All Things Zombie: Chronology of the Apocalypse

by Various Authors

  What? Coming where? "Stay where you are," Olek coarsely whispered, hiding his fear. He looked over his shoulder to find his brother safe, and no threats approaching from the city.

  "You stay where you are. You have been following me for some time now. If you wish to come with me, then come with me. If you do not, then stop following me. You'll lead them to the safe place." The man leaned over and grabbed something off one of the dead bodies at his feet. He shoved it in the bag and moved to the next target of his salvage.

  Following him? Safe place? "What are you talking about? We haven't been following you at all."

  The big man with his dirty beard like the roots of a gray tree righted himself and chuckled silently. "You have been following me since south of the Central Square. You seek to head to Chernobyl, yes?"

  Olek's mind swam. He had no idea he'd been on the old man's trail. He must move silent as a cat. "We are heading out of the city to get to a safe, quiet place. I want to start growing food. Build a home. Something safer than here."

  "You could hide in the fallout shelters. Many are still sealed and have tinned food," the hide covered stranger said, pointing to the west.

  "I wish to get us to the woods," Olek said, trusting the man for no good reason he could divine.

  "A church is near, but the way is icy. The tavern is far, but I will walk carefully, eh? Wise."

  Olek felt proud for the first time in almost a year and squelched a smile. "Thank you."

  "Which is it? I, or we? Tell me truthfully. You wish to keep pretending you do not have a little boy hiding back there with you? I can smell the motor oil on your skin from here. You couldn't hide from me if you were made out of a tree and smelled like a river. Come out boys. Do not be afraid. Be cautious and wise instead. I am no danger to you."

  Aleksi did as the old man said, and Olek felt a surge of anger in his mind like a nail had been driven into his eye. At the same time… he felt some relief that an older man, a wiser man, a stronger man had helped them, and that Aleksi recognized his authority.

  "Hello," the big man said as he bent over at the waist one more time.

  "Hello. I am Aleksi Kosh," Olek's little brother said as bravely as he could.

  "Aleksi Kosh it is good to meet you. What is your brother's name?"

  Aleksi looked to his older brother, who was now standing, the AK dangling towards the ground in a relaxed hand. "He is Olek."

  "Olek and Aleksi. Good names. Good brothers, taking care of one another too. Olek and Aleksi I am Burian Loboda."

  Somehow, the man sharing his name opened up a gate in the wall of distrust Olek had around him. "It is good to meet you Burian. What… What is in the bag?" he dared.

  Burian took a step back and Olek watched as the man's face became guarded. He would fight for the bag if needed, using the bag. "Shoes."

  Olek hid a laugh. Is he crazy? He is crazy. "You… you have a bag of shoes? And you kill zombies with it?"

  Burian stomped his feet around and let his arms flap. The bag thudded on the ground. "It is not always filled with shoes. I have been amassing wealth for trade as winter comes. Shoes will be more valuable than gold, boy. The food is gone here. Shoes are plenty."

  That's true. That's smart. Like something father would do. "Yes. I understand," Olek said. He watched as Burian stood slightly taller. "You said something about Chernobyl? What are you talking about?"

  "There is safety there. Safety from the infection for boys," Loboda said as he ducked down to pick something up again.

  Shoes. He's taking their shoes. "Safety how? You trade infection for cancer? The radiation in Chernobyl is still dangerous."

  "Yes it is, but there is a place. A safe place where the infection is somehow killed by the radiation, and we are not. At least, we are not killed quickly by it. Perhaps it kills us slowly, but the Devil always takes back his gifts. I will take ten good years and an early death over one bad year and the same early death."

  "You make some sense," Olek said. He looked to Aleksi, and saw calmness in his face. The boy experienced a moment of serenity, even in the midst of a city overrun by the dead, and in the wake of the recent loss of his mother and father. Olek recognized this. "Are there many of you?"

  "Eight of us. Two pretty girls. One of for each of you I think. We can stop and pick flowers on the way back. First impressions are good," Burian said as he tucked the last shoe in his blood-stained bag.

  Olek looked to Aleksi and saw the boy's desire apparent and building. "You want to go? To a safe place?"

  Aleksi's head snapped to Olek with a grin. He emphatically nodded. "Yes I do."

  "Alright then. Burian I will keep my weapon, and we will walk behind you. I trust you, but I will protect my brother at all costs."

  Burian nodded, and turned. He walked over the wide overpass without another word, and the two Kosh boys followed.

  Somehow, this felt like going home to them both.

  Chris Philbrook

  Chris Philbrook is the creator and author of the best-selling literary worlds of A Dragon Among Us, Elmoryn and Adrian's Undead Diary.

  Chris has a Business degree as well as a Psychology degree, and attended the full program at the school of hard knocks. He has been a printing press operator, bouncer, purchasing agent, bodyguard, customer service representative, mental health counselor, and more.

  He calls the wonderful state of New Hampshire his home, but loves to travel. He is an avid reader, writer, play role playing game aficionado, miniatures game player, video gamer, and Magic: The Gathering card slinger. He is engaged to his lovely fiancée Leah and they share their home with Gilbert the cat, Abby the dog, and they expect their first child in April of 2016.

  Sign up for his email newsletter at http://www.thechrisphilbrook.com

  Find the rest of his titles here on Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Chris-Philbrook/e/B00FC2H02W/

  The Treehouse

  By Robert Dunne

  “HOLY FUCK!”

  He couldn’t stand still. Visibly agitated at his own stupidity, he paced back and forth and to and fro in the tiny wooden room, with clenched fists by his side and sweat dripping down his dirty brow. He had to bend his neck awkwardly just to fit in the room while standing up. The words coming out of his gritted teeth were barely audible, and any words that were decipherable were too crass to be repeated.

  Looking around, he always remembered this place being so much bigger, but then again, everything looks big to a six year old boy.

  A small boy with blond hair, blue eyes and all the tender, naïve innocence any six year old boy, raised in the suburbs with two completely loving parents, sits alone in a hospital hallway. Light blue walls, bright white fluorescent lights, plastic blue chairs, and the glow of a vending machine; are all that he has to comfort him. No one is there to hold his hand. No one is there to put a hand on his head, ruffle his hair or hold him tight and tell him everything is going to be alright. The small boy doesn’t know why it hurts so bad. He can’t fully understand why everyone is so upset. All the adults keep telling him it’s not his fault, but he can’t help but feel like they are just saying that to be nice. It's like he has an ocean worth of feelings with only a drinking glass to hold it all.

  Death to a six year old is too big a concept for them to comprehend.

  In the room at the end of the hall, a woman with strands of blond hair and faded blue eyes closes them for the last time. Somewhere between a blink and a heartbeat, she takes her final breath. Her husband holds her hand in those last few moments and weeps into her chest uncontrollably. Kissing her one last time he says goodbye to the love of his life. No amount of preparation could have readied him for the pain and overwhelming loss he felt in that moment. Sadness and sorrow aren't big enough words to describe the grief he was feeling.

  The heart monitor flat lines and beeps its long monotone in the background of this devastating scene.

  Cancer is too cruel a monster for anyone to properly comprehend.

  The
man still paces back and forth, to and fro, clopping on the old wooden floor, but he is beginning to calm down now. The haze of rage is clearing and hopeful thoughts are starting to raise their hands in the classroom of his mind. He hasn't been harmed and he still has air in his lungs and a little bit of fight in his heart. No food or water causes a couple of the hopeful thoughts to put their hands back down by their sides. However, it was only two of those fuckers that saw him and followed him up here. It was his own stupidity that corned himself though.

  "FUCK! ... Shit. Idiot."

  He yelled it at first and then checked the volume of his voice.

  It's just a thought, a desperate and perhaps foolish thought, but maybe he could just wait them out up here and hope that something else would distract them and lead them away. When he came here as a boy, wild life would often come right up to the fences, maybe they would do it again and draw them away.

  After what could have been either a few minutes or an eternity, the father gets up from the bedside and leaves the hospital room. He walks down the hallway and straight past his only son. His grief is so blinding, he doesn't notice his own boy looking up at him with tears in his eyes. He doesn't hear the boy’s questions, and he can't deal with the added pain on top of his own.

  The man now sits quietly in the corner. His knees tucked up to his chest, his arms wrapped around his shins and his head held low. The only noise he is making is the steady breathing he is forcing himself to do. In and out. He counts to three in his head to try and get an even rhythm going.

  In... One. Two. Three.

  Out... One. Two. Three.

  Over and over again.

  A blond haired, blue eyed boy sits at the top of the stairs by himself. His father sits at the kitchen table with a pile of unpaid bills and an empty bottle of whisky.

  The man sits in the corner. In. One. Two. Three.

  The boy sits on a swing in the backyard with no one to push him. The Father sleeps in the middle of the day in his arm chair with white noise on the TV and an empty bottle whisky.

  Out. One. Two. Three.

  A year later the six year old boy is now seven. His father can't really be blamed for the way he is treating his son. He keeps him fed, he helps him with his homework and he kisses him every night when he tucks him in. Two strangers with more than just blood in common, living like strangers under the same roof. How can a man explain to a boy something so terrible? Something so unfathomable that he doesn't even understand it himself? He may as well try to catch fire with a fishing net.

  The house doesn’t even smell the same anymore. It once smelled of baked foods and clean sheets. It had its own unique, familiar smell like all homes do and now that’s gone too. The little things the dad notice are holding him down. So he tries to see more clearly through the bottom of the bottle.

  In the summer, the father sends the son to his grandfather's to stay. The Grandfather is a big rough looking man with large hands and strong, veiny forearms. His tanned shoulders are a sign that singlet’s are his main choice of clothing. He has grey hair and a grey beard with a warm smile that peaks out to reveal his true nature. He hugs his grandson. He hugs him and holds him tight without letting go. His arms are so big the boy feels like he is in a cage. A small safe cage. He takes deep breaths from the boy’s hair and finally he pats him on the back. He stands up and with his large hands and warm smile he hands the boy a saw.

  The man still sits in the corner. The counting and the breathing are annoying him now. He tries his best to remain calm. The groans and moans and scratching down below are making it hard to stay relaxed. His frustration is an itch under his skin that can’t be soothed. The sun is beginning to drop below the horizon taking the temperature with it. So many emotions to deal with are exhausting. Anger, annoyance, terror, sleep deprivation, but right now the most pressing feeling is hunger. He hasn’t eaten for a few days and he dropped his water bottle scrambling up the tree, the tree that will now be his lofty tomb.

  The old man can see past the young boys sad, blue eyes, and he knows that no words will help. Words haven’t been invented to help in this situation. Only actions, or at the least, distractions will help this small boy through such troubling times. In the worst case scenario, the old man had just lost a daughter, so it will be a happy distraction for him.

  On the corner of the property stands a big, old oak tree and a pile of timbers. Hammers, nails and some hand tools lay on the ground beside them. The smell of warmth in the air and the fields of green trees that freckle the horizon make it feel like a postcard for a bed and breakfast, coupled with a building site.

  “Well son, it looks like we’ve got a lot of work to do. This tree house isn’t going to build itself”

  The young boy looks up at the old man confused and bewildered at such a daunting job.

  “Tree house? But I’ve never cut wood before, Pops. How am I supposed to make a whole house?

  “Before you started walking you had never walked before. Before you started talking you had never talked before. Now look at how well you do both of those. We will never get better at something if we don’t at least try”

  The old man handed the young boy a piece of wood and with all the patience of a man with no deadlines or priorities, the old man taught the boy how to cut wood and hammer nails.

  The sun was completely gone now. It was just him, his personal demons, and the demons below to keep him company for the night. He was used to being alone.

  On dark nights like these it really makes you appreciate how much you can take little things for granted. After all, darkness is only the absence of light. Now the man couldn't see anything. He was sure he could see his own breath, but he couldn't even see his own hand in front of his face.

  The man tries to lie down. The monsters below are still making their horrid noises. The scratching, the groaning and worse yet was the smell. A smell so putrid it hurt the nostrils and stung the eyes. A thick stench that was more chewed than inhaled. They never stopped wanting. A yearn for flesh so deep that they felt no pain, heard no reason and even defied death to get their feed. The man had known a similar, painful yearn as a young boy.

  Hopefully the mercy of sleep would come soon.

  The grandfather and grandson continued to toil away. They ate when they were hungry and they stopped or went fishing when they needed a break. It was a simple existence. The grandfather would cut five pieces of wood to every one of the grandsons but it didn't matter. He would hammer more nails, but neither of them noticed, neither of them were counting. They were both working equally as hard. They spoke when the boy felt like it and the old man answered his questions as best he could. After all that's all anyone can ever really do - their best.

  A few short days had passed and before they knew it they had a solid floor and part of a wall already built. For the first time in a long time the boy sat back, looked at all they had accomplished and with pride, the boy smiled. A missing piece of the boy returned with that smile. A piece he didn't even know was missing. As every next board was hammered in, a small piece of the boy was coming back to him.

  Now fear was beginning to rear its ugly head. Fear with his lifetime friend paranoia, are knocking on the door of this party for nightmares. It sounds like they are climbing up the tree. They have been down there so long, scratching and groaning, they must have figured out how to climb. It sounds like they are getting closer and just about to climb in. The smell gets stronger. His heart beats so loud he can hear his pulse in his head. His back against the wall, arms waving at the darkness maniacally, he pushes his legs into the empty air to keep the monsters at as much of a distance as possible.

  Then… Nothing. Alas, no monster rears its ugly head. It's just his cruel mind playing tricks on him. The demons remain below, crying their cries for his flesh.

  The grandfather cuts four pieces of wood to the boy’s one. He only hammers a few more nails than the boy. Still it doesn't matter. The boy is smiling more now and beginning to talk mor
e openly.

  Has sleep come? It mustn't have. If he is thinking, he can't be sleeping. It's a small mercy that he isn't dreaming. He can see just as well with his eyes open as he can with them closed. He has no way of telling the time to see how much of it has passed. To distract himself he makes desperate attempts to find lose boards in the pitch black, but it is useless. This place was too well built. Even all those years ago it still stands as if it was built yesterday.

  Both grandfather and grandson have worked hard for weeks. They stand at the bottom of the tree looking up at all its glory. They set out to complete an improbable task and they have built more than just a tree house. They have built a bond that will never be broken. A relationship made from four walls a roof and a ceiling. It taught the boy lessons of independence, to never give up, that saying just one more nail enough times would eventually build a house! Most of all from the conversations they had, it helped him to heal and to understand why his father was having so much trouble talking about their shared loss... Maybe when he gets home, he and his Dad can build their own tree house?