First Time Dead 1

by Chantal Boudreau

  She was saddened a little by the fact that she had not been able to tell if it was Hayden or Wesley that she had heard. Not that seeing the boy would have provided her with any more information. Her sons, as they had aged, had grown to look so alike that it was difficult to distinguish one from the other. One would never be able to guess that Hayden was the older of the two and Wesley the younger. The one shocking time that she had seen them both together lately, side by side, they could have been identical twins. The only thing that differentiated them was the way that Wesley slouched a touch more on the left side, and drooled a little. But then again, he always had.

  “Enjoy, boys,” Margot called through the door.

  She wanted to press a hand to the door as a gesture of endearment, but her fingers were still trembling too much to allow her to do so.

  “I have to see to your father next, and then I’ll be going,” she said. “I’ll see if I can pick something up for you both while I’m gone.”

  Margot was met with silence. She guessed that to be their form of gratitude. She didn’t understand them anymore, but she hadn’t since they had hit puberty. They had often been sullen and silent. Roy tended to be much more vocal about things, especially if he liked something. The boys were a quiet pair—shy and reserved. That might have been why they had adapted to living in the basement so quickly. That was also why she did not miss their presence the way that she did with Roy.

  With only one bag left to go, Margot headed for the back door. Roy’s office window overlooked the yard, and was open a couple of inches, covered over with metal bars. Roy had insisted just after they moved in—after word had gotten around the neighbourhood that there had been a couple of violent break-ins in the area—that they bar all of the windows in the house, including the one for his office. They did not, after all, live in the best of locations. Sure it would look ugly, he had argued, but it would keep them secure, and he considered that much more important than appearances.

  That judgement call had proven to be very useful considering their current circumstances. Margot could safely leave that window open twenty-four/seven, without worrying about anyone or anything getting in or out. That was important with Roy being cooped up in there all day long. The air in the office had gotten stale and rancid, and having the window open allowed the air to circulate, making it a little more breathable. It also left enough of a gap to suit Margot’s purposes.

  She leaned down and grasped the handle of the pool hook. They could never have afforded a pool, but she had bought it when she had recognized the necessity for it. Margot entwined the paper bag in the cording on the end and slipped it in between the bars, sliding it through the open window. There was a tug on the other end, a rather strong one, and Margot responded by giving the pool hook a good shake. It took a couple of minutes of jostling, but eventually Margot managed to pull it free, leaving the bag behind with Roy.

  Unhappily lowering the unwieldy pole to the ground again, Margot crouched for a few seconds, listening to the sounds that emerged from the open window. Time was wasting, but this was the closest thing to quality time that she had with her husband nowadays. There was a lot of shuffling, tearing, and slurping. Those noises were followed by a string of hungry lamentations, and only one word could be heard clearly.

  “Braaaaiiiins.”

  “Still vocal,” Margot murmured. “But not so loquacious, my dear.”

  His vocabulary really had gone downhill.

  She hovered there for a few more moments, and then forced herself to turn back towards the back door.

  “I’ve got to go to work now, honey,” she yelled to him, a fair distance from his window. “They have me working a long shift today. Don’t wait up for me, okay? I’ll be home late. It’s budget season, and you know what that means. I’ll be buried up to my eyeballs in paperwork.”

  Roy moaned.

  “I appreciate the sympathy,” Margot chuckled. “But it would be even nicer if you could help out around here. There’s only so much that one woman can do by herself, you know.”

  With a soft whimper, and a pained look at the barred window, she re-entered the house.

  She was fortunate, she thought, as she headed for the kitchen again, that she worked for a hospital. The salary was not the greatest, but there were other perks. She could keep her three men fed and somewhat content thanks to the availability of what they needed to survive. And it just happened to be found in abundance where she was employed. They never needed to leave home as a result, and that was important. It had been that way for the last three months, and she was adapting, gradually. It had taken some creativity and some manoeuvring to get things into place and functioning smoothly, but she had tackled the problem head on and come up with solutions. Margot was a good problem-solver.

  There were times that she felt guilty about stealing from her workplace, but she had come up with several means of justifying what she did to make herself feel better. The things that she took were in the process of being discarded, nobody would miss them, and it did no harm. It was something that they didn’t want, and something she needed. Why let it go to waste?

  There was also the fact that they had taken advantage of her for years, getting her to work unpaid overtime, knowing that her entire family depended on her salary. The threat of being replaced by someone who better matched their education requirements had always loomed over her. It had been an intimidation tactic on their part, and it had been an effective one. Her family had paid the price in the past, missing out on her time and her presence. Well, now she was recouping that loss through her own efforts, in the form of containers filled with grey, gelatinous material and bearing biological waste stickers.

  She picked up her briefcase from the table with a sigh. She had been working late on the night that people started turning. It was a disease, they’d said. It was a virus that reacted with people on a genetic level, killing their regular biological functions, but then resuscitating them in some way with reduced capabilities, a lack of comprehension and social awareness, and very peculiar urges. The doctors and scientists said that their brains had begun degrading faster than their bodies, and that was why they were craving brain matter in particular. It only affected about twenty-five percent of the population who possessed a specific genetic mutation. That was a mutation, however, that Roy had, and one that he passed down to his sons. Margot, on the other hand, was spared.

  There had been mass hysteria at first, because those who were sick...those who became zombies, were violent and voracious. There were mass killings before the government brought things somewhat under control. The government solution? Kill them all for the sake of national security and the safety of the general populace.

  There had been a few stragglers who escaped the genetic cleansing; and those were the ones who had been smarter before they turned. They still roamed cities and towns searching for new victims. That was why all citizens were now allowed to arm themselves in any way that they deemed would be effective against the zombies. It was necessary for their own protection.

  There were also those who turned and escaped the cleansing because they had someone like Margot. Someone willing to lock them away, to keep them safe. Someone willing to shelter them and see to their every need. They were, after all, still family.

  Margot had been surreptitious, keeping up appearances for neighbours and co-workers. If anyone suspected what had happened to her family, they would send a cleansing team to the house, and she certainly could not have that. She loved her husband and her boys. She did not want anyone trying to take them away from her.

  If anyone asked her about them, Roy’s writing had supplied them with enough money to send their sons to private school. What good mother would not want to provide her children with the best education possible? Margot also started writing on her lunch hours and the weekends—trying to mimic Roy’s style as much as possible—offering her stories up to his agent as his latest works. Her first few pieces had been rejected outright, but Margo
t felt like she was starting to catch on, and the agent had been very pleased with her latest endeavours. He had even commented that it was nice to see that Roy had finally overcome whatever trauma he had been suffering from as a result of the turning event, and that it was especially good to see that he was back to his old self. He also suggested that it was about time that Roy finished up the sequel to his breakthrough novel. Margot was not sure if she could manage that on top of everything else that she had been forced to deal with.

  Margot heard Roy’s noisy lamentations begin anew. She had been lost in thought, not something that she could really afford at the moment. She had to get to work, or there would be trouble.

  Margot glanced at her watch and gave a stifled gasp. She could still make it to her train, if she ran.

  She scanned the kitchen one more time and found what she was looking for perched behind the inside door. She’d installed a strap on it, making it easier for her to carry when she was on her way to work with her hands otherwise full. Despite being a sympathizer, Margot was not immune to a straggler’s attacks, and what she sometimes carried with her served as extra bait. She could not allow herself to be vulnerable. Her family was depending on her.

  She slung the shotgun over one shoulder, hoisted her briefcase beneath her other arm, and grabbed her travel mug and granola bar from the table.

  “Bye!” she hollered over Roy’s groans. “I’m off!”

  Then she bumped the door open with her butt, pushing her way outside as she whistled her favourite Tori Amos tune, Happiness is a Warm Gun.

  Inland

  By Martin Milhomme

  Day 93, 4:30 pm

  Cutting the engine, Jake Webber let the boat coast the rest of the way into the marina. He hated this life, always having to fight for his food and supplies. Jake felt more and more like a fugitive every day, a very frightened fugitive.

  It was all because of those things, those walking corpses. They were everywhere. As the weeks went by, there were less and less signs of life on land. Only the dead inhabited the cities. Jake wasn’t sure how it all had started, but when there were still reports on the radio and the news, it was all speculation. Some had thought that it was chemical warfare from terrorists; some thought it was a virus accidentally released by the military, and some thought it punishment from God. The truth was that there was no way of knowing what caused the dead to walk. All Jake had to worry about now was survival.

  Scanning the marina with his binoculars, Jake could see nothing but docked boats. The silence was always difficult to deal with. Having lived in Tampa all of his life, Jake was used to the noises of the city. To see Miami silent and still was very unsettling.

  Putting the binoculars aside, Jake docked the boat, throwing the looped rope around one of the wooden posts on the pier. Jake found that that would hold, and if needed, it could be removed in a hurry. Ducking inside the main hatch, Jake grabbed one of several handguns from beside his small bed. He checked to make sure it was fully loaded before grabbing a pair of bolt-cutters, just in case he needed to get past a lock. He used to hate guns, but necessity forced him to learn fast. He didn’t know the names of the different ones that well, but he supposed that it didn’t matter anymore. On his way back through the hatch, Jake stopped at the mirror.

  He chuckled to himself as he looked at the once clean-shaven head now with three months of growth starting to look like a crew-cut. He had always preferred to be clean shaven, but his beard was growing thick and wild. Between his brown eyes, his thick brown beard, and his brown hair, Jake thought he was starting to look like a Neanderthal. He was starting to look older than his twenty-five years. Maybe, he thought, I’ll keep an eye out for razors while I’m getting supplies.

  Making sure that the rope was secure, Jake stepped slowly off of the boat and onto the dock. This part always made him nervous. He always stood there as he did now; still and listening. The dead didn’t make much noise unless there were a lot of them in one place, but if you listened closely, you could hear that low moaning sound that they made. It was like the sound a cow makes but slower and deeper. If you didn’t pay attention, those slow moving devils could be on you before you knew what was happening. And by then, it would be too late.

  As Jake listened, he heard nothing. Gun at the ready, he began to walk slowly down the dock towards what looked to be an equipment shed. Getting to the doors, Jake saw that the lock had already been busted by someone else. That probably meant that there were no gas cans left.

  Listening at the space between the door and the doorframe, Jake held his gun ready and slowly opened the door. He only had it opened about an inch when a sound came from within. Reacting before thinking, Jake slammed the door shut and backed away a couple feet, pointing his gun at the door. It had sounded like a footstep on the wooden floor inside the shed. Jake stood there for a long moment as he began to sweat. His heart was racing, his pulse pounding in his ears. Jake wiped his sweaty hands on his jeans one at a time. That’s all he needed, to be brought down by one of those things because his hands had been too sweaty to get the shot off.

  Jake approached the door. He noticed his hand was shaking when he began to open the door. When he opened it another three or four inches, he stopped to check his grip on the gun; moving his fingers off and on again repeatedly. When he was sure of his grip, he swung the door open the rest of the way and pointed the gun into every corner of the small shed like a seasoned detective on those shows he used to watch.

  Nothing moved at all; no creatures ready to rip apart the living. Jake relaxed the grip on his gun and looked around. There wasn’t a lot in here. It looked like someone had gotten to it first. There was only one gas can in the corner, and it was half empty—probably only about two gallons in it. Either way, Jake had to take what he could get. Unfortunately, that meant that he would have to find more gas sooner than later. Taking a final look around, Jake saw nothing else that he could use. With the gas can in one hand and the gun in the other, he slowly walked out of the shed. Making his way back towards the boat, he surveyed the area like a crook on the run from the cops.

  As he put the gas can into the boat and reached for the rope, that’s when he heard it. A woman’s scream filled the silence, cutting through it like a knife. Was he hearing things? Jake looked towards the sound. Just beyond the marina behind the trees, he could see a figure running towards the marina. She came through the trees, stopped by the shed and looked around, then dropped to her knees in exhaustion and began to cry.

  Three of those creatures were coming behind her. Slowly, they shuffled toward her as she sat there crying.

  “Get up!” Jake couldn’t just let her sit there and wait to die at the hands of those things.

  The woman stopped crying a little and looked towards Jake.

  “C’mon! Get up and get over here! They’re gaining on you!”

  The woman began to get up, but Jake could see that exhaustion had taken its toll on her. God knows how long she’d been running for. He would have to meet her half way if she were to have any chance at all.

  He jumped onto the dock and ran towards her. The only advantage the living had over the creatures was speed. They never moved fast, but don’t get cornered or you’re done.

  With the creatures only forty or fifty feet away, Jake met the girl part way and grabbed her by the hand. One look in her eyes told him that she was going to have a good long sleep once she was able to finally relax. He led her down the dock and onto the boat, removing the rope from the post on the way. Jake went to the back of the boat and started it as the woman screamed. Jake looked up to see the closest creature was attempting to step onto the boat.

  “Get down!” Jake yelled to the woman. She ducked, and Jake let him have it. The shot missed the creature’s head and hit it in the chest, causing the creature to stagger back onto the dock. Jake pulled the boat away and steered into open waters where the creatures couldn’t follow. He looked back to see the three creatures staggering around. When he wa
s finally able to breathe normally, Jake looked down at the woman who was still kneeling down, covering her head.

  “You can get up, you’re safe now.” The woman just looked up at him. Instead of getting up, the woman stretched out like a cat. She lay there where she was, exhausted and finally able to relax. Who knows when the last time was that this poor woman had been able to sleep. Before she drifted off to sleep, she opened her mouth, and in a low, very dry voice, said one thing to Jake.

  “Thank you.”

  Day 94, 6:14 am

  The waves were gently rocking the boat when Jake woke up. He got out of his bed in the cabin and put on his clothes, heading up to see how his guest was doing. The sun was just coming up over Miami and shone along the water as if there were nothing wrong with the world.

  Jake looked over to his guest who still slept in the same position as when he had left her. She had to be in her late thirties and had short blonde hair. She was wearing a t-shirt, blue jeans, and running shoes. He had covered her with a blanket so she wouldn’t get cold during the night.

  Shortly after the sun had come up, the woman began to stir. She sat up all of a sudden and began screaming.

  “It’s okay, it’s okay!” Jake said as he gently grabbed her by the shoulders. “You’re safe, now. There are no creatures here, we’re away from land. Do you understand me?”

  She stopped screaming and looked into Jake’s eyes, focusing on reality. “Safe?” she said distantly.

  “Yes. We are on a boat. Those things can’t get you here.” Jake let go of her shoulders and could see her visibly relax. “What’s your name? I’m Jake.”