The Last in Line

by Thom Erb

  What's this, then?” Elton mumbled.

  “Shssshhhh,” Warren held a forefinger to his mouth and shook his head. “Shit, I'd forgotten about this.”

  The DJ told of a safe haven, a place where all survivors were welcome. It was the National Guard Armory in nearby Rochester. The potential place of safety filled Warren with hope.

  “This sounds good.” Warren looked out the windshield and saw Dex had pulled over along Buffalo Street. Warren pulled alongside. “Roll the window down, would you?”

  Elton looked around for a second, dazed, then caught the gist and found the knob and rolled the window down.

  Dex shouted through the storm, “You listening to the radio?”

  Warren leaned over Maico, who just grunted and kept snoring. “Yeah, Capt. Al?”

  “I love that dude.” Arnie laughed.

  Dex shot Arnie a tired look and turned back to Warren. “Yeah, I'm thinking if the Army has things secure, man, we should head there.”

  “The young lad is correct. We need to find the most secure and safest place possible. We will be followed.” Elton adjusted his hat and looked at Warren.

  “Yeah, whatever, Dio,” Dex said, “Warren, you got enough gas to make it to the city?”

  Warren looked at the dash and nodded. “Yeah, I'm good to go. In Dad's anal-retentive fashion, the tanks in the back are full. At least that's something good, right?”

  Dex looked around and dropped the car into gear. “No kidding. Okay, cool. Follow me. If you have any problems, flash your high-beams.”

  “You got it, man,” Warren said.

  Dex flashed a quick, tentative smile and sped off into the dark night toward Route 21.

  “Your friend has a wee bit of a short temper, yeah?” Elton said.

  “Well, it's been a long day. We need to talk. Man, I have a boat-load of questions,” Warren said following the Camaro.

  Elton gently petted Maico's head and smiled. “Son, the world is about to get a wee bit larger. I pray to the Great Creator I have the opportunity to explain it to you all.”

  The storm kicked and punched the small town as the two vehicles pushed through the rain-filled roads.

  “Me too,” Warren said, keeping his eye on the rearview mirror.

  “Wait...who?” Warren's head turned on a swivel at the tired, grinning man.

  It was almost an hour drive to Rochester and Warren’s overloaded imagination kicked into overdrive.

  46.

  Dancing In the Streets

  Broad and East Main Street,

  Rochester, New York.

  “Get your hands off me, you jerk.” Sam swung the baseball bat at the biker, who retreated and laughed. The harsh sideways wind sent his wild hair flitting and whipping like bright red flames chasing oxygen.

  “Hot damn. Easy now, kitten. I ain't gonna hurt you.” Sully held his long arms out wide, a cruel smirk on his hairy face.

  Sam noticed the shotgun strapped across his back and choked up on the bat.

  “Leave me alone!” She held the bat high.

  Off in the distance, the hungry growl of the dead threatened, and the lanky biker cocked an eyebrow in their direction and turned back to Sam, hiding inside the bus shelter.

  “Well, kitten, we don't have much time. Why don't you drop the pine and come on out. We aren’t going to hurt ya. Me and the boys can offer you safety and food. Nobody's gonna fuck with us.” The twisted grin never left his thin face. “I swear, we ain't gonna hurt you.” He held his bony hand up in a Boy Scout gesture.

  Sam's nose curled as the thick rotted stench of putrid flesh blew down the street and wafted inside the shelter. She covered her mouth in the crook of her elbow as her gag-reflex caught, then relented. She must be getting used to it. The nightmarish concept made her nearly burst out in tears. The red-headed scarecrow glaring at her forced that thought away with the chill draft.

  “Yeah, right. You sure don't look like any Boy Scout I’ve ever seen,” Sam said.

  It was getting obvious to Sam this Sully-guy was getting leery of the slowly approaching dead, but the cocky grin never wavered.

  “Look, kid, I don't have time to screw around. Those biter-bitches are getting too close for my liking, and I am offering you a way out of here. What the hell you so afraid of?” he said as he slipped the shotgun off his shoulder.

  “Little, ol' me?” Sully racked the slide.

  Sam felt sweat soak through her clothes, and the frigid temperature caused her skin to prickle with tiny darts of pain. “You?” Several shadows appeared on the pavement in front of the shelter. More of them were coming from behind the shelter as well. A lot of them.

  Her pulse raced and beads of cold sweat ran down her face. “Heck, no. Just leave me alone, okay. I'm fine.”

  “Sorry, kitten. I just can't do that.” Sully's beady eyes twitched and he motioned with the barrel of the twelve gauge.

  A flurry of motion filled the entrance to the shelter as more bikers rushed her, and she heard herself scream, while she swung the bat.

  The bikers grabbed at her. They yanked her bat away as laughter and gunshots filled the shelter

  Then the roar of a several engines and a flurry of gunshots turned everything into a deadly blur.

  The Plexiglas panel behind Sam exploded into dozens of pieces with a shotgun round, and she didn't waste a second. Two of her attackers rolled off her and grunted in pain, landing on the concrete.

  She risked a look down at the pile of bikers writhing at her feet and caught the barrel of a shotgun and snatched it up, smashing through the remaining bit of the shelter's plastic wall.

  There's wasn't any time to deliberate or contemplate. Nothing. She grabbed the gun and disappeared behind the smashed RTS bus, and didn't stop running until the loud shouts of the living, growls of the dead, and the deadly promise of gunshots were but a faint echo as she escaped into the storm.

  47.

  Mutiny on the World

  The United States Armory, New York Army National Guard HQ 2nd BN 142ND Ava

  Main Street. Rochester, New York.

  “Hello? Hey, Capt. Al...you there?” Corporal Ben “Eddie” Moreno slammed the phone's receiver down. He'd been in contact with the DJ since the rest of his unit bugged out, and the old guy was passing along the message about the Armory accepting civilians. But there hadn't been any answer at the station for the better part of the day. Ben didn't like that at all.

  “Guess his generator must have finally run out of fuel. Ah shit.” He took a deep breath and slumped into the large leather chair that once belonged to his commanding officer. It had been a long few months, and he was relieved to finally have reached the DJ. Between seventy-five to one hundred civilians had found their way to the Armory, and that surprised him. As much as he hoped the old Army depot could sustain a lot of people, what made them think it would be safer than any other place? He was tired of questions. He was tired of it all. He never signed up to be Sgt. York, for Christ’s sake. His MOS was a generator mechanic. What the hell did he know about disaster relief, civilization rebuilding, and repelling dead people with spooky red eyes, who also had a bad habit of eating living human flesh? All that this high school drop out with a GED wanted to do was get out of his small town, Savannah, New York; get some cash for college; and the Army National Guard was the answer. Now he found himself being the commanding officer, the only soldier left, in reality, and nursemaid to needy civilians. He was dying for an ice-cold Budweiser, but there was none to be found. It must truly be the end of the world.

  The air in the office was stale and smelt of B.O. It had been a long time since he'd washed his funky smelling BDUs. The smell of sweat was the least of his problems. His commanding officer: Major Preston Robert Talbot, hightailed it after the first day. The rest of the platoon left to be with their families shortly after. That left just his sorry ass to take care of things. He was physically exhausted. His bright red hair was in dire need of a cut. His beard was starting to fill his thin
face completely. He leaned forward, and his elbows hit the desk. He rubbed his eyes in hopes it would bring him some instant wisdom that would save the world. He chuckled at the thought and let his head thud onto the oak desk. Outside the office, the redundant murmur of conversation of the civilians flowed up from the large hall below. They'd been going on and on for hours, debating the government conspiracies, the Russian, or Muslim's plans to invade the U.S., and to the extreme of blaming the homosexuals for spreading the disease of the walking dead. He couldn’t take much more bullshit. All Corp. Moreno wanted to do was run away. Short of that, he'd gladly accept a divine miracle. Either way, he knew he was screwed.

  “Join the Army, they said. Be all you can be, they said.” Ben raised both arms high and flipped both birds at the picture of Ronald Reagan on the wall.

  “Go to hell, Ronnie. You, Nancy, and that goddamn monkey, too! I sure as shit didn't sign up for this.”

  Loud shouts rushed up into the commander's office, and Ben let out a defeated sigh.

  “Well, corporal...oh, wait, I mean Colonel Moreno, time to go make the donuts.” Ben sat up and wearily looked at the door, and his entire body felt like someone parked a deuce and a half on him.

  “Be all you can be, my ass. Have a jelly bean and shut the hell up,” he said to Ronnie and tried to ignore the ruckus down below.

  * * *

  Seth Hollarmen leaned his chubby body against the fender of the dust-covered Humvee. His flushed, portly jowls shook as he talked. A small crowd of refugees from all over the city watched and listened intently.

  “It’s the gays that started this whole blasted crisis, I tell you.” He nodded his head in agreement, and his chins kept agreeing long after his head stopped moving. The captive audience reciprocated the sentiment with encouraging hoots and clapping.

  “Man shall not lie with man,” someone offered from the crowd.

  “God hates that!” another person finished the quote with an arrogant tone. The rest of the rowdy crowd echoed the comment in pious agreement.

  “It’s this evil act that has brought the end times upon us, and we need to repent and cleanse the world of such sin and its sinners,” the fat man commanded as he pounded his broad fist on the green fender of the Humvee. The crowd responded with a roar, and more of the refugees filed in to hear what was going on. The engaging sycophant had them right where he wanted them and beamed with the victory.

  No one in the crowd knew who the man in the “What Would Jesus Do?”T-shirt and well-worn tan slacks was, but they were drawn to him like a siren’s call. The large Army truck turned pulpit was the craggy rock upon which they were about to crash. Much like the ancient story foretold, they paid no heed and they, too, crashed on the rocks and their souls were lost.

  “Amen, brother.”

  “Speak the truth!”

  “Praise God, mister!”

  “Hells yes!”

  A veritable wave of praise and aggressive affirmations only emboldened the self-proclaimed preacher.

  “That's right. That's right. God has long been ignored, and the Lord doesn't take too kindly to being ignored, am I right, friends?” Seth nodded and responded with a high five to one of his new followers.

  The crowd reached a fevered pitched when the cavernous bay erupted in a blinding flash of red light. Panicked screams of terror followed.

  Corp. Moreno sat up straight as the harsh foul stench of what reminded him of sulfur and rotten meat reached him. Then the screams of agony and pain followed. Without hesitation, the part-time soldier donned his Kevlar helmet took a deep breath, grabbed his M-16, and ran for the door.

  * * *

  Seth Halloran’s moment of orgasmic, pious ecstasy ended when his still blathering head was severed from his bulbous frame. It, along with a spray of rich blood, rolled to the concrete floor, leaving a trail like a well-shot deer. His face wore a dead expression of hate and anger. The Knights continued with their grim work.

  The undead knights spread out and wielded their blades with deadly precision. The only color in the Armory was that of red. Blood ruled the night, and every living human's soul was coldly cast to the abyssal realm of Hell, all in the name of their demon master.

  When Corp. Moreno reached the bottom rung of the metal stairs, every single living person in the Armory had been, or was, in the brutal process of being ripped to shreds. The carnage before him made him spasm with revulsion. MRE vomit spewed from his mouth. He fell to his knees.

  Body parts littered the bay. Severed arms on the gray concrete gripped at the air; severed heads rolled and still wore the expression of pain and death. No human escaped the Knight’s attacks. The smell of death and brimstone permeated the air, and blood carpeted the cold floor.

  The bullets from his M-16 riddled a black-cloaked knight as it split a six-year-old girl in half. Her small body fell to the ground with a slick thud, and the coppery smell of blood filled the Corporals’ nostrils. The dark knight fell slack, and its body and weapons dropped into the gore.

  Corp. Moreno ejected the spent magazine from his M-16 and reloaded. All around him lay the fresh dead. This wasn’t supposed to be his weekend. This wasn’t supposed to be his duty. The frazzled guardsman was so lost in his frustration and exhaustion he never noticed the eleven ebony-clad knights surrounding him.

  “The Child of Light, where is it?” the cold chorus said.

  Corp. Moreno fought to form an organized thought, and when it didn't happen, he emptied his clip into the crowd of undead Knights. One of them collapsed from the fury of rounds sent into its body.

  He let out a big hoorah and reloaded his M-16, then took aim at his next target. The next sound was that of his gung-ho bravado being ripped from his bones.

  * * *

  The Armory became dark, silent.

  Horrific shrieking laughter seeped into every crevice and corner of the lifeless military complex. Only a Humvee, four deuce and halves, and other vehicles bore witness to the Knights rummaging through the carnage, sniffing the bloody and disemboweled corpses. They all acted as one and thrust their swords pointed to the sky, and let out a soul-stealing shriek. They didn’t find what they had come for; however, their abyssal magic told them their prey grew closer.

  “We shall wait, brothers. The Child shall come to us. Let us prepare.” The largest knight’s steely words echoed off the cold walls.

  48.

  Reach Out

  Downtown, Rochester, New York.

  Sam didn't stop running until her lungs burned and her legs felt numb. The shotgun in her hand felt like an anvil. She found shelter under an overturned pickup and smiled at the sight of the war memorial standing ominously before her. The stuffy, early summer air wafted down Main Street. The air from Lake Ontario that once provided the populous of Rochester with cool, refreshing air, now filled with the stench of rotting garbage and the rot of thousands. The incessant rain did little to cut down on the revolting air.

  The street before her was gridlocked with abandoned and some populated cars. Oddly, there were no signs of movement or the undead. Just dead corpses that spent their last moments on this mortal earth stuck in traffic. A light drizzle turned into a full-fledged storm as she looked at the horror all around.

  A loud squawking above her caused Sam to shrink back into the shadows of the upturned Dodge Ram. A cloud of black crows filled the sky. The engorged ravens circled and rode the freezing winds and descended onto the mass of cars and started to snack on the buffet of flesh that was left to rot in the early summer sun.

  Sam knew she must push forward to the radio station. Not wanting to become dessert for the ravenous crows, she ran between the cars and came to a stop at the next intersection.

  The intersection of Main and Court Street stood before her, and long lines of silent cars kept her cold company as the murder of feasting crows behind her crunched loudly. The sickening sound echoed off the tall office buildings. She surveyed the scene, and an overwhelming sense of loss filled her as she realize
d this horrifically morbid scene must have been replicated in every city and town across the godforsaken globe. The dead lingered among the countless vehicles that littered the streets and some of the crumpled wrecks still smoldered. Glass from shattered windows covered the sidewalks. Bodies, some burnt, some half-eaten, filled her vision. Sam stared and wept. So much death and evil were too much for one soul to bear. Her love for God and Jesus Christ was strong, but even this was testing her resolve. So much death and loss changed, distorted her world. Evil had won, and something very bad was coming. Even something worse than flesh-eating people.

  Sam shook her head with disgust at the thought of what the terrorists called the dirty bombs. Sanctity. Who gave them the right to claim what is holy and righteous? She held back a scream and punched the fender of one of the cars next to her. Hot tears of rage and grief filled her, then something spoke deep inside her. These Middle Eastern monsters were not responsible for this apocalyptic attack on the world. In her heart of hearts, she knew it went far deeper than just anti-Judea-Christian hatred that caused the world to end. Of that, Sam was certain.

  She took a cleansing breath and let it out. The thoughts of Capt. Al came back to her, and she felt the need to focus. He needed her.

  Opening her pack, she pulled out her walkman and switched it on. She smiled and welcomed the comforting gruff DJ’s voice.

  “Hey! Hey, good family. This is Capt. Al, still hanging in there, 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, last I heard, it’s safe to head to the National Guard Armory on Main Street. Good ol’ Jimmy’s got food, drink and, most of all, good, strong motherhuckin’ walls to keep those flesh-eatin' things out!” The sadness coming from the radio couldn’t be denied. Behind the DJ’s voice came crashing and pounding sounds. The DJ shouted something Sam couldn't make out, and then static filled the radio.

  49.