Only the Light We Make

by James Dean

  The quad coming down the drive and another zombie in the hall of the kitchen. I wanted to stop and yell for the guy not to go in, but the zombie that was outside was coming at me again and so I ran for the woods and he came after me, so much faster than I thought the dead could move. The dead shouldn’t move, at all. This isn’t right. I ran and ran and the pain in my shoulder throbbed with my speeding heart. All I could think about was that the one person left alive with me was going to die because I had to have something to eat. I was selfish and vain and those are sins and now I will be alone forever. And I kept running. Until I couldn’t. The zombie wasn’t behind me anymore but I just knew he was back there somewhere.

  I sat down on a rotted stump and the world spun around me. I could not seem to catch my breath and my chest hurt. My shoulder felt numb. I craned my neck to look at it and I got so dizzy that I threw up. I kneeled in the crisp autumn leaves holding my stomach. I tried to get back up but my legs shook too much. My arm that wasn’t numb felt damp and when I looked at it, I realized it was covered in blood. I was overjoyed, I did hurt the zombie! I brought my hand up for a fist pump and felt warmth course down my chest. More blood. I followed the warm trail up to my shoulder. It hurt to look and made my head spin like crazy but I did it anyway and I saw. I saw what he did.

  My head got fuzzy this time and it seemed like a good idea to lay down for a minute, rest a bit. The leaves smelled nice. Reminded me of Halloween. I always loved that holiday because you could be anything. I wanted to be home in my room with my books and my mom. I didn’t want to be out here in the cold woods, scared and alone. It seemed like it was getting dark fast and that was ok with me because I don’t think zombies can see in the dark.

  When it was almost too dark to see, an even darker shadow hovered over me. I wasn’t scared, I just knew it wasn’t the zombie. I heard a voice, almost like my mom's, sweet and gentle. She said soothing words and I felt so sleepy.

  I heard her whisper, “Good job, Lindy.”

  Then I let the dark take me.

  ABOUT SHANNON WALTERS

  Shannon Walters, a native New Yorker, spends her days bossing men around at the body shop she manages. In her spare time she writes, chases her kids, and worships zombies. Her other works have been published in several anthologies. *All Things Zombie: The Gathering Horde, *All Things Zombie: A Christmas Special, *All Things Zombie: Chronology of the Apocalypse, *Bite-Sized Offerings: Tales and Legends of the Zombie Apocalypse, and ATZ: Tricks, Treats, & Zombies.

  She is currently co-authoring a novel and working on her own debut full-length novel.

  The Torch

  Chris Philbrook

  Sometime during the summer of 2014

  "Miss Parker," Gilbert said as he rested his weary skeleton into the wooden park bench. Soreness still existed here, despite how little else really did. Through the distant haze of the Other Side his eyes found a gargantuan blip on the horizon; an enormous white circle. A Ferris wheel. He tore his eyes away from the tourist attraction and looked to the woman he'd traveled so far to meet. He extended a hand holding a white lily, and she took it.

  "Mister Donohue," the older woman said after looking at the flower with pleased eyes.

  "Can't say I've had too much of hearing your voice. Your accent is mighty pleasing to the ear," Gilbert said, then sighed happily.

  "Gilbert my accent is no different than anyone else's from Croydon. Nothing pleasing in excess."

  "Well, to a country kid like myself, it sounds awful nice."

  "I see. I'm glad. How is your wife?"

  Gilbert brightened. "She's well. Very well. Home cooking right now."

  Miss Parker nodded and lifted the flower to her nose. She inhaled deep, and sighed, venting sadness.

  "Nice that you can smell again, isn't it?"

  "Oh it's brilliant, truly. Of course my nose only seems to work when you're around. I wonder why that's the case?"

  "Because the kid did it," Gilbert said under his breath as the Ferris wheel drew his attention again.

  "What?"

  "Because the kid did it, I said. Adrian. He did what he had to do, and that made it all better for his people. A bit of a curveball that what he went through didn't fix it for everyone, but then again… there are just as many questions left as answers we found."

  "The Ring man. You've spoken of him many times to me. The air cleared for those near him. I see. And when you come to visit, you bring a little bit of that freshness with you? You're quite the magician, Gilbert."

  "Better way to explain it than I could've come up with," Gilbert said as the sky above darkened. Evil knew Gilbert had entered foreign territory. The old man and the old woman didn't have long before something would sweep him back across the ocean. Gilbert had no interest in doing that trip in a hurry. The pain of the cold, salty water scouring at his soul would be far worse with the Devil on his heels.

  "It's listening, isn't it?" Miss Parker asked Gilbert.

  "Evil's always around. The trick is understanding that he's all smoke and mirrors. He can't do much of anything on his own. He has to get others to do most of the work. I made the mistake of thinking that he was the real threat for a good long while. I learned. He can listen all he wants. Soon enough he'll muster the fuel to evict me back across the pond for a bit."

  Miss Parker turned to the old American and tilted her head. "Why is it you do this? Why do you summon me to this place and have these conversations time and again? Why is it you remain when you and your wife could move on?"

  Gilbert chuckled again. "Because I can't just let go. I've never been good at quitting at anything, and the way I see it… I can't quit on this. Not yet. Now for as to why I keep harassing you… that's easier. I need a port I can tie off to I can trust. I need you to do things that must be done that I can't. Things here."

  "Why me?" the old woman with the umber-russet skin asked. She kneaded her wrinkled hands together, scared of his answer.

  "Because Abby loves your son, and that's as good a test of a man that exists."

  "Who is Abby?" Miss Parker asked. "And how is Harold?"

  Gilbert smiled. "Hal is a good man. A good father."

  "Father-?" she sat forward on the bench, almost dropping the flower Gilbert gave her. "Hal has a baby? I am a grandmother? Ernest would melt."

  "To a wonderful little boy, yes. And I came to you… because things need to be done here. Things that are too hard for me to do on my own. I'm already halfway to Heaven or Hell and this is a hop, skip and a jump away from where my wife and I put our heads to rest. We don't have much time."

  "I see. Will I be able to help my son and his boy? And who is this Abby? Is she a good person? What can I do to help?" Miss Parker sat further forward somehow, and her leaning pushed the gloom above away. Every smile banished another cloud from the sky.

  "Abby is the best kind of person. Put any of those worries about her in a place you don't visit. She's the best you could ask for. Hal is a happy man. Yes, you will be able to help your son. In fact, that's exactly what I need from you. What a lot of people will need from you."

  "Okay. Tell me what I need to do," Hal's mother said.

  "This world… this part of the world… still suffers. That's why you're still here, and why you hear voices in the mist. Why it's colder than it should be, why there's no food to eat, or water to drink. Why radio doesn't reach here, and why it's so hard to leave now. This place is stuck. Frozen in time as if June 23rd 2010 shall always be the day forever. Do you remember what Croydon was like before you came here?"

  "Before I died?" she asked joking. "Of course. Crazy people everywhere. Police and soldiers trying to keep the peace. Failing as much as helping. People… all so hungry. Killing one another. Why?"

  "Because it's still like that. Well, I imagine by now the police and soldiers have moved on to safer places, or died entirely. But your home is still overrun with the dead, worse than it ever got here. Much worse. But it doesn't have to stay that way."

 
; "My husband… he's not here with us. You know your wife is at home, but my Ernest… Ernest is still alive, isn't he?"

  "I believe so ma'am, yes. And just as I am able to impart knowledge to you, you will be able to give it to him. And then the hope is… he'll give it to Harold. Or someone who can help Hal."

  "Harold is still in England?" She somehow found a way to perk up even more.

  "No, but I think he might be heading back there, if what I'm getting on my home turf is to be believed. I suspect a new crusade might be happening. Whether or not that's the future isn't a prediction I came here to put money on; I came here to tell you that everything you can learn between now and then, could be important."

  "How do I learn? I've been so lonely. I can't even knit." Her hands rested flat on her thighs, impotent.

  "Remember the voices? If you listen real careful, right this second, you can hear 'em. Listen."

  Miss Parker took a deep breath and coughed her throat clear. She sat up straight and closed her eyes tight. The lifelessness in her hands disappeared and she ran her palms down her thighs, smoothing out the transposed dress she died in.

  "Remember, you don't need to breathe here. Your heart isn't even thumping away. If you're hearing it, that's your imagination. Listen with your mind. Hear the voices of the people who are trapped here, just a step sideways from you."

  The woman listened, and allowed the foggy sounds of nowhere to permeate her mind. The thrumming of her heartbeat fluttered slow, then died away, and the hiss of air sliding in and out of her lungs ceased. When the vacant, empty park she and Gilbert sat in could get no quieter, she heard static growing. A hundred voices, all whispered and hushed, talking to themselves like a million maniacs locked in worlds no better than cold prison cells.

  "I hear them," she said, afraid. The clouds above thickened as her fear grew.

  "I knew you would. You're a strong woman, Linda. Stronger than most. Now with practice, you can filter a single voice out, and meet that person. If you're strong, and they happen to be willful like yourself, you might even have a sit down with them, just like this. If not, then you'll hear them, and they'll hear you. A bit like a ring on the telly."

  "A telly is a television, Gilbert."

  "You get my meaning. Listen to these people. They all have a piece of the story to tell. What they saw. Who they know. What they've heard since they got here. And those pieces can be assembled, just like a puzzle, so you can figure out what needs to be done to save everyone who's still left."

  "What needs to be done?" The clouds lightened again.

  "Three people. All of this will hinge on us figuring out who three people are."

  "Do you know who these three people are? Have you their names? I can ask about them all day and night until I find them. I swear it."

  "No, I don't know their names. But I do know their titles."

  "Titles?" Miss Parker scowled, then laughed. "Lords and Ladies are they? Knighted by the Queen? The aristocracy is ever entrenched."

  "Not so much. Soul, Scribe and Warden for this set, I think. Those three must find one another, and get done what only they can get done. They all have a personal journey that needs to be… journeyed. But very damn clearly Linda, they either haven't found one another yet, or they've perished. You need to help find them, then steer them together."

  "This sounds a bit queer to me," Miss Parker scoffed. "You expect me to ask a million people if they've heard of the Soul, the Scribe and the Warden?"

  "No. They won't know most likely who matches up with what. What you can do… is find patterns. Where are the dead most clustered? Where are they most hungry? Where have the dead done strange things? Look for the number three in all ways. Three people. Three days, three nights, three o'clock. Listen. Put the puzzle together. Where you find strange stories and that wonderful number… dig deeper."

  "Then what?"

  "Reach out to your husband, and tell him. Tell him to tell others. Spread the news of your Trinity and what they must do. The three will need all the help they can get to dig your home out of the mud it's in."

  "How do I reach Ernest? I would die again to hear his voice."

  "Lucky for you, you have but one life to give, and you already cashed that check. Reach out to him when he sleeps. Think of your bedroom hard and strong when you think it's night, and you tell him you love him, and you give him hope, and you tell him about his grandson and his son, and you tell him he has a job to do. You'll be brought to a little room that's all white and sunny, with a little white table. Pay attention in there too. That's like God's waiting room I think. He's left us some clues while we're visiting before. He will again, I hope."

  "A white room?"

  "The White Room. There's only one, and when we talk to the living, that's where we meet them. It's a good place. You'll know it when you get there. And you tell your husband, or whoever else you meet there what they need to know."

  "I will. Thank you for all this, Mr. Donohue. I will never be able to repay you."

  "No you won't. I am not cheap."

  They laughed and the clouds recoiled.

  "When do I begin?"

  "Right after I tell you about my good friend Adrian Ring. For you to know what needs to happen here, you should hear what worked back in my stomping grounds. It won't be the same, but you'll have a much better idea of what to expect. Get comfortable, Miss Parker. This story isn't a short one, and the Devil's in the details. Now, where do I start?"

  Redemption

  J.D. Demers

  June 23rd 7:32 AM

  “Kyle, honey, get up,” Sarah called from the kitchen.

  Kyle blinked his eyes and squinted from the sunlight peeking between the curtains.

  Sarah sighed and made a quick stop at her son’s doorway. “Kyle, get up!” she barked.

  “Okay, Mom,” Kyle yawned and stretched the length of his bed.

  “I have to leave for work and Butterscotch still needs to be walked,” she added as she marched away.

  Kyle wiggled his foot out from underneath the blankets and found a patch of fur. Butterscotch lay at the end of his bed where she had for the last ten years. He raked his toes through the mane on her neck.

  “Butter is still sleeping, Mom,” Kyle told her. “Maybe she needs to rest longer? She's getting old.”

  Sarah reappeared in the doorway, bouncing on one leg as she put on a shoe. “I know, honey. She’s getting up there. But I’d rather you walk her early. Besides, you still have to—”

  “Clean my room, clean the kitchen, start laundry and vacuum the living room,” Kyle finished for her with a smile.

  Sarah returned his smile. “Did I ever tell you how wonderful you are?”

  Kyle bobbed his head back and forth, grinning. Sarah could not ask for a better son. Kyle was mature for thirteen. While most kids his age were testing the boundaries of their parents, Kyle was the opposite. He made good grades, never broke the rules, was polite and helpful.

  Sometimes that worried Sarah. Good natured people were usually the easiest to be taken advantage of. She felt that Kyle needed more balance. It was tough being a single mother with no father figure around.

  “Have you seen my other shoe?” she asked, collecting her thoughts.

  “Did you look behind your bedroom door?” Kyle asked helpfully as he climbed out of bed.

  Kyle grinned. If it wasn’t her keys, it was her shoes, or cell phone, or something else that kept her from leaving. She disappeared from view and Kyle heard some commotion from her bedroom.

  Sarah sighed in relief. “Thanks, honey,” she said as she reemerged in front of his doorway, hopping on the other foot.

  “Come on, Butter,” Kyle whispered, petting the ancient Golden Retriever on the end of his bed.

  Butterscotch opened one lid, as if the other one refused to open. She grunted and closed her eye.

  “Time to get up, girl,” Kyle persisted, scratching behind her ears.

  Butterscotch was twelve years old. She spent
most of her time sleeping and only woke up to go for brief walks or to eat. Her hind legs were starting to fail her and her sight was fading. Sarah had decided to get a puppy for both her and her then two-year-old son after Kyle’s father passed away from cancer. The dog helped her cope and gave Kyle someone to bond with while he grew up without a father.

  Butterscotch took to Kyle and became a second mother to the boy. Now she was nearing her end. Sarah knew that sooner or later she would have to tell Kyle that Butterscotch would have to be put to rest. She dreaded that day.

  “Come on, girl,” Kyle repeated and began to lift the old canine up. Kyle had to help her both on and off his bed. The thought of sleeping without her never crossed the teenager’s mind.

  Butterscotch grudgingly accepted his help and her paws shook as Kyle put her down. She dipped her head and stretched out her front legs while Kyle dressed in shorts and a T-shirt.

  Five minutes later, Sarah was in her car and headed off to work at the solar plant while Kyle and Butterscotch circled the neighborhood.

  The morning air was still crisp but warming as the late June day took hold. The sky was spotted with sparse, puffy clouds and it promised to be a beautiful day.

  Kyle and Butterscotch enjoyed the weather. A squirrel ran across the sidewalk right in front of the duo, and Butterscotch sniffed and huffed. Kyle couldn’t remember the last time the canine had barked, let alone chased after a squirrel. He felt sorry for the old dog.

  “How are you this morning?” Mrs. Tamberlake asked as she picked up the morning paper. She had always been Kyle’s neighbor. She was elderly and had lost her husband just last fall.