Undead War (Dead Guns Press)

by Thompson, John

  Only now did I understand the wails I had been hearing belonged to not the cats but something that once had been human…Now Tom’s cryptic babysit message made sense.

  I screamed in horror and anguish to the God that had forsaken us - for Tom and his wife, for Lynn, for humanity, but most of all for me. I wanted God to take away the truth that now dawned on me. Tom out of his mind, must have buried them among the garbage in the torn, bloody shoe-box they now crawled out of…

  He knew they had resurrected and, only glad to have his sons back, he had been feeding them raw meat inside the bin. He just wanted to be a good father…care for the only kids he would ever have…

  The alley cats had been drawn to the smell and had started to eat the twins, not knowing that they had resurrected...the twins had eaten them instead. Now two half-chewed, stillborn baby corpses crawled out from the bloody remains of the alley cats. They wailed again, demanding to be fed.

  Tom’s children wanted their night-time feed.

  Their eyes had been chewed out by the voracious alley cats. Their mouths snapped in lop-sided leers as their soft tissue had been eaten away to the cheek, exposing gum and bone.

  They had impossibly sprouted tiny shard-like teeth. Chunks of their abdomen were gone. Their stomachs would never retain meat. They would always want more and more food. Forever hungry…

  I shot them until they stopped moving, and after placing a few bricks on top the bins – I poured a can of paint thinner over the bin and set fire to it to incinerate their remains. What Tom said he had done…what Tom should have done to begin with. The melting, bubbling plastic of the wheelie bin seal them within a hot womb once and forever more.

  I stumbled through the back door and collapsed in my kitchen weeping for what I had seen. What I had to do…I put the gun to my temple and pulled the trigger. The click of the empty mag mocked me…

  Tom couldn’t live with what he had done and believed he was better off dead…I feel dead myself…so tired…I collapsed again beside the corpse of my wife and dream that we are together again and this entire nightmare didn’t happen.

  But when I wake again, its 2 minutes before our Anniversary. I hear people moving outside in masses trying to break in to houses. I reloaded my Colt .45 and peer out the cracks between the boards across the windows.

  I look out to see the dead walking the streets. I see a blood-stained Tom is there, with his wife. They are looking to be reunited with their dead children. I sit vigil with my Lynn. Her greying, blood-stained corpse and the grandfather clock chiming the hours to midnight, my only company in my boarded-up hallway.

  As midnight strikes, it’s now our 20th Anniversary. Lynn’s eyes, the colour of tuberculotic spit, flash open. She splits her bindings and launches herself at me once more. Half of me has this desire to be eaten, to be inseparable from her. But the half that's pure survival wins.

  My Colt trembles like a new born foal in my hands as I raise the gun to her head… Before I pull the trigger, through a flood of tears, bile rising in my throat, I croak:

  “Happy Anniversary”

  The gun takes off a large chunk of her face at the eye, as the exit wound exploded through the back of her head and stops the Grandfather clock and her forever. The Colt is so heavy in my hand; I can barely raise it to my own head. I feel so weak…so tired… but we will be together again…soon. I cradle what’s left of her in my arms and kiss her. I've never loved her more...

  This time there would be no click…

  May Day World

  Kameryn James

  Many months have passed since the husband, Liam, and I had a shouting match, for such noise attracts Them. And They bring death, or something like it. Our last argument was shortly after the bombs left craters on the western seaboard, instantly killing an unmeasurable amount of people and filling the air with devastatingly powerful toxins. We were both in such shock and stress and we took that stress and anxieties out on each other.

  Little did we know that the bombs were only the beginning.

  The initial impacts wreaked havoc on human flesh and blood stream; this was understood and predictable. Yet nobody could have fathomed the lasting effects: those infected and killed would again walk, then viciously attack and often eat the living.

  The May Day Plague, it is called, as the bombs fell on May 1st. Currently, it has no cure.

  Before, I was a mental health therapist. I suppose I still am, for I continue to hold individual and group sessions to give comfort to other survivors. I will never forget serving at the crisis center as refugees piled in from California, then Utah. While sitting with a group of young adults, working through trauma symptoms, talk began of the dead rising. Zombies. Like something out of a horror movie. Experience taught me that many fantastical stories are fabricated during traumatic events. Fabricated, until I saw it myself.

  The first Saturday of June, I packed groceries into the trunk of my car. I went to wheel the empty cart into its stall when screams caught my attention.

  She walked unsteadily, although determined to reach one of the curious, yet horrified onlookers in the parking lot. Only the left side of her shirt hung in shreds over her bloody torso. Ribs gleamed red between the blotchy remains of her lungs. What was left of her chewed skin bore the raised and infected veins of the May Day Plague. In time, these infected beings would be called ‘The Fallen.’

  Panicked, I locked myself in my car and sped out of the parking lot. This was back when the ‘flight’ fear response dominated over ‘fight.’ Much has changed since then.

  In hushed whispers, Liam and I discussed the horrors we either witnessed firsthand or heard on the news and by gossip. More and more assaults were happening just north and west of the city. We kept such talks quiet, hoping that the horror would cease before our son was exposed to it. Such a feeble attempt, as the attacks were all over the news, just as the bombs that birthed the epidemic.

  The May Day Plague swept eastward and became known as the Fall of Man.

  We lasted in our home until shortly before the neighborhood became over run by Them, and a mandatory evacuation was ordered so the military could organize an offense against the Fallen. Weeks after the first reported accounts of zombies, I came home from my shift at the crisis center to find Liam wrapping up food he had cooked. The refrigerator was neatly stacked with prepared sandwiches, burritos, and even boiled eggs.

  “The power is starting to go out in some places. Neighborhoods are being taken over by Them,” he explained. “I don’t want you going into the city anymore.”

  I wanted to argue my point of needing to serve my community, but I looked over at our twelve year old son, who played a videogame before ‘lights out’ time in the evening. Perhaps playing his last videogame. I simply nodded, pausing for the sounds of distant sirens to pass.

  “Should we leave now, or wait for the official evacuation call, like Phoenix had?” I asked, eerily calm.

  Liam paused and looked at me and our son, pondering. “We’ll hold out a bit longer.”

  Two deciding factors lead to us leaving the cushy suburban two-story home.

  Most importantly, my husband pulled into the driveway one afternoon, seeing me and our next door neighbor panting over the disposed body of a zombie. Our son cried gently behind the front window. Although authorities strongly suggested residents stay inside, it is quite difficult to keep young children entertained inside, all day, every day. So, we were in the front yard, watching the kids play quietly in the cul de sac, with baseball bats near our chairs. My son kept attempting a kick flip on his skateboard.

  Then, a male zombie stumbled and groaned around the corner, hobbling towards the children.

  The decision was made in an instant. I would not run, cower, and call the police, then wait for them to show up while this infected man terrorized my home.

  “Evan, get inside!” I commanded to my son; my fists tightened around the handle of the bat.

  Crack, thwap, splosh went the wood against hi
s skull until it split open and exposed his brain. I swung the bat well away, avoiding brain matter and congealed blood.

  I swallowed down the impending threat of vomit, staring with wide eyes at the crushed head, until Liam pulled me away.

  We are most thankful for the second deciding factor. Liam received news of his reinstatement into the United States Army, securing us a place to live on Fort Carson.

  We piled clothes, food, and a few memories into the Jeep and journeyed on our Exodus out of the Denver area. The highways were slowed with fleeing people. So Liam drove in the breakdown lane, on the grassy median, and even on the opposite northbound lane to get us to our new home, Fort Carson.

  Now, after the Exodus, I provide some counseling, therapy, and even child care in exchange for food and clothing rations. Liam’s duty is to patrol the post, be it the borders, main gate, or even the farm now fully operational with chickens, sheep, cows, and the first year of crops growing in. One zombie spotted outside of the fences is left alone. But if a group staggers close by, Liam helps kill and sometimes dispose of them in the burning field. He served in Operation Iraqi Freedom as a helicopter pilot, and therefore flew a couple of scouting missions into the surrounding Colorado Springs area after the Fall. As the sea of suburban communities between Denver and Colorado Springs fell victim to the May Day Plague, he served in another war that became known as Carson’s Stand. Following the evacuation from cities and neighborhoods, the Air Force bombed the infected areas a couple of miles off post while the Army put tanks and sharpshooters on the perimeter of the impact zone. This defense put a substantial and effective dent in the Fallen’s population, allowing Fort Carson and surrounding southern communities to begin organizing life.

  Home is no longer a spacious house with new carpet and a dishwasher. Home is now a two bedroom, one bath apartment with a kitchenette and small den in what used to be an office building. Before that, the building may have been barracks for soldiers. But nobody in our small family of three complains.

  Nearly every evening, we eat dinner together as a family in the closest chow hall, always showing our ID cards in exchange for a plate of meat, bread, and vegetables. A glass of milk, juice, or water accompanies supper. Both food and drink are always rationed; there are no seconds. Sometimes we make it in time for breakfast on the weekend, enjoying sausage and scrambled eggs. Lunch is provided for Liam, but I have to gather lunch for me and my son. Evan used to be a fussy eater, preferring only chicken nuggets or bacon as meat. After the Fall, he eats his food graciously, though sometimes grimacing. He understands that an Army base chow hall in an apocalyptic world does not function like a restaurant. He fully understands that his survival depends upon eating what is provided.

  Evan attends school in the center of the post, always patrolled by armed men in uniform. Although they carry a handgun, their weapons also include some type of axe, large hunting knives, or even crowbars. Some even carry swords.

  Army personnel are the only ones allowed to have guns inside Fort Carson. Traders, merchants, or anyone visiting the base from other settlements are expected to leave their guns at the gate. Sometimes this rule is a conflict with those believing in the right to bear arms. But you’ll find no complaints from me. Since the only damage that kills Them is blunt force to the brain, I would probably empty a gun’s clip without hitting my target. Soldiers are trained to properly use guns, most civilians are not. Limiting the availability of firearms to the soldiers reduces wasted bullets when killing Them and reduces accidental (or not so accidental) shootings of the living.

  After school, Even goes to the Scouts, where he learns what Boy Scouts learned before May Day, such as archery, first aid and camping tips. But now, they are also taught basic farming, cooking, mending torn clothes, and self defense. When he is sixteen, we can opt for him to learn to shoot, and possibly begin the SIT, or Soldier in Training Program, if he chooses. Evan has voiced that he would like to join the fishing trade when he gets older. Yet these are off-post trips, and I am not fond of this idea.

  Although I still counsel others for a living, I no longer wear slacks and heels to an office. Jeans or khakis, with sturdy, comfortable shoes for pedaling my mountain bike or walking to destinations. My ID with picture, name, address, and profession is always visible, dangling from the lanyard around my neck. Today, I held a group session with five-year olds at the school. They draw pictures of their memories of May Day and the Fall, or use old dolls to act out the atrocities they witnessed. Drawing and play is how children work through trauma and other emotions. After processing these drawings, I conduct a zombie safety training course with the teacher.

  “What do you do if you see one of the Fallen?” I ask in my best counselor voice.

  The answer is always the same. “Tell a grown-up,” the youngsters all chime in together.

  “That’s right,” I assure them with a smile.

  Truthfully, the empathy that lit up my heart in the past faded the day of our Exodus. I know the pain of others, for I feel it also. I mourn, I deal with my own trauma, I worry that one day, Liam will not come home. But most importantly, I focus on my main role as gatherer of my family. Instead of money, I receive slips vouching for my work. These vouchers are traded in for clothing or canned goods. Today, I strike luck at the Post Exchange. The aging Mrs. Breck is there with fresh baked sweets. So along with bread, cheese, canned fruit and a decent pair of shoes for Evan, I score three brownies. We will savor these during the movie tonight; The Family Support Program is running a projector against the gymnasium wall and showing one of the pirate films that was huge before May Day.

  With my lucky bag secured against my back, I start walking to pick Evan up from Scouts; my bicycle is at the repair shop today. I used to huff and puff from the walk with a pack full of food. But now I am in the greatest shape of my life and the bag is almost second skin.

  The most direct way to get Evan is through an open field. Although Carson’s Stand significantly decreased the initial hordes of The Fallen, some still wander onto post. So every day, I pause at this field and look both ways before crossing.

  I spot one straggling in the distance to my right, so I stay closer to the buildings and keep my eyes on it. Yet screams erupt from my left, stopping me instantly.

  Two of Them drag someone down, tearing and biting at the warm flesh. Survival mode kicks in and the decision is easy. This is not a time to help, the damage is already done. This is not a time to be sympathetic, or even empathetic. This moment is not a tragic loss for me, but an opportunity to slip by unnoticed.

  Without looking back again, I head a few yards away at a steady, slow pace so not to draw their attention from their victim. I tug at the straps on my bag, knowing this is the right decision. If I get attacked, perhaps someone will read the address on my ID and make sure my son gets his shoes. Most likely, I’ll be scavenged and someone else will get the shoes. Liam and Evan will deal with rumbling stomachs until dinner time every day until they figure out who can gather food for them. So onward I go.

  Yet a male zombie creeps in front of me from around the building’s corner. I hear the gurgling snarl from another behind me. Time to get out my trusted weapon.

  I reach back and curl my fingers around one end of the pipe fastened to my lucky bag. The pipe is slightly longer than my arm and keeps me out of biting and attack range. I swoop it over my right shoulder and swing it down between my left arm and chest. With both firm hands, I jam the Fallen behind me in his exposed ribs, causing him to topple backwards. The pipe twirls as I pivot, then grip it like a bat, aiming for the other zombie. The sickening pong sound of metal against skull and brain and the shudder sent up my arm no longer phase me. He keels over instantly after a chunk digs out of his head. I swivel to face the other one, who is sitting up now. I aim the end of the pipe for his eye socket, and then shove it upwards into the brain, driving him back to the ground for good.

  Trampling footsteps sound on the field ahead of me. A few troops have arrive
d to dispose of Them, including the poor victim that will soon join their ranks. I glance down the field as the other zombie staggers closer. Gunfire is a possibility.

  It’s time for me to leave.

  I clutch my pipe close and run. I was never that great of a runner before May Day, but adaptation came easy after the Fall of Man.

  I am slightly winded when arriving for Evan. His scoutmaster spots the grey flesh and brain matter stuck to the end of my pipe and hands me a rag. I wipe the carnage off the best I can before getting Evan.

  He is thankful for his shoes, even smiling. He voices excitement about the movie tonight as we enter our apartment building. We live on the fourth floor. On the third floor, someone has laid out several pipes and metal objects to sound clanging warnings if zombies stumble into them. Old survival habits die hard in this age.

  I step to the side and motion for Evan to get behind me, for someone is coming down. I observe him as we pass each other on the stairs. He is a bit overweight, dressed in a white t-shirt and blue jeans. He laughs loudly and mouths something incoherent. Trauma can do this to a person.

  Yet, thumps and thuds rumble on the steps, and every muscle in me stiffens. I turn, my eyes widening as Evan tumbles down half of flight of hard stairs.

  He does not cry out. Nor do I. So well have we adapted to this new world.

  Whether on purpose or by accident, this man knocked my only child down the stairs. As a couple of doors open to see the commotion, I spot at least two large gashes in the man’s back. Bite marks perhaps. Or maybe self-inflicted. But I will take no chances.

  Thankfully, Evan slowly sits up, rubbing his shoulder. The two neighbors encourage him to stay down, and one checks for bumps on his head.

  “Annalise, he seems okay, but he should go to the hospital,” one of them says to me. “I can make the call downstairs.”

  “No, I’ll make the call,” I offered, glancing down the stairs as the strange man descended. “I’ll be right back, Evan.”