Deadburbia

by Brad D. Sibbersen

  Something smooth and cool entered his back and went entirely through him, pinning his body to the earth. He wanted to scream but it came out as a gurgle of blood that he dribbled all over himself, like a baby spitting up milk. It was a sword, a sword had been plunged into his lower back, right up to the hilt. He couldn't move his legs, couldn't feel them. His hands dug into the cool, moist, inexplicably comforting soil. He tried to muster up one last, defiant curse, but by the time the words came to him, he was already dead.

  19

  There was nothing left of Carter's headless body but a mass of sticky red bones, barely held together by ragged strips of muscle. Nevertheless, what remained had, about ten minutes ago, begun pathetically dragging itself across the intersection in their general direction. "We're going, now," Eric said, tearing his eyes away from the gruesome sight. "First the roof next door, then the roof after that, all the way to the end of the block. Okay?" It seemed like a good time to make a break for it, what with every zombie in sight now crowded around their current perch. Every zombie save the ones wearing the armor, the ones Eric had starting thinking of as the alpha zombies. They had vanished, and he wondered nervously where they were.

  "I'm ready if you are," Hustle said, positioning himself at the edge of the roof. Eric nodded and Hustle jumped, easily clearing the space between the two houses. "If my fat ass can make it, y'all good," he smiled grimly. Kim went next, hesitating for a moment when she saw the zombies in the narrow space between the houses look up and hungrily reach for her. She imagined their grasping hands on her body, and wondered briefly if they would violate her before they tore her to pieces. The thought made her shudder. Closing her eyes, she let out a little squeak and made the leap. Nikki followed. She was responsive now, but seemed almost fatally resigned to the fact that they weren't getting out of this place. Eric went last.

  "That wasn't so bad," he said.

  "Four more to go," said Hustle.

  At the end of the row they dropped from the lowest point of the roof onto the lawn. Many of the dead had followed their progress and were already moving in their direction, and the others were dutifully following. There was no time to lose.

  "What now?" asked Kim.

  "We need to get your friend's keys," Hustle said. "Once we in a vehicle and movin', I think we'll be okay."

  "We still don't know how to get out of here," Eric reminded him.

  "One thing at a time," Hustle said.

  "We stay together," Eric said. "I'll rifle his pockets for the keys and then we all run for the car, got it?"

  "I'm not going near that... thing," Nikki whispered. "I... can't." Kim shook her head in agreement.

  "I can't either. Please, Eric."

  "Fine. Stay together. I'll be right back."

  He jogged across the intersection, feeling horribly exposed, as if there were snipers on the roofs all around him, and he knew it, but had to do this thing anyway. He'd steeled himself for the worst, but he still froze when he reached Carter. What was left of Carter. It seemed to sense his approach, and flopped around wildly, like the animated remnants of an inexpertly de-boned fish. One of its legs was missing, he now realized, in addition to its head. Eric's eyes scanned the surrounding pavement. Christ, those damn keys could be anywhere. Maybe one of the zombies even swallowed them. They weren't exactly dainty eaters.

  "They're not here!" he called back to the others. And really, he reflected, what did it matter? What use were the keys anyway? They'd just drive around and around forever. Until they ran out of gas. No, as much as he hated the phrase and the narrow outlook it, ironically, represented, they had to think outside the box. Looking around quickly to make sure nothing was creeping up on him, he carefully backed away from... Carter, his eyes continuing to scan the ground, just in case.

  "We got to find them, man!" Hustle cried out. Eric turned and trotted back towards the group, but Hustle met him halfway. "We got to find those keys!" he repeated.

  "It's no use! For all we know they're in some zombie's gullet!"

  "There ain't no other way! We got to find them keys, find Tray, and get out of here!"

  "We couldn't find our way out before, what makes you think we'll find our way out now?"

  "What else we gonna do, huh? You got a better idea?"

  Eric opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He didn't have a better idea.

  "Yeah, that's what I thought," said Hustle. "It's fight or flight, so let's catch the next flight outta here."

  "Or..." Eric said slowly, "we could fight."

  "Man, how you gonna fight all those things? There must be a hundred of 'em!"

  "Fire," Eric said. His mind was racing now. "We'll set them on fire! We'll siphon gas from one of the cars, throw it all over them, and light it up!"

  "So now you killed two or three." Hustle shook his head. "What about the other ninety-seven?"

  "Eric!" Kim called to him. He ignored her, lost in thought.

  "Then... then we'll burn the fucking church!" he finally said. "That's like, it's like their... lair or something. Maybe it'll mess them up, somehow."

  "Or maybe it'll just piss them off."

  "Guys!" Kim cried out.

  "What?" shouted the boys, simultaneously.

  "Nikki's gone!"

  20

  Pastor Thomas had, in the church office, a box full of tracts that some members of the congregation passed out when they were witnessing. "One Way", they were called, by "J.T.C." Nikki had never actually read the tract (she was already saved, after all) but she'd often wondered, absently, if those initials were meant to stand for "Jesus, the Christ". The One Way in the tract, which was presented in the form of a little comic book, was Jesus, of course, but she'd come to realize that here, in this horrible, horrible place, there was also only One Way. One way out. As soon as they weren't paying attention to her she'd slipped away in a random direction, knowing that whichever way she went (One Way) she'd find herself here, at the open manhole cover, staring down, down, down into absolute, ravenous nothingness. She burst into tears, sobbing openly, grabbing handfuls of her red hair and twisting it, tugging it, until she pulled two fistfuls out in chunks. It was the most horrible thing she had ever seen, that hole, because it wasn't anything. Dropping to her knees she wailed dismally, her lamentations echoing off the silent, perfect houses. She sensed the dead closing in on her; some that had been following her since she left the group, others drawn by her cries. If they caught her, they would kill her, eat her flesh and drink her blood. A blasphemy. But she would thwart them by overcoming her fear. Like Abraham, she would pass this test. Nikki wiped away her tears and climbed to her feet, holding her head high. There was a zombie right in front of her now, just a few feet away, reaching greedily for her, its jaw already working in foul anticipation. She grasped the little gold cross that hung around her neck. Her maternal grandmother had given it to her. "Thank you Jesus," she said, "for this opportunity to prove my faith in You."

  She stepped into the abyss and was gone.

  21

  "I'm sorry! I was paying attention to you two!" Kim spat back defensively. "I thought you were going to fight." She hesitated, looking down and shuffling her feet before adding, "It kind of got me excited."

  "Girl, you a freak," Hustle said.

  "She's dead," Eric said. "If she wandered off alone, she's dead."

  "No!" cried Kim. "We have to go look for her!"

  "Then Tray's dead too," Hustle said quietly. "We all gonna die."

  "Well it's gonna cost them. They're gonna remember us." Eric turned and resolutely marched across the intersection and the parking lot to Tray's car, still embedded in the front of the convenience store. Kim scampered after him, and, with a quick glance at the slow-moving dead, who were nevertheless getting closer by the minute, Hustle followed. "Kim, go inside and find a tube or a piece of hose or something, and as many empty jugs or bottles as you can carry. Oh, and a lighter."

  "I got a lighter," Hustle said.

  "Good." E
ric hooked a thumb at Hustle. "We're gonna make a whole lot of noise and lead them away from you, then circle back. That should give us enough time to siphon the gas out of the tank before they catch up with us again."

  "I not staying here alone!" Kim said.

  "It'll just be for a couple of minutes," Eric insisted. "You can hide until we've drawn them all away."

  "No." Kim folded her arms across her chest and stared at him, daring him to argue.

  "Man," Hustle waved his hands dismissively, "stay with your girl. I'll do it."

  "Damn it..." Eric began.

  "You ain't in charge anyhow. This a team effort." Hustle cracked his knuckles dramatically, then strode off, thumbs hooked in his belt, like he didn't have a care in the world. Reaching the middle of the street, he stopped, slowly turned his head, and gaped at the zombies in an exaggerated fashion, as if noticing them for the first time. "Oh, my!" he cried in the best comedic manner he could muster, flinching when his voice cracked. "I better get out of here!" Walking backwards, he beckoned them to follow. "That's right! Here I am, worm heads! Come an' get some!" Most of the zombies began shuffling his way, although a few were still methodically closing in on Eric and Kim. "Hide, you fools!" Hustle told them. Ducking inside, the two white kids disappeared. "Okay," Hustle turned his attention back to the horde. "Come and get me! I'm waitin'!" With the others out of sight, the stragglers instantly forgot about them and turned in his direction as well.

  This really was the worst idea ever.

  "We'll hide in the bathroom!" Kim said excitedly. "We can lock the door!"

  "We could probably just duck down. I don't think they..." But Kim was already inside, so he followed. Kim kicked the door closed, locked it, then grabbed him, aggressively, and pulled him close.

  "Now we're safe," she smiled. Her lips found his but he pulled away.

  "We don't have time..." he began. She cut him off.

  "It might be our last chance!"

  "In a public restroom?"

  "It's clean," Kim countered. It was. Spotless, like it had never been used. She was trying to kiss him again and he gave in. After a solid minute she pushed him away and smiled mischievously. Eric began to unbutton his jeans.

  "No," Kim said.

  "No?"

  "First," she said, "you have to lick my feet."

  "Wait, what?" said Eric. He couldn't possibly have heard that right.

  "Now," Kim said. It was an order. "On your knees." He stared at her in awe. Who would have ever guessed that goody-two-shoes Kimberly King...?

  The doorknob rattled. Shit.

  "That you, Hustle?"

  No answer. But the knob rattled again.

  "Is it one of them?" Kim whispered. Eric shushed her. If it was alone, maybe they could take it out. He looked around for a weapon, but there was nothing in the bathroom but a toilet plunger. They waited, one minute, then two, creeping slowly by over the span of several years. "Maybe it went away?" Eric pressed his ear to the door and listened. He thought he heard something moving around out there, but he couldn't be sure. The sound was elusive, like dry parchment rustling ever so slightly in a negligible breeze.

  With a hollow, metallic pop the spearhead punctured the door, missing his face by inches.

  Kim screamed. Immediately withdrawn, the spear was thrust through the door again, further this time, its point chinking off the far wall. Again it was withdrawn and plunged through the door. And again. And again. Kim dropped to the floor, curling up in a ball. The attacks suddenly ceased. The doorknob rattled again, once. Then nothing. A long minute passed in silence. Kim hesitantly sat up. Is it gone? she mouthed. Eric shrugged. He tried to peep through the holes in the door, looking for motion, but he couldn't tell if their assailant was still there or not. One thing was certain: they were sitting ducks now that it knew they were in here. Gently Eric put his hand on the doorknob. Kim looked at him questioningly, but he just shook his head. For all they knew, the alpha zombies could understand English. Slowly he unlocked the door, and then braced himself against it. He would throw the door open, with all his weight behind it, and hopefully, if the thing was still out there, he'd knock it ass over teakettle, as his Aunt Helen used to say. He motioned for Kim to stand up, to be ready to run, then took a deep breath. On three.

  One...

  Two...

  The spearhead punched through the door and right into his throat, crimson blood spraying in an arc out of his severed carotid artery as the point was subsequently pulled free. Gurgling, he scrabbled at his neck with both hands, as if trying to grab the stubborn blood and put it back inside, where it belonged. He heard Kim shrieking as he face-planted and began sliding down the smooth surface of the door, trailing a tacky red smear, until he was on his knees. Why couldn't he see? A red film seemed to cover his eyes. And everything was so wet... there was water everywhere... sticky water... He toppled over into his own pooling blood with a wet thud. Whimpering, Kim pressed herself against the far wall as something began to pound on the door, harder and harder. The cheap latch was bending, giving way. Finally, with a wooden-metallic crack, the entire doorknob popped out of place. Outside, dry fingers fumbled at it. The door swung slowly outward. Kim gasped. Clad in tarnished copper armor, a red-tipped spear clutched in its skeletal hands, the animated corpse filled the entire doorway. It paused, as if relishing the moment, and a parched, earthen chuckle issued from its throat. Then, hampered only slightly by the confined quarters, it raised its dripping spear for the final strike.

  22

  Hustle kept it simple, always moving, never letting the mass of them get close to him for even a second. Shouting, mocking, cajoling, he led them not in a straight line but in a circle, around the block behind the store, never letting the latter out of his sight. Sure, all roads seemed to lead there, but he didn't trust the "rules" of this place any more than he'd trust one of these zombies at an all-you-can-eat buffet. When he felt he'd given the others enough time, he sprinted ahead, circling back and coming around the other side of the store. There were still plenty of stragglers that hadn't joined the group – independent contractors, he thought, almost smiling – but they were so spread out now that they were no real threat to even the most mildly observant. That was the key then – keep movin'. That redheaded girl was dead for sure; she'd clearly flipped her cracker. Probably walked right up to a zombie and gave it a big ol' kiss on the lips. But maybe Tray was okay. If he just kept movin', maybe he was okay. Hustle hoped so.

  Jogging around the far side of the carryout, he found the other girl – Kim, that was her name – standing in the parking lot, alone. She held a plastic jug of amber liquid in one hand. There was blood on her. "Where's your boyfriend?" he gasped, doubling over, hands on his knees, now that he'd finally come to a complete stop. She shook her head in the negative.

  "I'm sorry," he said, gasping for breath. "For real I am." She shrugged. "That it?" he asked, indicating the jug.

  "It's all we could get," she said quietly.

  "Okay, then," said Hustle. "His sacrifice, our friends, it ain't gonna be for nothing. We gonna make 'em pay." He reached out to take the jug from her but she didn't want to surrender it. Spinning on her heels, she made a beeline for the church. "Okay, then," Hustle repeated. He trotted after her.

  The large oaken entrance doors were ajar now, and Kim boldly shouldered one open and stepped inside, Hustle right behind her. Inside, all was as it had been before. The stench of incense and rot, hundreds of flickering candles scattered haphazardly about, covering every surface and casting pasty, ornate shadows on the ceiling and walls. They walked down the main aisle until they were right in front of the altar, and hustle couldn't help but stare at the tapestry hanging behind it, at the beautiful woman depicted upon it. Who was she? Was she a real person? "She's the goddess," Kim said reverently, as if reading his thoughts.

  "Well their goddess a lot more appealin' than they are," Hustle said. Looking around, taking everything in, he nodded solemnly. "All these candles in here
... wooden pews... this gonna be easy." The front door creaked and Hustle jumped. "Let's do this thing and get outta here!"

  Gazing at the image on the tapestry, Kim said something, followed by "…grant me this boon," and Hustle's brain felt like it was doing somersaults. She'd said "$", the dollar sign, but she didn't say "dollar sign", she'd actually pronounced the symbol, and while he understood the indescribable sound that had come out of her mouth he didn't know how he understood it and this confused and frightened him. "I'm sorry," she continued, turning to him now. "But Eric's seed took tonight. So, you see, I have to do this. I have to think of my... baby."

  "How you possibly know that?" Hustle asked, backing away. All these white folks was bug-ass crazy.

  "I know. Because they know."

  The great oaken doors creaked again, and Hustle's head snapped in that direction. A half-dozen of the armor-clad zombies were blocking the doorway. He looked around in a panic. There was no other way out.

  "No, oh no..." Hustle groaned. Kim smiled demurely, but her eyes dared him to question her logic. "You bitch!" he shouted. He lunged for her and she fell, dropping the plastic jug and kicking out, a clumsy attempt to hit him in the junk. Grabbing her foot, he dragged her, literally kicking and screaming, several yards and then ran back for the jug. The six zombies were slowly making their way up the aisle, archaic weapons in hand. Hustle's eyes fell on one weapon in particular, a metal ball at the end of a chain with dozens of narrow spikes protruding from it. He imagined it arcing through the air, the spikes perforating his face and skull, and suddenly he began to cry. "Fuck you!" he shouted through his tears as he scooped up the jug. "We all gonna burn!" He took a deep breath, wiped away the tears and stood tall, facing them. Somewhere, he found a bitter smile. "We all gonna burn." He spun the lid off the plastic jug with a dramatic flourish and began splashing the contents on the pews, the altar, the tapestry, and the innumerable candles that flickered all around him. The candles sputtered and went out. His nose registered the sweet-vinegary smell an instant later. It wasn't gasoline in the jug. It was apple juice.