What happened to the cannibals and the hunters? What happened to the packs of survivors? In Detroit, there had been thousands of different people moving or setting up camp in the city. It was a young emperor’s wet dream. Everything was up for grabs and because of that, there were supposedly factions of armed men taking to the streets everywhere. Of course, this was all balancing upon the belief that the Preacher was telling the truth. That army from the north that is nothing but a distant trouble, they no doubt ended all of those hopeful conquistadors’ dreams of being king of the dying world. Death and war was everywhere. Live by the sword, die by the sword. That was the motto of every city that I entered or came near to. In between those armies were the peaceful and the fearful, dying in droves and fueling the fires of war.
But here, things were oddly different. Here, these religious cultists had taken control of everything. How had they done it? How did they get the numbers to drive out the bandits and killers that believed in taking what was theirs, not finding it? There was a strange story behind this new city and I want to know it. What would it take to get one of those nut jobs alone? I suppose they were wise to that kind of treatment. Why else would they be wandering around in packs like they do? My best bet is to find a radio, if there are any left, and to see if I can’t hear someone talking about them, glean from it what I can.
Most of Atlanta is now flooded. I learn that the hard way. I come to a canal that has been backfilled with sewage or blockage of some kind. Either way, whatever source that the water’s coming from, it has covered the surrounding area in four feet of water. I slog into the enormous pool. For nearly a quarter of a mile, I’m living in a thick, horrendous swamp that smells bad enough to make me want to vomit. When I finally get to the end of the enormous lake that has encompassed this part of the city, I see that farther south there’s even more waiting for me. The sewers have backed up, the water pipes have burst, and everything seems to be running inward. The whole city is turning into a sludge-filled bog.
I hear a splash and I immediately drop down to a crouch. There’s not much cover in the street where I’m standing, but I first need to pinpoint where the sound originated from. I looked down the street and in the windows of every house that I spot. There’s nothing to be seen, but suddenly there are more splashes, farther off. Slowly, I look to the south, making my way toward the sound. Soon there’s a scream followed by another splash, this one’s much louder. Wading into the new water, I see little ripples passing me, fleeing from the source.
More splashing draws my attention and the alleyway ahead of me is suddenly full of movement. Two men are fleeing but only one of them clears the opening in the alleyway. The second immediately drops, thrashing in the water and groaning in agony. I recognize them as the religious zealots and my heart suddenly starts to pound. Taking cover around the corner, I draw my machete and wait for them. Whoever is chasing them, they’re liable to need some help with stopping this last fool. I listen, hearing the heavy, frantic breathing as the sloshing footsteps draw closer and closer. The water is churning out of the alley and I take a deep breath. The moment the man appears, I pounce.
Slamming the butt of my machete onto the side of the man’s face, I drop him with a single blow. Diving on top of the man, I force his head under water and look behind me, making sure that the alleyway isn’t filling up with more of the lunatics. The man’s body is squirming underneath my weight, writhing and struggling against me, but I keep him down. Just about when he’s almost done with this world, I pull him up and throw him against the wall. He’s thin and gaunt, but he’s fed. I don’t know what it is he’s eating, but it’s sustaining him. In a fair fight, he could give me a run for my money.
“Listen here and listen well.” I put my bladed stump against his throat and watch the drowned rat of a man slowly come to. He blinks several times and flinches suddenly when he realizes that there’s a blade at his throat. I make sure that my machete is tickling his stomach, just to keep the gravity of the situation for him in perspective. He looks at me and then his eyes dart up the alley where his friend has stopped thrashing about in the water. “You’ve got ten seconds to tell me who you are and what’s going on up there. Ten. Nine.”
“We tracked the bitch,” the man answered in a squirmy voice that makes me uneasy. “We cornered her, but she knew we were on her when we went for her. She killed three of us. Carl and I were supposed to make a run for it while Leif held her down. She’s behind some car and he’s got his crossbow on her.”
“Your man’s got a crossbow?” I raise an eyebrow and my captive doesn’t take kindly to it.
“She’s a murderer,” the man growls through his teeth. “She’s going to pay for her sins. The Prophets will see to it.”
“Yeah, and who are the Prophets?” I ask the man.
“You’ll find out soon enough, I’m sure,” the man spits in my face.
“Yeah, but you won’t,” I slip the blade through his soiled, white tunic and into his guts. The man gasps, but I cut off any screams he might have by dragging my bladed stump over his throat. Blood gushes down the man’s throat and I step back from him, sheathing my machete. Hoping to keep him from drawing attention of others, I pull him into the water and watch him sink to barely below the surface. He’ll rise, but hopefully I’ll be long gone by then.
They have Lindsay, and that crossbowman has her pinned down just ahead. I draw my machete again and slowly make my way up the alleyway, making as little noise as possible. My feet are true and my hand is steady. At the end of the alley, I peek around the corner and I take a look at the situation, seeing if it’s nearly as dire as my dead friend made it out to be. There’s two more dead bodies out in the small intersection nearby and I immediately spot Lindsay, or at least her legs. She’s behind a taxi and before I can get a better look, one of the windows explodes and I see her legs curl back, flinching.
“Come out!” a voice shouts from nearby, but I can’t find him. He has to be above me. He’s not on the street level.
Stepping out into the light, I move with my back to the building I’m at. I don’t know where this crossbowman is, but he definitely isn’t going to let me stick around and ask questions if he sees me. It’s some sort of shop that I’m in front of. I don’t bother looking at it, because right now, I need this asshole to shout. The windows at the front of the shop have been shattered and the flooding has filled the entire building. I take that as a good sign and sneak into the building, listening.
“You’re surrounded, bitch!” the man shouts and I catch where he’s at. He’s not in this building. He’s in the next. I step into the building, going deeper past tables and chairs. There are rows of display cases all around the room and I pick up that this is a bakery, or at least it was. Footsteps in the water register in my ears and I know that he’s near. Looking to the west, I spot an enormous opening in the building. The two businesses are connected. I peer through the wide doorway and see that the soggy shop next to my bakery is some sort of bookstore that has been severely damaged by flooding. Moving as quietly as I can through an ankle-deep pool of water that fills both buildings, I make my way toward the voice. “There are others coming this way,” he shouts again. “We’re going to burn you alive for the people you’ve killed.”
“Go to hell,” Lindsay shouts back to the man and gets a crossbow bolt in return. By the sounds of the man reloading his contraption, I know that he’s just on the other side of the doorway, which makes me begin to fear for every little sound that I make. If he turns around, then he’ll no doubt see the ripples of my movements in the water all around him. I keep still and listen as the man finishes reloading.
“Step on out and I’ll make it quick and painless for you,” the man calls.
I creep out from behind the display case and round the corner as quietly as possible, finally catching a glimpse of the crossbowman. He’s got his crossbow trained on the taxi that Lindsay is hiding behind. His eyes are glued to that taxi. There’s this strange little
nervous, jittery dance that he’s doing, riling up the water and covering my own movements. He’s breathing heavily—terrified, anxious breaths. I get my machete ready.
“You’re an ignor—” I swing my machete down on the back of the crossbowman’s head, sinking the blade deep into his skull with a loud plunk that ripples through the bones in my arm. The man immediately goes limp and crashes into the watery floor of the bookstore, dropping his crossbow as well.
“Lindsay,” I call out to her, prying my machete free of his head. “Lindsay, is there anyone else nearby?” I look around, trying to spot any signs of movement, but I’m too terrified, too fueled by adrenaline to see or sense anything. There could be an army nearby and I feel like I’m missing all the signs of their presence. “Lindsay, answer me, damn it!”
“Charlie?” I hear her voice drifting across the street. I smile.
“Yeah, Lindsay,” I shout back through the window at her. “It’s me.”
“What the hell are you doing here?” she calls.
“Heading south,” I reply, making my way to the door. The man has two bolts left for his crossbow and there’s no way that I’m going to be able to work it. Lindsay might want it over her bow, but I don’t see why she would. She’s an excellent marksman with just the bow. I step out of the doorway and into the warm, humid sun. Lindsay is standing up behind the car and looking at me as if I’d come back from the dead.
“I was heading east,” she replied.
“Run into some friends?” I ask her, lowering my voice just in case the crossbowman was telling the truth.
“Listen,” she steps toward me and lowers her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she says with a genuinely apologetic voice. “I was a hard ass and I’m sorry for being a bitch. I understand. You were married. You have daughters you’re trying to get to. Maybe when all of this craziness settles down, we can have a civilized conversation without Zombies trying to eat us.”
“I’d like that,” I smile at her.
“Good,” she smiles at me, a radiant, beautiful smile. “We make a good team after all. I save your ass, you save mine.”
“I think the score makes us equal?” I say, heading south.
“Not even close, asshole,” she answers.
We continue south into a neighborhood, looking for somewhere to hide for the night. The sun is sinking toward the horizon and that means we have about three hours of light left. If we want to find somewhere to set up without using our flashlights, then we’re going to need that light. Lindsay unslings her bag and rummages through it as we continue wading deeper and deeper south through this never-ending, stagnant water. Eventually, she produces two cans and I smile looking at them. They’re knock off brand fruit cocktails.
“Classy,” I say with a grin.
“I found them in the back of a car,” she answers. “That’s when the patrol found me. I ran for nearly twelve blocks and they still caught up with me. They’re relentless sons of bitches.”
“They most certainly are,” I answer.
Before she can say something witty, a horn blast draws both of our eyes toward the east where it originated. They’re maybe four or five blocks away, but they spotted us. Lindsay doesn’t hesitate. She stuffs the cans in her pack and zips it before grabbing my arm and running as fast as she can to the south. As for me, I stare at them, watching the pack of maybe seven running toward us at full speed. They don’t abate, they keep running as long as they can, until we vanish behind a wall and I can no longer see them. Lindsay doesn’t run for very far before she finds a house with a porch that draws her attention. Running toward it, she flings open the door, leaving me a few steps behind her. As the door swings back, threatening to impede my flight, I see that the lock and handle have been blown off by a shotgun.
Closing the door quietly, Lindsay is already lurking deeper into the house and I follow her. Quietly I creep back into the corridor, watching through the tainted windows as the hunters pass down the street, shouting to one another, seeing if anyone else has a lead. One of them takes the steps in two bounds and kicks open the door to the house. I step into the pantry, completely unaware of Lindsay’s location and praying that she’s found somewhere safe to hide.
The fanatic makes his way through the house, flipping over a lamp, a small table, poking his head into the kitchen, but not far enough to see me. He storms through the house before throwing open the back door and disappearing into the yard, running after the others. I stand quietly in the kitchen, listening as the others make their way through the backyards and into the next houses and through the gaps between the homes. Slowly, they begin to fade into the distance and I keep still, just in case there are a few lingering around.
I hear footsteps through the house and I pray that it’s Lindsay. They’re quiet and determined footsteps. Keeping a grip on my machete and cocking back my bladed stump, I wait for whoever it is to step into my line of sight. After a moment, the footsteps stop.
“We’re clear, Charlie,” Lindsay’s voice whispers through the house, and I let out a long, deep breath.
Chapter Eighteen
I pull the curtains over the windows. They’re damp and moldy, but they still do the trick, casting darkness across the living room as I do so. The house is pretty much in the same state when it was abandoned during the Panic. There are still TVs and furniture in the house. It hasn’t even been looted by the madmen in the white clothes. All around this room, there’s peeling wallpaper and the signs of decay that this musty, dank house is full of ghosts. The bookshelf is slouching and everything on it has fallen onto the floor. This whole place reeks of forgotten, drowned memories. I keep a watch through a crack in the curtains, unwilling to give up on the fanatics who fled south after us. Somehow I know that the road south is going to only get more and more difficult.
“What do you think about heading west?” I ask Lindsay, who is in the next room searching through fully stocked kitchen drawers. The people who lived here were by no means wealthy, but they did have a significant amount of stuff. They weren’t those advised to board up and relocate with the quarantine measures. I’m not even sure if Atlanta had quarantine measures. By the time Georgia got hit, most of the east coast was slipping into anarchy and everywhere between the Appalachians and the Rockies was already fair game for chaos. “We can cross that canal again, get out of the major city and circle around it on the interstate.”
“They’ll be watching the interstate,” Lindsay replies. “Someone will be, at least.”
There’s always someone watching. I grind my teeth as I watch the empty street. Where can we go in this mess of a place where there aren’t lunatics somewhere? I don’t like this feeling. I can’t stand how they’ve gotten under my skin. I’m trapped, like a rat in a corner. I’m running through the walls and I’m scurrying as fast as I can, but they have all their bases covered. They have everything set up for me to get myself trapped and captured. I’m going to die in this town, seriously die here if I don’t make my next move very carefully. I look toward the kitchen where Lindsay is working on the fruit cocktails. She’s going to be just fine. She’ll get out of this situation, but I’m a different story. I’m older. I’m injured. I’m maimed. I’m weak. She’s got everything she needs to leave Atlanta in the dust.
“Smells good,” I smile at her. She looks up and smiles at the stupid joke, but it’s all I can think of right now to pass the time. I know she’s as worried and scared as I am. I can see it in the way she moves. She’s plotting. I don’t know how long she plans to stick with me, but I hope she’s been genuine with me about combining forces for the meantime. She walks out of the kitchen and hands me the can with a small spoon that’s designed for children. “To help savor it?” I ask.
“Why not?” She shrugs. “Might be our last meal.”
“What I’d give for a few fingers of Jameson,” I sigh before following her toward the dining room.
She giggles at that. “Really? I wouldn’t fix you for a Jameson’s man.” She looks
at me with something dangerously close to being impressed in her eyes. “I thought you’d probably sip whiskey sours or something.”
“No,” I smile and shake my head. From the humidity and the heat, the wood of the furniture in the dining room has warped with the table as well whose faux exterior has bubbled and cracked. “Believe it or not, I was a writer before I was a professor. Drinking’s one of the prerequisites.”
“You serious?” Lindsay cocks her head to the side. “You’re full of surprises, Charlie.”
“A genuine man of mystery.” I take a bite, tasting pears and peaches for the first time in what feels like an eternity. I lean back in my chair and close my eyes, savoring the flavors dancing on my tongue right now. When I open my eyes, she’s watching me, smiling at my euphoria. “What about you? What’s your last drink?”
“Huckleberry Martini,” Lindsay says without a moment’s hesitation. I look at her with a baffled smile on my face. She looks at me and shrugs. “Probably just a Coors.”
“Your last drink in this life and you choose Coors?” I shake my head.
“Fuck you,” she laughs. “I enjoy the classics.”
“That isn’t a classic,” I take another bite. “That’s piss.”
She punches my shoulder and I bear it gracefully as I take another bite, trying to master eating with only one hand and not spilling my can everywhere. “You know,” I sigh after a moment. “One day, they’re going to figure all this shit out. All the crazies and the cannibals are going to die out and those who have their shit together are going to fix us. We’ll all just be a page in the history books where humanity almost killed itself off again. But nonetheless, there’ll be history books.”
LEFT ALIVE (Zombie series Box Set): Books 1-6 of the Post-apocalyptic zombie action and adventure series Page 33