All Things Zombie: Chronology of the Apocalypse

by Various Authors

  Semper Fi, my ass.

  I disconnect the neurocable that couples the prosthetic to my stump and toss the useless hunk of metal aside. Actually, it’s probably more duct tape and paper clips now than anything else. When the shit hit the fan, it pretty much voided my warranty. Since then, I’ve taken the damn thing apart and put it back together more times than I care to count. At least I won’t have to worry about that, anymore.

  “Jesus,” I hiss as I slice through my pant leg to survey the damage.

  Three quarters of my leg is gear and gasket, and the bastard manages to find flesh in one shot? Go figure. I can feel the poison burning its way through my body. It’s only been a few minutes, but the wound has already begun to fester and turn black. In a few hours, I’ll be one of them. The Sauria-E Virus moves nearly as fast as the infected after they turn.

  Munson was the one that lured us into this shit-show and the last of our group to fall to the ragers. He was also the only one that knew how to find Eden and the G.O.D.C. once we reached San Francisco. Too bad I just tossed his ass like a fast food bag on the highway. The guy was a first-class asshole, but even he didn’t deserve to go out like that. No one does.

  Then again, what a person deserves in this life is no longer relevant. There is no Judgment Day and no fucking pearly gates. The saints are neck deep in the same hellfire as us sinners. God turned his back on us. Not that I believe in God. Claire had always had enough faith for the both of us.

  Of course, now that she’s gone, I suppose I’m screwed.

  I slide my belt from my waist and wrap it tightly around my thigh, cinching it just above the wound. Blood pours from the gashes in my skin and pools on the floor of the train car. There’s a lot of it and the pain is excruciating but my suffering is just a drop in a sea of red thanks to the bastards at the Infinity Corporation.

  Their Sauria Anti-aging Serum hailed as the most noted scientific breakthrough of our time. After twenty-plus years of cross-species genetic manipulation, and hundreds of failed attempts, the Infinity Corporation and its massive research team had finally figured it out a way to reverse the effects of aging.

  The purpose of the serum was to inhibit cell death and speed the regeneration of damaged tissue. Unlike its many predecessors, the Sauria formula actually worked. The results were both impressive and undeniable. At just over one-hundred thousand dollars an ounce, the compound quickly became the ultimate symbol of wealth and power.

  Fallen stars, twenty years past their prime, splattered the tabloids arm-in-arm with scantily clad Hollywood beauties more than half their age. Politicians added the serum to their campaign budgets and waved their smooth new faces around like a show of patriotism. Every day, more and more people sold their souls to dip a toe in the fountain of youth.

  As the IC’s popularity grew, radical anti-genetics groups and animal rights activists came crawling out of the woodwork, spouting claims of scientific misdeeds and inhumane animal trials.

  The largest among them, the Geneto-manipulation Opposition and Disobedience Coalition sought to wage war on the IC. Hackers clogged the Internet with a viral video series about the Infinity Corporation and all of their wrongdoings. The G.O.D.C. claimed that the corporation had been conducting illegal and unsanctioned human trials for years. There were gruesome photos and hours of footage of people being tortured at the hands of men in white coats.

  The IC dismissed the videos as a hoax, but a select group of radicals latched on to the Coalition’s outrageous claims and started making trouble. There were protests, labs were broken into, and property was defaced. Despite their gusto the G.O.D.C.’s fight was short lived; their angry voices silenced with a skillful blend of money and malice.

  Soon after the fall of the Coalition, the Infinity Corporation started holding a worldwide weekly lottery for the serum. They, of course, televised their boundless generosity for the whole planet to see.

  The IC flew the winners to their lab in Sacramento where they received a single Sauria treatment followed by six days of spa pampering. A week later, they’d step out on stage to draw the next winner looking ten years younger and happier than any human being should ever be.

  Though rooted in vanity, the Sauria Sweepstakes gave people a strange sort of hope. Every Friday night, we’d wait on the edge of our seats to see which lucky bastard won next. It became a sort of global pass-time. People were happier, the economy blossomed, and the world was suddenly a more beautiful place.

  No one thought to question any of it until the beautiful people started vanishing. Sonia Akeelah, a customs agent from Liberia, was the last to win the Sauria Sweepstakes and the first to disappear. Unfortunately, by the time the IC realized she’d been carrying a dormant strain of the Ebola virus it was already too late and the virus had started to spread.

  For weeks, the Infinity Corporation continued to deny allegations of their connection to the budding epidemic. They spent millions trying to sweep it all under the rug, but extortion and media manipulation will only get you so far when the President of the United States rips out his wife’s throat with his bare teeth on national television.

  The Coalition resurfaced during the chaos that followed. They claimed to have scientists of their own working on a cure. They set up shop somewhere on the west coast and vowed to fix the mess the Infinity Corporation had made of things. Less than a month later, half the world was dead, dying, or tearing each other apart. The G.O.D.C. burned the Infinity Corporation to the ground and disappeared off the radar. Apparently, retribution was all they had to offer.

  The last few members of Congress declared martial law, erected roadblocks and fences, and issued a nation-wide curfew. Soldiers roamed the streets day and night, shattering the silence with gunfire in a final effort to save humanity. A Band-Aid wouldn’t hold a bullet-wound for long, though. After six months, the flesh-eaters outnumbered us twenty to one.

  Billions of people wiped violently from existence and for what…so some rich assholes can eek out another year or two on the A-list? Pride comes before a fall, Claire once told me. Only now does that really make sense.

  “Find God,” a soft voice startles me awake.

  “Claire?” I push myself up to a sitting position and search for her.

  Streaks of amber roll through the shadows around me. The train is empty, and the sun is setting on the horizon. My stomach lurches but it, too, is empty. When the violent heaving finally subsides, I reach into the cargo pocket on my good leg and withdraw a battered silver flask.

  I stare at it for what seems like forever, tracing the raised J repeatedly with my fingertip. I’ve been sober for a while now, a promise to Claire and the kids, but they’re gone now, and soon enough I will be, too. Besides, it’d be a shame for such monumentally shitty scotch to go to waste.

  “Here’s to Hell.” I twist off the cap and raise the flask to the desperate and undead outside. “May our stay there be better than the way there.”

  The cheap booze burns its way down my throat and settles like wet concrete in my gut. I close my eyes and let my self-pity marinate until that old familiar warmth takes hold. I stoke the flames with another pull and smile when my nose starts to tingle. I remember why I used to drink, now.

  “Shit. The picture,” I groan as the train car spins around me.

  It’s the one of the four of us in front of that dumpy little cabin on Crescent Lake. The photo is torn and stained with blood, but it’s all I have left of my family, and I need them with me when I go.

  I screw the lid back on and pocket the flask before crawling down the narrow aisle to row 11. The distance is no more than a few yards, but it feels like miles when you’re half-drunk and weak from blood loss. I struggle to pull myself up onto the seat, but my hand slips and I tumble to the floor, face-first.

  I see stars for a moment, and I can’t help but laugh. They are the first stars I’ve seen in nearly a week.

  “Get up, baby,” Claire whispers. “God is waiting.”

  I wish sh
e would stop talking to me. I’m glad she doesn’t.

  “Fuck,” I groan.

  Pain shoots up the right side of my body. I bite my bottom lip and wash it down with the taste of blood. I promised Claire that I would try to get to Eden, but I can’t even see myself getting off this fucking train. I use the last of my strength to pull myself up and over the arm of seat 11B.

  I scoop my pack up from the floor and pull the battered photograph from the front pouch. I kiss it and stuff it into my shirt pocket. Claire and the kids belong there, close to my heart. I collapse against the headrest and dig my flask back out of my pocket.

  This was where I lost them. Little Teddy’s blood stains the seat closest to the window. Chloe’s purple jacket sits neatly folded atop the rust-colored spatter. Even now, I can’t seem to separate them.

  There are sixty seats on this passenger car alone and two more empty cars behind it. I could change seats every ten minutes until we reach San Francisco if I wanted to but I just can’t bring myself to do it. 11B was the number on the door of the very first apartment Claire and I ever shared.

  The place was an absolute shit-hole. There were bars on the windows, the hallways reeked of urine, and I’m almost positive the super cooked meth in his apartment. A pink neon sign shone directly into our bedroom from the Pussy Cat Lounge next door. I hated it because I wanted more for us. Claire loved it because it was ours.

  “God needs you, baby,” Claire says again. I swear I can feel her breath on my face but it she sounds like she’s farther away.

  “God can kiss my ass,” I tell her.

  I hope that divine son of a bitch overhears my insult because I will never speak directly to Him. Why should I? He took my leg, he took my family, and he turned his back on us when we needed him most. He could have flip the switch on this shit-storm at any point, or at the very least throw us an umbrella.

  Claire loved the rain. It was raining the day I lost her.

  “You have to…get to Eden.” The words scraped from Claire’s throat. “Promise me…promise you’ll try, Jamie.”

  “Shhh. Don’t try to talk, baby,” I say, my eyes filling with tears as I smooth her hair away from her face. “J-Just hold on.”

  “The coalition. Jamie, I…” Her head lolls to the side.

  “No! Please, Claire, wake up,” I stammer, tapping her face gently. Her mismatched eyes, one blue, one green, flutter open but her breathing is barely discernible. “It’s only a couple more miles to Penn Station. That guy on the radio, Munson, he says they have medicine and food for the trip out west. I bet they have a doctor, too. They can help you. I know they can. Please, baby, just hold on.”

  “Is Mama Claire going to be okay?” Teddy spins on Chloe’s lap and peeks into the back seat where I cradle my wife’s battered body.

  “Eyes forward, Theodore,” I snap at him.

  Chloe shoots me a questioning glance in the rear-view. I shake my head at her and she bites her lip, choking back her tears. She cranks up the radio, covers Teddy’s eyes, and rocks him back and forth in her lap.

  Claire’s skin feels hot to the touch and her body starts to tremble. I press her hand to my lips already grieving her kisses.

  “It’s going to be okay, baby,” I lie.

  There’s so much blood I can no longer tell where any of it is coming from. Her eyes are already starting to cloud over. She coughs and black-red mucus sprays from her mouth onto my face.

  “You have to…Eden. Find the…Coalition.” Claire chokes out. She’s bleeding from her nose and ears now, too. Her hand sits limp in mine. “Promise me, Jamie…I can’t…please?”

  “Fuck, baby. I promise, okay. Just, please, don’t leave me.” I’m sobbing. “I love you so much, Claire.”

  “Love you…more,” she whispers.

  Her chest rattles, blood gushes from her mouth, and her body goes limp in my arms. She’s gone and I’m broken. She doesn’t stay still for long. A few seconds later, her eyes snap open again and she starts thrashing.

  “Love you the most,” I say and I drive my knife into her temple.

  I open my eyes, not realizing I’d closed them. It’s dark now and it takes me a minute to remember where I am and why I’m here. Why I’m all alone. I take another swig from my flask and hope Claire doesn’t see.

  My body is warm and tingly. My head feels light, like it’s already somewhere else. Somewhere better. The relief is only temporary, I know, but that’s all I really need. It won’t be long now.

  A loud crash echoes from the front of the car and I instinctively drop to the floor. My eyes track an empty soup can as it clatters to the floor and rolls down the aisle to the back of the train. It bounces off the twenty-five thousand dollar, leg-shaped piece of scrap-metal I left laying by the emergency exit. Sarah-Megan doesn’t seem too bothered by the noise. Guess she’s still dead.

  The invader leaps from the shadows and gallops down the aisle toward me. Adrenaline and reluctant self-preservation force me to move. I brace myself on the seat backs and attempt to crutch back to get my leg. I’m moving pretty fast for a punch-drunk cripple with a death wish, but that goddamn rager is much faster.

  He clears the length of the train in the span of a breath and lays me out like a two-second title match. The floor rushes toward me, and I land hard skidding down the aisle on my stomach. My belt clip snaps and the tourniquet falls to the floor. The rager is on top of me, raking with tooth and talon.

  I’m pinned and overpowered. Mucus and black slime drip from the beast’s mouth onto my cheek. It snarls and sniffs at me then licks the blood from my face. I close my eyes and wait for my suffering to be over. All things must end, after all.

  I’m sorry, Claire.

  As quickly as the rager attacks, the crushing weight is lifted from my chest. It’s finally happened, then. It didn’t even hurt. I guess I just assumed that dying would be painful. Then again, maybe I’m not exactly dead. Maybe I’m one of them. I close my eyes tight, refusing to see. I don’t want to know.

  A loud thud peels my tentative lids. The rager that just attacked me is writhing on the ground a few feet away, desperately trying to right himself. His eyes roll around in his head and he’s foaming at the mouth. It looks like he’s having a fit.

  I scramble back on my hands and struggle to an upright position using the seats on either side of me for leverage. I’m still in one piece, more or less, but this guy isn’t looking so hot. He lashes out at me and misses by nearly a foot.

  “Strike one,” I say as I hop backward and out of his reach.

  The rager manages to wrestle himself into a crawling position. I’m almost to my seat when he finally gets his feet beneath him. It isn’t pretty, though. His balance is off and he’s stumbling at me like a drunken sorority girl on an icy staircase. He lunges again, and slams face-first into the seat to my left.

  “Strike two, motherfucker,” I laugh.

  His head cocks to the side and his foggy eyes start to droop. He hisses at me, but it’s little more than a half-assed whimper compared to the chorus of howls outside the train car. He stumbles to the side, his feet tangling together. Something is seriously wrong with this one. He’s defective.

  “Come on you piece of shit,” I goad.

  I beckon the thing toward me like we’re in some cheesy KungFu movie. Dazed but undaunted, he takes the bait and charges. Even in my weakened state, I easily dodge his offensive and duck between two seats. His momentum sends him flying past me. He tumbles to the floor and I hear a crunch. I stare with rapt fascination as he flounders for purchase. It’s like watching a hummingbird’s flight in a slow motion.

  When he finally rises to his feet again, his arm juts out like a checkmark. A razor-sharp piece of bone protrudes from his forearm and scrapes against the upholstery as he shuffles down the aisle. His milky gray eyes open and close independently of one another. Weirder still, I could swear he’s smiling at me.

  I’d love nothing more than to wipe that smirk off his face, but that’s n
ot an option just yet. Without my prosthetic, I don’t have the stability I need for a forward attack. I’m stuck on the defensive and that really pisses me off.

  The second he’s within reach, he lunges at me and I have the advantage. I grab hook him in a headlock, twist his broken arm at the elbow, and bury the sharp end of his radius in his eye socket. He’s dead before he hits the ground. “Strike three, asshole.”

  I don’t have time to gloat. The others have obviously figured out how this one got in. I can hear them fighting each other to be the first one through whatever chink this son of a bitch found in the train’s armor.

  I hobble to the back of the car to pick up my discarded limb and fasten the neurocable blindly, partly because I can but mostly because I don’t want to see how far the virus has spread. It doesn’t even hurt anymore, which worries me, but I have more pressing matters to attend to. Like the two ragers headed my way.

  One of them, a scrawny boy no older than ten, climbs across the tops of the seats like a monkey. The other rushes at me head-on. The larger one pauses to sniff at the dead rager’s body. His nose wrinkles and he shakes his head. He narrows his eyes and growls at me as he steps over the twisted corpse.

  The little one leaps back and forth from one side of the aisle to the other, hissing and spitting, howling and scratching. He’s scattered and undisciplined, but I think that’s the idea. He’s the perfect diversion.

  The big guy comes at me, teeth bared, both arms swinging. I duck low and narrowly dodge his massive wingspan. I shift my weight forward to slide past him. My prosthetic catches a toe bar in the process. I lose my balance and my focus wavers just long enough for my enemy to slash me across the shoulder.

  He roars victoriously and licks his fingers then rushes me again. I drop to the floor and bury my bloody shoulder in the middle of his thigh. He flips over me and lands on his back.

  He opens his mouth to call for help, but it’s too late. I thrust my blade beneath his chin and bury it to the hilt, pinning his tongue to his brain. Not that it would have mattered. The little one seems to have found something better to do. I hear him near the front of the train digging through the garbage. I sneak up on the distraction while he is distracted.