Alive Again | Book 1

by Piperbrook, T. W.

  “Bingo!” I say.

  I survey the yellowed, bent pages while Cody looks on.

  “It’s got maps of the whole tri-state area,” I happily report. “This should get us where we need to go.”

  “As long as the roads aren’t blocked,” Cody clarifies.

  “Whatever, sourpuss.” I beam, leafing through the battered maps. After a bit of perusing, I put my finger on the highway and find our general location. “I was right. We need to go east.”

  “Hold on,” Cody says, hit with an idea of his own. “Do you think the Outpost is marked on there?”

  We trade a revelatory glance. Suddenly, I’m on a mission, turning pages, searching everywhere for a handwritten note, a dogeared corner, or a significant marking. I skim the atlas from front to back, and then the other way. Nothing. No handwriting. No notes. No Outpost.

  “Nothing.” Disappointment clouds my brief optimism.

  “Damn,” Cody laments. “They probably had the location memorized. Or maybe they were careful. Anyway, it was worth a try.”

  “Yeah.” I browse through a few more pages. “At least we can get to my place. It’s more guidance than we had before.”

  Together, we look out the window, where the sun has begun its descent. I turn the bus away from it.

  “We should probably get going,” Cody advises. “Headlights draw the stricken. And it’s harder to see dangers in the dark.”

  A chill courses through me. Dangers in the dark. Looking out the window at the fading daylight, I can’t help but picture the violent infected, emerging from the shadows, swarming the bus.

  Cody’s probably right. Driving around in the dark is a bad idea.

  Cody studies the atlas, leading the way under the dipping sun, while I hold the wheel steady. Dead cars loom around us like blind metal monsters. The alleys between the buildings around us could harbor any number of unknown evils. And they certainly do. After a while of frustrating travel—and a few dead ends—too many dark recesses make me nervous.

  “We should find a place to stop for the night,” Cody suggests.

  Remembering his story about staying behind some barns, I scan the area, wary of watchful monsters that might be waiting for us to stop so they can ambush us.

  Exhaustion tugs at my eyelids. It already seems like another lifetime ago that I woke up in that field. I’m so busy studying the road that I almost don’t notice the familiar sign on the brick building to our left. When I do, I brake.

  “What’s going on, Hannah?” Cody asks.

  “I recognize that place,” I say, motioning toward a white sign with a blue logo, still readable in the fading daylight.

  “The Eye Opener,” Cody says aloud. “What is it?”

  “It’s a comic shop. My Dad took me and Jared here every few months on our road trips. He had a file here.”

  “A file?”

  “A monthly pull list. They set aside his new comics every week for him.”

  Those memories seem so long ago. Whether it’s the ghost of my father, or plain old nostalgia, I’m not sure, but without a second thought, I drive up the cracked curb and into the Eye Opener’s lot. The front windows are intact; the door is closed. I see no loitering afflicted. The parking lot is empty, save a few dusty vehicles. They look long abandoned, but not desperately. A fence on one side partitions the store from more retail buildings.

  “There are probably worse places to stay,” Cody says, following my train of thought.

  I park the bus in the wide lot, avoiding a few toppled trash bins and some scattered garbage, shutting off the engine. I stand, stretch out my sore, cramped legs, and survey the familiar comic shop. Black mold creeps up the brick walls. Weeds snake from the brick foundation. It hasn’t taken long for nature to begin reclaiming the structure. Still, looking at the faded signs in the windows, I smile, recalling the last time we came: the busy parking lot with tables set up outside, kids dragging their parents around, or parents interested in their own titles. May 7th. Free Comic Day, they called it. On the first Saturday of every month this place was like a miniature fun fair. The storeowners gave out freebies—zines, chapbooks, posters, popcorn; greeting every customer with happy smiles and helpful suggestions. Dad asked for an issue of a series called Sandman. He wanted Jared and I to read it. And mom…she laughed and turned away, shielding whatever she was so engrossed in reading.

  “What are you thinking about?” Cody asks, standing behind me.

  “It’s nothing…” I say, losing my smile. “Just, the store in my mind looks so different from this one.”

  The missing time hits me like an emotional hammer. And suddenly, a feeling of loss washes over me like a wave—not for the deserted store, but for the happy people who’d shopped there on my last visit, most of whom are probably dead.

  “I remember the storeowner, Art, and his employee Braulio,” I tell him. “They knew Dad pretty well. He’d talk to them all the time about movies, comics, video games.”

  Cody nods sadly.

  I’m wading through my old memories when my eyes rivet on the two dirty vehicles near the building’s entrance. Is it my imagination, or are those familiar?

  I point. “Those cars might belong to Art and Braulio.”

  Cody follows my gaze. Before he can stop me, I heft my crowbar and move for the exit.

  “What are you doing?” Cody asks.

  “What if Art and Braulio are hiding inside? What if they survived?”

  Cody shakes his head. “Hannah, that’s nuts…”

  I know he’s right. But still, a pinprick of hope blooms inside me.

  “Hey. We’re alive, they might be, too,” I argue, unwilling to suppress my stirred faith. “They might be able to help us.”

  I look out the window again, balancing caution and hope. The memory of the smiling, helpful pair finally wins, and I pull the handle and start down the stairs.

  “Look, I’ll check quickly, okay?” I tell Cody. “I’ll be careful.”

  Rather than arguing, Cody readies his gun. “Fine. But you’re not going alone.”

  14

  Past and Present

  A flurry of old memories and childish hope propels my feet across the parking lot toward the Eye Opener. All at once, I’m in the car with my father, listening to his excited banter about his favorite comics. I still recall a few of the storylines—the tale of the college student who’d nearly died before being possessed by a demon and turned into an unwitting murderer. Or the story about another dimension that crossed over into ours, allowing monsters into our world. A feeling of possibilities and excitement always accompanied the journey. Reaching the Eye Opener always felt like the high point of an adventure, and my dad was like a hero on a quest.

  Sticking close together, Cody and I creep across the parking lot, scanning the cars and the surrounding area. Nothing alarms us.

  We ascend a sloped walkway toward the store, flanked by black rails, and look up at the windows. The sign—usually neon orange—hangs sideways, unlit. A few curled posters on the other side of the window look ready to fall. With a shudder, I notice a comic’s advertised release date of June 2020. If it’s truly been a year, I wonder how many issues went unpublished, unread, wasted?

  Approaching the door, we study the now muted colors of the superheroes through the glass, and the sign displaying the store hours. I think of the older, bespeckled storeowner, Art, and his younger employee, Braulio, who always wore a wide-brimmed sports hat. It’s slim, but there’s a chance they’re still alive, and I owe it to them—to Dad—to check.

  I’m taken aback, but probably shouldn’t be, to find the door hanging loosely open, and some shattered glass around the handle, just large enough to fit a burgling hand.

  Someone’s been here. I’m not surprised.

  In all likelihood, Art and Braulio never returned. Maybe the cars out front are someone else’s. Still, I’m committed to my search. Cody and I pause, listening. Silence. Reaching carefully for the handle, I tug gent
ly, opening the door with a scrape across the threshold.

  The rank odor of death immediately spills out. Cody recoils. A few flies buzz past us, seeking escape, or perhaps finished with whatever—or whomever—they’re eating.

  Holding our breaths, we recover from our initial reaction and peer into the store. The last of the daylight spills around the gaps in the posters on the windows, landing on shabby comic racks, tipped and broken painted figurines, and smeared display cases. Stacks of cardboard boxes lay half-empty on the floor, knocked over, rummaged through. Colorful cards scatter the floor. My heart sinks as I see a carpet of loose comics on the floor, the stories inside obliterated by dirty shoe prints.

  Of course, the store is ransacked, like the rest of the world.

  I take a few steps inside while Cody leads with his gun, scanning the assorted merchandise. Approaching the counter, I see an empty box of Airheads—Dad’s favorite road trip candy. A cooler on the counter hangs open, emptied of waters and Gatorades. It doesn’t take us long to find the source of the smell.

  “Over there,” Cody hisses. “Behind the counter.”

  Leaning on a stack of promotional flyers, I spot a clothed skeleton slumped against the wall, his arms clutching a bullet-riddled shirt. A few lingering flies buzz around the last of the loose gray skin poking out from the top of his collar. A wide-brimmed hat sits atop his gleaming white skull.

  Braulio.

  My heart sinks.

  I clench my eyes shut and reopen them, reconciling the decayed carcass with the smiling man who greeted me, Dad, and Jared. It feels like I’m living a bad dream. No one deserved to die like that. Especially not him. Cody and I scan the floor, but I see no sign of the intruders, or the weapons they used. The details of Braulio’s death are lost to time. As for his life? I may be the only one left who remembers his face. Looking around the store, I see no sign of Art. Maybe he got lucky and escaped. I say an internal prayer for Braulio before I slink through the mess, stepping around stray comics and trading cards, working through my emotion, trying to hold it together. It’s one thing to see the body of a stranger, another to see a person I’d spent time with—a friend of my father’s.

  “Are you okay?” Cody asks, reaching for my arm.

  “Sure,” I tell him, moving farther from the counter and the scene of old violence.

  Cody lets go of me, but he keeps by my side. “Maybe we’ll find something here that will help us; at least we could grab some stuff to read.”

  I nod. Better to find purpose than to dwell on tragedy I can’t control. We’ll search quickly and leave. Catching my breath, I head deeper into the store. Comic racks adorn the wall to my right; in the center of the room are floor-to-ceiling displays filled with cardboard boxes. We head to one side of the divide, circling a tipped and smashed gumball machine, its scattered, multicolored gumballs like confetti at a funeral. A door on the right leads to a closed stockroom; we push it open gently and peek in. More stacks of filled boxes. This time, I’m unable to help myself, and I move toward the boxes, flipping through some bagged and boarded books, pulling out a few recognizable titles.

  “Wolverine,” I say, holding up an issue with the stout, razor-clawed hero. “This is cool.” I smile at the Canuck’s snarl and his unmistakable haircut, Dad’s favorite superhero. I take the first few issues, glancing quickly at the price stickers. Of course, their worth no longer matters.

  “Suicide Squad,” Cody reads aloud, sifting through a box full of issues. “The movie was good.”

  “The comics are better,” I say with a wry smile.

  “We’ll debate it later,” Cody says.

  We step back into the main room with some reading material.

  “I’ll give the other side of the room a once over,” Cody tells me, motioning toward the floor-to-ceiling displays.

  I nod, blotting some sweat from my forehead, as he heads over there. The air feels uncomfortable and hot; part of it is the cloying stench of the corpse behind the counter—a physical reminder that likely everyone I’ve ever known is now rotting, or worse. Filtering my mouth and nose with the bottom of my shirt, I peruse an overturned comic rack and read the posters covering nearly every inch of wall space, fighting the urge to vomit. I stop at a rare, faded flyer announcing the long-awaited arrival of the relaunched first issue of Bone. I smile, remembering my dad ranting about something I can’t quite recall.

  Bang!

  My heart leaps. I spin. Clutching my crowbar, I turn, surveying the colorful room. My eyes lock on a part of the rear wall that appears to be moving.

  Not a part of the wall.

  The bathroom.

  I’m too late to do anything as the door bursts open, and a snarling infected hurtles toward me, outstretched hands clawing for my flesh.

  Art.

  15

  Second Chances

  I choke out a scream and stumble backward over a mess of strewn comics and gumballs, frantically trying to keep my balance. Shock lost me a crucial second; Art collides into me like one of the deranged supervillains on his store walls, knocking me backward and spilling the comics from my hands. Somehow, I keep hold of my crowbar. Before I can swing it, Art pins me to the ground. His glazed, bloodshot eyes ogle me with hunger. I’m no longer his customer; I’m a rack of baby back ribs with a side of fries. I dodge his snapping teeth and scratching, grabbing fingers, and his jagged and filthy nails. I buck, I writhe, I shove with all my might, but I can’t get him off. His frizzy white hair bounces on his head. His broken glasses hang by a cracked rubber thong. This kindly older gentleman is fighting like a crazed MMA champ in a title bout. Was he always this freakishly strong? Maybe it’s his rabid hunger, giving him a burst of adrenaline. Who knows how long he’s been trapped in that bathroom?

  With one concerted yank, I manage to get my crowbar-wielding arm out sideways, and take a sloppy swing, hitting him in the shoulder, but Art is unfazed. Bearing down on me so that I can smell the reek of his unwashed skin and the stale odor of his breath, he bites the air inches above my nose. Frantic shouts and cries escape my mouth. Survival isn’t the only thing that matters. If he bites me, I’ll turn back into one of him.

  I swing again, as hard as I can, cracking him in the head. He lets up a moment, stunned.

  “Hannah!” a voice shouts from somewhere beyond my desperate struggle.

  “Cody!”

  Art spins, focused on this new prey. Taking the opportunity for a better swing, I cock my arm back and give my all to the next blow. The crowbar smashes against Art’s skull. Pustules of yellow skin burst and bubble; blood rains down his face. His hands fly to his head in surprise or pain; I can’t tell which, but I need to get out from under him before he regains whatever sense he has left. I heave myself upward, knocking Art to the side and regaining my footing, just as Cody races in to help.

  Cody aims his gun and fires at Art, who’s still on the ground.

  Art’s body shudders with the impact of a bullet; blood bursts from his side.

  But the veteran comic book-hawker isn’t finished.

  Pushing upward, he lunges at Cody, knocking him into a display case of Adult Graphic Novels. Cody fires again, but that shot goes wide. Backed against a wall, Cody yells as Art attacks him.

  I’ve got to do something, or Cody will die.

  “Hey! Butthead!” I shout, readying my crowbar.

  Art spins.

  “That’s right! Garbage breath! Right here!”

  A decision flickers through Art’s manic face and he takes a savage lunge at me. Before I can question my madcap maneuver, I swing the crowbar, connecting with his skull, right at the temple. This time, flesh and bone cave beneath the metal. Art’s eyes roll backward in his head. He takes one wobbly step then crumples in a heap, his teeth clacking at nothing all the way down. His legs kick. His hands snatch the air.

  He yowls, trying to stand.

  For about two seconds I feel kinda bad; I mean, he’s harmless now; am I a murderer? But then he’s reac
hing for me again. Before I know it, I’m standing over him, hitting him again and again, blood spraying everywhere, feral screams coming out of my mouth. Blood spatters my already questionable attire, pooling crimson on the floor and soaking through comics, spraying the gumballs. I strike and strike until finally the old guy’s hands drop limply to his sides and his legs give one last jerk.

  Gasping for breath, I stumble backward. I survey Art’s pulped head, his dented skull, the sheen of blood coating his face, filling in the wrinkled skin. His teeth are bared but no longer snapping; his black eyes stare vacantly at the ceiling and the crowbar falls from my hand.

  For a moment, wooziness takes over, and I almost pass out, but Cody swoops in and props me up.

  “Holy hell! Hannah! Are you alright?”

  I nod.

  On wobbly legs, I sink to the floor.

  For a long while, I stare at the old man on the ground, processing everything. A pool of blood spreads slowly around the body, the scattered cartoon pages soaking it up around him, a comic book grave. Cody keeps his gun trained on the fallen man, even though he hasn’t moved since I demolished his head. Self-preservation. That’s what it was. No one would argue the contrary; still, I can’t help my guilt.

  Suddenly, I’m wailing till my throat hurts; the next moment, I sniff it all back and laugh; anything to dull the pain. I look up at Cody; he’s not judging me.

  “You did what you had to do,” he assures me.

  I nod numbly, strangely quiet now. I look around and catch a glimpse of Braulio’s hat before looking back at Art: two nice people I used to know, dead. One by my own hands. The reality hits me at once, but also the horrible necessity of it all. I reach for my crowbar and shake my head.

  “Maybe we could’ve done something for him…” I trail off.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Maybe we could’ve…” An idea strikes me too late. “Those needles in the car. We have the cure…”