The Runners had not yet caught up to him. With nothing much to lose, Marek shrugged his shoulders and went after the dog. He made it behind the Church in time to see the canine slink into the building through a small broken window. A tall wooden fence ran along the back of the Church, securing it from any Altered lumbering on the street. Aside from broken, blood stained, playground equipment, the back of the Church had been empty; safe.
What Marek could see of the inside had been pure darkness. Everything was dark these days. The window looked barely large enough for him to squeeze through. It would be another risk; he could very well become lodged, legs out for wandering Altered to devour while he could do nothing but scream. And then there was the risk of what might be waiting inside.
Marek had taken another swig of the bottle before going in. Die outside. Die inside. Dying was dying no matter where, how, or when. Tossing his crowbar through the window, he'd gone in head first. He regretted his method of entry as he faceplanted onto the hard floor. Shaking away the stars flashing across his vision, Marek dug into his pocket for his phone – a device he rarely used and usually kept off until he caved into weakness. Turning it on, he had illuminated the room and found himself in the Church’s basement.
Three bodies greeted him, all torn into so much they had never stood a chance of rising again. Beside the window was a table with a few wooden crates on top. They must be how the dog made it in and out of the building. Near the back corner of the basement lay said canine on a heap of frayed, dust-filled blankets. It curled in on itself, ribs pronounced under Marek’s beacon of light. When a thump sounded from upstairs, the dog gave the smallest of whines before coiling tighter.
A flight of stairs were located along the wall opposite where the dog bedded down. Marek grabbed his crowbar and tiptoed as he ascended, heart pounding erratically against his chest. Die inside. Die outside. Dying was Dying no matter how you went. Marek really hated the mantra that plagued him in times like these. He reminded himself that the dog obviously called this place home. It wouldn’t have done that if it weren’t safe.
The top of the stairs were mostly blockaded by a pew and a table that had fallen on an angle. Another thump sounded from beyond followed by the familiar shuffle and groans of the Altered.
Quietly, Marek reached the top and peered over the pew. He counted four Altered; one sat halfway down the room, one shuffled near the podium, one stood near a far right column, and the final one stood a few feet away, staring towards the front. All slow, all easy targets. All down so quick he never even broke a sweat. It was the best night he’d had in a while, sleeping on a cushioned pew in a place that had been secured for him.
As the sleep faded from Marek’s eyes, he rose onto his elbows and took another swig from the bottle; the throat burning liquid was almost gone. Light of a new day streamed through the tops of the tall windows where it had been too high for someone to board up.
Steps sounded from the back of the church. Cautiously, he gripped his crowbar, ready for an attack. He had lived through the night, which meant an Altered had somehow snuck into the building. Marek was more irritated by the thought of having to leave a place he had thought secure than by the idea that danger had found its way in. Peering over the pew’s backrest, Marek was met with soulful brown eyes and a wagging tail.
“Fuck me.”
Chapter Seven
Distractions
Within a handful of hours of Ambrose taking up with Shelly and her gang, the group’s little sanctuary flooded with Eaters. The parking lot was a gruesome symphony of groans, snarls, and scuffing feet. It was Fletcher’s turn to keep watch atop the stairs. Intently, he peered down through the half-circle window that decorated the top of the door.
Ambrose knew every time an Eater slipped through the cracks of the barricade and came too close to their hiding spot. Fletcher’s shoulders would tense, his breathing clipped as if to keep them from hearing the slightest noise, and his fingers would curl a bit tighter around his sledge hammer.
Shelly packed and repacked four backpacks. Every few minutes she would switch to whichever supplies she deemed most necessary. Her fidgeting was pushing Ambrose closer and closer to the edge.
Between the balcony’s railings was a rolled-up rope ladder Fletcher had secured when the group had first moved in. It was their emergency exit should things go south. Ambrose didn’t have the heart to tell them his actions were likely a wasted effort. If Eaters barged in, and the group did make it down the ladder, outside would be no better. They would be seen long before they made it to the ground and were sure to be swarmed by eagerly waiting dead hands.
That wasn’t Ambrose’s only worry. The trio was a group without her. If worse came to worse… would they leave her behind? It wouldn’t take much on their part. Ambrose looked down at her ankle, wrapped tightly in strips of cloth by the helpful Shelly. They had helped her once, but her ankle would slow her down. She was dead weight, and easy pickings for a ravenous horde.
Goodwill only went so far in a world like this. Ambrose knew that all too well. Those early days of the apocalypse taunted her; the memories of the people her family had taken up with always ready to torment. She worked to erase her father’s words and the screams of all the victims that marked their trail. What right did she have to expect a different fate? It seemed Karma had finally caught up to her.
A thump along the apartment door jarred Ambrose from her dreadful musings. Fletcher’s fingers became bone white, his lips pursed. Blake snuggled closer onto his sister’s lap, her arm’s tightening as she tried to stifle his whimpers and rock away his fears. Ambrose tried not to remember being in a similar position with her mother moments before she died.
Fletcher’s shoulders relaxed. The Eater must have moved away. Ambrose didn’t know how much longer her nerves would hold out. “We need a distraction.” Fletcher’s hoarse voice made Ambrose flinch. They had all been quiet for so long.
“We can play Chutes and Ladders.” Blake suggested quietly from the shelter of his sister’s arms.
Fletcher gave the boy a small smile, “Not that kind of distraction, buddy.”
This was it. The moment Ambrose had been dreading. They were going to leave her behind, or worse: purposely throw her to the horde – like it had been done to her before. She really wished Fletcher hadn’t been so cruel as to announce it. Couldn’t he simply have knocked her unconscious and then thrown her off the balcony?
“The window, on the other end of the unit; I could hang off it, holler to get as many Freaks over on that side. When the front area clears, y’all run for it.”
“Fletch, no!” Shelly whisper shouted.
“It’s the only shot we have.”
“And how will you get out?" Shelly paled at the meaning behind Fletcher’s silence as Blake began a silent cry. Ambrose was stunned at his offering. Even her father, her own blood, had not been so selfless. She distinctly remembered the lie he told her moments before he was swarmed.
“I’ll do it.” She announced. As Fletcher was about to respond, she held up a hand. “I have a bum leg. I won’t make it far and there’s no use in two of us going down.”
“No—”
“Listen to me.” Ambrose cut him off. “Even with you roaring at the top of your lungs on the other side, there’s bound to be straggling Shufflers out front, not to mention any Runners who hear your call. Your family will need help clearing the way if you want them to have a real chance to escape, and I won’t be much help with that.”
Ambrose could see the war flashing behind Fletcher’s eyes. It was an odd feeling to realize this stranger genuinely cared when so many others had not. It clearly did not sit easy with him to sacrifice her, but his family was… well, his family.
“We have supplies.” Shelly spoke past the quiver in her voice. “We don’t need to run. Not yet. Maybe they’ll move on. We can hunker down for a while longer.”
“It’s a horde.” Ambrose murmured, trying not to roll her eyes. “The larger
it gets, the more frenzied they become. It’s like they feed off each other’s energy, or something. You have to leave, now, before more come along.”
“I can’t take Blake out into that. Maybe—”
“What? Are you waiting for a bigger cluster fuck, or what? You won’t stand a chance at all if you don’t leave now!”
“Even so, we can’t just leave you behind. Fletcher – tell her!”
All eyes went to Fletcher. He sat quietly for a beat longer, staring at the door as if he could see the growing horde beyond. Ambrose could see the calculations forming in his mind, knew what his decision was the moment his shoulders sagged. “We can bring out one of the small bookshelves from the spare room. When we slip out, Shell, you make sure to place it at the bottom of the stairs. Slant it so it falls against the door when you close it. Once outside, make sure you place the chair beneath the door knob. I’ll clear the way.”
“Fletch—”
“It’ll stop them from getting inside.”
“For how long?” Shelly demanded. “And how will she get out after?”
Ambrose stepped in before they could continue arguing. “Fletcher installed the rope ladder for a reason, right? I’ve survived this long. I’ll be ok.”
Ambrose didn’t want to tell them she’d survived through pure dumb luck. She wasn’t a fighter. She didn’t even consider herself stealthy. She was just a coward who only went out when necessary. She had survived because she had learned to slink away as others took the fall. Like Zach… like mom… even dad. But not this time. It was her turn to be bait.
Digging into her backpack, Ambrose found her fabric scissors. With a morose smile she handed them to Shelly. “I heard you telling Blake you’d find scissors soon for a much needed haircut.”
“You might need them.” She replied, unable to look Ambrose in the face.
“I have other weapons. Here.”
Shelly mumbled a thank you as her fingers wrapped around the scissors. With her backpack slung over her shoulders, Ambrose walked down the hall to the furthest room in the apartment. She did not bother with goodbyes. No use getting sentimental with people she didn’t even know.
The latch on the far side window snapped loudly as she unlocked it. Fletcher moved about the room behind her, grabbing the bookshelf along with a few miscellaneous items. That comforting awkwardness flooded Ambrose again, seeing him do everything in his power to give her the best chance at her own survival. Ambrose concentrated on lifting the window screen. She wanted to lean out as far as she could, gather as much attention to her as possible.
“Shelly’s repacking. As soon as she’s done, I’ll wave down the hall for you to start. We’ll only take what we can carry; the rest is yours.”
Ambrose did not turn away from the window as she nodded in acknowledgement. She did not want him to see how afraid she was, not when she could tell how much he disliked this plan to begin with. There really was no more time to waste looking for another way. When his footsteps stopped at the end of the hall, she pivoted sideways enough to see when he gave the signal. Shivers started to rock her body as Ambrose waited.
Look on the bright side, look on the bright side, she mentally chanted. It’ll be over soon… hopefully.
Through her peripheral vision, she saw Shelly give Fletcher his pack and take the bookshelf from his hands. Though she tried to move quietly, Ambrose could still hear the few thumps the bookshelf made as Shelly descended the stairs. The noise was sure to garner some attention from outside. Ambrose’s distraction would have to be magnificent.
Fletcher’s signal came, perhaps a bit sooner than Ambrose would have liked. She turned, prepared to stick her upper body out the window. Filling her lungs with air, she closed her eyes as she waited a second longer. Her scream was overpowered by a blast in the distance.
Chapter Eight
Saints, Demons, and Dogs
Marek’s nighttime plan had gone awry. No sooner had he befriended the dog when he discovered the reason for the pooch's need for company: Altered had surrounded the Church. The dog snuggled closer against Marek’s legs, searching for comfort against the horde outside.
Marek’s only guess was that he’d riled the Altered more than he had intended. His smell had likely wafted through the desolate town; the only food source around for miles. Famished, the Altered must have spilled out from all their hiding places and were now congregating on the streets, searching. As he bent down to scratch the dog’s ears, he wondered if the girl he’d seen was alright… if she was even still alive. Was it possible his actions had the opposite effect of what he had attempted to do?
He had tried his best. Whatever her fate now, it was entirely up to her. That thought gnawed on him, but what else was he supposed to do? He couldn’t exactly waltz out there to go searching for her. She was on her own, just as he was. The real question now was: how would he survive?
The dog whimpered at his side. As Marek looked down at the canine, an idea formed. A very morbid, selfish idea. It was survival of the fittest, and maybe… maybe he wasn’t ready to die.
A special place in hell awaited him for what he was about to do. The dog was so trusting as it stared at him with its big brown eyes. Marek ran a hand over his face, disgusted with himself. It would be a kindness to bash the animal’s brains in first. He could make it quick; the dog did not need to feel the rest. But would the Altered go for dead meat?
Marek held back a mouthful of vomit as he gently grabbed the dog’s hind leg. He couldn’t risk killing the animal for nothing. He would snap the bone quickly, toss the dog outside, then run as soon as he had the chance – as soon as the dog’s pain filled barks attracted the Altered to it instead of his fleeing cowardly self.
Marek tried to breathe evenly as he held the feather-light bone in his shaking hands. He had to do this. He had to move quickly before too many Altered roamed near. Marek counted down from three.
Three… Two…
A wet tongue kissed his tear stained cheek. The dog nuzzled Marek’s face, sensing his distress. It wouldn’t be kissing him if it knew what Marek had planned to do.
“Fuck me…” Marek cried.
He let go of the dog’s leg and sat against the pew. It settled next to him, resting its head on Marek’s lap.
Reaching behind him, Marek grabbed the liquor bottle and stared at the last few mouthfuls. He would bash the dog’s head in all right, but not until the Altered crashed through the doors. It would be the only mercy he could grant the dog; one he would not be able to give himself. Fuck; there wasn’t even enough alcohol left to make the coming pain bearable. The rim of the bottle touched his lips when a small light bulb went off in his head.
No; he would not wait for death sitting idly by. He would not be a pretty platter laid out for the Altered to enjoy as they pleased. They wanted food? He was sure as hell gonna make them work for it; just like Pamela had made them work for it.
Churches were more than just the front room of prayer. Easing off the floor, Marek and the dog went to explore.
~*~
Marek and the dog stood on the Church’s balcony. He studied the face of a Saint on the stained glass window overlooking the front street. The Saint’s expression was unreadable to Marek. At first he did not know what to make of that – then he became angry.
The Saint couldn’t even be bothered with a pitying look. How had all the Saints, and the angels, and God left them alone to deal with such a horrible fate? Of course the world had been filled with terrible people, but why had God decided to punish them all? The good people had not deserved to be ended by monsters – his mother hand not deserved to be ended by monsters. Though it shamed him, he tried to remember his mother had died to give him and Pamela a chance to survive. He would not let her death be for nothing.
At his feet were three, crudely made Molotov cocktails. Between the kitchen and the makeshift nurses office, he’d found adequate supplies. He’d only ever seen these things made in movies. Marek really hoped they worked
well enough.
From his vantage point, the street Marek was on was relatively clear – at least clearer than what he could make of the blocks down on either side. The bookstore where the girl was likely still trapped was a good many streets away. He readied himself; this might be their only chance. If she was smart, she would take it. He couldn’t risk going after her. This was the best he could do.
The shattering of the stained glass window was loud. Marek didn’t worry about drawing attention to his location, not with the diversion he was about to put into play.
Long ago, in another lifetime, he and his two older brothers would play football with Dad every fall. Mom, the only woman in the family, would look on worriedly, a first aid kit always on hand for her rascally boys. Marek didn’t have the best throwing arm – that gift had been bestowed upon his eldest brother. If Marek hadn’t seen him go down with his own eyes, he could almost swear Godrick now whispered in Marek’s ear as he exchanged his crowbar for the first Molotov.
Feet apart. Shoulders relaxed. Breathe little brother. Pull back. Let go…
The first bottle sailed cleanly through the air with the wind whistling at its disturbance. Only too late did Marek realize he had forgotten to light the damn thing. The glass shattered in the distance. What a waste.
Careful not to repeat his mistake, Marek lit the cloth wick, then launched the second bottle quicker than the first. It landed across the street into a tall oak growing in the middle of someone’s back yard. The once vibrant leaves erupted into bright red flame, dark smoke quickly licking into the sky. Taking a few steps back, Marek launched the final cocktail.
Pure dumb luck – that’s what it had to be.
The bottle sailed, further than the second one had. First was the sound of breaking glass. Marek guessed it had splattered on concrete. He wondered if its flame would just fizzle out and if the burning tree would be enough to distract the Altered as he moved among them.
Red Paint: Proceed with Caution Page 3