by Tim Waggoner
“Try imagining you’re reaching for a raw hunk of meat,” Simon suggested. “One that’s nice and bloody.”
David ignored him. He kept working at it, and a few moments later he was rewarded with a soft click and the window slid open. Crawling inside was another ordeal. He moved with all the grace of a drunk with severe brain damage, but eventually he made it through. There was no screen (he always made sure they were removed before winter), and the king-sized bed—the same one they’d had since they’d gotten married—was positioned directly beneath the window. David flopped onto it, raising a cloud of dust. The decay that had transformed the exterior of the house had affected the interior as well. The mattress sagged beneath him, the bedclothes were tattered and spotted with mold, and the walls were cracked, their paint splotched and peeling.
“So this is where you got it on with the missus,” Simon said. He leaned against a wall, arms crossed. David hadn’t seen him come in, but he wasn’t surprised by that. At this point, he’d rather expected it. Simon looked around, taking in the room. “It’s not particularly romantic, is it? Then again, maybe you two got off on doing it in a dump like this. Who am I to judge? Each to his or her own kink, I say.”
David rolled off the bed and onto his feet. It took him a couple seconds to steady himself, and then he started toward the bedroom door. It was open, hanging half off its hinges, and he walked through the doorway without trouble. Once in the hallway, he called out.
“Sarah! Steve! Lizzie!”
No response. He checked the kids’ rooms—Lizzie’s first, as it was closest to the master bedroom, then Steve’s. He hated seeing that the rot which had infected the entire town had claimed his children’s rooms, but aside from broken toys and mold-encrusted stuffed animals, their rooms were empty.
David continued down the hall, aware that Simon trailed behind, but not caring. All that mattered was finding his family. They had to be here, they had to!
He headed for the living room.
As he walked, he became aware of a deep thrumming sound, one felt as much as heard—ba-BUMP, ba-BUMP, ba-BUMP.
The vibrations were so strong that he could feel the floor judder beneath his feet in time with the rhythm.
…ba-BUMP, ba-BUMP, ba-BUMP…
It reminded him of a washing machine with an unbalanced load during the spin cycle. It had the same spastic, forceful regularity. Was Sarah home? Was she in the middle of doing laundry? From what he’d seen so far, most of Lockwood had no electricity, but maybe…
He felt a surge of hope and hurried down the hallway, calling Sarah’s name.
Malcolm heard the noises coming from the other end of the house, but instead of fleeing, he worked faster. He almost had the rows reorganized. All he needed was a few more seconds.
Two words, he thought. Obsessive. Compulsive. But he couldn’t stop, didn’t really want to. He just needed to accomplish this one last thing before he went. It wasn’t much, wasn’t anything, truth be told. But he couldn’t help feeling that if he could finish this task, then the last six months wouldn’t have been completely meaningless. It was an idiotic idea, and probably more than a little insane. But that didn’t lessen its power over him. Just a couple more cards. King of Hearts, Queen of Clubs, Jack of Diamonds…
He heard movement, and looked up to see a zombie stagger into the room. He thought it was the same one that he’d seen pass in front of the picture window a bit ago, but he wasn’t…sure…
His thoughts trailed off as he realized he knew the creature standing before him. Knew who it had been, at any rate. Time and the elements had not been kind to him, but the changes wrought in him by Blacktide were by far the most severe. But even so, Malcolm had no trouble recognizing the man. It was David Croft, and he’d come home.
“Forgive me,” Malcolm said, his voice rough and scratchy from long disuse. “The house was empty, and I…needed someplace to stay.”
The thing that had been David Croft trained its clouded gaze on him. It seemed to regard the intruder in his home for several moments, facial features slack, expression unreadable. Then it took a lurching step forward…
…onto Malcolm’s cards.
Malcolm let out a cry that was fueled by an equal mixture of anguish and rage. He jumped to his feet and ran toward the zombie.
“Get the hell away from my cards, you goddamned dead fuck!”
The demon had the same ivory flesh, burning eyes and sharp teeth as the others David had seen, but it was thinner, almost emaciated, arms and legs thin as pipe cleaners. Its head was smooth and hairless, but fleshy tendrils sprouted from its upper lip, cheeks and chin. Although the tendrils looked more like white worms than hair, David couldn’t help thinking that the strange growth resembled a beard. The creature wore a long-sleeved, plaid button shirt, jeans and socks. No shoes. It was unarmed, a fact that David deeply appreciated. At first the creature didn’t seem to be aware of him. It crouched on the floor, gazing down at strange patches of scales. Dark and glossy, like large beetle shells, dozens of them, all aligned in neat rows.
But as alarming as the demon’s presence was, it faded to insignificance when compared to what his former living room had become. The furniture was gone, and the walls, ceiling and floor had been replaced by a dark-red, fleshy substance that looked like yards of muscle. It spasmed rhythmically—ba-BUMP, ba-BUMP, ba-BUMP—and he knew he’d located the source of the throbbing he’d felt in the hallway.
“I guess it’s true what they say,” Simon, who stood directly behind him, said. “Home is where the heart is.”
Before David could reply—although, really, he couldn’t think of a single goddamned thing to say—the skinny demon leaped to its feet, let out an inhuman shriek of rage and came running toward him, fangs bared, eyes filled with equal parts anguish and rage, clawed hands raised, ready to slash into his flesh.
The “floor” undulated beneath the demon’s feet as the room—if it still could be called that—continued to beat. The creature didn’t lose its footing as it ran, maneuvering across the rippling surface with surprising ease.
David only watched as the demon drew near, wondering why a giant heart—because that was indeed what the living room had apparently become—needed to beat if it wasn’t circulating any blood. Before he could ponder this point any further, the demon slammed into him. The impact knocked him a couple steps backward, into the foyer, which thankfully still was a foyer. He didn’t go down—the demon hadn’t hit him that hard—and as the creature began pounding its fists on his chest, all the while shrieking in a maddening alien tongue, David realized that while he felt the blows, they didn’t hurt. Not much, anyway.
Now that he was face-to-face with the demon, he could see signs of age: prominent crow’s feet at the corners of its eyes, the slack folds of flesh on its cheeks and neck. It hadn’t occurred to him that these creatures could grow old. They seemed too inhuman to be affected by something so mundane as the ravages of time. But this one was obviously an old fellow, long past his prime physically, although he had plenty of fight left in him.
David grasped the demon’s bony shoulders, intending to shove him away, but before he could, he picked up a scent, a powerful one that he hadn’t been aware of up to now. It was sweet and savory at the same time, like prime rib covered with chocolate. It made his mouth water, and the aching pit of emptiness at the center of his gut cramped so hard it made him gasp.
“Nothing like getting a whiff of the good stuff,” Simon said. He’d stepped away when the demon attacked, and now watched David grapple with the creature from a safe distance. “Go on. Breathe it in. Enjoy. Savor.”
His stomach screamed to be filled, the need so absolute, so overpowering that David felt like an addict long denied a fix who’d just been handed his favorite drug. He’d never been one to indulge in recreational drug use. An occasional beer with his pizza was about it. But in his late teens he’d started smoking, and when he finally decided to give up the habit—shortly after meeting Sarah—h
e’d had the devil’s own time of it. He’d since read somewhere that quitting smoking was harder than giving up heroin, and if his experience was typical, he could believe it.
A single all-encompassing thought took hold of him then. No, not a thought. It was simpler than that. It was a need, a drive, so basic, so primal, that he felt it on a cellular level.
Food.
He bared his own teeth and—still holding tight to the old demon’s shoulders—he lunged forward, intending to bite into the sagging flesh of the creature’s neck. The demon shrieked, but this time the sound was one of panicked terror. He tried to tear free of David’s grip, but David held him too tightly.
The instant David’s teeth came in contact with the demon’s skin, he felt a warmth rush through him so intense it was almost orgasmic. And yet he didn’t apply any pressure. He didn’t bite down, didn’t break the skin. He wanted to. God, how he wanted to! But after a couple moments, he drew back and relaxed his hold on the demon.
“Get out,” he said, not knowing whether the creature could understand him and not really caring.
The demon looked at him for a moment, an unreadable expression on its inhuman face. And then the demon dashed past David, ran to the front door, hurriedly unlocked it and plunged outside.
David turned to see Simon looking toward the now open doorway. “Now that’s what I call fast food,” he said.
David ignored him. He was getting good at it. He headed for the door, walking slowly. Behind him the muscular walls of what used to be his living room continued to contract and release, their rhythm slowing now, almost as if reflecting his mood.
…ba-BUMP…ba-bump…baaaa-bump…
“Aren’t you going to search the rest of the house?” Simon asked. “If your living room’s the inside of a giant heart, I can’t wait to see what your basement’s become!”
“There’s no point,” David said. “They aren’t here.” A pause, and then, “I’m not even sure I’m here.”
And with that, David walked outside.
Malcolm’s lungs burned, and his pulse beat at trip-hammer speed. He hadn’t been the most in-shape man before the world went to shit, and he hadn’t exactly gotten much exercise since. Kind of hard to get out and go jogging when your town is filled with undead freaks who consider you a meal on the hoof. He should slow down, he really should, but he couldn’t make himself. His body, it seemed, had its own opinion about the matter.
He ran down the street in bare feet, past abandoned houses with overgrown yards—high grass, clusters of weeds. Even in the fading light of dusk, he found the trees pretty, though. The leaves had turned, bright reds and yellows, rich browns… It was a comfort to him to know that even in a fucked-up world like this one, beauty was still possible.
His heart began to beat erratically and his chest felt as if a tight band encircled it. Sharp pain shot through his left arm, but he kept running, actually picked up a bit of speed. He knew what was happening inside him, and he welcomed it.
He became aware of the first zombies as gray began to nibble at the edge of his vision. They came out of houses whose doors were open, emerged from yards where they’d been lying in the grass. Dozens of them, starting toward him, moaning in hunger. He knew then that he’d been wrong about zombies staying away from this neighborhood. The damned things were like cockroaches. You never saw them until they came out to feed.
He had no idea why David—or rather the monster that he’d become—had let him go. Maybe somewhere inside his rotted, mouldering excuse for a mind he’d recognized Malcolm, at least enough to make him hesitate. Whatever the reason, Malcolm had managed to escape becoming a meal for him, and he’d be damned if he’d let these others get a taste of him. Not while he was alive, at any rate.
So he pushed himself even faster, leaden limbs numb, lungs unable to draw in breath, chest so tight it felt as if he were being crushed in the grip of a giant hand, heart beating in lurching spasms, left arm feeling as if it were aflame.
His vision swam, dizziness overtook him, and as he stumbled, everything began to go black. He had a last glimpse of zombies drawing near, and he smiled weakly as he started to fall.
I beat you, you fuckers, he thought. I beat…
He was aware of nothing for a few seconds, but then the darkness gave way to light once more—albeit dim, hazy light—and he saw black asphalt, saw feet shuffling toward him, some covered with dirty, stained footwear, some unshod, the flesh yellow and dead looking. He’d had a heart attack, all right. A real doozy. Was probably still having it, in fact, but it hadn’t killed him, not yet, anyway. But that was okay. The rest of the neighborhood had turned out to help make his death wish come true.
Malcolm would die, all right. Just not right away.
He saw teeth, then. Lots and lots of teeth.
Chapter Seven
Toby Dempsey sat behind the wheel of his Ford pickup, driving well under the speed limit—not that traffic laws mattered anymore—with the headlights off. It would’ve been more fun to come barrel-assing into town, engine roaring and lights blazing, but that would only alert all the dead fucks in the vicinity that dinner was coming. Driving slowly, quietly and dark was the only way to make the trip safely. Well, more safely anyway.
“Where you wanna go this time?” he asked. “I was thinking maybe the college.”
“Naw,” Seth said. “We went there last week.”
Toby’s brother sat on the passenger side of the cab, his window rolled down all the way. The night air was cool—a little too cool for Annie, who sat between them, hands tucked into her jacket pockets. She slid a little closer to Toby and pressed against him for warmth. He smiled, pleased.
Technically, Annie was their girl, but both he and Seth competed for her attention. Not when it came to sex, of course. As long as each of the boys got as much as they wanted—either one-on-one with her or ménage à trois—they were happy as pigs in shit. After all, there weren’t that many girls left anymore, and even fewer good-looking ones, so sharing when it came to sex was simply a fact of life these days. But when it came to the emotional stuff, like whose jokes she laughed at harder or whose gaze she met longer, whom she came to when she was scared or whom she liked hanging out with more, the brothers competed with a quiet ferocity that rivaled that of the most implacable of blood foes.
“Couldja roll the window up, Seth?” she asked. “I’m kinda cold.”
He didn’t so much as glance at her. “You got a jacket on. You’re all right.”
She looked at Toby, as if expecting him to say something. He knew she was aware of the brothers’ rivalry and loved playing one off against the other whenever she could. He liked having her sit so close to him, but he also wanted to score points with her.
“I don’t know if it’s a good idea to leave the window open all the way,” he said. “Makes it too easy for one of them dead bastards to reach in and grab you.”
“Let ’em try,” Seth said. But after a moment he rolled the window up halfway without comment.
Annie flashed Toby a grateful smile, and he grinned back. It was a small victory, and he supposed a petty one, but he’d take it. Victories of any kind were damned hard to come by these days.
They headed into Lockwood from the east end of town, and although the pickup’s headlights weren’t on, Toby saw the dim outline of the WELCOME TO LOCKWOOD sign—Home of Swimmer Bob McKinny, 1964 Olympic Silver Medalist. The country roads weren’t free of zombies, by any means, but they were thickest in town, and whenever they entered Lockwood proper, Toby felt a ball-shriveling tension that he both loved and hated. It was kind of like the feeling he’d get when as a kid he’d ride the roller coasters at Kings Island—except the coasters didn’t try to eat you while you rode them.
The speed limit here was thirty-five. He was doing ten miles under that as they rolled into town, but he eased his foot off the gas until they were doing closer to twenty—and even that speed made him feel a little nervous. The pickup—which his dad had acq
uired through what he called “divine right of salvage”—had been a new model when Blacktide hit. He supposed it would be one of the last new vehicles made, at least for a while. Maybe forever.
Dad believed that humans would eventually kill all the zombies, and the men and women who remained alive would repopulate the world. Toby suspected that it might be too late for that, but he never contradicted his father. For one thing, it was a good way to get a smack upside the head, and even though he and his brother were both in their twenties, Dad still “corrected” them as if they were children.
But the main reason he never contradicted his father on the possibility of repopulation was that he figured optimism, foolish or not, was in short supply, so why crush the old man’s groove?
The pickup hadn’t seen a lot of use since Blacktide hit, and its engine still ran as if it were fresh off the factory floor. A nice, quiet purr. Even so, he didn’t want to drive too fast and make too much noise. They’d come to town in search of zombies, but that didn’t mean they wanted every goddamned one in Lockwood to know they were here.
“How ’bout we try the mall?” Annie said. “Been a couple months since we went there.”
“Too cliché,” Seth said.
Annie glanced at Toby, but he just shrugged. Seth was the only one in the family who’d continued his education past high school. He’d gone to the community college over in the next county for three semesters to study aviation mechanics, and whenever he said something no one else could understand, Toby figured he’d picked it up in school and didn’t worry about it. Their dad, however, got irritated whenever he thought Seth was trying to show off his education. Think you know something just ’cause you went to college, boy? You know exactly two things: jack and shit.