Waiting to Die ~ A Zombie Novel

by Cochran, Richard M.

  Johnny works his fingers under the window pane and slowly pushes it upward, listening between the scraping sounds for any signs of life inside. The room is completely dark as he crawls through, only a faint amount of light filters through thick curtains, spotting out flakes of dust that whisper through the stale air inside.

  “Wait here,” he whispers.

  After a few minutes, Johnny returns, pokes his head through the curtains, and waves at April to come in.

  “Is it safe?” she asks.

  “Yeah, there’s no one here,” he replies.

  The living room is modest with a set of armchairs and a television. A few magazines litter a side table next to an empty can of soda. Through the darkness, Johnny opens the curtains fully and lets the sunlight in.

  “I thought you said he was a packrat,” April says.

  “He is, but in the nicest sense of the word,” he replies, showing her the kitchen.

  “Oh my God…” April says in exasperation.

  In the small kitchen, the walls are completely covered in shelves. Cans of food are organized, label outward and spaced perfectly in rows. Boxes of instant potatoes, rice, and pancake mix are sorted next along with bags of flour and spices. Gallon jugs of water line the bottom rows, organized in the same way.

  “It looks like a grocery store,” April comments.

  “I figure we can sleep here tonight and take whatever we can carry before we head to the coast tomorrow,” he says, picking up a can of peaches and turning it over in his hand before placing it back on the shelf.

  “Do you actually think there are rescue ships out there?”

  “Sure, there have to be some coastguard ships just waiting to rescue people who have escaped the city.” He waves off the question. “Are you hungry?” he asks with a smile.

  He thinks again about an island as he opens the can of pears. He considers the cresting waves and fishing for their food off the side of a boat. Maybe being rescued wouldn’t be the best option, he thinks, maybe being away from the dead would be good enough.

  Through the night, the dead pound at the fence line, creating a type of noise that would have been better suited for a war protest.

  April stares at the ceiling, pockmarked by glints of moonlight, drifting in through the open window. Her eyes are heavy, but the sweet release of sleep eludes her as the dead grow outside, howling out their rabid complaints.

  She places her hands under her head and tries to get comfortable, but the noise is too much. She rises from the bed and goes to the window. Down below, the scene is shocking. Bodies line the fence for as far as she can see. A mass has gathered, bending and bowing the fence as they rattle away at the links with snarling faces and snapping teeth. With her eyes wide from disbelief, April wakes Johnny.

  “What?” he asks in a daze. “What’s wrong?”

  “There are hundreds of them out there,” she whispers.

  “Hundreds of what?” he asks in confusion.

  “The dead, Johnny,” she says in a low voice. “They’re everywhere.”

  “How?” He stretches.

  “I don’t know how,” she says. “But there breaking the fence.”

  Johnny yawns and tries to shake off the sleep when he hears the moans. There are so many varying pitches that they blend into a singular loping sound, deep enough to feel within the pit of his stomach. “What the fuck?” he asks, still unbelieving.

  He stumbles to the window and looks out past the trees. A dark mass has emerged from nowhere in a few short hours. The dead writhe over one another like ants swarming. Their bodies blend into one another in the darkness, giving shape to the loping chant Johnny had heard when he first awoke.

  “Holy shit,” he says, questioning his eyes. He rubs the sleep away and looks again. “Where the fuck did they all come from?”

  “I don’t know, but we have to get out of here,” she replies anxiously.

  “Yeah… yeah, I think you’re right,” he says with a nervous rattle in his voice. “Grab whatever you can carry,” he adds as he retrieves the pistol from the nightstand.

  Within a few minutes, April has found a pack in the bedroom closet and takes it into the kitchen. She stuffs cans of food into the pack haphazardly as Johnny does the same with a small gym bag that he’s found by the front door.

  “Don’t pack too much,” Johnny comments, “just enough to get us to the beach.”

  April gives him a quick nod as she cinches the top shut and slings it over her shoulder, causing the cans to clank against her back. She waits for him to grab a few water bottles from the refrigerator and watches him pack them away into his own bag.

  “Alright, let’s go,” Johnny whispers as he heads off through the front door.

  Windowless, the hallway to the apartment is blinding. Faint shimmers glisten off of chrome knobs as Johnny peers out along the dark corridor, listening for any signs of movement up ahead. He can feel his heart beating in his chest and tries to calm himself, almost believing that he can hear the organ drumming out against his ribs.

  Along a narrow length of stairs, Johnny guides the way down to the next floor as he points out through the darkness with his pistol. Even in the confines of the apartment building, they can hear the muted snarls and groans from outside as if the dead were beckoning them closer.

  “When we’re out of the building, run,” Johnny whispers, hushing his voice for fear of being heard by the dead. “Don’t look back and don’t stop. Keep going until I tell you we’re clear. Got it?”

  “Got it,” she says.

  Johnny can see the whites of her eyes as his own adjust to the darkness. Terror streaks across her face as she tries to make out his movements. Her body shakes through the expression of fear and she follows as closely as she can.

  On the bottom floor, Johnny keeps his back pressed tightly to the wall when he notices the main door. He places his hand on her chest and motions for her to stay where she is as he tiptoes forward. Through the crisscross pattern of wire in the glass, he can see movement. A black, oozing mass appears beyond the front gates, shrouded in shadows that blanket them from the branches of a tree.

  “Oh no,” he exhales.

  Through the wrought iron gate, Johnny can see the details of the mass. Hundreds of bodies lace their arms through the gate, clawing at the air as if they were trying to bridge the gap between life and death. Blood stained faces peer through the bars, snarling mouths agape press tightly in between the iron, snapping as they try to squeeze their way through. Torn clothes hang loosely through the gate, flapping in a gentle breeze like seaweed swaying in the current beneath the ocean.

  A knot forms in Johnny’s throat and he tries to swallow it down. His skin tingles with fear as he watches the writhing mass heave and concave through the bars. His heart sinks as he returns to April.

  The look on her face nearly drops him to his knees. He can see the hope shifting across her illuminated eyes, radiated by the moonlight through the main door.

  “We’re not getting out,” he says.

  “What?” she asks.

  “We’re not getting out,” he repeats. “They’ve surrounded us.”

  “What do you mean?” she says in a panic and rushes past him to the door.

  Through the glass, April witnesses the same thing that had sunk Johnny’s heart. A feeling of hopelessness overwhelms her as tears streak her face. She returns to Johnny with a helpless scowl stenciled across her mouth. She clenches her jaw, trying not to let it out, trying to keep her emotions in check, but she shivers when she sees the same look of desperation coming from Johnny. She reaches out and he catches her, pulls her closer and lets her cry.

  ·8

  Jacob watches the child as she reads through her book. He’s settled in the kitchen with a cup of coffee and a forlorn look on his face. He’s not sure how to explain what has happened to the girl, can’t quite make the words fit together in a way that she would understand. It is hard enough for his adult mind to register, let alone that
of a child.

  He can’t imagine what she’s seen. He can’t even begin to imagine what she has been through. Looking at her now as she pans through the pictures, page by page, he just can’t bring himself to interrupt her moment of reprieve. She seems so peaceful when she’s awake, so calm and understanding. But at night, when she awakens, whimpering from her nightmares, Jacob knows exactly what shadows lurk inside her.

  He pushes the mug away from himself and stands, using his cane to guide the way. Through the kitchen window, he looks out into the garden. The block wall that surrounds the property is firm and resolute as it keeps the demons away. They stand so tall that he can’t even see the withered hands that he knows are there, clawing, reaching ever upward, trying to get inside.

  Sometimes the dead moan and grate their teeth when they hear something of interest on the other side. When Jacob tends to the garden, they know he’s there. Every sound he makes sends them into a fury. But, when he’s quiet and his granddaughter is in the house, calm and distracted, the dead go away, lingering just beyond the walls, doing whatever it is that the dead do when they’re not trying to kill. But with even the slightest sound, they can linger for days, unfazed and resolute to drag their fingers over the course brick outside until only worn stubs remain.

  With the beach so close, he has thought many times of running to the docks and finding a boat that he and his granddaughter could escape on. Maybe they could make it out on the ocean, living off of the sea until whatever it is that has made the dead return to life finally goes away. He’s even thought of heading east, going into the mountains and living in solitude, but he’s afraid that his tired legs wouldn’t make it. He can’t afford to leave the child by herself if anything were to happen to him.

  With tired and cramping hands, he pulls the snapshot from his pocket. He scribbles on the back of the picture and tucks it into one of her books, hoping that one day, if he was no longer around, she would find peace in what he wrote.

  With the dead wandering, he bides his time - only going out to find other survivors that may be able to help and to bring supplies to the boat. He scavenges the beaches with Emma for anything of use when the dead wander off. Even with his arthritis, he can manage to evade them if he has to, and he knows the child can outrun them. But he rarely takes the chance.

  He shuffles into the living room and stands over Emma, looking over her shoulder at the book she’s reading.

  “What are you looking at?” he asks.

  “I’m looking at all the different plants that you can eat if you’re stuck in the woods,” she replies. “There sure are a lot of them, grandpa.”

  “You’re right, there are,” he replies. “Maybe, when all the bad people go away, I’ll take you up into the mountains and we can go fishing. Would you like that?”

  “Yep,” she says, placing the book on her lap. “Can we catch a wild animal and tame it for a pet?” she asks excitedly.

  “I don’t know,” he says with a smile. “We’ll see.”

  “Grandpa?” she asks. “Why are all those people so mad?”

  He’s taken aback by her question. “They’re not really mad,” he says. “They’re hungry and angry because they can’t find the right thing to eat,” he says, trying his best to answer her.

  “Why don’t they just go to the store or something?”

  “Because,” he laughs, trying to choose the right words, “they’re dead and they only eat people who are alive. That’s why I always tell you to be really quiet when we go out onto the beach when we look for other people like us.”

  “Would they eat us?”

  “Yes.”

  “How long are we going to have to stay hiding?” she asks.

  “I don’t know,” he replies. “There’s no telling.”

  “But when they go away we can go fishing?”

  “We sure can,” he says with a smile.

  As the child returns to her book, Jacob wanders back into the kitchen and looks through the shelves of food. He was young during the Great Depression, but his parents instilled in him the necessity to store and conserve. He always had more than enough food on hand for emergencies. And now, given the circumstances, he’s glad he does. He counts through the supplies again and nods to himself in satisfaction. “We’ll be fine,” he says, “just fine,” he confirms with a nod.

  At night, once the child is asleep and secure in her bedroom upstairs, Jacob watches through the window of his own room. The darkness outside is all encompassing and only the moonlight is there to guide his gaze. Bodies shuffle along the walkway and out onto the beach as if somehow they remember that this is where they used to go when they were alive. They hobble through the sand, leaving derelict ruts in their wake and sound out with wet voices as they stagger.

  The faces have become indiscernible, one rotten visage looks like the next as the tale of time eats them away. When it first began, Jacob could recognize his neighbors and friends, he could point out those he had seen in passing when they still had a soul. But now, as more of them gather, he can only make out subtle nuances of who they might have been. A mechanics uniform, a suit, a ragged construction worker in an orange vest and soiled boots - those are the only things recognizable now. Gone are the blank stares, replaced by blackened skin and rotten scraps of flesh fell by the fateful hands of death.

  Time should have reduced them to bones by now, and it makes him wonder how long it will take before they finally fall, or if they ever will.

  As he sits by the window, he lifts his legs, working them with the sounds of the moaning dead. When the time comes, he wants to be ready to leave and refuses to let one bad knee come between him and seeing his granddaughter to safety. He knows it is only a matter of time before they will have to run. When the food runs low and the winter keeps the garden from growing, he wants to know that he has a way out.

  He works his legs until the muscles burn in retaliation and he can no longer stand the pain. He realizes that he’ll need to make practice runs to the beach and down pass the pier to the dock. He’ll have to find a boat that can take them away from this place and maybe sail along the coast until they can find somewhere to survive. Even though he has told the child to escape to the wilderness, he knows that he couldn’t make the journey and that he would be safer on the water. But a child is full of energy and is quicker than the dead. A child would stand a better chance out there among them than an old, stumbling man. When the time comes, he can only pray that the girl will be able to go on without him.

  The morning brings all the signs of normal life. The birds are chirping in the trees and dogs are barking from some far off place, safe from the way things really are. Jacob rises and almost believes the last few weeks were nothing more than a bad dream. He stretches his legs, still sore from his exercises and shuffles to the window. His heart drops as he sees the bodies wandering the beach. There are more of them than there were the night before, and he rubs his eyes, removing the crust of sleep that has gathered there to see more clearly.

  He works his hands across the beard on his face, smoothing it out, and walks out of the room and down the stairs where Emma is playing quietly with her stuffed bear.

  “Good morning,” he says.

  “Good morning, grandpa.”

  “How did you sleep?”

  “Really good,” she says. “The earplugs worked.”

  “I thought they would.” He smiles and wanders into the kitchen to start breakfast. “Would you like to help me this morning?”

  “Sure,” she says in a cheery voice and grabs her stuffed bear from beside the chair.

  “You seem in bright spirits.” He notices.

  “I had a really good dream last night, grandpa.”

  “You did?” he asks. “What was it about?”

  “I was older and living in the forest in a cottage like the ones in the story books,” she explains with excitement in her voice. “There weren’t any more dead people either and I had a garden and a white fence and I coul
d smell the trees and the woods and everything was like the painting.” She points to the picture framed on the wall and the woodland scene depicted there.

  “Well that is wonderful,” he chuckles.

  Her face saddens. “But I couldn’t find you anywhere,” she pouts.

  A sad smile crosses his lips. “Maybe I was out fishing or something,” he says.

  “Yeah, maybe that’s it,” she replies in a brighter tone. “I hope you were there,” she explains, “because we had everything we could ever need. There was a well where we could get fresh water and we had more food than we could ever eat in our whole lives.”

  “That sounds perfect,” he says. “Catch.” He throws her a potato and she catches it and places it on the counter. “Cut that up and be careful of your fingers.”

  Emma smiles and begins to peel the potato.

  “We’re going to have to go out and do a run to the docks today,” he says.

  She looks up from the counter with a worried look. “Why do we have to, grandpa?”

  “I need to know if my old legs can take it,” he says. “We’ll have to do it every other day for a while until I’m confident that we can get out of here if we need to.”

  “But I don’t like them,” she replies. “Sometimes they get too close when you have to use your cane. And I don’t like they way they look at us.”

  “And that’s exactly why we have to try,” he explains. “We’ll bring the cart with us and drop off some supplies in that boat we found last time.”

  “It’s scary at the docks,” she says.

  “I know it is, Emma, but we still have to get ready for when we have to go.”

  “I don’t understand why we have to leave.”

  “We could manage better on the water,” he says. “We wouldn’t have to worry about those things getting in while we’re asleep.”

  “But we have the wall, grandpa.”

  “The wall won’t hold forever.” He heats up a pan on the propane burner. “And if we’re on the ocean, I can finally teach you to fish.” He smiles and places some oil in the pan.