by Thom Erb
Dex laughed and Warren relented and even chuckled himself. For a fleeting moment, things were okay between them. He feared these precious moments would be few and far between in this new world they'd found themselves in, but Warren embraced this one and hoped there would be more.
After he regained his composure, Dex re-lit his cigarette and said, “No, seriously. Want me to ask her out for you?”
Warren glared at this best friend. “Piss off, asshole.” A breath caught in his chest as the image of the new girl popped through the back window, along with Maico's shaggy face.
“Hey, man. No seriously, she could be the last female on the planet. You just might have a shot.” Dex cracked himself up, and Warren caught that Capt. Al spotted her in the window and quickly turned away and smoked his cigarette.
“What makes you think that, even if it were the end of the world, I'd have anything to do with either of you?” Sam said.
“Shit.” Dex scrunched his shoulder and Warren could tell he wanted to hide.
“Busted,” Warren taunted.
“Sorry,” Dex squeaked.
Warren's cheeks were on fire and he, too, wanted to disappear. “Hey, he didn't mean anything by it. He's kind of...special, ya know.” Warren hated every syllable that drooled out of his stupid mouth.
Sam smiled at Warren. “No biggie. I have this furry guy here. I think he'll do just fine.” She scratched Maico behind the ears, and he panted and looked at Warren with a mocking look.
“Traitor.” Warren's tone and his look of admonishment did little to faze the affable pooch.
Suddenly, Sam's facial expression turned to one of sheer horror and Maico growled.
Dex eyes grew wide, and so did Capt. Al's as they looked at Warren...looked past him.
Warren felt coldness behind him. Something far colder than the frigid rain. That was when the nauseating stench of decay and rot accosted his nostrils and caused hot bile to fill his mouth, forcing him to gag.
71.
Shout at the Devil
Downtown Rochester, N.Y.
Something strong yanked Warren's hair and tried to pull him out of the truck. Its rotten breath caused him to choke as he swung at his unknown attacker. Cold rain filled his nose and mouth and breathing became difficult.
“We've found you, Child. You are the Master's now.” A dark, sinister voice pierced Warren's ear and turned his blood cold. Its nails dug deep into Warren's arm and scalp. A warm sensation flowed down both, and before he knew it, he hung over the edge of the tailgate and felt himself losing balance.
Into Warren's ear, the undead child spoke, “That's it, lamb of the Great Creator. Give into your rightful master. Your blood and soul will open the gate and set us all free.”
She crossed into his peripheral vision now. A young girl. A brown sash over her crimson-stained shoulder. A Girl Scout? No, Warren's mind scurried. The sash was a blood-soaked brown color. No. It was a Brownie. She was young. One eye was gone. The only reminder was the gaping, ragged-flesh empty hole where her eye once was. The other eye was ablaze with a burning red glow and a maddening smile and a mouth full of teeth ready to tear into him.
Warren spread his legs and dug his heels into the bed of the truck the best he could. With his right arm, he reached for the girl's shoulder. Once he felt the chill, soaked fabric, he grabbed with all his might and pulled her to the right hoping it would give him enough space to move.
“I'm coming, man!” Dex shouted and tried to get to his haunches, but the truck swerved and Warren heard Arnie cursing up a storm from behind the wheel.
“There's more in front of us,” Arnie called out.
“Drive over the bastards,” Capt. Al ordered as Warren caught him struggling to reload his weapon.
“No, shit. There's a damn plow on the front, for crying out loud!” Dex said.
Warren felt Dex grab his leg.
It was a whirling flash of speeding truck and faces: Dex, Capt. Al, Maico, Sam, the strange guy in the funny hat, and the brownie zombie ripping and clawing at him.
“Get off me,” Warren bellowed.
The young girl’s repulsive breath filled Warren’s nose as her gore-stained teeth snapped at the air, nearly missing his throat. Then the creature paused. “Come now, feces of the Usurper-god. The Master will smite the Eternal Flame and your kind will become slaves of the hunger.”
The small girl was over the top of Warren, as he laid on his back. Only his hands and her gray-bloated legs held her frame upright. A long string of pus-filled drool fell from her mouth and landed on Warren's belt buckle. It caused deep spasms in his stomach and bowels.
Where the hell is that warm energy from before? Warren’s weary arms shook and wavered under the increasing weight of the undead girl.
“Hold that damn thing up, for Christ's sake, bro.” Capt. Al said.
Maico's savage growl flitted on the air, and Warren heard Sam call something out just as the dead girl lunged.
Four things happened at once:
“Holy shit. Hold on!” Arnie screamed.
Warren channeled all the energy he had left and lifted the girl into the air. Her Brownie uniform, stained filthy with body fluid and crusted, brownish-maroon blood, clung to her bloated body. A sea of merit badges hung from her sash as her fiery eyes glared down at him.
Two shots rang out.
The truck's brakes locked, and the front end violently lurched forward and came to a shuddering stop.
72.
Mean Street
Downtown Rochester, N.Y.
Warren heard the crack of the M-16 as the first bullet took the brownie in the shoulder and sent the dead little girl flying backward off the tailgate onto the road in a thick slap.
The truck came to a sudden stop and Warren slid forward and smashed into a tangled mess of Dex and the burly DJ.
The second shot missed, but Warren heard the plunking of metal.
“Dude, get your big ass off me.” Dex shoved Warren and climbed free.
Warren said, “Like that was my plan, geesh.” He stood and cautiously looked over the tailgate for the dead girl in the brownie uniform.
Slowly he peered at the street below only to find the girl was nowhere to be seen.
A thick, choking cloud of death rolled over the truck. Warren gagged, soon joined by the others. Maico barked and growled.
“Lads,” the voice came.
“Lads, we are in a bit of a pickle.” Warren figured out it was the Brit, Elton
“This ain't good, bros,” Capt. Al swiveled around, gun ready.
“Look,” Sam said from inside the cab.
“Jesus Christ in a side-car driving down Main Street, is that a whole-lotta dead things?” Arnie said from the driver's seat.
Warren leaned over the top of the cab to see what Sam was shouting about. Dex helped Capt. Al up and they all watched in horror at sight of Main Street of Rochester, filled with a vast, thick horde of red-eyed chanting corpses. Despite the cold temperature, the heavy scent of death wafted heavily on the thick air. It rolled like a necrotic miasma from all who faced his way in their rotting flesh and various stages of decomposition.
“What the hell are we going to do, guys?” Arnie asked.
“We must get as far away from these things as fast as possible, young lad,” Elton said from the cab. “We cannot afford to let those vile creatures get a hold of the Children of Light. We must leave, post haste.”
The words sent a jolting chill down Warren's spine, and he caught Dex and the DJ shoot odd looks his way.
“What?” Warren asked.
“What the hell is he talking about?” Capt. Al asked.
Dex nodded and Warren knew he remembered the conversation back the school.
“There's no time for a history lesson, good music-man. We need to go now. Master Arnie, if you would!” Elton's words were a loud boom in the rainy silence.
As one, the undead reached up to the sky and let loose a deafening howl that bore into Warren's marr
ow, and he let out a scream. He wasn't alone. He noticed Sam, and Elton winced in the same agony.
“You okay, man?” Dex asked. He offered Warren a hand up.
Warren stood feeling like he was just shocked with a bolt of lightning, and Sam and Elton turned toward him with the same look of pain and concern. This wasn't just coincidence, Warren surmised. He hoped they'd live long enough to find answers to the litany of questions gathering in his torrent-filled mind.
“Yeah, yeah. Merely a flesh wound.”
Dex shouted, “Arnie!”
“Yeah?” Arnie replied.
“Back this sonofabitch up, get a running start and go balls to the wall through those damn things!” Dex shouted.
“Uh, you sure?” Arnie asked.
Sam and Elton added, “Do it!”
Maico added a bestial snarl for effect.
“Get down,” Warren shouted.
Dex and Maico sat down next to Warren. And Dex gave him a smile. His freckled, apple-cheeks filled with mischief that reminded him of a not-too-distant memory.
“Just like the apple orchards back behind the school, huh?” Dex laughed.
“Oh, hell yeah!” Arnie crowed through the back window.
Warren shook his head and then laughed. “Yeah, except now there are dead bastards with red eyes. But close.”
Warren and Dex laughed and held on as the truck clunked into reverse, bouncing over something and Warren cringed at the realization.
The rain split the thick, black clouds wide open and peppered the truck as it plowed into the throng of undead. A high wave of blood and a watery spray of body parts filled the air, mixed with the rainstorm.
In a few short minutes, the Chevy cut a bloody swath through the mob of undead and headed down Main Street, leaving gory, river of smashed undead in its wake.
“My brother at the Armory will hook us up, guaran-goddamned-teed, bros. We're good as gold.” Capt. Al smiled and held his M-16 close to his chest.
“I hope so because somebody's going to have to explain this otherworldly bullshit to me once and for all.” Dex looked at Warren.
“I'm right there with ya, brother,” Warren replied and stared into the dark mob filled with red eyes disappearing behind them.
73.
Turn up the Radio
Downtown Rochester, N.Y.
The truck rumbled and the sound echoed off the stoic, empty buildings of Main Street. The rushing of the mighty Genesee River rolled behind them. Or was that the thrashing of the undead army limping toward them? Warren couldn’t tell for certain.
Waves of red-eyed, walking corpses flowed at them from all sides. Their soul-wrenching cries of hunger and billowing stench filled the street as they drove. The closer the horde came, the thicker the cloud of death became, and the screams of undead completed the symphony of hell that was playing out around them. Warren paid no heed to any sound around them, save the salvation coming over in broken, staccato waves from the old Cobra Citizens’ Band radio crudely attached to the cracked dash of the pickup.
“All who can hear me. This is Corporal Benjamin...ah hell, who cares at this point? This is Ben Moreno and you should come to the National Guard Armory on Main Street, as soon as possible. We have food, medical supplies, and electricity. There are armed soldiers here, too, so you will be protected.” The static-riddled voice came through and grabbed everyone’s attention. “I'll continue to broadcast this message for the next 48 hours. Then I'll be moving the survivors to Fort Drum where we hope to link up with 34th Mountain Division and regroup. So get your asses here ASAP.” The radio rocked with static then faded out.
“Is that the guy you were talking about?” Warren asked.
Capt. Al hooted and hollered. “It sure is cats and kittens. That grunt right there is gonna save our sorry skins. We should make like assholes n’ elbows for there, right now!” Capt. Al said.
All behind him shook their heads in fervent agreement. They tried to keep their excitement down, but the thought of four stone walls and electricity and running water made them beam with anticipation.
The rain poured down on the cement of Main Street, causing thick fog to roll and engulf the myriad of skyscrapers that lined the once bustling streets of the Flower City.
74.
Evil Walks
The United States Armory,
New York Army National Guard
HQ 2nd BN 142ND Ava
Main Street. Rochester, New York.
Corporal Ben Moreno's face was sullen. A slack expression that could have easily been crafted by Madame Tussaud’s fine wax craftsmen except this drawn, lifeless face was no work of master wax sculptors. His once-brilliant blue eyes were sunk deep into their pale sockets, and splotches of fresh blood peppered his young face. Purple and green patches covered his face and neck. Hard purplish-red veins jutted out from all over his cheeks, forehead, and neck. The hand that grasped the handset for the radio seemed out of place. It looked a bit too skinny. A tad too thin and withered, like tight leather over a wooden frame. It looked dead. The alabaster skin was pulled tightly over the thin bones, and the tendons and sinew pressed upwards. The hand let loose of the handset. The other long, skeletal fingers were slick with coagulated blood, torn flesh and gray matter. The master Knight let the now useless head drop to the floor with a splashing thud.
The head of the dead soldier landed with a sickly thump next to the olive drab handset. The black figure wiped its slender hand on the cloth of its pant leg. A long stringy piece of skin and tendon clung to it and refused to come free. The dark figure chuckled coldly and wiped its leathery hand on the short cut hair of the corporal. With complete contempt for the once living creature, it spat a blackish-green glob onto the jaggedly severed head.
The grin that wrapped across the revenant Knight’s face could have been mistaken for that of a mummy, long persevered in some Cairo museum. But this face was functioning. The expression spoke of victory. It spoke of expectation. It and its brethren knew the Child of Light would come to them like tender lambs to the slaughter. A fitting sacrifice the Child and its companions would be to the Master.
“Prepare yourselves, my fellow soldiers of death for the Children of Light will be arriving soon.” The dead golem the Master called Lokhos Vorkhal's ancient lips split into a wicked smile. “The Master will finally have his quarry, and we shall be richly rewarded in human souls.”
The Knights busied themselves with cleaning up their gloriously, bloody masterpiece and let out dark, nearly orgasmic moans of excitement.
Before long, the old Armory looked as pristine as the day of its last inspection.
75.
Big City Nights
Downtown Rochester, N.Y.
“Take your next left, bro,” Capt. Al ordered. His fully tattooed hand pointed the way toward the Armory. The clouds still owned the sky and sharp shadows formed down onto the streets of Rochester. The month of June was known for its random rain storms and today was shaping up to follow the norm. Except for it was cold enough to snow.
Warren watched the historic buildings of the once booming Flower City that had been in slow decline since the late seventies pass. The only things they came across were abandoned cars and other vehicles. The escapees found no solace in running. The streets were littered with the dead. Some half-eaten, others victims of street violence that followed the collapse of society. Not that Rochester needed any help.
The affluent populace fled to the suburbs of Henrietta, Victor, Fairport, Webster, while even the direst made it out into Wayne County. But this form of urban sprawl, no one could have predicted. The undead paid no heed to town boundaries or economic barriers. Succulent flesh tasted the same no matter how much money you made or what color your skin happened to be.
Warren cringed as building after building offered the same apocalyptic view. There was no sign of life at all. No stray cats or dogs roamed the streets for food. No squirrels or birds danced about the trees and flit through the streets. The afternoo
n sun was once again absent, and the ever-present darkness cast ghostly shadows on the once thriving city, but now the only thing thriving were thousands of hungry, hunting undead.
“Man, everybody's dead.” Warren’s words slipped softly, absently from his parched lips. He sat with his back against the cab of the truck and absently petted Maico's panting muzzle that was shoved through the back window. He couldn't stop staring at the concrete tombstones of skyscrapers as they flitted by.
“No, I'm sure there are others,” Sam offered through the same window.
“I do believe the young lady here is correct, Master Warren. You must have faith. Now more than ever. Right is right,” Elton added.
“Easy to say that, but this looks like a bunch of dead end crud to me, man.” Dex shook his head at Warren, and he knew that look.
“Oh, ye of little faith, Master Dexter,” Elton said softly. “A wee bit of a pessimist, are we?”
The truck kept rolling and many undead slammed into the sides but bounced off and landed in the street.
“Yeah. I'd say a whole lot more than just a wee bit,” Dex said.
Capt. Al spoke up, “I've seen my share of nasty shit, fellas, but what we have going on here, well, this ain't anything like I'd ever saw before. All that pessimist, optimist shit is for the birds, my brothers. To this old troop, it just is what it is.”
“I don't know either way,” Warren said. He looked at Dex, who he could tell was pretending to check out the pistol in his hands.
Arnie's voice interrupted the debate. “Hey, Captain, where now?”
“Right up there is Main Street, take a right. It’s a hot shot straight to Jimmy-boy.” Al said. He ran a hand through his salt and pepper beard. This DJ was indeed a character and Warren liked the hippie Disc jockey. Maybe the crazy dude, Elton, was right. Faith might not be a bad thing to have.
Arnie turned the large truck onto the main drag. The new road offered nothing different than any other street they had encountered thus far. The loud exhaust filled the silent street.