capt. Al’s comforting voice. She spotted a bus waiting station, its once, see-through plastic walls plastered with cardboard and newspapers.
Checking that the way was clear, Sam ran through a small torrent of mud puddles, not stopping until she made it inside the shelter.
“Hey, good family. Capt. Al, still hanging in here, high atop the Kodak Building. Yup, there must be some kinda god out there that is still payin’ attention. Well, ahem, the power is still hanging in there, but I can tell it won’t be long before this whole rig goes tits up. So, that last I heard, it’s safe to head to the Army National Guard Armory down there on Main Street. Good ol’ Jimmy’s got food, drink, and most of all, good, strong walls to keep those flesh-eating’ bastards out!”
Sam heard the sadness seep through the DJ’s rough voice that tried so desperately to offer hope. She looked at the bright letters of the radio station in the distance, and then turned her gaze in the direction of the Armory. Casting off a long cold chill, Capt. Al spoke again.
“Times are looking pretty grim for this old paratrooper, but don’t you ever give up! Don’t ever let those mofo's ever getchya down! Just always remember, even at the end of the world, my brot
hers and sisters, all we need is love and just a little bit of hope...”
A long pause filled her headphones, “and maybe that's a little bit of herb and a whole lot of,” The Band’s “The Weight” began to play, grew louder, then static crackled, filling Sam's ears.
Sam sat a long while, hunkered down inside the bus shelter. Holding the baseball bat extended out in front of her, she sat down on the cold bench and stared into the rain, watching as the sky slowly lightened with the morning's futile attempt to overtake the impenetrable night.
“What now, Sammie-big-shot?” the sound of her own voice startled her. The shelter reminded her of her cat, Rosie's litter box back home. Especially when Katie or Bobby forgot to do their weekly chores for a few weeks in a row. The fresh memory stung her, and she fought back more tears. The ammonia and feces stench made it a much easier feat to crush down the grief. For now, she thought.
A cruel, whipping wind tore through the small shelter, bringing a stinging wash of rain with it. The roar of motorcycles came from a distance, sounding closer now. Sam knew she couldn't stay there very long.
“They're all gone. Bobby, Katie...Ab...” She burst out into a sobbing fit as her tears matched the driving rain. Fighting to regain control, Sam searched deep inside and turned to what had always given her solace and hope: Prayer.
Placing the bat on the ground, Sam turned the music up on her Walkman, knelt, and folded her shivering hands in prayer and closed her eyes.
“Father, I—”
Sam jumped as a bony hand gripped her shoulder, and then whipped her around.
“Nice place ya got her, little lady. Any more room at the inn?” She recognized the voice as the biker, Sully.
Sam cringed as more shadows filled the bus shelter.
“Please, Father,” she prayed.
26.
A Country Boy Can Survive
The Store