by Thom Erb
“Dex, get Capt. Al to the truck. I'll cover you. Go.” Warren heard the words come out from his mouth and it felt like he was watching himself, like an out of body experience. This couldn't be him ordering Dex around. All around him, Bizarro World was becoming the new normal. Nevertheless, Dex smiled, nodded and went to Capt Al, who had his M-16 at the ready.
Capt. Al said, “Just get me to the tail gate, bro, and heft my ass up, and I’ll take care of the rest!” He tapped the stock of the assault rifle.
“You got it.” Dex grunted and Warren watched as his best friend hustled as fast as his little frame could while pushing the heavier DJ to the rear of the truck. The thick fog swirled, making visibility near zero in a few seconds. Warren hoped Dex managed to get them both to the Chevy.
A loud metal clang rang through the fog and Warren felt a huge sense of relief as he recognized the sound of the tailgate dropping, followed by the muffled speech.
The air grew colder as the groaning of the dead drew close. Too close, and Warren ran for the pick-up when his sneakered feet slipped on a thick pool of blood, and his large frame toppled to the hard pavement. The shotgun bounced and was lost in the fog. All breath escaped him as he hit the garage floor.
There was a calm stillness for a split second. Rain water dripped from the very edges of the parking garage, and distant thunder made Warren wish he was far away. Far away from this living nightmare that kept on going and going. The cool, dampness of the concrete floor felt good on his sweaty skin. It would be so easy for him to just lay there and wait for those creatures to come and end the nightmare for him. So very easy to just slip away with the curling mist. Warren's mind tried to convince him.
“Warren, come on, dude,” Arnie called from the truck, and Dex and the others offered the same calls. Even Maico's bark filtered through the growing din of the waking dead. All those thoughts of giving in were washed away in a split second. His friends needed him. Maico needed him. Then there was the Child of Light thing, and the mystery lover inside him needed to discover the meaning to it all.
“Enough.” He grunted as he stood. He fumbled for the shotgun and found it. He tried to see through the heavy fog. A swift wind blew through the level taking most of the heavy fog with it. Then came a heinous smell too much for any living soul to withstand. In an instant, Warren stood face to face with snarling, groping throng of undead. Their bloodstained teeth and glowing red eyes filled his vision and they all sang the same cold chorus.
“We can sense you, Children of Light. Come, join us. Let us take you to the Master.”
“Not today, assholes!” Warren didn’t hesitate and buried the stock of the shotgun into the putrid stained blue shirt of a Rochester City policeman and watched as the coagulated blood pooled through it. It fell to the ground in a heap.
The zombie just peered up at him, sneered, and let out a laugh that made him pause. However, it was a quick one.
Warren swung the butt of the shotgun wildly into the mass of zombies, causing every inch of his body to heave in disgust. The bile in his throat raced forward and filled his mouth, and with the last barrage of swings, vomit spewed all over the old lady with her rain bonnet still adorning her slimy, matted beehive hairdo. The old bat didn’t seem to notice. It just kept gumming at Warren's arm with putrid black gums.
The rotted woman's flabby chicken wing arms grabbed the stock of Warren’s shotgun and pulled back with a strange surge of strength. He tried again, and the old woman held fast. There was no way a woman pushing eighty should be able to pull all three-hundred pounds of him, let alone a dead one. Despite all the logic, the old lady yanked him close as all around him, the multitude of hands and biting teeth snatched and kicked at him.
“You are one of them, Child!” The smile from gross granny only lasted a millisecond as Warren bore down with the solid stock and buried it into the old zombie’s head. It split like a rotten musk melon. Greenish, red blood exploded into a mist over the pile and arteries and veins wiggled in midair and blew to the west along with the chill, midday breeze.
“Get in the damn truck!” Warren heard Dex shout from the truck.
Warren’s rage-filled glare never left the woman’s body as it fell on top of the pile of the writhing undead behind it.
It only gave him a split second.
Warren took it.
65.
Mob Rules
Kodak/WSMF Parking Garage
Rochester, N.Y.
The mass of undead slithered and writhed, one putrid form pulling itself over another, trying desperately to latch onto their next meal. The insatiable hunger filled them with rage, hatred, and mostly the soul-wrenching need to feed. A juxtaposition that was lost on their undead brains filled them. Tears filled their eyes, and a burrowing remorse for their inexorable hunger, but the inability to ignore the base need for meat. It was a torment that welled up and filled the entire city and beyond. Still, the drive for flesh won. They had their meal right in front of them, and it smelled so succulent, so sweet, so close. The drive pushed them and the drool the zombie mob dripped down sizzled on the steaming pavement. Then they rushed toward the truck and food.
66.
Beneath, Between, Behind
Kodak/WSMF Parking Garage
Rochester, N.Y.
Dex helped Capt. Al pull himself to the far end of the bed of the truck. “There ya go.”
“Thanks, bro, I appreciate it.” Capt. Al coughed and wheezed with each thrust of his portly body but made it to the sliding glass window of the cab. He flashed a shaky smile at the dark-haired girl inside the cab.
“No problem,” Dex said and felt his gut churn as he watched Warren backpedal toward the truck with his shotgun held up in a defensive position. Dex guessed he’d run out of shells. The bone-chilling howls of the growing throng of undead followed close behind his best friend.
“Come on, man!” Dex shouted, trying hard to yell above the evil din and offer some kind of beacon for Warren to follow.
Warren didn’t respond but kept running toward the truck. Dex wanted nothing more than to jump down and help Warren out but hesitated. He turned to the cab. Arnie sat in the driver's seat with Maico, the new girl and the strange guy in the passenger seat.
“Hey, Arnie, get ready to roll when I tell ya,” Dex shouted.
“Got it,” Arnie replied.
Dex looked back to Warren, and even though he was getting close, the dead things were even closer. He caught the DJ as he swung his M-16 up, and fired into the amassing number of undead filling the level of the parking garage.
A flurry of spent brass pinged inside the bed of the truck and mingled with the DJ's chaotic laughter.
“Come on, you ugly bastards! Let’s Dance!” He kept shooting into the throng of grayish green forms clamoring toward them.
“Oh shit!” Dex shouted. All the once-sleeping undead were awake and now either pooling around Warren or heading straight for the truck. “This ain't good, man. Warren!”
The cries and moans of the dead drowned out the loud mufflers of the Chevy, and their chilling demand for the Child of Light turned into ear-splitting shrill shrieks as a large, red-eyed-contingent surrounded Warren, a mere ten feet from the pick-up.
Maico barked and fought to climb out of the cab of the truck. Dex heard Elton calling him something but didn't have time to figure it out. He looked around the bed for a weapon as his pistol was empty.
“Here,” Capt. Al bellowed and kicked Arnie's baseball bat his way. “It's not much, but it's sure as hell better than a kick in the balls.” The DJ shot Dex a wink, emptied his magazine, filched one from his loaded vest pocket, and reloaded and continued firing.
“Thanks. You're pretty fast for an old man.” Dex returned the wink, snatched up the bat, and hopped from the bed.
“Go get your friend, asshole.” Capt. Al dropped two undead dressed in gore-soaked operating scrubs.
Dex watched their red-eyes blink out and ran for Warren. Behind him, the dog wailed, and t
he old DJ cackled like it was another day at the fair.
Crazy son of a bitch, Dex thought and buried the bat into a teenager’s head, wearing a Duke Jupiter T-shirt. Another form took its place.
67.
Knock `em Dead Kid
Kodak/WSMF Parking Garage
Rochester, N.Y.
Too many hands reached out for Warren. Some took hold while others he was able to fend off with a few well-timed dodges and well-placed stock hits with the shotgun.
Warren wasn't gaining any ground. More and more of those dead things filled every void that he created, and his entire body shook with fatigue. His arms felt like he'd been bench pressing the Hulk.
Something grabbed his arm and yanked him sideways. He swung the stock of the shotgun, and it punched through the side of the dead man's face. Its bright eye exploded with a sickly pop and sent a spray of pus-filled blood and tissue into the awaiting zombie behind it.
“You are one, Child. You look so delicious! The Master sees you. Surrender, Child.” A tall, slender black undead man wearing the colors of a Rastafarian, pulled Warren toward his smoke and flesh-stained teeth.
The foreign hot flash erupted suddenly through his body once again. Warren's mind and body felt like two ships assailed by a fiery maelstrom. The Rastafarian red eyes grew exceedingly wide and a tortured, guttural howl ushered forth from it. The lanky man let go of Warren and recoiled.
“What the hell is wrong with me?” Warren's entire body felt alight. He held his hands up and a hot, pure-white light flickered from them.
Overwhelmed by the rushing sensation to release the surging energy, Warren's mind grew foggy. He felt like a deep winter windshield iced-over from brutal temperatures outside, while the hosts inside relished the heat.
Two hands dug into Warren's leg, and he moved without thought, pure animal instinct. He returned the grasp, digging his own fiery hands into the rotting flesh of the attackers.
Warren heard himself scream something in a language he'd didn't understand, nor ever had any knowledge of. Bright light emanated from his hands and the two undead let loose their grip on his leg as they exploded into a wide spray of rented flesh, shattered bone, and blood.
“Holy shit!” A voice came from behind him, followed by a strong grip on his shoulder. Fingernails dug deep into this skin. Blood began to flow from the new wounds. He swiveled toward the attack. The Deerslayer swung with him and found its mark on Dex’s lower jaw.
“Mother—” Warren’s words were cut off by Dex’s crooked smile. A nervous smile, but a smile nonetheless. He was glad it wasn't another zombie looking for a fat boy sandwich.
“What?” Dex asked.
“No clue, man. Not a damn clue.” Warren slumped.
“You okay?” Dex asked, roughly taking stock of Warren's body from head to toe.
“I've seen better days, man.” Warren leaned on Dex. A huge wave of weariness washed over him, and he felt faint.
“Cool, man. Let's get the hell out of here,” Dex said and Warren felt his smaller friend take on his weight. The reunion was quick as Dex pulled Warren with him back to the bed of the truck. Warren tripped and staggered but made it as the horde of undead lurched forward and came with an uncanny speed toward them.
68.
Defender
Kodak/WSMF Parking Garage
Rochester, N.Y.
The high-pitched plunk of gunfire filled the parking garage.
“On your sixes, bro,” Capt. Al murmured as he reloaded and methodically aimed his trusty nineteen sixty-seven government issue M-16 and licked his lips, just like in the old days. He sighted in on a teenage boy wearing a WHAM T-shirt. A deafening pinging echo of bullets bounced around the concrete walls. The grayish green corpse fell once again, lifelessly into the pile of twisting, slithering undead. Al closed his eyes and begged for forgiveness, just as he had done almost twenty years before.
This may be the end of the world, maybe not, Capt. Al pondered as he dropped another dead thing and took aim on another ready to lunch on the husky Warren dude. Either way, the war, any war, was never very far away from the grizzled Army vet's encumbered mind.
Capt. Al didn't stop firing into the mass of chanting undead until the two teens made it to the back of the pick-up truck's tailgate.
“`Bout time, man. I was getting tired of covering your asses,” Capt. Al teased while mowing down the next rank of the undead that gathered close.
69.
Get Away
Kodak/WSMF Parking Garage
Rochester, N.Y.
They were at the tailgate of the truck, and the stench of rotted and infected flesh and gunpowder filled Warren's nostrils. The thick, frigid air was redolent with the decaying rot of the slow-moving mob.
Dex scurried into the bed of the truck and spun to help Warren up.
“Nice shooting, Cap, keep it up,” Dex said.
“My pleasure, bro,” The muzzle flash from Capt. Al's M-16 suddenly ceased. “Motherhucker, sonuvabitch!” The DJ shouted, followed by a flurry of other curse words.
“Swell. Perfect timing. Arnie, get ready to burn rubber, man!” Dex shouted, and Warren tried not to notice the swelling panic growing in his friend's eyes.
“Got it!” Arnie replied from the cab.
“Nice moves, there, Flash,” Dex teased Warren.
“Thanks. Yeah this end-of-the world-thing has really helped my 40-yard dash time.” Warren barely got the words out. His lungs burned, and he was exhausted. Warren threw the shotgun into the bed; it landed with a metallic thud. He grabbed a hold of Dex and began to climb up.
“Dude!” Dex screamed. Warren saw the look of horror in his eyes, then felt something pulled at Warren's leg, and he kicked at the countless hands that tore at him.
“Dex!” Warren cried out.
“I’m trying!” Dex replied and pulled at Warren's arm.
Warren flailed and kicked out at whatever had his foot. His heart raced because he knew deep down, that if he were to be bitten, it would be the end.
“We have you now, vile light-spawn. The Master will be so pleased.” The dark chorus from the sea of undead filled the garage and nearly froze Warren in place. More hands ripped at his jeans and pulled him away from Dex.
No. Not like this. Not in this freezing, death-filled parking garage, Warren screamed in his mind. After all that had happened back at home. The words his mother spoke. He knew he had a greater purpose. That God had spared him to make a difference in this Hell on Earth. It couldn’t end here, not now.
“Go, Arnie, go!” Dex shouted.
The loud roar of the truck's engine pushed the frenzied thoughts from his mind, and then he felt his body being pulled away from the savage undead. Warren twisted and kicked as Dex dragged him away from the chomping horde of rotted Rochestarians. He didn’t stop attacking the dead until he slammed into the cold metal of the big Chevy.
“Thanks, man,” Warren gasped.
“You're welcome. Now get the fuck off me.” Dex grunted from beneath Warren's weight.
Capt. Al chuckled.
The truck roared toward the ramp leading down to the fourth level as the doors off to the right of Midtown Plaza burst wide open and a sea of zombies rushed forward to block their path.
70.
Sweet Hitchhiker
Kodak/WSMF Parking Garage Exit,
Rochester, N.Y.
“Hot damn. Now that was some crazy shit, wasn't it?” Capt. Al's wide-bearded smile seemed odd to Warren in the wake of them almost becoming lunch.
Warren rolled off Dex, snatched up his dad's shotgun, and took his old roost in the corner of the bed and tailgate, just like he and Andy used to do. The memory crawled through him as a ghost over a tombstone.
“Yeah, sure. Let me have Arnie turn around so you can go back and get your jollies one more time.” Dex's sarcastic tone was lost on the amped-up DJ, Warren noticed.
“Where do guys want to go? The Armory, right?” The girl peeked her head through the back w
indow and looked at Warren. She had to fight Maico, who was barking and shoving the teen, trying to get to his master.
“Hells, yes,” Capt. Al responded before Warren could think about a response.
“What he said,” Warren and Dex replied, and Dex shot him a familiar look and smiled. Warren took a relaxing breath and was grateful. Grateful for surviving the insanity of the garage and his best friend’s anger. He knew he wasn't out of the danger on both counts yet, but he was taking each second as a win.
“You okay?” Warren shouted over the wind.
Sam smiled and nodded. “Sure. Your friends and dog here have been good company.”
Dex looked at Sam and shot Warren a questioning glance. “Really, man?”
Warren pretended to check over the shotgun. “Really, what?”
The truck descended the parking garage levels and finally exited onto the dark, rain-soaked street. Warren heard the undead follow them, but the truck was putting them safely behind.
“You know what I mean,” Dex taunted and pulled out a cigarette and lit it.
Capt. Al smiled. “Hey bro, can I bum one?”
Dex's gaze never left Warren as he handed the DJ a cigarette.
They pulled onto the street and a biting rain poured down on them. The dark steel-gray sky created a dreary monochromatic covering as they went.
“So, uh, Warren, when do you think you're going to ask the new girl out?” Dex teased while trying to keep his cigarette lit.
“Who? Sam? Seems like a good kid. Just met her myself. Can't be all that bad, she saved my old crippled ass.” Capt. Al huddled close to Dex and was doing the same cigarette shelter thing with his hand. “Got a light?” He smiled wide through his thick salt-n-peppered beard, holding up the unlit cigarette.
Dex gave the drenched DJ an annoyed look and lit his cigarette and turned back to Warren, grinning like the Cheshire Cat all over again.
Even through the cold rain, Warren felt his cheeks flush, and he promptly flipped Dex the bird. “Very funny. You're a regular Andrew ‘Dumb-Ass’ Clay.” Warren leaned against the tailgate and suddenly wished he had shells for this shotgun.