The Last in Line

by Thom Erb

  A sea of cursing bounced off the hard surface of the walls and provided a blurry soundtrack to the movements in the bed.

  “It seems Master Lee nearly went arse-over-tea-kettle out of the vehicle,” Elton surmised, all the while sipping from his grungy flask.

  The truck swayed side-to-side. Warren turned into the spin, and the side of the truck careened off an orange detour barrel and serendipitously righted the rear-end, sending Dex slamming into Arnie in a tangled mass of shouts and swear words. Warren watched through the side mirror.

  “Nope. They're right as the rain now. Good on you, top notch driving, young lad.” Elton slapped Warren on the shoulder and chuckled.

  Warren fought with the steering wheel and the hefty dog climbing into his lap. “Maico, come on.”

  Elton chortled, and then stifled it down. “Yes. Indeed. A few bumps and bruises, mayhap, but otherwise, no worse for wear from my vantage point.” Elton gently coerced the panicked lab from Warren's lap and brought him to his own.

  Warren finally got the truck under control and thanked any and all gods who may be listening as continued up the levels of the garage, always keeping an eye out for the slow-moving mob of undead things behind them.

  “Why do those things keep following us?” Warren asked, wiping the sweat from his face with a free hand.

  Before Elton could answer, they turned a corner and more clamoring undead clogged their path.

  “Jesus Christ,” Warren said, speeding up.

  A sickening wave of overwhelming rot and festering flesh surrounded them. Warren turned the plow to the left, casting the once-living citizens of the city into the air. Bodies landed with a grotesque squish on the many parked cars or against the cold cement walls of the parking garage.

  Warren gagged but kept driving until the floor leveled out and a clear space loomed before them. Bright red taillights pierced through the gloaming darkness and shone on a wave of undead battering at a parked van with living people inside.

  “Well, isn't this just a pickle?” Elton said.

  Warren said, “You can say that again.”

  “Oh, well, isn't this a pi—” Elton started

  Maico let out a sharp bark.

  “Right,” Elton said.

  A flurry of motion in the back window of the van caught Warren's attention. It was a dark-haired girl fighting off a bunch of those things. His heart raced as she looked to be yelling at someone else in the van. Not a zombie. It was then he caught the stickers on the dirty back windows. Capt. Al's Drop Zone, WSMF. Long Live Rock n' Roll, Keep on Truckin’, and a slew of Army and Vietnam veteran stickers. It had to be the DJ, Warren convinced himself.

  The dead surrounded and battered the upturned van in ranks at least three deep. One of the zombies smashed through one of the back windows and the rest of the rotting rabble rushed for the opening, like a great white shark busting through a diver’s cage. They smelled blood in the water.

  He heard a few gunshots and knew he needed to do something.

  “Hold on, guys,” Warren shouted, then positioned the blade of the plow dipping left and hit the accelerator in the right sight of the group of undead.

  The 454-engine’s whine mixed with the squeal of rubber on cement and scraping of metal. The left tip of the plow dug into the floor and pushing the mass of bodies away from the van in a gory, blood-filled arc.

  Warren didn’t stop until the truck reached the far end of the parking garage wall, pinning some of the undead against the wall and sending the remaining bodies tumbling over the cement walls onto the street below.

  Warren saw Elton pull Maico close as the spray of gore spread over the cab of the truck and splashed upon the tailgate with a disgusting whoosh.

  Maico whimpered.

  “Easy, buddy.” Warren offered Maico a quick pet and tried to calm the aging canine’s nerves. Warren tried to see into the van and saw two people, maybe three. It was hard to tell.

  Dex pounded on the roof of the cab, “What are we doing, man?”

  “There are people in the van. We have to help them,” Warren responded.

  “Well, ain't that just perfect,” Warren heard the frustration in his best friend's voice. He knew Dex was still agitated, and rightfully so, but he had come here to find the DJ and no matter what, they were here now.

  “We'll make it quick, man.” Warren dropped the truck into reverse, and the only thing that happened was the big tires spun in the thick blood and goo of the undead beneath them.

  “I don't believe that is very quick, Master Warren,” Elton chided, looking all around the parking garage.

  “Shit.” Warren trounced down on the gas pedal, but all he was doing was wasting gas.

  Arnie screamed from the bed of the truck. “Holy shit, dude. They're here, man!”

  “Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.” Warren shifted from reverse into drive again and again. Nothing happened, save the foul-smelling spray of mutilated human flesh churning into a soupy chum with each revolution of the tires.

  Elton said, “I do hate to add to the gravity of the situation, young squire, but it seems some of Orcus's spawn are peeling off the van and headed our way.”

  “Come on, man!” Dex begged from the bed.

  “I'm trying, I'm trying,” Warren shouted back.

  Any possible light the ramp offered was swiftly, hungrily swallowed as the swarm of undead staggered and lumbered toward the truck.

  56.

  Roadblock

  Kodak/WSMF Parking Garage

  Rochester, N.Y.

  Sam yanked her arm free, but the blood kept running from her wound. She knew the shotgun was about empty and she needed more shells, or anything, to keep these hellish creatures at bay.

  She thrust the stock of the shotgun into the jaw of her attacker, sending it back into the thrashing mob. A bright light burst through the darkness, the zombies all turned to face the new stimuli and she acted quickly, closing the van’s door.

  “Hey, Mr. Al, someone's coming!” Sam shielded her eyes from the bright headlights washing the area in a harsh white light, threatening to blind her as she found an American flag bandana and used it as a tourniquet on her arm.

  “If they're driving a vehicle and breathing honest to goodness air, I'm gonna count that as a win-win,” Capt. Al bellowed from the driver's seat.

  “I hope so.” Sam fired the last shot into the frenzied mob as they groaned, and their gaze shifted to the roaring truck that sped into the throng. The gruesome crunching of bone and splattering of flesh filled the cavernous garage. A Jackson Pollack-esque pattern of blood painted the concrete wall beyond the van, and the hands that once grabbed at Sam dropped lifeless to the ground. The congealed blood sprayed out as their hosts fell to the ground with a dead thud.

  “I’m guessin' they’re the good guys, darlin’,” Capt. Al hooted. “Call it a hunch or wishful thinkin’.”

  The thought sent a violent shiver through Sam's body, and she tried to shove the image from her tired mind.

  “Not yet at least.” Capt. Al honked the horn in celebration.

  “What are you doing, you...you–” Sam scolded as the shot-gun clicked empty, as two more two sets of bony hands reached wildly through the shattered window. Their haunting red eyes were glaring through the darkened garage.

  “We need to get out of here.” Sam bashed the butt of the shotgun at the hands gripping through the shattered window.

  “Maybe you're right,” Capt. Al admitted.

  Sam heard the van’s transmission clunk into gear as bright headlights broke the dark garage, illuminating the horrific sight of the torn faces and bodies of the undead all around the back of the van.

  Then came the welcoming sounds of the roaring engine, that only seem to rile the already frenzied zombies that sought to extricate the living from the van, as they pushed even harder, back and forth. Their chants still filled their ears and chilled their souls. Fear filled Sam, but she held firm.

  “I think they’re here to sav
e us, Mr. Al!” Sam shouted. Al punched the steering wheel in frustration. Sam’s faith may have been shaken, but with the appearance of the potential rescuers, something told her it couldn't have been just a coincidence. While she had faith in Christ, she had never witnessed such evil, such vileness up-close. Satan's spawn was here on Earth and close to winning. The sudden realization made her heart ache with rapid sharp pangs; her mind frantically sought for purchase on anything resembling reality.

  A violent force jolted the entire van. It rocked back and forth, and with a sudden jerking motion, it rolled onto the passenger side with a loud crunching sound echoed off the cement walls.

  All the contents of the van showered down on Sam and Capt. Al, including a myriad of weed paraphernalia, eight-track tapes, and a pistol battered them and were scattered about the van. The inside looked like a white haze of fog as it crashed on its side from the force of the moaning horde.

  Sam rolled and snagged up the pistol, tucking it into the waistband of her jeans.

  Capt. Al yelped in pain, and Sam fell against the side of the van and tried to keep her senses about her. It wasn't working.

  Sam tossed aside a finely woven red and yellow tapestry and saw an M-16 assault rifle slam into Al’s face with a popping sound. Al’s body went slack with the strike, and he let out a groan.

  “Mother— What the hell?” he belted out as he rubbed his swollen eye. “Ah, that’s where I put that damned thing,” Capt. Al muttered and grabbed the assault rifle.

  “Better late than never, Mr. Al.” Sam smiled at him, and Al smiled back. The DJ reminded Sam of a pirate, with his graying black beard and squinting eye. The moment of levity was shattered by the van being shaken ferociously and the calls of the undead pounding and tearing at the doors and windows.

  The zombies bashed and kicked at the windshield. Several small spider web crack as a dark brown Rockport dress shoe punctured the glass.

  “What are we going to do?” Sam shouted. She hated the fear and panic that filled her and tried to force it back down.

  “Easy, kid.” The expression on Capt. Al's face told Sam all she needed to know. She took a deep breath and turned quickly toward the sound of the glass and let the panic leave her body like a wave with the stale air from her lungs.

  Sam watched the DJ as he groped over the M-16, making sure all was in working order. She noticed the words “Janis” painted on the stock of the rifle.

  “Don't you worry, honey. My precious lady will get our asses out here, dee dee mow.” Capt Al shot her a wink and a smile. “This sweet little broad hasn't let me down yet.” He chortled, pulled the cocking lever back, and it snapped into its proper position. He smiled wide beneath his thick-bearded face. “Just hang loose,” Capt. Al said. “Has your Captain let you down yet?” He looked back at Sam with a deadly serious stare and pointed a stubby forefinger in her direction.

  Sam tried to put on a brave face and climbed out from the pile of contraband. “If you say so.” Her voice rose in an uneasy tone. She stood, pulled the large pistol, and aimed it at the dress shoe as it came bashing, repeatedly at the ever-increasing webbed glass of the windshield.

  Loud thumping sounds filled the van as the dead things scaled onto the top of the overturned van and pounded on the driver’s side window and doors.

  “You just have your shit wired tight and carry my sorry ass outta here when those fuckers breach this tin can. Got it!” Capt. Al finished. It wasn’t a question. Sam shook her head and prayed he had a plan.

  A loud crash came from the front of the van. Thousands of glass shards filled the van and the hardy DJ didn't seem fazed one bit at the first flesh-hungry zombie that peered in through the windshield, with its swollen, decayed face.

  “We've come for the Child. Give it to—” A loud popping sound filled the van as the DJ fired his rifle. It was the last thing the vile creature did before its right eye socket disappeared and it fell to the concrete with a pulpy thud.

  “One down.” Capt. Al laughed as he gripped the rifle tighter. “Come on, you sick sonsofbitches. That all you got?”

  “Umm, Mr. Al...” Sam pointed out the front of the van with the barrel of her pistol.

  The pounding surrounding the front of the van grew deafening as bloody hands reached in and yanked the remaining piece of the windshield out with a shattering shudder.

  “Oh, shiznit!” Capt. Al jumped as more of the growling dead yanked the driver’s side door above him from its hinges with a deafening creak.

  The next few seconds were a blur of sound and sight as the sickening miasma of death, blood rotted flesh and gnashing teeth filled the space where the windshield had been seconds before. A rush of putrid arms and faces poured through the front window and Sam screamed.

  57.

  Mystery

  Kodak/WSMF Parking Garage

  Rochester, N.Y.

  “Holy crap.” Warren watched the wave of dead-things pounding on the upturned van. Their vile cries bounced off the cold wall.

  The relentless dead pounded on the van, and howled, desperately trying to get inside, as the roar of the truck's engine drew some of their attention away from the precarious vehicle.

  “This isn't good. No, not at all,” Elton muttered and began digging into one of his sacks.

  The groaning undead and the smooshing of bodies under the weight of the four-wheel-drive truck created a grotesque cacophony, and Warren wished he'd put in one of his Dio or Rush cassettes or something. Anything but the horrific calls and gross destruction of human beings under the crushing wheels of the Chevy.

  “Warren, they're too many of `em. We have to get the hell out of here, man!” Dex pounded on the top of the cab.

  Arnie's scared voiced agreed. “Yeah, dude. This is bad. We can't help them. We're going to get ki—”

  The truck’s tires slipped and spun, not getting any traction. “Shit!” Warren cried out.

  The four-by-four's tires sunk deep in the bloody mire, immersed in the throng of undead. The large plow cleared the zombies instead of deep snow. It grew slick, with thick gallons of dark red blood, and sinew and chunks of hamburger-like flesh. Warren held Maico tightly as soon as the truck came to a lurching halt. The old dog let out a low whimper but didn’t fight back.

  “Time to shit or get, man!” Dex shouted and fired into the oncoming dead.

  “I'm up, my boy. If you're the praying type, I do hear the Great Creator is a bloody huge fan.” Elton squeezed Warren's shoulder, offered him a wry smile, and even gave Maico's furry head a quick tussle. “Keep an eye on him, Sir Maico.”

  “Wait...what the...where you going?” Warren asked as Elton opened the door and hopped down, adjusted the hat on his head, and sauntered toward the dead surrounding the rocking van, while some split off, heading toward the truck.

  Warren sat in shock as he watched the stranger in the funny hat walk deliberately toward the dead. The clamoring dead turned toward Elton, and some of the rancid forms lifted their rotted heads in the direction of the truck. Their burning red eyes looked their way and they called for the Child of Light.

  58.

  Don't Bring Me Down

  Kodak/WSMF Parking Garage

  Rochester, N.Y.

  Elton first sensed the celestial essence within Warren back at the school, and once they crested the rise of the parking garage, another powerful Aether wave struck him. It was a second Child of Light. Now, here he was, potentially the last living Keeper of the Eternal Flame and there were two, the last remaining flames of the Great Creator within fifty yards of one another. It was a blessing and a horrific disaster, all in one shite-filled place.

  With that grave realization, Elton’s heart sank into a blackened pit of panic and fear. Had he allowed the Child of Light, now Children, to be brought right into the throat of the demon? Now was not the time for self-flagellation or useless admonishment. Time was of the essence, and if they all lived, there would be plenty of time to drink himself into a self-loathing stupor.

&
nbsp; As the Keeper walked toward the van, arms raised wide, eyes closed, he began to utter the ancient language of the Aether as the horrid cry of the undead fought to drown him out. It surely would ascend out into the rest of the city and frightfully beyond. If he didn’t do something, within a short period, there would be millions of undead chasing after them.

  Elton knew the Child of Light was their aim, and they wouldn't stop until the Eternal Flame was completely extinguished and the world was cast back into the abyssal darkness. He needed to get them as far away from the dead as possible. He still felt weak from casting too many spells in a short period. The anal-retentive Master of Words back at the High Keep warned him of such foolish endeavors, but Elton never paid them any heed. He now knew why they harped on him so about his wanton carelessness.

  Either way, something must be done, and he was the only one who had the ability to help. Elton offered a quick prayer to the Great Creator in hopes he had enough energy left to cast the spell.

  The shouting horde turned and made their twisted, unholy way toward him. Elton nervously searched his satchels for something, anything that could stem the rotting tide of Orcus's spawn.

  “Oh, my Great Creator, if you are listening, and I do so hope you are, I really could use some divine intervention here,” Elton chortled

  The dead staggered ten feet closer.

  “Shite...shite.” The once-brilliant idea Elton devised while sitting in the comfortable safety of the truck now seemed rather bloody suicidal now. He stepped back, and one of the satchels slipped from his shoulder, and he promptly tumbled over it, onto the parking garage's floor. All the contents spilled out, and Elton landed in a heap. A sharp pain burned through his right hand as a knife blade cut his palm, sending blood running into the pile of satchel's ingredients.

  “Bollocks!” he screamed through clenched teeth.

  “The Child, Keeper. Where is the Child? We can sense her.” The undeads’ eyes beckoned to Elton as they closed in.

  Elton swiftly picked up the knife among the bloody pool and his grimace turned into a serendipitous grin as he saw a small white light began to swirl in blood and blue gems in front of him.